#the book is called A Match Made in SPACE

[fourth-dimensional-thinker]

You've heard of "George and Doc are friends in the new post-trilogy timeline because George is a sci-fi writer and Doc is a scientist". Now, get ready for "George and Clara are friends in the new post-trilogy timeline because George's stories take place in space and Clara is an astronomer".

[ellecdc]

Peace & Quiet [& Sirius]

Regulus Black x mute!reader [gn] who speaks with Regulus for the first time

request: Regulus Black x mute reader and she's quiet so she can talk, and her speech is excellent, she just chooses not to talk until maybe one day studying she let's it slip and he heard by @simps-for-to-many-people

CW: selective mutism

Regulus Black was a very self-serving person, and he was more than happy to admit that.

Nothing that Regulus did was coincidental, accidental, or unplanned; he had a motive for every action he took, and there was meaning behind everything that he did. 

Like now, for example; he was very pointedly not sitting with his friends in the middle of the library, but rather in a far secluded corner near a fireplace and a bookshelf containing tomes on the reproductive patterns of frost snails.

In essence, no one was coming back here for books or otherwise.

But that wasn’t why he was sitting back here.

It was likely why you were sitting back here, which was decidedly why Regulus was, too. 

He’d asked first, of course; he was a gentleman afterall. And you’d offered him half a smile and a quick nod before quickly returning to your notes.

Regulus liked that about you.

You were a quiet sort - and not only because you didn’t talk, because Regulus was certain that even if you did make a habit of speaking, you’d likely be nearly just as quiet.

It didn’t appear to him that you couldn’t speak, but rather just that you didn’t. 

And Regulus couldn’t blame you, there weren’t very many people in this castle worth conversing with anyways.

That didn’t stop him from trying to converse with you, however.

He made sure to say hello when he saw you, and always asked if your day was going well, or if you were finding class difficult; the likes.

He never got more than a nod or a smile, and that was enough.

So, here he was sitting in the farthest, darkest corner of the library with the quietest seat partner as he enjoyed the view.

And if it wasn’t clear by now, the view Regulus so enjoyed was you. 

You’d not shared more than a smile and nod with him in the years of classes you shared together, yet somehow Regulus seemed to find a kindred spirit in you.

A soul aching for solitude and silence, for patience and understanding, for space and peace.

He certainly found those things with you.

He hoped that you felt the same about him, or perhaps that you could bring yourself to find the same in him.

For now, though, Regulus was happy to reap the benefits of your presence for as long as you were willing to share them with him. 

“There you are, Reggie! My favourite brother!” Regulus heard the unmistakable sound of Sirius’ voice as it permeated his (and, rather unfortunately, your) quiet sanctuary.

Regulus could kill him. 

“I’m your only brother, you sod.” Regulus hissed as Sirius plopped himself down on the bench beside him, either ignorant to or in spite of the lack of enthusiasm at his arrival. 

“And I’m your only brother, don’t you think you ought to be nicer to me? Hi, L/N.” Sirius replied, greeting you quickly as he turned back to his brother. “Listen, I need a favour.”

“No.”

“Reggie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Please.” 

“I said no.” Regulus bit out.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.” Sirius pouted, resulting in an awkwardly long staring match between the two brother’s before Regulus finally sighed.

“What?”

“I need the password to the Slytherin dungeons.”

“Are you out of your sodding mind!?”

“You don’t know what it’s for!” Sirius argued.

“It’s for a prank.” Regulus responded resolutely, causing Sirius’ expression to fall just as he was about to start another sales pitch.

“Okay, so maybe you do know what it's for, but that’s not the point!”

"That's exactly the point."

"But-"

“I’m not giving you the password to my common room, Sirius.” Regulus stated with finality as Sirius groaned and let his head fall to the table in front of him with a thump. 

“You’re mean, you know that? He’s mean; why do you hang out with him, L/N? You could do so much better.”

“What? Like you?” You responded quickly, not bothering to look up from your notebook to see the absolute astounded faces of both Regulus and Sirius Black, and the satisfied smirk on Remus Lupin’s face as he sidled up behind the two brothers. 

“I knew I liked you, L/N.” Remus said as he shot you a wink and placed a conciliatory hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “So, you failed to get the password and had your arse handed to you?”

Sirius harrumphed as Regulus let out a very uncharacteristic bark of laughter.

Neither Sirius nor Remus missed the satisfied smile that graced your lips at the sound. 

“That’s alright, Pads; there’s always plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” Regulus asked cautiously. 

“That’s for us to know and you to find out, dear brother.” Sirius announced as he stood and ruffled Regulus’ curls before turning to stalk away from the table, throwing a hasty ‘nice chatting, L/N’ over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.

“But…” Remus continued once he knew Sirius was out of ear shot. “Maybe don’t eat breakfast tomorrow at the Slytherin table.”

“Thanks Lupin.” Regulus grumbled, equal parts exhausted by his brother’s antics and grateful for Remus’ warning. 

“Later Black, L/N.” He called as he followed after Sirius. 

Regulus turned back towards the table to see you staring intently at your notes, though you seemed to be doing little more than fiddling with your quill. 

“That was impressive; it’s usually impossible to shut my brother up like that.” He offered carefully, hopefully, eagerly.

Gods, he was a mess. 

You smiled and looked up at him through your lashes. “He was killing our vibes.” You replied in barely a whisper.

Regulus chuckled disbelievingly; not only did you feel comfortable enough to speak to him or in front of him, but that comfort seemed to extend to the likes of his brother and his brother’s boyfriend. 

And you felt like the two of you had vibes, and that Sirius was a threat to those vibes.

Surely he was dreaming? Hallucinating? This couldn’t be real?

But there you were, sitting across from him as you so often were, looking at him shyly and hopefully and very much real; Regulus felt as though the two of you were on the brink of something.

“I agree; I enjoy your company very much, if I’m being honest."

You smiled at him again -  and it was a more open smile this time, less hopeful and more grateful, less shy and more confident - quickly signing what Regulus knew to be the BSL sign for ‘me too’. 

Feeling quite vindicated, Regulus finally pulled his gaze away from you and smiled down at his notebook. “That’s great to hear, because I may need to keep you on standby for the next time my brother starts harassing me.”

And Regulus was certain he’d be hearing the sound of your laughter in all of his sweetest dreams going forward. 

[jarofstyles]

Cabernet

This can be read as a standalone I think, but! Here is a second part of Merlot! It's spicy and sweet so I hope you guys like it. Unsure if there will be any more parts (I’m open if you guys have more ideas!) but I do love a good dilfrry.

Check out our Patreon for early access and 200+ exclusive writings!

WC- 4.1k

Warnings- smut, age gap relationship, anal (for those who asked ur welcome!), unprotected sex, cumplay, Dom/sub elements

-------

Harry was by far the best man she had ever dated. 

Their age gap was evident at times, but not in a bad way. It was rather cute when he had been confused about videos she sent or his own excitement to show her the movies or books he was referencing. The added element of their dynamic was learning from one another. Harry had been teaching her about publishing and helping her flesh out the first draft of her book while she sat in his office some days, helping him out in return by getting him coffee or lunch or an occasional shoulder massage when he got particularly stressed. An unofficial assistant of sorts. 

“I feel like if I have to write the word ‘said’ one more time, my brain is going to explode.” She grumbled, pushing her laptop across the couch and leaning back on it. The leather seat in his office was by far the most comfortable one she had sat on and he happily invited her to come into the office to see him as often as she wanted. It was both practical and selfish on both ends.It was easier to work in a space like this and with the understanding that Harry really did have work he was doing, she focused on her own stuff. A quiet pair of people working in each other’s company. 

Add in the fact that he was the boss man, it made it much easier for her to come and go as she pleased. 

“Mm, sometimes authors get stuck with words in their novels. They’ll have phrases they repeat a few too many times, usually gets called out in editing and fixed. It’s not a bad thing. But with words that are action words like that, there are options. Y’know, depending on the scene and tone. Murmured, muttered, peeped, whispered, whined, moaned, huffed, grumbled. Those sorts of words.” He tapped his pen against the desk as he lifted his eyes to her. 

It didn’t get old. Seeing her pretty face sitting in his office looking the way she did, much more comfortable than the night they’d first met, but still appropriate for an office setting.

Sometimes he did let his mind wander into the roleplay aspect, wondering if she had been his real assistant if he would have made a move. If Y/N was the Y/N he knew now? Probably. Scandalous. 

Today she wore a pair of black flowy pants and a matching turtleneck, but on top she had a chunky knit cardigan that was utterly adorable. It had yellow moons and stars, a deep purple color with sleeves she had to push up so they didn’t hide her hands. His girl leaned into the office aesthetic when she came in so she didn’t stick out too much but with him or when they were at his place or out together, he loved seeing her dressed in her normal clothing. She looked soft, whimsical almost. Like a little fairy. 

“Hm. Good point. I need to write down all the synonyms in my notes app and defer to that because if I’m getting tired of writing it, I know whoever ends up reading it will get tired of seeing it too.” Her lips puffed to blow a strand of hair that had fallen from her bun, brows furrowed as she failed and made her hand ready up to tuck it behind her ear instead. 

Again, cute.

“Not necessarily.” He replied, leaning back in his chair. “We’re our own harshest critics. I doubt they’re paying that much attention to that. The majority of people will be paying attention to world building, character development, plot, sex scenes, all that fun stuff. The exact wording isn’t always the most important thing. But it shows that you care about quality.” He shot her a grin. “So you will be successful.”

“Mmm… and not because I’m fucking the publishing head?” She grinned as she stood up, stretching her arms out. 

“Well. That helps.” He wouldn’t deny it. She had a leg up, but he wouldn’t publish just anything. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t publish shit work. It isn’t worth the reputation of my company. Your writing is genuinely good, my sweet.” He knew the drill by now. Her heeled boots were kicked off by the couch and she made her way over to him, the tiredness starting to hit her as she happily perched herself on his lap. 

“Good to know.” She snorted before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. The facial hair had grown but he was shaping it currently. She promised she’d be okay with whatever he did to it but didn’t want anything to happen to the mustache. That wasn’t allowed to go. “What are you working on? Anything fun?” 

“No, nothing incredibly interesting I’m afraid.” His hand squeezed her hip underneath the cardigan. “I was working on some contracts earlier but every so often I pick up some submissions and read through them myself. This one is very bland, unfortunately. There’s potential, absolutely. Their writing style is lovely, but the plot falls flat and the characters are one dimensional. S’like they chose a specific stereotype and did nothing to differentiate them.” It was unfortunate.” It was a shame he came across all too often.

“It’s obvious this person is trying but they’ve never observed or met someone with these traits. I don’t think you absolutely have to follow the rule ‘write what you know’, but I think a lot of the best works come from drawing from our own experiences. Romance, for them, doesn’t seem to be a passion. They’d do better with mystery with their writing style as it is, but they have to improve on other aspects first.” 

“Is it hard for you to see stuff like that?” She asked curiously, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “I can tell you’re a little disappointed with it, so I have to wonder if it happens a lot.”

“It does. And it is hard when you see someone with potential not living up to it but I have faith that if we send them some constructive criticism notes that maybe they won’t see it as an attack but as a place of genuine care. I’m going to have someone meet with them I think, give them my notes and have them explain it in nicer terms than the plain ones I used. Maybe they can work on it again and add more and we’d have a best seller.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I can see they care about it in the way they put details in, but it needs more.”

There was something incredibly attractive about listening to him talk about it. It was always attractive to see someone care and talk about their passions; but Harry was on another level. She could see it on his face that he was disappointed and knew the person could do better. While it made it all the more nerve wracking for her own novel, she had him working with her along the way.

He never told her where to go with her story in terms of ideas, but how to improve the mechanics. Reading over bits and telling her to take away a certain detail and add more in other places, or giving suggestions about how things could flow smoother. He’d listened to her storyboard, after showing her the author equivalent of it, and gave his honest feedback from a publisher's point of view and then from a boyfriend’s point of view.

Sometimes it was more obvious that he was the one with miles more life experience in these instances but she couldn’t be upset about it when it only aided in strengthening their relationship. 

“I see.” She looked at the manuscript on the desk with the red pen of doom. “Oof. The red pen is out… and you’ve used it a lot.” 

“Well, there are errors.” He chuffed, kissing her cheek in return. “Did you get enough done?” The word count goal had been 3,000 for today, but he didn’t make it for her. It was all on her. He simply helped keep her accountable.

“I did more. I think… 4.5?” She tilted her head trying to remember. “Now my head feels like soup.” It did feel like mush right now. That was why the laptop was closed and abandoned and she was finding comfort in the man. It was like a reward. 

“That’s ace, my dove. Amazing.” He praised. The pride he felt for her was earned fair and square. She had been applying herself more now than ever. Since their first night together they hadn’t really separated, seeing each other at least a few times a week. Her work ethic was there as she had zeroed in on what she wanted. “Why don’t we finish this up and go back to mine, mm?” 

Harry had been holding off all week. He’d gone a bit rough one night and even though she said she was fine, he wanted to give her body time to relax. As much as he loved sex, he had wanted her body to enjoy it more than anything else. Not be overly swollen and sore the next day. 

Today was going to be the day to break that. A full week of nothing but heated kisses, and she was as needy as needy could get. He felt her perk up at the mention, sitting up straighter in his lap. 

“Please! Let’s go. We can get food on the way home but I think we have some pressing matters to attend to.” She sniffed, standing from him and offering a hand to help him up. “Chop chop. Get a move on, mister.”

——-

Two rounds in and he knew she could take it. Her poor cunt was a mess and he knew that as pretty as it was all drippy and swollen, she had been aching for him to get a try into her other hole. They’d had a proper discussion about it, and he had effectively been edging her the entire night. Fair? No, but she knew how he rolled. The promised pleasure first, experiments after. Just in case she wanted to stop, she got something out of the night. 

She’d been warming his cock for a bit as he held her in his arms, cooing soft praises about how good of a girl she was, how brave she had been to ask for something new tonight when he felt her get impatient. She didn’t need to say it. He knew her well enough now to understand what she wanted. Pulling his cock out and rubbing the tip against her asshole, pressing against it and spreading the sticky cum over the rim.  “Want me t’fuck this tight little ass too?  Fill you from both ends."

“Wanna try.” She nodded, panting as her cunt contracted and his cum dribbled out of her pussy. “You’re so big I… I dunno if I can take it. Go slow.” Y/N knew she was slightly cock drunk but she also trusted him. He’d made her feel good already, took his time with everything else why wouldn’t she want to test this with him?

“Okay, my sweet. Just relax.” Harry wasn’t nervous, but he was cautious. His girl was precious cargo, and he wanted to make sure it felt as good as it could. He’d done the work of stretching her with his fingers, but it was going to be a challenge to get him in there regardless. He slowly pushed his thick head past the tight rim of her back hole. Watching her face intently, his own contorted with pleasure. "You're doing so good, doll," he encouraged softly. "Just relax and let me in. You can take it."

The pressure was intense, and she hissed out a breath as he slowly pushed more and more of himself into her. His thick head stretched her wide, and he paused, letting her adjust to the new sensation. "Breathe." The reminder was whispered as he realized she was holding her breath, his hand carding through her hair tenderly.

"That's it, baby. You're taking it so well. Always do so good f’me." He praised, his voice low and soothing. He slowly pushed more of himself into her, inch by inch, his thick prick spreading her wide. She could feel every vein, every ridge, as he slowly filled her up.

As he slid deeper, Harry could feel the intense pressure and stretch around his girth. Her tight little hole was gripped tightly around his shaft, the muscles fluttering and contracting as he pushed his way inside. She felt like she was being split in two, her body struggling to accommodate his bigger size- but she was. Slowly but surely, he sunk into her fully.

She had done it. 

“Fuck.” She sobbed out, clinging to him as he got down to the base. Never in her life had she felt so full that way, so stretched. Only Harry could make her feel this way. It wasn’t just the physical feeling, but the emotional one too. She trusted him more than she trusted anyone else. His guidance was priceless.

"You're doing so good, You’ve got it all in. Jus’ gotta let it adjust." he soothed, his voice strained as he fought to keep control. Giving her a moment to adjust, his hands stroking her hair and her cheeks, his thumb brushing away her tears. "You feel so hot around me, doll. So tight. Knew y’would be."

“I wanna be… I want you to feel good.” She whispered, looking at him with wet eyes. “It’s just so big. I’m tryin’ to take it.” It surely wasn't a beginner cock but she wasn’t known for taking the easy way.

"You're doing so well, baby," he reassured her, his hands never leaving her. He slowly pulled out halfway before sinking in again, a little faster this time. "That's it... take me all the way in."

It was the fourth time he did it that she felt the pleasure. Both from the action and the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against her swollen clit, making her gasp. Her eyes fell shut as she leaned her head back, slowly relaxing into the bed.

He watched her face contorted in pleasure, his heart swelling with pride. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. As she opened her eyes, he began to pick up the pace, his hips pressing against hers. "M’so proud of you. Look at you, taking every bit of me.”

Y/N sent him a blissed out smile as her hand slipped between them, rubbing her own clit slowly as he fucked into her ass. There was nothing rushed about it, nothing frantic, and it felt good just to be. Her muscles relaxed, making it feel even better as his cock filled her hole. Soft moans left her mouth as she curled her other hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down so he was close. “Are they the best holes you’ve had?”

Harry’s face was lax in his own pleasure as he felt her tight ass clench around his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his breath hot against her lips. “They are. So fucking tight, so perfect. Can’t compare them t’anything else.” He kept up his steady rhythm, loving how her body moved with his. “You feel so good. Can never get enough of you.” He whispered, brushing a stray hair out of her face before stroking her puffy lip. They were so pretty. Kissing wasn’t something he’d thought much of before, but he hadn’t kissed Y/N. She had changed everything for him. 

“Better than that silly ex wife?” She prodded, watching with a little smirk as she watched him think it over. Y/N had a feeling she was by the way be was acting,  but she wanted to hear it.

"Way better." he grunted, his hips snapping forward. "Little minx, y’just need to ask that, hm? No need to be jealous. She never gets t’have me again. Only y-you." He stuttered as her hand moved around his neck and she squeezed down hard on him. "Her holes were nothing compared to yours, doll. Nothing."

Y/N giggled as she choked him a little bit, watching his eyes widen before pulling. It was obvious that while he was the big man in charge- she could have fun too. “That’s what I like to hear. I’ll tell you a secret, Harry.” Her lips brushed his as she kept the grip on his throat. Her lips were swollen and sensitive, the coarse facial hair brushing it and making her want to moan. “None of the boys my age have ever made me cum. They never fucked my ass. Never fucked me raw. And you did it all.”

"And I'm gonna keep doing it," he rumbled, eyes burning with lust as she kissed him. His hand tightened in her hair, tugging gently and pulling her deeper into the kiss. “You’ve got a man now, no need to think of those boys.You want me t’keep being nice to you? Keep making you cum?”

“If you keep fucking me like this, I do. Want my man to be so, so nice to me.” She gasped as he pushed all the way in, balls rested snug against her ass as he slowly humped into her, the comfort of the fullness making her fingers work harder on her clit. “Gotta- Gotta prove you can keep up with me, old man. That you c-can live up to the hype. I like the bit of silver at your temples but…” Her moan was broken as he pulled out and pushed back in, jostling her. “Gotta prove why older guys are b-better for pretty little things like me.”

"Oh, I'll prove it to you," he growled, picking up pace as he pounded into her tight ass. She had no idea just how badly he’d needed her to walk into his life. Thank god she had. This was everything he had ever wanted. "And right now, you need me to wreck this little hole until you can't walk straight. You need me to show you how a real man handles his woman. I'll give you everything you crave, everything you need. You just have to let go and trust me.” The man had every intention of proving how much better he could be for her than she could ever imagine.

"Fuck, look at this cunt." He muttered, reaching down to spread her dripping pussy apart. "It's absolutely soaked, just dripping down. Love it, hm?” The smugness in his tone would usually make her scowl but there was no denying it. The proof was right there. It was undeniable. “You're so turned on, baby. It's making it easier for me to fuck this tight little ass of yours." The glossy, hard flesh glistened with slick, dripping down onto the bed beneath her. His own cum intermingled with her own, making his movements smoother as he pushed in and out of her, coating her holes with their combined essence.

Her face was a mask of pure ecstasy, her eyes rolled back in her head as she whimpered in pleasure, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her. Her asshole clenching and unclenching around his thick cock with each thrust, trying to milk him for all he was worth. Her body was feeling tingly, her legs trembling as he fucking into her ass, the sound of her arousal and his hips hitting her skin filling the room. She was completely lost in the pleasure, her mind clouded by the overwhelming sensation of being thoroughly fucked.

As she reached the peak of her orgasm, he took over and began rubbing her clit with his own thumb, the sensation sending waves of pleasure cascading through her body. She cried out, her pussy gushing as she came harder than she would have imagined being fucked like this. She was so overwhelmed that she could only hold limply onto his arms as he continued to pound into her, his thick cock stretching her hole as it thrust through the waves of her intense orgasm.

His face contorted, vein bulging in his neck as he struggled to hold back. "You feel too good, baby. I can't... I can't hold back any longer." His heavy balls drew up close to his body, ready to unleash another load inside of her. The feeling of her taut muscles milking him, the way she clung to him with every fiber of her being, it was too much. He was sensitive himself, but he wanted to deliver everything she wanted.

"Please, Harry...Please,come inside me... I wanna feel you fill me up. Want it everywhere." She panted, her voice desperate with need. Half of the fun of sex was seeing him lose that control he so easily held in all other scenarios. She wanted to make him feel just as good as he made her feel. He deserved it.

His restraint shattered at her words.  "Fuck, you're gonna get what you asked for."

With a guttural groan, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and let go, his hot load pulsing into her hole in thick ropes. She felt each ribbon scalding her , marking her as his. "That's it, take it all... That’s m’girl.” He kept cumming, his cock twitching as he filled her. Ribbon after ribbon filled her up until she was overflowing with his load, almost overwhelmingly so. He finally slowed, his chest heaving, before gently pulling out of her ass, his cock glistening with the evidence of their fuck.

With a sense of possessive pride, he watched as his cum began to leak out of her stretched hole, dripping down her thighs. It was satisfying in the filthiest way. Primal and caveman in every sense of the word, he loved knowing that he had done it. He’d taken every one of her holes and made her his in the dirtiest type of way. He gently spread her cheeks apart, admiring the sight of his mark leaking from her. "Look at that... You're so full of me, S’that what you wanted?”

“Mhm.” She smiled, slightly drunk on the orgasm and the fact that he had pushed her further than anyone else had before. it was a good feeling in her body, the beginnings of soreness and the calming heat of his hands as he caressed her the way he wanted. “Exactly what I wanted. Think M’gonna have to keep you around so we can do that again.”

“I’d hope so.” He laughed tiredly, pushing back down to take her mouth for another kiss. “I’m far from finished with you, sweet little thing. But I think I’ve ravaged your body enough. Think you need a bath and some tea, get you ready to sleep.” 

Aftercare wasn’t something she’d experienced in any other relationship either, but she realized now it was probably a Harry exclusive thing. He was phenomenal at it. A lot of things, honestly. He experimented with her responsibly, took care of her after every round of sex, checked in on her, made sure she was eating proper meals, and helped her with her career. She’d lucked out with him. Whatever his ex wife was thinking, she had no clue- but she wasn’t about to waste a single bit of him.

“Do you have chamomile?” She asked softly, pecking his lips in return. 

“What do you take me for? Course I’ve got it.” He scoffed, pinching her chin. “But if I didn’t, I’d find some for you. Know it’s your favorite. Added it to the grocery list, along with your cereal, your rancid battery acid energy drinks, and the sweet and salty popcorn.” 

“It’s good battery acid, I’ll have you know.” She giggled, carding her fingers through his hair. He did have a bit of gray going on the temples but it was sexy. Just hearing how much he cared and put effort into the tiny things made her giddy. 

“Yeah, yeah. We can talk about your poison in the morning. It’s time to get clean and go t’sleep. Tomorrow may be the day you write five thousand words. You never know.”

[romugh]

SENSUAL FREQUENCIES - NR

ROMUGH’S KINKTOBER

october 5th — phone sex, praise kink, orgasm control PART 2 TO SENSUAL UNRAVELING

DAY FOUR || kinktober masterlist || 2024.

pairing- g!p!avenger!natasha romanoff x avenger!reader

cw- 18+!!; top!reader, g!p!bottom!natasha, phone sex, heavyyy praise kink, orgasm control, orgasm denial, mommy kink (SHE/HER PRONOUNS USED ONCE FOR READER i think) edging, slight degradation, 6k of pure phone sex guys, the beloved fleshlight making an appearance! natty would definitely give it a name tbh

wc- 6.5k *proud face*

a/n- could be read as a standalone. have fun reading, hornballs!! beware of the warnings :) also!!!!!!!! yesterday's (4/10) fic was going to be dedicated to someone for their birthday, but since i didn't post it i'll dedicate both this one and the originally planned one (that'll be posted tomorrow!). happy (belated, sorry) you, sweet @godhatesgoodgirls !!

prompts- phone sex, praise kink, orgasm control

synopsis- natasha misses you when you're away on a mission, so she takes you up on that "i'm just a phone call away if you get stuck" (except she's not stuck, she's hard, and she needs you to make it better).

taglist?- @lost-mortemanghel, @idkwhatever580, @elliecoochieeater, @left-and-right-up-and-down, @deadlesbianwitches

Natasha groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t believe you...” “Believe it, Nat,” you teased, pulling her hands away from her face so you could see her flushed expression again. “I’m just a phone call away if you get stuck.”

Natasha had always prided herself on her control. She was composed, steady, able to focus under pressure no matter the situation. It was a skill she’d honed over the years, something that had kept her alive through missions, battles, and everything in between. But today, control was the last thing on her mind.

She had been throbbing all day.

It started as a soft ache, something she could ignore at first—just the usual longing for you, the way her body craved your touch, your voice, especially after so many weeks apart. You had been on an undercover mission for nearly seven weeks now. Seven long, lonely weeks without you by her side. It wasn’t unusual for either of you to be away for extended periods of time, but this mission had been different. She hadn’t seen your face in weeks, hadn’t heard your voice in days, and your last message had been three days ago, a short, cryptic text that gave her little reassurance. You’d told her this mission would be demanding, but Natasha hadn’t expected to miss you this much.

It wasn’t just the physical absence of you that hurt—it was the silence. The nights felt longer, the spaces between her texts to you emptier. She had filled the gaps with her own updates, sending you messages about everything and nothing. She sent you a good morning and goodnight every day, even if you wouldn’t reply. She told you what she ate, told you about the book she was reading (Tony had gifted it to her when he noticed her sulking, in that way he pretended wasn’t caring but totally was), and she told you about her workouts, debriefing you on everything she’d do. But now, after three days of silence from you and weeks of no calls, she felt a gnawing emptiness in her chest that matched the heat spreading through her body.

Her mind wandered back to you constantly, no matter what she did to distract herself. She had trained with Wanda earlier, sparred with Steve, attempted to cook with Vision (disastrous. She’s glad you weren’t there to see that chaos), even buried herself in the book Tony had given her. Nothing worked. All day long, the ache between her legs had only worsened, the throb of need pulsing stronger and stronger until it hurt. Every shift of her hips, every brush of fabric against her skin made her dizzy with want.

She had never been this horny in her life—not to the point that it was painful.

Natasha leaned back on the couch, letting out a frustrated sigh. She was a mess, and she knew it. Her thighs were slick with arousal, her body hypersensitive to every little movement. She tried to close her legs, to dull the ache, but it didn’t help. Nothing would help. Not unless it was you.

She thought about touching herself—her hand hovering over the waistband of her pants more than once. But she stopped herself every time. She knew it wouldn’t be enough. It never was. Her hand wouldn’t feel like yours, wouldn’t wrap around her the same way, wouldn’t tease her until she was dripping, desperate, begging for release. She didn’t want to do it herself. She couldn’t. Not when she knew how much better it would feel with you here, guiding her, taking control.

Her mind wandered to the fleshlight you had given her as a gift—a night she wouldn’t forget. She had been so shy about it at first, so unsure of how to use it without your help. That night had been the first time she had really let go, let you guide her, and the thought of using it again made her body ache even more. But it wasn’t the toy she wanted. The toy wasn’t you.

Natasha swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the cushions of the couch as she resisted the urge to move, to give in. Her cock twitched, swollen and painfully hard, straining against her pants. She had never felt this desperate before, not even when you were still just friends, dancing around your feelings. This need was overwhelming, consuming, and it was starting to drive her insane.

She had been on edge all day, her body vibrating with tension, her mind flooded with memories of you—your touch, your scent, the sound of your voice in her ear, coaxing her to let go. Her breath hitched just thinking about it, about how easily you could make her unravel. Her own hand couldn’t replicate that feeling, not even close. And her fleshlight? It wasn’t your mouth. It wasn’t your hand. Nothing was.

Her phone sat next to her on the couch, the screen black and mocking her with its silence. She hadn’t called you once during your mission, knowing better than to interrupt you, especially if you were in the middle of something crucial. But today? Today was different. She wasn’t thinking clearly anymore—her mind too clouded by the throbbing between her legs, the constant pulse of her need.

She had texted you countless times, but now her fingers hovered over your name, hesitating. Was it too much? Would you even be able to answer? What if you were in danger, or worse, what if her call put you in harm’s way?

Her heart raced as she stared at the phone, her thumb shaking slightly as she fought against the rising tide of desperation that threatened to take over. She bit her lip, trying to calm herself down, but the ache between her legs was relentless. She needed you. Now.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers moved on their own, dialling your number. The phone rang once, twice, and her breath caught in her throat. Each ring echoed in her ears, the tension in her body growing with every second that passed. Her hand clenched around the phone, her entire body trembling with need.

The moment your phone vibrated in your pocket, you felt your heart stop. You were just out of a tense situation—dangerous, even by your standards. You had barely slipped away, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins when you felt your phone buzz repeatedly.

Natasha.

It had been weeks since you last had her in your arms, and you hadn’t spoken on the phone in what felt like forever. But for her to call now, with no warning? Something was wrong. You didn’t even think, barely took the time to check your surroundings, before you ducked into a secluded corner and answered the call. Your voice came out in a rush, thick with worry.

“Nat? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and your heart clenched in your chest. You could hear her breathing—shallow, uneven, almost... trembling. Your mind raced, picturing the worst. Was she hurt? Had something happened to her while you were away?

“Natasha?”

She almost groaned at the sound of your voice. Her body reacted instantly, a wave of heat flooding through her, the ache between her legs intensifying until it was almost unbearable. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until it escaped her in a shaky exhale.

“Natasha?” you pressed, trying to keep your voice steady despite the panic bubbling inside you. “Talk to me, baby. What happened?”

Another shaky breath, then her voice, “I... I need you.”

Natasha pressed her thighs together, but it did nothing to ease the pulsing in her core. She clenched the phone tightly, her voice dropping into a whisper. She didn’t care about pride anymore. She didn’t care about anything except the fact that she needed you.

Your heart skipped a beat, your stomach twisting with concern. You had heard Natasha vulnerable before, but this? This was different. She sounded desperate, almost like she was on the verge of tears, and it made your chest tighten.

“Nat, are you hurt? Where are you?” you asked, your voice soft but insistent. “I’ll be there as fast as I can, just tell me what happened. I can finish up the mission tomorrow if you need–”

“No, I’m not—” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m not hurt, I just... I can’t...”

You felt a wave of confusion wash over you. She wasn’t hurt, but something was clearly wrong. You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, your mind racing, trying to piece together what she was trying to say. She wasn’t making sense.

“Nat, you’re scaring me. What do you mean? Can’t what?”

There was another long pause on her end, the sound of her breathing heavy and uneven, like she was struggling to get the words out. And then it hit you—a soft, strangled noise that wasn’t a sob, but... something else.

Realisation flickered in the back of your mind, and suddenly the pieces began to fall into place.

“Natasha,” you said slowly, your tone shifting, softening. “What’s going on, baby?”

“I... I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “It hurts.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the concern from moments before slowly melting into something else, something warmer, something more. The tension in her voice, the way she struggled to say the words—it wasn’t pain. Not the kind you’d feared. It was something else entirely.

But she still wasn’t saying it. Not exactly. And as much as you wanted to rush to her side, to help her through whatever it was she needed, part of you couldn’t help but play along. You could almost picture her on the other end of the line, flushed, embarrassed, trying to find the right words but too shy to admit what she really wanted.

“Natty,” you murmured, letting a teasing lilt slip into your voice. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound... off.”

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered, but her breath hitched, and the lie was as clear as day.

“You don’t sound fine. You sound like you’re upset. Or... something.”

“I’m not upset,” she blurted out quickly, the words rushing out in a desperate attempt to save face. There was another pause, and then, quieter, almost like she didn’t want to admit it. “I just... I miss you.”

You let the silence hang between you for a moment, pretending not to understand her meaning. She was trying so hard to make you understand without saying the words. And as much as you wanted to be there for her, to give her what she needed, you weren’t going to make it easy for her.

“Miss me, huh?” you teased lightly, playing dumb. “Well, I miss you too. But you sound like you’ve been crying. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“No, I’m not crying!” she snapped, more frustrated with herself than with you. “I just... I—” She broke off, the words catching in her throat as she tried to gather her thoughts, tried to figure out how to make you understand.

“Natasha,” you said softly, your tone firm but gentle. “Tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”

“I can’t—fuck, I can’t say it,” she groaned, her voice dropping to a whisper. She sounded so defeated, so completely undone by her own need, and it made your chest tighten. You could practically feel her squirming on the other end of the line, trying to hold it together, but barely hanging on.

You bit back a smile, leaning against the wall as your voice dropped lower, more teasing. “You can’t say what, Natty? Come on, baby, use your words.”

There was a long pause, and you could hear her breathing pick up again, more shallow this time. You could practically feel the tension through the phone, the way she was struggling with herself, so desperate to ask for what she needed but too embarrassed to say it.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she finally admitted, her voice shaky, desperate. “I—fuck, I need you so bad. It’s... it’s been like this all day. It hurts.”

The vulnerability in her voice made your heart ache. But still, she was avoiding the words, the real admission. And you wanted to hear it. You wanted her to say it, to surrender completely to the need she was so clearly drowning in.

“I’m here, Nat. I’m listening,” you said gently, your tone coaxing. “But you need to tell me what’s really going on. I’m not a mind reader, baby.”

She let out a frustrated noise, somewhere between a whine and a groan, and you could almost picture her clenching her fists, trying to find the courage to say the words.

“I’m... I’m so wet, okay?” she blurted out, her voice shaking. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s so bad, i’m so hard, I can’t—” She cut herself off again, her breath hitching. “I need you to tell me what to do. It hurts, Mommy. It really fucking hurts.””

Her admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, and she could almost hear your heart quicken on the other end of the line. There was a long silence, and Natasha thought she might burst from the anticipation, her skin burning under the weight of it.

Your heart had skipped a beat at her words, the raw honesty in her admission making your chest tighten. But still, you couldn’t help but tease her a little more. 

She had made you worry, after all.

“You’re wet?” you asked, your voice dropping lower, teasing. “Is that it? That’s why you called me?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper now. “Please, I can’t—fuck, I need you to tell me what to do. Please.”

You took a breath, letting her words hang in the air, savouring the way she had finally given in. And then, in a low, soothing tone, you said:

“Take off your clothes for me, Natty. Slowly. Let me hear you.”

There was a moment of silence after you told her to undress, and you could hear the hitch in her breath, the soft gasp as your words sunk in. Natasha’s mind was racing, her body trembling with a mix of need and nervousness, but more than anything, she wanted to be good for you. She wanted to please you, to do exactly what you told her.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “I’ll do it. I’ll... I’ll be good.”

Her words sent a thrill through you, but you kept your tone steady, soothing, teasing her just enough to push her deeper into that space where all she could think about was you.

“Good girl,” you murmured, and you heard a soft whimper in response. Natasha’s breathing picked up, her body already reacting to the praise, her mind slipping into that sweet haze where she craved more of it—needed more of it. “Take your time, baby. Slowly. I want to hear everything.”

There was a rustle of fabric on the other end of the line, the sound of Natasha obeying, of her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her pants, her breathing shallow and uneven. She moved slowly, like you asked, and you could almost picture her—her flushed cheeks, her trembling hands, her cock throbbing painfully as she stripped for you.

“Tell me what you’re doing, Nat,” you coaxed softly, letting your voice drip with sweetness. “I want to know how you look right now. Tell me everything.”

“I... I took off my pants,” she whispered, her voice shaky with both arousal and embarrassment. “I’m just in my... my shirt.”

“Good job, Любимая моя [Lyubimaya moya, my darling]. What else?”

Her breath hitched, and there was another pause, like she was hesitating, but the need to hear your praise drove her forward.

“I—I’m taking it off. My shirt.” There was a soft rustle, followed by the quiet sound of her breath, the vulnerability in her voice sending a rush of heat through you.

“Good. You’re doing so well for me, Natty.” The words were like honey, soft and coaxing, and you could hear her shiver in response.

“Tell me how you feel, baby.”

“I... I feel so... hot,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “I’m... I’m dripping, fuck... I need you so bad, Mommy.”

The admission slipped out before she could stop it, her voice shaking as she tried to keep herself together. But your praise was unravelling her, making her mind foggy, making her want to give in completely.

“Oh, sweet girl... you need me that bad, huh?” you teased, your voice soft but commanding. “Can you feel how wet you are?”

“Yes,” she whimpered again, her voice barely above a whisper. “I—I’m so wet. It’s all over my thighs. I—I can’t stop... I don’t know what to do.”

The helplessness in her voice made your chest tighten, but in a way that sent a surge of heat through you. Natasha was always so composed, so in control, but right now? She was unravelling, falling apart under the weight of her own need, and it was because of you. And you could hear how much she needed your approval, your guidance—how much she wanted to hear you say that she was being good for you.

“Touch yourself for me, Natty,” you said, your voice dropping into something firmer, but still gentle enough to coax her forward. “You’re doing so well already, baby. Just let Mommy hear you.”

There was a soft gasp, and you could practically feel her hesitation, her trembling hand hovering over herself, uncertain. You waited, your breath steady, listening as she slowly obeyed, her fingers brushing against her cock with a soft, desperate moan.

“Fuck,” she whimpered, the sound raw and needy. “I—I can’t... it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

You smiled at the frustration in her voice, the way she was already slipping into that headspace where all she could think about was you. You leaned back against the wall, your own arousal building at the thought of her coming undone, of her needing you this badly.

“I know, baby,” you murmured, your tone soft but firm. “But you’re doing so well for me. Keep touching yourself, just like that. You’re so good, Natty. Mommy’s good girl.”

The praise hit her like a wave, and she moaned, louder this time, her breath hitching as she stroked herself, her hand moving slowly, trembling with the need for more. But she didn’t want to go too fast. She didn’t want to disappoint you.

“I can’t—fuck, I’m so close already,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Please, I—I can’t come yet, I need you.”

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, the warmth in your voice making her whimper. “You’re doing so well. But I think you can wait a little longer for me, don’t you? I can’t make you come yet, can I?”

Her breath caught in her throat, her body shivering at your words, at the way you teased her so sweetly. She wanted to come, needed to come, but she didn’t want to disobey you. She wanted to be good for you.

“Я знаю [Ya znayu, I know],” she whimpered, her voice soft, almost pleading. “I won’t. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” you praised again, and she shuddered, her body trembling as she tried to hold herself together, tried to keep from spilling over the edge. Her mind was yours now, clouded by the need for release, but your words—your praise—kept her tethered, kept her from giving in.

“Does it feel good, Nat?” you asked, your voice smooth and coaxing. “Do you like being Mommy’s good girl? Letting me hear you fall apart?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice thick with arousal. “Yes, please... please tell me more. I need... I need you.”

Her desperation made your heart swell, and you let the teasing lilt in your voice drop lower, more commanding, more intimate.

“You’re doing so well for Mommy, baby. I love hearing you like this. So desperate, so needy... you’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she moaned, her body arching, trembling with the effort to hold back. “I’m... I’m your good girl. Please... I don’t know if I can...”

“You can,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm, coaxing her back from the edge. “You’re so strong, baby. You can wait for me. You want to be perfect for me, don’t you?”

“I do,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “I—I want to be good for you. I’ll wait, I promise.”

The praise, the control, the way you spoke to her—it was driving her mad. Her mind was slipping further into that haze, the only thing keeping her grounded was the sound of your voice, the warmth of your words. She wanted to make you proud, wanted to hear you tell her she was good. She needed it.

“You’re so good, Natty,” you cooed, your voice dripping with praise. “So perfect for me. I want you to keep touching yourself, but don’t come. You have to wait for Mommy to be back.”

She moaned again, her hand trembling as she continued to stroke herself, her body shaking with the effort to hold back. She was so close, the heat in her belly coiling tighter, but she wanted to be good. She wanted to wait for your permission.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Please, I—fuck, I really don’t know if I can...”

“You can, baby,” you murmured, your voice soft but commanding. “You’re doing so well. I know it hurts, but I want you to hold on just a little longer. For me, for Mommy.”

Natasha whimpered, her body trembling with the effort to stay in control, but your words were like a lifeline, keeping her grounded, keeping her focused. She wanted to make you proud, wanted to be your good girl.

“I’m so close,” she whimpered, her voice shaking. “Please... please, can I...?”

You smiled, hearing the desperation in her voice, knowing she was teetering right on the edge. 

“Not yet, baby,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing. “You need to wait for Mommy.”

The streets of Budapest were eerily quiet, save for the soft rhythm of your boots on the pavement. You were slipping through the shadows like a ghost, your focus razor-sharp despite the chaos you’d just escaped. Yes, the mission has been rough—rougher than you’d like to admit—but the adrenaline in your veins was now blending with something else, something far more potent.

Natasha was falling apart on the other end of the line, her breath shaky, thick with desperation. The sound of her voice—strained, needy—made you quicken your pace, eager to get somewhere private, somewhere you could finally give her your undivided attention. The safehouse was just a few blocks away now, nestled in a quiet corner of the city, secluded enough for what you had in mind.

“Please,” Natasha whimpered, her voice trembling. You could hear the slick sound of her hand stroking herself, painfully slow, just as you’d ordered. She was holding back, her body strung so tightly with need it was almost unbearable. “I need it, please… I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it anymore.”

You smiled to yourself, weaving through the darkened alleyway. You could practically see her in your mind—Natasha, laid bare on her bed, her face flushed, her chest heaving, her cock swollen and leaking as she desperately tried to obey you. She was so close, right on the edge, but she was yours. And you weren’t going to let her have it.

“Natasha,” you murmured, your voice low, teasing. “You sound so desperate, baby. Is it really that bad? Are you really that needy for me?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her breath hitching. Her hand faltered, her muscles tightening as she tried to hold back. “Yes, I—I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you. I—fuck, please, I need to come. Please.”

You hummed, letting her hear the amusement in your voice. “But, Natty… you want to be my good girl, right?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Yes, I’ll be good, I promise, just please—”

“But you’re not being good, baby,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, commanding. “You’re being a slut, aren’t you? Look at you, touching yourself. You keep begging Mommy to come like that. That’s not what my good girl would do, is it? Mommy’s good girl would listen after the first time, am i right?”

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat, a soft, broken whine slipping from her lips. “N-no… yes, I want to be your good girl, I—”

“But you’re not,” you said, your tone dripping with condescension. “You’re being a slut right now. You can’t even control yourself, can you?”

A choked sob escaped her, her hand trembling as she tried to keep going, her body shaking with the effort to hold back. The degradation stung, but the praise was still there, woven through your words, and it only made her need you more. She wanted to be good, to be your best girl, but the way you were talking to her—so condescending, so cruel—it was driving her wild.

“I—I’m sorry,” she gasped, her voice thick with desperation. “I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I promise. Please, I don’t want to be your slut, I want to be your—”

“My princess?” you finished for her, your voice softening just a fraction, laced with sweet, saccharine praise. “You want to be my good girl, my best girl, right? Not my needy little slut?”

“Yes,” she cried out, her voice barely holding together. “Yes, I want to be your princess, I want to be your good girl, I—fuck, please, I’ll do anything, just make me come.”

You grinned, stepping into the small, darkened safehouse. The lock clicked behind you, the space around you dim and secluded. You’d finally made it, alone, safe for now.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, your voice softening as you heard her soft, broken sobs through the phone. “I know you want to be my good girl. But right now? You’re acting like such a desperate whore for me. You don’t even deserve to come, do you?”

Natasha let out a choked whine, her entire body shaking as she balanced on the edge of control. Her hand was trembling, dripping with pre-cum as she tried to keep herself from going over the edge, but it was torture—pure, sweet torture. She needed you. Needed you to tell her she was good, to let her have that release, but you were holding it just out of reach, dangling it in front of her like a cruel tease.

“Please,” she whimpered again, her voice cracking. “Please, I’m—I’m trying so hard to be good. I’ll be good, I promise. I can’t… fuck, I can’t take it anymore.”

You sighed softly, walking into the office in the safehouse, your legs spread as you leaned back, relaxing into the chair by the desk. “Natasha, you’re such a mess right now,” you murmured, your voice low, soothing, but with that familiar edge of command. “But I know you can take it. You’ve been so strong for me, haven’t you? Holding back for so long…”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her voice raw with need. “Yes, I’ve been waiting, I’ve been so good for you, please—”

“So be my good girl, princess,” you murmured, your voice softening as Natasha let out another soft, broken sob. “You’re doing so well, baby. I know it hurts, but you’re being so good for me.”

You could hear her breath hitch, hear the way she was barely holding on. She was so close to breaking, so close to losing herself completely, and it was all for you.

The sound of her ragged breathing, the way her voice shook with every word, sent a surge of heat through you. Natasha was hanging by a thread, teetering between pleasure and desperation, and you could feel the weight of her need through the phone. You knew she was doing everything she could to be good for you, to wait, but she was unravelling faster than even she realised.

“Tell me what it feels like,” you demanded softly, your voice firm but sweet, pushing her further into her own torment. You could imagine the way her hand must be moving now, slower than she wanted, the way her hips twitched involuntarily as she edged herself at your command. “Describe it to Mommy, Natty.”

“It—” she choked out, her voice faltering. “It feels like I’m going to break, Mommy. It’s… fuck, my hand, I—my cock hurts, I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

Her voice was soaked with frustration, and you bit your lip, letting out a soft, pleased hum. You could hear her trying so hard to be obedient, to control herself despite the overwhelming need coursing through her, and it only made your smirk grow.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” you teased, a sadistic edge creeping into your voice. “Your cock’s aching so bad right now, huh? I bet it’s leaking all over you, isn’t it, baby? Tell me how bad you need to come.”

“It’s—oh, god,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “It’s leaking so much, I can feel it all over my stomach. I’m throbbing, I’m so fucking close—fuck—I can’t take it, please make me come, I can’t do it, I need you, please Mommy–.”

You could practically see it—Natasha, spread out, her cock flushed red and swollen, slick with pre-cum that smeared across her trembling abdomen. Her eyes would be squeezed shut, biting down on her lip to keep herself from crying out, her right hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into her palm as she fought to hold on.

Your grip on her was total, and the realisation sent a wave of satisfaction coursing through you. Natasha Romanoff—deadly, lethal Natasha—reduced to a trembling, desperate mess by just the sound of your voice. You could feel her helplessness, her submission, and it thrilled you to no end.

“Good girl,” you purred, your voice soft and encouraging. “But you’re not going to come yet. You’re going to hold on, Natty. Hold on just a little longer for me. You want to make me proud, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, her voice raw and strained. “Yes, I want to make you proud. Please, Mommy, I’ll do anything, just—”

“Go faster.”

You felt the excitement thrumming through your veins as you pressed Natasha further, enjoying the control you held over her. “Go faster, Natty baby,” you instructed, your voice low and teasing. “I want to hear how badly you want me to make you come. Let me hear you.”

A soft whimper escaped her, and you could almost hear her heart racing. “I can’t… I can’t go faster. I’m so close, I’ll…” she stammered, her voice thick with desperation.

“Stop whining, baby. You can do this for me,” you replied, relishing in her struggle. “I know you want to make Mommy proud, you can make me proud. Just a little faster. I want to hear you begging, to feel that need spilling from you.”

With that, you could hear her hand moving more frantically now, the slick sound of her strokes filling the silence between your breaths. “Oh god, Mommy,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “I need to… I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Not yet,” you said firmly, a wicked grin forming on your lips. “You need to hold it. Your orgasm is mine to control, Natty. You’re too much of a dumb slut, too much of a beautiful princess to be able to decide for yourself, okay?”

The sound of her breath hitched, a soft sob escaping her as the heat of your words washed over her. “Please,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “I’m trying… but it hurts.”

“Good. It should,” you replied, savouring the pleasure of her torment. “You’ve been so good for me, waiting all this time. I want you to suffer a little longer. Just keep going. You can do it, Natty.”

“Please,” she whimpered again, voice trembling with need. “I’ll do anything, just please make me come.”

Your tone softened, just slightly, “But you’re going to stop. I want you to get the fleshlight.”

There was a pause on the other end, and you could practically hear her heart racing. “Mommy, I—”

“Natalia,” you interrupted, the command in your voice unmistakable. “You’ll get it, or I’ll hang up right now. I mean it.”

The sound of her breath caught, and you could hear her scrambling, rushing to get her toy. “Okay, okay! I’m getting it!” There was a flurry of movement, and you could hear her panting, urgency lacing her every sound.

You chuckled softly, the thrill of her obedience sending a rush through you. “That’s my good girl. I like hearing you move for me.”

Moments later, you heard the unmistakable sound of the fleshlight being picked up. “I have it,” she gasped, her voice strained, and you felt a wave of satisfaction wash over you.

“Now, I want you to use it. Let me hear how bad you want this, Natty, how bad you want your toy to be Mommy.”

You could hear her hesitation, a soft tremble in her breath as she wrestled with her desire and the embarrassment of using the toy you’d given her. But you weren’t going to let her hesitate for long. “I said, use it. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With a breathless whimper, she complied, the sound of the fleshlight enveloping her cock mixing with her desperate gasps. “Oh god, it feels so good Mommy,” she moaned, her voice thick with pleasure, yet still straining to maintain control

“I want you to feel every second of this. You’re going to edge yourself, baby. You’ll love it.”

With a whimper, she complied, the sound of the fleshlight gliding along her cock blending with her ragged breaths. “Oh god, Mommy, it feels so good,” she moaned, voice thick with pleasure and frustration. “I’m so close, I can’t hold back. Please, don’t make me stop.”

“You know you’re going to stop, Natty,” you replied softly, your voice a mix of honey and steel. “You’re too beautiful, too precious to be allowed to come just yet. You’ve been such a good girl for me, waiting all this time. Hold on. I need you to wait for me a little longer. I want you to remember this, every moment.”

The sound of her whimpering filled the air, the ache of her need palpable through the phone. “Mommy, please,” she sobbed, the emotion raw in her voice. “I’ll do anything—just let me come.”

“Tomorrow,” you said suddenly, a wicked grin spreading across your face. “I’ll finish the mission tomorrow. But for now? You’re going to edge yourself again and then put your toy away. Do you understand?”

“Yes! I understand!” she cried, the desperation spilling from her as she fought against the need clawing at her insides. “But Mommy, you just told me to use—”

“Stop talking, Natasha,” you ordered, your voice firm but tinged with a softness that only you could offer. “I want you to feel everything. I want you to ache for me. You’re mine to control. Just breathe and remember Mommy holds your pleasure in her hands.”

As the tension in Natasha's voice grew, you felt a rush of power coursing through you. “Natasha, put the fleshlight away,” you commanded, each word dripping with authority.

You heard her whine, the sound both obedient and pained. “Mommy, please! I can’t, I just want to—”

“Do it, now,” you pressed, your tone leaving no room for argument. “I want you to put it aside and bind your hands together. You’re not touching yourself anymore. I’ll take care of you when I get back, but right now, you need to obey Mommy, sweet girl.”

With a shuddering breath, she complied, the sound of the fleshlight being set aside echoing in your ears like sweet music. You could almost picture her trembling hands, slick with anticipation and frustration, as she moved to find something to bind herself with.

“Such a good girl,” you murmured, pride swelling within you as you heard the rustling sound of fabric or some material being looped together. “I want you to bind your hands tightly, so you can’t reach for anything. No distractions. Just you and your dirty thoughts until I return.”

“Okay, okay…” she whimpered, the strain evident in her voice as she obeyed. You could hear the soft sound of the material twisting around her wrists, the way she wrapped it securely, trapping herself in a state of helplessness.

“Now, lie on your back,” you instructed, your heart racing at the thought of her vulnerability, the image of her sprawled out, completely at your mercy flooding your mind.

“I’m— I’m lying back,” she gasped, her voice shaky as she followed your command. “Mommy, please…”

“Shh, just relax. You’ll be okay. I want you to breathe, to feel every ache in your body, every ounce of need that courses through you,” you soothed, the intensity of your voice wrapping around her like a warm embrace. “I’ll be back when you wake up, Natty, and I’ll take care of everything. Until then, just let yourself feel. You’re so beautiful when you’re like this.”

Mommy…” she breathed, the sound almost reverent, full of emotion and need.

“Yes, baby?” you prompted softly, sensing the weight of her vulnerability in the frequencies.

“Promise you’ll be back?” she asked, her voice laced with longing.

“I promise,” you replied, your heart swelling with a mix of affection and desire. “Now close your eyes and sleep a bit. I will be back tomorrow to take care of my perfect girl.”

As she lay back, bound and waiting, a rush of vulnerability washed over Natasha. She was utterly yours, her body tingling with need, every sensation heightened as she surrendered to the moment.

Her heart raced as she felt her shaft pressed against her stomach, still hard and aching, leaking pre-cum that smeared over her skin. The fleshlight lay next to her on the bed, abandoned, a reminder of the torment she had endured. Her left hand dripped with her own essence, a tantalising testament to her desperation.

She was yours, completely under your control, even continents away. And you were hers, no matter what.

With that thought, you let the connection linger in the silence, savouring the anticipation of what was to come. Natasha was utterly yours, and the game was far from over.

The urgency coursing through you now had little to do with the objective, and everything to do with the aching desire Natasha had ignited in you. You were ready to be done with it—tonight.

You quickly mapped out an aggressive approach, planning to cut through the final obstacles with swift precision. There was no time for calling Fury or Maria for backup or a Quinjet. That would only delay things. Instead, you booked the first available flight from Norway to the U.S., ready to handle it yourself, eager to get back to her.

As you confirmed the flight, a smirk crept across your lips. Natasha would wake up in a few hours, still tied, still aching for release. But she wouldn’t have to wait much longer. You’d be there soon enough to take care of everything—and her.

[p0orbaby]

In the Wake of a Hurricane

summary: your hormones are driving you both increasingly insane

warnings: pregnancy stuff, suggestive ish, leah being a saint

a/n: request

word count: 1.6k

-

Leah has started to develop this twitch in her right eye. It comes and goes, like her patience. It’s not a permanent fixture, yet, but you suspect if she survives the next few weeks without needing a psychiatric evaluation, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

You're sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket that could double as a small tent. Leah’s across the room, keeping her distance. She’s reading, or pretending to read, one of those pregnancy books that’s the size of a dictionary but probably less useful. It’s full of terms like Braxton Hicks and perineal massage, which you’re pretty sure are just euphemisms for you’re going to suffer, and there’s no escape.

You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes, silently stewing. She hasn’t noticed yet, which only makes you more annoyed.

“Leah,” you finally snap, like it’s her fault you’ve suddenly decided she’s the most irritating person on the planet.

She looks up, all innocent blue eyes and confused frown. “Yeah?”

“Why are you all the way over there?” you demand, even though five minutes ago, you’d told her to stop hovering because she was “being clingy.”

She hesitates, like she’s weighing her options. You can practically see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out which answer will result in the least amount of yelling.

“You said you needed space,” she says carefully, like she’s explaining to a particularly volatile bomb why it shouldn’t go off.

“That was ages ago,” you huff, even though it was more like twenty minutes. “Now I want to be held”

She blinks, clearly surprised by the sudden shift. But she’s up and moving toward you before you can throw a fit about how slow she’s being. When she finally sits down next to you, you immediately nestle into her side, nuzzling your head into the crook of her neck. You sigh dramatically, like you’ve just found the meaning of life in her collarbone.

Leah relaxes, thinking she’s successfully navigated another hormonal minefield. Poor thing. She’s so blissfully unaware of what’s coming next.

Her arm wraps around you, and you’re content for all of thirty seconds before something in you flips, like a switch being flicked by a very cruel god. Suddenly, the feel of her skin against yours is unbearable. It’s like you’re being hugged by a furnace. You’re about three seconds away from ripping off all your clothes and throwing them out the window, which is probably not the most rational response, but hey, pregnancy.

“Ugh, get off,” you groan, pushing her away like she’s made of cactus.

Leah pulls back immediately, her eyes wide with confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Too hot,” you mutter, flapping your hand at her like a cat that’s just had a bath. “Go away”

She hesitates, her hands hovering in the air like she doesn’t know what to do with them. You’d feel bad if you weren’t so irritated by the fact that she exists in the same room as you.

Leah stands up, clearly unsure of what the hell just happened. You’re in a huff, staring daggers at the TV because it’s easier than admitting that you’re not actually mad at her—you’re mad at your body, which seems to have its own agenda these days.

“I’ll, uh, go check on the washing,” Leah mutters, retreating to the relative safety of the utility room. You watch her go with a blend of annoyance and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

When she’s gone, you sit there for a moment, glaring at the blanket like it’s personally offended you. Then, like a switch flipping back the other way, you realise you miss her.

A lot.

You want her back. Right now.

“Leah!” you call, your voice bouncing off the walls.

She pokes her head back into the room, looking like a cautious meerkat. “Yeah?”

“Come back,” you say, trying to sound casual, like you didn’t just shove her away like she was a sweaty footballer who’d lost a match.

She walks back in, taking tentative steps like she’s entering the lion’s den. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you snap, though you’re really not. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

Leah looks at you, then at the sofa, probably trying to figure out the safest place to sit. You feel a pang of guilt because, honestly, you’re being a bit of a nightmare. But it’s not your fault. It’s the hormones. Or maybe it’s the baby. Yeah, let’s blame the baby.

She sits down next to you, but this time she doesn’t immediately try to touch you. Smart move.

You stare at her, trying to decide what you want. It’s a simple question, but lately, it feels like every answer is wrapped in layers of confusing emotions and unpredictable desires. Do you want to be touched, or do you want to punch something? Or maybe both?

“Can you, um... maybe... rub my back?” you ask, trying to sound as innocent as possible, which isn’t easy considering you’ve just done a complete 180 in the span of three minutes.

Leah stares at you for a second, clearly wondering if this is a trap. But then she nods and starts rubbing your back, gently, like she’s afraid of setting you off again. You sigh, melting into the touch, the irritation quickly replaced by something much warmer.

“That’s nice,” you murmur, your mood lifting almost instantly. Leah’s hands are magic, soothing the tension in your muscles. You close your eyes, practically purring under her touch. It’s heaven.

But, of course, your body has other plans. As soon as you start to relax, your brain—helped by the wonderful cocktail of pregnancy hormones—decides to take a sharp left turn into horny territory. Because why not?

Suddenly, Leah’s hands on your back feel less like a comforting gesture and more like a teaser for the latest blockbuster. Your skin tingles, your mind goes from zero to sixty, and now you’re wondering why she’s still rubbing your back when there are other, much more interesting places she could be touching.

You shift, turning to face her, eyes heavy-lidded and lips curving into a mischievous smile. Leah’s still rubbing your back, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve mentally jumped from cuddly to carnal.

“Hey,” you say, your voice dropping into a lower register. Leah freezes, her hand stilling as she catches the change in your tone.

“What’s up?” she asks, clearly unsure whether she should be worried or excited.

“You’re really good at that,” you purr, leaning closer, letting your hand trail up her thigh. Leah swallows hard, her eyes flickering with confusion and interest.

“I, uh, thanks?” she says, her voice cracking just a little.

You smirk, enjoying the way she’s trying to keep up with the sudden shift in your mood. “You know what else would feel really good?”

Leah stares at you like a deer caught in the headlights of your hormones. “What?”

“Kissing me,” you say simply, giving her your best come-hither look. It’s not your finest work, but considering the circumstances, you think it’s pretty damn effective.

Leah blinks, clearly trying to process the fact that you’ve gone from not wanting to be touched to wanting to be thoroughly touched in about sixty seconds flat. But bless her, she’s a fast learner.

She leans in, pressing her lips to yours, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You’re lost in the kiss, your frustration melting away as your hormones do their job, flooding your system with endorphins.

But then, because the universe has a wicked sense of humor, something feels... wrong. The heat that was so welcome a second ago suddenly feels overwhelming. The tingling sensation turns irritating, and now you’re acutely aware of the fact that your skin is too tight, your clothes are too constricting, and you’re not sure if you want to keep kissing Leah or throw her out of the window.

You pull back, your mood crashing faster than a toddler on a sugar high. Leah looks at you, concern etched into her features, her lips still tingling from the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, like she’s bracing for impact.

You huff, frustrated with yourself more than anything. “I don’t know. I just—” You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Everything feels weird!”

Leah looks at you, trying to figure out the best course of action. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No!” you snap, then immediately soften. “Maybe? I don’t know”

She stares at you for a moment, then does something that surprises you: she laughs. Not a mocking laugh, but a warm, affectionate chuckle that’s so disarming it actually makes you smile, despite everything.

“What’s so funny?” you grumble, even though you’re starting to feel the corners of your mouth twitch upward.

“You,” she says, shaking her head, her smile only growing. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

You want to argue, but instead, you just sigh. “I know. I’m a mess”

“Yeah, but you’re my mess,” Leah says, pulling you back into a hug. This time, it feels just right, like maybe, just maybe, the storm of hormones has passed for now.

You lean into her, letting the comfort of her embrace wash over you. “Thanks for putting up with me”

“Always,” she replies, kissing the top of your head. “Even if you do change your mind every five minutes”

“Every three,” you correct, snuggling deeper into her side.

Leah laughs again, the sound vibrating through you and chasing away the last remnants of your irritation. You know you’ll probably be back to snapping at her in another hour, but for now, you’re content.

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

to many more | s.r. x liaison!fem reader

“what’s your favorite book?”

spencer looked away from his open files to turn in his chair to see you standing behind him, a couple of manila folders held close to your baby blue long sleeve dress shirt. he had to keep his eyes from dropping lower to get a glance at the curves that hugged to your black pants.

he coughed as he blinked a few times behind his glasses, “uh, well there’s- there’s too many to choose from. if you’re asking about general literature i’d probably say-“

you held a hand out with a shaky smile, “sorry. don’t mean to interrupt. but um, i’m asking if there’s a book or story that’s very meaningful full for you.”

spencer straightened his mouth, feeling it form into that usual line. he let his mind scour for a moment, “uh maybe… alice in wonderland. my mom used to read it as a bed time story from time to time in between narnia and fifteenth century literature. she used to read me valentines poems.”

he saw your brows raise for a moment, “that’s sweet. which did she recite the most?” you readjusted the files.

spencer tapped his fingers over his thighs, “mostly chaucer’s parlement of foules. The poem, which is in the form of a dream vision in rhyme royal stanza, contains one of the earliest references to the idea that St. Valentine's Day is a special day for lovers…” he stopped short when he saw a bored expression draping your face. “sorry, rambling.”

your eyes widen and you took a step closer, “no, no. you’re fine. your voice soothes me, probably looked a bit drowsy.”

spencer scrunched his face, “most people would look tired cause i’m boring them to sleep.” he saw your face fall at his words, he didn’t like the sight.

“well i like hearing your information. i find what you know quite fascinating, like last week you told me that flamingos feathers are actually white or pale gray, but appear pink cause of algae and shrimp. i would’ve never know that.” your smile pushed your cheeks, pupils beaming alight as he felt them ghostly tracing his face.

bashful your eyes directed to your feet, “i enjoyed our date last week.” moving some fingers to run behind your ear, “i’ve always wanted to visit the planetarium, but never found the time.”

spencer smiled fondly, “i’m glad i was able to get you the chance. sometimes they do thirty minute segments on each zodiac sign, it’s when i see a lot of ‘psychics’.”

you chuckled lightly, spencer’s grin widened. “i should take you to one for fun. just to test how real they are.”

he couldn’t help rolling his eyes, “don’t waste your money.” you shrugged simply, “could be a fun third date. she can verify that we’re a match.” giving your upper body a slight twisting at the waist.

before spencer could say anything in reply, you both turned to see hotch calling you from his upper office. “shit, forgot i had to drop these off. i’ll see you later.” and you stepped into his space to lean in an leave a kiss to his forehead. he could feel the residue of your fading gloss. he was happy there wasn’t many people in the bullpen, he didn’t want to deal with morgan’s teasing right now.

the only possible person to have witnessed that display would be hotch. “reid, a word,” his stern voice causing him to flinch in his seat. he quickly made his way up the steps and into the office, closing the door behind him and standing beside you with his hands behind his back. he wasn’t planning to have this conversation a month early.

“is there something you both would like to inform me on?” hotch letting either of you confirm your new relationship instead of assuming.

“uh,” you started to say before spencer interrupted more confidently, “y/n and i are currently seeing each other. it’s only been about two months.” he turned to you, eyes locking and both of you smiled at each other, “but i’d like to believe this will last awhile.”

“well,” hotch cleared his throat, “since you’ve probably read through the handbook spencer, there isn’t anything wrong with fraternization between employees. i would just need both of you to fill out some paperwork.”

you both nodded in agreement. “and please, try not to let this distract you in the field. otherwise you’ll have to be in separate rooms, hotel and assignments.”

“yes sir,” giving a playful salute as he dismissed you both. you decided to pull spencer by his hand in the direction of your, shared office, already knowing jj was busy elsewhere.

“i hope that was-“ you spun into spencer, palms on his cheeks as your lips pressed onto his. he went still for a moment, but you knew he just needed a second to process. his fingers curled along your hips, his warmth seeping through your fabric and onto your skin.

you sighed into his mouth as he worked your lips apart, taking the lead he moved both of you further into the office. your thighs hit the edge, a small gasping allowing for spencer to boldly slip his tongue into your mouth, your heart was pumping in your ears.

if you weren’t in the office you’d let your greedy fingers start to work at unbuttoning his shirt, but instead you were stopped short when someone groaned out, “holy shit!”

spencer was the first to jump away and you saw that penelope and jj were at the threshold with jaws dropped and bugged eyes. “you freaky love birds!” penelope screeched.

“i need to burn this room,” jj groaned as she turned on her heels.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours. 

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out. 

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity. 

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish. 

He paces around the room. 

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday. 

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming. 

To him, this could change everything with you. 

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you. 

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours. 

.

.

.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he'd woken up earlier completely fine. 

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice. 

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.  

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them. 

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength. 

So when a cluster of clouds passes by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with. 

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down. 

You only ever get like this sparring against him. 

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you. 

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to. 

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you. 

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out. 

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute? 

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred. 

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Sneaky,” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?” 

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?” 

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling. 

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding. 

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway. 

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you. 

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs. 

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right. 

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…” 

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies. 

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him. 

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze. 

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it. 

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric. 

You reach for him. 

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly. 

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear. 

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do. 

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds. 

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally. 

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too. 

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief. 

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely. 

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it. 

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room. 

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all. 

“Just like old times,” he nudges you. 

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out. 

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it. 

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it. 

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking. 

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on. 

It was never supposed to be important to him. 

Until you. 

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach. 

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random. 

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference. 

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him. 

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you. 

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it. 

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were. 

.

.

.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight. 

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon. 

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty. 

He misses you. 

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.” 

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub. 

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe. 

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels. 

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left. 

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you. 

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even. 

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes. 

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates. 

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to. 

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you.)

1:20 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute. 

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling. 

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear. 

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot. 

“‘Nside,” you slur. 

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already. 

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen. 

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.” 

Another ache. 

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit. 

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is. 

“Just miss you.” 

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable. 

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.” 

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one. 

“I can go there now, if you want,” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.���

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment. 

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility. 

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space. 

But right now, it feels so empty. 

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches. 

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint. 

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?” 

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover. 

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over. 

You giggle again. 

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’” 

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him). 

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite? 

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight. 

“Sweet-talker.” 

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids. 

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing. 

“I do,” you whisper, admission ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.” 

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips. 

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious. 

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening). 

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru,” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool. 

“Listening.” 

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully. 

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way. 

How can you even think that? 

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him. 

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear. 

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.” 

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating. 

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?” 

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids. 

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool. 

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s 'my dog ate my homework's. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday trip to Disneyland on a weekday. 

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try). 

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home. 

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now. 

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now,” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants. 

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence. 

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you. 

“Satoru,” you call him softly. 

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is. 

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling. 

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you. 

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable. 

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too. 

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows. 

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time). 

“I love you,” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone. 

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to. 

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version. 

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.  

.

.

.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?” 

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology. 

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night. 

“You’ll get a stomach ache,” you whisper, with emphasis. 

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out. 

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.” 

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you. 

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this. 

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you. 

. 

Or not. 

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened. 

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else. 

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything). 

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed. 

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it. 

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes. 

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain). 

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s kind of the point, baby,” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.” 

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines. 

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being. 

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable. 

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out of your bedroom, checking in.  

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him. 

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him. 

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him. 

Who is he to say no?  

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down. 

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside. 

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.” 

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,” 

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.” 

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising. 

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed. 

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer. 

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin. 

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.” 

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases, tickle your eyes. 

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight. 

“You’re too good to me.” 

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it. 

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.” 

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami. 

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you. 

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach. 

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you. 

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.” 

You shoot him a look, then pout. 

“Satoru.” 

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already). 

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—” 

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.” 

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek. 

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. 

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely. 

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you. 

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do. 

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?” 

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little. 

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go. 

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.” 

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter. 

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—” 

He gets kicked in the thigh. 

.

.

.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way. 

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way). 

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking. 

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all. 

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps. 

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin. 

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one. 

He has to get this right. 

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other. 

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes. 

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to. 

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt. 

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies. 

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later. 

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter. 

“Megumi!” 

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?” 

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.” 

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove. 

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!” 

Megumi stares. 

“Anniversaries are emergencies,” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.” 

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be. 

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.” 

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears. 

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you. 

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair. 

.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup. 

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that). 

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all. 

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove. 

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers. 

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs. 

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question. Innocent. 

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).   

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.” 

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it. 

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him. 

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating. 

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds. 

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?” 

“Or bland,” Megumi adds, smacking his lips. 

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan. 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.” 

“I don’t,” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up. 

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it. 

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after. 

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay. 

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside. 

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction. 

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking. 

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it. 

“They don’t go together,” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks. 

All his hard work? Shattered. 

Gojo is dumbfounded. 

It’s too late to change everything now. 

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout? 

“But they’re not bad,” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.  

. 

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready. 

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely. 

All he told you was to wear something nice. 

And, by god you did. 

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now. 

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing. 

He reaches for you. 

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight. 

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?” 

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.” 

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss. 

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then,” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk. 

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating. 

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating. 

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?” 

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly? 

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him? 

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing. 

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying. 

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently. 

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously. 

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.” 

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine,” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him. 

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes. 

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t. 

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru,” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates. 

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you. 

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space. 

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly. 

He holds your gaze.  

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.” 

You say it again—how you call him that so casually. 

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life? 

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress. 

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves. 

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier. 

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say. 

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. 

You nip on his upper lip, playful but light, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck. 

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat. 

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie. 

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing. 

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt. 

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.” 

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

.

.

.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription. 

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately. 

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day. 

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep. 

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing. 

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom. 

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away). 

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink. 

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you. 

As long as it’s with you. 

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel. 

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.” 

.

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are. 

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else. 

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now. 

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.” 

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling. 

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom. 

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes). 

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his. 

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm. 

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this. 

You just… did. 

Because that’s you. 

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances. 

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully. 

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed. 

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time. 

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm. 

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory. 

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing. 

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it. 

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying. 

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer. 

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities. 

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you. 

.

.

.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you. 

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick. 

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes. 

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it. 

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale. 

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves. 

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room. 

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say. 

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17. 

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?” 

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter. 

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.” 

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch. 

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say. 

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you. 

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too. 

He practiced this, damn it. 

Why can’t he remember a single thing? 

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you. 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’ 

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.” 

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?” 

His heart is pounding. 

“I stay over at yours too much.” 

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add. 

“I think we need more space.” 

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now. 

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—” 

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?” 

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach. 

It’s not like that at all. 

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now. 

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands. 

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.” 

He blinks. 

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you. 

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it. 

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.” 

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper. 

“You ran yourself dry because of me.” 

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty. 

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility. 

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.” 

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more. 

Do you still think he wants to do this without you? 

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he tells you firmly, surely. 

You blink. 

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?” 

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…” 

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning. 

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts. 

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means. 

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—” 

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely. 

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[cyberslvts]

PHONE | w. maximoff

summary: You call your wife and decided to show her just how much you miss her

warnings: 18+ MDNI phone sex, guided masterbation, fingering, only thing on my wishlist this year is nasty phone sex with wanda

word count: 3k

It had been about five days since your wife left for her business trip, and to say you missed her was an understatement.

The house held a heavy silence as you settled into bed for the night, pulling the comforters up to your waist, feeling a subtle emptiness creep up when you looked at the empty bed space next to you. Prompting restless tossing and turning until you ended up facing your nightstand, the soft glow of your digital clock highlighted a jumble of trinkets: a small bowl cradling Wanda's extensive collection of rings, and a few pairs of earrings, a forgotten mug of now-cold tea, a petite bottle of hand cream, and a book precariously hanging off the edge

Your eyes continued to run along the smooth wood until they landed on a framed photo of you and Wanda, Captured during last year's anniversary celebration, Wanda had taken you into the city your faces slightly pushed together, painted with toothy grins as you both bundled up in thick winter coats leaning into each other for warmth.

Your heart swelled as you looked at the photo. Wanda's bright grin and sparkling eyes, filled with so much love, only made the ache you felt for her at that moment worse. She truly was the best partner you could ever ask for, always so attentive and devoted to you, making you feel like the most important person in the world, and in her eyes you were.

She was so sweet to you, calling and texting you whenever she got the chance, in between meetings or as she was leaving the hotel. Always eager and enthusiastic just to hear your voice on the rare occasions your timings synced up. Given the distance, Wanda was behind by two hours, leaving your calls awkward to match up, always missing each other by a few minutes. When Wanda was just waking up you were stepping into the office, and when she was leaving work you were already asleep.

You supposed she was eating dinner right now, probably with her co-workers or indulging in takeout from the Italian place she had previously mentioned. You felt silly, missing her this much when she had only been gone for a few days.

As you continued to look at the photograph you felt something blossom inside you, shifting slightly, your foot began to run up and down the side of your leg as your thumb swiped over her face in the picture. It felt like it had been an eternity since she last touched you, which you knew wasn't true as she had made sure to give you an extra memorable morning before she left for her flight, fucking you into oblivion before giving your limp body a sweet kiss goodbye.

You returned the photograph to the nightstand and rolled over in the bed until you were pressed against Wanda's pillow, you shamelessly dug your nose into the fabric, the scent of her shampoo and perfume invaded your senses and made you feel like she was right there with you. Your body temperature increased and your clothes started to feel a little too tight around your body.

Before you could rile yourself up anymore, your phone lit up the room with a loud ring. You smiled when you saw Wanda's contact name appear on the screen,

“Hi honey” your tone comes out huskier than you expected, you hear the sound of a door shutting from the other side of the call,

“Hi sweetheart, I didn't wake you did I?” Wanda attentively asks, feeling an immediate warmth as your voice reaches across the distance.

“No, not at all” You answer, readjusting yourself so your back is propped up against your headboard “Did you just get back?”

“Yeah, we got out early today,” She tucks the phone between her neck and shoulders, and you can hear the sounds of ruffling clothes, as both her hands are occupied with unbuttoning her suit jacket.

You bite your lip, imagining Wanda coming home in her work clothes. her hair messy from the walk home, the collar of her white shirt undone, looking so sexily disheveled. You sat up straighter in your bed, not wanting to get too carried away.

As the minutes passed you fell into your usual routine, exchanging the details of your day, from the mundane to the extraordinary, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Wanda listened attentively, her genuine interest was evident in the thoughtful questions she posed and the occasional chuckle at your natural charm. In turn, you hung on every word as she recounted her workday. The familiar cadence of her voice brought comfort, making it feel as if she were right there in bed with you.

Eventually, she tossed her jacket over the back of her chair, flopping down onto the bed in exhaustion, letting out a breathy sigh that you didn't miss.

“You sound tired, are you sleeping okay?” you questioned, whilst massaging the divit of your palm against the top of your thighs, trying to dry the sweat that had formed.

“No,” she huffed out, rolling onto her back, and placing one hand over her stomach. “The bed is terrible, the sheets are so scratchy and the mattress is too hard, I'd much rather be back in our bed, with you.”

Her unfiltered honesty made you giggle and you smiled, knowing that Wanda had a tendency to not receive a good night's sleep if it wasn't spent wrapped up against your side.

“I wish you were here too, I miss you.”

"I miss you too," she replied honestly, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, picturing you doing the same. Your back is flat against the mattress, hair sprawled out along the pillows, your shirt slightly riding up your torso, exposing your skin. Her thoughts began to slip, and it was becoming harder to focus on the conversation. The sultry tone of your voice played in her mind, and she couldn't help but imagine the sensation of her fingertips tracing patterns on your skin.

“Yeah?” you purred, your voice smoothe against Wanda's ears. She didn't fail to recognize the familiar switch in your tone, and she felt a rush of excitement start to fill her.

“Yes baby, so much, I hate being away from you.” She rasped out, closing her eyes when she heard your breathing start to pick up. The atmosphere between you two shifted, becoming heavier and more intimate.

“What do you miss about me?” You pressed, wanting her to fall into the same lusted haze you were trapped in.

“Everything” She immediately responded, as if she had been waiting all week to answer this question. Wanda's fingers absentmindedly traced circles on the edge of the bedsheet as she continued, “I miss touching you, and feeling you against me, I can't stop thinking about it”

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, her imagination running wild with the vivid memories of you together.

“Tell me more” you bit your lip, pressing and rubbing your thighs together in anticipation. Your head felt fuzzy, and your arousal swelled, a throbbing pulse resonating from your core, working yourself up so much you felt as if you were going to explode, You weren't sure if it was because you haven't seen your wife in almost a week, the distance amplifying your neediness for her. Regardless, every word exchanged over the phone was igniting a spark in you that needed to be taken care of.

Wanda's voice dipped even lower, as she happily obliged to your request “I keep thinking about that morning before I left, how loud you were and how pretty you sounded”

“My strap couldn't even stay inside you, it kept slipping out because your pussy was so wet” she teased you, already knowing your cheeks were flushing a vibrant red in embarrassment. She ran a hand down her stomach, her skin felt ablaze, a heat coursing through her that made every inch of her body tingle. She slowly unbuttoned her dress shirt, the cloth splitting apart and falling down the opposite sides of her torso, until only a black bra remained covering her upper half. Her hand fell down her breasts, lightly squeezing them and letting out a moan right into your ear.

You sighed, listening to her husky voice, the vibrations from the phone tickling your jaw. You felt a familiar wetness start to pool and you sunk lower into the bed until you were flat against the sheets. Wanda hears you rustling around the bed and presses the phone harder into her ear.

“Fuck baby, I miss you so much” You let a moan escape your lips, your hands slipping under the blankets to begin stroking yourself over your underwear. “I've made myself cum twice since you left, just thinking about you”

A throaty moan escaped her lips involuntarily, immediately painting a vivid picture of you in her head. You, alone in your bed, your hand buried between your legs, moaning her name. The sound echoed in her ears, remembering nights when she made you sound just like that. Your voice, now a seductive whisper, only fueled her daydream, making her cheeks flush as she felt a wave of desire wash over her.

“God, you're really turning me on right now” You heard the metal clicks of Wanda fumbling with her belt, with an alarming speed, she shed the rest of her clothes throwing them across the room so they were out of her way. She pushes herself farther up the bed and slides under the covers, her hand immediately finding her wetness, where she starts rubbing gentle circles to her clit.

Your hand slides under your panties, running a finger through your pussy and spreading it all over your folds and clit. The whine that reverberates inside your bedroom encourages wanda to do the same. “What are you wearing right now?”

You don't even open your eyes, which were squeezed shut, already knowing exactly what you had on “Just my underwear. the red ones”

Her grip on the phone tightened and she let out a string of curses, she knew exactly what you were talking about. The pressure she has on her bud gets harder imagining you in her favorite pair of panties, how pretty and fuckable she knew you looked right now, and how she couldn't do anything about it.

You slowly push a finger into your slippery walls, and an immediate sense of disappointment washes over you. A frustrated whine escapes your lips as you miss the expertise of your wife's fingers, vivid memories playing in your mind of how Wanda's touch could make you scream and cum within minutes.

"I need you so bad, Wanda," you confess, the desperation evident in your voice. Tightening your hold on the phone, as if it were your only lifeline to her. "It doesn't feel as good when I do it.".

Wanda's heart beats faster, hearing your desperate little whines, trying to find any hint of pleasure to relieve the ache she wasn't there to take care of. Wanda promised her self as soon as she arrived home she would fuck you so good, long and hard, taking you in every position possible, just what you deserved for being her good, patient wife.

"I know, baby," she purrs, her words weaving a tapestry of lust. "Just close your eyes and imagine my touch, my fingers doing all the work." Wanda's explicit instructions and encouragement make you throb, and you start to squirm against the bed eagerly awaiting her next command.

"Go slow, baby," Wanda instructs, her voice a sultry whisper through the phone. "Add another finger and curl it, just like how I do it." You let out a low moan, attempting to replicate her movements. Though it's not quite the same, it's undeniably better than before. Sliding in another finger, you leave it there for a moment, feeling your walls squeeze and flutter around it.

Gently curling your fingers, flashes of Wanda flood your thoughts. Pushing them deeper, you can almost feel her presence, as if she's right there with you, guiding your every move. In your mind, Wanda is on top of you, deep inside your pussy, praising you as a good girl. The image is so clear you start to feel twirls of pleasure forming in your stomach.

“That's right, honey, just like that” Wanda's voice is shaky, listening to you wholeheartedly follow her commands.You were so obedient, her precious girl. “Now, arch your back”

You do exactly as she says, the tip of your head falls back against your pillow and your ass digs itself into the mattress. Your pleasure immediately deepens and you start to move your fingers faster,

Wanda mirrors her instructions, pumping two fingers in and out of herself, letting out deep groans right into the phone. As she listens to you on the other end, pleasure-laden sounds and breathy moans fill the air. She can hear your pussy making the dirtiest sounds, loudly squelching everytime you jut your fingers in. She wishes she were there to witness it in person. Frustration builds as she hears the most beautiful sounds escaping your lips, and the fact that she can't do a single thing about it heightens the tension.

"I can hear you, how wet you are," she moans out, beginning to lose herself in the pleasure. "Is that all for me?

“Yes, all for you,” you breathlessly respond, your hips bucking up to match the rhythm of your fingers, desperately chasing your high. “you're making me feel so good”

The once-pristinely ironed sheets are now a tangled, wrinkled mess as Wanda's whole body squirms and writhes against the bed. She uses her thumb to rub at her clit, her mouth falling open at the sensation. Her eyes lock shut, entirely focused on creating vivid mental images of you that bring her closer and closer to the edge.

She felt her pussy tighten around her fingers, thinking about all the times she had made you cum, your adorable face scrunching up into an expression exclusively reserved for her played vividly in her mind. The memory of your eyebrows sewing together, your thighs wrapping around her, and your desperate attempts to cling to any part of her body for comfort lingered in her thoughts. On those particularly heated nights, she would work you up to a point where deep red lines would be etched into the skin of her back. stinging and aching so deliciously the next day.

When she tells you to go faster, you feel your orgasm rapidly build and the room starts to feel hazy. Thick with heat and the sounds of your and wanda's moans. You pump your fingers faster, and you can see them glistening with your juices everytime they pull out, just to be greedily plunged back in.

"Fuck, say my name,” she commanded, her final plea as she felt her self getting so close, needing to hear you scream her name while you both came on your fingers

You meet her request immediately, "Louder," she insists, and you obediently start repeating her name over and over again, getting whiner everytime. Your head was emptied of all thoughts other than Wanda as your fingers repeatedly hit that spot inside you.

“Wanda, oh god wanda”

Your voice started getting higher and louder. Wanda could tell you were about to cum, she started fucking herself harder wanting to be right there with you when you fell apart. She felt the phone start to fall out of her grip and just before she was about to fall over the edge she switched on the speaker button and let the phone fall out of her hand and next to the side of her head.

“Is my messy girl gonna cum? just from my voice.”

You parted your lips to respond but your mouth fell open wider when your orgasm suddenly ripped through you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as her name spilled off your lips in sharp moans and gasps. Your hips bucked up and down trying to prolong the sensation for as long as possible

Hearing all of this, Wanda fell into her orgasm with a matching intensity. Her thighs shook around her hand and she tossed her head to the side. One hand gripped the pillow to her face, muffling the loud moan of your name. Trying her best to keep quiet since the hotel walls were known for being thin.

Your breathing slowed, feeling your orgasm begin to subside, your back fell limp against the bed listening to wanda do the same.

“Well, that was certainly different” Wandas voice returned, although much deeper and huskier as she struggled to catch her breath, You could practically hear her smile as she relaxed into her post orgasmic bliss

“In a good or bad way” you questioned, sitting up on one elbow and throwing your frazzled hair over your shoulder.

“A good way, a very good way,” she assured, letting out a satisfied sigh. Her eyes grew heavy, and you could hear the rustling of the bed as she began pulling the comforters up past her shoulders, tucking herself in. She let out murmurs, whispering about how much she loved you and that she would be home soon.

You smiled knowing how tired she gets after sex, part of you dimming with the realization that you weren't there to hold her to sleep. Yet, you reassured yourself—she would be back home with you by the end of the week, just as she promised

Opting to stay on the call tonight, you recharged your phone and placed it on top of your pillow, close enough to hear Wanda's tired breathing, a comforting sound that soothed you to sleep. Just before you fell asleep, her voice broke the silence.

“Let's Facetime instead tomorrow”

[weixuldo]

A Champion's Game

timeskip!ushijima x f!reader

Wakatoshi claims a win for Japan in the 2021 Olympics and you are able to witness his greatness on and off the court (established relationship)

word count: 6274

cw: fem!reader, fingering, Oral (m&f receiving), unprotected sex, cursing, P in V, they're v horny, minors dni

A/N: to my regulars who r here for vader and ani content- im sorry- something possessed me to write this after seeing one too many volleyball ads on the Tokyo subway tvs haha- will get back to ani stat (next fic is alr in the drafts hehe)

______________________________________

A deafening slam rang through the Olympic stadium as one of Japan’s monster generation players dealt the final (and winning) blow. 

The crowds were silent for a moment, taking in all that had happened- painstakingly long, intense rallies for God knows how long. Both the Argentinian and Japanese teams scored unbelievable points with both teams using their versatile and skilled players in just the right way. 

The match was stressful and every player was wearing down by the end but in the last moments one player unexpectedly stepped up. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi- a man of few words and even fewer mistakes- was the one that ended the match with one of his famous spikes. 

The arena bursted into a thunderous applause as Ushijima’s feet landed back onto the court below him. 

His chest heaved in exhaustion and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead- once he realized he secured an Olympic win for his team he threw his left fist into the air and yelled out in celebration as his teammates swarmed him in excitement. But his olive eyes darted toward the crowd in search for the very reason he was able to muster up the energy to score. 

You. 

You were sitting pretty close to the court as you were sitting with the families and special guests of the other players. Originally you weren’t going to make it to watch Ushijima at any of his Olympic matches- your job didn’t really allow for long periods of leave and earlier in the year you had taken time off to visit relatives. 

So a few months back when Wakatoahi told you the match schedule, you sadly shook your head and told him you wouldn’t be able to make it. Of course he was a little upset but he understood that your career was as important to you as volleyball was to him. 

He did well not to show you how much it upset him, but after dating the guy for years, you could tell he was down. And rightfully so- you wanted to be there for one of the most important matches of your boyfriend’s career. 

So for the weeks leading up to the Olympics, you had sneakily been networking a way to be able to come- every night after Wakatoshi would fall asleep, you’d slip out of bed to make phone calls, send emails, and work overtime on some projects that needed to be done. 

You weren’t even sure if all of the extra work would pay off to allow you to go, but you did it nonetheless- at least it gave you a chance. 

It wasn’t until a whole week after you dropped Toshi off at the Airport with a deep kiss that you got the glorious email from your boss allowing you your time off. 

You sped home and hopped onto your computer to book a flight; since there was so much air traffic due to the iconic sporting event there weren’t many tickets left, but you found one for the next day…

His last game.

The flight would get in right as the game started and after you factored in going through customs and getting a taxi there- it put you a little over the halfway mark; you reminded yourself that it was better to get there late then to not show up at all. 

The whole flight you prayed that you wouldn’t be too late so once the plane docked you were sprinting to customs and ordering an Uber in line. 

It had been a long 24 hours to say the least, but at least you made it. 

And oh was it worth it. 

Once you got to the stadium you had a little bit of trouble getting to the VIP/ Athlete reserved space but thankfully Iwaizumi was walking by and let you in. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here” the spiky haired man chuckled as he gave you a quick hug. 

“Ushiwaka has really been pouting about you not being able to come for weeks”

You blushed as you thought of your big strong boyfriend brooding in the corner at practices while everyone else raved about the upcoming games.  

“Yea, I’m honestly surprised, myself. I really didn’t think my boss was gonna let up” you admitted as Iwazumi walked you to the reserved section. 

“Well the match is pretty tight- but either way Wakatoshi will be thrilled to see you” he said before heading back to the coaches. 

The section was filled with other players’ significant others, families, and even a few of the older ones’ kids. 

You quickly recognized Bokuto’s sisters as they excitedly motioned you over to sit with them- the Bokuto’s were always so inviting.  

The three of you caught up briefly before the game entered its final moments- you excused yourself and walked straight up to the barrier between your section and the court so you could watch more intently. 

On the court, Ushijima felt his body wearing out- sure he was used to long matches but the stress and exhaustion of this match created was finally catching up to him. It wasn’t until he saw his excitable teammate look to the stands to wave at his sisters that he also spared a glance. 

There was no reason for him to look at the section since he had no one to look for, but he thought seeing some familiar faces might give him more motivation. 

He felt his heart skip a beat once his tired eyes landed on an all too familiar figure. No one would have known how excited he was because of his usual stoicism but once he demanded the next balls be sent to him his teammates all began to realize. 

Bokuto was the first to notice your arrival because you were sitting with his sisters but once Hinata realized the reason for Ushiwaka’s reinvigorated spirit, he loudly let the rest of the team know that they needed to toss Ushijima the balls. It was no secret to his team that your boyfriend was enamored with you and would become even more focused when you were around. 

Especially now, Wakatoshi was determined to win the match and show you just how hard he had been working recently, so he did just what he said he would. 

He won the game. 

And that’s where you were now, waiting in the stands with your hands over your heart as you watched your victor celebrate with his team before closing the game with the traditional respects to their competition. 

As soon as he could break away from the team he was running towards the stands with a wide smile on his usually stoic face. You waited in electric anticipation as he crossed the court for you- his taught muscles pulling, his hair bouncing, his tight jersey… he looked so damn good. 

Once he reached the barrier you leaned down and reached out to him. Breathlessly, he kissed the back of your hand and held it to his face, making your heart flutter. 

 “My Love”, his deep voice rang; raspy from hours of shouting. 

“You came.”

If you weren’t his lover, you would have missed the slight glaze of his olive eyes, a sheen of emotion only you could evoke. 

“I couldn’t miss it, Toshi” you smiled, making his heart race. 

____________________

Ushijima had never rushed off a court so quickly; he almost seemed to teleport to the showers right after the match. 

The media might have tried to dig up dramatic romance stories with Ushijima as the main star but there was no doubt that the silent opposite hitter was enraptured by you. 

No media outlet could replicate the amount of love that spilled from the photos of your reunion outside the locker room. 

He exited the lockers with the others, but immediately made a bee-line for you, pulling you into a warm embrace. Before you could even congratulate him, the brown-haired man had scooped you up into his strong arms and slotted his lips against yours. 

You gasped against him but gave in nonetheless; the adrenaline must have really been pumping through his veins because he had never been so forward in public. Once he finally broke the passion fueled kiss, he kept a strong hand on the back of your head as he rested his forehead against yours. 

He smelled of his timbery body wash and natural musk that you inhaled greedily, his olive eyes still shining brightly as you placed gentle hands on the sides of his face. You had never seen him so happy. 

“You did so well, baby- I’m so proud of you” you smiled as you pressed another kiss to his curved lips. 

He was just about to respond when he was cut short by an exaggerated wolf whistle from Atsumu Miya. Usually Ushijima would grumble out of annoyance when his eccentric teammates would begin their teasing, but he genuinely couldn’t care less today.

He gently placed you back onto your feet and returned to his normal stoic expression once his teammates approached; he readied himself for a bit of small talk with a large hand still snaked around your waist. 

“Hey hey hey, You must be pretty damn proud of your wonder boy, huh?” Bokuto smiled from behind the blonde man. 

“I definitely am, but I can’t say I’m surprised, '' you said before smiling up at him; Ushijima’s eyes had returned to their usual indifferent state, but softened ever so slightly when he looked down at you. 

“He’s been practicing really hard”.

Ushijima did smile at that. 

“But all of you guys did really well, I can tell that you’ve been working on your jumps, Hinata-san, your accuracy has improved a lot since the last match I saw you in Miya-san. Oh! And Bokuto-san- You always have so much power behind your spikes!” you smiled as the small group of guys in front of you basked in your compliments (especially Bokuto). 

Hinata blushed at your compliments while Atsumu thanked you; Bokuto on the other hand was getting a little too excited- asking you about his performance and how it compared to others. His enthusiasm didn’t bother you since you had known Koutaro for years but the silent man behind you was becoming a bit peeved. 

Wakatoshi wouldn’t consider himself a jealous individual, but when his teammates were in front of you basically basking in your sweet words (words that he wanted for himself) he was becoming impatient. In the midst of this conversation he realized that he didn’t even know how long you’d be able to stay since your work was so stingy- then he really wanted to go. 

He wanted to celebrate this victory with you, savor your company, make love to you. Basically anything but still be here. 

Ushijima was about to excuse the two of you when the other teammates came out of the lockers and friends, family and press came from the other side. Soon he was separated from you and flooded with congratulations and compliments from not only his teammates and their families but also people he didn’t even know began shoving microphones and cameras in his face. In the midst of his excitement and adrenaline, he completely forgot about the post game panel he was definitely going to be asked to be on. He clenched his jaw and calculated how quickly he would be able to get it over with. 

You didn’t mind waiting for him, after all this was his big day and he deserved all of the recognition he got, but you did know that he wasn’t the biggest fan of all of the fanfare. Once he was rushed into the after-game panel (which you also forgot about), you waited on the sidelines with the other teammates to watch. 

“So Ushijima, we saw you wearing down about ¾ of the way into the match but then at the very end you seemed to perk right up, hitting point after point! What reinvigorated you that late into the game?” a tall reporter with tortoise shell glasses asked. 

The cameras were on Ushijima again; he sat up straight and nodded before pulling the mic closer; soon, his deep voice rang through the speaker system. 

“Someone very important to me showed up unexpectedly.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his blunt response; the media always tried to get headline interviews with him but he really just wasn’t much of a talker. 

“Any elaboration?” the interviewer almost begged. 

Ushijima thought for a moment before shaking his head, “None. That is what happened”.

Defeated, the interviewer moved on to the next reporter’s question. 

Once the panel concluded, Wakatoshi really just wanted to find you and go to his hotel but when he exited the room he was met with a lobby full of people eager to converse. He was running out of energy (energy he wanted to save for you).

Ushijima sighed when he finally spotted you across the room talking to Bokuto and his black haired friend from highschool… What was his name again? 

Nevermind. He needed to be alone with you. 

As he approached the three of you he finally heard your sweet voice. 

“Ahhh I’ve heard great things about that shonen! How do you like-”

Your eyes widened when you felt the familiar sensation of your boyfriend’s strong arm pulling you close to his chest. 

“Toshi! There you are!” you squealed, squeezing his forearm. 

“I was just asking Bokuto-san if he had seen you when Akaashi showed up! You remember Akaashi-san right? He was the setter for our highschool’s volleyball team when we were all at Fukurodani!” you smiled. 

Oh, yes- Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto’s boyfriend. 

Ushijima gave the other silent man a curt nod, “Hope life has been treating you well, Akaashi.” 

“It has, I see you have been doing well too. Congratulations by the way- you really are amazing on the court” Akaashi said before the other volleyball player began to pout. 

“Babe, you still think I’m just as amazing right?” Bokuto whined. Akaashi playfully rolled his eyes before turning to the buff man beside him. 

You watched the pair for a moment before you felt Ushijima tighten his grip around your waist- you knew his social battery was running out and that he was getting overstimulated. You turned towards him to see his pupils begin to dilate at your sudden attention. 

You brushed his cheek with your soft palm before pressing a tender kiss to his chest, “I know baby, we’ll leave right after this”. 

Ushijima hummed in response, he loved how well you could read him. He spent most of his life being misunderstood and making matters worse when he tried to explain; but it was just like a whole different world when it came to you. 

You exaggeratedly looked down at your watch before announcing that you didn’t know how late it had gotten. You bid the couple farewell before your boyfriend trailed you towards the private exit. 

He took your black backpack from you and slung it over his shoulder and held your purse with his free hand; he was always so thoughtful. 

Ushijima scanned the area to make sure there would be no more unwanted attention to disturb you and him; once he concluded you were in the clear he bent down to press a kiss to your temple as he gently held your head closer to his lips. 

“I’ve missed you so much, My love” he sighed into your soft floral-scented hair. 

“Where’s your suitcase?” Ushijima stopped to ask before exiting the facility.

“I just have my backpack and purse” you shyly smiled hoping your routine oriented boyfriend wouldn’t scold you for forgetting the necessities. 

But much to your surprise he just nodded, “No problem, I’ll take you shopping later”.

God, sometimes you forgot your boyfriend was a world famous athlete (with a world famous salary). 

Once you reached his private car, he tossed your bag in the back before opening the car door for you. His warm hand rested itself on your thigh once he was situated next to you in the black leather seat. The driver paid no heed to you and Wakatoshi as he kept his trained eyes on the busy street in front of him. 

With the hotel so close in reach, Wakatoshi felt his excitement (and something else) growing once more- now that he was away from the crowds and with you. 

Ushijima hadn’t even imagined how after the game would go if you were here because he was so sure you’d miss it. He supposed that he would just go back to his room, call you and then go to sleep, but now that you were here, he had no plan at all. 

All he knew was that your thighs were tensing with every brush of his hand and your nicely manicured nails were subtly clawing at his bicep. He hesitated before looking towards you because he knew exactly what expression was on your pretty little face and he didn’t know if he had enough self control left to hold himself back. 

Like the answer to a prayer the driver pulled into the circle of the hotel the athletes were staying in- Ushijima thanked the man and helped you out of the car before discreetly tucking his growing length into his waistband. 

You barely had time to marvel at the fancy hotel before your eager boyfriend was ushering you into the elegant elevator. He pressed the 11th floor and took his place by your side; of course he was eager, but he still had the decency to not go too wild with the risk of being caught. 

He snaked an arm around your waist and gave your ass a tight squeeze as he exhaled shakily. The elevator dinged and soon you were at your floor- Ushijima basically carried you to the room, key card ready to open the heavy wooden door. Once inside he shut the door and turned to you with open arms; you knew what he wanted and gladly complied. 

You jumped into his arms and wrapped your legs around his waist as he ran his desperate hands up and down your body. He hungrily kissed you while you raked your fingers through his hair. 

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Toshi” you breathed into his kiss making him weak in the knees. 

Wakatoshi took a moment to admire your flushed face and all at once he felt his high returning to him. His team just won their final Olympic match. He scored the last winning points. You were there and witnessed the whole thing. 

You were here.

He just won an Olympic match. 

Nothing could bring him down right now. 

He was brought out of his hazy thoughts once you began grinding your hips against his. He drew his brows together and groaned as you drug your manicured nails across his broad shoulders.

Soon he had you caged under his expansive figure; lying on the plush comforter of the large king bed, you relished the overwhelming heat radiating off of your boyfriend’s large frame.  

Ushijima felt every muscle in his tired body begin to tense as your burning touch traveled the expanse of his sculpted body. 

“Missed you so much” he panted into the side of your neck between greedy kisses and bites. 

His light brown hair was soft between your fingers as you lightly tugged the loose strands. He moved his attention to your clothed breasts as he pawed at the soft mounds through your tight shirt. 

“I can see that” you giggled as you lightly caressed the underside of his thick cock through his sweats. 

“But respectfully, Toshi- I think I missed you more” you said with a slight smirk as you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him down onto you so that his bulge was flush against your pulsing core. 

His eyes shut and he breathed out a small “shit…” as your skilled fingers worked to undo his bottoms. As soon as the tie was undone he was quick to shove the pants down. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you clearly saw his thick long cock straining against the stretchy fabric of his boxer briefs. God how was Wakatoshi even real? 

Before you could finish drooling over the sight of his massive bulge, he had your bottoms off too. You had worn a matching set because you knew that no matter which way the game went, you’d still be seeing your lover today. Funny thing was that the match was so early that it was barely noon and you were already getting to it. 

Wakatoshi sat back on his haunches and just admired the sight before him. The large man’s chest heaved as he watched the damp spot on your panties begin to widen with every passing moment. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he looked concerned, but you knew he was just taking everything in.

“Baby…” you cooed as you slowly sat up to meet his eyes. 

He quickly snapped out of his daze and tightly grabbed your hips; he kneaded at the flesh slowly but sensually, slightly running his callused hands up your waist. You couldn’t help but moan as one of his long fingers ran under the waistband of your panties, just to pull it back so it snapped you harshly. 

You yelped and squeezed your thighs closer together making Wakatoshi groan. 

“Take your top off.” your stoic boyfriend demanded in his usual flat tone, as if he were asking you to pass the TV remote. 

You bit your lip at the sound of his deep voice and quickly discarded the top. Your plump breasts were now on display for him to enjoy, though they were still being cradled by your fancy bra. A bra that was part of a special set Toshi bought you for your most recent anniversary- you really knew just how to drive him crazy. 

He leaned back down so that he was hovering above you as he slowly began to suck the exposed region of your left tit. You breathed his name so naturally as he skillfully unclasped and removed the tiny garment.

“No fair~ I wanna see you too” you fake pouted as you tugged on the bottom of his shirt, to which he responded with a grunt of acknowledgement. 

Soon he was pulling off his tight white shirt in a swift motion over his head, before tossing it into the growing pile of discarded clothes. You were quick to run your nails down his tight chest with a glint of mischief in your eyes, “much better”. 

Wakatoshi dawned a rare smirk and shook his head, “you’re such a needy girl, aren't you”. 

With an innocent smile you nodded your head and batted your pretty lashes, “Jus’ want you Toshi”. 

He exhaled through his nose and eagerly attached his lips to the soft skin down the column of your throat making you gasp. 

“Baby- don’t bite too hard, what if we have to go out later” you exclaimed, thinking about how the team might want to celebrate their victory later. 

Your boyfriend mumbled something into your neck before moving down to your breasts, he licked the sensitive buds before sloppily taking a tit into his mouth and palming the other with his strong left hand. 

His attention had you squirming under his hold, arching your back unintentionally. Wakatoshi could read your signals like no other, so he took the opportunity to snake his free hand around your waist and pull your hips closer to his throbbing dick. He was slick with pre already but didn’t want to give into his urges just yet; he needed to pleasure you first. 

Soon his kisses moved southward; eventually he had your panties in between his pearly teeth and he slid them down your smooth legs. You groaned as the cool hotel air hit your core and your hand immediately grasped Wakatoshi’s bicep. 

Wakatoshi felt an unbelievable wave of lust take him over as soon as he laid eyes on your pretty pussy. His dick twitched and he gave an experimental lick to your dripping core; he held an iron grip on your thighs as he shoved his whole face into you. 

You moaned at the feeling of his straight nose bumping against your sensitive bud and skilled mouth lapping up your juices.

Wakatoshi’s arousal pooled in his stomach as he slid his tongue between your folds collecting your essence. He devoured you as if he were a man starved; grinding his hips into the mattress below him every once in a while to release some of his building tension. 

Ushijima was a simple man with simple pleasures and nothing- nothing-in the world made him happier than pleasuring you. It was pornographic the way he buried himself into your dripping core, grunting against you everytime you squeezed your thighs around his head. 

“Mmph- T-Toshi, feels soo good” you moaned as you squeezed your eyes shut and tugged at his hair. 

Your praise earned you a deep groan from your boyfriend who swiftly inserted two digits into your slick hole in hopes of more blissful reactions. His cock throbbed as you swiveled your hips so that his fingers reached deeper into you. 

“Gonna- gonna cum baby- Toshi aahh” you squealed as you came around your boyfriend's thick fingers. 

Wakatoshi moaned as he happily lapped up your juices and clamped your thighs in his iron grip. Your body shivered with the echoes of your orgasm and before you could catch your breath you felt the warm lips of your boyfriend slotting against yours. 

“You taste amazing, My Love” your hulking boyfriend groaned against your lips. 

You clawed at his broad back before he rose to his knees to take in the view of your flushed face and marked body under him.

yYour lust returned all at once when you laid eyes on his painfully hard cock; it was so heavy that it was struggling to stand up, thick veins bulging with every subtle movement, dark tip and angry red just dribbling with pre-cum. 

You salivated as you observed the twitch of his large, circular balls each time you raked a nail down his meaty thigh. You needed to please him- you eagerly sat up and took a seat on your knees, face to face with his angry cock. 

Ushijima wasn’t naive, he knew what that position entailed, but he couldn’t help but lightly tease you, “What're you doing, Honey?” his low voice grumbled. 

“Just giving my Olympic victor a proper reward- is that alright with you?” you shyly smiled, batting your lashes at the man towering above you. 

Wakatoshi was at a loss for words as you kitten licked his sensitive tip before pressing a trail of burning kisses along his shaft, and finally lightly suckling his aching balls. Without warning, you returned to the main event and swallowed him down in one swift gulp. 

A guttural moan ripped its way from your boyfriend's throat as he balled his fists. 

Wakatoshi felt lightheaded as he took in the sight before him; the love of his life sitting on her knees before him, praising him for his victory- sweet lips usually reserved for tender kisses, making a mess of his throbbing cock. 

You had been with Wakatoshi long enough to know just how to rile him up; there was one vein in particular that ran up the bottom of his shaft to wrap around the left side that always throbbed the hardest. Initially you lightly followed it with the tip of your tongue to get his breath to hitch. 

“Baby~” he exhaled in a low groan as you gently squeezed his sensitive balls with your dominant hand. 

The vibrations of your moans and whimpers on his cock shot straight up his spine making him lurch forward and grip the mahogany headboard of the hotel bed. His wrists shook as he leaned over your back and bowed his head, getting a perfect view of your arched back as you continued swallowing his length greedily. 

He groaned with a low rumble at the sight; placing a large hand over his face and slowly dragging it down until it only covered his mouth. God- the image of you on your knees for him was enough to make him cum right then and there. 

But no. He needed to hold it a little longer.  

The enticing globes of your ass jiggled as your thighs clenched together in anticipation; so how could Wakatoshi not land a hard smack on your ass?

You whined on his dick and felt his tip strike the back of your throat suddenly, making you gag a little. Ushijima couldn't help the smirk that landed itself onto his flushed face. He settled his left hand tightly around the base of your throat as you pulled yourself off of his pulsing cock with a loud pop. 

Before you could realize what he was doing, Wakatoshi pulled you into a deep and messy kiss- not many men would want to taste themselves on your lips, but Ushijima always thought that was trivial. He loved you and all you did and had been doing was for him- why would he not kiss you? 

As he pulled you closer, you reached back in between his thighs to grip his meaty cock to continue your previous agenda.

“Feels so good~” the low timbre of his voice shot straight to your core as he praised you against your lips. 

“Mhmm, does it Toshi?”

He nodded before tensing and gently shoving you onto your back against the stack of pillows at the head of the bed. You landed lightly with surprise at the sudden movement; what was that for?

Your questions were answered as you observed your boyfriend sit back onto his heels with a pained and concentrated expression. His breaths were shaky and shallow as he fought the urge to cum; he gripped the sheets for a few seconds before slowly releasing the cloth once the feeling subsided. 

You giggled at his state- “What’s goin on baby?” you teased. 

“Need to be in you. Now.” he stated with a demanding tone as his olive eyes shot open- pupils almost completely dilated.

Instead of verbally answering you pounced onto him and wrapped your arms around his neck as you slotted your tongue against his, panting with each brush for his strong hands. 

“Shit babe- Let me go get a condom” Wakatoshi groaned as you began to pump his cock again. 

He gently released his grasp on you and started for his bag when you called out a pathetic “wait”. 

He immediately turned to you, brow slightly raised; “What is it my Love?”.

“D’ya wanna do it raw?” you shyly asked, plating with the rings on your manicured fingers. 

Ushijima thought he must have been dreaming, “Pardon?”.

“Do you want to fuck me raw, Wakatoshi” you stated with much more confidence, as you caressed your breasts for his viewing pleasure. 

Your words went straight to his dick because a thick gush of pre came dribbling out of his sensitive slit. Something in him snapped and he succumbed to his animalistic desires; before you knew it he was balls deep in your tight pussy, thrusting in and out with all of his might.

 No matter how many times you had him, Wakatoshi’s size was always an adjustment; he was just so big, so thick, so heavy. It was always a feat to stretch out enough to accommodate his sheer girth, but you did it everytime without fail. And without fail, everytime felt like it was the first time he was fucking your tight cunt. 

Ushijima’s grip on you was sure to leave bruises tomorrow, but today- you give any fucks, you just needed him to keep hitting that spot deep inside of you- that spot no one else could reach. 

“F-Fuck Toshi!! t’s soo good- Oh my Godd” you moaned as your eyes rolled back. 

“S’ tight for me- gripping on me so tight” Wakatoshi grunted as he struggled to pull himself back; your greedy cunt just sucked him in too far. 

“You liked watching me play today, huh?” he huffed as he slowly pulled himself out so that only his tip was left inside. 

“Y-You're my champion baby- s’ proud of you'' you nodded as you clawed at his biceps. 

He smirked and sank back into your warm, perfectly molded pussy with a guttural moan- “It was all for you, My Love. A-all f’ you” he promised into your ear as he resumed his earlier pace. 

“I-I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum Toshi! Oh fuck! shit-” you started stammering once he snaked his skilled fingers down towards your clit while still mercilessly thrusting in and out of your messied hole. 

Wakatoshi’s thighs began to tremble and he knew he was at the end of his rope; he was pushed further once your walls began fluttering and clenching around him from your orgasm. 

You came with his name on your tongue and arms around his neck as you pulled him flush against you. Nothing felt better than this- Wakatoshi couldn’t handle it anymore and wrapped his strong arms around you and began wildly bucking his hips into your tired cunt as you squealed into his neck and held on for dear life. 

He became sloppy as he felt his heavy, sensitive balls began drawing up in anticipation; “My L-Love, I’m going to cum- fuck- I’m cumming- I-I’m cumming” Wakatoshi moaned into your ear as he tried to pull himself out of the tight grip your pretty pussy had on him but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t quick enough. Soon he was babbling apologies as he spilled his warm seed into your fucked out pussy. 

“I’m sorry, I-I couldn’t pull out. I’m so sorry” he wailed as his hips continued to involuntarily buck up with the remnants of his orgasm passing through. 

“It’s ok Toshi- It’s ok, feels so good- so warm” you babbled as your exhaustion took hold. 

He took a minute to catch his breath before gently pulling out of you; he cringed as his sensitive dick finally exited your warmth. Once he was out you whimpered a bit at the empty feeling before you felt him begging to clean you up with a towel. 

“I hope I wasn’t too rough, Dear- I’m sorry” he said, gently wiping his spend off of you. 

“No no- It’s ok Toshi, I liked it” you sleepily smiled. 

Once his worries subsided, Wakatoshi pressed gentle kisses to your peaceful face. 

“Thank you, My Love- thank you for everything” he said softly. 

You only hummed in response and waited patiently for him to return to your side. Tiredly, you turned over to rest your cheek on Wakatoshi’s large chest but as soon as you laid down his phone began to buzz crazily. You knew he didn’t have notifications on for anything except messages and emails so that definitely had to eb the Olympic group chat. 

He was about to silence his phone when you asked him what the boys were talking about. You smiled to yourself as you watched your boyfriend’s face return to its usual neutral scowl while he read the flood of texts. 

“They want to go out tonight to celebrate.” he said with no detectable emotion. 

“Oh that's fun! What are you going to wear?” you asked eagerly, wondering what fit he would choose tonight. 

But instead of answering he just quirked a brow, “What do you mean? I’m not going.” 

You shot up in shock with an exaggerated gasp, “Not going?! Toshi you just won your Olympic match and you aren’t going to celebrate with your team?!”.

“No. You are here and I want to spend time with you.” he stated very matter-of-factly. 

“Baby. I love you and I think it’s so sweet that you want to spend time with me- but you HAVE to go out” you whined pawed at his tight pecs. 

“But-” he began.

“But nothing! You earned that win and you deserve to celebrate”.

He sat silently for a moment, mulling over how to get you to let off a little, he just wanted to spend time with you. 

“They want to go out tonight but it’s already 5 pm” he said. 

Now it was your turn to think. 

“Ok, tell you what- how about I go with you and we take five minutes to chill, take a shower and then take a nap until we have to get ready to go out. We were probably going to get a few drinks tonight anyways,  right? And this way you have an out if the party is getting too hectic- you can just say I flew in late and am sleepy. How does that sound?” 

That was a solid plan, how could he say no to that? He hummed in agreement before placing his phone back down, drawing you close, and shutting his eyes for a moment. 

Ever since you entered his life the year after your high school graduations, everything in his life shifted. The immovable force that ran his life- the force so trained on volleyball and success was suddenly derailed ever so slightly. Now there was you; with your random interests, your beautiful smile, your tenderness, your heart. And suddenly life had more meaning; he had a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to get better, a reason to work on aspects of himself outside of his athletic performance. 

A reason to love.

______________________

Hello haikyuu fans who gave me a chance :) I mainly write Star Wars content but ngl being in Tokyo has made me get back into haikyuu lol- little secret I had a “secret” 10k plus anime tiktok acc back when anime tok was trendy in 2020- but dw I wasn’t one of those fans haha// toshi has always been my #1 animated man

Thx for @toshisdecadence for getting me inspired to finally write for toshi :?

[yuurei20]

Good morning/evening! Would you consider comparing the personalities of the twst guys in the novels to their personalities in the game at some point in the future? I’ve heard that the guys are depicted as crueler or more villainous with the extra space the novels give. Thank you!

Hello hello! Thank you for this question!

This answer is very long m(_ _)m (thank you for this opportunity to share novel 2 fan art 🦁)

Riddle (novel 1): I do not believe there were too many changes made to Riddle in the first novel? A lot of things may come down to personal feeling/subjective interpretation (re: Riddle’s desperation for his mother’s affection maybe put across more effectively in the novel? etc.).

Riddle (novel 2): Riddle’s admiration of Leona is new! And not requiring conjecture or reading between the lines, as Riddle outright says that he has always respected Leona. (Ref: Riddle on Leona: The Housewarden Meeting / Riddle’s Confession)

Riddle is also described as being envious of how Malleus is so adored by his dorm’s students, saying that he doesn’t think Malleus is a good Housewarden but there must be something he can learn from him, as he is so respected. (ref: Riddle on Malleus)

Trey/Cater (novel 1): Both Trey and Cater seem very similar to their game counterparts.

Trey (novel 2): Trey does not appear very much in novel 2, seeming very similar to his game counterpart.

Cater (novel 2): This may be a subjective interpretation, but it seemed a little as though Cater was more protective of Riddle in the 2nd novel than in Book 2 of the game, with his grudge against Leona possibly inspired more so against Leona’s insult of Riddle than his physical thrashing in the mock spelldrive match. (Ref: Spelldrive Practice Match (pt5) / Trusting Riddle )

There is also emphasis in narration of Cater’s loyalty to those around him (Ref: Cater and Yuuya).

Ace (novel 1): I wonder if maybe Ace is where the “crueler or more villainous” rumors are coming from? 👀 Ace is certainly rude to Yuuya in the first novel, calling him a bore and repeatedly yelling at him to say what is on his mind.

But unlike Game-Ace, he also apologies to Yuuya for being so aggressive (Ref: Ace Apologizes).

There is a lot more depth to Ace’s character overall, with his motivations and personality really shining! He is a great character in the game, of course, and maybe even greater in the novelization. (Ref: Yuuya and Ace / Yuuya Apologizes)

Ace (novel 2): Ace refuses outright to help Yuuya interview people about the injured students. He explains that he does not have anything else to do but he still will not be helping, and Yuuya goes to Pomefiore alone as a result.

Carried over from the first novel there is a theme of both Ace and Deuce not being able to trust Riddle and speaking disparagingly about him throughout the story.

This culminates at the end when Riddle cheers for them in the exhibition match, and it is hinted that, one day, Riddle may be accepted by the students of his dorm. (ref: Trusting Riddle)

Deuce (novels 1&2): We get to see more of Deuce’s efforts to be an honor student in the novel, such as when he sits with the lonely Yuuya at lunch (ref: Yuuya and Deuce).

He consistently tries to defend Riddle to Ace, not out of affection or respect so much as wanting to overcome his own past self. His resilience wanes as Ace’s belittling of Riddle continues throughout the two novels and he does not have much ground to stand on to defend him. (Ref: About Riddle (pt1))

Leona (novel 1): The rewriting of Leona’s introduction is maybe one of my favorite things about the first novel (ref: Meeting Leona). Rather than threatening to harm the prefect as in the game Leona goes to Yuuya’s rescue, saving both Yuuya and Deuce from the bullies that break the eggs they bought for the chestnut tart.

Leona (novel 2): There is much more to novel-Leona than was in the game, with Riddle reflecting on his dazzling confidence (ref: Riddle on Leona).

On the "more villainous" side, it is insinuated that he intentionally injures Cater during their mock spelldrive match (ref: Spelldrive Practice Match (pt3))

In the game Leona laughs in response to Lilia driving him to overblot but in the novel he loses all emotion, which Yuuya reflects on later as being far more terrifying than his rage. (Ref: The Transformation / Cheka (pt3)).

We also get much more detail about his unique magic: while we know from the game that he does not need to touch things to turn them to sand, in the novel he has the ability to kinetically manipulate the sand that he creates.

There is an amazing description of insects falling, dead, out of the sky, having been reduced to dried-out husks in mid-flight, combined with what is maybe the only description we ever receive of Leona looking afraid.

And what he is frightened of is not Riddle, Lilia or his enemies, but the adoring members of his own dorm, whom he is terrified of failing. (Ref: Leona’s Unique Magic (pt1) / Leona’s Unique Magic (pt2))

Leona’s relationship to his dormmates itself may have been rewritten for the novel, but nothing in the game seems to refute it, so it is not difficult to imagine the same situation playing out behind the scenes in the game as well.

Leona himself says in the game that he is fighting for the futures of his dorm mates, but he is always so sarcastic that it is easy to dismiss this as an excuse he is making to Jack, when he may have just been telling the truth.

Unlike in the game Leona interacts directly with the phantom that is born of his own despair and he is described as crying tears of blot. (Ref: The Overblot Battle)

I was a little more organized with the release of the second novel than the first, and have a small collection of fan art by others who illustrated the before-and-after-novel of their impressions of Leona!

(↑ How the situation at Savanaclaw appears to be vs. how it is from Leona’s point of view)

(↑ Cheka’s game scene vs. Cheka's novel scene)

Leona’s post-overblot flashback is also fleshed out very much in the novel, with added details about how hard working and isolated he had been until the birth of Cheka, which led him to giving up, and how much he hates himself. (Ref: Leona and Falena / The Flashback Monologue)

(↑ Leona’s phantom is described as nuzzling against him in the novel)

The monologue also explains a lot of his inner turmoil, how frightened he is and how he actually doesn’t have the strength to give up on his hopes and dreams, despite everyone around him talking as though he already has.

(↑ Artist’s rendition of game-Falena vs. novel-Falena)

We also receive more details about the Spelldrive match, showcasing Leona’s non-UM magical power and athleticism, and how the students of Savanaclaw still trust in him even after his mental break, in contrast to the students of Heartslabyul and Riddle. (Ref: The Exhibition Match (pt3))

Ruggie (novel 2): There is some wonderful detail added to Ruggie in the second novel, including an interesting new dimension to his relationship with Leona.

(↑ Artist’s interpretation of their impression of Ruggie and Leona’s dynamic before reading the novel vs. after reading the novel)

In the Botanical Garden scene Ruggie reflects in narration on how Leona would surely throw him away if he ever tried to stand up for himself, and how captivated he is by Leona’s ambitions (ref: The Botanical Garden Scene).

In the scene where Ruggie offers to “take care of” the troublesome Jack, we receive a look into how it is Ruggie is walking on eggshells around Leona, for his own safety. (Ref: Leona and Jack (pt3))

The scene of Ruggie running away in Book 2 also had added details, with Ruggie briefly losing his apathetic mask and revealing a hint of the trauma of his upbringing. (Ref: Ruggie Escape (pt5))

There is much more detail into Ruggie’s inner turmoil as well, and particularly in the scene where Leona confronts him for being nearly caught out by Riddle and the others. (Ref: Savanaclaw Dorm (pt2)). He reflects on Leona’s arrogance, his struggles back home, and the desperation of his situation. 

Their interaction during Leona’s overblot was also expanded upon, with an overblotting Leona threatening Ruggie with his life if he does not agree to give up on his dreams, and Ruggie refusing to do so (Ref: Leona and Ruggie, to overblot (pt2))

Jack (novel 2): We receive a little more detail in Jack’s admiration for Leona, and how Leona’s words actually do resonate with Jack, though he may try and pretend to be unfazed. (Ref:  Leona and Jack (pt1)) / Leona and Jack (pt2)) 

(↑Jack remembering how moved he was watching Leona lose to Malleus in his second year)

There is added detail to Jack’s relationships with Ace, Deuce and Yuuya, as he seeks them out intentionally before the spelldrive match. (Ref: Jack and Yuuya) 

Also unique to the novel Ruggie overtakes Jack’s body to take down Leona’s phantom, while Jack come close to refusing to participate in the spelldrive tournament and Yuuya steps in to reveal how much Jack respects Leona to Leona himself. (Ref: The Overblot Battle / Jack and Leona (pt4))

We also see Leona and Jack working together during the exhibition match, just as Jack had always dreamed. (Ref: The Exhibition Match (pt2))

(↑ Also there is Azul’s introduction to Yuuya, Ace, Deuce and Grim, added to Novel 2 while it did not happen in Game-Book 2. Ref: Meeting Azul (pt1) / Meeting Azul (pt2))

This went very much off-topic from the original question 💦 But while I do agree that there is increased villainousness in the novels, there is also an increase in depth, feeling and detail overall! ^^ Highly recommended!

[vivwritesfics]

Hooked On A Feeling

Aus Grand Prix Special

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE REST OF THE SERIES, READ AT OWN RISK

1.8K

Series Masterlist

AUS GP, 2025 (two years after the beginning of the story):

You don't you stress until you've tried to wrangle two hyperactive seven year olds into a car. "Liv, c'mon. We're going to see you dad."

For the fifth time, Olivia climbed out of the car. She ran back towards the house for something she definitely didn't need. "Muuuuum," Milo called from the back seat. "Can we go now?"

"One second, Milo," Y/N called as she put their things in the trunk of the car. As soon as she shut the door of the trunk she was back in the house, calling for Olivia. "Liv, let's go!" She called up the stairs.

"But I need my hat!"

When Y/N arrived at Olivia's bedroom she was searching through her drawers. "What hat, Livvy?" She asked as she searched through the top of her wardrobe, where Olivia couldn't reach.

"The one uncle Lando got me for Christmas," she said.

Y/N knew exactly what hat Olivia was looking for. It was custom made bucket hat, made to match Daniels helmet with a 3 on the top. Olivia had worn it for every race they had attended, had almost lost it in the wind at Bahrain.

Y/N knew exactly where the hat was. Olivia had taken it in for show and tell at school and it was still in her bag. She pulled it out of the flower decorated bag and handed it to Olivia. "Ready to go now?"

She nodded and followed her future step-mom down to the car. While Y/N locked the front door, Olivia climbed into the back of the car beside Milo. Y/N climbed into the drivers seat and the three of them set off.

The year before the four of them had travelled to the Grand Prix together. Daniel had driven, singing along to the music Y/N had put on. It was one of her favourite memories. This year he had driven up with Scotty James. She couldn't be mad, she had seen the videos of them having so much fun posted all over social media.

As they drove along, the music stopped and her phone started ringing through the hands free system in the car. Y/N used the button on her steering wheel to answer and Daniels voice came through. "Hi honey, are you guys on your way?" He asked.

"We're about half an hour away, Danny," she called. From the back of the car the kids let out a chorus of 'hi's'. "Are we meeting you at the Red Bull hospitality?"

"Yeah, hun. Max and I are waiting."

There was a quiet hi, from someone Y/N could only assume was Max. "Tell him we all say hello," she said to her fiancé, who quickly passed on the message.

"Baby, I've got to go," he said. "Love you guys!"

"Love you too!" The three of them replied before the call ended.

Just as she had said, they arrived at the hotel half an hour later. They could have stayed home and watched the live coverage, but they wanted to give Daniel as much support as they could, so Daniel got himself booked into a hotel room with enough space for all of them.

He had been there since Wednesday, due to media duties and such. Y/N stayed back to work and get the kids to and from school. But they had all taken the Friday off to watch the first of the practices from the Red Bull garage.

They checked themselves into the hotel room, getting the key Daniel had left by the front desk, and headed to the track. There was no point in driving, and it was close enough that they could walk.

Milo and Olivia led the way to the track. Y/N made sure they all stayed together as they walked. It was incredibly busy as they pushed their way through towards the paddock.

Actually, it was Scotty that spotted them. He waved Y/N over and she moved the kids through the crowd, towards him. With Scotty's help, they got into the paddock. "You have much traffic on the way up here?" Scotty asked as he led the three of them over to the Red Bull Garage.

She shook her head. "Not until this point," she said, keeping one eye on the kids as they led the way once again. They were just too excited, there was no point containing them. "How is he feeling?"

It was Daniel's second year back in the Red Bull, and everybody knew he was nervous. He had seen just how quickly Red Bull had tossed their other drivers to the side. He'd managed to secure a contract for another year, but that could all change with the snap of someone's fingers.

They got to the hospitality unit, where Daniel was waiting outside. He took pictures for fans and signed the things that were shoved in his face. Staff parted the fans like the red sea to allow Y/N, Scotty and the kids through.

Olivia immediately ran to her father. "Badger!" He called as he hugged her.

He held his other arm out for Milo, who joined the hug. "Hi dad," he said, grinning.

Milo didn't realise what he had said, not right away. And Daniel sure wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. It was Olivia who giggled at her future brother. "You just called him dad," she laughed, and Milo's face scrunched up in embarrassment.

"No I didn't," he insisted.

"Yes you did! Yes you did!"

But Milo went running to his mother. Olivia let go of her dad and went inside of the hospitality unit to find her Uncle Max. Daniel turned his attention to his bride to be. "My lady," he said as she stepped towards him.

"Danny." She was aware of the cameras on the two of them as she stepped towards him. Flashes went off, videos were recorded on fans phones as she pressed her lips against his and wrapped her arms around his neck.

The two of them never had much a chance at privacy. There very first kiss all those years ago was televised. They'd tried, to give her and the kids a normal life, but their attempts were futile. They'd given up.

With his hand on the small of her back, Daniel let her and Milo into the hospitality unit. "Are you hungry?" He asked, immediately going to fix her and Milo something to eat. He would have gotten Olivia something, but she was eating a muffin as she spoke to her uncle Max, no doubt about karting.

The family of four spent what time they could together before Daniel jumped in the number 3 Red Bull car for the first practice session. This one wasn't about speed, Y/N had come to learn. It was about testing different set ups, not about setting the fastest time.

FP2 that afternoon was about showing what you could do. And Danny did. Y/N, Olivia and Milo watched on as Daniel set the fastest time in FP2 over and over again. He and Max raced each other. Not in the literal sense, but it was a competition between the two of who could get the fastest lap.

After FP2 they were free to head back to the hotel. Daniel drove them back to the hotel. While Milo and Olivia took turns in showering and getting changed for dinner, Y/N and Daniel laid together. He sat on the bed and she laid against him, her hand against his racing heart. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?" She asked quietly.

Daniel sucked in a breath. The smile that played on his face wasn't a smile at all. It was more of a grimace as he looked up at the ceiling. "Nervous, definitely. But I'm glad you guys are gonna be there to support," he said and leaned down to kiss her.

They had a lovely dinner that night. It wasn't often that all four of them got to go out and do things like this, not with Daniels racing schedule. They had a wonderful time. The kids ordered whatever they wanted, which meant the biggest deserts in the place. Daniel was a lot stricter with what he was eating, considering it was a race weekend.

After their dinner, the four of them headed back to the hotel. Bellies full and incredibly happy, they quickly fell asleep. Daniel held Y/N through the night. He missed her on race weekends like this.

She woke up first. Bile rose in her throat and she struggled out of Daniels grip. As she had every morning since Wednesday, she got up and ran to the bathroom to throw up.

In the close quarters of the hotel room, everybody could hear what was happening in the bathroom. They all woke up to the sounds of Y/N throwing up into the toilet. Daniel was up and out of bed in an instant. He raced to her and immediately held her hair out of her face, rubbing her back soothingly as she heaved.

"Baby," Daniel said softly as she sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth. Tears touched her eyelashes, as they always did when she threw up.

Daniel opened his arms, but she didn't throw herself into them. Instead she washed her face and cleaned her teeth, just as she had every other morning. "C'mon, Y/N, speak to me," he said softly.

She shut her eyes, steadying herself against the sink. "I think I'm just sick," she said and turned to walked out of the bathroom.

But Daniel stopped her. He grabbed her arm softly and pulled her into his embrace, his hand moving up and down her back. "You'd tell me if... right?"

She nodded her head, letting herself rest against him.

They didn't see the two little heads peaking into the bathroom. "Mum?" Milo called, somewhat timidly. Daniel hadn't heard him speak like this in years.

Y/N and Daniel pulled away from each other. They looked at the kids as they walked into the bathroom. "Is everything okay?" Olivia asked, eyes holding concern.

Both she and Daniel nodded. "It's nothing to worry about, guys. I promise." she said.

They all stayed in the bathroom just a minute longer. Y/N was the first to leave. They all followed her out and crawled back into their beds.

But Y/N and Daniel didn't sleep. They laid there, waiting for the kids to fall asleep before Y/N turned towards him. "I think I should go and get a pregnancy test," she whispered, snuggling close to his chest.

Daniel couldn't hide the way his face lit up.

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @cassie0sstuff @spideybv28 @andydrysdalerogers @aundercover @lou-bean28 @landossainz @purplephantomwolf @ggaslyp1 @layazul @phantomxoxo @minkyungseokie @gills-lounge @hollie911 @annispamz @lily-ann-b @cixrosie @notyouraveragemochii @charli123456789 @amalialeclerc @teamnovalak @tallrock35 @teenwolf01 @chiliwhore @darleneslane @sava207 @thatsusbitch @formulaal @leptitlu @angiesw0rld @yunakynn @landosgirlxoxo @msolbesg @cherry-piee @catmouseggy @bathedinheat @chanshintien @ilove-tswizzle @woozarts @evie-119 @trouble-sistar @mysticalnightenthusiast @lewisvinga @spilled-coffee-cup @starkeyellow @fxrmuladaydreams @viennakarma @radiator101 @lightdragonrayne @angelxxrose @millinorrizz @xemiefx @ellies-world61 @the-depressed-fellow

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

DON’T YOU EVER GROW UP

CHARACTERS: Joel Miller & Sarah Miller

RATING: none | WORD COUNT: 900

SUMMARY: Joel experiences many emotions as Sarah reaches the childhood milestone of getting her “big girl” bed.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is me, projecting my own experience onto my favorite character because I’m a fic writer and that’s what I do. Divider by @/saradika-graphics and beta read by @murder-wife 💕

LINKS: support for palestine 🇵🇸

Joel wipes the sweat beading along his hairline with the back of his hand. He stares at the new bed frame, his mind not reconciling how much bigger than her convertible crib it is. It's just a twin, white wood that matches her dresser and her bookcase stuffed with children's books of all shapes and sizes, but it seeing it take up so much space feels jarring.

"Little help?" Tommy calls from the hallway. Joel shakes his head to clear his thoughts before joining his brother, who holds one end of a mattress teetering on the stairs. Together they bring it the rest of the way into Sarah's room, settling it on the frame.

"Thanks for the help," Joel says, patting Tommy's shoulder. "I owe ya one."

"Don't sweat it. I know the little miss was dyin' for her new big girl bed."

There it is, the phrase that makes Joel's heart clench in his chest. Sarah's barreling towards five years old, shedding some of the baby roundness in her cheeks and no longer saying certain words incorrectly, the way toddlers tend to do. She gets up every morning for preschool and eats her cereal all by herself and comes home in the afternoon to tell Joel about her day, legs kicking against the chair while she shows him her art because she's not quite tall enough to reach the floor. Joel looks around the room again, remembering the rocking chair in the corner that was the first piece of her childhood to retire, followed by the changing table with its pile of diapers. He thinks about how small she'd been, how light her tiny body was on his chest and for a moment he misses it so fiercely his eyes burn with the threat of tears.

"I need a beer," Tommy says, leaving the room. Joel takes the opportunity to press his fingers to his eyes, willing the wave of emotion to subside before joining his brother in the kitchen.

They share a couple beers before Tommy checks his watch, announcing that he should leave. On the way out the door, they pass the dismantled crib and Tommy taps it with his hand.

"You want me to drop that off for donation?" he asks. Joel looks at the chipped white wood, rubs a thumb over a dent in the veneer.

"No, that's alright. I'll take care of it," he replies. Tommy shrugs and Joel walks him out to his truck parked in the drive way, waving him off. When Tommy disappears from view, he heads next door to Connie's house.

He knocks on the front door and waits, the sound of tiny feet against wood growing louder, making his smile grow wider. The door opens, Sarah's sweet face peeking through the crack allowed by the chain lock.

"Password?" she asks, tone as serious as a four year old can muster. Joel crouches down to look her in the eye.

"Pizza for dinner," he says. She squeals in excitement and jumps away from the door just as Connie unlocks it. His daughter sits on the worn carpet runner to pull on her shoes while Joel asks how she behaved.

"She was an angel as always," Connie assures him. "Wait right here, we made cookies earlier and I want to send y'all home with some."

Connie disappears down the hall and Sarah darts after her. When they return, his daughter is balancing a foil wrapped plate in both hands, tongue peeking out of her mouth in concentration.

"Thanks again, Con. I'll be 'round Sunday to help Dan with the yard," Joel promises. Connie waves a hand at him.

"Don't you worry about it, you know it ain't a big deal to watch her. You got a good egg on your hands."

Back at home, Joel calls in an order for pizza that he shares with Sarah. He lets her take sips of his Coke to wash it down, her brown eyes wide with excitement at getting to drink soda with dinner. After a bath, pajamas, and a minor argument over brushing her teeth, Sarah enters her room for the first time that evening and sees her new bed.

"Wow!" she exclaims, clambering onto the mattress. She stands, jumping excitedly and Joel wraps an arm around her middle, placing her back on the ground.

"Remember how that song goes? The monkey falls off and bumps his head?" Joel asks, knocking his knuckles against the top of her head as she giggles. "No jumpin'. Come on, let's get your sheets on."

Together, though the bulk of the effort falls on Joel, they get her bed ready. Purple sheets with a cream colored quilt decorated with purple butterflies, a set that she spotted in the store that Joel went back to purchase on his own. She crawls between the sheets and settles her head on the pillow, ready for her stories. Joel reads three books of her choosing and shuts down her argument for a fourth, seeing that she can barely keep her eyes open any longer. He plugs in her pink butterfly nightlight and kisses her forehead.

"Goodnight, baby girl," he whispers.

"'M not a baby, I'm a big girl now," Sarah replies in her sleepy voice. Her eyes have already drifted shut before he can respond and he stands there for a moment, watching her with a lump in his throat.

Sarah may be getting bigger, but she'll always be his baby. Of that, Joel is certain.

Thank you for reading! For more of my writing visit:

All masterlists

Joel Miller masterlist

[the-s1lly-corner]

hello hello I hope you're having a wonderful day/night! Request for TADC!!

Okay so jax x bunny y/n? what if y/n was like lola bunny?? I really don't know how to describe her personally so I would base it of like the one from space jam 1? Like the first movie?? (IF yk what I mean😭) And I imaged if y/n was called doll/toots/ect by jax or anyone (like how bugs bunny did to lola in that one sence) she would get the most heaviest thing near them and throw it at jax or like punch him or something!! 😭😭

THATS ALL I COULD IMAGE BUT HAVE FUN WITH THIS IDEA!!😌

Jax x Bunny!reader

Imma admit I'm mostly going off what I heard ab Lola's original personality as well as this ask; typically I would do a quick look over in a fandom wiki (not always reliable, I know) but my eyes feel like they're full of soup (it's getting late 😭😭)

Writing this on mobile! So typos and mistakes are likely to be more.. dudjdkf??

This one is more platonic/neutral since I wasnt entirely sure how to make this romantic! Sorry if that's what you wanted ^^;

This was originally gonna be longer but I'm eepy and tumblr (on mobile) wont let me save half answered asks in my drafts 😭😭

Honestly he LOOOOOVES teasing you and calling you those endearing names, even before you two foster a relationship, if at all (romantic or otherwise)

He thinks your reaction is funny and more often than not he can dodge whatever it is you toss his way (I mean, did you SEE how fast he ran in the pilot?)

Doesnt feel much in regards to you also being a bunny, since he knows it's not your guys' actual.. real bodies, so why would he feel anything about it...?

Actually... he might use that as ammo for teasing you...

"We're like a match made in heaven!" *side steps a flying book shelf*

He uses the names you mentioned in the request but I feel like he would also get very creative/sickeningly sweet with them to further annoy you

"Schnookums" "my pookie wookie bear" "my sweetheart with whipped cream and sztra sprinkles on top", progressively gets more obnoxious

Stuff like that !!

I just imagine you running after him, throwing things at him while he just has this smug look on his face

[anniebeemine]

Back Home Again- s.r. x fem!reader

I absolutely love John Denver. I beg they give Spencer a happy ending if he does come back.

Warnings: fluff, Maeve mention, brief moments of grief, pregnant reader

It was a dreary, overcast afternoon when Spencer arrived at his apartment building, the weight of his briefcase in one hand and the case files he had been working on tucked under his arm. The sky was a solid sheet of gray, threatening rain, and the air carried the damp, cool scent that always preceded a downpour. Spencer had just returned from Quantico, where he delivered his latest reports to the BAU. He had gotten into the habit of making these trips once a month, a chance to check in with his team, his friends, and to keep himself anchored to the world he used to inhabit full-time.

As he approached the entrance of the apartment building, he noticed you standing under the small canopy that offered minimal protection from the incoming storm. You were shivering, clutching a worn-out rain jacket tightly around you, but it was no match for the cold that was seeping into your bones. You looked up as Spencer approached, your eyes wide with a mixture of hope and mild embarrassment.

"Hi," you said, your voice slightly trembling from the cold. "Do you live here?"

Spencer nodded, frowning slightly at your predicament. "Yeah, I do. Are you okay?"

You sighed, glancing down at your bicycle, which was leaning against the wall. "I, um, lost my keys. I need to get my bike inside, but I can't get in without them."

Spencer could see the frustration and discomfort etched on your face, and without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keycard. "I can let you in," he offered, his voice gentle.

You looked at him with relief, nodding gratefully. "Thank you so much. I don't know how I managed to lose them."

He swiped his keycard, opening the door for you, and you quickly wheeled your bike inside. Spencer followed, watching as you propped the bike up near the stairs, trying to figure out your next move.

"I can call the apartment manager for you," Spencer said, already pulling out his phone.

You smiled at him, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. "That would be great. I think she's out, but she should be back soon."

As Spencer made the call, you couldn’t help but notice how kind his eyes were, how he seemed to exude a quiet, calm energy that put you at ease. You had seen him around the building before, occasionally crossing paths as you both went about your day. Sometimes you carried groceries, other times you had flowers, always with a smile and a friendly nod as you held doors open for each other. But you had never exchanged more than a few words—until now.

After hanging up, Spencer turned to you. "She’ll be here in about an hour. In the meantime, would you like to come up to my apartment? I can lend you some dry clothes while you wait."

You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to impose, but the warmth in his voice and the genuine concern in his expression made it impossible to refuse. "If it’s not too much trouble, I’d really appreciate that."

Spencer smiled softly and led you upstairs to his apartment. As you entered, you couldn’t help but take in the surroundings. The space was cozy and meticulously organized, with bookshelves lining the walls and a few personal touches scattered about—a small stack of books on the coffee table, a framed photograph of what looked like colleagues from work, and a well-used chessboard set up by the window.

"Here," Spencer said, breaking you out of your thoughts as he handed you a folded sweater and a pair of soft sweatpants. "These should fit."

You took the clothes, thanking him as you headed to the bathroom to change. When you emerged, feeling warmer and more comfortable, Spencer was in the kitchen, making tea.

"Do you drink tea?" he asked, glancing up as you entered the room.

"Yeah, I do," you replied, sitting down at the small dining table.

Spencer handed you a steaming mug, sitting down across from you with his own. For a few moments, you both sipped in silence, the sound of the rain now pouring outside creating a soothing background. He had spent so long hiding from this part of life, closing himself off to the possibility of connection after everything he had been through—after losing Maeve. But there was something about you, something in the way you sat there with your warm mug of tea, looking at him with genuine interest, that made him want to open up, just a little.

The rhythm of your relationship with Spencer had grown steady, marked by the gentle back-and-forth of dishes passed between your doors. It started so simply—just a thank you for the warm clothes and kindness on that rainy day. You had returned the borrowed sweater and sweatpants folded neatly, accompanied by a casserole dish filled with a homemade meal. Spencer, surprised but touched by the gesture, had baked cookies in return, carefully placing them back in the dish and leaving it outside your door.

This exchange became a regular occurrence, a silent communication between you two that spoke of care and warmth. Each dish carried something more than food; it carried an unspoken connection, a feeling that was growing stronger with each passing day. But one evening, when you opened your door expecting another delicious offering, you found the dish empty. Your heart fluttered when you saw the note tucked inside, written in Spencer’s neat handwriting: “Dinner? Friday night?”

You smiled as you read the note, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. When you saw Spencer later that day, you eagerly accepted, and from that moment, things moved faster than either of you had anticipated. But it all felt right.

The dinners became more frequent, the conversations longer and more intimate. Spencer found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. Every day, he became more attached to you, drawn to your warmth, your kindness, and the way you made him feel safe and understood. You filled a void in his life that he hadn’t realized was still there, healing wounds that had remained tender for too long.

Then, your world shifted suddenly when your grandfather passed away. It was unexpected, a loss that hit you hard. In the midst of dealing with your grief, you learned that he had left you a small farmhouse, tucked away in the mountains a few hours from the city. You hadn’t visited it in years, but you had spent every summer there as a child, and the thought of it brought back a flood of memories. You told Spencer about it, your voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and uncertainty.

“I always wanted to raise a family there,” you admitted one evening, the two of you sitting close together on his couch. “But I don’t know… Maybe it’s too far, too much.”

Spencer listened, his heart aching for you, but also feeling a strange sense of hope. The idea of a small farmhouse, a place filled with memories and dreams of a future together, appealed to him more than he could express.

“Why don’t we go see it?” he suggested gently. “Just to see how it feels. Then you can decide.”

A few days later, you found yourselves driving up to the farmhouse. The journey was quiet, filled with the hum of the car and the occasional conversation about your memories of summers spent there. The closer you got, the more you could feel a sense of peace settling over you. When you finally arrived, the farmhouse stood exactly as you remembered it—modest but well-maintained, with a wraparound porch and a small garden out front. The mountains loomed in the background, their peaks dusted with snow, and the air was crisp and clean. Everything felt untouched, as though time had stood still.

You stepped inside, and it was like walking back into your childhood. The furniture was old but lovingly cared for, the walls adorned with framed photos of your family. The familiar smell of wood and earth filled the air. Spencer walked beside you, taking it all in, watching the way your face softened as you moved through each room.

When you reached the living room, you turned to Spencer, your eyes searching his. Before you could say anything, he took your hands in his, pulling you close. There was something in his eyes, a mix of determination and love that took your breath away.

“Let’s do it,” he said, his voice steady and filled with certainty. “Let’s raise a family here.”

You blinked in surprise, your heart swelling at his words. “Spencer…”

“I know it’s fast, but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he continued, his grip on your hands tightening. “I want this with you. I want us to have a life together here.”

You felt tears welling up, but they were tears of happiness, of relief. You had wanted this too, deep down, but hearing him say it made it all the more real.

“There’s no ring,” he said, almost apologetically, “but I’ll get you one. I promise. I just… I don’t want to wait.”

You shook your head, smiling through your tears. “I don’t care about a ring. I care about you, and us, and this.”

And right there, in the living room of your grandfather’s farmhouse, surrounded by the memories of your past and the promise of your future, Spencer Reid proposed. You didn’t need anything fancy, no grand gestures—just the two of you, standing together, ready to take on whatever came next.

You said yes, and in that moment, you knew that this place, this life, was where you were meant to be.

The move happened faster than you expected. You and Spencer had decided to donate almost everything—your old furniture, books, and knick-knacks, items that had once filled your apartment with memories but now felt unnecessary in the new chapter of your life. You kept only what was essential, what truly mattered, and packed up the rest.

The ceremony was as quiet and intimate as you had hoped. In a small, sunlit room filled with flowers, you exchanged vows with Spencer. The BAU team sat on his side, their familiar faces smiling back at you. On the other side were your parents and siblings, holding back tears of joy. The ceremony was simple, heartfelt, and exactly what you both wanted—a celebration of your love without the fuss or grandeur. Afterward, you shared a dinner with everyone, laughing and talking late into the evening.

Once the last goodbye was said and the final hug was given, you and Spencer set off for your new home. The six-hour drive was long but peaceful. Spencer drove most of the way, his hand resting on your thigh, a silent reassurance that you were heading in the right direction. The road stretched out before you, winding through hills and forests, leading you closer to the life you were about to build together.

You arrived at the farmhouse just as dawn was beginning to break. The sky was still dark, with only the faintest hint of light on the horizon. The house stood quiet and still, waiting for you.

Spencer yawned as he pulled the car into the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. He was exhausted from the long day, the ceremony, the drive, but there was a contentment in his tired eyes. He grabbed the last of your bags, and you both stepped inside, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty rooms. Boxes were stacked everywhere, but for now, they could wait.

Spencer headed to the bedroom, eager to collapse into bed. But when he reached out for you, he found your side empty. Concerned, he walked back through the house, searching for you. He found you sitting on the porch in one of the old rocking chairs, your knees tucked up to your chest, gazing out at the slowly brightening sky.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked softly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he approached.

You looked up at him, smiling gently. “I want to see the sunrise. It’s only an hour away, so I figured I might as well stay up rather than miss it.”

He nodded, understanding, and pulled up another chair beside you. The two of you sat in comfortable silence, listening to the night sounds fade as the birds began their morning songs. The air was cool, a light breeze rustling through the trees, and you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was your home now, your place to build something new.

As you waited for the sun to rise, you both talked quietly about the future. You shared your dreams of starting a family, imagining little ones running across the expansive yard, exploring the woods that bordered the property. You talked about fencing in part of the yard, maybe getting a few chickens or goats to bring more life to the quiet countryside. Spencer smiled at the thought, his mind already racing with ideas of how to make it all happen.

But mostly, you both sat in silence, lost in your own thoughts, content just to be together in this moment. There was something magical about the stillness, the way the world seemed to pause before the dawn, giving you time to reflect on everything that had brought you to this point.

Then, slowly, the sky began to change. The first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape. The trees, the grass, the house—all of it seemed to come alive in the soft morning light. You watched in awe as the sun rose higher, flooding the world with light and color.

Spencer reached over and took your hand, squeezing it gently. You turned to look at him, and in that moment, everything felt perfect. The future stretched out before you, filled with possibilities, and you knew that whatever came your way, you would face it together.

The sun continued to rise, bringing a certain glow to both of you, a promise of new beginnings and the life you were about to build.

It had been a year since you and Spencer had moved into the farmhouse. The transformation from newlyweds to expectant parents had been a beautiful, unexpected journey. The house had become a home, filled with warmth, laughter, and the soft glow of your growing family. The chickens roamed freely in the yard, and the beginnings of a garden took root behind the house, just as you had imagined that first morning together.

Now, as the evening sun dipped low in the sky, you found yourself setting the table, the soft clinking of dishes a comforting sound in the quiet house. Spencer was away, working his first case in almost three years. It had been ten days since he left, and while you missed him deeply, the time had passed quickly. You had kept busy, tending to the house and the animals, preparing for his return. But there was a constant, gentle flutter in your belly that reminded you of the life growing inside you—a tiny presence that had become your constant companion.

You placed the last of the silverware on the table and paused, pressing a hand to your swollen belly. Sunshine, as you had lovingly named the baby for now, had been making their presence known more and more these days. Just last week, you had felt the first kick, a soft but undeniable nudge that had filled you with joy. You couldn’t wait to tell Spencer, to see his face light up with the news. You imagined how he would react, how his eyes would widen with wonder and how he would gently place his hands on your belly, hoping to feel another kick.

The thought made you smile as you continued setting the table, thinking about everything you wanted to share with him. Your mother had called on Friday to check in, leaving a sweet message for Spencer, reminding him how proud she was of the life you both were building. It was a small thing, but you knew how much it would mean to him. Spencer had always been so careful about balancing his work and personal life, and it warmed your heart to know that your family saw how much effort he put into being present for you.

As you finished up, you heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Your heart leaped with excitement, and you hurried to the window, peeking out just in time to see Spencer waving to the chickens as he walked up to the house. He looked tired, but there was a lightness to his step that made you feel like everything was right in the world again.

You quickly returned to the table, straightening a napkin as you tried to calm your racing heart. The door opened, and you heard his footsteps, soft but purposeful, as he made his way through the house. And then he was there, standing in the doorway, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

“Welcome home,” you whispered, a smile spreading across your face.

Spencer didn’t say a word at first. Instead, he crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was tender but full of emotion, a reunion of two souls that had been apart for too long. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were full of love and gratitude.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as he studied you, as if committing every detail to memory. The soft glow of the fire cast a warm light over your features, making you look even more beautiful in his eyes. He still couldn’t believe this was his life—something that once seemed so far away now felt like a long-lost friend returning home. The joy he felt was palpable, and he could hardly contain it.

“I missed you too,” you replied, your voice equally soft as you reached up to stroke his cheek. “But I’m so glad you’re home.”

He smiled, his hand moving to rest on your belly. “And how’s Sunshine doing?” he asked, his eyes lighting up with the nickname you’d chosen for the baby.

“They’re doing just fine,” you said, feeling your heart swell with love for the man standing before you. “In fact, I have some news.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of curiosity and anticipation in his gaze. “Oh?”

You nodded, your smile growing as you placed your hand over his on your belly. “Sunshine kicked for the first time last week.”

His breath caught, and his eyes grew wide with amazement. “Really?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“Really,” you confirmed, tears of happiness welling up in your eyes. “It was the most incredible feeling, and I’ve been dying to tell you.”

Spencer’s eyes filled with emotion as he gently pressed his hand to your belly, his fingers splayed out as if hoping to feel the baby move again. “I can’t believe it,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Our baby is really growing in there.”

“They are,” you said, nodding as you blinked back tears. “And they can’t wait to meet you.”

Spencer let out a shaky laugh, his joy so overwhelming that it brought tears to his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your belly, whispering words of love to the baby growing inside you. When he stood up again, he looked at you with such love and devotion that it took your breath away.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “To have you, to have our baby… it’s more than I ever imagined.”

You smiled, your heart overflowing with love for this man who had become your everything. “We’re the lucky ones, Spencer. We have you.”

He pulled you into another embrace, holding you close as you both stood there, lost in the moment. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the warm glow of the fire, the promise of a beautiful future ahead. The sun had set, but the light that filled the room was brighter than ever—illuminating not just your home, but the life you were building together, filled with love, hope, and endless possibilities.

Spencer had always been a man of intellect, driven by logic and the pursuit of knowledge. But in the quiet moments, when the world outside was still and he was surrounded by the warmth of your home, he realized that it was the little things—the sweetest, simplest things—that truly made life beautiful.

It was the way you hummed softly as you moved through the house, your voice carrying a melody that soothed his soul. The way you folded his sweaters with such care, tucking a lavender sachet inside just because you knew he loved the scent. The way you’d leave little notes for him to find—tucked into his jacket pocket, slipped between the pages of his books, or left on the bathroom mirror. They were always simple but filled with love: *“Thinking of you,”* or *“Can’t wait to see you tonight.”*

He cherished the way you brought life into the house with your laughter, your warmth, and your kindness. How you made sure there were always fresh flowers on the kitchen table, even in the dead of winter. How you danced around the kitchen while making dinner, pulling him into the rhythm, even though he swore he couldn’t dance.

He loved the way you instinctively knew when he needed to talk and when he needed silence. How you would sit with him on the porch in the early morning, wrapped in a blanket, sharing the peace of the sunrise. How you understood that sometimes, the best conversations were the ones where no words were spoken at all—just the comfort of knowing you were there, together.

The little things you did made the house feel like a true home. The way you’d curl up next to him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder as you watched a movie. The way you made him feel when he came home after a long day, greeted by the scent of dinner cooking and the sight of you smiling at him from across the room. The way you always made time for each other, no matter how busy life got.

As Spencer sat in the nursery, assembling the crib that would soon hold your baby, he thought about how much his life had changed. There was a time when he had closed himself off to the idea of a family, of a future filled with love and happiness. But now, as he looked around the room filled with baby clothes, books, and toys, he realized just how far he had come.

So yes, it’s good to be back home again.

[the-thing-inside-your-closet]

Trick or Treat…or Else

This is unfinished because I felt like I kept screwing up Jason’s characterisation a bit. Gotta work on that.

Jason glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall to his left, it’s was 2:57 on Halloween. His patrol wasn’t due to start for a few more hours, but something tugged at him that cause him to feel like something was going to happen. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad feeling just yet. He just knew that whatever is was put him on edge.

“Haven’t you taken enough pictures, Danny?” Tucker laughed through the screen of the computer Danny had set up in a four way call between himself, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz.

“I could never have too many pictures of my little princess!” Danny retorted as he snapped another photo of little Ellie in her Halloween costume.

“Ahem!” Ellie puffed out her chest and put her hands on her hips. The pose made her look even cuter, Danny thought.

“Oh my apologise,” Danny grinned cheekily, “my little badass.” He corrected himself.

Ellie, decked out in her mini Red Hood costume. The child sized leather jacket had been a gift courtesy of Sam, while the mini Red Hood helmet had been designed and built by both Tucker and Danny working together to ensure it would be perfect. They might have gone a little overboard however, since they’d managed to incorporated a real working com unit, an air filtration system in case of a gas attack, night vision, heat vision, and an emergency beacon should Ellie wander off and get lost that only Danny or Tucker could access. Danny had also hand painted two nerf guns for her, and gave her hand painted ‘grenades’ that were just glitter bombs. Ellie had insisted, just in case she was ‘forced’ to choose ‘trick’ from Trick or Treat.

“Danny,” Jazz voice held a fondness to it, “if you keep it up with the picture not only will you no longer have any space on there, you guys will be too late for the trick or treating.”

“Oh no! I don’t wanna miss it,” Ellie ran to Danny and started tugging on the sleeve of his costume, “let’s go!” She looked up at him and though the helmet obstructed Danny being able to see Ellie’s face, he could feel it in his bones that she was giving him those big puppy dog eyes of hers.

After a dramatic show of sighing in defeat, he picked up his daughter and said, “alright my starlight, but let’s say bye to the others first though.”

“Bye Uncle Tuck, Aunty Sam, and Aunt Jazz!” Ellie waved her little gloves hand at the screen from her place in her dad’s arms.

Tucker, Sam and Jazz all waved back and said their goodbyes and wishing her a fun time trick or treating. Danny bid his friends and sister farewell and ended the call.

“C’mon Little Hood, let’s go bug our neighbours for candy,” Danny beamed at Ellie as he put her back down and held out her candy bucket which had been a plastic black pumpkin from a dollar store. He’d hand painted a red bat symbol on the front of it for her, so that it would match her costume more. Ellie held the bucket in one hand, and held her dad’s hand in the other as they exited their apartment.

The clock had ticked over to 3:20pm the next time Jason spared it a glance. The trick or treaters would be put and about now. Most cities started later, but in Gotham there was always the risk of a rouge attack, so many parents would go out earlier, just to make sure they were home to avoid being out when it started to get darker.

Jason stretched his arms above his head and marked his page before putting down the book he’d just been reading. He stood up slowly and made his way over to his front door, checking that he had some Halloween candy at the ready just in case someone knocked on his door before he took off for the night. Jason knew that his building had several families with children under 14, so the likely hood of getting at least one truck or treated was pretty high.

When he was satisfied that he had everything in place he returned to the couch, picked his book back up and waited.

“Trick or treat!” Ellie cheered as the door opened.

The middle aged woman who opened the door let out a small gasp, “oh my,” she said with a smile, “Red Hood, I didn’t know you’d be patrolling our building?” Her tone was teasing as she reached somewhere past the door to grab some candy for Ellie’s pumpkin.

“Of course ma’am!” Ellie happily played along, making her own attempt at a deep ‘man’ voice, “crime could be anywhere!”

“Well I certainly feel safer knowing you’re out there protecting us Red Hood,” the woman laughed, “have a good patrol.” With that she closed the door, and Danny and Ellie Bahn making their way to the next ‘civilian’ as Ellie had started to call their neighbours.

Five groups of kids had come to Jason’s door so far. It was getting later, and he knew he’d need to start getting ready soon. Just as he was weighing the pros and cons of heading out on patrol early another knock sounded from the door to his apartment.

[corruptedcaps]

7 Minutes in Heaven

Sarah adjusted her glasses and smoothed down her Star Wars t-shirt as she stood in front of Franklin’s house, clutching a book, a small gift for him. Her heart pounded in her chest, not just because it was Franklin’s 18th birthday, but because she had finally decided today was the day she would tell him how she felt. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Franklin's mom greeted her warmly and directed her to the basement, where she could already hear the familiar sounds of excited chatter and the hum of a video game console. Descending the stairs, Sarah spotted Franklin in the middle of a lively discussion about the latest Dungeons & Dragons campaign with their friends.

“Sarah! You made it!” Franklin called out, his face lighting up as he saw her. He wore his favorite Doctor Who shirt, and his messy brown hair fell over his thick framed glasses as usual.

“Happy birthday, Franklin.” Sarah said, handing him the gift bag with a shy smile. She could feel her cheeks redden as their hands briefly touched.

“Thanks! This is awesome.” He said, peeking into the bag and grinning.

Just as Sarah was about to ask Franklin if they could talk in private, the basement door swung open with a loud bang. Brett, Franklin’s older brother, swaggered down the stairs, his muscular frame filling the narrow space. Behind him trailed his girlfriend Kayla, her high-pitched bitchy laugh grating on everyone's nerves. Behind them was their posse of equally obnoxious friends.

“Hey, baby bro!” Brett called out, his voice dripping with mock affection.

Franklin’s face tightened with a mixture of fear and anger. “Brett, mom said you couldn’t crash my party!”

Brett ignored him and sauntered over to the stereo, swapping the geeky soundtrack for loud, thumping music. Kayla and her friends started raiding the snacks, making loud comments about the “kiddie” party.

Sarah's blood boiled as she watched Franklin’s party being hijacked. She couldn’t stand seeing him hurt like this. Summoning all her courage, she marched up to Brett. “Hey! You can’t just come in here and ruin everything!”

Brett raised an eyebrow, amused. Before he could respond, Kayla stepped in front of him, a condescending smile plastered on her face. “Aww, look at you standing up for your little nerdy friend. How cute.” She said and pushed her onto the nearby sofa with a cackle.

Brett smirked, relishing the tension in the room. “Alright, we’ll leave. How about a little game?”

“And then you’ll leave?” Franklin asked.

“Scouts honor.” Brett said making a mock crossing of his heart. Franklin nodded.

“Ok we’re going to play a little game I like to call, 7 minutes in heaven.” Brett said with a deepening grin.

All the nerds in the room shifted uncomfortably, they knew what was involved in that game and the social awkwardness that came with it.

“But we don’t have any bottles to spin.” Franklin said matter of factly. Brett looked around the room and grabbed a long, somewhat phallic statue.

“This will do.” Brett said picking it up.

Franklin’s eyes widened in horror. “Brett, we can’t use that! That’s one of Mom and Dad’s fertility idols they got on vacation!”

“Cram it Franklin, it’s just a game. Now everyone, sit in a circle.” Brett snapped

The room fell silent as Brett’s friends began to sit down, their sneers making it clear they were enjoying the discomfort they caused. Sarah exchanged a worried glance with Franklin, but reluctantly, everyone followed suit and sat in a circle on the floor.

One of Brett’s friends, Greg, a tall guy with a smirk that matched Brett's, took the idol and spun it hard. The room watched with a mix of dread and anticipation as it slowed, finally pointing at Lydia, a shy girl from Franklin’s group who was known for her encyclopedic knowledge of all things Star Trek.

Brett laughed loudly, picked up the idol and handed it to Greg. “Alright, time for 7 minutes in heaven! Get in the closet, you two.”

Greg hesitated, clearly not thrilled about the idea, but under Brett’s watchful eye, he reluctantly stood up and walked over to Lydia. She blushed furiously but allowed herself to be led into the small closet nearby. The door closed behind them, and an awkward silence filled the basement.

The next seven minutes felt like an eternity. Brett's group exchanged snide remarks, while Franklin and his friends watched the closet door with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity.

Finally, the door creaked open, and the two emerged. Though it was subtle, Lydia looked different. Her glasses were gone, her hair was out of it's ponytail and from somewhere she had gotten gum and was chewing it obnoxiously. Sarah spied her nails and saw they were long and manicured. Did she have those earlier, she thought to herself.

Apart from her physical difference though she seemed to hold herself differently. Her head held higher, her poise more confident. She clung to Greg as though she were his girlfriend.

“Eh, dude me and my lady here are going to head out.” Greg said to Brett as her looked lustfully at Lydia and tossed the idol back to Brett who looked at them confused.

“Fine, leave. Whatever.” Brett said eventually shrugging his shoulders. Irritated by loosing two of the party but undeterred, he turned his gaze to the circle. “Alright, who’s next? You over there, spin.” He ordered, pointing at one of Franklin’s friends.

As the game continued, a strange pattern began to emerge. Each time the idol was spun, the pair that went into the closet emerged with a transformation that no one could quite explain. If a nerd spun and landed on one of Brett’s bully friends, the bully would come out transformed, more like the nerd who spun, and vice versa. And each time, the pair exited the closet infatuated with each other, holding hands, and promptly left the party together.

It was odd, surreal even, but no one thought there was anything at play other than some horny teens’ hormones getting the best of them. The tension in the room grew thicker with each round, and now only Brett, Kayla, Sarah, and Franklin remained.

“Well only four left. We could call it quits now, but let’s see where this goes.” Brett grinned as he took the idol and spun it.

The idol whirled around, everyone holding their breath as it slowed. When it finally stopped, it was pointing directly at Sarah.

Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced at Franklin, who looked as though he wanted to intervene, but Brett was already stepping forward, his sneer firmly in place.

“Looks like it’s you and me, nerd girl.” Brett said mockingly as he grabbed Sarah by the arm and led her to the closet.

“Don’t go falling in love with her.” Kayla said with a cackle after them.

Inside the cramped closet, Sarah and Brett stood on opposite sides, arms crossed and glaring at each other, with the idol standing between them against the wall on the floor. The tension was palpable, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing.

Then, faintly at first, Sarah began to hear whispers in her head. “Brett is so manly, so handsome. Isn’t he better than that loser Franklin?” She shook her head, trying to ignore the foreign voice, but it grew louder and more insistent. Neither her or Brett had noticed the idol's eyes glowing.

“If Franklin really cared about you he’d be ripping that door open to get you but he’s not because he’s weak and pathetic. Brett on the other hand… that’s a real man.” The voice continued and she found her eyes betraying her as they slowly drifted over to Brett.

She drank in the sight of his strong jawline, his confident stance. The repulsion she once felt for him and his cruel ways started to melt away, replaced by an inexplicable attraction. She bit her lip hungrily, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

Her body was starting to heat up as memories of seeing him mow the lawn topless ran through her head. The image of his glistening muscles making her panties suddenly wet. She tugged at her clothes in discomfort as if they were too tight.

She didn't yet realise but her tits had gone up two sizes already and her waist had shrunk. Her butt as well had swelled enough to give her whole body a new more pleasing silhouette. She hadn't yet noticed but Brett had.

He looked at her like he had never had before, his eyes noticing curves he had missed. Sarah was just the nerd next door but for some reason now he was seeing her in a completely different light.

"Did you get a haircut or something? Whatever it is you're looking great." He asked her with a mix of confusion and intrigue.

Sarah felt her his eyes on her, looking at her, noticing her. She liked it. “Mmmm he's complimenting you, that's more than Franklin ever does. Reward him.” The voice purred in her head.

"You tell me." She grinned as reached up, pulled her hair out of its ponytail, and let it cascade down her back in a teasing manner. Brett's eyes followed her every movement, almost entranced.

"No I don't think that's it. Maybe it's your glasses?" He said with a cheeky smile as he took a step towards her. Her heart pounded as he did.

"He likes you, but can you make him WANT you?" The voice in her head said darkly.

Sarah took off her glasses, tossing them aside carelessly. Her vision remained perfectly clear, as if her transformation had enhanced her senses and although she couldn't see them, her eyes had changed from her dull brown to icy blue.

"What glasses?" She said returning his cheeky smile to him, while taking a step closer herself. They now stood closer to one another than they ever had in their life.

"I know, it's got to be those nails." Brett said snapping his fingers and nodding towards her hands. Sarah looked down at her freshly manicured talons painted red. It didn't even dawn on her that they had been chipped and bitten only a few minutes ago.

She flexed her hand and looked at her nails with glee. They looked good but her mind couldn't help wonder how they would look wrapped around Brett's cock.

"Take him! You deserve him and it'll be so hawt stealing him from Kayla, won't it?" The voice purred as Sarah ran a hand up Brett's strong chest, her fingers lightly tracing the contours of his muscles.

While clearly turned on, Brett nevertheless cocked his eyebrow in curiosity. “What are you doing?”

Sarah smiled flirtatiously “Just admiring the view.” She replied, her voice sultry. Her eyes locked onto his, a mischievous glint in them as she continued to explore his chest with her hand.

"What's gotten into you?" Brett asked, his voice low and husky.

"Does it matter?" Sarah replied, her voice dripping with seduction. "I think we're both enjoying it, don't you?"

Brett lifted a hand to her face, cupping it tenderly sending a shiver down Sarah’s spine. Her body was red hot with desire for him but a part of her still resisted, urging her to leave. The part of her that still held a candle for Franklin. However just as she was building up enough strength to pull away, Brett extinguished that candle with a kiss.

As their mouths moved together and their tongues entwined the transformation in Sarah surged. Her chest swelled even more, filling out her shirt to the point where it strained against the fabric. Her skin took on a golden tan, becoming flawless and radiant.

Makeup appeared on her face, enhancing her natural beauty with perfectly applied eyeshadow, mascara, and lipstick. Her dull brown eyes became icy blue.

As Brett and Sasha continued their fervent kiss, a deeper transformation began to take hold. Sasha's mind started to shift, reshaping her thoughts and desires. The once fervent love for nerdy stuff like comics, video games, and sci-fi dissolved, replaced by an intense interest in makeup, jewelry, and fashionable clothes. The joy she once found in knowledge and creativity morphed into a fixation on beauty, status, and power.

Despite the heat of the moment, something in Sarah's mind was compelling her to open her eyes. When she did she finally saw out of the corner of her eye the idol. It's eyes glowing an ominous red. That's when she put two and two together.

The idol they had been using as a makeshift bottle was somehow turning the spinner’s target into the spinner’s perfect partner. She knew if she didn’t stop it soon she’d be forever changed, she'd no longer be the Sarah everyone knew. But she didn’t want to stop it now, she wanted more!

Her previous kindness and empathy were overwritten by a growing desire to be bad, to assert her dominance and superiority over others. She relished the idea of being a bully, of wielding her newfound beauty and charisma to get what she wanted, regardless of who she hurt in the process. The spark of cruelty in her eyes intensified, and she pulled away from Brett, looking at him with a newfound arrogance.

"My God Sarah...you're..." Brett said, his eyes wide with amazement at the complete transformation before him.

"Ah ah, call me Sasha, babe." She interrupted, a playful smile on her lips.

Brett nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from her. "Sasha... you're incredible."

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” She said with a devilish smile as she sunk to her knees and undid his belt. Brett's cock sprang eagerly out and Sasha's mouth began to water at the sight of it.

Wasting no time she wrapped her pink lips around it and started to suck. Brett groaned immediately as she worked his dick like a pro. She couldn't believe how good it tasted, she was going to enjoy doing this more often.

As she sucked her body continued to change. Her hair darkened, her pussy tightened, and her body became incredibly fit and flexible. It dawned on her that the other guys and girls that had been in there before them had only kissed, their passions fuelling the idol only so much and in turn their transformation. Sasha was now the hottest girl in school but she wasn't about to stop there.

Running her tongue up his shaft and hungrily swallowing his precum, Sasha pushed Brett against the wall of the closet, kissing him deeply.

"Fuck me babe, fuck me hard with your big dick! Rip off my panties and fuck me." She moaned in his ear. Brett expertly undid her now baggy jeans which slumped to her ankles. He did as she had asked and ripped her underwear off her in one clean tear. She giggled at the sight of his strength.

Her giggles soon turned into passionate moans as his dick slid easily into her wet pussy. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as the idol's eyes bathed the two of them in red light.

Sasha’s tits grew even bigger, her lips plumped up and her skin became even softer and more tan. Even her clothes began to change. Her jeans seemed to turn to dust and blow away. Her nerdy shirt grew a little longer, darker, turning into a little black slutty dress. High expensive heels wrapped around her pedicured toes. She lifted herself onto Brett and wrapped her sleek legs around him.

“Mmmm yessss baby, fuck what little of the nerd I used to be out of me! Oh god, I’m going to cum!” Sasha whined as Brett pounded her pussy over and over until a wave of pleasure washed over both of them as they both climaxed.

“Oh my god Sasha you’re perfect.�� Brett managed to say as her lifted her gently back down onto her feet.

Sasha pressed herself against him, her body warm and inviting. "You’re not so bad yourself stud." She purred.

Sasha smirked, reveling in her new identity. She straightened her dress and admired her reflection in the mirror, her thoughts centered on her own beauty and power.

Sasha and Brett emerged from the closet, hand in hand, their faces glowing with a shared and inexplicable infatuation. Franklin and Kayla stared at the pair in stunned silence.

Kayla, her face twisting with anger and jealousy, stepped forward. “What the hell Brett? I thought all those sounds we heard was a joke!”

Sasha grinned triumphantly as she squeezed on Brett’s arm, ignoring the glare from Kayla. Kayla however grabbed Sasha and pulled her from her embrace.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing slut, but get your hands off my man!” Kayla snarled.

Sasha laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed through the room. “Bitch, you’re yesterday’s trash.” With a swift, calculated move, she grabbed Kayla’s hair and yanked it hard, causing her to yelp in pain and fall to her knees.

Relishing her power, Sasha pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Franklin. “That’s your man now.” She declared with a smirk.

Kayla’s eyes filled with fury and confusion as she looked at Franklin, who seemed equally bewildered. Sasha turned her attention to Franklin, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of malice and amusement. “Spin the idol, Franklin.”

Brett tossed the idol to Franklin who put it on the ground and gave the idol a spin. As it slowed, Sasha maneuvered Kayla to make sure she was in its path.

Sasha’s grin widened. “Looks like it’s your turn, Kayla. Enjoy your seven minutes in heaven.” She said and pushed Kayla toward the closet, the look in her eyes daring her to protest.

Reluctantly, Kayla stepped into the closet with Franklin following suit, clutching the idol. Sasha slammed the door behind them and Brett propped a chair up to seal them in.

Brett pulled Sasha close, his hands resting on her waist. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when little nerdy Sarah would turn into such a knockout bitch.” He said with a smirk.

Sasha chuckled, running her fingers through Brett’s hair. “And I never thought I’d find myself attracted to a mean guy like you, Brett. Funny how things change, huh?”

Brett leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. “So, what’s the plan now babe? You going to take over the whole school?”

Sasha grinned, her eyes gleaming with ambition. “Oh, you bet. I’m going to be the queen bee, and no one’s going to stand in my way. Not Kayla, not anyone.”

Brett’s smirk widened. “I like the sound of that. And I’ll be right by your side, making sure no one forgets who’s in charge.”

Sasha leaned in for another kiss, savoring the power she felt in Brett’s arms. “Oh fuck you make me so wet you hawt bastard. Come on, lets go upstairs so you can fuck my brains out some more.” She grinned as she pulled him towards the stairs.

"What about those two?" Brett said half heartedly as he gestured a thumb at the closet.

"Leave them. The longer they are in there the more dorky Kayla will become. Taking her place as the queen bee will be a cake walk." Sasha smirked as she led Brett up and out of the basement.