#the last three were the first ones I thought of but now they go under the cut…

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[writeriguess]

I've been bingeing through your page for the last two hours and i'm OBSESSED I'm going out of my way to request something

could you please make a bakugo x reader fic where reader has a wind type quirk that causes strain on her back from the force of the wind so Katsuki massages it for her? preferably fluff

Thank you!

Blown Away

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the Bakugo household bathed in the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the windows. The quiet hum of the city outside provided a stark contrast to the usual chaos that accompanied your life as a pro-hero.

You sighed as you pushed open the door to your shared apartment, dropping your bag unceremoniously by the entrance. Every muscle in your back screamed in protest as you moved, the aftereffects of another high-intensity battle weighing you down. You had spent the last three hours whipping up gale-force winds to evacuate civilians from a collapsing building, and now, every inch of your spine felt like it had been crushed under the weight of your own power.

"Oi."

You barely had time to register the familiar voice before Katsuki was in front of you, arms crossed, crimson eyes narrowing as he took in your slouched posture. His blonde hair was still damp from a recent shower, his black tank top clinging to his broad shoulders.

"You look like shit," he stated bluntly.

You snorted, too exhausted to fire back. Instead, you trudged past him toward the couch, practically collapsing onto it face-first. A muffled groan left your lips as you buried your face in the cushions, trying to will away the searing ache running down your spine.

"That bad?" Katsuki’s voice had lost some of its usual bite.

You only nodded against the couch.

He sighed, and for a moment, you thought he was going to scold you for overexerting yourself again. It was a frequent argument between the two of you—how you pushed your body past its limits, ignoring the toll your wind quirk took on you. But instead of berating you, you felt the couch dip beside you.

"Sit up."

You peeked at him from over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Huh?"

Katsuki rolled his eyes, already reaching for your arm to pull you upright. "Just do it, dumbass. You're not gonna get any better lying there like a damn pancake."

Reluctantly, you pushed yourself up, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain up your spine. Katsuki shifted behind you, settling his legs on either side of you, effectively caging you in. Before you could ask what he was doing, you felt the warmth of his hands against your back, his fingers pressing experimentally against your stiff muscles.

You jolted. "Wait, what are you—"

"Shut up and relax." His thumbs began working slow, deliberate circles into your lower back. "You’re always bitching about this, so let me do something about it for once."

You blinked, surprised by both his tone and the tenderness in his touch. Katsuki was many things—loud, brash, explosive—but gentle wasn’t usually one of them. And yet, here he was, pressing his thumbs into the knots of your back with the kind of focus he usually reserved for battle.

A sharp inhale left your lips as he found a particularly sore spot. "Katsuki—!"

He grunted, not pausing his movements. "Yeah, yeah. I can feel it. You're all fucked up, idiot."

You groaned as he pressed harder, pain and relief mixing in a strange but not unwelcome sensation. His hands were warm, strong, each movement precise. You could tell he was being careful, despite the gruffness in his voice.

"You need to stop doing this shit to yourself," he muttered after a while. His voice was quieter now, like he didn’t really want you to hear it. "Told you before—you put too much strain on your body with those winds. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not."

You let out a breathy chuckle, tilting your head back slightly. "Says the guy who literally blew out his own arms in high school."

A low growl rumbled from his throat, and he pinched your side in retaliation, making you yelp. "Shut up. This isn’t about me."

You smiled, even as your body trembled under the combination of exhaustion and his ministrations. "You’re worried about me."

"Tch. Of course, I am, dumbass," he muttered, but his hands didn’t stop moving. If anything, they softened a little, fingers tracing gentle patterns between your shoulder blades before pressing firmly into the tight muscles. "You think I like seeing you like this? All hunched over and in pain?"

Your chest warmed at his words. He wasn’t always good at expressing his feelings outright, but moments like these—where his actions spoke louder than anything—were more than enough.

"Katsuki…" You exhaled, letting yourself lean back slightly against his chest. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you. "Thank you."

He clicked his tongue, but his fingers gave your sides a soft squeeze. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get used to this, windbag."

You grinned, eyes fluttering shut as his hands continued their careful work. "Too late."

Despite his grumbling, he didn’t stop.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Judex, Judicum, Infantem - Chapter 5

(Eventual)Reader x Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

previous chapter | next chapter | series masterlist | my masterlist

summary: The beginnings of living with Matt feel too good to be true. Could you be falling in love with him? But Matt's flaws of course can't stay hidden forever. With a few special guest appearances.

warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio or I will block you!) AFAB Reader. No use of Y/N. Pregnant sex! Brief mention of vomiting.

Notes: I hit 2,000 followers last week and didn't even notice so I didn't prepare any kind of celebration. So instead, I'm going to post three!!! chapters this week to celebrate! This one today, one on Thursday, and one on Saturday or Sunday.

w/c: 3,806

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks!*

You weren’t sure what was more spectacular, the way the sunlight filtered in like cascading brush strokes of orange and pink, or the crystal clear view of the Hudson and New Jersey beyond. If you had known dating a successful lawyer came with the perk of moving into such a luxurious apartment, you’d have agreed to go out with Matt much sooner. The nearly floor to ceiling windows were the primary thing you noticed the first time he brought you over here. You weren’t sure if you’d ever tire of standing in front of them and admiring the view that covered most of the living space of Matt’s— now your— apartment.

“Where is this going?” the woman with dark hair asked as she easily hoisted your antique dresser above her head

“Bedroom.” you replied, watching with confusion as she shrugged and headed further into the apartment

A blind guy and a pregnant lady were not two people who should be moving much, so you knew you needed help getting all your things uptown to your new dwelling. But when Matt said he had a few friends who could help you move, you weren’t exactly expecting more vigilantes.

“Jessica, can you please be a little more careful with my girlfriend’s things?” Matt called down the hall, as he stepped up beside you, giving your back a reassuring rub

“As nice as it is to meet some of your friends, why didn’t we hire movers?” you asked, looking around at the chaos that was spread around the living room as you combined your things.

Since Matt could afford a place like this, you were shocked he wouldn’t want to invest in the expense of professionals.

“Really Matt, Heroes for Hire does not exactly fall into the category of movers for hire.” the man named Luke jested as he effortlessly set down a box you knew was heavily packed with your book collection.

Wow, these two were strong.

“I wanted people we could trust.” Matt replied

“Well thank goodness she comes with a first aid kit,” Claire commented, noting the plastic case sitting at the top of the box she was carrying

As she pulled it out and triumphantly waived it in the air, you noticed Matt’s frame went rigid beside you. He hadn’t yet told you why he’d been light in the vigilante scene these days. Maybe Claire joking about you being the one to stitch him up brought up the reason in his mind, or maybe he just hadn’t thought through what life would look like as a vigilante with a family; if he ever did go back to it.

You certainly had thought about it though. Would Matt return to being Daredevil regularly? What would happen if his identity got revealed? To you? Your relationship? Your child? Or worse, what if he got hurt or even killed?

“Oh, were you a Marine?” Claire asked, interrupting your panic spiral

“No.” you replied, confused “Why?”

She rummaged past the first aid kit and pulled the first thing under it from the box; Frank’s sweatshirt. You were packing your apartment up so haphazardly, you’d almost forgotten it was in there. Since discovering Frank was gone, you tucked the item into a dark corner in the back of your closet, hoping to forget him but also not really willing to part with the only item of his you had. When Matt asked you to move in, you were so excited and overwhelmed and admittedly a little scatterbrained from being pregnant, you just grabbed piles of things and shoved them into whatever containers you could find.

Shit, that must be what Matt was actually upset about. You could see him out of the corner of your eye turn away from you and make his way into the kitchen, reaching for a glass and a bottle of whiskey.

“No.” you answered sheepishly “Something from an old friend I totally forgot I had.”

Claire shrugged and put the sweatshirt back, carrying the box into the bedroom.

Matt eased up shortly after his friends departed for the evening, mostly seeming back to his usual self as the two of you snuggled on the sofa and unwound for the night. The apartment was still scattered in boxes and various items of yours, but you both were too tired to actually start unpacking.

“Hang on” you said, feeling the bile already rising in your throat and rushing towards the bathroom

Great, now that you lived with Matt, he was going to hear and smell every reaction your body had to the pregnancy. It seemed your symptoms really ramped up as you approached your 12 week appointment tomorrow. Plus you were starting to have food cravings, calling him when he was out searching for Frank and instead had him swinging from rooftops in search of takeout.

Matt seemed totally unfazed as you returned to the couch, opening his arms up and inviting you back to your place.

“This is getting miserable.”

“Awe I know sweetheart, but the doctor said things should ease up after the first trimester and you’re so close.”

“Yeah until this baby starts getting so heavy that my back hurts constantly and I need to pee every five seconds.”

“You already need to —”

Thwap. You gave his arm a playful whack which caused the corner of Matt’s full lips to quirk up into a beautiful smile as he chuckled. Feigning injury, he pulled his arm away briefly before leaning back in to give you a kiss.

“Sorry baby, couldn’t help it.”

The way his lips pressed against yours sent a buzzing through your skull that radiated down your neck, down your sternum, all the way to in between your legs.

That was another symptom that had appeared in the last few days; you felt insatiably horny. And right now, Matt looked like the most delicious meal you could devour.

You leaned forward, pleading for more which he happily obliged. His lips were as soft as they looked and tingled against yours with the taste of spearmint mixed with the whiskey he’d downed earlier.

Matt had not touched you beyond a few sweet kisses and cuddles since you delivered the news of your pregnancy to him. The way his hands comforted and caressed you in the days since made you feel like he thought you were made of glass; a soft delicate statue like the saints he worshiped, the child of his that you carried the miracle that devined you.

You scratched at his scalp as you kissed, feeling him preening into your touch. Pulling away just enough to speak, you made sure your breath was still hot against his.

“You know I was reading up on unconventional remedies the other day. For my symptoms.”

“Mmm?” Matt’s brows shot up quizzically, a gentle hand lightly tracing a pattern into your waist as he held you.

“One pregnancy forum said sucking dick can help with morning sickness.”

The flush that rose to Matt’s cheeks nearly matched the color of his Daredevil suit and he cleared his throat as his eyes darted back and forth rapidly.

“You —um— You’re joking?”

His voice cracked like a pubescent choir boy. Oh how you loved to make this cocky flirt of a man crumble with just a few words. Lightly, you let your hand creep up his thigh, a centimeter at a time.

“Nope.”

“I don’t think in good conscience I can ask you to do that.” he stuttered

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

Apprehensiveness still lingered on his face.

“Matty please, I’m desperate. Both to not be nauseous and for you.”

“Sweetheart. We’ve both had a long and exhausting day.”

You knew he could read the pout on your face as you pulled back by the way his hands reached forward to keep you close.

“How about this?” he reasoned “Let’s take a nice warm shower. Together? Yeah? Get you a little relaxed. Then if you’re feeling up to it afterwards, I’ll consider it.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m a lawyer sweetheart. And one of us is going to have to be the serious parent.” he joked

Matt’s shower was a gift sent directly from the heavens, especially against your sore back and shoulders. A full walk in with a bench on either end, a rainfall shower-head above, plus eight jets running down the wall; all adjustable in both spray pattern and temperature. You could get used to this.

You could also get used to the way Matt was pressing his lips against your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps across your flesh despite how warm the steam was surrounding you. Relaxing under his touch, you hadn’t realized how sore you were until you finally let your shoulders drop as Matt ran delicate fingers up and down your flesh. His motions were slow, easy in the way he gently moved you around, spinning you to wet your body and then again so he could reach better. You closed your eyes and hummed at how cared for you felt in the moment.

He gently massaged your scalp to lather in your favorite in shampoo, pampering you while keeping his body closer to you than your own shadow. You could feel his hardness pressing into your behind as he took care of you, teasing you unintentionally. He was working you so well, relaxing you into a state of pliability that was doing nothing to calm your neediness.

You hummed once more, this time more of a whine at how desperately you wanted him.

“That bad, huh?” Matt joked

“It feels like my pregnancy hormones want me to somehow get pregnant again even though that’s impossible. Like I’ll explode if I don’t. That’s how badly I want you.”

You turned to face him, watching him calculating your body’s tells behind his glassy eyes. Pushing a strand of his dark, wet hair away from his face, you couldn’t help but smile at the way he nuzzled into your touch. Just maybe some of your desperation was wearing off on him.

“I’m not made of porcelain, Matty. The doctor said sex was perfectly okay and wouldn’t hurt me or the baby. Please?”

Gently, you drew him closer by the flesh of his hip so that his hardness pressed against your pelvis. He instantly melted against your lips, bringing a hand up to place behind your head and keep you close. Not like the tender kisses he’d been placating you with earlier, the way he kissed you back was growing with hunger.

You yelped into his mouth as your back hit the cold tiles of the shower. There was still a fragility to the way he touched and kissed you, traveling down your body with reverence. He kept his movements gentle as he guided your leg up on the bench and even more softly as he nipped as the flesh inside your thighs as he sunk to his knees.

“Wait, I thought I was supposed to be the one on my knees for you—- oh!”

Answering your protestations with only the motion of his lips to your sensitive bud, kissing it while rubbing his stubble back and forth against your thighs.

“Nope sweetie. Gotta take care of you now.”

He pulled away just enough to speak, then dove right back in. He sucked at your core as if he was devouring an ice cream bar in the summer sun, gentle enough to not loose a single topping but also quickly enough to not let it melt.

Labored breaths left your lips in whispers of his name. It seemed to ignite an invigorated fire within Matt, now grasping at your thighs to steady you as he increased the fervor of his tongue. Every circle of it against you drew you closer and closer to the edge. All it took for you to finally snap was the brief pause he took to look up at you, a combination of lust and adoration swimming behind his glossy eyes.

Relief washed over you as your cunt spasmed and contracted, like the first wave of the ocean hitting your flesh after soaking in the sun all day. It was warm and white and you tried your hardest to remain upright on shaky legs and slick tile. Grunting at the taste of your release, Matt didn’t stop until you were all the way through your orgasm.

“Well it didn’t fix the morning sickness like sucking you off might, but I won’t complain.” you commented, earning a hearty chuckle from Matt

You felt a little dizzy as you tilted your head back against the cool wall behind you, too blissed out to even notice as Matt stood and lined his hardness up with your slit.

All you could do was reach forward and hang onto his shoulders as he pushed inside you, inch by inch until he was comfortably seated. One of his large hands held under your thigh, supporting it as it rested on the bench. The other was pressed behind you on the wall, caging you in. You could taste yourself in his kisses, tangy and sweet. He thrusted gently, gauging how much you could take as you clung to him.

You nodded into the crook of his neck, urging him on.

“Is this okay? Are you feeling good?” he asked

“Mhm” was about the most coherent answer you could give

You could feel the warm, toned muscle of Matt’s chest against your breasts as only atoms separated you at this point. As he began to find a rhythm, your nipples rubbed against his taught muscles, extra pert from no longer being warmed by the spray of the shower and already oversensitive from your changing hormones. Your thighs burned as you efforted to keep yourself upright and if you weren’t in so much pleasure you would collapse into the puddle of warm water at your feet. Already still worked up from your last orgasm, you could feel another approaching quickly as his cock dragged deliciously along your walls

“Please…please…” you groaned into his ear, nuzzling at him to just be as close as you could

“I know sweetheart, I know. Let go for me, yeah?”

This orgasm was stronger than the last, blossoming from your core through the rest of your body. Your walls spasmed strongly around him and you could feel his muscles flex under you as he worked to hold you steady. All you could do was ride it out and cling to him like a koala as you came down.

He must have been close too, because Matt’s pace began to falter as he pitched himself up into you. Reveling in the dissipating fizz of you own after shocks, you somehow managed to bring a shaky hand up from his back and run it through his hair, giving it a soft tug.

“So close baby. So close.” he promised, kissing at your neck

It only took a little longer of you nuzzling against him and running a hand up and down his warm skin before he was grunting and shaking against you, releasing inside you in with a groan.

The mix of both your releases ran down your leg and combined with the rainfall droplets from the shower head above, now a lukewarm temperature, running into the drain.

“Careful, it’ll be slippery” Matt said as he gingerly removed himself from you and helped guide your leg off the bench.

Once you were out of the shower and all dried, you laid in bed snuggled in Matt’s embrace with your back flush against his chest. Wrapped comfortably in an old Columbia sweatshirt of Matt’s that he offered to you as you got ready for bed. You suspected the soft navy garment was a subtle territory mark over the one of Frank’s that still sat in the unpacked box.

He kissed at your forehead and ran a hand protectively over your stomach. You weren’t yet showing. Anyone passing by on the street wouldn’t think so at least. But you definitely looked like you had one too many burritos if you wore the right clothing. Getting dressed in the mornings had you favoring more stretchy pants and loose fitting dresses these days and you knew you’d need to get some maternity items sooner rather than later.

“I should get going soon. Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?” Matt asked

You turned to face him, gently taking his chin in your palm.

“Matt, no. Please don’t go at all.” you plead “I really appreciate you doing the decent thing and trying to find Frank, but there’s no point. We’re building a life here together. I’m happy. You’ve already been so committed to this family and so am I. We don’t need Frank. I don’t need Frank. I just need you.”

Matt took the hand you’d been stroking his face with and moved it down to the left side of his chest, letting it rest over his heart.

The way he smiled at you, sincere and genuine made your heart want to burst.

“Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you want.” he agreed

You rewarded him with a sweet kiss, happy with the way he grinned into it.

“Maybe some day, when this is more behind us, you can tell me exactly what went down between the two of you. I know it’s complicated.”

Matt nodded in agreement.

“But not tonight. You need rest baby, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You hummed, twisting to resume your position laying back against his chest.

As you drifted off to the sound of his steady heartbeat in your ears, you clung tightly to him, finally content at having such a soft place to land. A soft place with Matt.

And then a thought danced across your brain, as gentle as a feather in the wind.

I love you.

Goddammit.

You would have loved to stay in bed just a little longer, angrily burrowing further under the cover at the realization that it was already morning. But the way you could hear Matt rushing around getting ready, you knew you needed to get up.

When you opened your eyes, however, you weren’t expecting to see him already fully dressed, finishing the last loop on his tie.

“Matt?”

He rushed to your side and placed a quick kiss on your forehead. He appeared panicked, eyes darting everywhere as he adjusted the knot on his tie.

“Sweetie, I am so sorry but the judge just called an emergency session for the Madison trial next week. I’m going to go to the courthouse and see what I can do to get out as quick as I can.

Your heart sank. Your 12 week appointment was today.

“Matt, it’s—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s fine sweetheart, cause I know it’s not.”

Flopping back down onto your pillow you let out a sigh, unsure of what to say. The disappointment was twisting knots into your stomach and you could feel the tears beginning to pool in your waterline.

“You’re right it’s not, but I guess I really don’t have a choice.”

“I will explain to the judge and see if he’ll let me go early. I’ll try to meet you there.”

You nodded, utterly dejected at the thought of Matt missing this crucial appointment. What if everything wasn’t okay? Matt wiped at the tear that had escaped and was running down your cheek at the thought of receiving bad news today and Matt not being by your side for it. You should have seen this coming. It was all too good to be true. Matt was letting you down, just like Frank had. Just like all the rest. Your heart broke for yourself sure, but also for your baby. Was this what their life was going to be? A dad who couldn’t show up when it really mattered?

“I guess you gotta make money so we can feed this baby.” you joked with another sigh, causing Matt to grimace at the deflection

He gave you one more quick kiss, heart breaking at the despondence he could feel radiating from you, then he was out the door.

He texted you as much as he could throughout the day to keep you posted, but with 5 minutes to go until the doctor called you back, and Matt being 20 blocks downtown, you knew it wasn’t likely he’d make it in time. You shuffled your feet anxiously against the floor of the waiting room, hoping by some miracle he’d pop through the door.

Of course it wasn’t until you were leaving the doctor’s, appointment complete and paperwork filled with news in hand, that you finally got the text from him.

‘Leaving now. In a cab.’

Fucking of course.

You texted him back.

‘Just finished. Meet at your office instead?’

You’d figure out a way to make him pay you back later for missing out on this, but right now all you wanted to do was get to him and tell him everything.

When the taxi dropped you off, you looked up, Matt’s figure clear in the window of his 5th floor office pacing back and forth.

If you weren’t pregnant and exhausted, you’d have taken the stairs just to punish him with waiting to see you a little longer. Instead you opted for the elevator, rocking on the balls of your feet in anticipation as it seemed to take forever to get up to his floor.

With a ding, the elevator door opened and you stepped forward to see Matt still pacing at the end of the hall. He abruptly stopped and turned as he listened to you make your way to him. You knew your heart had to be beating out of your chest and you could feel a little bit of sweat running down your back.

Clutching the little black and white printout close to your chest, you stood before him, staring into your own reflection in his cherry tinted glasses.

“How’d it go?”

“How was court?” you replied, tinge of hurt dripping in your words

“Not funny sweetheart. We’ll catch up later. The baby?”

“She’s healthy. Right on track still.”

“She?” he asked, smile slowly spreading across his face

Had you been more prepared for Matt missing the appointment, you would have done something cute to tell him like printed a braille sign or something.

“Mhm” you confirmed, holding out the ultrasound

He took it, running his hands over the smooth glossy paper, not able to read what it said but knowing the information on it was life changing.

“We’re having a girl!” he exclaimed

He place the print out on the desk behind him and took your face in his hands. Gingerly, he began to plant soft kisses on each of your cheeks, then your eye lids, then your nose, your brow, your temples, then your lips. You could feel the dampness of tears running down from his shaded eyes as he moved his lips across your face.

“We’re having a little girl.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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[carelesslycrafted]

domestic lover!ellie

cw: smut/fluff

The Jackson evening was still and warm, moonlight spilling through the open windows of your cabin. You’d both skipped dinner at the mess hall, claiming patrol fatigue—but really, neither of you had wanted to be around other people. Not tonight.

You were stretched across your bed, flipping lazily through an old guitar magazine Ellie had brought by earlier, wearing nothing but an oversized band tee and underwear. The smell of pine and smoke still lingered on your skin from the day’s ride, and the way Ellie was looking at you from across the room was doing things to you.

She was sitting on the edge of the chair, strumming her guitar aimlessly, watching you over the body of it. Her eyes flicked down your legs, slowly—lingering at the way the shirt rode up your thighs. You smirked.

“You gonna keep staring or play me something?”

Ellie set the guitar aside without a word.

“I’d rather do something else.”

Your pulse skipped. She crossed the room in three strides and hovered over you, her knee pressing into the mattress as her hand found your thigh.

You sat up a little, grinning. “What’s gotten into you?”

Her mouth brushed your jaw, then your neck, voice low and gravelly.

“You’ve been teasing me all week. Thought it was my turn.”

You shivered as her fingers toyed with the edge of your underwear. You could smell her—leather, sweat, the faint scent of her soap. Everything about her made your body ache.

“Ellie…”

You didn’t even finish saying her name before she kissed you—deep and slow and confident, her body pressing you back into the mattress. Her hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your waist as her mouth moved to your throat.

Every touch was deliberate. A slow build. She knew exactly what she was doing.

You moaned softly as her hand dipped lower, slipping between your thighs. She smirked against your skin.

“You’re already wet?” she whispered. “Damn, baby.”

You gasped as her fingers found your sweet spot, her mouth moving down to your chest, teeth grazing over your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You reached down, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. “Ellie, please…”

That snapped something in her. The shirt came off. Hers too. You tangled together like you’d done a hundred times before, but it always felt new—hot and breathless and full of fire.

The cabin was filled with the sounds of skin against skin, your breathy moans, her rough whispers in your ear—how good you were, how beautiful you looked, how she loved the way you said her name when you came undone.

She didn’t stop until your thighs were trembling, until you were whining her name like a prayer.

When you finally collapsed against her chest, sticky and breathless, she kissed the top of your head and pulled the blanket over both of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You smiled into her skin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with you either.”

And the night wasn’t over.

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the warm sunlight pouring in through the curtains, or the steady, slow circles Ellie was tracing on your bare back with her fingertips.

She was lying on her side, tangled in the sheets with you, one leg draped over yours, her face buried partly in your hair. Her touch was lazy, absentminded, but grounding. You hummed, sleep-heavy and aching in the best way.

“Good morning,” you mumbled against her chest.

She chuckled softly, voice husky. “It is now.”

You tilted your head to look at her. Her hair was a mess, eyes still half-lidded, freckles standing out in the soft light. She looked beautiful—wild and spent and smug.

“Your hands are cold,” you murmured.

“Liar.” Her hand slid a little lower, dangerously close to starting something all over again. “You just want an excuse to press up against me.”

“Do I need one?” You shifted deliberately, straddling her thigh under the covers. Ellie groaned, head tipping back.

“Shit, babe. You’re gonna kill me.”

“You survived last night,” you whispered, lips brushing hers. “Barely.”

She kissed you again, slower this time—sleepy and warm and filled with that quiet thing that had bloomed between you over time. That thing you were both afraid to name.

Eventually, the hunger in your stomach was louder than the heat curling between your legs again, and you reluctantly rolled off her.

Ellie tugged you back playfully. “Where you goin’?”

“Shower. Then breakfast. We both smell like sex and sweat.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said with a smirk, but she sat up anyway, rubbing the back of her neck. The morning sun spilled across her bare back, catching in her tattoo.

You watched her stretch, heart full. “You staying after breakfast?”

“I was thinking I’d cook it.” She stood, butt-naked and completely unbothered, sauntering to the kitchen to raid your pantry.

“You don’t even know where anything is!” you called.

“Then come show me,” she shouted back.

So you did—wrapped in just a towel, still dazed from the night before, watching her fumble through cabinets and pretend she had it under control.

Ellie in your kitchen was something different. She looked domestic, barefoot and still flushed from sleep, cooking eggs while humming under her breath. She wore one of your shirts, her own nowhere to be seen, and it swallowed her shoulders in a way that made your stomach twist.

You slid your arms around her from behind, resting your chin on her shoulder. “You’re kinda hot when you’re pretending to be useful.”

“Excuse you, I am incredibly useful,” she said, flipping a lopsided pancake like it was proof. “I made you come three times last night. That buys me at least a week of no chores.”

You laughed into her neck. “Okay, fair.”

She turned in your arms, hands on your hips, and kissed you again—soft, slow, and real. Her eyes searched yours for something unspoken.

“You know,” she murmured, “you could ask me to stay more often.”

You bit your lip, voice suddenly smaller. “Would you say yes?”

Ellie tucked your hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Every time.”

You kissed her, then again, and didn’t stop until the eggs were cold, and the pancakes were burnt, and it was well past noon.

[qivrae]

firstly im absolutely obsessed with your writing rn

if you can maybe on where spencer is off on a case and tells reader to be good but he catches her in the act (maybe with a vibrator) and he punishes her with edging or overstim?

feel free to ignore this if you dont feel like writing it regardless have a great day/night xx

consequences - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: first request, hope you likey

You knew the moment his phone buzzed on the nightstand. The tone was different— short, clipped. The kind they used when something couldn’t wait. Spencer rolled over and checked it with a sleepy groan, rubbing the heel of his hand into one eye.

“Hotch,” he mumbled. His fingers moved across the screen, then he sighed. That was all it took. You were awake now too. He looked over at you, already apologetic. “They need us in Virginia. Four-day consult.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You were used to it. This wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But that didn’t mean it ever got easier. You’d just gotten used to adjusting the shape of missing him.

“When do you leave?” you asked, voice still rough from sleep.

“An hour.”

You nodded, blinking up at him. The room was still dim, washed in that early blue light that made everything soft but his features had already started to steel with focus. He was sliding out of bed, grabbing his go-bag from the closet. Efficient. Distant, in that way he got when the case was already unfolding in his head. You watched him pack. Watched him tuck his badge into one pocket, a fresh stack of books into another. Watched the little rituals of departure that had started to sting less over time but never stopped completely.

He came back over when he was done, still in his socks,and leaned over to kiss your forehead. You caught his hand in yours before he could move away. “Be safe.”

“I will,” he promised. “And I’ll text you when we land.”

You nodded. He leaned closer again, brushing your nose with his and letting your hands settle on his chest. You knew he wanted to say more. You felt it in the pause. Instead he just kissed you, warm and lingering then pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Be good for me, okay?”

You smiled faintly. “Always.” The door clicked shut behind him a few minutes later. And then the apartment was quiet. You tried to keep yourself busy that first day. Made a list of errands. Washed the sheets, even though they didn’t really need it. Wore one of his sweatshirts that swallowed you whole and curled up on the couch with a book you weren’t really reading.

You checked your phone too often. Not because he didn’t message— he did. Regularly. Brief updates, a photo of a diner menu he thought was funny, a note about the hotel being gross. But none of it really felt like him. Not the version of him you missed. The one whose fingers threaded through your hair when he passed behind you, who always curled around you like a warm, steady anchor in the middle of the night. By the second day, you were counting the hours.

You weren’t sleeping well. The bed felt too big without his weight on one side. You found yourself reaching for him in the middle of the night, half-asleep, only to be met with cold sheets and nothing else.

You missed his voice. Not through the phone but close—near your ear, low and soft and teasing. You missed the warmth of his hand on the back of your neck when he told you things he didn’t say out loud in front of others. You missed the way he looked at you when you were beneath him, his every nerve tuned to your pleasure. By day three, the ache had settled in. Low. Constant. Not just physical—it was emotional too. A kind of restless wanting that curled beneath your skin like heat. It wasn’t just that you missed being touched. You missed being his. You curled tighter under the blankets that night and tried to will yourself to sleep. Tomorrow, you reminded yourself.

He’ll be home tomorrow. Just one more night is all you had to wait. But you couldn’t. You didn’t mean to give in. Not at first. You’d tried to be good. Really, you had. Spencer had only asked one thing before he left and you’d promised him— half-asleep, half-joking but still—you said you’d behave. But something about tonight felt different.

The air was heavier or maybe that was just you. You hadn’t been able to focus on anything all day, skipping from one task to another like your own skin was too tight. No book could hold your attention, no amount of cleaning or music could chase away the dull, steady ache building low in your belly.

It wasn’t just the physical need—it was the absence of him. The lack of his touch, his voice, his quiet presence in the corner of the room. You missed the safety of him. The way he could look at you and make your whole body respond like it had been rewired just for him. You’d gone to bed early just to escape the feeling. Curled up in one of his T-shirts again, still a little damp from the dryer and buried your face in his pillow. It helped. A little. But the ache was still there.

It throbbed between your thighs like a pulse, constant and maddening. You shifted, trying to find a comfortable position but the soft brush of fabric only made things worse. Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed tighter. And still nothing eased it. You bit your lip and rolled onto your back. The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the city filtering through the blinds. For a while, you stared at the ceiling. Then you turned your head to the empty space beside you on the bed. Your hand drifted into your bedside table before you could think better of it.

You found it easily—the small, familiar shape of the vibrator you kept there. Just in case. Not for when Spencer was away but for when he was gone for the long ones. The ones that hurt. But this hurt too, didn’t it? You hesitated, fingers curling around it.

Spencer wouldn’t want you to suffer. He wasn’t cruel. He was gentle. Attentive. He cared about your pleasure—his own pleasure was practically tethered to yours. He got off when you did but it was never about denial for denial’s sake. Still— he’d told you to be good. You swallowed. You turned the toy on, just the lowest setting and slid it between your thighs.

You hissed at the contact—so sharp, so sudden after all that buildup. You’d soaked through your underwear without even realizing it. The vibration was almost too much right away but your body reacted like it had been waiting for this exact moment, already half-undone. You pushed your panties aside and let the toy rest directly against your clit, your hips lifting instinctively. You barely had to move. The pleasure struck you so fast and so deep you gasped, one hand fisting in the sheets. In your mind, it wasn’t your hand. It was his. The toy became his fingers, slow and clever and patient. His mouth, warm and insistent. You imagined him on his knees at the foot of the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach to keep you still, his voice low and pleased. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. Let me hear you.”

A quiet moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You bit down on your fist and forced your eyes shut. You didn’t want to hold back. You were already close—too close. The edge was coming fast, your thighs trembling around the toy as your hips rocked harder, chasing it. You needed this. Just this. Just once. The muscles in your stomach started to tighten. You pressed the vibrator harder, arching your back, mouth falling open as your breath hitched. The front door opened. A soft click. Your body froze.

No no no no no. You scrambled to shut off the toy but your hands were shaking and the sound it made as you fumbled with it—that was what gave you away. The telltale, traitorous hum. Still half on. Still slick in your hand.

“Baby?”

His voice. You whipped your head toward the door in horror, breath caught in your throat. Footsteps. You didn’t even have time to throw the toy or bury it in the sheets before the bedroom door creaked open. Spencer stood in the doorway, travel-worn and windblown. His waves were a little messy, jacket still on. But his eyes moved fast. First to you. Then to your hand. Then to the vibrator. Then back up to your face. Silence.

The only sound was your own ragged breathing, the soft whirring of the toy still pulsing faintly in your palm. Spencer arched an eyebrow, and his voice came low. Unmistakably calm. Quiet.

“Did I not tell you to be good?”

Your lips parted but nothing came out. Your heart was still slamming against your ribs, face burning hot as the vibrator finally stilled in your hand. Spencer stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. You sat up, pulling your knees toward your chest. Your way of trying to hide the evidence even though it was too late.

“I—” you started but his eyes flicked down to your thighs.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you. Like he was studying you. You couldn’t read his expression. It was neutral, quiet, unreadable but there was something simmering under the surface. Something restrained. Spencer shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly on the back of the chair. He didn’t say a word.

“I didn’t think you’d be back tonight,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded slowly, toeing off his shoes. “Clearly.” There was no anger. No raised voice. Just that maddening calm, the kind that made your stomach twist. He stepped closer. You clenched your thighs. You were so suddenly aware of how soaked you still were, how sensitive. You could still feel the phantom vibrations ghosting along your clit. And his eyes caught every detail.

“You said you’d be good,” he murmured, stopping at the edge of the bed. “I believed you.”

“I tried,” you said, your voice a little desperate now. “I did.”

“Tried?” he repeated, arching a brow. “That what this is?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The silence that followed was heavy. Just when you thought he might scold you, he hummed thoughtfully and reached for you. You blinked. His hands closed around your ankles and gently tugged. You didn’t resist— couldn’t really and let him pull you toward the edge of the bed until your legs dangled over, spread just enough for him to settle between them. He sank to his knees. Your breath hitched.

“I should be mad,” he said while tilting his head, hands stroking slowly up your calves. “I told you not to touch yourself, baby. And you promised.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in and kissed your inner thigh. It was soft, open-mouthed, dragging his lips over the heated skin until your body shivered. His hands held you firm by the hips, not hurting, but inescapable. Your thighs threatened to close but he nudged them apart again without a word.

“You wanted to come so bad you couldn’t wait for me?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

A small, quiet laugh left him. Not cruel but just amused. Dark. “I see.” And then without another word he leaned in and licked you. You gasped, fingers clenching in the sheets. His tongue was slow, teasing, not rough or punishing, just deliberate. Focused. Like he had all the time in the world and every intention of taking it. Your hips arched into his mouth and he let you move, his arms looping under your thighs to hold you steady. His tongue circled your clit then dragged down to your entrance, tasting you with reverent hunger.

You whimpered. He hummed low in his throat and the vibration made your whole body jolt. You couldn’t help the moan that slipped from your lips, hands flying to his hair and fingers curling in his curls. He let you pull—encouraged it even but stayed in full control. His pace was agonizing. Every time you started to climb, his tongue slowed. Every time your hips bucked, he held you down. His lips sealed over you and sucked softly, pulling a sharp cry from your throat but he didn’t relent. Not enough. Just enough to keep you at the edge.

“Spence,” you whimpered, breathless. “I’m close—please—”

He didn’t answer. Just kept going. Unbothered, relentless. Like this was his reward, not yours. Like your begging didn’t faze him in the slightest. You were trembling now, thighs shaking, the pressure building to the point of pain. You were so close, could feel the heat coiling tight, ready to snap. And then he pulled away. Your entire body seized with a choked cry. You reached for him on instinct, hips chasing the loss, legs trembling.

“No—no, please—”

Spencer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood slowly, his eyes dark and steady as he looked down at you.

“Not yet,” he said calmly. “You don’t get to come just because you want to.”

You blinked up at him, breathless, panting. Your skin was flushed and soaked and aching. He leaned down, brushing a kiss over your cheek, lips just barely brushing your ear.

“You wanted to be bad,” he whispered. “Now you get to wait.”

Your thighs were damp and twitching, your chest heaving with shallow breaths and your clit throbbed with the cruel absence of his mouth. You’d been so close. So close you could taste it and now every nerve in your body was screaming from the denial. Spencer stood over you, his hair falling into his face as he looked down at you. His eyes were unreadable but you could see it in the slight twitch of his jaw. He liked seeing you like this. Flushed. Trembling. Wrecked.

“Still worked up?” he asked softly, brushing his fingertips along your inner thigh. You whimpered and nodded.“Hm.” He let that hum sit in the air as he slipped one hand between your legs again, fingers grazing through the mess he’d left behind. You gasped at just the lightest touch and your hips jerked up, desperate.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Made a mess all over yourself, baby.”

You moaned when he circled your entrance, teasing, not even pushing in.

“Did you think I’d come home and find you sweet and innocent? Tucked in, still aching for me like a good girl?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the sheets. “I—I missed you.”

“I know you missed me,” he said, dragging one finger up your slit, slick and slow. “But I told you to wait. I told you to behave. And instead…” He slid one finger inside you. Your back arched immediately, a helpless cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t give you time to recover. His finger curled inside you, slow and sure, dragging against that spot that made you clench hard around him. You cried out again, hips bucking but he stayed steady— another finger joining the first with no warning.

“Spence—oh my God—” His free hand pressed to your stomach, holding you down firmly.

“That’s better,” he said, voice low. “You’re quiet when you take my fingers. Focused. Needy.”

He started to move them, slow at first. Measured. The stretch was perfect—his fingers always knew exactly where to press, when to curl, how deep to slide. You were already soaked for him and the wet sounds between your legs only made it worse. Made it filthier. Made you needier. You moaned again, louder and he picked up the pace just slightly. Every thrust of his hand drove you closer to the edge, your thighs shaking, toes curling.

“God, please. I’m so close—”

“Don’t care,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

He twisted his fingers inside you and you sobbed at the pressure. Your walls were fluttering around him already, your whole body wound tight like a thread about to snap. You reached down and grabbed his wrist, not to stop him but to hold on. Anchor yourself to something. Spencer leaned over you slightly, voice right against your cheek.

“You want something more?”

You nodded frantically.

“I don’t think you do,” he said, curling his fingers again. “You’re dripping all over my hand just from this.”

“I want you,” you gasped, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “Please—I want you—”

“You have me.”

“No. I want you—your cock. Spence please—”

He stilled his hand. Just for a second.“What was that?”

You whimpered. You were squirming under him, so close it hurt. “I need you inside me. Please, Spence. I’ll be good—please.”

He smiled. There it was. That edge of satisfaction that came when he knew you were saying exactly what he wanted to hear.

“You’re not gonna come on my fingers,” he murmured. You whimpered again but he didn’t budge. Instead, he slipped his fingers out slowly and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean like he had all the time in the world. Then he leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was hungry and deep. Making you taste yourself. Your arousal. When he pulled away, he looked you straight in the eye.

“Roll over,” he said, voice calm and final.

You rolled over so fast your limbs tangled in the sheets. Spencer didn’t laugh but you heard it in his breath. Felt it in the way his hands slid up your hips, grounding you in place. The air was thick and hot around you. Your skin flushed, your thighs still trembling from his fingers. You hadn’t come. But you would. You had to. You heard him move behind you— clothes shifting, belt unbuckling. It felt like forever. The drag of anticipation. The sound of him unzipping. The quiet rustle as he pushed his pants down. Then the weight of him settled behind you, pressing close.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your hair away from your neck. “Lying so still for me now.” You whimpered when you felt his cock nudge between your thighs—thick and hard, sliding through your wetness, unhurried. He didn’t push in. Not yet.

“I haven’t even touched you properly,” he said softly, almost like he was marveling at it. “One taste, a few fingers and you’re already this desperate?”

“Spence…”

“Shh.” His hand slid up your back. Then back down, tracing your spine like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“You’ll come when I say,” he whispered, lining himself up at your entrance. And then he pushed in. You moaned loud and broken, your body stretching around him with aching pressure. He went in all the way on the first stroke, bottoming out with a low groan that buzzed straight through your skin.

“God, baby…” He stayed still for a moment, letting you feel every inch. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, and he hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You couldn’t speak. You were too full, too overwhelmed, too wrecked by everything that came before. Your body shook beneath him, already aching for more. He pulled back. Then thrust in hard. You cried out so loud it echoed in the room and he did it again, slow, then rough, setting a rhythm that made your knees buckle beneath you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Didn’t give you a second to breathe. Just kept fucking into you with firm, deliberate strokes, the slap of skin against skin growing louder, wetter, filthier. His hand curled around your throat, holding you there and he pulled you up to bring his mouth to your ear.

“Feel that?”

You moaned, nodding frantically.

“That’s what you needed, isn’t it? Not your little toy. This.”

“Yes—yes.”

He grunted softly, his rhythm shifting—slower now, deeper, dragging each thrust until you sobbed. You bit your lip, whimpering, your body already on fire. You could feel it building, hot and coiled and devastating, your orgasm crawling closer with every thrust.

“Please—please—”

His hand slid down your front and found your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles. You moaned. Your body jerked so hard he had to press a hand to your lower back to keep you from collapsing completely.

“I said not yet.”

You sobbed, every muscle trembling. He kept going. Fucking you deep and slow, pushing you to that edge and keeping you there, his fingers unrelenting on your clit.

“Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Spence! God—please—”

“Say it.”

“I need it. Need to come—please, I can’t wait.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Come for me.”And you shattered. It hit like a wave—violent and hot and all-consuming. Your body clenched around him, trembling uncontrollably as he held you down and fucked you through it, slow and steady, never letting up. Your scream broke into gasps, sobs, your voice cracking with the force of it. You were gone. Lost. Floating. He didn’t stop until your body sagged in his arms, boneless and twitching.

Only then did he ease out of you carefully. You felt the loss instantly. It was empty and aching—but you couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Just whimpered as he kissed your back and rubbed slow circles into your hip. He was still hard. Still very much not finished. But he didn’t say anything about that yet. Instead he leaned close, voice a whisper against your ear. “That’s one.”

Your body was limp. Still trembling. Still twitching. The sheets were tangled around your legs, your cheek pressed into the mattress, slick and flushed and boneless from the orgasm he let you have. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, heart still racing, your thighs weak and slick between them. You couldn’t think. Could barely feel. Just the thrum of pleasure lingering in your bones, the warm heaviness of being used and wanted. But Spencer wasn’t done.

You felt him behind you—still hard, still pressed against your backside, still calm as ever. You tried to speak, to catch your breath but then you felt his hand curl around your hip again.

“Don’t tense,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your spine. “You can take more.”

Your heart skipped.

“Spence, I dunno if I can…”

“You will,” he said, shifting your hips slightly. “You’re still dripping for me.”

You didn’t have time to protest—before he slid back inside you. Your whole body jolted. It wasn’t pain, not really. But it was sharp—intense. A shock of sensation that made your legs flinch and your voice catch in your throat. He groaned softly above you.

“Still so tight,” he breathed. “Still clenching like you want more.”

You moaned, helpless. You were clenching—your body reacting on instinct, even as your brain begged for a break. He didn’t give you one. His pace was slow at first, dragging every inch of him along your still-sensitive walls. You whimpered, every nerve on fire again, every brush of friction setting off sparks.

“Can’t,” you gasped, barely audible. “It’s too much—”

“Yes you can,” he said, thrusting deeper. “Thought you wanted it?”

His hand slid between your legs again. Two fingers found your clit, swollen and soaked and rubbed in tight, steady circles. You cried out. Your whole body arched off the bed as he thrust deep and circled that overstimulated bundle of nerves, giving you no relief. His touch wasn’t fast—it was precise, measured, maddening. Designed to drag every last ounce of pleasure out of you whether you could take it or not.

“Spence—Spence, please—”

“You’re taking it,” he said, panting now. “You’re gonna come again. Right on my cock.”

You couldn’t breathe. He fucked you deeper, faster, pressing harder on your clit, every stroke knocking the breath from your lungs. You were so sensitive but your body betrayed you anyway. You felt it building again, that second high climbing fast, burning hot behind your ribs.

“Tell me,” he growled, his voice shaking now. “Tell me it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you choked. “All yours Spence, I’m gonna come. Please—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. His cock hit just right, his fingers unrelenting.

“Do it.”

And then you broke again. It hit even harder this time—sharper, deeper. Your vision blurred, your hands clawing at the sheets as your whole body convulsed around him. You screamed his name as your orgasm crashed through you, raw and overwhelming, your cunt clenching so tight around him it dragged a groan from his throat.

He fucked you through it—still deep, still steady—his breathing ragged now, hand braced on your lower back to keep you down as you writhed under him.

You felt him twitch inside you. And then he finally pulled out with a sharp gasp. You barely registered the sound of him stroking himself behind you—just the wet, fast rhythm of his hand and the broken curse that spilled from his mouth as he came. Hot, thick spurts across your lower back, warm and messy, his breath stuttering above you. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just lay there, boneless and wrecked, soaked and shaking, your chest pressed to the bed as Spencer caught his breath behind you.

His hand ran down your spine again. Gentle. Soft. “You did so good,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “So fucking good for me.”

[rj-anderson]

I've just realized I never posted another update here about how we got my 93-yo mom into assisted living a couple months ago, and it is THE ABSOLUTE GREATEST STORY and I'm still just reeling with amazement over how it all came together, so here it is under the cut.

As you will know if you read my earlier posts about Mom, I've been her primary caregiver for the last few years, especially since my dad passed away in early 2020 (we were able to hold a beautiful, well attended memorial service for him right before the first lockdown, another bit of timing I am still very grateful for).

And as you will also know if you read those previous posts, Mom's mental clarity and ability to look after herself has been going downhill for the last couple years, and despite her overall sweet disposition and gratefulness for everything I was doing, by Dec. 2024 I was at my wits' end and really close to burning out. Only a blessed last-minute increase in respite care, thanks to a pilot program coordinated by my local hospital and Alzheimer's Society, enabled me to keep going while I waited and prayed for a long term care placement for Mom.

That being said, we'd already been warned that it could be up to five years before Mom got an offer, because despite her acute nerve pain attacks, chronic vertigo and increasing cognitive issues, she was not considered to be "in crisis". (I was definitely having a crisis as her caregiver, but that didn't count.) So from an outside perspective, it looked unlikely if not downright impossible that we would find a place within the next 12-18 months, unless Mom had a major health crisis.

Despite that, though, I had a strange deep-down confidence that something was going to change soon. In fact, part of me really felt sure that it would happen by spring at the latest. Now this was a bewildering feeling to have, because I am one of the least mystical woo-woo people in the world, and objectively it didn't seem likely to happen at all. So I found myself praying that God would keep me from clinging to false hopes (if they were false) and prepare me not to be discouraged or bitter if my feeling turned out to be groundless.

But I also found myself praying, "Lord, I don't how this is going to work out with Mom, but I look forward to praising you for whatever you're going to do." Because I remembered how things had gone with my Dad's care, and how the best plans I had in mind turned out to be not nearly as wise or good as the way God arranged it in the end.

Anyway, a number of things happened in December that made me question my belief that Mom would be best off in long term care, despite all the efforts I'd gone to choosing the right places for her. I took her to see the closest home on our list, thinking it would be a positive experience and put some of her fears to rest, but EVERYTHING about that tour was a disaster. It was far too big, and noisy, and overwhelming, and my mom kept saying "I could never go to a place like that, I would be totally lost. I'd rather be out on the street."

So I ended up having to take that particular home off the list, which brought our options from three down to two and made it even less likely to get a room offer. But that experience did make very clear what kind of place Mom wanted -- small, homey, quiet, and easy to navigate, with fellow residents she could talk to, and ideally some opportunity for Christian fellowship. Unfortunately, I didn't know of a single long term care home in our area that fit that description.

Until the first week of January 2025, when I joined my regular Zoom prayer meeting with three women from my old church. And as I was telling them about my difficulties, one of them said, "Oh, I wish your mom could go to the home where [a woman who also used to go to our church] is living! It would be so perfect for her!"

Now, I had heard plenty about that woman and the wonderful Mennonite assisted living home she'd moved into a few months earlier, but I never thought it could be a fit for my Mom. However, after that conversation I looked up the home's website and realized that not only was the place much closer than I'd thought it was, it sounded like they might actually be able to provide the level of care Mom needed.

I called the care home. We had a good, thorough talk about Mom's needs. I set up an appointment for a tour. And from the instant I stepped in the door, I knew this was the place our family had been praying for. Not only was it newly renovated, small, quiet and cozy, offering home-style meals and regular church services, there was a lovely vacant room with a view that immediately made me think, "This is Mom's room."

Long story short -- and skipping over a multitude of other unexpected blessings and mercies of God along the way -- we moved Mom into her new apartment in mid-February. They even allowed us to paint the room her favourite colour, and set it up with all the furniture and pictures she needed to make it feel like home, before we brought her in. And since then, she's been getting all the medical and personal care she needs, I've been able to enjoy regular visits with her while also having a life of my own again, and despite having had twelve acute pain episodes over the six months before the move, Mom has not had even one attack since she got there.

Despite all the hardships, discouragements, seeming dead ends, and other ups and downs of the past year -- even because of them, in some cases -- God has been faithful and very, very good. So I am keeping the promise I made a few months ago, when all seemed utterly hopeless, and praising Him for what He's done.

[favefandomimagines]

I Know Places 5 (r.c)

Summary: Y/N becomes suspicious of Rafe, while JJ becomes suspicious of Y/N

Taglist: @luvrclub

AN: i think this has like three or four chapter left! But I feel like their self indulgent at this point lol

Previous Part

The Pogues’ house was bustling with the usual chaotic energy that came with living under one roof. Sand trailed in from the front porch, damp towels were slung over chairs, and the faint smell of sunscreen still lingered in the air. It was home—a messy, loud, and ridiculously nosy home.

That was what made sneaking around so damn difficult.

Y/N stood in her room, hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest.

She wasn’t nervous about seeing Rafe. No, she was thrilled—her entire body buzzing with anticipation at the thought of being with him again.

What had her on edge was keeping it all under wraps.

Lying wasn’t something Y/N did often, especially not to JJ or the rest of the Pogues. They were her family. But this? This was something different.

This was hers.

And while she wished she didn’t have to keep it a secret, she knew that the moment JJ found out, all hell would break loose.

Kie sat cross-legged on Y/N’s bed, watching with her usual amused expression as Y/N fussed with her earrings. “You’re like a lovesick puppy.”

Y/N turned, her lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “I know. It’s weird. A guy has never made me feel like this before.”

Kie let out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s what’s weird. Not the fact that Rafe Cameron is the one doing it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She knew how it sounded. Hell, if someone had told her a year ago that she’d be sneaking around to go on dates with Rafe, she would have laughed in their face.

But here she was.

Kie leaned back on her elbows, her teasing expression softening into something more sincere. “I’m sorry you feel like you have to hide this.”

Y/N sighed, glancing down at her hands. “It’s JJ I’m worried about. You know how he is. I’m positive he’d disown me as his sister if he found out.”

Kie frowned slightly, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. “I mean… he would freak out,” she admitted. “But disown you? C’mon, Y/N. He’d never do that.”

Y/N gave her a skeptical look. “Kie, he still holds a grudge against the guy who took my sandwich in fourth grade. What do you think he’d do if he found out I was seeing his mortal enemy?”

Kie winced. “Okay, fair point.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment before Kie hesitated, then said, “Sarah wouldn’t judge you. After all, Rafe is her brother.”

“Maybe,” Y/N murmured, twisting a ring around her finger absentmindedly. “I don’t know. I’m just… scared.”

Scared of what JJ would say.

Scared of what everyone would say.

Scared that if she said it out loud, it would all fall apart.

Kie sighed, sitting up straighter. “I get it. And I won’t say anything. Just—don’t shut me out, okay?”

Y/N met her gaze, gratitude shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Kie grinned, nudging her with her foot. “Now, tell me—what’s the plan for this mystery date?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “I actually have no idea. He wanted it to be a surprise.”

Kie raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Okay, I take back some of my judgment. The boy’s got game.”

Y/N chuckled, standing up. “I’m meeting him at the lighthouse.”

Kie stretched her arms over her head. “Well, have fun. And forget about all the JJ-and-Pogue drama tonight, okay? Just enjoy it.”

Y/N smiled, feeling some of the tension ease from her chest. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

With that, Y/N grabbed her bag, took one last deep breath, and left the house—excitement bubbling beneath her skin as she headed for the lighthouse.

She had no idea what Rafe had planned.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t worried about it.

||

The lighthouse stood tall against the dusky sky, its beacon flashing intermittently over the ocean, casting fleeting streaks of golden light across the water. The waves crashed rhythmically against the rocky shore, the salty air thick and humid, sticking to Y/N’s skin as she stood near the railing.

She wrapped her arms around herself, a small shiver running through her—not from the cold, but from the anticipation.

She had never waited for a guy like this before, had never cared enough to feel this kind of nervous excitement. But Rafe Cameron had changed that.

She glanced down at her phone. No message yet.

A small smile tugged at her lips. He’d be here soon.

But before she could fully settle into that thought, another voice broke the quiet.

“Hey, Y/N.”

Her spine stiffened at the sound.

She turned, her eyes landing on a figure standing just beyond the lighthouse’s glow.

Barry.

His presence was unwelcome, but not surprising.

She took him in—black eye, fresh cuts on his face, the signature smirk that she hated—and immediately rolled her eyes.

Great.

“What do you want, Barry?” Y/N asked flatly, crossing her arms.

Barry let out a low chuckle, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The orange ember flared to life, casting sharp shadows across his bruised face.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he exhaled, smoke curling around his words. “Just here to meet a buyer. Didn’t think I’d run into you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Yeah? Well, I wish you hadn’t.”

Barry let out an amused hum, taking another drag from his cigarette. His gaze flickered over her, assessing. “So… meeting Country Club?”

She clenched her jaw. He wasn’t supposed to know about that.

“What’s it to you?” she shot back, voice steady despite the slight unease crawling up her spine.

Barry smirked, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Be careful around him,” he said casually. “Rumor has it he’s made enemies of the wrong people.”

Y/N froze.

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as Barry’s words echoed in her mind.

Enemies.

She thought about Rafe’s break-in, the way he brushed it off when she asked about it. She had pushed the thought aside, convinced herself that if it was serious, he’d tell her.

But now…

Now, doubt crept in.

Before she could press for more, the sound of an approaching truck rumbled through the quiet night.

Barry glanced toward the headlights as they approached, then smirked. “Speak of the devil.”

Rafe’s truck came to a slow stop, the engine cutting off as he stepped out.

His usual cocky smirk was absent. Instead, his face was set in a sharp, serious expression, his blue eyes locking onto Barry with immediate suspicion.

Barry, ever the instigator, gave him a lazy salute. “Later, Maybank.”

Then, with one last glance at Y/N, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the darkness.

Y/N exhaled, shaking her head. “Fucking waste of space.”

Rafe’s gaze flickered between her and Barry’s retreating form. His jaw tightened. “Was he bothering you?”

Y/N shrugged, shifting her weight. “Just Barry being Barry.”

“Stay away from him,” Rafe said immediately.

Y/N turned to face him fully, furrowing her brows. “I can handle myself, Rafe. Especially with Barry.”

“I know you can,” Rafe said, his voice softer now, his fingers flexing at his sides. “It’s just… I don’t trust him.”

Something about the way he said it made her pause.

There was something underneath those words.

Something he wasn’t saying.

But before she could push, Rafe exhaled, shaking off the tension. He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers, grounding himself.

“Come on,” he said, giving her a small, lopsided smile. “Let’s go enjoy our date.”

Y/N hesitated for only a moment longer before nodding.

As they walked toward the truck, fingers still laced together, she couldn’t shake Barry’s warning.

Rafe had made enemies of the wrong people.

And for the first time, Y/N started to wonder just how deep his secrets went.

||

Rafe led Y/N down a narrow, overgrown path through the dunes, their hands intertwined as the sound of crashing waves filled the air. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues over the sand, and Y/N couldn’t help but marvel at the scene in front of her.

They reached a small cove where the beach curved into a secluded spot, hidden from view by a rocky outcrop. The waves were rough here, the tide stronger than most places along the Outer Banks, which was why no one ever came.

But Y/N’s eyes widened when she saw what was waiting for her.

A full picnic was set up on the sand—blankets, plush pillows, a wicker basket filled with food, and a cooler with drinks. A lantern flickered beside the setup, even though the sun had yet to fully set.

“You did all this?” Y/N asked, looking up at Rafe in disbelief.

Rafe smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Told you I was pulling out all the stops.”

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “What, trying to impress me?”

Rafe grinned. “Is it working?”

Y/N bit her lip to hide her smile. “Maybe.”

Rafe reached for her hand again, pulling her toward the picnic. They kicked off their shoes, settling onto the blanket as the salty breeze played with Y/N’s hair.

The tension of the past week—sneaking around, the secrecy, the weight of knowing she couldn’t share this with her friends—melted away as she watched Rafe pull out sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of wine.

“You really went all out,” Y/N mused, watching as he poured them both a drink.

Rafe shrugged. “Figured if I’m gonna convince you to go on a third date with me, I have to keep setting the bar high.”

Y/N smirked. “Bold of you to assume there will be a third date.”

Rafe handed her a glass, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “There will be.”

Y/N shook her head, but she was grinning as she took a sip of wine.

As they ate, they talked—really talked.

Y/N had always been curious about Rafe’s childhood. She had grown up seeing the Cameron family from a distance, watching the way Ward Cameron carried himself like he owned the island, the way Sarah seemed so effortlessly perfect in everyone’s eyes. But Rafe? Rafe had always been different.

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if things were different?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice softer now.

Rafe looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Y/N hesitated before continuing. “Like, if your dad had been different. If you and Sarah had been closer. If you had grown up… I don’t know, happier.”

Rafe exhaled a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “I think about it all the time.”

Y/N watched him carefully, noticing the way his jaw tensed.

Rafe leaned back on his elbows, staring out at the waves. “Ward was… complicated. He wanted perfection. From all of us. And I was never going to be that.”

Y/N swallowed, setting her wine glass down.

“He wanted Sarah to be the golden child. The one who got everything right. Me? I was the disappointment,” Rafe continued, his voice bitter. “And when I started screwing up, when I started proving him right… I just leaned into it.”

Y/N hesitated before reaching out, placing her hand over his. “Do you think you’d want to be back in Sarah’s life?”

Rafe was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me does. Part of me thinks it’s too late.”

Y/N squeezed his hand. “It’s never too late.”

Rafe looked at her, his blue eyes filled with something unreadable.

After a long pause, he said, “You wanna know the truth?”

Y/N nodded.

“I hated JJ,” Rafe admitted, his voice raw. “Not because of the Pogue-Kook shit. But because I envied him. I envied you.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

Rafe nodded, exhaling slowly. “I knew about your dad. I knew your childhood was shit. But you had each other. No matter how bad it got, you had someone who loved you. And then you had John B, Kie, Pope… you had family.”

His jaw clenched. “I never had that.”

Y/N’s heart ached.

She had spent her whole life thinking Rafe Cameron was just another rich kid with a perfect life. But now, sitting here with him, hearing the pain in his voice, she realized how wrong she had been.

Without thinking, she reached up, cupping his cheek. “You have me.”

Rafe inhaled sharply, like the words had physically hit him.

And then, before she could second-guess it, he leaned in.

Their lips met softly, hesitantly at first. But then, something shifted. Rafe’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer as the warmth of the moment wrapped around them.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When they finally pulled away, Rafe rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

Y/N felt like she was floating.

For so long, she had been the outlier—the one always watching from the sidelines while her friends found love, found people who made them feel wanted.

But here, with Rafe?

She felt like someone’s first choice.

And she never wanted the feeling to end.

But as the date wound down, Y/N found herself thinking back to Barry’s words.

"Rumor has it he’s made enemies of the wrong people."

She had asked Rafe about the break-in before, and he had brushed it off. But something about Barry’s warning gnawed at her.

Rafe had enemies. That much she knew.

But how deep did it go?

She wanted to ask him again, but as she looked at him—his relaxed posture, the small smile lingering on his lips—she stopped herself.

She didn’t want to taint what they had with suspicion.

She was happy.

She felt wanted.

For once, she didn’t feel like JJ’s sister, or the second choice to her friends. She felt like herself.

So, for now, she pushed the doubt away.

But some part of her knew that it wouldn’t stay buried forever

||

JJ had spent the better part of the day pretending he wasn’t bothered.

Pretending he didn’t notice the way his sister had been slipping away lately.

Pretending he didn’t care that she had been sneaking off, coming back home with that same dazed look in her eyes, like she was keeping something from him.

But JJ wasn’t stupid.

He knew Y/N better than anyone.

And something was off.

At first, he chalked it up to stress. Running the shop, dealing with the summer Tourons, handling his bullshit on a daily basis—it was a lot.

But then he noticed the way she had been glued to her phone. The way she had started making excuses to disappear for hours at a time. The way Kie, who never kept secrets from him, had been acting weird around Y/N, like she was walking on eggshells.

Something was going on.

The house was empty when the rest of the Pogues decided to head to The Wreck for the night.

Kie had tried to get him to come along, a little too eagerly, which only made JJ more suspicious.

“Nah, I’ll catch up later,” he had said, stretching out on the couch like he had no other plans.

Kie hesitated. “You sure? Free food, my treat.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you offer me free food?”

Kie forced a smile. “Since I’m feeling generous.”

JJ stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “I’m good. I’m just gonna chill for a bit.”

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she nodded. “Alright. See you later.”

The second the door shut behind her, JJ sat up, running a hand through his hair.

Y/N had been hiding something.

And now he had the house to himself to wait for her.

JJ sat in the dimly lit living room, bouncing his leg impatiently, flipping a lighter between his fingers. He hated this. He hated feeling like he didn’t know his sister anymore.

They had been through everything together.

Y/N was his person. His twin. His built-in best friend.

And now, she was keeping something from him.

JJ knew she had been lying about the “errands.” She had been gone all day.

What the hell was she really up to?

It was nearly 9 PM when JJ heard the sound of the front door unlocking.

He stayed completely still as Y/N stepped inside, her movements careful and quiet, like she was trying not to wake anyone up.

JJ watched as she reached for the light switch, completely oblivious to his presence.

The second the warm glow illuminated the room, her eyes landed on him.

She jumped, her hand flying to her chest. “Jesus, JJ, you scared the hell out of me.”

JJ didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You’ve been gone for a while.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it.

Y/N swallowed, her expression shifting just slightly—so slightly that most people wouldn’t catch it. But JJ did.

“I told you I was running errands,” she said, too quickly.

JJ tilted his head. “You’ve been gone all day, Y/N.”

Her posture stiffened, and JJ knew he was right. He knew she was hiding something.

“Errands don’t take that long,” he continued, his blue eyes locked onto hers. “So where were you really?”

Y/N hesitated.

It was the first real hesitation JJ had seen from her in a long time.

And it confirmed everything.

She was hiding something.

JJ leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “C’mon, Y/N. We both know you suck at lying.”

Y/N bit her lip, glancing toward the hallway like she was debating just walking away.

But JJ wasn’t letting this go.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look… if something’s wrong, you can tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, and for a second—a split second—JJ thought she was going to tell him the truth.

But then she exhaled, her expression shifting into something unreadable.

“I was just busy,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

JJ’s stomach twisted.

She wasn’t telling him the truth.

He could see it in her eyes.

And that realization hit him harder than he expected.

JJ trusted Y/N more than anyone. But right now? He wasn’t sure if she still trusted him.

His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice even. “Alright,” he said, standing up. “If you say so.”

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised that he was letting it go so easily.

JJ gave her a small, almost knowing smile.

But the thing was—he wasn’t letting it go.

Not even close.

He had every intention of figuring out what the hell was going on with his sister.

And whoever—or whatever—was pulling her away from him?

They were about to have a serious problem

[theeartuaist]

The App (2)

Three weeks. Two burner phones. One frenzied apartment change. That was all it took for you to start believing you were free.

You’d torched every digital breadcrumb like a fugitive with blood on their hands. The old phone? In pieces. Your social media? Wiped clean, like a crime scene bleached of evidence. The new number came from a prepaid device you bought with cash at a rundown gas station two towns over—right next to a place that sold fireworks and pickled eggs. You told no one but your family where you’d gone, and even then, you didn’t tell them why.

The apartment was smaller than the last one. Claustrophobic, maybe, but it had good bones: thick walls, double deadbolts, and a front desk guy named Marcus who treated unknown visitors like they were walking lawsuits. Most nights, you even slept through without scanning the corners for shadows that moved too smoothly, too human, but not quite enough.

For a moment, a fleeting, fragile moment, you believed you'd done it. That you’d outrun Raye.

And then the books started arriving.

The first one came five days after you moved in. No envelope, no Amazon box. Just a dog-eared romance novel—The Billionaire’s Forbidden Love—resting right in front of your door like an orphaned pet. Shirtless dude on the cover, a woman swooning like her bones had gone soft. You laughed, briefly. Then you saw the neon-yellow highlighting, thick and uneven like it had been applied with too much pressure:

“You can run, my love, but you cannot escape destiny. What belongs to me will always find its way home.”

You didn’t laugh after that. You pitched it into the alley dumpster and double-locked the door. Then you added a chair under the knob, just like your dad taught you.

The next day, the second book showed up. But this time, it was inside. Sitting right on your pillow. The highlighted passage was even worse:

“He watched from afar, memorising every pattern, every habit. True love required study, devotion, and pursuit. She would understand, eventually, that his persistence was the purest expression of his feelings.”

You tore the place apart. Every lock, every latch, every inch of ductwork. The windows were sealed, the cameras at the front desk had nothing. No one but you had come in.

By the end of the week, you had seventeen books. Seventeen. Titles like – Surrendering to the Shadow King and The Possessive Duke’s Darling. And they kept appearing in places they had no business being. One in your refrigerator, its pages damp with condensation. One stuffed between your clean towels. One curled like a sleeping dog in your shower caddy.

Each with its own highlighted passage about destiny, ownership, and love sharpened into obsession.

You considered calling the police. Then you thought about what that call would sound like: Hello, officer? I’m being stalked by a man who may not be a man and who communicates exclusively via bodice-rippers. Yeah. That’d go over well.

Then came the knock.

You crept to the peephole, half-expecting a nightmare in a human suit. But it was Mrs. Abernathy, your octogenarian neighbor with a floral scarf and a fondness for raisin cookies.

“You have a package, dear,” she called sweetly. “Special delivery.”

You cracked the door just enough to peer out. “I didn’t order anything.”

Her eyes didn’t look quite right. Too glassy, like someone had forgotten to switch them on all the way. Her smile stretched a bit too wide, like someone had drawn it there with a knife.

“Oh, I know,” she said, waving a small wrapped parcel. “That lovely boy Raye asked me to bring it. He showed me pictures. Said you were engaged. Such a devoted young man!”

You slammed the door like it was a guillotine. Locked everything. Heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ribs.

Through the wood, her voice came again, but it had a different flavor now—tinny, mechanical, like it had been routed through a bad speaker. “He asked me to tell you he’s learned from his mistakes. Movies were poor research materials. He’s found much better guides now.”

You didn’t say a word. Eventually, her steps shuffled away.

You should’ve been gone by then. Should’ve run. But something—foolish hope, or maybe just fear—kept you rooted to that spot. That night, the package still showed up.

You found it on your kitchen counter. Inside was a leather-bound journal. Handmade. Not a book but a log. Each page was filled with razor-precise handwriting—cold, methodical, obsessive. A surveillance diary.

It catalogued your life: what time you left for work, what you ordered for lunch, who you spoke to, how long your showers lasted. Some entries even had photos. From behind bushes. Across the street. Through windows. They dated back months before you ever met him.

The final page was in red ink, as if written in something warmer than pen:

“I have identified the errors in my courtship approach. Fiction is an incomplete source for behavioural protocols. I have been observing actual human mating behaviours and have identified more successful strategies. Persistence is key.”

“I have instead been consulting superior information repositories that your species calls Reddit, 4chan, and various forums dedicated to "game." I have also analyzed 2,731 dating advice blogs and YouTube channels dedicated to human mating strategies.”

“The consensus is clear: females respond to what humans designate as "alpha" behaviour. One must "hold frame" and employ "negging" and "dread game." The courtship requires what your species terms 'pushing past last-minute resistance”. I will begin again tomorrow. You will find my improvements satisfactory.”

You didn’t read any further. You just grabbed your things, left the apartment, and checked into a hotel. Paid cash. Used a fake name. You didn’t care anymore. The world you thought you knew had slipped away, and now you were just running, your phone buried in the lining of your suitcase. At dawn, your eyes opened to a rose on the pillow beside you.

Your phone buzzed, though it was supposed to be off. You checked it. The app was back.

A single message blinked at you like an open eye:

Good morning. I have located your temporary nest. Your evasion techniques are impressive but unnecessary. I now understand that pursuit and resistance are part of the dance. This is biology. I will perform correctly this time. I am upgrading for you.

You didn’t even stop to brush your teeth. You didn’t bother packing. You didn’t bother trying to reason with yourself. You were out of there in a flash, running down the hotel hall, looking for the door, the exit, the chance to breathe without Raye’s presence closing in on you like a vice.

You burst into the morning air, breath clouding in the cold, and stumble into the parking lot. The first taxi you spotted felt like a lifeline, and you threw yourself into it without thinking twice.

The driver is an old man—silver hair combed neatly, liver spots on his hands, eyes soft and wet like a dog’s. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror and smiled, a slow,little smile.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice gravelly and warm, the kind of voice you think should come bedtime stories.

“Train station.” Your voice was high, tight. “Please hurry.”

The cab pulled out with a gentle lurch.

“Bad morning?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the window and pressed yourself against the door. You stared out the window, your heart was still punching your ribs. You thought if you stayed quiet, maybe you could disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t find you.

“Boyfriend trouble?” the old man asked, trying to make it sound harmless.

You swallowed. That word—boyfriend—curled in your throat like something rotten.

“Why do you care?” you asked, too sharp.

He didn’t respond.

The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering signs, streets that all looked like they were exhaling their last breath. Then you realized something was off. A left turn when it should’ve been right. A street you didn’t recognize. You sat up, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

“Sir? Did you hear me?”

Still nothing. The cab made another turn. Left. Not toward the bus station. Not toward anything you recognised.

“Hey! Sir this isn't where the train station is,” you repeated, the chill of dread sliding under your skin like ice water. “You’re going the wrong way?”

The driver’s voice came again, but it had changed. Just slightly. Too measured. Too... calculated.

“Creating uncertainty increases emotional dependence,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“The literature states that unpredictable environments produce deeper attachments.”

You reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

You yanked this time. Still locked - child locks. Of course.

Your stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless lake. You turned back to the driver, heart hammering. “Let me out,” you said. “Now.”

“The manuals suggest limiting options increases compliance,” he says, smooth as ice, still not looking at you.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. No signal. Useless. pounded the window. “Let me the hell out!”

The taxi sped up, turning down a quieter road—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, warehouses that haven’t been used in decades. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one finds out until it’s too late.

In desperation, I looked at the driver, ready to plead, threaten, whatever it took—and froze.

In the rearview mirror, where the old man's eyes should have been reflected, there was nothing. Just empty space.

As if sensing my realization, the driver's face rippled. Like wax left too close to a fire, the old man melted away. The silver hair receded, the wrinkles smoothed. And what’s left was him.

Raye.

His familiar, too-perfect face stared back at you from the mirror, his expression neutral, observant.

“Was the old man's disguise inadequate?” he asks, genuinely curious, like a scientist observing a mouse that bit back. “I modeled it after ‘trustworthy archetypes.’”

“Let me out,” you said, quieter now. Not because you’re calm, but because you were trying to be. “Now.”

“Your heart rate has increased,” he noted. “The forums suggest this indicates attraction, yet your verbal cues suggest aversion.”

His head tilted. That same goddamn tilt you remembered from your first and last date.

“The data remains inconsistent.”

You saw the road slipping past. Warehouses and rusted fences blurring by. You tried to memorize every turn. Useless. You knew it was useless.

“Well, gee, perhaps the reason for that is because you are kidnapping me!” You spat.

He processed that. You can see him processing it. “Your cultural narratives celebrate pursuit after rejection. They frame perseverance as romantic despite the ethics and laws. Is this your attempt at stimulating narrative tension? Are you playing, as your people say, hard to get?”

You were shaking now. Not from fear—from rage. “They’re written by people who want control, not connection. Hell, do you even understand what you're reading?” You said, breath trembling, “You have no damn idea, do you?”

"The research is indeed inconsistent," he admitted with clinical detachment. The cab had slowed now, creeping down a service road lined with oleander bushes, their pink flowers drooping like exhausted dancers. "I calculated the most efficient approach based on available data," he continued, still not looking at me directly. "The forum posts with the highest engagement metrics suggested—"

"You don't know anything about love!"I gestured at th3 surroundings; the locked doors. "This just creates fear. And fear isn't the same as love.”

Raye's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just slightly. The knuckles went white, then translucent, something that looked like starlight filtering through fog.

"I have exonerated my sources. I have watched 689 romantic films," he said, voice carrying a new edge like glass scraping against glass. "Read 447 romance novels. Monitored 432 relationship advice forums. Observed—"

"OBSERVED!" You were shouting now, past caring. "That's all you do, isn't it? Watch and copy and calculate, but you've never felt a goddamn thing in whatever passes for your life."

The cab jerked to a stop.

In the terrible silence that followed, your own breathing, ragged and harsh, ricocheted in your ears. Raye's reflection had gone perfectly still. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — quieter, with a sound like distant rain.

"You are... correct. I have no experiential database for the emotion you call love. Only... approximations. Simulations." His head tilted, that familiar gesture now seeming disappointed rather than curious. "The inconsistencies in human behavior patterns suggest an underlying complexity I failed to adequately model."

Something changed in the air. The child locks clicked open.

"If love cannot be calculated or observed from the outside," he said, still facing forward, "then my research methodology is fundamentally flawed."

I didn't hesitate. My fingers were on the handle, my foot hitting the cracked asphalt before my brain could catch up. I was already running, but his final words followed me down that empty road:

"I will... recalibrate. Begin new research. Attempt to understand the variables I overlooked."

For three days, there were no books, no messages, no signs of Raye. You began to hope that perhaps you had crashed his reasoning, created a logic loop he couldn't resolve.

Then on the fourth morning, you found a book on my new kitchen table in yet another new apartment that no one should have known about. It wasn't a romance novel this time, but a philosophy text opened to a passage about identity. A note had been paper-clipped to the page, written in that same mechanically precise handwriting:

"I purged the corrupted data. Your internet contains many viruses of thought. I will observe more carefully now, without intervention. When I understand the paradox, I will return."

"The designation "fiancé" was premature. The designation "researcher" was inadequate. I find no human words for what has transpired between us. Thank you for identifying the error in my programming. I will experience love."

[luckyyyuusstuff]

Sanrio characters I think the brothers would like:

Mammon: Badtz-Maru

What? No he doesn't know about children's characters. He doesn't get why Levi is into them either. Oh it's because it's from the same place anime is made well... that makes sense. Doesn't change the fact that it doesn't concern him at all. It's Badtz-Maru. He really likes him. He thinks he's cool and even thinks they're similar.

Leviathan: Hello Kitty

Hello kitty is the classic sweet protagonist that Levi usually adores. Kind, bright and loads of friends. But just because the main character is his favourite don't mistake him for a normie because he could name every character including ones that don't stem from the Hello Kitty universe if he wanted to but he supposes if you really want to know then ----

*he yapped on for hours straight not just about the characters, but the entire Sanrio history*

Satan: Masyumaru

A talented, cute, fluffy cat there’s nothing that could make him dislike Masyumaru. He wouldn’t mind buying his merch if he’d had more recognition. Also sad that Chococat hasn’t had more recognition despite being included in a series (Japan rankings) He doesn’t understand why cats would be frowned upon because of the colour of their fur. Did you know black cats are actually a symbol of good luck and not bad- right… ahem. These two are very adorable but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate others characters such as, Kabukinyantaro, he absolutely adores Calico cats, Winkipinki, also very talented in arts, of course he doesn’t forget Hello Kitty, and, ah, and wasn’t there recently a blue cat added in as well? (They’re all cats. He continues for a while.)

Asmodeus: Bonbonribbon

She's so adorable! And she loves to sing and dance whats not to love?! A cutie into fashion too! He was even inspired to make an outfit based off her design with plenty bows and it turned out pretty well if he says so himself.

Beelzebub: Cinnamoroll

He bakes. It reminds him of Luke's baking because it looks so colourful and sugary and... Beel?? Are you drooling?! He's also loves Pompompurin. He's kind and eats a lot just like him. They both get along with each-other well too. (Beel also likes Devil Cat who's a mascot character known for liking eating food and kind personality so this makes so much sense)

Belphegor: Little Twin Stars

1. They're twins 2. They're related to the stars 3. Beel would probably like Lala, she seems the type of character Beel likes. Also Nemukko Nyago he totally understands him ...zzz.

—————————————

(any ideas for lucifer I can’t think right now maybe because it’s 3am but oh well I’ll go back on it later if I figure out)

[doctorweebmd]

accidentally* brainstormed a very complete outline for chapters 4-8 for eih, which should theoretically take us through Part 1. which is. you know. a godsend or whatever.

*accidentally meaning i was just eating delicious pancakes and the thoughts happened. usually its me crying screaming and shitting myself in front of an empty word document where ideas manifest. this is notably much more pleasant.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for telling my boyfriend’s coworkers that he’s lying about his body count?

I (35f) have been dating my boyfriend (32m) for four years. It’s honestly been the best relationship until last Friday when it all went down. I feel like I’m in the right, but now I’m wondering if I overstepped.

For context, my boyfriend has been a professional Slasher for about eight months now. He’s always really admired Cryptids, Monsters, and Nightmares so when his application was finally accepted, he was over the moon even if he was starting in a lower position than he initially applied for.

At his company, being a Slasher requires a lot of travel which we knew when he accepted the position. The end goal is for him to get a promotion to at least regional Nightmare (he wants Cryptid, but that position doesn’t have a lot of turnover) but to get that he needs to be in role for at least 12 months OR meet his goals for three months in a row. Once he promotes, we plan to relocate to his new region and “start talking about our future.”

(Side note: no this isn’t about him not popping the question yet. We are both in agreement that marriage comes after financial stability. I run a small business doing scare consults and, while it’s been growing, I wouldn’t call it stable yet. So neither of us are ready.)

I told him it’s completely normal for it to take a whole year before he’s ready to promote and he really should focus on adjusting to the company before thinking about next steps. I used to work for a competitor (I’ve been retired for five years now) and I know it can be hard to go from only taking the occasional human life to having to take over half a dozen a week. It’s not a light workload, no matter how easy it looks in the movies. One of my best friends Slashes part-time and she still only averages about five lives a week despite having done it for years. Especially these days, it can be really hard to meet quota. Humans are getting smarter, no matter what the Council wants us to think.

Anyway, boyfriend didn’t do as well as he thought he would in his first couple months. Totally understandable, of course, which I told him. I suggested he ask his boss if he could be put on a couple team assignments or even a duo until he got the hang of it. That was our first real fight. He thought I was doubting his ability to kill. He brought up how I told him it would take over a year to promote and how I said that this job wasn’t for everyone (His first assignment ended with a 0% kill rate, but that’s a different story). He said it felt like I didn’t believe in him and he said that if that was the case then maybe we shouldn’t be thinking about marriage so soon.

It got pretty messy after that. I felt like he was forgetting that I’d worked in the same field and, arguably, had a lot more experience (not to brag, but I averaged a 98% kill rate). Also, four years is NOT too soon to talk about marriage. He said I didn’t understand how he needed to focus on his career right now. I told him I thought he was taking Slasher too lightly just because it wasn’t Cryptid. He accused me of not respecting him and then things spiraled from there.

We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean and I’m embarrassed that it turned into a bit of a fang measuring contest. I ended up sleeping under the bed for a few nights until he coaxed me out to apologize.

It was a rough patch, but we talked it out. We agreed that, going forward, I wouldn’t offer advice unless he asked and he would try not to take so much of his frustration home with him. He took a weekend off and we went on a recreational haunting trip in the Montana woods.

Things did get better after that. I tried not to give him consults every time he came back from a work trip. He started bringing me souvenirs like roses and cursed puzzle boxes his work said he could have. It became easier just to hang out with each other and it felt like we were back to normal.

But then, four months ago, he came home super pissed because his boss put him on a PIP. (A performance improvement plan.) Apparently, boyfriend had not been doing better at work, he had just stopped telling me when he had a bad assignment. I saw the paperwork he got (he left it in the dungeon under the house, I didn’t go through his stuff) and he’s been missing quota by a LOT. As a junior Slasher, he was supposed to be executing at least 6 people a week, but he’d been lucky to be maiming half that.

Obviously, I had to talk to him about that. We rent our house and, even though I could have afforded the rent on my own, I didn’t want to jeopardize the investments I was making in my business (I was in the process of hiring an assistant to handle my scheduling). Plus, we agreed from day one that we would be 50/50 on rent and I would take care of the rest of the bills because I earned more. I felt that if his financial situation was in jeopardy, he needed to talk to me about it.

I tried to approach him a bit differently than last time. I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. I told him about my slasher friend and how maybe she could give him advice if he didn’t want any from me. But he said he needed to figure stuff out on his own and that if he couldn’t get himself off the PIP then he would go back to work for his dad’s janitorial company.

I let it go. I was worried but I didn’t want to fight again just after patching the holes from the last blow out. It really bugged me that he thought I didn’t believe in him so I committed to giving him the benefit of the doubt. I said okay and asked him if he needed me to meal prep for both of us that week. He offered me grocery money, but I said it was fine since I’d had to deal with a lot of humans breaking in lately and I still had some leftover in the dungeon.

Fast forward a month. Boyfriend got off the PIP super fast. He worked his way off of it over Spring Break and started taking on a lot of extra assignments. In just four weeks he went to Miami Beach twice, New York City twice, and to three separate summer camps. I missed him and it was hard not having him around but I remembered how he said he needed to focus on his career and I tried not to nag.

It was hard not to nag though. With him gone, all the housework fell on me. We rent a 19th century manor, and its upkeep really does need two people. Doing all the chores plus running my business started to really drain me. Even when he was home, he forgot to banish the ghosts (my chore is to kill all invading humans, and his chore is to banish their ghosts) and he never took out the trash. I think he cleaned blood off the dungeon walls once, but then I had to basically redo it because he missed a lot of spots.

But still, I didn’t say anything because he was doing really well at work and I didn’t want to ruin that for him. Even when Humans started breaking in every week, I didn’t complain even though it interrupted my work day.

Last month though, I did ask him if we could move somewhere that needed less maintenance. There were just way too many Humans breaking in and I didn’t have the time to deal with them anymore. Even if I don’t do all the theatrics I used to as a Cryptid, killing humans through fear still takes a lot of time. He asked me if I didn’t appreciate the free meat, and I said I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t the only butchering it.

He said he didn’t want to move because he was really close to getting promoted to regional Nightmare and he didn’t want to take time off work to move. I was so surprised that I couldn’t hide how surprised I was. He saw and got offended. He asked if I still didn’t believe in him. I said that I did, but it was a huge jump to go from an 8% kill rate to getting promoted.

He got even more mad at me for bringing up his stats and he said that he had nearly 80% kill rate since being put on the PIP. I asked how many humans a week he was slashing and he told me I was being too nosy and that was proof that I didn’t believe in him.

I asked him if we could at least hire a ghoul then to keep the humans out of my office and he said he didn’t want to waste the money that we should be saving for our new house. I asked him what he wanted me to do then? I had to take phone calls for my consulting business and it was really hard to stalk humans all around the house while trying to sound like a professional to my clients.

He asked me to be patient for one more month. He said if he met quota for one more month, his boss said he’d get promoted. So I said fine and let it go.

Fast forward to now, almost a full month later.

Last Friday, I attended the Eldritch Conference. For those not in the scare field, the Eldritch Conference is the most prestigious event in our industry. It’s invitation only and is a chance to network with all the big players in the field. Mothman, the Jersey Devil, Bloody Mary and Bigfoot all spoke this year and both my former company, Grudge Industries, and my boyfriend’s current company, Forgotten Summer Solutions, were invited.

I was surprised to get an invite as a solo contributor to the field. However, my consulting firm has really been doing well and I did land a seasonal contract with the Yeti Co-op which I guess is how they heard about me. Plus, I’ve been a speaker before so I think the organizers knew I would behave myself.

I was planning on telling my boyfriend that I was going, but he was out of town on a co-ed sleepover assignment. He usually doesn’t have his phone on during his assignments, so I didn’t bother calling him. I just figured it’d be nice if we ran into each other at the conference if he made it back in time.

Which brings me to what actually happened (apologies for the long post).

So everything went great for my part of the day. I got to network with a lot of individual businesses and even got to reconnect with Blood Mary who I knew back in my Cryptid days. I told her I was dating a Slasher from Forgotten Summer Solutions and invited her to come with me to check out their booth. I thought it would be fun to grab dinner with her after since I assumed if my boyfriend was there, he’d be going out with coworkers which he often does. Plus, I admit, I was showing off a little. I don’t often get the chance to brag about my Cryptid days.

She agreed and we went over to see if my boyfriend was there.

I introduced myself to the people manning the booth. My boyfriend wasn’t there, but a few Slashers recognized my name and greeted me. They were definitely in awe of Bloody Mary (she came in full uniform) and invited us to look at their displays. They had portfolios for each Slasher on the desk as a sort of preview of what their services looked like.

While Bloody Mary looked through the portfolios, I chatted with my boyfriend’s coworkers. They said they were thrilled to work with him and that, even though he had a really rough start, it was impressive how quickly he started meeting his goals. Something about how they talked about his work kind of didn’t make sense. They were talking like he was killing a dozen humans a week, but he’d told me that he was at 80% on his assignments which typically only offer about ten humans each.

I asked them about it and they said that he’d been Slashing during After Hours which is a new goal supplement program his company launched a few months ago. Basically, anyone can sign up for After Hours and the company counts human kills done in uniform as part of their quota. I asked them if this was available to them while they were on assignment and they said no, it had to be done when they had down time. I asked them how my boyfriend was part of that when he was traveling all the time and they looked confused. One of them said that my boyfriend is still getting one assignment per week and is then supplementing his kill rate with After Hours.

At that point, I was even more confused. It sounded like my boyfriend had been lying to me then, because he told me that he was getting at least two assignments a week. If he was only getting one, then where was he going when he said he was traveling?

Bloody Mary interrupted before I could say anything and asked how their Slashers did their kills. They said that every Slasher at their company is required to use a standard issue weapon (like a machete or axe) for their kills to count. They said their company doesn’t count accidents as part of their quota (like falling or heart attacks).

Bloody Mary pulled me aside and showed me the portfolio she was holding. She said that she was going to give me a chance to explain without them overhearing and showed me the book. She said that a bunch of kills in it looked Cryptid kills. And she said, specifically, it looked like the kills I made when I was a Cryptid. I took the book from her and flipped through it and she was right, they really did look like Cryptid kills. Worse, I recognized a few of the Humans from the past few weeks. They were actually my kills!

Kill stealing is a major taboo in our industry.

I told her I didn’t know anything about this. She looked really relieved at that and said that even though I wasn’t a Cryptid anymore, it would look really bad for me if I was caught helping a Slasher cheat at their job. It could affect my business which she’d only heard good things about.

I’m embarrassed to say that I tried to defend him. He’s new to our industry so I thought it might be a mistake. He might not be trying to cheat, this could be a misunderstanding.

She said she didn’t think so because a mistake would be one or two of my kills mixed in with his, not the entire book.

I counted up how many photos were in the book and, all told, of the 146 kills, at least 100 were mine. I couldn’t really say it was a mistake at that point and I was just staring at his portfolio like an idiot. Bloody Mary asked me what I was going to do because, mistake or not, this looked really bad and could damage my reputation if it got out.

At that moment, another man walked up to booth and asked us if there was a problem. I knew that if I said anything, I would be jeopardizing my boyfriend’s job, but if I didn’t say something, I was jeopardizing my business.

I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count. I said I didn’t think that they knew he was doing it, but over half of the kills in his portfolio weren’t his and I suggested they remove it from their display before another Cryptid came by and realized it.

The other man thanked me for bringing this to his attention and asked how we knew. Bloody Mary said that she knew another Cryptid’s kills and I had to tell them that I was that Cryptid, though I was retired now. He asked me if I knew my boyfriend was doing this, and I told him no.

I told him I really didn’t want to get my boyfriend in trouble and suggested that maybe he didn’t know those kills didn’t belong to him because they happened in our house. I was grasping at straws and Blood Mary even looked sad for me. His coworkers looked skeptical but tentatively agreed. The man – who turned out to my boyfriend’s boss – said that they would investigate this thoroughly and apologized personally for his employee’s misconduct.

I was spiraling at that point so I thanked him and said I wasn’t mad, I was just looking out for both of our reputations. He promised to keep it between us and I agreed.

Then I apologized to Bloody Mary because I didn’t feel like eating dinner anymore. She said she understood and wished me well.

I went home and did a quick perimeter search of the property. Sure enough, there were human summoning stones ALL OVER the yard. Which means my boyfriend was intentionally luring humans to our house to get me to kill them so he could take credit. It wasn’t a mistake at all.

My boyfriend came home later that night in his work clothes. As soon he got inside he started yelling. He said he was suspended without pay and that all his hard work was for nothing.

I said I knew he’d been stealing my kills and he almost ruined my reputation. He said they still counted as his kills because he did all the work of luring the humans to our house.

I told him that wasn’t how it worked and he knew it. He said it was the same as setting a trap and I was taking this too seriously. I told him that, as a Slasher, he has to use a weapon to get his kills, not me. He said I was basically the same thing since I had such a high kill rate. I asked him if he was calling me an object.

(My parents exploited me by selling me as a haunted doll through a lot of my childhood and he knows I’m sensitive to being called an object.)

He backpedaled at that point and asked if I didn’t want to buy a house together. He said he was doing it for us and I should’ve understood and not said anything. I told him that when I was a Cryptid I had my pride and would’ve never done this.

He said I needed to tell his boss that he was the one who made all those kills. I said it wasn’t me who recognized them as Cryptid kills and now his boss knew too. He accused me of thinking I’m better than him because I have telekinetic powers and can move through shadows and can possess people, while he’s basically a human himself. I told him of course not and that I worked hard for those powers unlike him.

He got really mad at that and actually charged at me with his machete raised. I don’t think he was going to actually hit me, but I reacted like he was. It was all instinct. I disarmed him and I swear I heard a crack when I grabbed his wrist. I shoved him into the wall.

 He crumpled to the floor and started crying. He said sorry and sort of curled up around his wrist. He said he didn’t ever feel like he was enough for me and he didn’t even know why I was still with him. He called himself a bunch of names and said I would be better off without him.

I sort of awkwardly stood there for a minute. On one hand I wanted to assure him that he was enough and that I loved him, but, on the other, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him. He nearly ruined my reputation, and he embarrassed me in front of Bloody Mary. Plus, I still didn't know where he’d been going all those times he said he was on a business trip and apparently wasn’t.

So I ended up not saying anything. I went to our room and started packing a bag. He followed me. He was still crying as he begged me not to go. He said he would own up to his kill steals at work and he would make it right. He pleaded for me not to leave him and that he would give up slashing.

I told him I needed space to think. He tried to grab me, but I shadow walked out of the house. I heard him screaming from outside and I hurriedly drove away.

Now I’m at my friend’s house and I told her everything. She agreed I did the right thing walking away from him, but when I asked her what I should do she hesitated. She said that my boyfriend wasn’t right to kill steal but, as a fellow Slasher, she understood what he was going through. She said I wouldn’t understand the pressure to meet quota because I was always surpassing mine when I was in the field. She said that a Cryptid could never understand a Slasher.

She also said that nobody would have found out about his kills if I hadn’t brought them to his boss’ attention. She said the only time kills are on display like that is at the Eldritch Conference and by the next one, he’d have had kills of his own. She thinks that if I’d just confronted him at home, he wouldn’t be on suspension.

So now I’m worried that I overreacted when I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count.

AITA?

----

Thanks for reading! Several amazing supernatural citizens (aka my Patrons) gave great advice to our poor OP over on my Patreon! Please go check them out here (X)

(I will definitely be posting some of them here in the near future!)

My next supernatural AITA is already up to my patrons!

It's called "AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied about his human job?"

Patrons get to see many of my stories a week ahead! If that interests you please check me out here (X)!

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[mrspiastri]

✩ lights, camera, action! 📸

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, annoying reporters, austria 2024

wc: 4.9k words

an: thanks for the req anon, hope u like it! pls excuse any spelling errors i could not be arsed enough to proofread this more than twice :p

“So, they’re just going to be in our house… recording us the entire day?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“And this is happening for a month?”

“Maybe two, depending on how much footage they need.”

A beat of silence.

Lando turned to his girlfriend, watching as she set her Kindle down and looked at him with a sharp glare. All she had wanted was a quiet night in, some light reading before bed, not this conversation.

“So, what do you think?” he asked carefully.

“I think you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

Lando stifled a chuckle, scooting closer despite the warning in her eyes. “It’s not that bad, I promise. They’ll get all your good angles. And if there’s anything you don’t want in, I’ll make sure they cut it out.”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. The idea of letting a camera crew into their home, her safe space, the one place where she could collapse onto the couch after work without a second thought, was unsettling.

“Look, I’m not going to force you,” Lando said, his voice softer now. “Just think about it. It’s like… our moments together being immortalized.”

She arched her brow, still unconvinced.

“We could even look back on them years later,” he continued, ever the optimist. “Show them to our kids!”

Y/N gave him a long, unimpressed stare.

“Just give me a day or two,” she muttered at last.

“Of course, love.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before letting the subject drop.

Three days later, Y/N found herself reluctantly agreeing, under strict conditions:

1. No cameras before 9 AM or after 10 PM.

2. No filming arguments or fights (if they happened).

3. No recording private conversations.

The production team had no issue following her rules, and soon enough, cameras and microphones became a regular sight in their living room and kitchen.

To her surprise, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The Drive To Survive crew was respectful, and off-camera, they were actually lovely to talk to.

Not that she’d ever admit it to Lando. She had no interest in hearing an “ I told you so.”

Still, she had to admit, there was something oddly enjoyable about it. The cameras felt natural, capturing the effortless way she and Lando fit together. Their banter. Their energy.

Even the crew enjoyed filming them. Because if there was one thing about Y/N and Lando, it was that they were effortlessly entertaining.

The couple had an air of domesticity around them, which was visible during certain moments, like when Y/N announced she was going grocery shopping.

🪻🪻

She didn’t question it at first.

Lando had followed her around their apartment, slipping on his hoodie and sneakers, acting as if they were about to embark on some thrilling adventure rather than… well, a simple trip to the grocery store. But when he practically rushed out the door behind her, stuffing his hands into his pockets like he was trying to play it cool, she finally turned to him with a raised brow.

"Alright, what’s going on?"

Lando blinked at her, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"

"You insisted on coming with me," she pointed out as she slid into the passenger seat of her car. "Since when are you so eager to go grocery shopping?"

Lando smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a soft laugh. "It’s just shopping, Lando."

"Yes… and?"

She shot him a look, but he only grinned, reaching over to intertwine his fingers with hers as he started the car. She glanced down at their joined hands, warmth flickering in her chest.

Maybe it was just shopping. But to him, time with her, no matter how mundane, was worth tagging along for.

The grocery store was as uneventful as ever, aisles filled with tired parents, students grabbing last-minute essentials, and employees stacking shelves. Y/N navigated the space with practiced ease, mentally ticking off the list in her head.

Lando, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained by everything.

"You know, people are going to think I’m useless because you’re the one actually shopping," Lando mused, walking beside you with a basket dangling from his arm. A small mic was clipped to his hoodie, and a camera trailed at a respectful distance, catching every moment.

"You are useless," you teased, grabbing a carton of eggs and placing them into the basket.

Lando let out a scandalized gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse me? I am an excellent grocery shopper. Watch this."

Before you could stop him, he darted toward a display of snacks, dramatically grabbing a family-sized bag of chips and tossing it into the basket. The camera crew caught it all, no doubt enjoying his antics.

"Wow," you said dryly, watching him grin. "Such a valuable contribution."

"You’re welcome." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple before whispering, "At least pretend I’m helpful, love. My reputation is at stake."

She shook her head, amused. He stayed close beside her, fingers occasionally brushing hers when he pointed out random things, a ridiculous cereal box, a weirdly shaped vegetable, an overpriced snack that made him nearly collapse in shock.

Then, as they rounded the next aisle, something caught her eye.

"No way," Y/N gasped, halting so suddenly that Lando bumped into her.

"What? What happened? Are we in danger?" he asked dramatically, clutching her arm.

She ignored him, grabbing a brightly colored package from the meat fridge. “It’s the spicy chorizo I was looking for! It’s been out of stock for months! Lando, do you know what this means?"

"Uh," he blinked, glancing at the box in her hands. "That some company is trying to get people to buy their products again?"

She huffed. "No, dummy. This means I can finally make those chorizo tapas you love so much."

Lando stared at her, as if processing her words. "Wait. You mean—?"

"Yeah," she said, waving the package at him. "You always say it’s one of your favorites, right? So I’ll make it the way it’s meant to be made, not with those other lame brands.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. And then, unexpectedly, he reached for her hand and squeezed it, his thumb running over her knuckles.

"You remembered that?" His voice was quieter now, softer.

She scoffed. "Of course, I did. You never shut up about it."

Lando let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head, but there was something fond in his eyes, something almost touched.

"You’re the best," he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. Right there in the middle of the grocery aisle, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with an old woman giving them a knowing smile as she passed.

Y/N felt warmth creep up her neck, but she just rolled her eyes. "I know."

Lando grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder as they continued walking. "See? And you thought I was weird for wanting to tag along."

"You are weird."

"Yeah, but I’m your kind of weird."

She laughed, leaning into his side as they made their way to checkout.

Maybe it was just shopping.

But with Lando, even the ordinary felt like something special.

🪻🪻🪻

The morning sun cast a golden glow over their Monaco apartment, filling the space with soft warmth. The neatly packed bags by the door were a reminder of the plans they’d made, plans Y/N had initially thought were just a fleeting idea when Lando suggested them. But here they were, two years into their relationship, and he was still finding ways to make things special.

Lando stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

She smiled, tilting her head slightly to press a kiss to his forehead. “Happy anniversary, Lando.”

He hummed in contentment, pulling her closer. “Can we just stay in bed all day instead?”

Y/N laughed softly, tracing lazy patterns along his back. “As tempting as that sounds, weren’t you the one who planned this whole day trip?”

Lando groaned dramatically, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Who let me make decisions?”

“You did.”

Another groan.

A small chuckle from the corner of the room made her glance over, where one of the film crew members was adjusting a camera, capturing the intimate yet domestic moment. Lando peeked an eye open and groaned even louder when he saw them.

“Great,” he mumbled. “Now the world gets to see me beg to stay in bed.”

Y/N grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his nose before slipping out from under the covers. “Come on, sleepyhead. We have a road trip to go on.”

By mid-morning, they were driving along the winding coastal roads of the French Riviera, two crew members filming them from the back seat, capturing snippets of their journey. Lando’s hand rested on Y/N’s thigh as he effortlessly steered with the other, the soft hum of music filling the space between them.

She glanced over at him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “So, are you ever going to tell me why you picked Èze?”

Lando smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to impress you with my impeccable taste?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her fondness.

The moment they arrived in Èze, Lando reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers as they wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets. The medieval village, perched high above the Côte d’Azur, was breathtaking, its stone walls adorned with climbing vines, small boutiques tucked into hidden corners, and the salty sea breeze carrying the scent of fresh flowers.

The crew trailed them subtly, capturing the way Lando would lean in every few minutes just to steal a quick kiss, or how his fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against her skin as they stopped to admire the view.

“You do realize people are going to say you’re way too clingy, right?” Y/N teased, nodding toward one of the cameras.

Lando shrugged, unbothered. “Let them.” He turned to the nearest cameraman, grinning. “I am clingy. Make sure you put that in the episode.”

The crew chuckled, but Y/N just shook her head, laughing as Lando pulled her into the nearest café.

Lunch was slow and easy, filled with stolen bites of food, quiet laughter, and the occasional “Look at him being soft” comment from Y/N to the film crew. Lando didn’t seem to care, not when she was there, looking at him like he was her favorite thing in the world.

When dessert arrived, two chocolate soufflés, Lando picked up a spoonful and held it out for her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re going to feed me while they’re filming?”

He smirked. “It’s romantic.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway, letting him feed her. Lando grinned triumphantly, stealing a bite for himself.

“Put that in the episode, too,” he quipped.

As the afternoon stretched on, they hiked up to the Jardin Exotique, a stunning garden perched at the very top of Èze. The panoramic view of the coastline was nothing short of magical, the kind of scene that made everything else feel small in comparison.

Lando wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“This might be my favorite anniversary so far,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, tilting her head to rest against his. “We’ve only had two.”

“Still. It’s hard to beat.”

A breeze drifted through, ruffling his curls as he held her, their hands fitting together so effortlessly.

Y/N turned in his arms, her gaze soft. “I love you, you know.”

Lando’s eyes searched hers for a moment before he cupped her face, pressing a slow, tender kiss to her lips, one that felt like a promise, like forever.

When they pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, exhaling deeply. “I know,” he whispered. “And I love you more.”

A cough from behind them broke the moment, and one of the crew members hesitated before speaking.

“Uh… that was beautiful,” they admitted. “Can you do it again for a better angle?”

Lando groaned as Y/N burst into laughter.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically, pulling her closer with a mischievous grin. “Guess we have to keep kissing.”

🪻🪻🪻

The second Y/N stepped into the apartment, she knew something was different. It wasn’t just the warmth of the space or the soft glow of the kitchen lights, there was something familiar in the air. A rich, buttery scent, layered with warm spices, the kind that immediately sent a comforting feeling straight to her soul.

She froze mid-step.

That was butter chicken.

Her favorite food.

And there was only one person in this house who would make that for her.

Her heart raced as she set her bag down and rounded the corner into the kitchen, where she found exactly what she hoped to see Lando, standing at the stove, stirring a pot with the kind of focus he usually reserved for a race car. His curls were still damp from a recent shower, his sleeves pushed up as he leaned against the counter, tasting the sauce with an expression of concentration.

He looked up just as she entered, and the slow smile that spread across his face made her stomach flip.

“Hey, love.”

She blinked, still processing. “You’re… home?”

He smirked. “Surprise.”

Her mouth fell open. “But… you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow night?”

“Got an earlier flight.” He turned back to the stove, giving the pot one last stir before lowering the heat. “Figured I’d come back and make your favorite.”

She couldn’t believe it. She had been fully prepared to spend the evening alone, eating something mediocre while scrolling through her phone, missing him. But instead, he was here. Cooking for her.

Y/N didn’t think, she just launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his hoodie as she breathed him in.

Lando laughed as he caught her, arms circling her shoulders as he held her close. “I take it you missed me?”

“Obviously,” she mumbled against his chest. “You were gone for so long.”

“Babe, it was five days.”

“Exactly. Too long.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. “Missed you too, love.”

A throat cleared from the corner of the kitchen, and Y/N stiffened slightly before peeking over Lando’s shoulder, only to find one of the crew members, clearly amused.

She groaned, burying her face back into Lando’s chest. “You let them film this?”

“I didn’t let them,” he said, amused. “They just… didn’t leave. Wanted to see you surprised and all.”

One of the crew members laughed. “In our defense, this is adorable.”

Lando grinned, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “Come on, love. You don’t want the world to see how obsessed you are with me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I will shove your face into that butter chicken.”

His smirk widened. “Joke’s on you, I made extra.”

She rolled her eyes but let him pull her closer, letting herself bask in the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of home.

Later, as they sat at the dining table, Lando watched her take her first bite, waiting for her reaction like a nervous contestant on a cooking show.

Y/N hummed in delight, eyes closing briefly as the flavors hit her tongue. “Oh my God.”

His lips twitched. “Good?”

She opened her eyes, pointing her spoon at him. “Suspiciously good. Since when can you cook like this?”

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “What, you think I can’t learn things?”

“I just… didn’t know you wanted to.”

He shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe I just wanted to impress my girlfriend.”

Y/N softened, her heart swelling. “You have impressed me. This is amazing.”

“Damn right it is.”

She giggled, shaking her head before taking another bite. “Okay, tell me about Shanghai. How was the race?”

Lando exhaled dramatically, shifting in his seat. “Ugh. Where do I even start? First of all, the strategy was so weird, like, I don’t know what they were thinking. And then, I had this fight with Max for like a hundred laps, and I swear, I thought we were gonna crash at least three times—”

As he continued, his hands animatedly reenacting the on-track battles, Y/N just sat there, watching him, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

She loved seeing him like this, completely in his element, passionate, excited. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about racing, the way his hands moved as if he were still behind the wheel.

“You’re staring,” Lando suddenly noted, smirking.

She blinked, cheeks warming. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” He leaned in, resting his chin in his hand as he grinned. “You’re in love with me.”

She scoffed, trying (and failing) to hide her smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Norris.”

“I mean, I did just fly home early and make your favorite food…” He reached across the table, running his fingers gently over her wrist. “Pretty sure that earns me some extra love points.”

Y/N laughed softly, flipping her hand to intertwine their fingers. “You already have all my love points, you idiot.”

He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Good. I plan on keeping them.”

She shook her head, taking another bite of the butter chicken. “Okay, but seriously, I want to hear the rest. So, you and Max—”

“Shh.” Lando reached over and gently placed a spoonful of rice on her plate, then another, before looking at her expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just—”

“Just shh and eat,” he said, his voice playfully firm. “I know you. If I let you talk too much, you’ll forget to eat, and then you’ll be grumpy later.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the corners of her lips twitched. “You’re so annoying.”

Lando laughed, leaning over the table to steal a quick kiss. “Yeah, yeah. Now eat up.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but obeyed, feeling impossibly warm inside.

There was something so simple about moments like this, the quiet, easy rhythm of their lives together. The way Lando cared for her in ways that weren’t always grand gestures but in the little things. The way he listened, the way he noticed, the way he just knew her.

Even with cameras in the background, even with the world watching, this was theirs.

And Y/N wouldn’t trade it for anything.

🪻🪻🪻

Las Vegas was supposed to be his night.

Lando sat in the dimly lit hospitality suite, still in his race suit, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. The weight of the evening pressed down on him, Max had clinched the title, and he had been so close. The points gap wasn’t enormous. If things had gone just slightly differently, if the strategy had been sharper, if he had just pushed a little harder—

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

The suite was silent, except for the muffled sounds of celebration echoing from outside. His team was still proud, of course. McLaren had fought hard all season. He had fought hard. But second place wasn’t the dream. First was the dream.

And he had lost it.

The quiet creak of the door barely registered in his mind, but the soft footsteps that followed were unmistakable.

Y/N.

She didn’t say anything at first. She simply walked over, standing beside him for a moment, watching him.

Then, she crouched down in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “Lando.”

His eyes flickered up to hers. He knew the cameras were still rolling somewhere in the room, capturing all of this, his frustration, his exhaustion, the moment where his season had slipped away.

But right now, he didn’t care.

Y/N’s gaze was steady, her touch grounding. Slowly, she reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his jaw.

“Talk to me,” she murmured.

Lando exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it against his skin as if he needed the contact to anchor him.

“I should’ve done more,” he finally muttered.

She frowned. “Lando—”

“No, really,” he cut in, shaking his head. “It was so close. We had the pace. We had the car. I just—” He exhaled roughly, eyes darting away. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Her heart ached at the way he said it, at the way his voice dipped into something raw and self-deprecating.

“Lando,” she said softly but firmly, tilting his face back toward her. “You were more than good enough.”

He let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you expect perfection from yourself. But look at what you did this season. Look at how hard you fought. You challenged Max. You took it down to the wire when no one thought you could. You made them believe.”

His gaze softened, but she wasn’t finished.

“You think second place makes you less?” she whispered. “It doesn’t. You’re still you, Lando. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

His throat bobbed, his grip on her hand tightening.

“You’re just saying that,” he mumbled.

Y/N shook her head. “I never just say things. You know that.”

He let out a slow breath, his eyes searching hers like he was trying to hold onto her words, trying to let them sink in.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a small sigh, he pulled her into his lap, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

She smiled faintly, running her fingers through his curls. He never did well with failure, not because he wasn’t used to it, but because he always carried it too much.

But he wasn’t alone in this.

And as she held him, rocking him slightly, she could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease.

The crew was still there, capturing every second.

But all Lando cared about was her.

And somehow, for the first time all night, losing didn’t feel quite so devastating.

The press pen after the race was always exhausting, but tonight, it was unbearable.

Lando had lost the championship. He had done every interview with his usual composure, polite, measured, controlled. He had smiled when necessary, congratulated Max, and answered the same four questions in slightly different ways.

But this one?

This one was pushing it.

"Lando, do you think this was your only real shot at a title? Or do you worry you might just not have what it takes?"

The question landed like a slap.

Lando barely blinked. His PR training kicked in immediately, forcing a neutral expression as he nodded, exhaling through his nose.

"Look, we had a great season, and I’m proud of what we achieved. Obviously, it didn’t end the way we wanted, but I know we’ll come back stronger."

It was the kind of answer that was designed to deflect, to keep things from escalating.

The interviewer, however, seemed satisfied with their little dig, moving on to the next driver.

Lando barely had time to process it before he heard a very familiar voice from just beyond the camera crew.

"Are you actually kidding me right now?"

He turned just in time to see Y/N standing off to the side, arms crossed, glaring absolute murder at the interviewer’s back.

The Drive to Survive crew, who had been filming his interview, immediately turned their cameras to her.

"What kind of stupid question was that?" she ranted, clearly not caring that she was being recorded. "‘Do you think you don’t have what it takes?’ Seriously? What kind of journalism school did this guy go to? All he knows is how to rile people up!”

Lando pressed his lips together, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

She was fuming.

"He should be embarrassed," she continued, still glaring. "Lando literally fought for this title until the last possible second, and that’s the best he could come up with? I should go over there right now—"

Lando immediately stepped in, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his chest before she could march into the press pen and make headlines. "Alright, alright," he murmured against her hair, biting back a grin. "That’s enough murder threats for one night."

"I wasn’t threatening murder," she huffed, but she didn’t resist when he turned her to face him. "I was just saying that guy deserves to step on fifty Legos barefoot."

"That’s fair," Lando admitted, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "But I promise, I’m okay."

She searched his face, still frowning slightly. "You shouldn’t have to deal with that."

"I know." He smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I’d rather deal with bad interviews than have to bail my girlfriend out for punching a reporter."

"No promises," she muttered, but her lips twitched, betraying her frustration.

Lando chuckled, then, because he simply couldn’t help himself, tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and soft, like he had all the time in the world.

He felt the presence of what seemed to be a thousand cameras on them, but he didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing else mattered.

🪻🪻🪻

The studio setup was familiar by now, the sleek black backdrop, the dramatic lighting, the Drive to Survive crew hovering around with their cameras and microphones. It was the same place where all the serious, intense driver interviews had been filmed throughout the season.

Except today, it wasn’t serious.

Because today, it was Lando and Y/N sitting on the interview couch together, and nothing about them being in the same room was ever serious.

Lando leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the back of the couch behind Y/N, while she sat cross-legged beside him, her fingers lazily toying with the hem of her dress. The crew had barely started rolling when he shot the camera a mischievous grin.

“So,” he said, adjusting his mic, “are we finally getting our own spin-off? Because I think the world deserves to see the behind-the-scenes of my life with this one.” He nudged Y/N playfully.

She snorted. “Your life? Excuse me? I’m the normal one in this relationship.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Lando, would you agree with that?”

Lando turned to her, looking absolutely scandalized. “Absolutely not. This woman started a verbal fight with a group of fans and nearly went after a reporter on my behalf. The only reason she’s not banned from the paddock is because she’s cute.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The only reason you weren’t banned from my apartment after losing the title was because you’re cute.”

Lando grinned, nudging her shoulder. “So you admit it? I am cute?”

The crew laughed as Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Fine. You’re alright.”

“Alright?” He turned to the camera. “You see how she treats me?”

The interviewer, still chuckling, moved on. “Alright, let’s go back to the start of the season. You’ve had a whirlwind year Lando, you were a title contender, and Y/N, you were very vocal throughout. What’s been your favorite moment we’ve captured?”

Y/N hummed, tapping her chin. “Ooh, good question. Probably when Lando lost his mind after that crash with Max.”

The crew laughed knowingly.

Lando groaned, but he was smiling. “Of course that’s your favorite. Not like, I don’t know, any of my actual racing?”

“Oh, right,” she said, grinning. “The whole driving really fast thing. You’re decent at that.”

The interviewer raised a brow. “Just decent?”

Lando turned to Y/N, smirking. “I was in a title fight, you know.”

“Okay, okay, you were great,” she admitted, patting his knee. “There. Happy?”

Lando nodded smugly. “Very.”

The interviewer smiled. “And Lando, what about you? Favorite moment we’ve captured?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Her reaction after my first win in Miami.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Wait, really?”

Lando looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “Yeah, I mean I’d never seen you that happy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I like making you happy.”

Y/N bit her lip, warmth spreading in her chest. “Okay, that was kinda sweet.”

“I have my moments,” Lando said, leaning in closer. “You should kiss me now.”

The crew laughed, but Y/N just pushed his face away with a laugh. “We’re literally being filmed right now, Norris.”

“Yeah, and?”

The interviewer, still amused, decided to wrap things up. “Alright, last question. If you had to describe this season in one word, what would it be?”

Lando thought for a second, then smirked. “Chaotic.”

Y/N groaned. “Please don’t say—”

“Because of you,” Lando finished, grinning as he dodged the pillow she threw at him.

She sighed, shaking her head with a smile. “Fine. Then my word is entertaining, because watching Lando suffer through PR answers all season has been hilarious.”

Lando turned to the camera, deadpan. “She’s so lucky I love her.”

The crew laughed as Y/N leaned into him, stealing a quick peck on his cheek. “And you’re so lucky I put up with you.”

He smiled, lacing their fingers together. “Best kind of luck, isn’t it?”

And just like that, the season wrapped.

not so sure about this one, but then again when am i ever sure about anything! <3 also i am accepting requests, so feel free to send your prompts or ideas with any of the drivers xoxo

[mirathescientist]

pairings: peircer eren x black reader

warnings: smut 18+, kinda pervy eren

Good girl

“Hello?” Your soft voice rang over the chimes as you entered the tattoo parlor.

The shop was quiet, seemingly empty besides the softening chimes of the door and surprised cursing down the long hall.

“Shit- yeah. Just give me a minute. My apologies” The culprit of the cursing called.

In the meantime, you took a look around the lobby. The reviews didn't do the place justice. The largest wall contained a bright colorful mural, contrasting beautifully with the dark floors and connected black walls.

While admiring the piece of artwork, heavy thudding from the long hallway turned your attention to the most gorgeous man you had ever seen.

You never believed in love at first sight, up until now. You hadn't even known the man's name yet, but you craved him. The reviews warned you the entire staff was attractive but they clearly left out that this man was a god.

His long hair was pulled into a low bun, strands falling in his face, the color contrasting against his pale skin. He was tall, with a full sleeve on one of his muscular arms, and his green eyes had you drowning immediately. He couldn't be Onyankopon, they said he was a brother. Maybe Connie or, Levi-

“Hi, I'm Eren” He introduced himself after swallowing the large knot in his throat.

While in your own trance, you failed to notice how he froze the moment he saw you. The bright light you stood under showcased the sparkles of your pretty brown skin.

Your legs were on display as a result of the simmering heat outside, thick thighs causing them to roll up slightly. The fitted t-shirt you wore allowed the hardened buds of your nipples to peek through, despite the hot weather.

Eren never considered himself a pervert but the way his mind instantly thought about sucking on them till you begged him to fuck you had him thinking otherwise.

“Hi, I'm [☆]. Is this a bad time?” Oh, he could have come on the spot, your voice sounded even better without the numerous walls separating you and god your perfume had him wanting to devour you on the reception desk.

“No, no I just don't know how much I can do for you, the AC is out in all the rooms but mine and I don't even know how long that's gonna last so if you're looking for an hour long tat session you'll have to come back” He crossed his arms, muscles contracting against the white tee.

“Oh no, I'm just hoping to get a few piercings but I can definitely come back another time”

“No, I can do a couple of piercings. What were you thinking?” He grabbed the paperwork from under the counter, praying one of them would be your chest.

“Uh well, I want the other side of my nose, belly button, venus dimples, and my nipples but I understand if you can't do all of that or the last one I'll just come back”

“No, no I can do it,” He said too quickly, clearing his throat awkwardly before handing you the paperwork.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

“Good girl. You're doing such a good job for me, pretty. Just hold on for one second, lovey”

He was currently doing your last dimple piercing. The pain was unimaginable at first but as soon as the praises left his mouth all was forgotten besides the growing stickiness that rested between your thighs.

He praised you after every piercing a variation of “Good girl” “You're doing such a good job for me” “That's it, baby. You did so good” flowed from his pink lips. You could never decide which throbbing to focus on, the one from your new piercing or the throbbing of your clit.

With three new holes in your body and damp panties, it was now time for the piercing both of you were dreading yet excited for.

“Do I just take my shirt off here?”

“Wherever you're comfortable, baby. You can go in the bathroom or stay in here and I'll give you some privacy” He felt like a teenage boy again. His dick twitching at the thought of seeing you exposed.

“No, it's okay you can stay in here I don't mind”

“Oh. Okay,” He perked up. Giving you some privacy he turned his back, pretending to be busy when in reality he was trying to think of anything but you getting undressed behind him. Despite his concentration, all he could focus on was the sound of your necklaces and bracelets clanking at the movements you made.

He knew your nipples were still hard, especially since he took advantage of the working AC and he wondered what your moans would sound like if he flicked his tounge repeatedly over the bud, or if he pinched them in front of the mirror while you begged him to fuck you as you pressed your ass against his hard-

“I'm ready” Your soft voice broke him from his thoughts.

If his self control was any less he'd have gotten on his knees to worship you. There you were. Looking everywhere but him, tits exposed. If it weren’t for the fact other men besides him would see, he'd tattoo this image of you on his bare forearm.

“Are you ready?” He suppressed a groan.

“Mhm”

“Okay stand up for me” He led you to the mirror where he prepped each bud. During the process, you felt as if you could crawl into yourself. The most beautiful man you'd ever laid eyes on had his hands on your breast. Despite the occasion being nonsexual, you were convinced your arousal would start running down your thigh at any second.

“Is this okay?” He stood behind you.

You gave a simple hum of approval, thoughts gone as he explained how the process would go. You convinced yourself you could handle it, that it would all be over soon.

That was until he rolled the bud in between his fingers, the whimper you'd been holding escaping you.

‘fuck’ ‘fuck’

“Shit, I'm so sorry I- I didn't mean to do that, please understand I had no malicious intentions I just” He stumbled over his words.

He was just explaining the step by step process of the piercing. He wasn't thinking, just craving. He wouldn't have realized his actions if it weren't for the sound you let out. The sound he knew he'd replay in his head the moment you left the shop, stroking his cock as he imagined it were you down on your knees in front of him.

“It's okay” You reassured him. Your big eyes staring up into his through the mirror.

“I didn't…I don't mind”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Before you knew it you were bouncing on his cock. His moans muffled as his mouth engulfed your breast. Tongue slightly grazing your nipple with the flickers of his tongue before sucking harshly.

He was stretching you out so good, leaky red tip repeatedly hitting your cervix as his frenum piercing brushed against your walls. The added pleasure contributing to the pace of your bounces as you chased your high.

“E-eren please” You whined, attempting to push his head away from the assault on your breast. His hair was everywhere, the ponytail holder long gone the moment your hands entangled in his hair. Your buds were so sensitive, every suck and swipe of his tongue had you squeezing around him, every clench releasing your cream that pooled at the base of his cock.

“Fuck” He groaned, reluctantly giving your boobs a break. His hands gripped the soft flesh of your ass, groping the brown skin before placing a hard slap on your cheek.

“Talk to me, pretty. You like this? Like bouncing on daddy's cock hmm?” His arms wrapped around you tightly as he fucked up into you.

“Oh my- fuck” You gave him control. Your head resting on his shoulder as you let out pornographic moans into his ear.

“Answer me, mama” Another slap landed on your ass.

Before you had time to register the mix of pain and pleasure on your flesh, the gentle pressure of his finger rubbing circles on your puckering hole had you seeing stars.

“Fuck y-yes. I love it so much, daddy. Please don't stop” You whined. Tears of pleasure wetting the crook of his neck.

By no means was Eren a fast finisher but boy was he trying his best to hold on, you're pussy was just squeezing him so tight, the added tension on his scalp as you tugged on it every time he hit the spongy spot along your walls had his nails digging crescents into your skin.

“I'm so close, daddy, please”

“Let go mama” He pressed hot kisses along your neck and shoulder.

In that moment you came, your pussy tightening around the large girth of his cock. Clear liquid squirting from you in streams as he continued his thrust. Your arousal splashing and dripping onto the chair.

With sweat dripping down his forehead, and stray hairs sticking to him, his thrust became sloppy and his breathing became heavier.

“S-shit” He whimpered, head thrown back as he came harder than ever. Repeatedly pushing his load back into your pussy.

“Lemme take you on a date. Please” He panted once you both came down, his hands roaming your body as he looked down at you, green irises peeking out behind his blown pupils.

“Okay, yea- oh” A broken moan escaped you as he moved your hips up and down his length once again.

“Eren” You whined

“Don't tell me you're wiped out after one round, pretty girl. I know you have more in you, mama. Be a good girl for daddy”

for my eren girlies. this is probably the fastest I've ever wrote bc i just needed peircer eren. oh also how do yall feel about pegging bc i feel peircer eren can be a bit subby sometimes ttm. mwah <3

pt.2 wit the pegging ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶꒱ྀི১

[seravphs]

battle of wills

Sae wants to act funny, but he doesn’t know you’re about to act hilarious.

wc — 2.7k

tags — romantic mind games, thinking of Sae like a predator that plays with his food, jealousy, possessiveness

“I don’t care who you fuck,” he says with a shrug. “We’re not dating.” 

Your hands still on the collar of his shirt that you’re smoothing down. It’s ten minutes before your dinner reservation, which means you’re going to be late, but you know the maître d' so it should be fine. It would be, if Sae didn’t insist on opening his fat mouth once a week to try to break your heart so he can prove to himself that he’s not invested. 

He’s not fooling anyone. You know you have him, hook, line, and sinker. When you made that joke about getting Kaiser’s number, it was just a joke. You didn’t even say you wanted to sleep with him! Sae came up with that implication all by himself. 

You have three options and only a few seconds to decide. Sweat beads on your forehead. You can practically see the timer run out, like an imaginary game with a big fat red buzzer letting you know you failed.

You can: 

a) say “we’re not dating?” in a whiny little broken voice and make it obvious you liked Sae more than he liked you 

b) sit in silence and make it awkward like you are currently doing 

c) fuck around and find out

So you only have one option, really. You’re not a coward, so it can’t be b, and you’d rather choke on your fancy steak tonight and die then ever let a man think he played you and got away with it. 

“Cool,” you say. “I’ll let Kaiser know he has your permission.” 

You’re joking, but you don’t think he is. 

“Cool,” Sae replies, but he’s so disinterested that you think he didn’t even hear the last half of your sentence. 

Dinner is great even though Sae is an asshole because he somehow still makes it fun to be with him. Your friends all ask you why you want him. They don’t see what you see; they think you’re just after the football fame, the fortune, the model like beauty. 

You’re a little more twisted than that. 

When you press your patent heel up against Sae’s calf, he doesn’t even flinch. He takes a long, slow draught of water - because he doesn’t drink alcohol, which is deliriously sexy to you for some reason - and raises an eyebrow at you. Everything about him is cool and collected, even when you inch higher and higher until you’re practically right between his legs. 

His hand slips under the table, grabs your ankle, and repositions it on his lap. He doesn’t spare a thought for how your dirty shoes are on his nice slacks. When you try to retract your foot because this is dangerous, this is not what you expected, his hand locks you in place. 

He holds your eye across the table. You wanted this, his eye contact says. Be good and take it. 

Sae is hard to read. 

He can be so apathetic, so indifferent to your words, and then draw warm, lazy circles on your pulse with his thumb. He looks mildly amused when your brain short circuits in the middle of your sentence, every neuron redirected to the feeling of his hand on your ankle, soaking in heat from his palm. 

You want to pull him apart and see what makes him tick. For you, love is almost like dissection. You want to be able to know him so intimately no one else will ever be able to say they come close. 

Although he apparently doesn’t feel the same about you. 

Knowing Sae is a rare privilege all in itself. You thought you were content. When you first met him, that’s all it was: fun. You liked pulling him apart and putting him back together, figuring out which parts of Sae were real and which were a front. But now, after a few months, you’re hooked. It’s become more than a game. It’s an addiction. 

The more he rejects you, the more you want him. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been this pathetic in your life. You’ve never chased anyone the way you’ve done for him. 

It’s killing you to think about the numbers he’s done on your reputation. Your friends already think you’re whipped. 

You’re afraid to admit they’re right, and that’s the real reason you’re upset about what he said earlier. You never thought you were dating but you thought - 

Ugh. You don’t know why you expected him to care. 

Sae is, if an asshole, also a gentleman, so he pays for dinner and sends you home in an Uber on his card. 

You smile pleasantly until you get into the car and then you’re practically tearing your hair out. You need to make him regret this. 

So obviously the question now is who would make Sae the sickest to find out you got with? Who would have that man holding his stomach in tears? 

Shidou is too obvious and also you doubt that Sae would care. In a funny way, Shidou is the least you can do to him. 

Oliver? No, he’s too much of a slut. This needs to be a hit and run, an attack, but targeted. Aiku is just too easy to make Sae feel anything besides mild annoyance that you fucked his captain. 

You’d have to butter Kaiser up before you even got near him, and besides, Sae didn’t even react when you brought him up earlier. 

Your brain flinches away from Rin’s face when it pops up in your brain like you touched a hot stove, a solid rejection you don’t even have to think about. 

No. 

It hurts too much. You’re angry but you still care about Sae. This is- 

You want to piss him off, not hurt him irrevocably. Dating Rin right after not-dating him would be something the two of you couldn’t come back from. 

Even if Sae likes to pretend he’s not sensitive when it comes to his little brother, you know better. 

Back to the drawing board. 

The most important part is that Sae can’t know you’re trying to make him jealous, so it has to come up organically. You’re aiming for a teammate because you need someone who will talk about it in Sae’s locker room, someone who can get it to Sae without making it too obvious. 

All paths lead to Oliver Aiku. 

Unfortunately. 

You don’t even know if this is going to work. 

“Just so you know,” you tell him, “you weren’t my first choice.”

“Aw, why?” He asks. “You don’t think I’ll get Sae mad enough?” 

“Are you kidding me? If anything, he’s going to think I’ve lowered my standards! He’s not going to regret losing me, he’s going to think that I’m so pathetic his little rejection sent me off the deep end!” 

“But then he’ll be right,” Oliver says. “Considering he did lower your standards and send you off the deep end. You’re standing in my living room right now, aren’t you?” 

You squint at him. “And I can walk right back out, so don’t test me.” 

“Don’t be like that,” Oliver purrs. “I’m great at making men jealous.” 

“I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.” 

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I’m going to take you somewhere your man couldn’t even dream of taking you.” 

“Oliver, this is a Wendy’s.” 

“Sae would never dream of taking you here,” he shrugs. “Wow, good bite! You’re great at eating.” 

“Okay, one, that’s a weird thing to say, and two, I’m going to go find someone else if you can’t help me. I know you can’t help yourself but since I’m your friend, I thought at the very least, you would try not to waste my time.” 

“Yeesh, calm down-“ 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” 

“My bad,” he says cheerfully. “Trust me, I have a plan.” 

“I don’t trust you,” you say pointedly, narrowing your eyes at him. 

He ignores you. “What makes a man angrier than thinking you moved on?” 

“Moving on with his rival?” 

“Close. Thinking he never had you. See, Sae takes you on these fancy dates to high end restaurants and museums and what not. But you know how he is. He’s with you but he’s not really with you. You gotta beat him at his own game. Let him think that you were just indulging him when really this is what you want.” He scoots his chair closer to you until you can practically feel the warmth of him radiating through his thin shirt. His cologne smells like jasmine, a strangely delicate scent for him. “Make him feel like he never really knew you, because I’m the one who does.” 

You breathe in the scent of his feminine cologne, stalling. It would be so easy to listen to Oliver. It would be so easy to let him in your heart. He knows what to say and when to say it. 

In a way, he does know you. 

Familiarity is unavoidable with time, and you’ve been friends of circumstance for ages. 

“You just wanted an excuse to take me to Wendy’s,” you say with a fake laugh that is so perfected, you can only pick up the stilted quality of it if you really, really listen. 

He pulls out of your space a little, a smile playing on his lips. “You know me so well. That too.” 

Oliver knows you a little too well. He says the right things at the right times because he’s telling you what you want to hear. 

Are you destined to be toyed with by beautiful football players? 

In the car on the way back to your house, Oliver texts you. “Get him back for me, playa.”  

In the locker room, Oliver doesn’t start the conversation because that would be too obvious. He’s a respectful man, he doesn’t kiss and tell. It would be out of character for him to start bringing up last night’s exploits and Sae would catch on instantaneously. 

He waits until Sendou, not subtly, tries to ask him who that pretty girl he posted last night was. 

“Are you sure that was a girl? Aiku never posts who he’s with. It was probably his sister.” 

Oliver doesn’t see who said that, but he doesn’t take offense. Again, he doesn’t kiss and tell. Whoever he’s with is a secret. 

He lets them simmer for a little bit more before he casually drops your name, saying it was just a friendly meal. Out of the corner of his eye, Sae stops putting on his shirt. 

“I’ll say,” Sendou says. “You took her to Wendy’s? That’s foul even for you.” 

“Maybe she likes Wendy’s,” Aiku says. “You don’t know her.” 

Although that last part isn’t really directed at Sendou. 

It’s rare for Sae to willingly open social media, but here he is, scrolling through Oliver’s story. Your face is never in any of the pictures, but he can tell. You’re- 

His brain stutters to a halt. 

You’re wearing the necklace he bought you on a date with another man.

There’s only one picture left in Oliver’s stories from last night, but of course that demon would’ve saved the best for last. It’s a simple shot. You’re sitting outside somewhere, under the stars. His hand is holding yours from across the table, your arm stretched out towards him. It’s the only one with a sliver of your face in it, the edge of a sweet, tender smile. 

Sae doesn’t fight. He’s not the type. But over you? 

He fights the only way he knows how. Through football. 

When Sae calls you after practice, you fumble your phone so hard it drops out of your hands and into the sink. You had fun with Oliver last night, but deep down, you didn’t really think Sae would care, as much as you wanted him to. It’s just the way he is. 

By the time you fish your phone out, it’s making strange noises and unable to return Sae’s call. You don’t feel like going out today after your wild night - crying onto Aiku’s shoulder through mouthfuls of French fries - so you resolve to pick a new one up tomorrow. 

Sae will wait. He’s very patient. 

Sae shows up on your doorstep within thirty minutes of your denied call. He lives twenty minutes away, if he speeds. 

Now he’s sitting in your living room, drinking water from your favorite mug while you squirm uncomfortably. He, on the other hand, seems content to sit in silence. 

“You hung out with Aiku last night,” he says. 

Now that he’s actually in the room, you feel like you did something wrong. It’s insane how much influence Sae has over you. He hurt you, but retaliation somehow feels like getting caught with your hand in a cookie jar. 

“Yes,” you mumble. 

“Hm? Speak up.” 

“So what if I did?” 

Sae raises an eyebrow. “Nothing. I don’t mind who you hang out with.” 

“Fine,” you say. “Guess I’ll hang out with him again. Since you don’t care.” 

His mouth curls into a smile behind his mug. That motherfucker. It’s ticking you off. He’s so in control of himself, so smug and pleased and - 

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” 

“You know, since you care so much- huh?” 

“Do you want to start dating?” He rephrases patiently. 

You stammer for a bit before you’re able to reply coherently. “I thought you didn’t want to.” 

“Did I say that?” 

“Yes,” you hiss. “You made it very clear.” 

“I don’t remember saying that,” he says and sets his mug down. When he stands, terror rises in you. He’s coming over. He’s sitting back on his haunches in front of you on the couch, eye to eye. “I just said that we weren’t dating. But I’d like to.” 

“You only want me because I was with another man,” you say faintly. You’re trying to act cute, playful, but you’re not sure it’s working. There’s not enough blood going to your brain. 

“You want me to beg, don’t you?” 

You can’t deny how excited that makes you. Part of it is the way he says it, his voice slow and measured, deepening near the end. Part of it is just hearing ‘beg’ come out of Sae’s mouth. 

“Okay, then. You don’t like Wendy’s.” 

God, you hate men. Who cares about Wendy’s? Why do they always argue about this? Oliver and Sae both-

“You like the places we go. You like,” he tugs lightly on your necklace in a way that stops just shy of stinging. “The way I spoil you.” He pushes you back onto the couch and leans over you. “You like the way I know,” his nose brushes over the carotid artery in your neck, “what makes you feel good.” 

“So I can beg if you want me to.” He’s all in your space, filling it up. All you can smell and feel and see is Sae. You feel paralyzed by his eyes. Devoured whole. “I can get on my knees for you and let you put a leash around my neck and promise that you can have anything you want from me. But let’s not pretend that you want anyone else but me.” 

Okay. So maybe you do care about Wendy’s. 

“Aiku thinks he knows you,” Sae says, his voice calm and easy. It’s like he’s laying out a mathematical formula instead of confessing his love, but it’s so Sae. “He doesn’t. I know you.” 

You whimper. 

Sae laughs dryly. 

You don’t sleep in your own bed that night. Sae drives you both back to his apartment, insists on brushing your teeth for you with the toothbrush he bought for you, and does your skincare routine before he tucks you into bed. 

You’re half asleep when he says, “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” 

“Huh?” You mumble, facedown in his pillow. It smells like him. 

Sae leans over so he can kiss your forehead. When he whispers, it’s directly in your ear. “You think you tied me down, huh?” 

You’re wide awake now. “Obviously,” you snap back, annoyed that he’s still trying to play these games. You know he’s not indifferent to you, you just wish he would- 

“No, dear,” Sae says. The pet name sends chills down your spine. “I trapped you.”