#so many lovely conversations with the cast

[hamilton-here]

ORDER UPPPPPPP !

Uhhhh lemme get a one piece lewis hamilton fic with nico rosberg’s sister and their kid with the “I’m so hungry I could eat a..” but it’s the 2016 world championship and its’ a whole ass mess 😩☝️ ik reader be shaking her head like dayum.. here we go..

𝐹𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎 𝐹𝑒𝓊𝒹

Authors Note: Hi all! Here’s a short one-shot. Still have many to go. Lewis finished P4, very proud! Now just praying for Silverstone. Lots of love xx

Summary: A family dinner spirals into chaos after Lewis and his wife unwittingly ignite an old rivalry with a TikTok trend that sends Nico and Lewis into a petty war all over again.

Warnings: slight angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The soft hum of your blow dryer filled the bedroom, blending with the occasional taps of your child’s fingers against your phone screen and the quiet shuffle of Lewis tying his boots in the corner.

It should’ve been a peaceful moment of getting ready for dinner, surrounded by your little family but your chest was tight, and the reflection staring back at you in the mirror wore the expression of someone heading into battle.

Your brows furrowed as you struggled to tame an uncooperative section of hair, the strands slipping stubbornly out of place no matter how much heat you applied.

Maybe it wasn’t the hair. Maybe it was the fact that this dinner - this dinner was going to be a test. A delicate, exhausting balancing act that you had been mentally rehearsing for days.

You weren’t nervous. You were prepared because you had to be.

From where they sat cross-legged on your bed, your child swung their little legs back and forth in an endless rhythm, giggling at TikTok audios that blasted from the phone’s speakers at half-volume.

They were completely unaware of the political minefield you were about to drag them into a dinner where every polite smile would be razor-thin, every conversation a tightrope walk over unresolved history.

Lewis, on the other hand looked completely unbothered. He perched in the armchair near the window, carefully lacing up his boots like it was any other casual night out, like you weren’t about to throw him into the same room as Nico. Your brother. The one person who could still pull sharp edges out of Lewis with frightening ease.

“Okay,” you started, voice firm but your back still to him as you fussed over the final curl. You weren’t sure if you were talking to yourself, to him, or to the universe at large.

“I need you to behave tonight.” Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the amused tilt of his head as he leaned back, fingers now idly spinning his car key around his thumb. “I always behave.”

You spun on your heel so fast the curling iron in your hand nearly smacked the dresser. “No. No, you don’t. You behave until you don’t. Until Nico says one thing - one tiny thing and suddenly it’s like 2016 all over again and I’m sitting there watching you two throw verbal grenades across the table.”

Lewis’s grin pulled lazily across his face, sharp and unapologetic. “Babe, I’m chill.”

“You are not chill,” you snapped, pointing the curling iron at him like a weapon. “You are the opposite of chill. You simmer until you boil over and suddenly, we’re re-litigating Abu Dhabi over appetisers.” He held his arms out as if to display his innocence. “I’m chill. I’ll be good.”

You shot him a deadly look, stepping closer now, because you knew him. You knew that smug smile meant he was already thinking of a hundred things he could say. “Promise me,” you said, planting your free hand on your hip. “No side comments. No smug remarks. No snarky digs and most of all -”

“Mummy, what’s snarky?” Lewis’s and your child interrupted without looking up, too engrossed in their phone to realise they’d cut the tension like a butter knife through soft cake. You sighed, casting a glance over your shoulder. “Daddy. Daddy is snarky.” Lewis grinned like he’d just been handed a badge of honour. “Damn right.”

You levelled him with your stare. “I mean it. This is family dinner. For our child. These are the moments they’ll remember. I want them to remember laughter, not you and Nico trying to kill each other with bread knives.”

Lewis finally stood, crossing the room in three long strides to wrap his arms around you from behind. His hands splayed across your waist, the press of his lips soft against your bare shoulder. “Relax, love,” he murmured, resting his chin atop your head. “It’s just dinner.”

You turned in his arms enough to catch his gaze in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner with my brother. You know that. I know that. The whole paddock knows that.” There was something in his eyes something softer, weightier beneath the cheeky surface. He kissed your temple next, lingering a little longer this time. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

You narrowed your eyes, unconvinced. “I swear to God, Lewis, if you so much as breathe in a passive-aggressive tone tonight, I will switch cars with Nico and leave you stranded at the restaurant.” He snorted, pressing another kiss to your temple, amused. “Babe, you love me too much for that.”

From the bed, your child finally looked up, beaming. “I love Daddy too much too.” Lewis winked at them in the mirror. “See? I’ve got backup.”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. He was infuriating. He was impossible. He was yours. “Just…try. Please.”

“I will,” he promised, voice soft but with that maddening glint still lingering behind his eyes. He leaned into whisper, “Unless he starts first.” You slowly turned your head to glare at him.

“Okay, okay! Kidding. Promise.”

Your gaze lingered on him a beat longer, searching, waiting, before you finally nodded, letting the warmth of him seep into your frayed nerves. You knew him too well - knew how much he still carried from that championship, the grudges he’d carefully buried but never truly let go of. But you also knew he would show up for you, for your child, even if every inch of his pride told him to pick a fight.

For now, that was enough.

You pulled away gently, grabbing your bag from the dresser. “Come on, we’re going to be late.” Your child leapt off the bed still clutching your phone, still giggling at whatever TikTok had been playing on loop. Their footsteps padded softly alongside you as you headed for the front door, Lewis trailing just behind.

Somewhere in the universe, the stars were probably already laughing, because that little TikTok audio would soon be the exact thing that would blow this entire dinner straight to hell.

The car ride was comfortable but in that dangerously deceptive way, like the stillness before a summer storm you could feel vibrating in your bones, the thick air warning you that something was coming, something you wouldn’t be able to stop once it started.

You sat in the passenger seat, elbow pressed against the cool window, fingers lightly massaging your temple as the city rushed past in streaks of deep orange and purple. The sunset washed the streets in soft, bleeding gold but you barely registered it.

You weren’t watching the skyline you were carefully walking yourself through every possible version of tonight, scanning for the ones that didn’t end with you dragging Lewis out of a restaurant by his collar.

Your list was short.

Beside you, Lewis hummed low under his breath, following the soft beat of the music crackling through the speakers. His left hand rested on the wheel, easy and loose, while his right hand stayed comfortably on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy absent circles into your skin like it was second nature. His body language radiated relaxation, his breathing unhurried, his shoulders light like he truly believed this dinner wouldn’t implode.

You dragged your gaze over to him, unimpressed. The way his head tilted gently to the rhythm, how his foot tapped along like he was on some laid-back Sunday drive it was infuriatingly calm. As if he wasn’t about to sit across from Nico Rosberg for an hour and be expected to play nice.

You watched the soft pull of his jawline as he chewed his lip thoughtfully in time with the music, and part of you wondered whether he was this relaxed because he had absolutely no plan to behave or because he had already made peace with the fact that he wouldn’t.

You wanted to believe it was the former.

From the back seat, your child’s voice broke into the quiet hum of the car, all innocent brightness. They were strapped into their booster seat, kicking their feet rhythmically against the leather, looking at the passing cars as they spoke. “Mummy?” they chirped, oblivious to the delicate storm cloud forming between you and Lewis. “Do you think Uncle Nico’s gonna race me to the restaurant door again?”

You cracked a tired smile, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “Probably. You know he can’t resist trying to beat someone to something.”

Your child giggled happily, proud to be in on the family’s signature tradition: racing each other to every restaurant door, every front step, every park bench. The last time, Nico had let them win, arms outstretched in faux defeat as they tagged the door handle and declared themselves the fastest Rosberg alive. You were hoping tonight he’d let everyone win by simply walking in, sitting down, and not lighting a match.

Beside you, Lewis gave your thigh a soft squeeze. His voice was smooth, almost teasing. “You stress too much, you know that?” You slowly turned your head toward him, your jaw tightening. “You promised me. Remember? Just before we left the house, when I literally held your face in my hands and made you repeat it?”

He arched a brow, lips curling into that maddening half-smile the one that had gotten him out of trouble so many times you’d lost count. “I remember.”

“You said you’d be on your best behaviour tonight.”

“I am.”

Your stare sharpened. “Lewis, please. I need you to actually mean it. I just want one dinner. One normal, peaceful night. No sideways comments, no smug digs, no conveniently timed stories about team radio strategies or tyre choices in Abu Dhabi or -”

Lewis snorted, biting his lip like he was barely suppressing a laugh. “You make me sound like a walking PR crisis.” You shot him a look that was somehow both bone-tired and dangerously close to setting him on fire. “You are a walking PR crisis. Especially around my brother.”

Lewis chuckled, slow and low, like he was enjoying this way too much. He briefly released your thigh, theatrically crossing his heart with his free hand. “Scout’s honour. I’ll keep it cool.” You narrowed your eyes. “Cooler than you kept it in 2016?”

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. You caught it. “Low blow,” he murmured, but his thumb returned to its soft circles against your skin. “But fair.”

You faced him fully now, desperate to crack through the carefully maintained armour. “Look at me, Lewis. Please. You and Nico haven’t really spoken in years not properly. I know you’ve both moved on or at least pretended to but tonight isn’t about that.

It’s not about what happened, it’s not about proving who was right. It’s about our kid. It’s m about being a family that can sit at one table and not make it feel like there’s a ticking time bomb in the breadbasket.”

His expression softened just for a moment his bravado slipping like he was finally, finally listening to you instead of just performing calm. He reached over, lacing your fingers with his, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“I’ll try. I promise.” His voice was quieter now, and you could hear the sincerity there, but you also heard the unspoken but if he starts hanging in the silence.

From the back seat, your child’s voice chimed again, bright and curious. “Are we gonna talk about racing at dinner?” You tilted your head toward Lewis, silently daring him to answer wrong.

Lewis’s thumb grazed your skin again, almost mischievous. “Probably,” he answered, then added, “but only the good parts. Like how fast your Uncle Nico used to be, you know, before he…” You narrowed your eyes. “Finish that sentence and I will walk to the restaurant.”

His grin stretched across his face. “I was gonna say, ‘before he got busy being the best uncle ever,’ but alright.” You hummed, unconvinced. “You’re far too pleased with yourself right now.” He shot you a wink. “I’m composed.”

“You are not composed,” you muttered, folding your arms and staring firmly out the window again. “You are walking into this dinner like you’ve got a full deck of Uno reverse cards hidden in your jacket.”

“Maybe I do,” he teased.

Your child giggled behind you, entirely absorbed in the rhythm of the drive, quietly humming TikTok audios to themselves - a soundtrack that had been following you around the house for the last week. They’d been hooked on that viral trend, the “I’m so hungry I could eat a…” one, rattling off increasingly ridiculous endings all week. Sandwiches. Clouds. Entire bicycles. It had been funny the first few times. Now, it was white noise.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known they’d find a new punchline when you least expected it.

When you finally pulled into the restaurant’s small parking lot, a flicker of unease settled low in your stomach, wrapping tight around your ribs. And there he was.

Nico. Standing by the entrance, scrolling on his phone, his weight leaning lazily on one foot like he’d been waiting, but not really waiting for you. His posture said he could leave at any time, but his expression neutral, vaguely bored said he wouldn’t. He’d shown up. Probably because you’d given him the speech too.

Lewis killed the engine, the music cutting out, the last note fading like a warning. He stepped out and quietly came around to your side, his hand finding the small of your back as you slipped out of the seat, warm and familiar and steady a silent I’m here. I’ll try.

Your child wasted no time sprinting across the lot, arms wide. “Uncle Nico!” Nico’s entire face transformed in an instant, his walls crumbling as he crouched down to catch them in his arms. “Hey, little one! Look at you getting so big!” He pulled back, hands on their tiny shoulders as he beamed. “Are you gonna beat me to the table tonight?”

Your child puffed out their chest, determined. “I’m gonna win!”

“I don’t know, I’ve been training.” Nico winked, ruffling their hair. His eyes finally drifted upward, settling on Lewis. The warmth bled out of his face like someone had flipped a switch.

His polite smile barely touched his eyes. “Lewis.” Lewis’s smile was just as tight, just as carefully measured. “Nico.” The handshake that followed was firm. Too firm. A second too long. The kind of handshake that said we are still not okay but I’m going to fake this for the sake of the people watching.

You slid between them like a well-practiced referee, giving both of them a long, warning look. Do not start this in the parking lot.

“Shall we?” you offered sweetly, your voice honeyed but your eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Lewis gestured toward the entrance, his grin returning with a dangerous glint. “After you, champ.”

You sighed, dragging a hand slowly down your face as you fell into step behind them. You could already feel it that electric, delicate crackle in the air. Like the dinner was already primed to blow and all it needed was a spark.

Here we go.

It was supposed to be a peaceful dinner.

Supposed to be.

You had planned the evening with the kind of precision normally reserved for hostage negotiations, space launches, or defusing nuclear bombs. You’d spent weeks agonising over the details calibrating guest lists, assessing locations for their psychological neutrality, running stress simulations in your head like some war general planning for the last supper.

But you weren’t dealing with average people.

You were dealing with Lewis Hamilton your husband, living legend, seven-time world champion, expert in deflection, dramatics, and devastating charm.

And Nico Rosberg your older brother, reigning king of passive-aggression, ex-Formula 1 champion and lifelong smug menace with a jawline carved from salt and spite.

Some families argue over who brings the stuffing to Christmas dinner. Yours argues about engine maps and tyre strategy. This dinner was not about catching up. This was a demilitarised zone. A ceasefire summit. A desperately choreographed ballet of fake smiles and carefully neutral cutlery.

You had chosen the restaurant with the delicacy of a bomb squad defusing an armed toaster. It was tucked into a quiet corner of the city hidden from cameras, fans and any mention of Sky Sports. No team memorabilia. No automotive decor. Just soft lighting, boring jazz, and napkins the colour of emotional repression.

The table was chosen specifically to avoid conflict. Round so no one sat at the head. Set for four. Five, if you counted the emotional hand grenade in a booster seat currently chewing on a breadstick like it held state secrets.

Your child. Your sweet, precious, inquisitive child. The tiny person currently playing god with crayons and Parmesan dust.

The evening began almost tolerably. There were forced pleasantries. Smiles that belonged on toothpaste commercials. Lewis complimented Nico’s shirt. Nico pretended to be flattered. No one mentioned 2016. You were practically weeping with relief.

And your child? A delight. They asked Lewis to cut their ravioli into little stars. They offered Nico their last breadstick. They whispered, “This is nice,” with the conviction of someone who didn’t yet understand the concept of emotional landmines.

You even began to believe the worst had passed. That this night might by some miracle not devolve into a fiery, petrol-scented death-match.

And then -

As Nico reached for the olive oil and Lewis was mid-sip of his wine, the sweet voice of doom piped up.

“I’m so hungry,” your child declared, stabbing the air with their tiny fork like they were about to knight someone. “I could eat -”

You felt the warning signs before you even processed them. A sharp chill swept over the table.

The napkins fluttered faintly, like they knew. Time slowed. Your breath caught in your throat.

Please. Not tonight. Not -

“ -the 2016 World Championship!”

There it was. The sentence landed like a missile on the table, cracking open a trench that had been papered over with polite laughter and stale focaccia.

You didn’t move. No one did. It was the kind of silence normally reserved for crime scenes or wedding toasts gone horribly wrong. Nico’s hand froze mid-butter-spread. Lewis blinked once. Slowly. Like a sniper sizing up a target. Your child smiled proudly, pleased to have contributed something “relevant.”

And then -

Lewis set his glass down with the delicacy of someone resisting the urge to hurl it. “Is that so?” he said softly, his voice dipping into that dangerous register. You knew that tone. That was Lewis at Monaco in a press conference when asked if he still talked to Nico.

You reached for your child’s fork too late.

Nico leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and replied with a carefully neutral smile. “Funny,” he said smoothly. “I thought that was a little…hard to digest.” You closed your eyes briefly, a migraine blooming behind your forehead like fireworks made of pure rage.

Lewis gave a short, cold laugh just one exhale of really now? “Not for everyone,” he replied coolly, cutting into his mushroom risotto like it owed him money. Nico’s eyebrow twitched. Oh no. You knew that twitch. That was the twitch from Brazil 2015 when Lewis refused team orders. That was the twitch that once caused a three-week WhatsApp cold war.

“Well,” Nico drawled, reaching for his wine and swirling it with theatrical flair. “Some people just can’t handle losing.” Lewis tilted his head. “And some people can’t handle winning without FIA intervention and a deeply suspicious final lap.”

You silently begged the table to collapse into the floor and swallow you whole. Meanwhile, your child sat there beaming, completely oblivious, buttering their roll like they were hosting a PBS cooking show.

“Daddy says it was stolen!” they chirped, like they were quoting nursery rhymes and not nuclear-level trauma. You felt a full-body shudder ripple through Lewis. Nico inhaled sharply, fork hovering mid-air like a dagger in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“Oh, does he?” Nico asked lightly, eyes flicking to you for the briefest second. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll ask my daughter to write a rebuttal.” Lewis’s knife made a noise against the plate that sounded alarmingly like a threat.

Your child, delighted to have found a topic that had everyone’s attention, leaned forward eagerly. “And Mummy says we don’t talk about it because Uncle Nico has feelings!” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Oh my god.” Lewis bit the inside of his cheek.

Nico looked affronted. “Excuse me, I have feelings?”

“Yes!” your child chirped. “Like ‘smug’ and ‘winner’ and ‘sore loser!’” You felt the moment Lewis almost fell out of his chair laughing and had to disguise it as a cough. You slammed your palm flat on the table so hard the spoons jumped.

“Okay. Enough.”

“But Mummy -”

“I said enough, future tabloid source!” Your glare could’ve melted carbon fibre. You turned to Lewis first. “Do not make me kick you under this table like it's 2016 and you're ignoring pit strategy again.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I was just defending my honour.”

“Your honour,” you said flatly, “is on a five-year timeout.”

You turned to Nico. “And you. I grew up with your smug face, I can smell it from across the table. Wipe it off before I dump your wine in your lap.” Nico rolled his eyes. “You always take his side.” You gave him the look. “You peed in my Barbies when we were kids. You have no moral ground here.”

Nico grinned, unrepentant. Lewis snorted into his napkin.

The air remained tense, brittle but nobody said another word. For five seconds.

Then, your child, ever the agent of destruction disguised as a cherub, tilted their head innocently. “So…who really won?”

The table cracked. Nico leaned forward like a man prepared to present a ten-slide presentation and an onboard camera feed. Lewis opened his mouth, already halfway to launching into a full-blown conspiracy breakdown. You didn’t give them the chance.

“Check, please!” you snapped, rising from your chair with the speed of a lightning bolt. The waiter appeared so fast it was almost supernatural.

You grabbed your child who was still cheerfully licking spaghetti sauce off their fingers and stormed toward the door, muttering, “Family dinners are a scam created by therapists.”

Behind you, Nico and Lewis sat in stunned silence half fury, half amusement and a little bit of something else. Maybe respect. Maybe just heartburn.

But as you reached the door, you heard your child call out from your arms, voice sweet as sugar and loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear -

“I think you both won! One got the trophy and one got Mummy!”

Explosion.

Behind you, two grown men combusted in silence. Nico made a strangled sound like a broken espresso machine. Lewis’s hand gripped the back of his chair like it was holding him to earth.

You walked out into the night, your child babbling about dessert and alternate championship endings while you made a mental list of therapists, nannies, and sedatives.

Next time? Next time you were having dinner alone. With wine, with noise-cancelling headphones and maybe a name change and a fake passport. Lastly absolutely no world champions.

The door clicked shut behind you with a finality that reverberated through the heavy silence, sealing off the chaos of the evening like a dam snapping under pressure.

The sound lingered, echoing faintly as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, reluctant witnesses to the fragile peace you’d fought so hard to maintain only to have it shattered in a single, unguarded moment.

Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a sharp contrast to the heat that still radiated beneath your skin. It burned like a restless ember, glowing fiercely in the pit of your chest, impossible to shake or ignore.

The cold night wrapped around you like a shroud, but inside, the storm raged on, a tempest of frustration, exhaustion, and a deep, aching desire for calm.

Your fingers slid down until they found your child’s small, warm hand, curling gently around it. The softness of their skin, the steady, trusting squeeze in return it was the only anchor in a sea of turmoil, the only certainty in a world fracturing around you. Their hand in yours was a quiet sanctuary, a tether to the purest kind of peace that no rivalry or rancour could touch.

Lewis finally ran out of the restaurant and fell into step beside you, his presence close but taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. Every muscle beneath his skin seemed wound tight, his jaw clenched with a tension you could almost see etched into the lines of his face.

His eyes flicked sideways toward Nico, who now stood a few paces away, rigid as a soldier awaiting orders, shoulders squared with the weight of unyielding pride and long-standing defiance.

Their gazes locked, sparks flying in the fading light, a silent conversation loaded with years of unspoken grievances and battles fought in boardrooms, press rooms, and on tracks across the globe.

You refused to meet their eyes. You fixed your gaze ahead, deliberately carving out a quiet bubble around your small family a fragile space where you could breathe, even as the undercurrent of conflict threatened to drag you back into its depths.

Your child who you had now placed down to walk, was oblivious to the storm swirling behind them, chattered happily, their voice a bright, carefree thread weaving through the heavy air.

They recounted the shapes of their spaghetti twists and bows that transformed a tense dinner into a childish adventure and giggled at their own silly observations.

Their laughter, pure and free, was a balm to your soul, a sharp reminder of what truly mattered amid the ruins of old resentments. For a brief moment, it made your heart ache with a bittersweet longing a hope for something better than this endless war.

Behind you, voices rose and fell in clipped exchanges, the cadence cold and jagged as knives sliding past one another. You caught fragments of their words, sharp and loaded with years of rivalry.

“Maybe next time, you keep your mouth shut after my kid makes a comment,” Lewis muttered, voice low but edged with barely contained irritation. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it carried the weight of a warning, meant only for Nico’s ears.

Nico’s laugh was dark and humourless, a sound heavy with reluctant respect tangled in scorn. “Or maybe you learn to lose like a man.” You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of their feud settling in your throat. Lips pressed into a tight, unmoving line, you kept walking, refusing to let their toxic dance pull you back into the fray. This was not your fight not tonight.

Ahead, the car waited like a beacon of escape. Its sleek surface shimmered softly under the glow of the streetlights, promising quiet refuge from the simmering tensions that still crackled in the night air. The low hum of the engine was a whispered lullaby, a promise that this night could end without further damage.

You reached the driver’s door first and slid inside, the familiar scent of leather and a faint trace of your favourite perfume welcoming you like a sigh of relief. Lewis exhaled sharply as he opened the backseat passenger door, his shoulders stiff with tension as he carefully lifted your child into their car seat.

You watched the small, trusting face light up with innocent delight as Lewis buckled them in, their eyes fluttering closed in sleepy contentment. The simple intimacy of the moment this small, perfect family unit was almost too much to bear. It was the fragile prize you guarded fiercely amid the wreckage of old wounds and unresolved battles.

Your child hummed contentedly through the entire process, cheeks flushed from the cold, mouth still faintly stained with marinara. As Lewis tightened the strap, your child leaned forward and whispered conspiratorial and gleeful “I think I won.”

Lewis let out a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a sigh. He pressed a soft kiss to their forehead and pulled back slowly, like someone afraid to trigger another mine.

Settling behind the wheel, your hands found the steering wheel with a familiar, practiced grip. You inhaled deeply, the cool night air filling your lungs and steadying the wild beat of your heart. Your eyes narrowed, focusing on the road stretching ahead, the streetlights blurring into gentle halos of gold as you prepared to leave the chaos behind.

Behind you, voices lingered like ghosts, faint echoes swallowed by the night breeze. The battle between Lewis and Nico was far from over it never truly ended.

You caught the sharp movement as Nico turned his back, shoulders squared in quiet defiance, disappearing into the shadows alone to his car. No parting words. Just the heavy, suffocating quiet of a war paused but far from finished.

You felt the invisible sparks trailing behind the residue of their rivalry and carried it like a second skin, tight against your ribs, pressing in with relentless weight. Not long after, Lewis eased into the passenger seat beside you, quiet but present, the silence between you less heavy than before but still fragile.

The driveway lay silent beneath a generous moon, casting a silver glow that softened the sharp edges of the night. You eased the car forward, the tires whispering against the gravel as you pulled into the familiar sanctuary of home. The quiet click of the garage door sealing shut behind you sounded like a small victory a barrier between the chaos you’d left behind and the fragile calm you desperately needed.

Inside the car, Lewis sat unusually still. The tension that had been taut between you all evening now seemed to settle heavily into his posture.

The sharp lines around his eyes, usually so fierce and animated, softened only by fatigue, shadows of the long, exhausting day etched into his features. He glanced back to see their child’s head resting gently against the side of the car seat, their breathing slow and even a serene island in the storm of the night’s battles.

You killed the engine and let the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t a comfortable silence far from it but it was a truce, fragile and necessary.

Lewis finally exhaled, a long, slow sound that carried a hint of regret. His gaze flicked toward you, searching, but cautious, unsure of the ground between you.

You kept your eyes fixed straight ahead, deliberately avoiding his. With practiced movements, you unclicked the seatbelt securing your child. “Let me,” Lewis said quietly, voice rough with weariness but genuine.

You nodded, silently grateful. Even after the war of words and tension, this moment of cooperation was a balm. Together, you lifted your child from the car seat, their small feet padding softly across the porch as you stepped inside. The house greeted you like a warm embrace, its familiar scents and quiet corners a stark contrast to the battlefield you’d just left behind.

In your child’s bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the wisps of hair away from their forehead. Their eyes fluttered closed, the excitement of the evening melting into peaceful sleep. You whispered the usual bedtime lullaby a quiet promise of safety and love, a shield against the storm outside the walls.

Lewis lingered by the door, a silhouette carved in the dim light, watching with a mixture of longing and regret. When your child’s breath evened out into steady sleep, you finally met his eyes raw and honest in the quiet aftermath.

“About tonight...” Lewis began, his voice low, hesitant, fragile in a way it rarely was. You raised a hand, stopping him gently but firmly. “Lewis, you promised. No snark. No jabs. No starting fights.” He winced, the weight of his broken vow pressing down on his shoulders. “I know. I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

You let out a slow breath, the tight knot inside you loosening just a fraction. “It’s not just the words. It’s the years wrapped up in them, the wounds they tear open every time.” He stepped forward, the hardness in his expression softening. “I hate that it’s come to this. Between me and Nico…between us.”

Your heart tightened at the admission, raw and unguarded. “We all want peace, Lewis. I want peace. For us, for our child. For this family.” His fingers reached out, brushing yours tentatively a silent plea for forgiveness, a promise to try harder. “I swear. No more stirring the pot. No more throwing punches in the dark.”

You studied his eyes, searching for the truth beneath the exhaustion and stubborn pride. Finally, you squeezed his hand a fragile truce, fragile but real. “Good. Because tonight? Tonight wasn’t it.”

Lewis cracked a small smile, genuine and weary. “Noted. Next time, I’ll be the diplomat.” You chuckled softly, feeling the first flicker of warmth you’d had all evening. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a long pause, heavy and full of the quiet hopes and tensions between you. Then, leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to Lewis’s lips gentle, grounding, a tether to something better amid the wreckage.

He pulled back just enough to grin, mischief teasing the edges of his tired eyes. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and playful, “if Nico’s got a victory lap planned, I hope it involves at least one plate flying across the table. I was running low on popcorn.”

You raised an eyebrow, smacking his chest lightly, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Lewis laughed a rich, warm sound that filled the quiet room and cracked open the tension like sunlight through a window.

“Hey,” he said with mock innocence, “I’m just trying to keep dinner entertaining. Who needs Netflix when you’ve got family drama?”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well, if you keep it up, I’ll start charging you admission.”

He winked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Deal. But only if you promise to be my co-star.”

You smiled against his cheek, the warmth between you a balm against the bruises of the evening.

And for the first time that night, hope stirred gently in your chest quiet, fragile, but unmistakably real.

[h0useslut]

quite the job you’ve done on me sir! ౨ৎ

requests | masterlist | series masterlist

pairing : aaron hotchner x bookstore owner! shy! reader

w/c : 2k

warnings : age gap, (reader is late 20s/early 30s, hotch is early 40s) hurt/comfort, thunderstorm anxiety, soft!dad hotch, emotional intimacy

summary : reader is a quiet bookstore owner with a too big heart and too many paperbacks. hotch is just a federal agent who didn’t believe in softness.

a/n : laufey meets you’ve got mail! i suggest you listen to lover girl while reading this :)

You’re in a reckless fever, almost love struck.

You didn’t think you’d be in this position ever again. You could count only so many heartbreaks, but still - you found yourself absolutely and irrevocably charmed by Aaron Hotchner.

Aaron was so sure he shouldn’t be the one doing this - going into a very cozy-looking bookstore in his neighbourhood even though he constantly tried to persuade Jack into going with Jessica, but he just wouldn’t listen. He wanted his dad. Of course he did.

And that’s how tall, brooding, and serious FBI agent Aaron Hotchner found himself inside your cute little store.

Despite feeling a little (that was an understatement) uneasy, a hint of a smile splayed on his lips when he walked inside the bookstore. There were fairy lights here and there throughout the shop, colourful books and overall it was adorable.

Just like its owner, he thought.

You were behind a massive pile of books: children’s books, new releases, romance novels literally swallowing you whole as you tried to sort them out.

You hadn’t even heard the small bell of the door opening, that’s how distracted you were.

“Excuse me,” A low voice said, sounding measured and far too serious for a place full of plush reading chairs and illustrated book covers.

You jumped, letting out a tiny yelp as a few books slipped from your hands and fell.

“Oh my- Oh, I’m sorry” You stammered, cheeks already burning from embarrassment. You scrambled to get the books back into place (aka the large stacks you’ve made) before properly greeting the man. “I’m so sorry, really. I didn’t even hear the door- uh, hi”

The man - tall, in a dark suit and looking comically out of place in your soft fairy-lit space, gave the smallest smile. It was big enough to make your heart flutter.

“It’s alright. My son just wanted to stop by”

Oh shit. You could barely remember to tear your gaze away from his face to greet the little boy next to him.

“Hi, sweetheart!” You said softly, crouching down to his level. Unlike his father, who looked like he hadn’t smiled in a decade, Jack had the cutest little grin ever.

“Hi,” He chirped, rocking on his heels. “Do you have any books about pirates and outer space?”

You smiled at the oddly specific request, and glanced up at his dad - who happened to have an almost apologetic expression.

“Well, I’m sure I’ve got something,” You said, standing up on your feet. “Come on, let’s see what we can find”

Jack practically jumped on his feet as he followed you to the children’s section, little sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor. It made you smile to yourself.

You see, spending time with kids - helping them pick out whatever was on their minds was never a problem. You weren’t shy- closed off, or anything remotely like the way you were with adults.

Hiding behind counters and books was something you’d always enjoyed.

You cast another glance back, half expecting Mr. Dark and Brooding to stay back or even leave. But he followed. Slowly. Hands in his pockets, eyes on you.

No, not on you.

Studying you.

Like you were something… curious. He studied the way your sweater hung on your body, jeans loosely covering your converse. You were unfamiliar. Like a story he hadn’t profiled yet.

You felt your pulse fluttering again.

“So,” You said over your shoulder, “Pirates… Outer space… Hmm, maybe space pirates?” you mumbled, more to yourself.

Aaron saw how your delicate fingers traced over the spines of different books, like you knew them better than anything in the world.

Maybe he was right about that. He didn’t want to profile another attractive woman. Yet he still found it interesting.

Jack gasped, a tiny sound that made your hands stop. “There are really books about these things?”

“Definitely! There are books about everything” You replied with a small wink. “That’s the secret”

You knew Aaron was still watching you. You could feel him. Standing behind one of the softly lit shelves, arms crossed and a very, very thoughtful look carved into the sharp lines of his face.

You were good with kids. That was obvious. But it was more than that.

You talked to them like they mattered - which was a rare sight. You saw them.

He wasn’t so sure that he was used to that.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. He didn’t look like the kind of man who filled up silence just for the sake of it. But then again, you didn’t expect him to keep staring at you like that.

“Do you read all of these?” He asked.

You glanced back at him, almost taken aback by his question. There wasn’t any judgment in it. Just curiosity. Honest, quiet curiosity.

You nodded slowly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I try. I’m always falling behind though. They keep writing more”

That earned a real smile for him. It reached his eyes, his dimples showed- and oh god, why were you even thinking about it?

Get it together, you thought to yourself. This wasn’t a romance novel.

Jack was busy flipping through the book you gave him, his small hands lost inside the pages. It allowed you to linger a second longer on Aaron.

“You look like someone who remembers everything they’ve read,” You said before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You look like someone who rereads the same story ten times just because it feels safe”

“Was that… why are you profiling me?” You asked, a blush already on your cheeks. Aaron found it cute, he must admit.

You hadn’t known he was an FBI agent. And he tried to downplay the evidence of surprise on his face when you used that word.

Smart girl, he thought.

He gave you an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry. Old habits”

You shook your head, shrugging. “It’s okay, really. You’re not wrong”

You weren’t used to being seen like that. Not quietly, not gently. Not by someone like him.

“Daddy, I want that one!” Came Jack’s voice, getting you out of the stupid, foolish, and high school girlish trance you were when you spoke to Aaron.

“Reader’s choice” You fretted, taking the book from his hands and gesturing for them to come along with you.

“That’s a really good pick, buddy” You smiled, heading to the counter. Jack just smiled, and you bent down again- meeting his gaze. “One of my favourites actually” you whispered, a small giggle escaping your lips.

You ring up the book, placing it gently into a paper bag - one you’d drawn little stars and hearts one slow evening.

“There you go,” you said, handing the bag to Jack with both hands like it was treasure. “Make sure you read it with someone really cool, alright?”

“I will!” Jack exclaimed, already hugging his bag to his chest. You glanced up, only to see Aaron watching the entire scene unfolding - something unreadable in his gaze.

You were suddenly very aware of how red your cheeks were. You hoped - prayed he wouldn’t notice. (he in fact had noticed, and thought it was the purest thing he’d ever witnessed)

“Thank you,” Aaron said, eyes filled with gratitude. Your stomach fluttered, and you could feel your smile reaching your ears.

“Oh- of course. It was um- It was really nice meeting you both” You said, trying not to fidget with the small ribbon you had for wrapping up gifts.

He paused for a moment. Then, without breaking eye contact, he spoke again.

“We’ll be back”

You weren’t sure which of them he meant. God, you hoped it was him. That handsome- gentle stranger and his sweet son.

Before they left, you left the counter hurriedly - wanting to say something.

“Bye, um…”

“Aaron” he offered, “Aaron Hotchner”

Since then, they became regulars.

Smiley, bouncy Jack came back wanting the second book of the series and who were you to say no? You showed him everything - chatted with him and wrapped the book in a lovely baby blue paper.

Aaron stood nearby, quiet as always. You exchanged a few words, not many. But each one still left your stomach filled with butterflies and your brain turning into mush.

He still hadn’t asked for your name.

You supposed you could introduce yourself to him, but you couldn’t find the right time. Maybe it was the way you always felt a little too choked up every time he looked at you.

But today, he didn’t bring Jack. Today, he didn’t hover over the kids’ section or pretend to browse books.

Today, he stepped inside the bookstore, finding you on a bean bag, hiding behind a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was your favourite book. He noticed that you had a worn out, old copy of it behind the counter and it always intrigued him.

Once again, you didn’t hear the door chime. Or maybe you just pretended not to. You sensed his presence though, like it was a shift in the atmosphere. He was watching you, expression softening as he saw you curled up.

Eventually, he cleared his throat - making you scramble to sit properly and almost drop the book in the process. “Oh- Oh, hi,” you said flustered. “No Jack today?”

He shook his head, stepping closer to you. “No, uh- He’s with his aunt Jessica today”

“Thought I’d come on my own”

Your brows furrowed for a second. “Sure- Um- You’re here for a book?”

Aaron’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “No sweetheart, I’m here for a name”

Your heart stopped for a second.

Sweetheart. He had called you sweetheart. In the most gentle and soothing voice.

Remember the Snoopy dance Nikki did in Dork Diaries? Yeah, that’s one way to describe your current feelings.

He sat on the edge of one of the plush chairs, hands on his knees - gaze gentle but unwavering. “I’ve been coming here for weeks. I think it’s time I stopped calling you ‘her”

You blinked at him, pulse fluttering like a startled bird. “Oh right. You’re right” You chuckled softly. “I’m Y/N. Just Y/N”

“Y/N…” He repeats, as if he were committing it to memory. “Suits you”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. You weren’t the best at taking compliments. It always made you feel… A little uneasy. Maybe a tad unworthy of praise.

And more specifically, you weren’t used to being complimented by men like him. Men who looked like they belonged in black and white films, all clean lines and quiet intensity.

You were about to say something, an awkward comment about bookstore loyalty cards or names - when something completely shifted.

Thunder rumbled outside. Loud.

Your whole body tensed.

Aaron noticed it, and his expression turned from cheeky to concerned. He noticed your fear of storms instantly. His brows furrowed, and he wanted to say something.

But before he could speak, before you could hide the trembling of your fingers and the small whimper that was lodged inside your throat - the lights flickered once…twice.

Then the rain started. Hard, unmoving, and terribly fast.

You backed up towards the counter, trying to seem casual. The fact that your pulse was racing didn’t help.

This wasn’t the time to be absolutely terrified by thunderstorms. In front of the man you liked.

“Are you alright?” Aaron asked, eyes narrowed.

Forcing yourself to nod, you whispered

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine”

A louder crack of thunder cut through the shop, and this time you weren’t able to choke down a whimper. Or the way you flinched.

He took a step forward, slow and careful. Not wanting to startle you. “Y/N…”

But whatever he was about to say?

You didn’t hear it.

Because the lights went out.

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 15 (FINAL)

<< FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

Shiverstep wanted to help Brackenfreckle feel more comfortable around the Clan, and with some pointers from Riftpaw, asks if she wanted to go on patrol to collect some herbs with her. She offers her an herb pouch as a gift.

(Shiverstep, medicine cat, female, 15 moons. Loving.) (Brackenfreckle, medicine cat, female, 13 moons. Grumpy.)

---

Shiverstep wasn't sure what to make of Brackenfreckle.

It was clear that she joined ForestClan only because her brother had. She chose her own suffix, despite being told that she didn't have to. She was also told that due to her age, they would have to test her abilities before determining if she was fully trained. She pointedly ignored those protests. She held a thousand questions for Redstar, trying to push her buttons and get her to reveal what ForestClan was 'really' about. Either Redstar had the patience of an elder tree, or she kept her defensiveness in check. Eventually, Brackenfreckle acquiesced to ForestClan being different from the rumors she heard.

Then she promptly told Redstar that she was a healer, had been since she was young, and she wasn't going to take a no for an answer. Redstar opened her mouth to say something - but Brackenfreckle walked away and inspected Riftpaw's brace.

If it weren't for Windfur pulling Redstar aside and saying something to her calmly, Shiverstep felt like Redstar would have dragged Brackenfreckle out of the den like a kit by the scruff. Keyword being "try", as she wasn't sure if Brackenfreckle would've allowed it.

By all means, she was surprisingly competent. There were some gaps in her knowledge - namely ointments for minor burns and casts for broken bones. She was unafraid of asking questions about herbs she didn't recognize, and only needed to be told once what something did. She was a very helpful presence when it came to helping her and Windfur.

On the other hand, she was closed off from everyone who wasn't a patient. She would eat away from everyone and respond to conversation attempts with one-word answers and grunts, only making polite conversation when being actively glared at by Riftpaw. And despite being warned against going on solo patrols without letting anyone know, she often vanished and reappeared within an hour or two, stressing many clanmates. She would always tense and respond defensively that it wasn't their business, and she was allowed to her privacy.

"She's just worried about me, and scared…don't tell her I said that," Riftpaw told Shiverstep once.

Shiverstep let this information sink. Tree, Riversnow and Olive had incorporated into ForestClan without much trouble - she couldn't imagine what it would be like for someone who was scared of the Clan to participate in it. Maybe there was something she could do to make her feel more at home?

"Is there anything she likes?" Shiverstep asked.

"Sunsets," Riftpaw said without hesitation. "And quiet walks. She likes company - though she won't admit it."

So that's what she did. With permission from Redstar - she asked if she could go on a late afternoon walk with Brackenfreckle. She would be back before the sun completely set. Redstar agreed - although not without some reluctance and worry, as she always was with her Clanmates.

Brackenfreckle was suspicious at first. Shiverstep explained it away as needing an extra set of hands to collect plantain. She offered her a small herb pouch to call her own, as a gift. She grabbed a small basket to carry her own herbs, and said that it shouldn't take too long. Brackenfreckle looked out into the woods, her eyes glazed over with unknown feeling. To her relief, Brackenfreckle accepted.

Shiverstep DID want Brackenfreckle to feel comfortable. Really, she did.

But Brackenfreckle also spent time with Endless. And she wanted to know about it.

Realistically, Shiverstep shouldn't be so fixated on that. And she likely wouldn't be, if it weren't for the pull she felt at the back of her mind when she looked into Endless' eyes, back in leafbare.

The only shared experience between her and Endless, was Rootgrove.

If Endless had the same ability she had - somehow able to hear messages from beyond - then maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone in this world. Rootgrove said that she's the only one who could speak to him - but what if Endless simply hadn't tried before? Maybe someone else could experience trances like her, or hear kind voices. Someone else could help her save Rootgrove.

And she needed to know where she could find Endless for that.

So here she was, really hoping that she could befriend Brackenfreckle, and maybe discover where Endless was staying.

It could be going better.

Brackenfreckle had no interest in making small talk. Shiverstep tried, she really did, but the dark grey molly seemed distracted and more interested in stuffing other herbs in her new pouch. 

Shiverstep tried again. "So…um…did you have a safe place to go to? Before you met us."

Brackenfreckle's tail swayed. "Yep."

"...That's, um, good to know. Was it near the Twoleg nests?"

"Kinda. Not really."

Shiverstep's ear twitched, signaling her to continue, but Brackenfreckle remained stone-faced. Shiverstep winced, avoiding her gaze. "Do you…miss it?"

Brackenfreckle's ears folded. "Why would I?"

"I mean…if there were other cats…"

"There weren't."

"...Didn't you live with Riftpaw somewhere before…?"

"I did. I'm not sharing."

Brackenfreckle's tone was final. Shiverstep looked away and said nothing more.

They trailed off into quiet silence as they made their way towards the plantain patch. They patrolled to the edges of the territory, until they bordered at the start of the steep hill that caved down into the vast lake below. The sun had begun to set behind the mountain across the lake, bathing a pale shadow over its pointed edge. Shiverstep couldn't help but stop, and admire the pink clouds and orange light that bathed the horizon.

Brackenfreckle joined Shiverstep in silent admiration of the view. Shiverstep sat down, remembering what Riftpaw told her, and did her best to resist conversation. She accepted that she would have to ask about Endless some other time.

As the sun was setting lower, Shiverstep shifted on her paws. They couldn't stay out for much longer. "Redstar would want us back before nightfall."

"Yeah…fine," Brackenfreckle mumbled. "I've got something I have to do first though. You go on ahead."

Shiverstep bristled and looked at her in surprise. But…she couldn't stay out in the woods past nightfall! A sense of dread seeped through her as she remembered Rootgrove's empty eyes in the darkness. "It's…it's not safe alone," she mewed.

"It's fine," Brackenfreckle insisted as she started padding down the inclined terrain.

"But - "

"I'm just going to make dirt, calm down."

"O-Okay, then I'll wait nearby. Go behind some oak tree."

Brackenfreckle's tail flicked in annoyance. "I want privacy, thanks. I'll be fine, just make your way back."

There was something in Bracken's voice that edged with anxiety. Shiverstep's own tail twitched. She wasn't going to accuse her, but any cat who knew of the dangers of the woods would understand how dangerous it was to go alone. She stood to her paws and grabbed the small basket she had brought with her. She gave her a pleading look.

"I can't. There's…things in the woods."

"I've been alone out here before. Stop worrying," Brackenfreckle retorted as she continued down the path at a faster pace.

"No, Brackenfreckle," Shiverstep insisted as she padded behind her quickly. "I can't."

Brackenfreckle bristled as her pace quickened down the slope until the landscape leveled out. She jumped into the undergrowth.

"Wait!" Shiverstep protested, following behind her.

"For the love of - " Brackenfreckle turned around and hissed at Shiverstep, causing the latter to startle. Shiverstep's blue eyes widened as Brackenfreckle seemed to have abrupt hostility glazed into her eyes. "I need you to leave me alone, cultist," she hissed.

"Brackenfreckle, I know you're struggling to adapt to Clan life, and I know it's hard to understand, but…the undergrowth is dangerous. Especially with limited light." Shiverstep failed to suppress the memory of the Woodcrawler she encountered as an apprentice; perfectly camouflaged among the bare shrubs. "...They look too much like branches. I want…I want to make sure you're safe. So that Riftpaw - "

"Yeah, I get it, you're scared I'll die. I've been getting by just fine for months, and I don't have to be constantly monitored for everything I do. Please just go away for ten minutes and I swear I'll be back. It's not like I want to abandon my brother," Brackenfreckle hissed.

Despite her aggressive tone, Shiverstep had the feeling that something was wrong. There was something she wasn't telling her. She looked at the molly, then glanced at the herb pouch that was around her neck.

She noticed borage sticking out of the seams.

A possibility occurred to her. Shiverstep felt an uncomfortable pang in her chest.

…How many outsiders were there around the outskirts of ForestClan territory?

She really didn't want to do this. She was already feeling bad about it. But…

"Could you leave your herbs with me, then? I'll start sorting them."

Brackenfreckle froze. Her bronze eyes burned intensely. The silence went on for too long. "...You can sort them when we get back."

"You told me you needed ten minutes. I can sort them now."

"For fuck - " Brackenfreckle growled and paced around in a circle in anger. She gave Shiverstep a hostile look. "Listen, cultist, I'm a shit liar, but I'm not stupid. I saw you looking at the borage. Maybe you don't give a shit about people who live outside of your walls - "

"Bracken, does someone need help?" Shiverstep interrupted. She stood to her feet, her heart racing. She was trying to help someone. That's why she kept vanishing for random solo patrols without telling anyone! "I don't have to know their name, or where they came from, but if someone is hurt or needs help and you haven't been telling us - "

"She doesn't want attention brought to her, she's trying to leave as soon as possible, and you guys don't care about outsiders anyway. Why would I ever tell you?" Brackenfreckle retorted, her eyes narrowing. 

Shiverstep stared at her. For a moment, she saw a desperate pleading in her eyes. It vanished as soon as it appeared, and she wondered if she imagined it. Shiverstep swallowed. She looked at the sky, seeing the sunset fading with every moment.

"I…I want to tell you that it's not true, we do care what happens to outsiders," she said, her voice small. "But if someone really needs help, we don't have time to argue, right? I'll stay at a distance. I don't have to see what she looks like, if she doesn't want me to. But I can't in good conscience leave you alone, this close to nightfall."

Brackenfreckle scowled, but as she followed Shiverstep's gaze towards the sky, she shared an understanding.

"...Fine. But you can't tell anyone, alright? Not Redstar, not Windfur, no one. She's not joining your Clan. Alright?"

Shiverstep nodded quickly. She didn't have a choice, if she wanted Brackenfreckle to be safe. The dark gray cat grunted once before stalking through the ferns. She followed closely behind, relieved.

The two shuffled their way through the undergrowth quickly and silently. Shiverstep winced as branches pelted her sides from Brackenfreckle carving her own path in the ferns. She narrowed her eyes to prevent them from poking her in the face. She had never been this close to the lake before. The smell of water invaded her nostrils.

She was so focused on it that she collided with Brackenfreckle.

"Ooof - sorry - "

Brackenfreckle interrupted her tersely. "Get down."

Shiverstep complied. She was about to question the former loner, but the words left when Brackenfreckle crouched. Her eyes wavered, locking on something outside of the undergrowth in front of her.

Shiverstep's fur bristled as she picked up the milky scent of a queen…and someone else. Voices suddenly rushed into her ears, speaking hotly.

That voice...Shiverstep knew that voice.

(Blavignad, loner, female, 51 moons. Shameless.) (Endless, rogue, female, 51 moons. Sneaky.)

---

"Endless?" Shiverstep failed to suppress her gasp. Brackenfreckle whipped her head back, her face screwing up in bewilderment.

"How do you - "

"Shh," Shiverstep hissed before carefully crawling over beside Brackenfreckle. The two cats peered from underneath the layered leaves, seeing the shapes of two cats facing each other in a clearing.

"I appreciate the offer, but I ain't interested," the queen replied. She was long-haired and a reddish brown color. A ripped up, dirty green bow was wrapped around her neck. Her blue eyes were sharp.

The other was Endless. Shiverstep felt her blood turn cold. The side of her face had scarred over poorly. Her ear was shredded like torn leaves, and a long scar traced down her neck and shoulder, black and scabbed. The eye on her injured side was narrowed, half-closed.

Endless' tail waved once before she continued. "No, no, no. I don't think you understand," she hissed. "There are things in the woods. They feed on everything. There's a Clan nearby that feeds other cats to the beasts. I can't let you take that risk."

The queen's ears folded back, and Brackenfreckle tensed. She hissed under her breath, barely audible. "Don't do it Blavignad, please don't."

"Ya know fuckin' what, Endie?"

Brackenfreckle winced.

"You keep mentioning the mangy Clan cats, but you're the only cat who's botherin' me right now. I've heard your pitch, I've seen your crew, and I've seen what you can do. I ain't interested. Bracken wasn't either, by the looks of it," Blavignad retorted. She snorted and turned her back on Endless boldly, approaching a hollow, fallen oak tree.

Endless' pale green eyes flashed with anger as she stepped to approach her. "I have my doubts that she left willingly. I found her scent near that Clan border," Endless hissed. Shiverstep's heart sank at Endless' familiar vitriol. She felt Brackenfreckle's fur bristling beside her. Endless' continued, her voice strained. "You don't understand, Blav. I'm trying to protect you. Your kits. That Clan - they commune with the giant spiders. The woods have a taste for the young and the weak. If you don't find protection, you will lose everything. This is not a threat. This is a reality. I can give you the protection I give to Rex. To Hail. To Stone."

"Endie, just pipe down, alright?" Blavignad hissed. "I'm an outsider to all of y'all - never been part of a colony, or clowder, or whatever ya call them. I come from housefolk, lived by them most of my life. Got lost one day, and my attempts to get home lead me here. I don't wanna join a clowder, I wanna to find my housefolk. So again, I ain't interested."

Shiverstep's ear twitched as she picked up on something faint - a high-pitched mew coming from the oak hollow. Her eyes widened. Oh no. There were kits out here.

"And I am telling you that as long as you are out here, you are in danger," Endless seethed, her fear broiled into anger. "You would throw away your kits out of pride?"

Blavignad bristled. She slowly backed towards the entrance of the hollow. Her claws threatened to unsheath. "Leave my kits outta this."

"You are choosing to ignore the world around you. I will not…I cannot hold it away. I cannot protect you. Protect them. Out here." Endless' voice had progressively trailed off from being grounded. The molly's eyes glazed over. She took a step forward. "The corruption grows. This is its home. Its domain. Gorging on the sacrifices. I cannot bring it to heel. Not here. But there. It stops. It knows. There is…there…"

Blavignad took another step back, more warily this time. "Get back," she meowed.

Endless' eyes were still distant. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she pleaded, "Don't do this. Return with me."

Shiverstep felt the air around them turn cold. From the corner of her eye, Brackenfreckle was unmoving, her gaze frozen on the two cats.

Blavignad's expression was unchanged. She scanned the brown tabby. Then, her blue gaze hardened. "No."

Mewling kits filled the silence. Shiverstep glanced at Brackenfreckle, hoping for a sign. But the dark gray cat met her gaze and shook her head imperceptibly. Shiverstep suppressed the urge to scrape the dirt beneath her paws.

Then, Endless' left eye twitched. Her whole body shivered, as though seized by a cold wind. She began pacing in circles and ranting under her breath, her eyes wide and her teeth bared. Shiverstep recoiled, her ears flattened at the back of her head. She strained, and failed, to understand her words.

Blavignad did not react. She maintained her eye contact with the rogue. Endless' muttering grew louder; more coherent.

"...You cannot, I WILLED it, you will have your fill, it's not this one, not this one," her muttering got quieter and quieter. Blavignad lost her patience, as she finally hissed and gave a warning swipe. Endless caterwauled in response, overreacting to the swipe with an arched back, bristling on end and snarling teeth.

"Get back, Endie," Blavignad snarled. Her tail thrashed with annoyance. "The goodwill ya had is gone. Fuck off."

Endless snapped. She leapt at the queen and pinned her to the floor, her face twisted with wrath. She sunk her teeth into Blavignad's front leg and thrashed her head like a dog. The queen caterwauled in terror as she writhed to retaliate. Endless only bit down harder and raked her claws across her victim's pelt.

Brackenfreckle yowled, finally leaping out of the bushes with outstretched claws.

Endless' gaze whipped towards the undergrowth. Before Brackenfreckle could reach her, Blavignad scratched at Endless' underside with her hind legs. Endless hissed and released her leg, dragging a chunk of fur with her. She barely missed Brackenfreckle's claws. She spat the fur on the floor, her eyes wild with foreign anger. "You. You're here?"

"L-Let her go," Brackenfreckle stammered. Her tail was bristling. "Please, let her go, Endless!"

Kits mewled in distress. Blavignad hissed in pain as she scrambled to her feet, keeping her injured leg off the ground. Shiverstep couldn't take it anymore and stood from her hiding place, shadowing Brackenfreckle's advance. Endless attacked a nursing mother, right when she was trying to convince her to stay safe. This was not normal. She was not sound of mind. Shiverstep wanted to talk to Endless - but…it couldn't be like this.

"Endless. This isn't normal. You're not…we are not your enemy."

Endless' eyes met hers.

Shiverstep continued, forcing her voice to steady. "Please leave."

She didn't expect Endless' snarl to morph from rage into exasperated laughter, then grief.

"Of course, of course they were insistent. Of course." Endless' torn face twisted back towards a struggling Blavignad, causing her to freeze. A look of pity swept over her face as she said, "You have to run. Away from these ones. Your only hope."

Before Blavignad could spit anything else, Endless climbed into the nearest tree…and leapt from branch to branch, away from the clearing.

"God-damned lunatic," Blavignad spat as she started licking her wound. She hissed as she looked more closely at the injury. "She sprained my paw. Damn it."

"Blavi," Brackenfreckle quickly darted to her side and started looking at the wound. Brackenfreckle's distant demeanor vanished, replaced with anxiety. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about the Clan cat too, she's harmless, I promise you - "

Shiverstep felt a pang in her chest. Confusion, hurt and sadness overwhelmed her all at once. Why did Brackenfreckle talk about her like that? Was the fact that she was a Clan cat really a source of fear to others? Was the leader before Redstar truly so bloodthirsty that its impact was felt even by outsiders? Tree wasn't afraid of her. Olive wasn't afraid of her. Riversnow was wary, but she had warmed up to the Clan significantly.

Why did Endless speak of ForestClan like they were monsters? She helped her. She just…

Her parting words left a lingering dread.

"Of course they were insistent. Of course."

Shiverstep felt…wrong.

She slowly padded away from the two, standing where Endless once stood. She stared into the treeline that Endless disappeared in. She had run in the direction of the Twoleg cabins.

She said she was…protecting cats. She insisted this was what she was doing. And yet…

The medicine cat didn't know what compelled her to do what she did next. There was no sign. No smell. No sound. The conversation between Brackenfreckle and Blavignad had faded into the muffled background of her mind. She felt her heart thundering in her chest. Something in her whispered quietly for her to look to her right. Towards the lake.

So she did.

She stared into the treeline. The sunset bathed the trunks of long birches and oaks with orange light. The lake was barely visible, only given away by the reflections off the water.

And…

They had to leave. They had to leave NOW.

Her mind screamed at her to run. As the outline of the wretched skull and jagged teeth bore through the world, Shiverstep lost all memory of the cat trapped within. All she could remember were the twisting roots, the widened grins, the empty, black eyes, the voice that groaned and echoed so deeply within, that it felt like it tore the cords from something living in its stomach.

She couldn't move.

"Hey, Shiverstep." Brackenfreckle approached her, looking frustrated. "I'm helping to move Blavignad's nest, come help." Upon seeing the look of dread on the cat's face, Brackenfreckle warily stared out into the treeline. When she finally caught it, her fur bristled and her lips curled into a snarl. "What is that?"

Shiverstep's teeth chattered. The dying sunset was warm. She was so cold.

"Shiver?" Brackenfreckle's voice betrayed her. "Shiver, what is that?"

"Hey, is something wrong with her too?" Blavignad said a bit too loudly for Shiverstep's comfort, causing her to hiss involuntarily.

Brackenfreckle was the one to raise her tail towards Blavignad, then said in hushed tones, "There's something out there."

The tone Brackenfreckle used must've frightened the queen. She bristled, then quickly picked up a black kit in her mouth. Brackenfreckle glanced at her, then tilted her head towards the undergrowth - indicating to the basket of herbs Shiverstep had brought with them. Brackenfreckle mouthed quickly, "Put them in there. Quiet."

Shiverstep felt her heart thundering in terror. Rootgrove was still. Too still. How long had he been there?

As her eyes were locked on the shadow of death, her heart thundered. Breathe. Breathe. She had to breathe. She tried to remember the night she protected Riversnow's kits. She tried to speak certainties. Shiverstep. Her name was Shiver…

You will die.

Nothing was louder than the fear.

In the hurricane of memories, one sound gently tapped at her mind. Past the horrific visage of the roots, the reverberating mockery of life, the skull, she remembered the sound of the Silver Box.

…Help. Please.

She's scared. She knows she needs to be brave, but without StarClan, without the Half-Moon Dome, she feels so scared.

Can you hear her?

She feels her mind turning numb.

Please. She's begging you.

She calls

to

you...

<PREVIOUS | FILL THE HOLLOW SPACE>

[agatharioscoven]

This cushion has been on my computer chair for the last 10 years.

It was one of many merch items I bought for Carmilla, so how did seeing it today make me feel so nostalgic for the little webseries that could, that I looked up if you could still buy merch and now I want to spend all my money on Carmilla merch again like it's 2014!

[clumsypuppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[deliriousblue]

watching interviews isn’t enough i need to be locked in a room with jojo tichakorn for sixteen hours straight

[notallbloodmages]

*taps mic*

I don't like Henry Cavil as Geralt

*sits down in the dunk tank*

please don't me mean to me I'm keeping main tags out this is my blog I can be a hater if I want

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[spectorgram]

FAN BEHAVIOR

characters: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake summary: batboys with a celebrity! reader content/warnings: fem! reader, fluff

DICK GRAYSON

You’re an actress who has had a meteoric rise, moving from doing small, one-off parts in TV shows to becoming a breakout star on a particularly popular series to being cast in major movie productions

Your stardom is still a little surreal to you and when you’re invited to a wayne enterprise charity gala, you contemplate not going — what business do you have being somewhere with people far more famous than you? But when you tell your agent this, she gives you a look that says you’re insane for even considering declining

You’ll forever be grateful that she urged you to do so because that’s where you meet Dick

He’s standing with Bruce Wayne, chatting with some frequent donors, dressed in a perfectly-tailored navy blue suit when he sees you out of the corner of his eye and he lights up. He approaches you first with that megawatt smile and introduces himself with an extended hand and says, “I’m a huge fan! I’ve been watching your stuff since you were in Legends of the Kingdom!” And the rest is history

Dick goes to every red carpet event you invite him to and he makes it a point to attend every private premiere screening and public opening night

He definitely shushes anyone who talks during your movies or TV shows and does not care if people think he’s obnoxious.

You’re definitely the ‘it couple’ and your faces are plastered constantly on magazine covers and two-page spreads

There are people who try to sow discord in your relationship and their go-to is either pointing out how different you are to Dick’s former girlfriends; that you’re not his type, that this isn’t going to last, etc., or that you’re not talented enough for the fame you have or to be dating Dick Grayson

It definitely gets to you and does nothing to whatever lingering imposter syndrome you harbor but Dick is such a grounding force, reminding you that it’s all just noise and that he loves you completely and unconditionally

At home, he likes to rewind your scenes in shows and movies, and it flatters you as much as it flusters you

He also likes to read through scripts with you when he can and his voices for the various other characters bring you to tears from laughter 

So many intentional and unintentional thirst trap couples pics. Like, a selfie you post one morning — Dick is shirtless and you’re in one of his old t-shirts and its sliding down your shoulder and showing your collarbone and you’re both laying on your stomachs in your shared bed, hair sleep (and sex) tousled with the morning sun making both of you look like you’re golden and glowing 

JASON TODD

You meet Jason as Red Hood first when you’re running from the paparazzi but you don’t know it’s him

They chase you down a couple of blocks before someone tugs you into an alleyway and you’re about to scream for help when you see who it is. Red Hood shields you as the paparazzi pass and when you ask him why he helped you, he simply says, “I hate the paps and you looked like you needed a hand.”

Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he walks you back to your hotel using the back alleys of Gotham. You make several attempts to strike a conversation up with him in the first few minutes of your walk but what seems to catch his interest is when you start rambling on about just finishing Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. 

You’re disappointed when you arrive at your hotel and you’re rush inside to find a pad to scribble your number on but he’s gone when you return, disappearing into the night

It’s by chance that you meet him again (unbeknownst to you), this time in his civilian identity as Jason Todd. You’re in disguise at a bookstore in Gotham when you bump into him and spill his iced coffee all over both of you, apologizing profusely and offering to buy him another drink, which he accepts. (His voice is oddly familiar to you but you can’t put your finger on why) 

You two keep in touch and start dating privately. The long-distance is difficult at times given your very different and busy schedules and Jason is pretty cagey about what he does but you both make time for each other as much as possible

He tells you that he listens to your music during his workouts and in the background while he’s doing stuff around his apartment. He hums along too.

He recommends your songs to anyone who listens, which raises suspicions in the Batfam, and it obviously doesn’t take long for them to figure out that he’s dating you but he makes them promise to keep it to themselves. 

Whenever you have a concert in Gotham, which you make a point to do frequently, Jason is in the VIP box, bobbing his head and mouthing along to your songs. When it ends, he’s right there backstage with flowers and a thermos of tea for your throat

Your relationship goes public when fans capture of video of you two leaving one of your concerts together, Jason’s leather jacket draped over your shoulders

You eventually move to Gotham to be closer to him and the two of you spend every free moment either of you have together, making up for lost time. 

You still try to keep your relationship as private as possible but fans eat up any crumbs they get, including the occasional selfie of you both 

He is your biggest inspiration for songs and also your biggest help. You love bouncing ideas off of him and he likes sitting with you when you pick at your guitar strings and mumble a half-formed melody

(You eventually do find out that he’s Red Hood when he tumbles through the window of your bedroom, bleeding profusely, and you have to take his helmet off to assess the damage)

TIM DRAKE

You’ve known Tim since you were kids given that your parents ran in the same social circles

You started out as a child model in department store clothing catalogs. Tim did some shoots with you too but while his parents eventually stopped auditioning him for such jobs, you continued until the present day, and you’re now a well-known supermodel 

You two have been friends forever and the internet laps up your interactions together. There are compilations of videos and photos of the two of you at banquets and red carpet events and memes with text like “when will someone look at me like that?”

Before you two even started dating, there were articles about a supposed romance and sexual tension between you two. In interviews, you would vehemently deny anything asked about it and reiterate that you two are just good friends

At some point, however, you start seeing your childhood friend in a different light. He’s kind, brilliant, funny, attentive, and very handsome. It’s not that you didn’t know that before but it’s different now. You find yourself shying away his casual touches and suddenly conscious of your actions around him — did you laugh too loud? Is your hair in your face? Does he know how you feel? Can he tell?

You don’t want to ruin your friendship, as cliche as it sounds, so you did your best to keep your feelings under wraps, which resulted in you distancing yourself. When Tim would text to congratulate you on your latest Vogue cover or runway show, you would simply shoot a simple ‘thanks!’ text back instead of the usual ‘THANK U’ followed by five heart emojis. 

He confronts you about it one day and you’ve never really been a good liar in front of him so you tell him, bracing for a gentle rejection but instead receiving a kiss. 

You made a hard launch post with him on Instagram and received hundreds of DMs of people saying they were vindicated in believing that “friends don’t look at each other like that”

Tim is in the front row at every single runway show you have, dressed impeccably in an expensive suit. He takes pictures of you and visits you backstage with your favorite sweet treat.

After fashion shows and other events, you return to his apartment to let your hair down and put your feet up. You do your skincare routines together, sheet face mask and all, and snuggle on the couch for some TV or just to hang out and talk endlessly

You’re very active on social media with him and you two have a lot of couples posts together. When you both have time, you do Instagram lives where people watch you two make dinner together or answer some questions from viewers. A fan favorite is when you choose outfits for each other.

During a runway, you blow a kiss at Tim in the audience and the camera zooms in on his face, where he just watches you with a lovestruck expression and bright red ears — it’s in almost every video compilation that’s titled something like ‘15 minutes of Tim Drake being a simp’

[joelsrose]

Feels Right

warninnggssss omg stepdad!joel smut - this is not everyones cup of tea so pls pls be warned also as always 18+ for smut, otherwise to the of age freaks pls enjoyy hehhehe

TW: stepdad!Joel | peepaw-coded filth | age gap (legal but still unwell) | power imbalance | gaslighting (loving) |manipulation (oop) | masturbation | daddy kink | praise kink

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat at the end of the table, hands resting quietly in your lap as the hum of conversation floated between the clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your two college friends, visiting for the week under the impression that this was just a harmless little getaway—some sun, some sleep, a few homemade meals in the country.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted meat, the air thick with steam and late evening light spilling in golden across the counter tiles. Your mother sat beside you, bright-eyed and flushed from wine, humming softly to herself as she passed the gravy boat across the table, her hand brushing against Joel’s wrist like it was second nature.

Joel.

Your stepfather.

Your very recent stepfather.

The same man who first walked into your life with a busted toolbelt, a sharp drawl, and a set of rough, dust-smeared hands that knew how to fix things. Walls. Leaks. Cabinets. Hearts, maybe. He was supposed to just reconstruct the kitchen—then, somehow, the bathroom, the laundry pipes, the broken fence in the backyard. And then, before you even realized it was happening, he was reconstructing his whole damn life around your mother.

Married four months ago. Living in your house. Sitting now at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, carving meat with quiet precision, those thick, veiny hands guiding the knife like it was sacred ritual.

He didn’t speak much during dinner. He never did—just nodded now and then, a low rumble in his throat when someone addressed him directly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

He had that heavy, slow way about him—shoulders broad, voice gravelly, expression unreadable unless he was looking at you. Then it shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Like his eyes softened, or his mouth twitched into something barely shy of a smile. But only for a second. Only for you.

He wasn’t your father. As many times as your mother tried to make it so—“Can you ask your daddy what time he’ll be home?” or “Your daddy said he’d pick up more of that good brisket from town”—you never said the word. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when your thoughts about him weren’t the kind daughters were supposed to have.

Not when you couldn’t stop noticing the way his shirt clung to his back when he mowed the lawn. Or how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, gravel and heat, rasping low as he stood in the doorway with a steaming mug of coffee and tired eyes.

Not when you still dreamed about the way his hand lingered on your lower back a little too long the night of the wedding, guiding you through the crowd with a touch that didn’t feel familial.

Not when the man who’d been in your life less than a year looked at you sometimes like he’d undo every rule in the world just to have one moment of honesty with you.

And now here he was, sitting across the table, carving roast beef with those strong, calloused hands, the flicker of candlelight catching in his beard and glinting off the silver band on his ring finger that your mother slipped on with shaky hands one courthouse morning.

You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes away, trying to focus on your friends, on the mashed potatoes, on anything but the way Joel kept looking at you when your mother wasn’t watching.

Anything but the fact that he knew you weren’t calling him daddy for a reason.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The living room was dimly lit, the last sliver of pink sunset bleeding through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor and the frayed edges of the old throw rug your mother refused to replace. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, remote in hand, aimlessly scrolling through Netflix with half-lidded eyes, the sound of your friends' soft laughter filling the space around you like warm static.

Your mom had disappeared upstairs just after dessert, fingers laced in Joel’s, her voice pitched high and giddy as she declared, “We’ll leave you girls to your wine and gossip—don’t wait up!” And just like that, they were gone, the creak of the stairs and the hush of a door closing upstairs the only trace of them.

You tried not to think about it. About him. About the way Joel had glanced at you as he stood, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other resting at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment too long.

“God, what even is there to watch anymore,” you muttered absently, scrolling past title after title, your voice heavy with the kind of lazy boredom that comes after a full meal and a long day. Beside you, Ava stretched out with a little groan, her feet nudging under the blanket as she reached for her glass of wine, while Camila leaned in closer, eyes dancing with a mischievous glint that made your stomach twist even before she opened her mouth.

And then, softly—too softly—like a secret whispered between childhood friends and forbidden crushes, Camila nudged your arm and murmured, “Okay, seriously though… your stepdad is hot.”

The words hit you like a slap. Immediate. Merciless. Your whole body tensed, your spine straightening as if on instinct, fingers clenching tighter around the remote as you turned toward her, eyes wide, heartbeat stuttering.

“What the hell?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, the heat rising to your cheeks so fast it felt like fire, like shame, like panic. “Camila—what the actual—”

But she was already laughing, head thrown back, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she looked at Ava, who only grinned and shrugged, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax,” Camila said through her giggles, waving a hand like she could brush it all away. “I’m just saying. The flannel? The beard? He’s got that, like, hot handyman-slash-mountain-man energy. You know I have a type.”

You blinked at her, words stuck in your throat, your brain short-circuiting beneath the weight of something you didn’t want to name—something clawing up your ribs like guilt. You wanted to tell her she was out of line. That it was gross. That Joel was married to your mother, for God’s sake. But instead, all you could manage was a choked-out, “He’s—he’s not—he’s—just—stop.”

And it was Ava’s turn to raise a brow, her smile a little too knowing. “You’re blushing,” she teased, her voice sing-song and cruel in the way only best friends could be. “Oh my God, she’s totally blushing.”

“I am not,” you snapped again, but your voice was unsteady, your face burning, your entire body suddenly too hot for the blanket draped over your lap. You shoved it off, stood up too fast, nearly tripping over the coffee table as you made your way toward the kitchen, trying to pretend like you weren’t unravelling, like your skin wasn’t tingling in places it shouldn’t be.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know the way Joel looked at you sometimes when your mother wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how his voice dropped when he said your name. They didn’t know how his hand had brushed your waist this morning when he reached past you for the sugar and you felt it for hours.

They didn’t know. And you were terrified they might find out.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Camila and Ava had long since fallen asleep in the downstairs guest room, their quiet breaths threading through the stillness of the house, the kind of deep, wine-soft sleep that only came with familiarity and full stomachs and the comfort of being a guest rather than the daughter. Upstairs, you lay in your childhood bedroom, the sheets cool against your skin, your fingers twisting absently in the hem of your tank top as you stared at the ceiling—unmoving, unblinking, like maybe if you kept your gaze steady enough, long enough, it might finally offer you answers to questions you didn’t know how to ask out loud.

It wasn’t that late yet—just brushing past midnight, the witching hour when everything felt thinner, when walls couldn’t hold in secrets and silence started to echo. You wondered if your mother and Joel were asleep already, or if they were still awake in the room down the hall, the one that used to be hers alone before he arrived with his heavy boots and toolbox and made himself at home. A small, traitorous part of you imagined them lying in bed together, her curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around her waist as he whispered something low and fond into her hair.

You cringed at the image. Not because it was gross. Not because you didn’t want your mother to be happy. But because the weight that coiled inside your stomach at the thought of her in his arms wasn’t disgust—it was jealousy. Quiet, bitter, shame-soaked jealousy that tasted like guilt and felt like sin.

You turned onto your side, fingers pressing into the mattress like you could ground yourself with touch, like maybe if you pressed hard enough you’d stop the thoughts from blooming. But they kept coming, gentle and relentless, winding themselves around you like ivy. You wondered if either of them had noticed the way you always looked away when they kissed in front of you, or the way you flinched ever so slightly when their hands found each other in passing, fingers laced like it meant nothing, like it was normal.

Maybe they thought you were still adjusting. Maybe your mother thought it was some kind of unresolved grief for your father, that you couldn’t accept the idea of her moving on so quickly, tying herself to someone new. Maybe Joel thought it was awkwardness, or disapproval, or some adolescent refusal to see him as a part of the family.

But the truth was far more dangerous. Far more complicated.

Because you weren’t mourning the past. You weren’t angry about her happiness. You were mourning something else entirely—something unspoken and selfish and terrifying.

You were mourning every moment he touched her and not you. Every laugh he gave her and not you. Every soft glance, every private kiss, every piece of him that she got to keep while you sat in the corner pretending you didn’t notice, pretending you didn’t care.

Your thoughts—feverish and tangled and too loud in your head—were suddenly interrupted by a soft knock against the wooden door, three gentle taps that pulled you back to earth so abruptly you nearly sat upright. You thought, for a second, maybe one of the girls had left something behind—toothpaste on the bathroom counter or a charger cord tucked beneath the sheets—so you called out without thinking, your voice barely carrying across the room.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open with a slow, careful push, and instead of Camila or Ava’s familiar silhouette, it was him—Joel. His broad frame filled the doorway, shadowed in the dim hallway light, shoulders hunched ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to startle you, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was still deciding whether to step fully inside.

You reached instinctively for your side lamp, fingers fumbling with the switch until warm yellow light bathed the room, casting everything in a soft, golden hush. You blinked up at him, eyes adjusting, breath catching at the sight of him standing there like some kind of fever dream.

“Joel?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended, breathless not from surprise but from the sheer weight of his presence, the way he looked in that moment—undone, unguarded, real in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, that low, southern drawl curling around the words like smoke, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded far too loud in the silence of the house.

He looked—God, he looked like trouble.

Hair mussed from sleep, silver at the temples and curling slightly where it met the nape of his neck, beard soft and full, still flecked with that salt-and-pepper scruff that made him look older than he was but somehow stronger for it. He wore a plain, threadbare t-shirt, stretched across his chest in a way that made your stomach tighten, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the kind that only ever came from years of labor, of building things with his hands. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn soft with age, and barefoot—he looked every bit the rugged, rough-edged man who fixed your mom’s house and accidentally broke something inside of you.

It wasn’t technically unusual for Joel to be in your room—sometimes he’d swing by to drop off something you left in the kitchen, or fix the ceiling fan that rattled in summer, or bring you tea when you were sick and shivering in bed, too weak to do anything but mumble thanks. He’d stand by the door usually, or maybe lean against the wall, say something gruff but kind before disappearing again.

But not like this.

Not late at night. Not when the rest of the house was asleep. Not when you were lying in bed in nothing but a thin camisole and panties, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

You shifted again, this time a little more nervously, the sheet clutched tighter around your lap even though it did nothing to hide the way your body responded to his presence—your skin flushed and warm, your breath shallow, nipples still visibly peaked beneath the whisper-thin fabric of your top. You saw it then, the way Joel’s gaze flickered, just for a second, dragging across your chest before meeting your eyes again, and something about the way he didn’t look away fast enough made your stomach twist into knots. He wasn’t trying to pretend. He wasn’t playing dumb.

He came to sit on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the motion tilting you slightly toward him. He braced one hand beside him, the other resting loosely on his knee. “Were you asleep?” he asked, voice low, his drawl even rougher at this hour, as if it had crawled up from his chest and hadn’t quite settled in his throat yet.

You shook your head slowly, trying not to look too guilty, too obvious. “No,” you said quietly. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

Joel nodded, like he already knew, like maybe that’s why he was really here, not because he happened to be passing by. “Your friends were nice,” he said after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that could’ve been amusement—or warning. “That Camila though… she’s trouble.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the sound a little shaky as you tried to exhale the nerves tightening inside your chest. “Yeah,” you said, nodding. “She is.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, the silence stretching thin, and then asked, voice low and even, “You have fun?”

You answered too quickly. “Yeah.”

He didn’t miss it. His brow furrowed, not deeply, just enough to signal that he’d caught something he didn’t like, that he could hear the wrongness in your tone the way he could spot a crooked nail from across a room. “What’s wrong?” he asked, that same hand still braced on the bed beside you, his fingers so close to your thigh you could feel the heat of him even through the sheet.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, eyes darting away before you could stop them. “It’s nothing, Joel.”

He tilted his head, slow, deliberate, voice soft but firm like he was coaxing the truth out of you the same way he might coax a wild animal from the woods. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know you’re not a great liar.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your lips together, tried to hold it in, tried to act normal, tried to act like your skin wasn’t tingling in every place he was near.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured. “Just… one of them said something. Kinda weird.”

Joel straightened a little, his eyes narrowing with something darker, a flicker of protectiveness tightening his jaw. “Weird?” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “They say somethin’ mean to you?”

“No—no, nothin’ like that,” you rushed to say, shaking your head, heart beating hard enough that you were sure he could hear it in the quiet room. “It wasn’t mean. Just…”

He waited. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head slightly, the soft creak of the mattress the only sound between you as he waited for you to gather the courage to speak.

“They said something,” you murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper, your eyes trained on your fingers where they twisted nervously in your lap, knuckles white from the tension you refused to let rise to the surface. “About you.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then let out a low, careful hum. “Oh,” he said, not shocked, not offended, just… waiting. Another pause. “Okay.”

You looked up at him then, meeting his gaze for the first time since the words had started tumbling from your mouth, and it felt like standing too close to the sun—too warm, too intense, too dangerous. His eyes were calm, steady, and yet you felt like they were peeling layers off you without even trying.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed, his voice the softest kind of gruff, the kind that scratched gently at your throat and made you ache in places you didn’t have names for. “Ain’t gonna get upset, sweetheart. Promise.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding louder now, the heat creeping up your throat in a slow, mortifying wave as you looked down again. “They just…” you huffed, frustrated with your own inability to say something so simple, so ridiculous, even though it had been clawing at your thoughts all night.

“They said you were…” you trailed off, then forced yourself to look up, cheeks burning as you finally let the words escape. “They said you were ‘hot,’” you mumbled, using your fingers to make sarcastic little quotation marks in the air, the motion clumsy and half-hearted, your voice wrapped in embarrassment and something else—something you couldn’t disguise.

Joel blinked slowly, like he was processing it carefully.

He just sat there, eyes fixed on you, expression unreadable but far from indifferent, and in the quiet that followed, something in the air shifted. It was subtle—barely a breath—but it was there. Heavy. Humming. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

And then, finally, in that low, quiet drawl that had already undone you more times than you cared to admit, Joel tilted his head and said, “That right?”

You gave the smallest nod, unable to find your voice, your cheeks hot under the weight of his gaze.

He chuckled, and it was somehow worse than silence—warm and familiar and achingly beautiful, the kind of laugh that wrapped around you like smoke, like comfort, like danger disguised as something gentle. “That’s what’s got you all twisted up, honey?” he asked, his voice teasing now, smooth as whiskey and just as sharp. “That why you’re up past midnight, lookin’ like you got somethin’ sittin’ heavy on your chest?”

“I’m not upset,” you said quickly, the words spilling out too fast, too defensive. “It’s just—” you shrugged, eyes falling to your lap again, “weird.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, the mattress shifting slightly beneath his weight as he leaned in just enough to make you feel it—his presence, his size, the scent of him that smelled like cedar and something warmer, deeper, something male. “Ain’t that weird,” he said, like it was fact. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

You blinked at him, heart stumbling over itself. “What?”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What—you think I’m hideous or somethin’, darlin’?” he asked, voice laced with mock offense, but there was something beneath it, something hot and coiled and barely leashed.

“No,” you said quickly, instinctively, your body tensing. “No, but—”

Joel cut you off with a slow, quiet laugh, the kind that sent goosebumps across your arms. “D’you agree with your friend?” he asked, his voice quieter now, lower, thicker, like molasses sliding slow over bare skin. “Simple question, angel.”

You swallowed hard, every part of your body suddenly too aware of itself—your hands, your legs beneath the sheet, the way your breath caught in your throat. “I—” you stammered. “You’re my—my stepdad. It’s weird.”

Joel’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you, calm and steady, as if your panic was a ripple in a pond he’d already seen coming.

“Ain’t weird,” he said again, this time definitively, like he was putting the matter to rest, the final nail in a coffin you didn’t even realize you’d built together. “You’re my stepdaughter, sure,” he said, voice slow, smooth, dragging each word like he wanted you to feel them deep in your chest, “but that don’t change the fact that you’re a goddamn stunnin’ girl.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat—your lips, your collarbone, the outline of your thighs beneath the sheet—before meeting yours again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with seein’ beauty, even if it’s standin’ right in front of me in my own house. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with noticin’.”

His hand flexed again against the mattress beside you, the muscles in his forearm shifting subtly, a quiet tension that mirrored the storm building between your ribs.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’, either,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t casual or dismissive—it was low, like a confession, like he meant every word, like he wasn’t just talking about himself.

Your breath hitched, your chest rising too fast, falling too slow, and before you could control it, your thighs—hot and aching beneath the thin layer of sheets—pressed tighter together in a desperate attempt to calm the pulsing ache that had bloomed low in your stomach. But it was no use. Your body betrayed you before your mouth could even try to lie.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he saw it. He always did.

He let his gaze drop, just for a moment—just long enough to trace the path of your clenched jaw, your flushed chest, the twitch of the blanket where your legs shifted beneath it—before dragging his eyes back up to yours with a slowness that made your skin feel like it might catch fire under the weight of it.

“It’s wrong,” you said, barely more than a breath, and even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded. Your voice faltered halfway through the sentence, like your mouth was trying to say something your heart didn’t believe.

Joel’s lips parted in a soft, nearly pitying sound, almost like a laugh—but gentler, rougher, like he was mourning the guilt you were dragging behind you like a chain. “That why you’re squirming, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like gravel and honey, rich and wrecked and too kind for the words it carried. “Sittin’ there all flustered, lookin’ at me like I done somethin’ to you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The air felt thick enough to drown in.

Joel leaned in just a little, his voice dipping lower, like the walls had ears and he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of you,” he murmured, slow and steady like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Makin’ you feel good. Keepin’ you safe. It's my job, ain’t it?”

You swallowed hard, and he saw that too.

He kept going, not touching you, not even leaning closer—just letting his voice wrap around you like his hands would, if you asked.

“These boys your age… they don’t know how to treat you,” he said, his mouth curving into something soft, something almost sad. “Don’t know how to be patient. Don’t know how to listen.”

His hand shifted slightly on the mattress, just enough to make the sheets pull tight where his thigh pressed close to yours.

“They’ll rush you,” he said, voice barely a whisper now. “Use you up. Leave you empty.”

He let the words hang, heavy and devastating.

“I’d never do that to you, baby.”

You let out a soft sound—breathless, choked, almost involuntary—the kind of desperate little noise you might’ve tried to bury into a pillow if you were alone, but now it just slipped out, raw and real and open, hanging there in the charged air between you.

Joel’s eyes darkened instantly, and his voice followed like a velvet trap. “Aw, angel,” he cooed, low and dripping with something syrup-thick and sinful, “you’re aching, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, barely, shame crawling up your spine, your thighs clenching again under the sheets like you could hide the truth from a man who already saw it, already knew. And yet… you nodded. You nodded because it was true. Because every cell in your body felt hot and heavy and needy in a way you couldn’t soothe on your own anymore.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetpea,” he murmured, shaking his head slow like you’d just said something silly, something naive. “It’s normal,” he added gently, like this was a lesson. Like he was here to teach. “You’re a girl with needs, and I’m a man who understands ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ dirty about that.”

His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence that made you dizzy, his thumb stroking softly under your eye like he could smooth the guilt out of you if he just touched you gently enough. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so low it made your chest ache, “always so good for me.”

You felt warm all over, like something inside you had melted and was slowly seeping into every inch of your body, like honey left in the sun.

Joel leaned back just slightly, humming low in his throat, eyes never leaving yours, like he was thinking—weighing something. And then, in a tone so casual, so infuriatingly calm it made your stomach twist, he said, “How ‘bout I help you out, huh?”

You blinked, confused, dazed, the words hitting you like warm water to the face. “Help me?” you asked, voice small and hesitant, caught between fear and want, your hands twisting in the sheets like they might anchor you to the moment.

He nodded slowly, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest on your knee—over the sheet, but the heat of it still bled through like a brand. “I want you to show me, baby,” he said, his voice still soft, still that same gentle, soothing register, like he wasn’t asking you to cross a line you could never come back from. “Show me how you do it when you’re all alone.”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The blush that bloomed across your cheeks felt like it went all the way down to your chest, to your core, to every private place you’d ever touched in the dark.

“I—Joel,” you stammered, but your voice crumbled before it could form a protest.

He tilted his head, squeezing your knee through the sheet, patient and unbothered. “Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about, angel,” he said, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “You think I don’t know you been lyin’ here at night touchin’ that sweet little pussy all quiet-like, tryin’ not to make a sound?” He let out a low chuckle, but there was no cruelty in it—just warmth, affection, like you’d done something precious.

“Bet you rub that clit nice and slow, tryin’ to make it last, huh?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching every tiny reaction like he was reading scripture. “Bet you squeeze your thighs together after, all messy ‘n wet, pretendin’ you’re not thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You buried your face in your hands, humiliated and flushed, but Joel’s voice pulled you right back out, soft but firm. “C’mon now. Be a good girl and show me.”

You hid your face in your hands, hot with shame, your entire body throbbing with heat, soaked in places you didn’t dare acknowledge, and still trembling with that same awful, beautiful ache—the one that told you this was wrong, and yet made it impossible to pull away.

You were mortified, confused, soaked to your thighs and full of a desperate longing that made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts tangled and wet and unbearable.

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, curling in your stomach like smoke. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, gentle and coaxing and so sure of the answer he didn’t need to hear it.

But you nodded anyway, fingers twitching as you lowered your hands just enough to meet his gaze, tears brimming in your eyes though you didn’t even know what you were crying for.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that phrase—good girl—broke something loose inside of you, made your breath catch and your throat tighten like it meant something more than just praise. Like it meant ownership. Like it meant love.

Then, in a voice that was suddenly lower, rougher, more dangerous and yet still laced with the same softness that made your stomach flip, he said, “Now go on, baby. Show your daddy how you take care of that pretty little pussy when you’re all alone, thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You whimpered, the sound barely making it past your lips, and shook your head a little, helpless. “I—I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice cracking like it was made of glass.

Joel gave a quiet, affectionate sigh, like you’d just said the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s alright, sugar,” he said, sliding a heavy hand beneath the sheet and letting it rest there for just a moment before slowly, deliberately, peeling it back.

You froze as the cool air met your bare skin, the way his eyes didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just drank you in like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he wasn’t your stepfather and this wasn’t your childhood bed, like this was inevitable.

“Let’s take this off then,” he said, more to himself than to you, as he folded the sheet down past your hips, your thighs, your trembling legs, until you lay there exposed, vulnerable, soaked through your panties with shame and arousal.

Joel’s eyes swept over your bare thighs, lingering on the soaked fabric clinging to the soft curve of your cunt, the way it shimmered faintly in the low lamp light like it was glowing—wet, messy, desperate. You hadn’t even touched yourself yet, hadn’t done more than breathe, and still, your body had betrayed you, eager and hungry and utterly undone just from the sound of his voice, the scrape of his knuckles, the weight of his gaze.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he did.

He let out a soft, almost pitying coo as he shook his head, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he was trying to hold back a sigh. “Honey,” he murmured, slow and low, that molasses drawl laced with disappointment more than anything else. “You’re drippin’, baby.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they still cut through you like a knife, made your skin prickle and your breath catch, not because he was mocking you—but because it was the truth. Because it was said like a reproach, like he was gently scolding you for keeping this from him. Like he was hurt.

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head again, the softest furrow in his brow. “You waitin’ this long to ask for help, baby? Layin’ up here, soaked and achin’, all by yourself?” His voice dropped even lower, eyes still fixed on the wet patch that was growing darker by the second. “That ain’t good for you, sweetpea. All that tension. Sittin’ in your belly like poison. You know better than that.”

You whimpered, small and mortified, your eyes stinging with some ugly cocktail of shame and want and that unbearable tenderness only Joel could wring out of you.

“You shoulda come to me,” he said, as soft as a prayer, his hand drifting up to rest against your thigh, close but not touching—not yet. “Coulda knocked on my door, baby. Just a tap. I’d’ve taken care of you real easy. Real sweet.” He let out a quiet sigh, like this hurt him more than it hurt you. “But instead you’re up here, rubbin’ those pretty little thighs together like that’s gonna do the job.”

You whimpered again—quiet and pathetic, a sound barely born before it trembled out of your lips—and Joel made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh, his whole body shifting like it hurt him to hear you like that, like your suffering was something sacred. “My sweet girl,” he rasped, rough with reverence, and as if the words alone weren’t enough to mark you, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and tender and terrifying in its intimacy.

You froze.

It was almost absurd—after everything, after the confessions, after the filthy words spoken in soft murmurs, after sitting in your soaked underwear before him like an offering—but that kiss, that small, chaste brush of lips to skin, shattered you in a different way. You and Joel had never shared physical affection beyond fleeting, innocent moments—a hand to your back when you were sick, a brush of shoulders in the kitchen, the occasional hand-off of a cup of tea or a charger cord. But this? This was different. This was personal. This was loving.

More intimate than anything else he could have done.

And then, his voice dropped again, low and drawling, thick with heat and authority. “Alright,” he said, his tone like velvet soaked in whiskey. “Take those panties off real slow for me, sugar. I wanna see that sweet pussy beg.”

Your breath caught hard in your throat, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and for a second you didn’t move—couldn’t move—because the words had landed so heavy, like a weight dropped into your chest. But then, with trembling hands and a heart that felt too big for your ribs, you obeyed.

You reached down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, soaked through and clinging to your skin, and began to ease them down, slow and hesitant, your eyes flickering up to meet his just once, just long enough to see the way his gaze had darkened—hungry, wild, but still soft. Still Joel.

The damp fabric peeled away from you, shame dripping off you in waves as you slid the panties down your thighs, over your knees, until they slipped past your ankles and landed in a silent heap on the floor beside the bed.

You were breathless now—your chest rising and falling in shallow little gasps, your skin flushed from head to toe, your legs trembling beneath you—and you didn’t even know if it was from fear or want or that horrible, beautiful mixture of both.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just looked.

Eyes fixed between your legs, steady and unhurried, drinking in the sight of you like it was something holy, something he didn’t quite deserve to see but was going to relish anyway. His gaze was slow, heavy, and unbearably calm—as if he hadn’t just coaxed you into peeling off your soaked panties and baring yourself in the soft hush of your childhood bedroom with the door shut and your mother asleep down the hall.

And then, in that voice—low, rough, coated in syrup and sin—he spoke.

“Spread them legs for me, baby,” he murmured, each word drawn out like he wanted them to linger in the air with you. “Let daddy see all that slick.”

Your cheeks flushed so hot it made your head spin, and for a second, your instinct was to turn away, to close your legs, to hide. But instead—God help you—you smiled, small and shy and aching with embarrassment and need, your body humming with the unbearable thrill of being seen.

Joel smiled too—lazy, pleased, touched with something warmer than it had any right to be. “That’s my good girl,” he said, the praise so soft and familiar it made your chest ache. “Gettin’ comfortable for your daddy, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, almost bashful, your thighs parting just a little wider beneath his gaze, the air cool against your soaked skin as the wet heat between your legs pulsed steady and demanding.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice sinking even lower, that dangerous softness thickening into something you could feel in your bones. “Go ahead. Show me how you rub that sweet clit.”

You hesitated only for a moment, heart pounding so loud it was all you could hear, and then—because you couldn’t not obey him, because the way he was looking at you made you feel small and precious and filthy all at once—you did as he said.

Your fingers slid between your thighs, tentative and trembling, and when they brushed over your swollen folds, a broken little gasp left your mouth—because you were soaked, slick, messy in a way that made your face burn with shame, and Joel saw all of it. Your fingertips found your clit, swollen and begging, and you gave it the lightest, slowest circle, your legs twitching as your breath stuttered.

Joel let out a low groan, like the sight pained him, like he was holding himself back from something feral. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his eyes fixed to your fingers like he was hypnotized. “Touch her real gentle. Let her know daddy’s watchin’.”

“That feel good?” he asked, voice low and slow, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it—wanted it offered up like a gift on your trembling tongue.

You nodded, breath shaky, fingers still working soft circles against your clit the way he told you to, hips twitching just a little with every pass. “Y-Yeah,” you whispered, too dazed to even pretend you had shame left in you.

Joel tilted his head slightly, that familiar crease forming between his brows, not angry—just expectant, like a teacher waiting for the right answer from a student who already knew better. “Yeah what, baby?”

You swallowed, chest fluttering with nerves and something hotter, deeper, heavier. Your voice was barely a whisper when it left you, breath catching halfway through.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The sound he made in response was filthy—a low, deep groan rumbling straight from his chest, so raw it made your thighs twitch and your core clench. You could see it in his face, the way his jaw went tight, how his hand flexed again where it lay on the bed, like he was holding himself back from something that required restraint.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and those two words—so soft, so reverent—landed heavier than anything else, sinking into your skin like praise and ownership all at once. And then, with a tenderness so at odds with the filth between you, he placed one big, warm hand on your thigh—his thumb brushing soothing little arcs into your skin—and leaned in to press a quick, burning kiss to your shoulder, beard scraping against your skin, his breath hot and damp where his lips had just been.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, barely pulling back. “Such a sweet girl—touchin’ herself just like Daddy asked.”

You whimpered, spine curving as your fingers moved faster now, helpless under the weight of his words, his touch, his eyes. You did as he said—not because you had to, not because he forced you, but because the sound of his voice, the heat in his gaze, the approval dripping from every word made you want to be good. Made you want to be his.

“Keep goin’, sugar,” Joel said, his hand tightening just slightly on your thigh. “Let Daddy see you fall apart. Let me see what that sweet little pussy looks like when she comes.”

Your fingers moved faster now, slick and shaky, the soft pressure turning greedy, desperate, your hips rising off the bed in tiny, involuntary pulses as the heat in your belly began to coil tighter, higher. The room was filled with the wet sound of your arousal—loud, obscene, almost embarrassing in how eager you were—and still Joel said nothing for a moment, just watched, eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t name, something between awe and hunger and ownership.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, like he was trying to commit the sound, the scent, the sight of you to memory, and his voice dropped an octave, ragged around the edges.

“Look so fuckin’ sweet spread out like this for me, baby,” he said, almost like it hurt to say, like the words tasted too good in his mouth to come out clean. “My precious girl… puttin’ on the prettiest damn show a man could ask for.”

Your breath hitched at his praise, your thighs twitching, fingers circling your clit faster now, harder, your other hand clutching the sheets like you’d fall through the bed without it.

“You gettin’ close, sweetheart?” Joel asked then, and his voice—low, rough, tender—wrapped around your body like a second skin, like heat itself. “That little pussy about to come just from your fingers, huh? Just from daddy watchin’ real nice?”

You nodded, too frantic to form words, mouth falling open in a soft gasp as your body trembled beneath his gaze, every nerve ending alive and raw.

He leaned in just a little, resting his forearm on his knee like this was casual, like this was just a late-night conversation and not your stepfather watching you masturbate in your childhood bed.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, voice thick with hunger but still achingly gentle, like he was speaking to something sacred, something tender and breakable. “Good girl—look at that messy lil’ cunt cryin’ for me, fuckin’ weepin’ like she’s been starved her whole goddamn life.”

And that was it.

The coil snapped.

You came undone with a shattered, strangled whimper, hips jerking beneath your own hand as the orgasm ripped through you like heat lightning—fast and sharp and blinding. Your whole body shook, your thighs clenching tight around your wrist as slick spilled out of you in wet pulses, and the only thing tethering you to earth was the sound of Joel groaning, low and ruined, like the sight of you breaking for him had knocked the breath clean out of his lungs.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby…” he rasped, watching your body twitch and flutter through the aftershocks. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you could even come down from the high—before you could catch your breath or close your legs—Joel shifted forward, leaned in, and pressed the softest kiss to your still-pulsing, overstimulated clit.

You shuddered, your legs trembling violently, your whole body jerking like you’d been shocked, because it was too much—too much—and still, he kissed you there, soft and wet, like it was a mouth made to be worshiped, and he had every right to worship it.

“Can't wait to eat this sweet pussy all fuckin’ day,” he muttered against your folds, so filthy it made your toes curl. “Could live off what she gives me.”

You let out a noise—half a sob, half a gasp—your legs twitching in overstimulation, your chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy with something too big to name.

Then Joel was moving—pulling back, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something divine, and reaching for your face with hands that were still so gentle it made you ache. He cradled your cheek like you were porcelain, and leaned in close, eyes locked to yours.

And then, for the first time, he kissed you.

It was dizzying—soft and sensual, lips slow and reverent, his breath fanning across your cheek as his mouth moved over yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right. No filth. No commands. Just Joel. Just him.

When he pulled back, his forehead just barely grazing yours, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth saving—like he’d burn the house down if it meant you’d never feel lonely again. His thumb brushed tenderly across your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth like it belonged to him, and his voice dropped into a soft, hushed whisper.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he murmured, reverent, wrecked, like you’d just done something brave instead of obscene.

“You… are?” you asked, barely able to get the words out around the haze still curling in your chest, that dazed warmth thick and dizzying in your veins.

“‘Course I am,” he said instantly, the words falling out with such quiet certainty it made your chest tighten, his voice steady and heartbreakingly sincere, like there wasn’t even the possibility of doubt in his mind. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slow and warm, and he looked at you with something so proud and tender it nearly broke you. “You were real brave for me, sugar. So sweet. So good.”

His voice dipped lower, softer now, almost like he was sharing a secret meant for your skin alone.

“Touched yourself like an angel, baby. Like you were made to be watched.” He let out a shaky breath, still a little wrecked himself, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “The way you spread those thighs, all flushed and achin’... shit, sweet girl, you made yourself come so pretty for me. Like you’d been waitin’ your whole life to let someone see.”

And God help you, but you smiled at that, soft and small and shy, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest as you leaned back up to kiss him again—slow, sweet, a little unsure but filled with something quiet and blooming.

He moaned against your lips, low and approving, one hand cradling your jaw as he deepened the kiss for just a moment, like he couldn’t help himself, like the taste of your mouth was something he’d never stop craving.

“Gonna keep makin’ you feel good like you deserve, sweetpea,” he whispered when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Just gotta get you ready for me first, yeah? Can’t rush somethin’ this special.”

“Okay,” you breathed, and the sound of your own voice surprised you—how soft it was, how trusting.

Joel smiled like he already had forever planned out.

“Good girl,” he said, and your heart stuttered. Then, with a gentleness that made your throat ache, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing back your hair like you were something cherished.

“Now get some sleep,” he whispered. “Daddy’s right here.”

And he stayed—just like that—sitting on the edge of your bed, hand still resting lightly on your thigh, as your eyes fluttered closed, your body sore and soaked and safe in the dark.

[fushitoru]

chapter 10: the art gallery a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

chapter summary ⸺ duke nanami suprises you with an inquiry, and the panic caused by it leads to an encounter with a very unexpected person (4.7k)

a/n she's a short one but i swear sm happened that im kind of surprised it was so short? mostly beta read (thank u to them as always), and i'll see u down below ~~~~

prev. the embers | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

Gentle Reader,

It seems that the next excursion polite society will be undertaking is at the art gallery, here in London itself. Filled with beautiful and evoking pieces, will it evoke affections and fuel potential matches? After all, it seems that the venue contains many hidden alcoves and hallways for potential confessions and intimate colloquies—so intimate that they are proposals.

One of these proposals this Author cannot help but speculate upon—that of Miss Itadori and Duke Nanami’s. After all, at every ball the fine lady and gentleman seem to be engaged in personal and amiable conversation; it appears clear to everyone in their surroundings that our season’s diamond has captured His Grace’s affections. But, dear reader, is this to amount to a future with wedding bells and blushing babes? Only time will tell; for now, your Author has no promises. After all, it seems that this season is sure to contain many surprises at every turn.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your bedroom. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, likely from the sachet Nobara had insisted on tucking into your dresser to “keep you from smelling like an old book.” She stood behind you now, deft hands working through your hair with practiced ease, twisting locks into an elegant style fit for the day’s engagements.

“I came across something interesting in my brother’s study last night,” Nobara said conversationally, sliding a pin into place. “A rather compelling critique on the landowning gentry—Reflections on the Inequity of Titles—have you read it?”

Your attention perked at the mention of the text. “Yes,” you said, your brows knitting as you searched your memory. “It argues against inherited privilege and the consolidation of power within a select few, does it not? I recall making notes on it.”

As you spoke, you shifted slightly in your seat, the urge to review your thoughts overtaking you. Almost without thinking, your hand reached toward the hidden compartment in the floorboards—a small, carefully loosened plank where you kept your private writings. Your commonplace diary contained notes on radical philosophies you could never openly share, and even—if you were to be honest with yourself—a few stray reflections on Gojo (before it all went askew) that you had not yet had the courage to confront.

While you rummaged through the possible planks to find the hollow one, Nobara remarked, “There have been whispers of you among the maids, as well.”

You paused, turning to look at her fully as she twiddled with the ends of your comb. “Well, what do they say?”

She paused for a brief moment, as if weighing the effect her words could have on you. However, your closest companion was not one to mince words—especially if they would end up as beneficial for you, no matter how harsh. “That you’ve recovered from Lord Gojo quite well, and that you as a duchess is on the horizon—not as Mrs. Gojo, but Mrs. Nanami.”

Oh. This was not the least bit surprising—even your mama had heard these rumors. Part of you was concerned as to how your mother had gotten ahold of these whispers, given that Sukuna had long forbade her to attend balls with you after her last…episode, but it seemed that your mama had jaundiced channels of retrieving information herself. That, or the Whistledown had reported on it, which you would be ignorant to, for you did not care for gossip lately.

You wave a hand, and soon find the hollow space in your floorboards. “Those rumors may be all just hearsay soon enough, I suppose.” Then, you pull the floorboard where your diary is supposed to reside. “After all, Christ knows my luck with the creatures called men—”

Your fingers brushed against empty space.

Your breath caught.

The floorboard was there. The hollow beneath it remained. But your diary—your most guarded possession—was gone.

A sharp jolt of panic shot through you. You froze, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as your stomach twisted. No, no—perhaps you had misplaced it? You tried to recall, but the memory eluded you, replaced by a rising dread that gripped your chest in an iron vice.

The last you remember of it was packing it so that you could take it to the Gojo manor. Did you use it there? You did. If you recall correctly, you had done so in Nobara’s company, where you were secretly observing Gojo’s show of archery to Yuji on the balcony. After that, it was all a blur.

“Everything alright?” Nobara asked, tugging your hair slightly as she adjusted the style.

You barely heard her, your hands still hovering near the empty space as if willing the book to reappear. You wracked your brain carefully, trying to will in a memory where you had, in fact, succeeded to retrieve it from the Gojo countryside residence. A moment where you had packed it or a recollection of picking it up from the balcony—

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, the door burst open.

“Oi Sister, are you ready yet?” Yuji’s voice rang through the room, cutting through your panic. He leaned against the doorway with a lazy grin, arms crossed over his chest. “You do know we have to pay a visit to the art gallery today, correct?”

You barely had time to compose yourself, forcing a steady breath as you pulled your hand away from the floor. Nobara swatted at Yuji with a hairbrush, scolding him for his lack of manners, but you could hardly focus on their banter.

Your diary was missing.

And someone had taken it.

The art gallery was abuzz with the murmurs of the ton, the usual symphony of rustling silk, polite laughter, and the occasional overzealous exclamation from an admirer who fancied themselves an aesthete. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting a warm, golden light over the oil paintings that lined the walls—portraits of long-dead nobility, pastoral scenes meant to evoke longing for a simpler time, and a few ambitious attempts at allegory that left much to be desired.

As you walked hand in hand with Nanami, the weight of his palm in yours both familiar and grounding, your mind wandered elsewhere—back to the morning, to the jolt of panic that had seized you when you realized your diary was missing.

It had been a frantic affair. Nobara had barely twisted the last pin into your hair when you had rushed to the hidden space beneath the floorboards, expecting to feel the familiar worn leather beneath your fingertips. But it was gone. The shock of it had knocked the breath from your lungs, sent your thoughts scattering into a storm of fragmented memories—where had you last seen it? Had you truly packed it? No, you had taken it with you to the Gojo estate, that much you knew. But had you brought it back? The certainty evaded you, slipping through your grasp like water.

Before you could dwell further, Yuji had appeared in the doorway, cheerfully oblivious to your distress as he urged you to hurry. 

Choso had been more perceptive, his dark eyes lingering on your face as the four of you were ushered into the carriage. "Something wrong?" he had asked, quiet and measured.

You had shaken your head. What were you to say? That your diary—your most personal possession, filled with your thoughts, your observations, your private musings—had vanished into thin air? That the last place you remembered having it was the very home of the man who vexed you most? The thought alone had made your stomach twist. So instead, you had murmured some excuse about being distracted, about having not yet woken fully, and let the conversation drift elsewhere as the carriage rattled down the cobbled streets toward the gallery.

Now, standing in the midst of polite society, surrounded by paintings and candlelight and the low hum of cultured voices, the unease still clung to you.

"It is a fine collection," Nanami remarked beside you, his gaze sweeping over a landscape of rolling hills. "Though I must say, the artist’s depiction of light is rather conventional. There is no true feeling to it, only a replication of what is expected."

You nodded, your agreement automatic. "Indeed. It lacks a certain… depth. The brushwork is delicate, but there is no challenge in it, no provocation of thought."

Nanami hummed in approval. "Precisely."

The conversation continued in this fashion—pleasant, agreeable, effortless. But with each passing moment, a strange disquiet settled over you. Your mind drifted, not toward the paintings, nor to the man at your side, but to something far removed from this genteel setting.

The diary.

You had searched again this morning before leaving, hands trembling as you sifted through your belongings, the panic curling in your stomach like a tightening noose. Yet it was not there. No matter how many times you retraced your steps, no matter how much you willed the memory to sharpen, the last certain recollection you had was of the Gojo estate—of the evening spent watching Satoru’s archery from the balcony, of penning your thoughts in the quiet company of Nobara. And after that? Nothing.

Had you left it behind? Had someone found it?

A fresh wave of unease coursed through you. If it had been discovered, if its contents had been read—

"Are you feeling unwell?"

Nanami’s voice pulled you back to the present. You turned to him, startled, and realized belatedly that you had grown silent. His brow was slightly furrowed, his concern subtle yet unmistakable.

"I—no," you hastily assured him, forcing a small smile. "Merely lost in thought, Your Grace."

His gaze lingered, as if gauging the truth of your words, before he continued, seemingly appeased. "I was saying," he began, as the two of you came to a stop before a grand painting of a woman reading by candlelight, "that I should like to spend my life in such quiet appreciation of art and literature. With a loving wife, of course, who shares the same sensibilities."

The words were spoken casually, but the weight of them struck you like a blow. You stiffened, the meaning settling into place a second too late.

“It is time the Nanami dukedom get its duchess,” he continues, seeming to pay no mind to how you’ve frozen like a deer hunted. He turns to you, looking to you with a twinkle in his eyes, one you could not read. “And I seem to have found a very…capable option.”

“I see,” you force out, swallowing nervously. 

“Indeed.” For a beat too long, Duke Nanami looks at you, but then says, “And I would suppose I’ve done my utmost to show what a dutiful, respectful husband I can be—after all, it is freedom that makes one prosper, not a gilded cage. 

"Furthermore, I have my fancy on someone who fits this description," he continued, his tone carefully measured. "But I am unsure if she would accept my proposal." He glanced at you then, his gaze steady. "Do you think she would?"

The air seemed to thin around you.

It would take a fool to miss what His Grace was implying—hand in hand, after you’ve both been courting each other for a week or so now, it is quite clear he’s using this to test the waters. To gauge your reaction.

The air in the gallery suddenly felt too thick, too heavy, pressing in from all sides. You had been aware, on some distant level, of Nanami’s affections. He had always been steady, always constant, always present. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so deliberately—it sent a sharp, startling panic through you.

Your thoughts scrambled, grasping for something—anything—to say. Did you want this? He was everything a woman could ask for in a husband. Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. A man of great integrity. There was nothing about him that should make you hesitate.

And yet, you were hesitating.

"I think…" Your voice was too thin, too unsteady. "I think she would have to ponder upon it. For marriage is no small covenant."

It was a poor deflection, and you knew it the moment the words left your lips. Nanami’s expression remained composed, but there was something in the silence that followed—something in the way his gaze lingered on you, as if seeing past your carefully chosen words.

You needed to leave.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" you blurted out, taking a half-step back. "I—I believe I should like to get some air."

Nanami studied you for a fraction too long before inclining his head. "Of course."

You curtsied hastily, turning away before he could say anything else. The moment you stepped away from him, your breath came out in a shallow, uneven exhale. Marble walls, floors, and ornately framed pieces of art blurred together, dresses and suits melding together in the edges of your vision. 

You didn’t know why this reaction had seized you so violently, only that it had. And you had no answer for it. You stumbled your way, heart pounding as you sought a respite—then, pinpointing an empty hallway. 

As you made your way to the target space, you heard other voices calling out to you—some of them might even be your brothers’. However, you were in no headspace to offer coherence responses, not over the beating of your heart. 

When you finally arrived, you were relieved to find that the hallway was blissfully quiet. Away from the bustling crowd and the low hum of conversation, you finally allowed yourself to exhale, pressing a cool hand to your neck as if that alone could soothe the rapid beat of your pulse.

Nanami’s words still lingered in your mind, coiling around your thoughts like a vice. Do you think she will accept?

Your breath had caught before you could form a proper response. You should have expected it—Nanami was nothing if not deliberate, never speaking without intent—but somehow, the weight of it still unsettled you. It had been a question and yet not a question at all.

A proposal loomed on the horizon.

You turned, gaze sweeping the dimly lit corridor until it landed on a single painting near the end of the hall.

Unlike the grand, gilded masterpieces displayed in the main gallery, this one had been tucked away from the grandeur. It lacked the polish of a commissioned work, the smooth elegance of a court-approved artist. And yet, something about it pulled you in.

Your fingers skimmed over the folds of your gown as you steadied yourself, gaze flicking upward to the painting before you. It was unlike the others in the exhibition—less grand in scale, less ostentatious in its display of wealth or pedigree. There were no poised noblewomen adorned in lace, no battlefields drenched in glory, no sweeping landscapes inviting idle admiration. Instead, it was a quiet tableau: a man standing beneath a twilight sky, arm outstretched toward a woman who stood just beyond his reach. Her posture was composed, her hands clasped before her, the tilt of her chin ever so slightly downward. She was not running, not spurning him—but she was not reaching back either.

Your brow furrowed as you studied it further. It was not a painting that offered easy interpretation. Was it longing? Was it duty? Was it loss? The artist had chosen to render their expressions in subtlety, eschewing exaggerated pathos for something far more ambiguous. The man was reaching—but did he truly expect to grasp her hand? The woman was still—but did she wish to be? The tension between them sat heavy in the air, much like the one that had lingered in your own chest ever since—

Before you could ponder upon the painting for long, however, you heard footsteps. Approaching in the hallway, they echoed softly in quiet chamber—after all, it was only you and the person who was approaching, seeming to need a reprieve of their own as well in the hidden alcove. 

But you didn’t need to see the person to know who he was.

Soft, unhurried, yet a bit shaken. By now, you had grown familiar with the rhythm of his gait—the lazy confidence in his stride, the way his heels struck the floor just a bit too deliberately, as if he never truly moved without purpose, even when he pretended otherwise. Right now, they were a little bit too arrhythmical to truly match the attitude you were far too familiar with at the beginning of the season.

A prickle of awareness traced along your spine, your pulse betraying you with its quickened tempo. But you kept your eyes fixed forward, feigning complete absorption in the painting before you. It was not as if you were eager for company—not after the morning’s ordeal, not after Nanami’s near-proposal, not when your mind was already tangled enough without the added complication of Gojo Satoru.

Yet he did not call your name, nor did he demand your attention. He merely came to stand beside you, hands clasped lazily behind his back, exhaling softly as he, too, observed the artwork.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with the same easy lilt he always carried, Gojo remarked, “This is quite the departure from the usual fare.”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your gloves. “Indeed.”

Silence stretched between you once more. He did not press you for further conversation, and for that, you were strangely grateful. It was unlike him, really—so rarely was he subdued, so rarely did he refrain from prodding and teasing and making his presence unbearably known. But here, in this dim-lit corridor, he was simply… standing beside you.

A quiet hum. The faintest shift of weight. You could feel him looking at you now, though you refused to meet his gaze, instead fixing your gaze on the painting, the frame, anything almost desperately to calm your racing heart before you could have an over-the-top ebullition once more, embarrassing yourself in front of him for the nth time this season. 

A brief silence settled, and then—

“Are you enjoying the gallery?”

The question was polite, normal, and unremarkable. You latched onto it like a lifeline.

“It’s a fine collection,” you replied, keeping your voice carefully measured. “Some works are predictable, but others are…” You gestured vaguely toward the piece in front of you. “Surprising.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, stepping closer—not intrusively, but just enough that you could catch the scent of tobacco leaves and something subtly sweet. “That’s one way to put it. Though I have to say, you look like you’re concentrating awfully hard.”

You blinked, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the painting. “It’s a rather curious piece.”

“That it is,” he agreed, hands tucked behind his back as he regarded it. “But, like I said, a bit dreary. The colors are not vibrant, and there is much to be desired in regards to their harmony.”

You almost smiled at that. “Not everything has to be grand and gilded to have meaning.”

“A fair point.”

Another pause.

“You came with your brothers, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I did,” you said, grateful for the change in topic. “They were speaking with some friends when I last saw them. And you?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” He waved a hand. “Came with Geto, ended up being dragged into conversation with half the room.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips tugging upward just slightly. “A best friend’s love, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

A comfortable silence fell over the both of you. At the opportunity given to you—of not having to fill the silence courteously with further small talk—you instead set aim on settling your heart. Pressing a hand to your bosom, you took in deep breaths until your frantic pulse became more regular. 

Finally, he spoke again. “It is rather unusual, though.”

You inhaled slowly. “How so?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Most paintings of this sort would either commit fully to tragedy or leave some feeble hope within the composition. But this—” He gestured lightly. “There is no resolution. No grand confession, no dramatic refusal. It simply is.”

You found yourself exhaling, your posture easing ever so slightly. “That is precisely what intrigues me.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “So we agree.”

You huffed softly. “A rare occurrence, indeed.”

Gojo chuckled at that, shifting his weight as he observed the painting anew. “Still,” he mused, “I do think the artist intends for us to sympathize with the man. See how he reaches? How he refuses to yield to their distance? A weaker man might call it tragic.”

Your brow arched slightly, turning your gaze toward him. “And what would a stronger man call it?”

Gojo hummed. “Hopeful.”

You studied him for a moment. Then, returning your attention to the painting, you shook your head. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

“The woman is not simply distant—she is removed,” you continued, ignoring the teasing—softer than the one you recognize—edge to his voice. “She does not reach back, not because she is afraid or reluctant, but because she cannot. She is bound by something greater than yearning.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flickering with amusement. “You think it is duty, then?”

“What else could it be?”

His gaze lingered on the canvas, his smile fading just slightly. “Perhaps love.”

Something in your chest stilled.

Gojo let the words settle, slow and deliberate, before finally turning to face you fully. The candlelight cast his features in soft relief, catching on the silver embroidery of his waistcoat, the pale strands of his hair, the unmistakable glint in his eyes. “I find it rather grim—albeit in a different direction than of yours,” he remarked. “Rather than fear of what she cannot, it is better that love and duty do not coexist, for their amalgam can prove troublesome.”

You parted your lips, but hesitation stilled your tongue. Not because you lacked an answer, but because—for all your certainty earlier—you were no longer so sure.

A moment passed.

Finally, you exhaled, your posture softening by a fraction. “Perhaps,” you said, voice even, “we are simply of different minds.”

Gojo studied you for a beat longer before a slow, knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips. He inclined his head ever so slightly. “As we so often are.”

It was not a challenge. Not a victory.

Merely an understanding.

As you stood there, the conversation settling between you, you found yourself thinking—not just of the painting, not just of duty and love, but of him. Of what he had done for you. Of how, despite everything—despite his arrogance, his sharp tongue, the way he had needled and provoked you, the way he had wounded your pride in ways no one else ever had—he had still stood by you when it truly mattered. When the moment arrived, when the weight of the world bore down on you, he had not hesitated. He had not faltered.

It was no small thing.

Perhaps he was not someone you could court, not someone who fit the shape of the life you had imagined for yourself. Perhaps he was not someone you could love—not in the way you had once thought love should be. But he did not need to be an enemy.

Not anymore.

There were worse things in this world than an unbearable, impossible man who, despite it all, had proven himself in the ways that truly counted.

When Satoru had wandered into the hidden hallway to escape Suguru’s notorious actions, he had not expected to find you. But it seems that the day was full of surprises, for he hadn’t expected your sentiments and posture about him to have changed.

Gojo had expected a sharp tongue, a ready rebuttal, the usual resistance you always met him with. Instead, you spoke with a peculiar softness tonight, your responses thoughtful, your gaze lingering not on him, but on the painting before you. He had not expected you to be so—what was the word?—empathetic. You had a ready answer for everything, a thoughtfulness to your opinions that was neither contrived nor merely spoken to please. And so, he found himself asking more, pressing you for further insights, testing the depth of your knowledge not to challenge, but because he wanted to hear what you had to say. At first, when he had wandered in, you seemed completely distraught but had seemed to ease your way into comfort, even in his presence.

Curious thing, that.

“You truly have an answer for everything,” he murmured at one point, more to himself than to you.

You glanced at him sidelong, the corner of your lips tugging in what might have been amusement. “You say it as though it is a fault.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “On the contrary, it is rather impressive.”

You inclined her head, not as a show of modesty but of simple acknowledgment. And for a brief moment, Satoru found himself simply… looking at you.

Your hair was finely arranged, swept up with delicate precision, though a few strands framed your face in an artful softness. The candlelight played upon the curve of your cheek, your lashes casting faint shadows upon your skin. Your dress—subtle in its elegance—complimented you in a way that felt effortless, the cut revealing just enough of the delicate arch of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, without ever breaching the realm of impropriety. You had always carried herself well, but there was something about you tonight, something that held his gaze longer than he intended.

He might have lingered longer still, might have remained entranced by the way the flickering light moved across your skin, had you not turned to him suddenly and called his name.

“My lord?”

He blinked, startled out of his reverie. “Hm?”

You studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable, before you simply exhaled and turned your gaze back to the painting. “I meant to thank you,” you said, voice quieter now. “For what you did last time.”

He knew what you referred to at once. The day he had defended you. The accusations that had been hurled at your feet, the venom spat in your direction—he had not tolerated it, would not have suffered it, no matter what might have stood between them.

Satoru felt the tips of his ears warm, though he smirked to deflect from it. “Ah. Well. It was merely a matter of preserving your honor.”

You turned to him fully now, your gaze steady. “You need not have done so.”

Satoru shrugged, though he found himself holding that gaze longer than he should have. “I could not stand to hear such things said of you.”

A quiet pause stretched between you both, and something in your expression shifted. A sort of understanding, perhaps. A recognition of something he could not yet name. He could not tell how long you both stood there like that, neither looking away, nor breaking the quiet that had settled so easily between you.

Then—

“Ah, here you are.”

Gojo turned sharply, his expression cooling the moment he recognized the voice.

Sukuna stood at the entrance of the hallway, his presence an unwelcome disruption to the delicate moment that had just transpired. His gaze flickered between you and Gojo, a slow, dangerous scowl settling over his features. “What the hell—”

You stiffened, immediately stepping away from Gojo, though his gaze remained steady on you. "Sukuna—"

"You’re with him?" he snapped, his tone sharp with outrage. His glare darted toward Satoru, seething. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Not here," you hissed under your breath, already moving toward him. "Let us leave, brother."

Sukuna's jaw tightened, but his glare burned hot as he pointed a warning finger at Satoru. It was almost comical how his figure seemed to be an impenetrable boulder as you—tiny in comparison to his frame—tried to shove him out to salvage whatever grace you could in your exist. “Lord Gojo, you—!”

But it was to no avail, for you had hastily quieted whatever ill reprimand Mister Sukuna Itadori had to throw towards him by shoving a hand over his mouth. Then, you grabbed his arm, practically dragging him away, as you cast one last, hurried glance at Gojo. "Good evening, my lord." And then you were gone, Sukuna stalking beside you, fuming, while Gojo remained behind, watching you disappear into the halls lined with art.

prev. the embers | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n is this....character development??

i hope this appeased anyone who was beginning to worry that miss itadori was a bit too antagonistic ... i have my beta readers to thank otherwise we never would've made it out the trenches

reader after nanami dropped the bomb on her

lowk i dont have much else to say but uhhh streets been saying there's gonna be another forced proximity library scene soon but how would i know what happens lolz

reblog and comment to lmk ur thoughts!

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[ozzgin]

Yandere! CEO Headcanons

Just a little idea I had some time ago of a rather bizarre dynamic: a CEO with no time to spare, introduced to a young student his wife befriended. Perhaps he does have a moment, after all. (I need to dump my preference for a cultured older man somewhere) Content: female reader, age gap, older yandere, NSFW, dating the wife is optional

[Yandere Masterlist]

Yandere! CEO who is in his mid 40s and terribly invested in his job. So much, that he and his wife agreed on an open relationship many years ago and barely interact anymore. Not a gloomy business by any means: she gets to meet new people and he can enjoy his work and hobbies in peace and without guilt.

Yandere! CEO who doesn't think much of it when his wife brings home a young student she befriended at a convention. He nods dismissively, returning to his papers and phone calls. At dinner, he just hums in acknowledgement and fiddles with the cutlery while the woman talks about you excitedly. "You know, (Y/N) reminds me a little of you." Nonsense.

Yandere! CEO with whom you scarcely interact: he's a borderline workaholic, and your relationship is cordial at best. That is until you're asked by the wife to retrieve some important documents from their ridiculously luxurious apartment. You quietly tiptoe past the office, but can't help glancing at the imposing library, stacked with books. The man's sudden arrival startles and you begin to mumble apologies, but he seems more interested in your curiosity than anything else.

Yandere! CEO who can't believe you both like the same authors. He discreetly removes the folder from your hands, tasking one of the assistants to deliver it to his wife instead. There are more important matters at hand. Have you had your coffee yet? Oh, you must stay longer. What's the hurry?

Yandere! CEO who has become awfully perceptive whenever your name is mentioned in conversations, innocently probing for more details. Naturally, he wouldn't mind meeting you again, but it's not...a need, per se. He was just pleasantly surprised to find someone he could so easily engage in conversation with. Hell, you're old enough to be his daughter. Don't be ridiculous, he'll scold himself sternly whenever his mind wanders too far.

Yandere! CEO who begins to feel like each encounter is a flirty tease. Is it just wishful thinking, or are you becoming cheekier by day? The way you bat your eyelashes, the way you cast your eyes down whenever he looks at you. The next time you're alone in the apartment, he's too far gone in his delusions to act rationally. How unusual for him to act so nonchalant. Unbuttoning your shirt with haste, trailing your neck with hot kisses, lifting your leg and pressing you against the wall. He never considered himself the type to fuck a much younger woman out of raw lust.

Yandere! CEO who loves taking you on dates despite his busy schedule. Art museums, theatres, the Opera. He is eager to introduce you to his interests and will answer any question or curiosity you have. Who would've thought everything is better in two? Of course, there could be other factors involved. Like the added bonus of watching you squirm in your seat and biting your lips to be quiet while he fingers you at the peak of Act 3. Then smirking to himself when everyone stands up for applause, and you have to rearrange your dress to hide the wet mess underneath.

Yandere! CEO who worries about you when he's on work trips, so he tasks his right-hand man to look after you and keep you company. If you ever get lonely, you can rely on his assistant to take care of all your needs. Now, he's not one to share, despite his marital arrangement. As bizarre as it sounds, he just sees the employee as a mere toy, an idle occupation who can temporarily entertain you in his absence. What he does perceive as a threat is swiftly taken care of. It's enough for you to mention another student flirted with you, and you'll never see that person again. You have to understand that he doesn't play around with his assets. One he has something, he holds onto it with ironclad strength. And he's never been more desperate to keep something in his possession.

Yandere! CEO who makes sure to remind you why dating him is your best (and only) choice. You would've wasted your time with boys your age. He can offer you the world and more, all you need to do is ask for it.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ How you have contrasting personalities but they drop everything for you anyway

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche (separate) 

They say love can change anyone, but you have yet to agree with this statement. You never wanted anyone to alter themselves for you, especially if that someone is your beloved. Instead, you always believed that people should stay true to themselves while maintaining mutual love and adoration for each other. And that's how you and your beloved were - contrasting in looks, attitudes, and habits. Yet it made your beloved cherish you all the more, even if it caused unsuspecting passers to raise eyebrows in shock… Maybe it's because your beloved is actually a dreaded Fatui Harbinger, and people didn't expect him to be head over heels whenever you’re in the same room. But what can you say? He always was a softie for you. 

✧ Pierro doesn’t attend public gatherings. Period. Ask any of the high-rank Harbingers and they would tell you how lucky it would be if he were even present for a Harbinger’s inauguration, like when Arlecchino was declared 4th or when Tartaglia received his Delusion. Nevertheless, it is clear that The Jester does not squander his time with social events or benign pleasantries; he’s present only on important occasions.

If you can define what’s important in his book, that is.

An example being was a certain Fatui party. It is not uncommon for the Regrator to organize lavish evenings, especially in recognition if a Harbinger obtained a gnosis, or if another significant mission was masterfully accomplished. The grander was the task, the bigger the event would be. Of course, Pierro never attends those either. 

During one of those organized events - you, of all people, decided to come. Dressed in your finest, glittering lotus flower silk and white silver adorned your figure while you timidly stood amongst the high nobles of Snezhnaya. Your presence was not an unwelcome sight, but you did not strive to bring attention to you either. Expensive parties with Fatui diplomats and Snezhnayan aristocrats were not your usual cup of tea.

Your presence did not bring awning gasps, but Pierro’s did. 

Unannounced, the Director arrived at this sudden party, bringing hushed murmurs amongst the crowds of subordinates and colleagues. Likewise, he wore his most exquisite suit, a mantle-like cape flowing elegantly over his broad shoulders. Before guests and attendees could greet his arrival, The Jester marched straight ahead, not bothering to gaze at whoever tried to initiate conversation. 

No, the man’s attention was focused straight at you, as he passed through everyone and swiftly approached you. With an outstretched hand, a knowing gaze was cast upon you, as he spoke:

“If I may,” - he brought the back of your hand closer to his lips “Would you honor me with a dance?” 

You obliged. Now everyone in the gala was gaping at you two with grandiloquent murmurs. 

“My most cherished, why did you not warn me you’d attend the ball?” - The Jester whispered to your ear, his gloved hand intertwined with yours as the two of you waltzed elegantly. 

“Well, I just thought it would be futile to bother you. You usually hate such occasions.” - you muttered back, overwhelmed at the prospect of meeting his icy gaze; a gaze that only looked at you in tender love and yearning.   

“Then may I inquire on why you decided to attend this one? You avoid them as well.” 

“Okay, just please don’t laugh,” - you whispered. As Pierro kept a hand on your waist, he danced with you across the ballroom, using his broad form to shield you from the unwelcoming gazes of the guests. “You gifted me this fancy attire that I kept hiding in my closet for many months… I simply didn’t have a reason to wear it. So I forced myself to go out just so I could have the excuse of wearing something nice. U-um, that’s it.”  

“And that’s it, love?” 

“...Yeah,” - you nodded defeatedly “Also because I didn’t want to busy you from work.” 

“Oh, my most beloved.” - The Director emitted a hushed chuckle as you two conversed and danced, making sure his words were heard only by you. “I can make all your attires gala-worthy if you so desire. You do not need to be coy, ask and I shall accompany you on any grand occasion." 

Thus, the jester may not attend social events, as he only frequents important ones - the ones you're in, that is. As he whisked you away with a dance and a dip, he kept his hand delicate around you to escape the company of noisy guests who wished to bother you two. But what would be a ball with his lips gently grazing your cheeks at the end of each dance, telling you: 

“Besides, I cannot allow other attendees to assume you are available, now can I? Not while you look so stunning tonight.” 

✧ When Il Capitano was first spotted with you during workout practice, people didn’t even fathom you were his beloved, the only person equal to the Captain. The two of you were simply so…  opposite. The Harbinger was big and imposing, while you were smaller and approachable; which isn’t even a fair comparison, because Capitano just towers over anyone. Everyone looks small next to him! 

Nevertheless, when Capitano had his usual daily practicum along with his rumored significant other, some Fatui soldiers tried to sneak glimpses. Yet what a jarring spectacle it was to see the immovable, assertive Harbinger dismiss his commanding tone in favor of being patient and attentive. 

“My dear, you’ve already run a set of laps and tried to outbeat me during pushup exercises. You are putting too much strain on your ankles after your previous training. We should-” 

“No, we can still go for another round! Fight me!” 

“But, my love-” 

“Fight me!!!”    

Anyway, the fight abruptly subsided. Not because you lost, but because Capitano swiftly lifted you into his arms the instant you launched yourself onto him, consequently refusing to put you down. Therefore, you find yourself being carried by your partner's muscled arms while your feet dangle.

“Aw man, not fair…” - you mumbled, settling to rest on Capitano's forearms. “It's not even a duel if you're just lifting me like a toddler. Set me down, Cappy!” 

“It’s an effective tactic, one that easily neutralizes a hotheaded opponent like yourself.” - Capitano explained calmly. In reality, his body moved with pride as he held onto you securely, as if you were his prized reward for today's training. 

The captain set you down, his armored hands trailing down to your leg, sending a tingling graze onto your skin. And indeed, his punctilious gaze spotted how you tried to hide a limp when exercising. 

“You sprained your ankle,” - Capitano stated.

“Listen, it's not a big deal. Just a strain, I had worse happen.” 

You tried to defend yourself, but The Harbinger already expected your excuses. The man knew better than to argue with you, and instead settled on removing your footwear and gently checking on your injury.

“This is no condition to continue training, my dear. If I let you continue, you'd stubbornly reach Celestia with bloodied knuckles and broken limbs.”

“Yeah! And you bet I'd win!’” - you retorted brightly. At the sight of your confident smile, Capitano chuckled deeply, his pitch-black helmet pressing into your forehead with tender motion.

“I am certain you will, my love. You'll drag The Heavenly Principles by the ear, and have them weeping by your gaze alone. But now, we should get you to rest and apply some ice to your ankle. Shall I carry you?”

You sighed deeply, having no option but to let your beloved's experienced hands help you with your soreness. “Oh well… fine.”

Capitano's training could wait. There was a more crucial matter at hand, literally. With his massive yet calm form carrying you away, your gaze remained fierce but forbearing. 

If some Fatui soldiers witnessed today's event, they'd have to conceal their inconspicuous glances and smiles. After all, the sight of Il Capitano being the big, loving teddy-bear, while you being a menacing gremlin was undoubtedly shock-inducing.  

Nonetheless, who else is worthy of being carried by the 1st Fatui Harbinger and pampered by him? Only you, of course.

✧ Il Dottore is a destructive, stern man. Hunched over the examination table, his gloved hands were tainted in blood while his jaw clenched in aggravation. His hours of working in the lab easily make him irritated, and this irritation further increases whenever certain scientific experiments do not bear fruit. A tense air of suspension was now lingering in his lab; a sign of an upcoming violent outburst.

“Lord Harbinger…” - one of Dottore's lab assistants began, trying to muster the courage to speak without shaking. “This experiment requires another round of testing, w-we might need to start over,”

The Doctor remained still, but the dangerous clutch of the scalpel in his hand didn't go unnoticed. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear?” 

He straightened his shoulders, his masked expression gleaming with malice and murderous intent with each syllable hissed.

“I have given you one simple task. Bring me the results. If this experiment is not completed by tomorrow at the earliest, I will have to remind you how brittle, and puny your useless bones can be-”

Suddenly, the lab door slams open. From the heavy metal doorway, a hasty but familiar person quietly saunters in, unknowingly saving the poor soul that was about to be Dottore's next target. Of course, the person in question is - you. 

“Dottore?” A small murmur escaped you. You stepped closer to Dottore and tugged at his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I can't sleep…” 

An abrupt silence settled in the lab. 

The unnerving tension of the lab was diverted as if a switch was flipped in Dottore's brain. The man swiftly set his scalpel aside, discarded his bloody gloves, and turned into a softer tone when talking to you. 

“Hm, is it so late already? I apologize dear, time must've slipped past me. Do you want me to brew us some tea and join you in bed?”

“Yes, please… Chamomile. if you're not busy, of course.” - you nodded, a tender smile settling on your face.

The sight was fascinating. The eccentric, mad scientist was instantly replaced by a doting partner, who would lower himself to kneel before you and put his hands on your shoulders as if all his lab work and blood-stained messes were already forgotten. Dottore's assistants were indeed quite baffled when you entered the lab. But what was more confusing is that the sudden change of attitude was so drastic, that they all froze in silence and subordination. The poor, unfortunate underlings; one minute dealing with their Lord Harbinger's harsh demeanor, and the other witnessing him hugging you and gazing at you like a lovesick puppy. 

“Perhaps it’s time to wind down for today. I was about to finish for today, anyway. I'll make your tea as you like it and accompany you in bed, dearest.” - Dottore's hand gently rested on your back, as he leisurely ushered you to leave with him. 

“And as for the experiments,” - just before the Harbinger could leave with you in his arms, he sent an ominous glance towards his assistants, one that even through a mask portrayed lethal resolve - “deal with it.”  

Oh well. Someone is staying overtime in the lab. That's how The Doctor was with his work - cruel and unattached. However, unbeknownst to people, when he's back with you in bed, that man is clinging to you throughout the night, groaning about his research while burying his head against your chest. His face takes refuge against the warmth of your body, arms encircling you in a needy embrace around your torso. 

Sometimes, he just needs a good squeeze from you when you cuddle him, that's all.  

✧ A day cannot be concluded if there wasn’t a single instance where Scaramouche’s grumbles weren’t accompanied by your bright grins. Scaramouche has a reputation for his sour disposition whenever he is discontented, that much is known. What isn't known is that the only person who tolerates his cynicism is someone as bright and cheerful as you. Like two sides of the same coin.  

“Hmph, Pathetic. Just because some flowers are blooming doesn’t mean it requires a whole festival to be commemorated for.”  

“Oh, come on, Scara. You accompany me to every Hanami event.” - you smiled back in response to the Harbinger’s scoffs, but the 6th crossed his arms. 

“They are no different each year. Same cherry blossoms, same food stalls you drool over.” 

“But Scara…! The Dango!” 

That’s how the two of you wind up in a narrow cobble street, protected under the soft shadows of cherry blossom, while cascading pink petals gently fall around you. Well, that is how you wind up here, while Scaramouche was naturally dragged by you. Arms linked with one another, the Puppeteer kept his iconic look of displeasure, a huge contrast to your joyous one. One would assume The Harbinger could easily flee your torment and make you scram, but on the contrary: 

He is the one who makes sure your hand is intertwined with his, says “To keep you from running away like a child in a crowd”. 

He is the one running his thumb over your skin, his hand squeezes yours, and says “Don’t get too excited over the food stalls.”      

He is the one rushing with you to find a good secluded spot, away from the crowd, while his hand pulls you closer by the waist, and says “It’s too loud. Here, stay closer.” 

And of course, he is the one buying your favorite Hanami Dango and says “You asked for it so you better enjoy it. And make sure to chew it properly - dango is sticky.” 

For someone who underlines his disapproval vocally, he sure pampers you with no objection about your interests. You’d muse and tease, saying that it was his way of enjoying flower viewing without saying it. However, before you could utter the words, a strong gust of spring wind blew past the street, sending a plethora of flower petals blowing into everyone’s faces. You shielded your eyes, whereas Scaramouche gently tugged at his ichimegasa hat, pulling you closer to further shield you. 

“See? I told you this yearly custom is a nuance.” - he lamented, but his words came out more as a murmur than a groan, perhaps because he held you directly in his proximity. Your faces were closer, and the veil of his hat served as concealment from any public eyes. 

You’d smile. He sure complained a lot, and Scaramouche didn’t like sweet deserts like you did. But whenever the opportunity arose, he’d make sure he had you under the veil of his hat, pressed flush by the hip to him. And if he was lucky, he might taste the sweetness of Dango through your lips instead.  

Listen, I'm a sucker for fluff, okay?

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you do a Carlos dad were lando swears around his kid and now she won’t stop repeating it and he is trying to get her to stop but Carlos finds out (toddler daughter) if possible

Little Parrot

Carlos loved nothing more than being a father. From the moment Yn was born, he had promised himself that she would always know she was loved, always feel safe, and always be happy. And, of course, he had made it his mission to teach her Spanish so they could have their own secret conversations.

It had started as a joke between him and Rebecca—she had been determined to learn Spanish, but Carlos had made it harder by talking faster and using slang. In the meantime, he whispered little words to their baby girl at night, spoke to her in Spanish every morning, and now, at four years old, Yn was perfectly bilingual.

It was something he took great pride in, especially when Lando—her ever-dedicated godfather—tried (and often failed) to understand their conversations.

Lando had always adored Yn. He was there the day she was born, had cried when he held her for the first time, and spoiled her beyond reason. He tried his hardest to pick up Spanish, just so he wouldn’t be left out when Carlos and Yn had their little chats. But his progress was... questionable.

And now, as the paddock buzzed with activity before a race weekend, Lando had a new mission—one that involved a lot of pleading.

"Come on, just for a few hours!" Lando begged, his hands clasped together as he followed Carlos through the Williams hospitality.

Carlos sighed, adjusting the little pink backpack slung over his shoulder. Yn had demanded she bring her favorite stuffed bunny, a coloring book, and snacks for the day, and he, being the soft-hearted father he was, had agreed.

"Lando, I don’t know," Carlos said, casting a glance at his daughter, who was currently sitting on a chair, happily eating some fruit while kicking her feet.

"Please, please, please," Lando whined. "I swear I’ll take good care of her! She loves me! Right, Yn?"

Yn perked up at the sound of her name and turned to look at Lando with a big smile. "Sí!"

"See!" Lando grinned triumphantly. "She wants to stay with me."

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "You say that now, but last time you almost lost her in the McLaren garage."

"It was one time!" Lando argued. "And she wasn’t lost, she was just—exploring."

Carlos raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine. She wandered off a little," Lando admitted sheepishly. "But I promise, this time, I’ll watch her like a hawk. She won’t leave my side!"

Yn looked between them curiously before tilting her head at her father. "Papá, por favor?" she asked sweetly, blinking her big brown eyes up at him.

Carlos groaned. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"Fine," he relented. "But—" he pointed a firm finger at Lando, "—if anything happens, it’s your fault. And I will make you regret it."

Lando beamed, scooping Yn up in his arms. "Deal!"

Yn giggled as he spun her around, and Carlos exhaled, already wondering if he had made a mistake.

Lando was determined to be the best godfather in the world today.

"Alright, Mini," he said as he set Yn down gently on a chair. "We are gonna have so much fun today."

Yn nodded eagerly, swinging her legs as she held her stuffed bunny close. "What are we doing?"

"First, we have very important jobs," Lando said, crouching down to her level. "We have to inspect my car. Make sure it's all good for the race."

Yn's eyes widened with excitement. "Really?"

"Yep! And since you're my assistant today, that means you get a headset, too!"

Yn gasped. "Like you?"

"Exactly like me."

A few minutes later, Yn was sitting on Lando’s lap in the garage, wearing an oversized headset as she watched the engineers work. She looked absolutely serious, as if she really was his assistant, nodding along as he explained things in the simplest way possible.

"And this is my steering wheel," Lando said, holding it up for her. "It has so many buttons. Want to press one?"

Yn gasped. "Can I?"

"Yeah, but not the important ones," Lando said, pointing at a harmless button. "Try this one."

Yn pressed it with a determined look, and the lights on the steering wheel flickered. She clapped her hands in delight.

"You're a natural!" Lando grinned, ruffling her hair.

For a while, things were going perfectly. Yn was entertained, happy, and sticking to Lando like glue.

Then he messed up.

It happened when he was helping her climb up onto a higher chair. He wasn’t paying attention, knocked his knee against the table, and immediately hissed, "Fuck!"

There was a beat of silence.

Yn blinked up at him. "Fuck," she repeated.

Lando froze.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no.

"Um, no, no, no, we don’t say that," he said quickly, shaking his head.

Yn tilted her head. "But you said it."

"I—I didn’t mean to!" Lando panicked. "It’s a bad word."

Yn nodded seriously. "Fuck is bad word."

"Yes, exactly!"

"Fuck," Yn repeated, nodding like she was learning something important.

Lando slapped a hand over his face. "Oh, shit."

"Shit," Yn said immediately.

Lando nearly choked. "No, no, no, stop!"

But it was too late.

Yn found it hilarious. She giggled, kicking her feet, and started chanting, "Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Shit!"

Lando was screwed.

"Lando," Carlos’ voice cut through the air, dangerously calm.

Lando froze. Slowly, he turned, still holding Yn, who was currently humming to herself.

Carlos stood with his arms crossed, looking unimpressed. "Why is my daughter running around saying fuck and shit?"

Lando gulped. "Uh—"

"Fuck!" Yn chirped happily. "Shit!"

Lando shut his eyes. He was so dead.

Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lando."

"It was an accident!" Lando blurted. "I swear! I hit my knee, and I didn’t mean to say it, and then she memorized it like a little parrot, and I’ve been trying to get her to stop!"

Carlos sighed, rubbing his face. "Do you know what Rebecca will do if she hears her saying that?"

Lando’s eyes widened in horror. "We can’t let her find out!"

Carlos shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes now. He turned to his daughter, kneeling in front of her.

"Yn, mi amor," he said gently, "those are bad words, okay? We don’t say them."

Yn pouted. "But Lando says them."

"Lando is dumb," Carlos said, sending a glare his way. "You’re much smarter than him, aren’t you?"

Yn giggled. "Sí!"

Carlos smiled. "Good. So, let’s not say those words anymore, okay?"

Yn nodded, then leaned in to whisper, "But they’re kinda funny."

Carlos sighed.

Lando snorted.

Carlos shot him a look. "Not helping."

Lando held his hands up in surrender. "Look, she’s gonna hear worse when she’s older."

"Not today, she won’t," Carlos muttered. He turned back to his daughter, who was already distracted playing with her bunny.

"Alright, no más palabrotas," Carlos said firmly. ("No more swear words")

Yn giggled. "No más palabrotas."

Carlos kissed the top of her head before glaring at Lando one last time.

"You," he said, pointing at him, "are never babysitting again."

Lando gasped. "That’s not fair!"

Carlos smirked. "Jódete." ("Fuck you")

Lando groaned.

Yn, despite her father’s warning, giggled under her breath. "Jódete"

Carlos sighed.

It was going to be a long day.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[cumironi]

HUMP, HUMP, LOVELY LITTLE HUMP, choso. k

you and choso kamo are supposed to spend the night just to enjoy some wine and a calm atmosphere deep inside the forest of the school ground, but it seems like the half-curse starts feeling a little bit too human..

warning. public space, humping, grinding, pet-names.

after the chaos of the shibuya incident, you and choso found yourselves drawn together in ways that surprised you both. it was an event that left deep scars, taking away far too many friends, colleagues, and students who meant the world to you. in those dark days, as you tried to move on, choso was always there—quietly supportive, offering a steady shoulder to lean on. somehow, despite his own pain and loss, he always seemed to know exactly when you needed someone, as though he could sense your sorrow before you could even voice it.

day by day, choso’s presence became something familiar and grounding, a rare comfort amidst the lingering grief. as you spent more time together, you noticed how naturally you fell into conversation, how easy it was to share the heavy silence or laugh at some small, passing joke. with each conversation, each silent moment, you could feel the distance between you shrinking. before long, he wasn’t just a friend but someone who understood your pain and could bear the weight of it alongside you.

but then, something shifted—almost imperceptibly at first. you found yourself becoming hyper-aware of his every little detail: the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you, the comforting warmth of his quiet presence, even the way he listened so intently, as though he wanted to absorb every word you said. his voice had a gentle timbre that seemed to settle the unease in your heart, and his hands, so steady and sure, held a tenderness you hadn’t noticed before.

you began catching yourself lingering on these small, delicate observations, wondering if he noticed your gaze lingering just a little too long. each gesture felt like it held a quiet significance. the tension between you two was subtle, simmering just beneath the surface—a spark that hadn’t quite ignited, but was there all the same. and as the days went on, it became harder to deny that something was shifting between you, a quiet spark that seemed to grow brighter with every shared look, every gentle touch, and every stolen moment in the stillness of loss.

in the quiet embrace of the woods on school grounds, you and choso sat nestled under the towering trees. the night was calm, draped in the silvery glow of the moon, casting everything in a delicate, ethereal light. beside you, choso was close enough that you could feel his warmth, your backs pressed gently against the sturdy trunk of the tree, as though it were holding you both up, anchoring you to this quiet moment.

the woods around you was alive with a soft symphony of nighttime sounds—the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the gentle hum of distant crickets, and the occasional whisper of branches swaying above. moonlight filtered down through the canopy, breaking into scattered pools of silver around you, illuminating the world in a soft glow that felt almost magical.

you glanced over at choso, noticing how the pale light softened his features, casting shadows along the curve of his cheek and highlighting the thoughtful expression in his eyes. there was something serene about his presence, a quiet strength that comforted you, grounding you in this stillness. without a word, he met your gaze, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had faded away, leaving just the two of you, bathed in the cool light of the moon.

as the night stretched on, you found yourself lost in the details—the way the moonlight danced across his face, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and the comforting warmth of his shoulder just a breath away. sitting there together, the weight of words seemed unnecessary. the silence was thick, not with loneliness, but with a silent understanding that you both shared.

you raise the bottle of wine to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat as your gaze drifts over to choso. tonight, he looks different—not in his usual dark, battle-worn attire, but something softer, more relaxed. he’s dressed in a pair of loose, dark baggy jeans that hang comfortably on him, and a deep navy knit button-down with a few buttons left undone, exposing a hint of skin at his collar. his long, dark hair, usually tied back with a certain restraint, now cascades freely over his shoulders, framing his face in the moonlight.

there’s something almost vulnerable in this new look, a side of him you hadn’t seen before, and you can’t help the smirk that curves on your lips as you take him in. “you look good,” you murmur, voice soft but laced with a teasing warmth. choso’s eyes flick up to yours, a faint surprise lingering in his gaze, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimmer of something softer beneath his usual stoic exterior.

in the stillness, you realize he seems more human like this—more approachable, more tangible, the hardness of his role as a curse softened by the simplicity of casual clothes. his expression shifts slightly, almost self-conscious under your gaze, yet he doesn’t look away. the moonlight plays over his face, casting gentle shadows, and for a second, it feels as if the weight of his past falls away, leaving just him—raw and real, sitting beside you in the quiet night.

as you lean back against the tree, choso’s eyes seem to soften in the dappled moonlight. there’s a subtle warmth in his usually stoic gaze that mirrors the quiet understanding woven into the night. he nods, his low, gravelly voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability as he responds to your teasing remark.

“thanks. it’s... different,” he admits, his voice quieter than usual. “i’m trying to... be more normal, i guess.” choso glances down, almost shyly, as if the simplicity of his choice— with yuuji’s help, in outfit is something he’s not used to voicing out loud.

you lean back against the rough bark, adjust your back to find a comfortable spot, letting a soft smile play on your lips as you listen to choso’s quiet admission. there’s something almost endearing about his choice of words, the faint hesitation as he glances down, as if self-conscious about this simple, casual look he’s trying on for the first time. his usual stoicism is softened, and you can feel a warmth in the air, a quiet vulnerability that seems to belong solely to this moment.

“well, you’re doing a pretty good job of it,” you say, your voice carrying a playful edge as you study him. “honestly, you look more human than a curse right now.” he looks up at you, eyes widening slightly, curiosity flickering in his gaze. you reach out, fingertips grazing his cheek in a gentle, teasing touch. “though, if you really want to blend in, maybe just a little foundation to warm up that pale skin, and you’d be all set,” you add with a smirk.

a soft blush rises beneath your fingers, barely visible in the moonlight but enough to make you notice. choso lets out a quiet chuckle, and the sound is warm, low, carrying a softness that catches you off guard. there’s a momentary flicker of surprise in choso’s eyes at the feel of your fingertips on his cheek. yet, he doesn’t pull away, his gaze fixing on yours, almost as though he’s trying to understand the unfamiliar sensation.

he simply looks at you, his gaze deepening, as though trying to understand something he’s only just now beginning to feel. he holds himself still, his body so near to yours, his proximity like a warm current in the chilled night air. for the first time, he seems relaxed, his usual stoic facade slipping away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful expression.

“is that so?” he murmurs, voice barely more than a low rumble. he stays like this a while, just looking at you, his face cast in the soft glow of the moonlight. the forest hums with life around you, the soft hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance, the rustle of wind through the trees. but choso’s attention is focused on you, a rare intensity in his gaze. his voice, when he speaks, is a soft murmur—quieter than normal, almost as though he’s afraid of breaking the moment.

you nod slowly, letting your fingers linger for just a second longer on his cheek, the slight warmth of his skin beneath your touch almost startling. your gaze softening as you lean just a fraction closer. “it is so,” you murmur back, your voice as gentle as a breeze. your fingertips linger on his cheek longer than you intend to, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath them grounding you in the closeness of this quiet, unexpected moment. for a heartbeat, you wonder if he feels the same spark, the same undeniable warmth threading between you.

reluctantly, you pull your hand away, the night air rushing into the space between you as you reach for the bottle once more, taking a slow sip. it’s only then that you notice your leg, bare beneath the almost-too-short hem of your skirt, is brushing lightly against his. the touch is subtle, barely there, but enough to send a quiet thrill through you, a reminder of how near he is, how his warmth radiates even in the cool night air.

choso’s gaze flickers downward, catching the subtle contact, and for a brief moment, his expression softens further. his eyes trail over the gentle line of your leg resting against his, lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter. he doesn’t shift away, holding himself steady, his attention returning to your face as though savoring every detail. a subtle smile plays on his lips, almost shy, and the quiet understanding that’s passed between you grows, filling the spaces between words, settling like a secret shared only by the two of you.

as you sip from the bottle, choso’s gaze lingers on the curve of your neck, the gentle movements of your throat. the moon casts a delicate light over the contours of your face, adding a touch of softness to the shadows that cling to your features. the night, once filled with the soft symphony of the forest, seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, almost intimate space.

choso’s gaze drifts slowly to your lips, glistening with a faint sheen of red wine, and his eyes linger there, a barely perceptible intensity flickering in their depths. for a moment, he seems lost, captivated by the sight before him, his expression softened in a way you’ve rarely seen. his gaze trails downward, over the curve of your neck, and settles on your bare thigh, just inches away from his.

his voice, low and almost reverent, breaks the silence. “you look beautiful,” he whispers, the words slipping out like a quiet confession meant only for you. “as always.”

a warmth spreads through you, deeper than the wine, more stirring than the moonlight. his words settle in the night air, soft and genuine a little bit of flirtatious, and your heart races at the quiet vulnerability in his tone. his eyes lift back to yours, holding a tenderness that makes you feel as though time itself has paused, allowing you both to savor this moment suspended in the cool night.

you take in a breath, finding yourself inching just a little closer, captivated by the depth in his gaze and the softness of his words, feeling the spark between you both ignite into something undeniable.

you hum softly in satisfaction at his compliment, a warm flutter blooming in your chest at his genuine words. the way he looks at you, like he truly sees you, sends a delightful shiver down your spine. “thanks,” you reply, your voice laced with a hint of bashfulness as you set the wine bottle down beside you, the clink of glass breaking the lingering silence.

the night wraps around you both, heavy with unspoken feelings, and you can’t help but smile, feeling a mix of gratitude and something more profound. the compliment hangs in the air, resonating within you, and you find yourself wanting to hold onto this moment a little longer. you turn your head slightly, catching his gaze once more, feeling the spark between you intensify as you savor the warmth of his presence and undeniable desire.

as you sit there, the night seems to hold its breath around you, the forest going still as if sensing the delicate moment between you. choso’s warm breath dances across your neck, carrying the faint scent of wine and a subtle note of something more intimate. the warmth radiating from his proximity mixes with the slight chill of night, creating a heady, intoxicating tension that sets your senses ablaze.

without thinking, you shift a little closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours, and your thigh presses more firmly against his. the wine in your veins gives you courage, or perhaps it’s something more raw and real, pushing away inhibitions and doubts. the proximity is exhilarating, making your heart race and your head spin in the best possible way. the air between you seems charged with energy, heavy with unsaid words and unspoken longings. you look up, meeting choso’s gaze, and in his eyes, you see a reflection of what you both feel, the unspoken desire mirrored back at you in his steady gaze.

for a fleeting moment, time stands still, the boundaries of your world shrinking until it’s just the two of you under the vast expanse of the starlit sky.

without breaking eye contact, choso moves slowly, deliberately, as he places his hand on your thigh. his palm, cool against your bare skin, sends an unexpected thrill coursing through you, a contrast to the warm, gentle night air. the sensation is both electrifying and soothing, grounding you in the moment as his touch lingers.

you can see the thoughtfulness in his eyes, the way he’s absorbing every detail of this intimate exchange. his fingers rest lightly on your thigh, a subtle weight that feels both protective and intimate. the world around you fades into a soft blur, the sounds of the night growing distant as all your focus narrows on the connection you share in this fleeting moment.

his gaze holds yours captive, revealing the depths of his emotions, and you can sense the vulnerability in him, the way he’s opening up to you without fear. the air crackles with unspoken words, and you find yourself leaning into the touch, drawn closer by the warmth radiating from him and the electric pull between you.

choso’s hand on your thigh feels like a cool brand against your bare skin, his touch both grounding and electrifying. his eyes, focused on yours, seem to be reading your every thought, your every emotion. the moment between you feels suspended in time, as if the rest of the world has faded away and it’s just the two of you, here in the quiet of the night.

his voice, low and deep, cuts through the silence, a husky whisper that holds a world of emotions. “can i...” he pauses, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes, “...kiss you?”

you breath caught in your throat as choso’s words hung in the air, a whispered admission of longing that was both vulnerable and intoxicating. the gentle pressure of his hand on your thigh only heightened the moment. your heart raced with anticipation as you found yourself lost in the intimate warmth of his gaze, the words unspoken yet speaking volumes. in that moment, you were acutely aware of everything— the touch of him, the night breeze, the rhythm of your shared breath.

you answered not with words, but with a nod, a silent agreement that the space between you was no longer a division, but an invitation. the quiet acceptance in your nod seemed to ignite something in choso. his gaze darkened with a smolder that sent a shiver racing down your spine. slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned in, his grip on your thigh tightening slightly as if in silent reassurance.

as he closed the distance between you, his breath mingled with yours, a shared heat in the cool night air. the anticipation was palpable, a tension that electrified the air between you. finally, his lips brushed against yours, a soft whisper of a touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

the kiss began as a gentle exploration—a soft press of lips against lips. choso’s hand on your thigh felt steadying, anchoring you to the moment. slowly, the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a growing intensity. his other hand reached up to cradle your cheek, his thumb tracing the contours of your face as if trying to memorize the way your skin felt beneath his touch. there was an almost feverish hunger in his kiss, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for eternity, and now that it was here, he couldn’t get enough of it.

choso pulls away from the kiss, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours as he gently places his hands on your hips. his touch is firm yet tender, and with a quiet strength, he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you to straddle his lap. the shift leaves you breathless, a soft gasp escaping as his hands settle on your hips, grounding you in his embrace.

your skirt rises slightly with the movement, the cool night air brushing against your thighs, adding a new layer of exhilaration to the moment. his gaze locks onto yours, eyes dark and intense, searching your face as though committing every detail to memory. there’s a softness in his expression, a quiet reverence that makes your heart race, and you feel yourself melting further into his hold, wrapped in the intimacy of his touch and the silent promise lingering between you.

as you settled onto his lap, your knees framing his hips, it felt as if the world had narrowed down to this single moment. choso’s hands anchored you in place, his touch both possessive and comforting. you could feel the hard contours of his thighs beneath you, the warmth of his body seeping into your core. your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, fingers tracing the outline of his muscles, feeling his strength and his warmth.

his lips returned to yours, his kiss more insistent this time. his hands on your hips pulled you closer, making you keenly aware of every breath, every heartbeat. this time, the kiss was filled with a deeper hunger, a need that seemed to transcend the physical. choso’s tongue flicked against yours, a gentle tease that ignited a fire in your core. his hands began to explore you, tracing a trail from your hips to your back, pulling you impossibly closer against him. the heat between you was growing, becoming almost unbearable, and yet you wanted more.

choso’s lips left yours and began to move down your neck, each press of his mouth against your skin sending another shockwave of sensation through you. his breath was hot, his hands restless, and it felt like the world around you had ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you locked in an intimate dance of discovery.

your head fell back, giving choso better access to the curve of your neck, and your fingers tangled in his hair. you wanted to lose yourself in this moment, to drown in the sensation of his touch, his nearness, his every breath. choso’s lips, moving lower now, found the sensitive spot at the base of your throat, and you let out a soft moan, the sound swallowed by the night air.

“choso...” a soft, breathless whisper of his name escapes your lips, almost instinctively, as choso’s mouth trails down your throat. the sound of it, murmured in the night air, seems to urge him on, his grip on you tightening just enough to make you shiver. with your head tilted back, eyes closed, you’re completely lost in the sensation, the gentle brush of your eyelashes against your cheeks a subtle reflection of how fully immersed you are in the moment.

his lips press against your skin with a hunger that’s tempered by tenderness, each kiss sending a spark through you, igniting a warmth that spreads from your core to the very tips of of your fingers. your hands find their way into his hair once again, threading through the dark strands as you pull him closer, feeling his breath hot against your skin. every touch, every movement feels as though it’s deepening the connection between you.

choso’s response to your breathy whisper of his name was immediate. his hands tightened on your hips, grounding you against him as his lips continued their trail down your neck. he paused at your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin as he lingered there for a moment, drinking in the sensation of your hands in his hair and the sound of your soft sighs.

as his mouth continued its journey, he found the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat, and he lingered there, drawing out the sensation further. each gentle press of his lips felt like a match to a flame, sending waves of heat and pleasure coursing through you.

you could feel the taut line of his body beneath you, the way his muscles tensed and released with every movement, each movement drawing you closer into his orbit. your fingers twined in his hair, and you felt his touch moving lower, tracing the soft curve of your throat, then the exposed plane of your chest, just above the low neckline of your top. the contrast between the cool night air and the warmth of his mouth was intoxicating, and you found yourself willingly surrendering to the sensations.

as choso’s lips explored your sensitive skin, you couldn’t help but arch into him, craving more of that intoxicating touch. his hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you securely in place as if to anchor you amidst the swirling desires he was awakening within you.

you let out a soft gasp when his mouth moved lower, his warm breath fanning over your breasts before his lips made contact with the tender flesh above your top. your nipples hardened instantly, straining against the fabric as if begging for his attention.

“choso,” you breathed his name once again, your voice husky with need. your plea trailed off into a moan as he continued to lavish attention on your chest, his tongue darting out to taste the skin, leaving a tingling path in its wake. the sensation was both electrifying and soothing, sending jolts of pleasure straight to you core, unconsciously your hips began to moving on top of him.

his name on your lips, spoken so breathlessly, sent a renewed wave of desire coursing through choso. he responded to your soft moans and shivers with a gentle nip to your skin, causing your body to tremble under his touch. feeling your hips move in response to his caresses, a low growl stirred in his throat.

his hands moved to the hem of your top, his fingers sliding beneath the edge. the gentle touch against the sensitive skin of your sides made you shiver, your body responding to each sensation with a subtle arching movement, seeking more of his touch.

your body was alight with anticipation, every nerve ending attuned to choso’s touch. as his fingers slipped beneath your top, brushing against the bare skin of your waist, you couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through you. the sensation was electric, igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole.

you arched into his touch once more, silently pleading for more— it’s like a game, you arched and pulled away, and arched and pulled away. your hands roamed over his muscular arms, feeling the strength coiled within them. the heat radiating from his body enveloped you, making you feel safe and desired all at once.

“please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “ want... i need...” your words trailed off into a moan as his fingers traced patterns on your skin, each touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. in that moment, lost in the haze of desire, nothing else mattered. your hips began to move more bold than before the moment you feel his hardness pressed against your core.

choso’s hands on your skin, tracing patterns of fire across your body, felt like a match to a gasoline-drenched inferno. it was almost sinful, the effect he had on you, the way your body reacted to his touch as if it was the first time you were feeling anything akin to desire. your body seemed to respond instinctively, arching towards him, pressing your softness against his hardness in a desperate plea.

the sound of your pleading whimper only seemed to fuel his desire further.

choso’s grip on your hips tightened, a raw hunger in his touch as your body moved against him, seeking friction in the growing tension between you. he pulled you closer, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck once more, as his hands moved up your sides to the edge of your top. his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, setting your nerves alight with a burning need. a low breath escaped him, a sound filled with both restraint and desire, and when he spoke, his voice was low and rough.

“need...” his fingers traced the curve of your ribcage, his touch both gentle and urgent “... you,” the last word fell from his lips like a plea, a whispered admission of a need as raw and urgent as the one he’d been stoking within you.

the fire in his eyes, his hands tracing a path of heat across your skin, all of it was making it hard for you to speak, to think... to do anything but feel. with a soft whine, your head tipped back, exposing your neck to him in an unspoken affirmation. he groaned at the gesture, the sound more animal than anything else, as if he was losing the fight to hold back.

your body was aflame with desire, every inch of your skin crying out for his touch. the sound of his voice, low and rough with need, sent shivers racing down your spine. his hands on your body felt like a brand, marking you as his own. your breath came in short, sharp gasps as his fingers danced along the edge of your top, teasing you with the promise of what was to come.

when his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, you let out a soft cry, your body arching into his touch. the sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that left you dizzy with want. you could feel the heat building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until you thought you might burst from the pressure.

your hands fisted in his hair, tugging gently as you guided his mouth back to yours, along with your hips start moving more purposefully against his clothed hardened cock, putting more pressure. the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins.

choso’s control snapped at the feeling of your hands in his hair, guiding his mouth to yours in a demand that left no room for argument. his lips crashed against yours in a fierce kiss, all teeth and tongue as he devoured the sweetness of your mouth. the taste of you was addictive, and he drank it in greedily, his hands roaming your body with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

he groaned into the kiss as you ground your hips against his, the pressure of your core against his hardness nearly unbearable. his own arousal throbbed in response, straining against the confines of his pants. the urge to tear away your clothes, to claim you fully, was almost overwhelming.

breaking the kiss, choso’s gaze locked onto yours, dark with lust and something deeper, more primal. “good... just like that,” he whispered.

your mind went blank at the intensity of his kiss, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his desire. his hands on your body felt possessive, claiming, and you reveled in the feeling of being owned by him in this moment. the scrape of his teeth against your lips sent a thrill through you, and you met his tongue with equal fervor, lost in the taste and scent of him.

your body was consumed by a raging fire of desire, every fiber of your being screaming for more of his touch. the heat between your legs was becoming unbearable, your core aching for relief. you needed him, needed to feel him inside you, filling you completely.

with trembling hands, you reached for the button of your top, undone few buttons. your breasts spilled free, the cool night air a stark contrast to the feverish heat of your skin. you watched as his gaze raked over your naked torso, his pupils dilating with undisguised hunger.

“touch me,” you pleaded, your voice hoarse with need. “i want to feel your hands on my skin.” your hips continued to grind against him, seeking relief from the ache building between your thighs. the pressure of his hardness against you was exquisite, and you found yourself wanting more, needing to feel him inside you.

his gaze darkened, his eyes darkening to a nearly black that mirrored the storm of raw desire that raged within him. the words that fell from your lips only added fuel to the fire, stoking the flames of his hunger until they burned with an almost feverish intensity. it was a plea he couldn’t ignore, a demand that sparked something primal and visceral within him.

choso’s hands went to your exposed breasts, cupping the soft mounds with reverence. he marveled at their weight, at the way they fit perfectly in his palms. his thumbs brushed over your nipples, coaxing them to peak under his touch. the sight of your hardened buds drew a low growl from deep within his chest.

“beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “so perfect.“

leaning in, he captured a nipple between his lips, sucking gently before grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth. the sensation shot straight to your core, making you gasp and arch into him. his other hand slid around to palm your ass, squeezing the firm flesh as he continued to lavish attention on your breast.

a high-pitched moan tore from your throat as his lips closed around your nipple, the sensation of his warm mouth and the gentle tug of his suction sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. your back arched, pushing your breast further into his mouth as you threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him close.

the combination of his hot mouth on your skin and the firm press of his erection against you was driving you wild. his hands found your hips, guiding your movements against him. the pressure, the friction, it was all so deliciously intoxicating that he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive flesh made you buck against him, craving more of that delicious friction. your hips rolled in a slow, deliberate rhythm, grinding your aching core against the hard length of his clothed bulge. the pressure was exquisite, a sweet agony that left you panting and needy.

“good,” you whimpered, your voice a ragged plea. “choso... feel so good..” his hands on your ass squeezed harder, pulling you flush against him as he nipped and sucked at your breast.

choso’s control slipped further with each passing second, his desire for you consuming him entirely. the sounds falling from your lips were music to his ears, urging him on, driving him mad with want. his hands gripped your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he held you still, rocking against you with a frenzied pace.

his mouth left your breast with a wet pop, trailing kisses up the column of your throat until he reached your ear. “just like that baby, just like that,” he growled, his voice low and rough with barely restrained passion. “mmm, good girl— ugh, good fucking girl,” he grunt, the sound rumble in his chest as he pressed your hips down harder against him.

he punctuated his words with a particularly forceful thrust, grinding his hardness against your aching center. the thin fabric separating you was the only barrier left, and it was quickly becoming too much to bear.

your head lolled back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry mouth. each word he spoke, each praise, each filthy promise, sent another wave of desire crashing over you, drowning you in a sea of pure, unadulterated lust. you could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you, the heat of it searing your skin even through the layers of clothing.

“chosooo,” you gasped, the single word a desperate plea. your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, anchoring yourself amidst the maelstrom of sensations.

your hips bucked wildly, seeking more of that delicious friction, more of the promise of satisfaction. the ache between your thighs was growing unbearable, a pulsing emptiness that demanded to be filled.

his lips found yours in a heated kiss, swallowing your whimpers and moans, his passion meeting your own with a frenzy and intensity that left you breathless. his tongue tangled with yours, the taste of him filling your senses, adding to the dizzying spiral of sensations.

his restraint was hanging by a thread, his own breathing ragged and uneven against your lips. he groaned, deep and guttural, when you whimpered his name, the sound vibrating through his body and setting your nerves ablaze. choso wasn’t just kissing you anymore.

he was claiming you.

you broke away from the kiss to trail your mouth down his neck and across the swell of his throat. your teeth scraped over the sensitive skin, making him gasp, the pain mingling with pleasure. his hands on your hips gripped you tightly, his hold firm but protective, a steady presence that kept you grounded amidst the sea of sensations. your hips start to move faster, pick up the pace on his hardness.

choso’s breath was coming in ragged bursts as your teeth scraped along his neck, pleasure and pain mixing into a heady cocktail that made his blood run hot. choso’s fingers dug deeper into your hips, holding you in place even as you rolled your hips against him more urgently, desperate with want.

“ah, fuuuuck,” he gritted out, his hands almost bruising against your skin. every part of him felt taut, wound so tight that it was like a spring about to snap. the heat between your bodies was overwhelming, and he knew he was close to the edge.

“baby, baby, baby,” he chanted, the endearment spilling from his lips almost involuntarily. he was so lost in the fog of lust that he was barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth, driven by pure instinct and desire. he needed you, craved you with a primal intensity that threatened to consume him from within. “please, please, please,” he repeated, the broken prayer mingling with the sound of your shared breaths.

the pressure between your bodies had built to almost overwhelming levels, the friction and heat stoking a fire that threatened to burn everything in its path. choso’s hands glided over your body, as if trying to memorize every curve and plane, before settling on your hips once again. his grip was fierce, as if he was afraid of letting you go even for a moment.

your body was alight with sensation, every nerve ending singing with pleasure as you moved against him. the heat between your bodies was a living thing, pulsing and throbbing with a life of its own. you could feel the evidence of his desire pressing insistently against you, the hard length of him straining towards you as if seeking entrance.

“yes,” you breathed, the single word a prayer and a promise all at once. your hands roamed over his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of his muscles beneath his shirt. you wanted to feel his bare skin against yours, to have nothing separating you but the air itself.

your hips rolled in a slow, deliberate rhythm, grinding against him with increasing urgency. the friction was exquisite, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins with each movement.

choso let out a guttural groan as your hips ground against him, the sensation of your heated flesh sliding against his cock through the clothes nearly undoing him. he could feel the slickness of your arousal coating his clothes length, leaving a stain on his jeans, the proof of how desperately you wanted this, and it only fueled his own hunger.

“fuck, baby, you’re killing me here,” he rasped, his hands sliding down to grasp your ass cheeks, kneading the firm flesh as he pulled you harder against him. the rough fabric of his pants rubbed against your clothed clit with each roll of your hips, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

his lips found yours in a bruising kiss once more, tongue delving deep to claim your mouth as his own. the taste of you was intoxicating, and he drank it in greedily, pouring all his pent-up desire into the embrace.

your mouth opened eagerly to receive his invading tongue, the kiss deep and passionate. you could taste the desperation in him, the raw need that matched your own. your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

the pressure of his fingers on your ass sends shivers down your spine, and you ground your hips harder against him, seeking more of that delicious friction. the rasp of his voice in your ear, the feeling of his hardness pressing against you, it was all so intense, so overwhelming that you feared you might combust from the sheer force of your desires. “gonna— cho...” you mumble incoherently on his lips, followed by choso hands guiding your hips faster.

choso could feel you trembling against him, could hear the desperation in your voice, the way it wavered as you breathed his name like a prayer. it only served to add fuel to the fire burning within him. he wanted to consume you, to burn away everything that wasn’t you and him in this moment.

“good girl, good girl,” he murmured, his words a mix of praise and encouragement. the rhythm of your movements had become frantic, wild, each grind of your hips against his causing a fresh wave of pleasure to wash over them both.

“come on baby,” he urges, the words tumbling out of him like gravel. your moans are like music to his ears, a heady symphony that only serves to drive him wilder. his grip on your hips is relentless, holding you against him as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded in reality.

his hand slid under your shirt, palms splaying across your lower back as he pulled you impossibly closer, the heat of his skin seeping into yours.

he rocked his hips in time with yours, the friction building to a fever pitch. the sound of your impending climax was music to his ears, and he reveled in the knowledge that he was the cause of it, that he could reduce you to this state of utter abandon with just his touch.

“that’s it, give it to me,” he urged, his lips finding the shell of your ear once more.

your body was wound tighter than a bowstring, every muscle tensed in anticipation of the release that was hurtling towards you like a freight train. the heat between your legs was almost unbearable, a pulsing ache that demanded to be satisfied.

“cho, ’m gonna... ’m gonna...” you panted, your words dissolving into a moan as you felt the first flutterings of your orgasm approaching. your hips jerked erratically, no longer following any kind of rhythm but simply chasing the pleasure that was so tantalizingly close.

your hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging into his shirt as you clung to him, anchoring yourself amidst the maelstrom of sensations. “don’t stop, don’t you dare stop,” you gasped, the command slipping out unbidden as you rode the crest of the wave that was carrying you higher and higher.

choso can feel your body tensing against him, the way your muscles coil and shudder as you’re close to the edge. he can hear it in the desperate pitch of your voice, the way your words are coming out in broken fragments. he knows you’re close, and he’s not far behind.

his breath is warm against your mouth as he whispers, “don't hold back. come for me, angel. i’ve got you.” his words are a promise, a pledge to catch you as you fall. as you give in to the crescendo of your pleasure, his arms are there, holding you tight.

“fuck yes, come on my cock,” he growled, the words punctuated by the rhythmic thrusts of his hips. he could feel your pussy clenching around nothing, the slick heat of your arousal coating his jeans as you rode out the waves of your climax.

the sight of you, lost in ecstasy, was almost too much for him to bear. he wanted to consume you, to drink in every last drop of pleasure until there was nothing left but the two of you, entwined and spent.

your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with such intensity that it stole your breath and rendered you momentarily speechless. your vision blurred, colors dancing at the edges as pleasure coursed through your veins like liquid fire.

“cho...oh god, cho...” you managed to whimper, your voice barely audible above the thunderous beat of your heart. your inner walls spasmed wildly, milking the air for something they couldn’t possibly find.

through the haze of bliss, you could feel choso’s hardness twitching against you, the heat of his arousal palpable even through the layers of clothing. the thought of him finding his own release sent another shockwave of pleasure rippling through you, prolonging your climax.

choso was hanging on by a thread, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully as he fought to control himself. he was close, so close he could snap any second.

and second later, choso’s control snapped as he felt your pussy convulsing around nothing more, the rhythmic clenching of your muscles driving him to the brink. the sight of you lost in the throes of ecstasy, your face contorted in rapture, was enough to push him over the edge.

“fuckkkk,” with a low, guttural moan, he came hard, his cock pulsing as it emptied itself inside his pants. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” hot spurts of semen coated his baggy jeans, leaving a damp stain, each one a testament to the intensity of his climax.

for a moment, he was frozen, caught in the aftermath of his orgasm. then, slowly, he began to move again, his hips rocking gently as he worked through the last tremors of pleasure. when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were glazed, his chest still heaving with exertion.

as the final aftershocks of your orgasm faded, you slumped bonelessly against choso, utterly spent. your limbs felt heavy, your mind hazy, and you could scarcely believe what had just transpired between you.

a small, dazed smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you gazed up at him, taking in the flush on his cheekbones, the glassy look in his eyes. he looked thoroughly debauched, and the knowledge that you’d been the one to reduce him to this state filled you with a sense of feminine satisfaction.

“look at you,” you breathed a chuckle, the word little more than an exhalation.

choso grinned at your comment, a lazy, satisfied smile that mirrored your own. he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, unhurried kiss that was a stark contrast to the frenzied passion of moments ago.

“you’re one to talk,” he murmured against your mouth, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, “you should see yourself. all flushed and breathless, like the prettiest thing i ever saw.” his voice was a low velvet rumble, the sound of it a soothing balm to your senses. he wrapped an arm around your waist, his touch gentle and reassuring.

a soft chuckle escapes you, a sound woven with warmth and lingering affection as you press your forehead to his, eyes meeting in the quiet intimacy between you. “we’re a mess,” you murmur with a smile, your voice light but full of meaning. your hands find the buttons of your shirt, fingers fumbling slightly as you begin to put yourself back together, still feeling the afterglow of his words and the tender intensity of his gaze.

choso’s grin widens at your comment, his hand resting gently at your waist, thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles. there’s a comfortable silence as you both catch your breath, his presence grounding you, his quiet laughter blending with yours in the stillness of the night. his eyes don’t leave your face, watching you with a softness that only makes your heart beat faster, as if savoring every little detail of this moment shared.

choso watched you as you righted yourself, his gaze warm and affectionate. his fingers reached up, idly plucking at the fabric of your shirt. he watched the way the material fell back into place, hiding your delicate curves once again.

he couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “you’re still clean, angel. i almost wish i’d made even more of a mess. almost,” his voice was teasing, his lips curving into a playful grin. the air is rife with the unspoken words dancing on the edge of the moment, the warmth and comfort wrapping around you like a cocoon.

he doesn’t press the issue though, not wanting to force anything that could shatter the fragile intimacy between you. instead, he just watches you, eyes warm and full of unspoken emotion.

“but next time,“ he adds, finally breaking the silence, “next time, i’ll have to make sure to have a change of pants.” his tone is light, a teasing lilt to it. but there’s a touch of something deeper there, a hint that he’s planning on there being a next time— that this is more than just a passing encounter.

still sitting on his lap, you snort, amused by his comment, and glance down at his jeans, your gaze catching on the unmistakable stain left by your recent intimacy. a smirk plays at the corners of your lips as you meet his eyes again, a mischievous glint in your own. “or maybe next time,” you murmur, voice dropping to a teasing lilt, “we should find somewhere a little more... private. so we can do it without the clothes.”

your words linger in the air, charged with suggestion, and you watch as his playful grin deepens, the warmth in his gaze intensifying with a glimmer of anticipation. he raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your boldness, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your side as he chuckles. “now that,” he says, voice low and dripping with promise, leaning closer to give you a peck on the lips before pulling away just a beat, “sounds like a plan, angel.”

there’s a shared spark between you, a silent agreement that this moment isn’t just a fleeting encounter but the start of something deeper, something you both want to explore. as the night stretches on, you feel the anticipation settling warmly in your chest, knowing there will be a “next time”— and plenty more after that.

a comfortable pause falls between you, the moment stretching as your eyes meet and hold, speaking volumes without words. the connection between you in that moment is more than just physical— it’s a quiet, wordless exchange of emotions and unspoken promises.

choso is first to break the silence, his lips curving into a playful grin. “as much as i’d love to continue this... we probably shouldn’t push our luck anymore tonight. it’s getting late.” he glances around, noting the empty woods, the deserted empty space beyond..

a soft chuckle escapes you, and with a reluctant sigh, you whisper, “yeah, probably best not to risk it.” carefully, you ease yourself off his lap, feeling the lingering warmth of his presence as you stand. straightening your skirt and adjusting your shirt, you do your best to smooth out any signs of the recent intimacy, fingers running through your hair in a quick attempt to tame it.

choso watches you with a hint of amusement, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth as he rises beside you, brushing himself off. “not bad,” he murmurs, a low, teasing note in his voice as he observes your subtle efforts to look composed. he reaches over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

choso flashes you a playful smile as you try to right your appearance, his eyes dancing with amusement at your efforts to look respectable despite the rumpled state of your clothing. his warm gaze follows your every movement, drinking in the sight of you, and he takes a moment to compose himself as well, fixing his clothes and running a hand through his hair.

as you both finally look presentable, he turns towards you, his eyes softening as he watches you. “we should probably get going,”he says quietly, his voice low and soft. “it’s late, and i don’t want you to get in trouble.”

as you begin the quiet walk back from the woods to the school grounds, choso’s hand slips into yours, his fingers curling around yours with a gentle but sure grip. the warmth of his touch anchors you, his presence at your side feeling both natural and reassuring, like something that’s always been meant to be.

the path is cloaked in the soft shadows of the night, the faint glow of the moon casting a silvery hue over everything. neither of you feel the need to speak; instead, you let the comforting silence stretch between you, punctuated only by the quiet sounds of your footsteps against the earth.

every so often, choso’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, a small but tender gesture that sends a gentle warmth through you. it’s a simple moment, yet there’s a profound intimacy in it—one that fills you with a sense of peace and connection. you glance over at him, catching the soft profile of his face in the moonlight, and he meets your gaze with a quiet smile, his eyes reflecting that same warmth and promise you felt earlier.

as you near the edge of the woods, the school grounds coming into view, you realize just how deeply this night has shifted something between you two. his hand in yours feels like an unspoken vow, a shared understanding that this connection isn’t just a fleeting spark—it’s something real, something you both want to hold on to.

as you step onto the training ground, the familiar silhouette of gojo comes into view, standing with his typical air of arrogance. his face wears that infuriatingly smug grin, and even with his glasses on, you know he’s watching. just to prove it, he lowers them slightly, giving you and choso a pointed look—specifically at your intertwined hands.

in a swift, reflexive motion, you pull your hand from choso’s, earning a puzzled glance from him. but as his gaze shifts toward gojo, realization dawns in his eyes, and he lets out a silent sigh, his expression settling into understanding.

internally, you curse. gojo’s big mouth is notorious; you know he’ll never let you live this down. as his former classmate, you’re all too familiar with how relentless and obnoxious he can be. memories of his constant teasing, his maddening habit of prying into everyone’s business, flood your mind, and the thought of dealing with his smug remarks makes you groan.

“he’s absolute menace,” you mutter under your breath, sending a half-hearted glare in gojo’s direction. beside you, choso stifles a quiet chuckle, clearly amused by your reaction.

as you approach, gojo stands there, hands buried in his pockets, his smile only widening as you near. you brace yourself, fully aware that the barrage of taunting remarks is about to begin, but also knowing that having choso by your side makes facing gojo’s antics a little more bearable.

gojo stands there, a grin plastered across his face as he takes in the sight before him. “well, well, well,” he drawls, that maddeningly smug tone in his voice that you know so well. “what do we have here? a little late night stroll through the woods, hmm?” his eyes flick between the two of you, one eyebrow raised in a mix of amusement and curiosity.

you roll your eyes, already fed up with gojo’s smug tone. “can you shut up for once, satoru?” you snap, crossing your arms as you fix him with a glare. “what do you want?”

gojo just chuckles, clearly relishing in your irritation. “oh, don’t get all snippy with me,” he teases, hands still stuffed casually in his pockets. “just happened to be wandering by, and—what do i see? a little midnight rendezvous.” he raises an eyebrow, his smirk only growing as he glances between you and choso— raising his eyebrows in silence the moment his six eyes catches a white stain on choso’s pants.

“satoru…” you warn, voice low.

he laughs, holding up his hands in a mock surrender. “alright, alright, i’ll behave.” then, his tone shifts slightly, a hint of seriousness beneath the teasing. “the higher-ups need you and me for something. probably some tedious nonsense, but they sounded… insistent.”

you glance at choso, sighing as you straighten up. “great, just what i need,” you mutter, shooting gojo one last glare. “lead the way then, satoru, since you’re so eager to interrupt a nice, peaceful evening.”

gojo only grins wider, turning and beckoning for you to follow, his playful stride a stark contrast to the sense of duty that suddenly weighs on you. choso gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before you let go, his silent understanding grounding you before you walk forward to face whatever awaits.

you glance over your shoulder at choso, finding him watching you with a soft smile, one that lingers in the quiet warmth of his expression. there’s a flicker of reassurance in his gaze, like he’s silently telling you it’ll all be okay. you give a small wave, a gentle gesture just for him, before turning back to follow gojo.

as you walk away, you feel the warmth of choso’s presence still lingering at your back, a quiet comfort that makes you smile to yourself. whatever nonsense awaits with the higher-ups, you know that, at the very least, there’s someone who has your back when you return.

as you walk away with gojo, choso watches your retreating figure, his expression soft with worry. he has a sinking feeling that this sudden summons isn’t going to bode well for you, but he knows he can’t interfere. when your hand slips from his grasp, and he can’t help but feel a tinge of loss, as if a piece of him goes with you on this mysterious mission with gojo. he pushes those worries aside for now, reminding himself that he has to trust in your strength and abilities. you can handle yourself and whatever comes your way.

gojo rolls his eyes at the obvious exchange of glances between you and choso, a look of mock disgust etched on his face. “ugh, seriously? you are like a teenage girl who just learned how to date,” he teases, his tone dripping with sarcasm. the comment makes you cringe, and you can feel your face flush with embarrassment.

without missing a beat, gojo suddenly stops in his tracks and swiftly pulls you into a headlock. you groan in annoyance, struggling to escape his grip as he chuckles at your predicament. “did choso do a good job, huh?” he asks, a playful grin on his face. “maybe next time, you should change before going public with your little romantic escapades!”

your cheeks flush deeply at gojo’s mention, heat creeping up your neck as you suddenly become hyper-aware of the earlier moments shared with choso. your thoughts begin to swirl, drawing your attention to the unmistakable stain on choso’s jeans that had caught your eye earlier.

a wave of realization crashes over you as you wonder if that same stain might have transferred to your skirt. the idea makes your heart race, and you subtly shift your position, trying to assess the damage without drawing attention.

gojo, ever observant, notices your fidgeting and raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “what’s the matter? you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” he teases, and you can’t help but curse internally.

you huff indignantly, pushing against his arm while trying to mask the smile threatening to break through. “you’re such a jerk, satoru!” you protest, though a small part of you appreciates his relentless teasing. despite the annoyance, you can’t deny the warmth that bubbles up inside you from the earlier moments with choso.

gojo’s grin widens as he sees the flush spread across your cheeks, enjoying the reaction he’s elicited. “aww, look at you, all flustered. that’s what friends are for, right? to tease you when you do something so incredibly naive.” he teases, releasing your headlock but keeping a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder as you walk.

you huff in annoyance, nudging his chest with your elbow as you cross your arms defiantly. “you are so fucking annoying, you know that?” you retort, shooting him a playful glare. despite your irritation, you can’t help but crack a small smile, knowing that deep down, his teasing comes from a place of genuine friendship. it’s just typical gojo, always pushing your buttons, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you look over your shoulder one last time to catch a glimpse of choso, who is standing a few steps behind you with a soft smile on his face. warmth spreads through you at the sight, the memory of your shared moment still lingering in the air. his gaze holds a hint of something deeper, an unspoken connection that makes your heart flutter.

as you and gojo turn the corner, you can’t help but feel a sense of excitement mixed with anticipation. the night air feels charged, and despite gojo’s teasing, you can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something special with choso.

gojo notices the way you glance back, and he quirks an eyebrow, “oh, is our little curse friend back there making your heart race? that’s cute." his teasing tone is laced with a hint of amusement, his eyes sparkling with mischief

“you know, i can practically see the little hearts in your eyes. someone has a crush.” his words are casual, but you catch a glimmer of something else in his expression— he’s not just teasing; he’s genuinely happy for you.

your cheeks flare with embarrassment as gojo’s words hit home. part of you wants to roll your eyes and dismiss him entirely, but there’s something in his tone that makes you pause. “okay, maybe,” you mutter softly, “but don’t you dare start making a big deal out of it, satoru. this is supposed to be a secret, remember?” you shoot him a warning glare, hoping to stave off the barrage of future teasing.

gojo grins widely, feigning innocence, “me? make a big deal out of something? nahhh, that’s not my style.” he gives a casual shrug, leaning in with a sly whisper. “but between you and me, i might just have to give choso the ‘big brother talk’ to make sure he treats you right. you know, threaten him with a little bit of my infamous gojo charm.” the playful glint in his eyes suggests this is just another layer of his teasing.

you snort, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “you’re so stupid, satoru,” you say, shaking your head in mock disbelief. his antics always manage to get under your skin, but you can’t help but find his protective nature endearing, even if he goes about it in the most ridiculous way possible.

gojo lets out a hearty laugh, his grin widening. “hey, it’s my duty as your friend to make sure you’re treated right. and also my duty to annoy the living daylights out of you. two birds, one stone!” he playfully ruffles your hair, causing you to swat his hand away with a playful glare. as you both continue walking, a comfortable banter flows between you, with gojo throwing in a few more teasing remarks about choso and your newfound romance.

your mind keeps drifting back to the moments you and choso shared in the classroom, especially the memory of his lips and the lingering warmth that had engulfed you. you’re almost consumed by the image when gojo’s voice breaks into your thoughts.

“alright, lovebird, i’ve had enough of this smitten daydreaming.” he shoots you another teasing grin, his playful tone making his words less serious. “time to snap out of it. we have a meeting to attend and you need to focus. save your romantic musings for later.”

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Forbidden Fruit.

That’s the thing about Declan - he always gets what he wants. It might be wrong… but it feels so right.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. use of the c word. age gap. cheating. declan’s filthy mouth needs its own warning.

word count - 2.3k

authors note - that man is a munch and I cannot be convinced otherwise. my crush on aidan turner has returned tenfold and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem. read declan’s dialogue in that gorgeous irish accent of his for the full experience.

masterlist. inbox.

You’ve fake laughed so much this afternoon that you can’t remember what your real one sounds like.

Finally breaking away from a conversation with Freddie’s wife, you swan across the garden in your sundress towards the food and drink table. You absentmindedly pick at the strawberries, hoping and praying that no one bothers you for a moment. All you need is a minute to yourself, away from all of these faux smiles and boastful exchanges.

Reaching towards a raspberry, you feel fingertips ghosting across your back quickly.

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

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