#the only thing holding back from getting the tea is having to serve tea too

[as-i-watch]

Its hilarious that Chilchuck is just dying to know what Senshi's deal is

But absolutely refuses to give a single crumb of personal information in exchange

[cursingtoji]

summary: clan leader!gojo needs a favor from your clan but as the leader you refuse, so he proposes to give you a child since your husband is unable to.

"and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?"

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…then i’ll kill your husband myself and marry you.”

nsfw ahead cw: historical au, infidelity, pregnancy, creampie, child birth, satoru is pathetically in love. featuring samurai bodyguard geto and toji.

“i thought we had solved all our business with the gojo clan” your husband says from the door he leans on.

“and i did” you emphasize the i since the head of your clan is you and only you went to the clan meetings that got things solved. you tapped your lips a little bit more to place the reddish pigment looking at the mirror, “but satoru summoned this meeting and gave no details.”

“satoru huh?” your husband points, not letting go unnoticed the fact you used his first name without formalities.

“all right” you take one step back checking if your kimono is proper, “see you tonight” you peck his lips lightly to not ruin the tint on yours and proceed to the carriage outside.

for years the gojo clan and yours avoided each other due to some very old beef that no one remembers or even was alive when it happened, so when your mother passed and you assumed as the new head you soon decided to reach out to make peace with the current head of the rival clan and a friendly relationship was restored. more often than not you two met, sometimes with other clan members or even other clans when necessary, but today gojo insisted on being just the two of you.

toji, your bodyguard, opens the carriage door when you arrive and give you his hand for you to step out.

to avoid any issues the place of the meeting was always the temple middle way your residences. from time to time your families attended the prayers there, that’s when your husband saw satoru for the first time.

“where’s his wife?” he asked the first time you pointed the white-haired man as the clan head after you made peace.

“he doesn’t have one.”

“fiancée then?”

“i don’t think so” you both watched discreetly as he greeted the monks.

“i find that quite odd. what about the black-haired man?” he pointed to geto, gojo’s bodyguard, “could they be involved romantically?” geto leaned to whisper something to his master, a little bit too close if you might add, a few more inches and his lips would be touching satoru’s ear. his romantic life was no business of yours but you didn’t like the idea of him having any partners, didn’t seem right, though deep down you knew it was very unlikely for a handsome man like him to be alone. both men somehow found your curious gaze.

“geto” you greet the known bodyguard as you enter the temple, and he bows to you, your bodyguard nods at him as well and you’re guided to the secret room.

the conversation went on for almost an hour, satoru served you tea when he noticed you finished yours, which was unusual for a clan head to do such a mundane task but he always insisted no servant join on your private meetings. you always thought he was particularly paranoid about spies, but that suspicion was dismissed when you had your first meeting with other clan heads and he didn’t oppose the people that stayed in the back of the room waiting for their master’s orders.

“satoru we went over this on the last meeting, why am i here?” you are getting impatient, satoru always seemed relaxed when he was at the temple like it’s the one place people don’t come to him with problems, so he tended to do things without any rush at all.

“so impatient…” he smirks, “i was getting to the point but fine. i need your doctors for a few weeks.”

because of the many wars and the necessity to heal mainly the samurai your clan became specialized in healing techniques and remedies instead of combat.

“is someone injured?” you raised your eyebrow, it wasn’t likely for satoru to ask for something like this when he could’ve sent a letter.

“no. but we are expecting a conflict soon and—”

“let me stop you there satoru” you raised your hand and for a second you saw a glimpse of annoyance cross his features, “we don’t get involved with battles anymore, the healers go through extensive training and i can’t risk losing them in battle.”

“so instead of putting their knowledge into practice you rather keep them locked in a room reading books?”

“they are busy with research at the moment” you raise your chin unwilling to budge on the matter.

“is that so?” he tilted his head smiling “and how many people does it take to figure out your husband is infertile?”

you widened your eyes, this is way too personal of a matter for someone else, especially another clan head, to know.

on the other side of the door, geto and toji guarded the room, they were close enough to listen to the conversation and without turning his head geto looked at toji with his eyebrow raised, to which toji only nodded confirming the rumors.

“you’re not the only one with little birds across territories, sweetheart” his smile only seems to grow.

“that is no business of yours. besides, lending you my healers will only harm my clan and, as i said, put them at unnecessary risk” you managed to find your composure back and avoid the infertility topic.

“don’t you trust i have the best warriors? you seemed to when we came to your aid” he reminded a time you asked for their men.

“i paid for that.”

“and what makes you think i won’t?”

“we don’t need money.”

“i’m not talking about money” he drops the volume of his voice.

“listen, satoru—” you rise to your feet sensing the tone of this conversation is off.

“i’m listening, for a very long time i’ve been listening” he rises as well and takes a few steps in your direction, “you know what i listen to? the rumors about your family threatening to make your brother head of the clan if you don’t bear an heir soon.”

you take a step back.

“or the resources you’ve been spending to research a treatment for your husband. tell me, darling, can he even get it up for you?” he is too close now, you can see all the details of his insanely blue eyes.

“he— that’s not a problem” you accidentally confess.

“of course it’s not, look at you” his finger brushes your cheek and the touch makes you burn under your skin, “i could give you a child” he lowers his head to your ear, running his lips on it, “a healthy, smart, beautiful child” he presses his hand on your belly over the thick material of your clothes, “and it wouldn’t even be an effort” he presses his hardened member on your hip.

“and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?” you look into his eyes challenging him to a solution.

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…i’ll kill him myself and take his place as your husband.”

you gasp, not expecting such an answer from the man you always watched trying to find a way to avoid violence.

satoru kisses your jaw then your cheek and when he gets close to your lips you turn your head, your conscience only now, in this intimate act, attacking you.

“he’s not fulfilling his duty” he whispers, letting go of the knot on his kimono, taking your hand and putting it on his chest. you open your eyes, not even aware you had closed them, and see his sculpted torso, so close to you, so warm…

“it’s not your fault, can’t you see?” he raises your chin, “it wasn’t meant to be, unlike us” you know he’s just telling you what you want to hear, but in his voice everything made sense.

“you’ll see” he picks you up and lowers his body with you back to the mat in the middle of the room, his kimono is still around his arms while yours was forgotten somewhere else, leaving only the very thin, dress-like, white undergarment that pretty much showed everything.

satoru lowers his head to your chest, his tongue wetting your nipple over the material, “i bet you’ll become even prettier” he replaces your breast with his hand, big and hot, and goes to the other nipple, “with your breasts heavy and a big belly” he sucks on you, hardly, you put your hand over your mouth.

satoru raises your legs over his shoulders, “your feet will get tired” he kisses the inner thigh, “but you’ll still come and see me” you thought it sounded like a question, it was a statement.

his head goes down, as he kisses your folds your back arches, he licks a stripe ending on your clit and flickering it.

satoru starts to lose himself, he gets too intoxicated by you, almost forgetting time is running against him here. he doesn’t have much longer until your bodyguard gets suspicious and calls for you, and by the way your hand is tight against your mouth he doubts you’ll be able to give a proper response.

he wants to make you cum before he shoots his load, suguru’s intel told him you asked one of the doctors if the woman needed to come to increase the chances. it doesn’t take much medical knowledge to interpret that question.

you cum on his tongue pulling him out of his dreams where he imagined himself doing that every night after those boring fucking meetings he has to attend at every slight inconvenience in his clan.

“it’s gonna be okay, just relax for me” he pushes his length slowly before you get the chance to see his size. you whisper his name behind your hand and he can’t stand not seeing your whole face, so he takes your hand out of the way and kisses your wet lips pushing his tongue and swallowing your moans as he goes deeper and starts to pick a pace.

satoru holds back a curse, reminding himself he’s in a sacred place and although anyone would say that’s ironic given what you’re doing in the temple he would argue that’s even more sacred than what most people prayed for.

you start to feel his weight down on you as he trusts get sloppier, he’s still kissing you, holding your lips with his when he twitches and fills your insides, in your drunk mind you think it’s so much more than what you’re used to.

after he catches his breath he pushes himself up and out of you, you allow yourself to close your eyes for a brief moment but you open them wide again when satoru pushes his cum back into you with his finger, “keep it deep and warm for me, yes?”

one hour later you pass through the door your bodyguard slides open for you to enter your chambers. on the way there you realized there’s no chance he and geto didn’t grasp on what was happening inside the room.

“toji?” you call before he can close the door and go to his personal room, he stops, indicating he listens although he doesn’t respond with the formality others usually do, “i trust you won’t share with anyone what happened today” you speak firmly looking the tall man behind you over your shoulder, his scar stretches slightly with his smirk, the man bows and closes the door.

they said it was a road accident, the horse got spooked and ran, by the time they found it there was no rider so they searched your husband and found his body down the mountain.

the ritual was long, you wore the traditional widow clothing, accepting the kind words of the clan members and the prayer of the monks. though you really were sad, all this pity was making you sicker than…

“at least you didn’t have kids, no child deserves to grow up with a dead father” an old lady says to comfort you while holding your hands.

“excuse me” you turn around walking slowly to not raise suspicions and as soon as it is just you on the other side of your home you bend your torso and throw up all you’ve eaten before the funeral.

you cough and when a tissue enters your field of vision you immediately take it and clean your mouth.

you feel your stomach empty but the light volume below it reminds you of whose fault it is.

you raise with the tissue on your lips to say thank you and the sight of the white-haired man makes you choke.

“shh, it’s okay, i’m here as an ally, to give my condolences to a friend in grief” there’s absolutely no seriousness in his tone.

“what about the war?” you ask through heavy breathing.

“that was child’s play, don’t worry, your healers will return safe and sound in a few days” he puts his hand on your shoulder to calm you down, you do.

satoru takes a second to drop his sight to your belly, it has been a month since your last encounter, and by your sensitive stomach he knows that one time was enough for you to get pregnant.

“do you think you can hide it for another month until the wedding? then when the child is born we’ll just say it was a premature birth” god, your former husband’s body was barely cold and gojo is already planning the wedding and what to say about the baby.

“why now?” you look up at his mischievous eyes, he knows what you’re asking truly.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, it was an accident right?” he touches your face, brushing away a tear that came out, more of a natural body reaction of your gagging than a sadness reaction.

“satoru, tell me” you demanded.

“i just reflect a little you know? when i said i would kill him you never asked me not to. besides, i don’t want another man to think they own what’s mine” his eyes are darker, you think he’s talking about the child in your womb but by the intensity of his gaze, you realize he’s talking about you. “if you need anything tell suguru, i’ll have him staying in the village until we announce the wedding.”

“no, i have toji, don’t want anyone suspecting geto’s intentions” you defend.

gojo doesn’t seem to like it, but he doesn’t argue either, “either way, i want to see you. meet me at the temple in five days, we’ll talk about the arrangements” he leans in and kisses your forehead before turning away and then back “i almost forgot” he reaches for something inside his sleeve and pulls out a shiny golden bracelet with gems and puts it on your palm, you know you can’t wear it now but god it’s gorgeous, “came from the west especially for you” he puts his hand on top of yours and leaves it there for a long moment as you look into each other's eyes. satoru is fighting the urge to kiss you, if someone catches you he can’t say he’s comforting his recently widowed friend, so he forces himself to let go of you and go head back to his village.

the midwife instructs you to push harder as her helper dabs a wet cloth on your forehead. you’re squatting, on your knees giving your all to push the baby out.

finally one last push is all that it takes for the little one to come out, you want to lay down and close your eyes, but you need to see the baby first so you mumble something with your arms open, the midwife cleans baby’s face through crying and screaming.

“it’s a boy” she whispers putting him in your arms. satoru enters when he hears the cries and kneels in front of you. behind him are both suguru and toji, who aren’t allowed to enter but the men are also very eager to see the child they can’t help but try to peek.

you balance the boy in your hold for a little bit till he stops crying and when he opens his eyes you see the blue sky.

“give him to the father, we’re not over” the midwife says.

“what?” you, satoru, toji and suguru ask. the last two get an angry look from the midwife and remove themselves from the scene.

“the next one will come out soon” she puts new towels below you.

“two children? at once?” you ask in disbelief then look at satoru who can only smile apologetically.

after god knows how long you’re finally allowed to rest as the babies were cleaned and fed. the second one was a girl, with identical blue eyes as her brother and father.

“i can’t believe you put two kids in me” satoru is outside the wooden tub, breaking all tradition by helping you bathe after the birth.

“can’t say i’m sorry for that” he rubs your shoulders, “you were incredible” he confesses now that there’s only the two of you. satoru refuses to even let your feet touch the floor, he takes you out of the tub once the water starts to cool down, placing you on a dry surface and getting on his knees to dry your feet, you reach out to touch his face.

“i love you, satoru” you blurt, overwhelmed by your feelings for the man who was once your rival.

he looks up from his position, taking the hand on his face and kissing your palm, then your pulse, he kisses inch by inch of your arm until his lips are on yours, “i love you.”

"pay up, pretty boy" toji approaches geto.

"excuse me?" suguru looks up from the sword he's polishing now that gojo dismissed him for the rest of the night.

"i said it was gonna be a boy."

"yeah and then a girl came out right after so the bet was invalidated."

"there's no such a thing, the boy will inherit it all anyway" toji crosses his arms, geto laughs, fishing a coin from his pocket since he knows toji will say anything to win the bet.

"and what makes you say that? there's two clans and now two heirs" toji snatches the coin as soon as he sees the silver glow.

"that's just how it has ever been" he turns his back to geto who drives his attention back to his sword.

"things are changing old man.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[zephyrchama]

You were sick. Your head was in a fog and your throat hurt something fierce. It was sweltering hot yet you shivered under the covers, hoping for the fever to pass soon. Your body, doing its best to get better, decided to empty the contents of your stomach over the side of the bed.

Beelzebub was the first to discover your condition. He came to wake you up in person when you hadn't shown up on time for breakfast. You were teetering like a newborn deer trying to clean up your mess. He was taken aback at the sight, at how clammy you were, and gently wiped the sweat from your face while checking how warm your forehead was. "You should lay down," he recommended, practically pushing you back into bed. You asked him to guide you to the bathroom instead.

He disappeared to fetch Lucifer. The eldest arrived immediately upon being informed of your condition. Your face muscles twitched as you tried to hold back a second round and apologized for the state you were in. Lucifer told you to stay quiet and just rest. "If you want to apologize, then get better soon."

"Don't tell anyone about this, ok?" you tried to ask. It came out as a garbled, barely perceptible whisper sending bolts of pain through your neck. You didn't want anyone to know how bad things really were.

"I do need to inform Diavolo, but rest assured I'll keep it brief." After ensuring you had water and would be fine alone for a few hours, Lucifer left early to inform RAD of your absence. He later texted you, "Don't hesitate to summon me if you need anything."

The house was quiet. It felt surreal to be the only one there. After some time had passed, you hobbled back to your bedroom and tried to sleep through the pain. Blissfully unaware of the chaos occurring elsewhere.

RAD is no small academy by any means, but rumors sure do spread fast. In first period, Beelzebub told Belphegor the sight he witnessed. They were overheard by Asmodeus, who lamented your absence to Solomon. Solomon asked Raphael to come with him to prepare some nutritious human food so you'd recover faster, and had to be forcibly stopped by Simeon. Luke found out by interrogating Solomon about why he was causing a scene in the kitchen.

Mephistopheles caught wind of the gossip and went directly to Diavolo for confirmation. Lucifer was none too happy at the situation, but the rumor mill was already spinning in full force. He did his best to uphold your image by telling anyone who broached the subject, "it's just the sniffles."

By lunchtime, Mammon was taking bets on how sick you were. "500 grimm says they're explodin' from both ends." "If that were the case, one of us would have stayed at the house with them," Satan rebutted, spying an easy win. "500 grimm says it's just coming out the bottom." They went back and forth, with others occasionally chipping in new symptoms such as hives or internal bleeding. Asmodeus, unable to listen any longer, left the cafeteria to post vague stories about his concern for you on social media.

Leviathan and Thirteen sent you get-well-soon text messages. One was full of worry and asked you to respond ASAP so they knew you weren't dying, as anxiety over your condition was causing them no end of fear. The other assured you to rest easy knowing that your candle was fine and you had plenty of time left before you kicked the bucket. It even recommended passing your bug onto someone else for fun.

You only saw the notifications in the evening, when a pounding headache woke you up and resounding footsteps in the hall signaled that people were home from school.

There was a knock at the door and Lucifer announced you had company. The crown prince and his butler imposed with a tray of fresh herbal tea. It would have smelled amazing if you possessed the ability to breathe through your nose. As the door shut behind them, you spotted at least ten figures out in the hallway.

Barbatos silently served you a hot cup, hopeful the rising stream would assist your sinuses. "Looks like you're recovering well!" Diavolo chimed. "That's great. I feared you were going to heave your guts out all day."

The frank sincerity caught you off guard and you choked on your tea. Barbatos was quick to grab the cup before it spilled.

"You knew?" you rasped. "Oh yes. Lucifer said it wasn't that bad, but tales of your illness have spread all over campus. We know human bodies aren't very strong."

You hunched down into the blankets to hide. The heat spreading across your face this time was not due to fever.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Hold You Tight In My Mind

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, blowjobs, kinda fingering), soft angst, injury, hurt/comfort, demon possession, friends-with-benefits to lovers.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an agreement. Best friends who have sex, no strings attached. But when a case goes south, you learn a few things about Dean, specifically his thoughts on the arrangement.

Maybe you won't have to love him in silence after all.

Author's Note: Kinda request from @brtodd!! Nothing I love more than a good old love confession, enjoy!

Title from Terrance Loves You by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.5k

That’s a lot of blood. You’ve spent nights in motels stitching wounds and lost yourself on the side of the highway shouting for help, your guts half spilled on the pavement, but you’ve never seen that much blood.

“Son of a bitch, that’s a lot of blood.”

Dean, apparently, hasn’t seen this much blood either. 

“Should we, um,” you scan over the tile floor, your nose slightly scrunched. “Should we take a picture for Sam?”

“Yeah, he should see this shit too-“

“No, Dean,” you give him a flat look. “For the case. To help him figure out what the hell this thing is.”

Dean gives you a bright, boyish grin and nod of approval. “Good thinkin’, in case he gets mad at us-“

“Gets mad at you,” you correct, moving to stand at Dean’s shoulder as he takes the photo. “I’m not a part of this. I just wanna go home.”

Dean shrugs. “We all wanna go home, Sweetheart. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kids- Shit-“

He doubles over slightly from your elbow in his ribs, and you roll your eyes.

“You have a fake wife and kids. And your fake wife,” you jab your thumb at your own chest. “Doesn’t want her fake brother-in-law to kill her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean’s never allowed to have fun.” He mutters, rubbing his side. “And Sammy wouldn’t kill ya’-“

“He’d kill my fake husband.” You pout at Dean, placing a hand over your heart. “And that would kill me.”

Dean chuckles, rising back to his full height. “I love it when you pretend that you care about me. Makes me warm and fuzzy.”

You roll your eyes, hoping he can’t see the low flush on your face. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “You’re into it, though. C’mon, we gotta see if there’s actually a body in here, or Sam’ll kill both of us.”

Dean trudges off through the lake of blood, and you have to shake your head slightly to clear it. This case is going to kill you. This is so fucking gross, and the longer you’re here—in this room, in this town, on this case—the sicker you feel.

And it’s not just the blood. It’s all of this. It’s the haughty country club patrons who are downright impossible to properly interrogate, it’s the extra fancy clothing you have to wear for the investigations, and the shitty little tea cakes that the club serves. Tea cakes that you can feel your stomach growling for, because you haven’t had a chance to eat all day, and that only makes you feel worse. As every hour passes, you only feel more and more sick. You only spiral into starving mess that needs either food or Dean.

And that just makes you ill. Every time you look at Dean and hear him say wife, you want to strangle him then kiss him and it’s exhausting. Because you’d walked into this stupid fucking country club with a plan that would’ve worked fine—Sam’s your driver because he drew the short stick, Dean’s your bodyguard, you’re some fancy heiress looking to spend some money—and everything went sideways the moment the front desk asked how many household members, and Dean said four. Dean said that he was your husband, and you have kids, and that he knows he’s punchin’ above his weight class, but damn him, he can’t feel bad about it. 

You want to hate him for that. You want to throttle him for how he’s treating this like it’s casual and easy, like every time he says wife it’s not so quietly cruel to your heart. How it flutters and glows before withering, because you’ll never have that. Dean always says wife with a teasing voice and nudge of your shoulder, and you can only grin at him like it’s not killing you, reminding you of what you can’t have.

But you can’t hate Dean. You don’t really know how to hate Dean. And he doesn’t know that this is like torture, because he really thinks you’re happy with this. Not just the fake wife thing—because you are playing into it, trading the same taunts and jokes and grins—but the very real, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies arrangement you have. Have had for fucking years. The one where you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth and never, ever look back to see what you’d left behind, but all he’s asking is that you stay in his bed and let him fuck you when he asks.

It’s not a bad arrangement. He’s a sex god, he gives as good as he gets, and you’re technically exclusive, but it’s still not what you want. Crave. Desire more than you’ve ever desired anything.

Because you really just want all of Dean. Something he’s never offered anyone‚ will certainly never offer you, and you’re going to chase until it kills you. You’ll warm Dean’s bed and touch his body for as long as you’re allowed, and cling to these small deaths of maybe this could be real until they all finally catch up to your heart. You’ll gather small offerings he drops in your lap without knowing—you’re the only person he looks at, and his eyes don’t seem to stray, and he’s the one who decided you should be fake married—and build a shrine to him along your ribs he’ll never be allowed to see.

But his voice still haunts your dreams with words you feel over your skin where he’s touched you before. Words you’ve heard a million times—so pretty, sweetheart, good girl—and words you’ll never hear. Words that circle your brain and bang on your skull all the fucking time, even in this disgusting, haunting mess of blood. Words that make some small part of you spark whenever you hear Dean’s deep, strong voice say your name, because you’re a little pathetic and you can’t stop praying that he’ll say them. He won’t. He never does. 

He calls your name, and that spark kicks up your spine, and he still doesn’t say them. 

“I got it!” He sounds so proud, and you hate that it makes you smile. “We’re looking at a demon!”

You turn, pushing through the blood to join Dean at where he’s standing at a fireplace, running his finger over the mantle with a twisted expression of disgust.

“Sulfur?” You ask, stopping as close to his side as he can manage, and he shoots you a grin, holding up a bloodied—but blackened—finger. 

“Bingo, Sweetheart.” He winks, obviously missing your open, wanting gape at him as he looks back to the mantle. “Nasty son of bitch, though, I’ve never seen one of those douchebags do this.”

Dean gestures around the room, and you hum an agreement.

“So we’re good?” You ask, standing slightly on your toes to survey the sulfur buildup. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call my wife, tell her I’ll be home for dinner-“

You whack his arm, and he laughs like a handsome, cocky fucking asshole you still can’t figure out how to hate.

“Your wife is starving, and tired of standing in blood.” You kick your foot through the mess, wrinkling your nose. “Can we please go?”

“I dunno, I think this is kinda romantic.” Dean gives you a shit-eating grin, and you swallow. “I mean, this is freakin’ gross, but it’s just us and all these guts, I think we could waste some time-“

“Shut up.” You shove him, and he doesn’t stop grinning at you. “Haul ass, Winchester, or you’ll be in the fake doghouse.”

He chuckles, rebalancing in a second. “You’re being a little dramatic, kid-“

“Don’t kid me, Dean Winchester, I’m your fake wife. I gave birth to your fake kids-“

“You’ve got some good points,“ Dean drawls your name, pulling you right against his chest, and suddenly the smell of metallic blood is nothing compared to the leather and whiskey and gunpowder of Dean. The sticky heat of the room is overtaken by the heat in your core, the heat of Dean’s breath as he lowers down to kiss right behind your ear, his voice dropping to a deep, teasing growl. “And I’m gonna real fuck you when we get back to the motel. But I gotta call Sam and catch him up, can you-“

You nod, reaching into his pocket to grab the keys, and force yourself not to look back as you leave. You wince slightly as you lean into the Impala—starting the car before rising back up and leaning against the door—but it’s not like she’s never been covered in blood before. This just… a lot more blood than usual.

Dean takes a year to join you, and when he walks out of the building he’s smirking, spreading his arms in a wide aren’t you happy to see me? gesture. 

“Sam’s workin’ it.” He stops right in front of you, too close and never close enough. “Can I buy a pretty lady a beer?”

“You can buy her some food.” You cross your arms, grinning up at him. “I saw a drive-thru down the road, we shouldn’t go inside looking like this.”

“Smart.” He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you around the car and into the passenger’s seat, and just being so fucking impossible as he opens the door and helps you inside. “Greasy fast-food for me and my girl, comin’ right up.”

You have to learn how to hate him. You have to learn how to flip Dean off and mean it, how to not flush and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush under his attention. He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know how to mean it, but it still makes your lower gut warm and your face split into a wide, stupid grin when he calls you my girl, drawls your name in the car, and rests his hand on your knee as you pull through the ordering window. When he parks in the lot and you laugh together, his eyes rarely leaving yours and his smile never falling from his face. 

Even when he gets out to use the bathroom—promising he’ll be fast and try, somehow, not to draw attention to how he’s soaked in blood—Dean still grins and winks at you, and you can’t figure out how to shove his chest and shout that this is mean. That he’s mocking you and stringing your heart up on wires to play with, and he can’t be expected to know that but this is so fucking mean. He needs to stop smiling at you, and stop saying wife all the time like it’s real when it’s not. It won’t be, it can’t be, and now that’s going to haunt you forever. 

You sit there for long, lonely minutes while Dean’s gone, trying get as little blood as you can on the upholstery, because Dean had already started grumbling about how much work this is gonna be to clean up and you can’t bring yourself to make anything harder for him. You spiral through the sound of Dean calling you my girl and promising to fuck you, sit in the ghost of his big, warm hand on your body and his chest pressed right against your breasts. The gleam in his eyes that was full of promises, and the fantasy of all the plans he might have for that aforementioned fucking.

Then you hear his phone ring, and you frown. Dean almost never forgets his phone in the car, even if he’s just getting beer or paying for gas. It’s a hazard, to not have it. To not be able to reach you or Sam if he needs to, for you and Sam to not be able to reach him.

And he’s been gone a while. Long enough that your throat starts to form a small lump, and—when you pick up the call—your voice is a little unsteady, your attention on where Dean had disappeared into the building.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hey.” Sam says your name through the speaker, his tone a little surprised. “Where’s Dean?”

“Bathroom.” You frown at the building, desperate for Dean to just appear, and soothe this horrible twisting in your gut. “What’s up?”

“I figured out what we’re looking at.” You can hear some papers shuffling on Sam’s end, his words slow and careful. “Special kind of demon that feeds off of lustful blood, which explains why he’s been going after all those rich people. Like, ten ladies and five dudes have tried to sleep with me this week, and I know you and Dean got that, uh, offer-“

“Sam.” You mutter, your eyes still on the building. “Can we exercise it?”

“Kind of. We can’t use the normal one, because it’s not a normal demon, but there is a way. And these guys seem to be capable of being injured, more dependent on their vessels or something. So-“

“If we find him we can knock him down,” you mutter. “Hold him until we figure out how to flush him out.”

“Exactly. And I’m trying to work on the flushing part,” Sam sighs, and you can picture his sheepish expression. “But I don’t have it yet. Are you-“

“We’re coming back soon. Do you want us gone a little while longer, so you can focus-“

“No, Dean told me about all the blood. Sounded gross.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It was. But-“

“I’ll take the car, need to stop at the library anyway.” Sam says your name through the phone, and there’s a sound of pity in it that makes you curl slightly into yourself. “You and Dean can shower, relax, do, uh, whatever you do-“

You sigh. “Please don’t give me permission to fuck your brother, dude. It’s weird.”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles through the static. “Sorry. I just know he’s been trying to get you alone-“

“He’s always trying to get me alone.” A dumb smile takes over your face as Dean reappears, and he’s fine. Still covered in blood, but grinning at you with a dizzying joy and gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell him what we’ve got, and text us when you’ve got the exorcism.”

“Will do. Call me if you need anything, or if, uh, I should stay away longer-“

“Suck my dick.”

You end the call as Sam laughs, and look up to find Dean tapping on your window with a smirk. You blink at him, because he might be covered in more blood than before. There’s a bruise on his forehead that wasn’t there a second ago, his shirt is on backwards, and his jacket is drenched, but he’s look at you like he won the lottery, and you’re not sure what the hell is going on.

“Dean,” you frown at him as you roll the window down, your brow furrowed as he braces an arm on the roof of Baby. “Are you-“

He cuts off your words by ducking down, grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a long, mind-numbing, sloppy kiss that leaves you gaping and dumb. Your fingers curling in his shirt, his low chuckle rolling through your body as he pushes his  tongue down your throat, the taste of Dean—lingering burger and sweet soda and salt for your food, plus something innately Dean that’s heady and always leaves a perfect aftertaste on your tongue whenever he kisses you—overtaking the taste of blood just enough override your sense of this is kinda gross, and make you pull him closer.

When Dean pulls back—leaving you starting at him, your breathing ragged and heart trying to escape your chest as he grins at you—he grins at you, his voice a gravely promise. 

“You ready to head back, darlin’?”

You blink at him. He’s never called you darling. Darling doesn’t sound like a Dean word. “Uh, yeah, but are you feeling okay? You were in there a while-“

“Food didn’t sit right,” he shrugs, drawing back up with a last wink. “Trust me, Sweetheart, it ain’t gonna be an issue anymore. I’m all flushed out.”

He rounds the car, and you watch him move with a frown. That’s the Dean swagger-walk, but it’s longer, with almost no urgency. Dean always walks with a least a little urgency, and he calls you Sweetheart but not darlin’, and something is still squeezing around your throat and telling you something’s wrong, when Dean’s right here. He’s winking at you from the driver’s seat, driving with the same cool ease Dean always has behind the wheel, and talking to you like he always does. Like your every word is fascinating and amusing, and you could say the grossest thing in the world but he’d still call you adorable. 

You hate that he does that. It’s perfect and painful, feeding that shrine over your ribs, and almost enough to distract you from how weird he’s being. How he doesn’t seem at all interested to hear about the blood demon, how his first clarification is so Sam’s gonna leave us in the motel, and how he’s growing bolder with his hand on your leg. Trailing fingers lazily up your thigh and grinning when he brushes over the apex of your thighs, chuckling at your small gasp.

“Think we’re ready for that fuckin’, Sweetheart?” He drawls, pulling into the motel lot. “You sure seem real needy-“

“We’re not having sex, Dean, there’s a demon on the loose-“

“A demon Sammy’s handlin’.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been tryin’ to get you alone all freakin’ week. C’mon, we deserve some time together.“ Dean leans forward, smirking at you. “And I know you want it, babygirl. I bet you’re real fuckin’ wet for me.” He reaches up to your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “So pretty, darlin’-“

There it is again. Darling. Darling, and the excessive drawling, and the slow walk, and the glint in his eyes you’re only now noticing. It’s colder than how Dean ever looks at you. It’s shallow and crude, like he can’t see anything past a pretty face and body, when Dean is—above all else—your friend. When there’s always a shining light when he looks at you that—both amazingly and awfully—reminds you that you’re more than just a body, and he mostly sees you as the best friend he’s ever had. The one he can do this with, because you care about each other too much to complicate things, and who he’ll always respect.

And this doesn’t feel respectful. It doesn’t feel like Dean. His hands are touching you, but there’s something off about them. Dean would be tracing his fingers over your inner thigh, not moving any further until your either grabbed his hand and moved it for him, or downright pleaded for him to touch you. He’d be disgusted by keeping your bloodied clothing in Baby for even a second more, and choose to back you against the motel wall instead of whatever this is. He’d let you get a word in, for your mock sparring and teasing that he always seems to win.

He would’ve worked in a joke about wanting to fuck his wife, because she can be a real brat when he neglects her. And you’d have smacked his chest, and he’d have laughed, raising his brows and saying see? She gets all bitchy and dramatic when I don’t fuck her right.

But Dean’s not doing that right now. And when you reach over the seat, trailing your hand up his chest in a pretend gesture of need, you feel it. 

Warm, sticky blood that’s fresh, and seeping through his shirt. Pouring from a wound you can feel the dip of, that somehow doesn’t make him flinch when you press slightly on it.

A wound right over his anti-possession tattoo.

You move before the demon—not Dean, this isn’t Dean, and you feel fucking ill—can register what’s happening. You pull one of the Impala’s random guns out from the glove compartment, thank a God who’s obviously not listening that it’s weighed and heavy, and ram the butt of it into Dean’s temple. Not hard enough to kill him—you do want your Dean back after this— but hard enough to knock him out. To buy you enough time to grab his by the neck of his jacket and drag him out of the impala. You kick open the motel room door, scream to Sam for help, and haul him into a chair. Sam ties him down, while you take long, deep breathes, and your words are soft and short when you finally manage to speak.

“He’s possessed.” You whisper, starting at the floor. “They carved through the tattoo.”

“Shit,” Sam starts to pace, and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear him. “It’s-“

You nod. “The blood demon.”

“Are you good to stay here?” Sam marches over to the table and shoving his laptop into his bag. “I’ll go to the library, find what we’re looking for, and call you when I’ve got it. Okay?”

You nod, trying not flinch at Sam’s sympathetic pat of your shoulder, and stare at Dean as Sam leaves. You feel vile. That’s not Dean, but it’s Dean’s body. Dean will still be injured when you get this piece of shit out of his body. He’ll still be covered in bloody, disgusting clothing, and he’ll remember you knocking him out. He’ll ask questions that you’ll have to answer, about how you knew. And you’ll have to tell him that you just did. You’ll leave out the part about how you have every piece of him memorized to worship, so that even if the demon had tried a little harder to pretend to be Dean, you probably still would have caught on. You’d recognizes Dean’s bones in the grave. You’d recognize his voice in space. You’d recognize him just fucking near you if you were being waterboarded and flayed alive. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say the painfully basic and obscuring answer of I just did, and that will hurt.

But you have time to practice. The demon’s still knocked out in Dean’s body, and Sam’s taking too long to figure this out, but you don’t have anywhere to be. You can tug Dean’s jacket off his body with a mumbled apology he can’t hear, and busy yourself trying to clean it. You can’t stop looking at him—battered, vulnerable, his face so painfully slack—and the warm, soap-covered cloth isn’t enough to keep you from spiraling. From flinching as the blood, Dean’s blood, becomes red bubbles, and trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be so impossibly horrible. That, maybe, the demon just won’t wake up, and you won’t have to do anything but clean Dean’s jacket until Sam gets back

But you’re not that lucky.

Pretty, green eyes that are but don’t look like Dean’s flutter open, the demon drops any pretense of playing pretend, and your skin begins to crawl as it speaks.

“Good mornin’,” it leers at you from the chair, pulling slightly on the bonds. “Aren’t you a pretty sight to see after some forced shut eye.”

You start to scrub on the leather to a degree that can’t be helpful, your knuckles white. 

“Knockin’ us out wasn’t very nice to your friend in here, Sweetheart. He’s awfully torn up about it. Feelin’ like he failed you, beggin’ me not to hurt you, hates that I was able to get the up on him and touch you at all. But can I tell you a secret,” the demon says your name, and your blood curls in your body. “He really wants to touch you himself. You’ve got a real dirty minded fellow on your hands. Who woulda thought the great Dean Winchester’s weakness would be a smart-mouthed bitch-“

The demon seems to choke on that last word, and when your gaze shoots up Dean’s body looks like it’s in pain. He’s curving into himself—his eyes screwed shut and sweat forming on his brow—and you’re moving before you know what’s happening. Jumping out of your seat and grabbing his face between your hands, your voice high and frantic over the blood pounding in your ears.

“Dean?” You run your thumb over his cheek, and he twitches, like he can’t figure out if he wants to flinch away or lean into your touch. “Shit, Dean, I need you to talk to me-“

Dean’s eyes snap open—that foul glint still rooted deep into them—and he laughs as you jerk away like he’d burned you.

“I’ll give ‘im this.” The demon says, the words still slightly strained. “He ain’t an easy ride. Keeps tryin’ to break out and talk to you, tell you not to listen to me and go find Sammy.” The demon laughs again, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It’s Dean’s laugh, but inverted. Cold and hateful and wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking an unsteady step back, and the demon raises Dean’s brows.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just breakin’ poor Dean’s heart. Hurtin’ him, tellin’ him to shut up, tyin’ him up-“ The demon cuts himself off, twisting Dean’s face into a smirk. “Well, that one’s a funny little case, ain’t it. He’s too much of a pathetic little bitch to admit it-“

You scowl, standing a little taller. “Dean’s notpathetic-“

The demon pushes on as if you’d said nothing at all. “But he’s kinda into this. Likes the idea of you havin’ some fun with him however you want, pleasin’ you however you like, or,” the Demon’s grin grows mocking and crude. “Switchin’ places. Keepin’ you down to find out if he can make you scream louder than when he does that thing with his tongue, see if he can get you beggin’ all pretty. Nothin’ gets him goin’ more than when you beg-“

“Shut up.“ You hiss, grabbing your phone off your bed. “I don’t know what your fucking angle is, but I’d recommend you get out of my-“ you catch yourself, taking a short breath before plowing on. “Out of Dean-“

The demon caught it, though, and his smirk grows. “Your what? He ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’. But Jesus, he hates that too. I don’t think you’d keep indulgin’ this asshole if you could spend a second in here with ‘im like I am. He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you, it’s goddamn pathetic-“

You clench your jaw so hard you might break teeth, your movements rough as you scroll for Sam’s contact. “I said shut up-“

“He thinks he’s fuckin’ poison.” The demon sneers, and you can’t look at Dean’s face—can’t see it cruel and filled with hate—or you might start crying. “And shit, darlin’, he’d like to poison you. He’d like to do everythin’ to you. Fuck ya’ and buy you flowers and marry ya’,” the demon cackles, and you feel a little dizzy. “’S why he’s been doin’ this stupid fuckin’ charade all week. He wants to bruise ya’ and bite ya’, then whine and bitch about how he’s so disgustingly in love with you-“ The demon hacks a slight cough, and shakes his head with a mocking grimace. “Makes me fuckin’ sick, how needy and weak this piece of shit is-“

“I said,” you cross back to the chair, fisting Dean’s blood-covered shirt in your hand and yanking him up with cold words and words you hate on your tongue. “Shut the fuck up. And get out of him, before I fucking kill you.”

The demon just laughs at you, spit covering your face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Sweetheart. Not while I’m in your precious Dean’s body. Not while you got me here, tellin’ you all the nasty things he’d like to do to ya’, how he worships the ground your fuckin’ walk on and dreams about you sayin’ you love a pile of trash like him-“

You tear off your own jacket, bundle up the sleeve, and stuff it the demons mouth. You don’t fucking care if it’s trapped in Dean’s body until Sam gets back, you can’t keep listening to it. Listening to it fucking lie and rip you apart with only words, watch it eyes gleam as it puppets Dean’s mouth to torture you. Why the fuck would it say things like that. It can’t be to hurt Dean, because all he’ll have to do is tell you when this is over that he’s sorry about what the demon said, and that it’s all just lies. And the demon doesn’t know—can’t know—that it just ripped your heart out of your chest and ran it through a meat-grinder. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and you feel like your skin is trying to fly off your body, and Dean’s still covered in blood and it’s horrible- 

Your phone buzzes on the floor—slightly cracked from being suddenly dropped—and it’s Sam. When you pick up he doesn’t wait to hear you before he launches into frantic words, practically shouting into the speaker.

“Found it!” He sounds a little out of breath, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s been running back to the car. “Can you put me on-“

“Yep.” You press speaker, ripping your jacket out the demons mouth and turning the volume all the way up. “Go.”

Sam starts to recite a long, fancy string of Latin words, and you can’t bear to see Dean’s body thrash and roar and fold in pain, but you need to make sure the demon goes. That when Sam finishes and Dean’s eyes start to flutter, it’s safe to thank Sam, hang up the phone, and fall to your knees at Dean’s side.

“Dean,” you cup his jaw, angling his head slightly back. “Shit, Dean, please say something-“

He moans your name, and you almost start crying in relief, dropping your head carefully onto his leg. 

“I, shit-“ Dean’s voice is hoarse as he pulls slightly at the bonds around him. “I’m happy to see you too, Sweetheart, but I kinda need you do untie me-“

“Fuck, sorry-“ You scramble with the ropes, scanning over his body as you do. “I’m gonna go get Sam’s medkit, can you take your shirt off-“

“Well, I’d usually make you but me some dinner- shit-“ He’d already started to pull his shirt off, his whole body shuddering as his arms tried to raise up. 

“Dean-“

“Gimme three, I’ve got it-“

“No, you don’t. I’m cutting your shirt off, just-“ You move to your feet, pointing a stern finger at him. “Stay.”

He raises his hands, flinching slightly at the movement. “Yes, ma’am.”

Neither of you speak for a long while. You throw yourself entirely into his stitches, tossing the bloodied rags of his shirt into the trash and stealing small at Dean’s handsome, exhausted features. He’s watching you the whole time, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but it’s sure where to start. When he finally clears his throat, you hum, keeping your hands steady on the stitches.

“This fucking sucks.” He grumbles, and you huff a dry laugh. 

“Yeah. It really does.” You pull another stitch through the gash, and Dean winces. “Shit, I’m sorry-“ 

“Don’t apologize.” He mutters. “I should be apologizing to you.” 

You frown up at him, your hands coming to a still. “Why?” 

“I let that asshole get one up on me.” He grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “Couldn’t get a hold over him, either. Let him say all that shit to you-“ 

Something cracks in your heart, but you just shrug. “That’s not on you, Dean. Demon’s lie, you don’t have to explain it-“ 

Now Dean’s frowning at you. “What?” 

“The demon,” you mumble, your face flushing slightly. “What he said. I get it, it’s what they do, you don’t need to-“ 

“The demon didn’t,” Dean coughs, his face redder than you’ve ever seen it, his voice almost nervous. “It didn’t lie. He was a dick about how he said it, but he didn’t lie.”

“I, um, I don’t-“ You gape at him for a long second, trying to figure out if he’s joking. This isn’t something Dean would joke about, but that just means you must have heard him wrong. The demon said Dean loved you, and Dean didn’t love you—you haven’t even allowed yourself to entertain the thought outside of secret fantasies and feverish dreams—so the demon lied. The demon lied. The demon had to have lied, but why would Dean-

He says your name, tone cautious and features soft when you blink at him. “Lost you for a second, Sweetheart, are you-“

“I’m okay.” You mumble, refocusing on the stiches. “I’m probably just tired, I thought I heard you say-“

“That I love you?”

You swallow. There it is again. “I-“

He says your name again, careful fingers brushing hair from your face. “Look at me.”

You can’t. You don’t know what’s going on, and there’s still so much blood. 

Dean hand moving under your chin and guides your gaze up, you lips parting slightly as your eyes meet his. He’s scanning over you, a slight furrow to his brow, and you can’t stop your hand from moving up and wiping a little blood off his cheek.

“Dean-“

“Never mind.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Thought that we, uh, never mind.”

When you finish the stitches—your hands shaking slightly, your head spinning with confusion—you force him to shower first. It gives you time to spiral down, down, down, your brain turning desperately to figure out what that was. Why Dean would say that, why he’s acting so strange, why the demon would say that, why Sam’s being such a dick and insisting that he’s getting a second room, because Dean would—allegedly—rather have you here as the three of you had already been rotating through the floor, couch, and bed. 

Which means you’re stuck with alone Dean for the night. And he’s not fully looking at you when he exits the shower, and you’re mostly just mumbling to each other, and he doesn’t love you but he looks like a kicked puppy. He picks up your own blood-covered jacket, helps you carefully out of your seat, takes the soapy rag from your hands, and flat out refuses to sit until you move to the shower.

And the water doesn’t help. You feel cleaner, but the steam makes your head spin all the more, and you can’t stop picturing Dean’s fallen, almost pained features, and playing the demons words over in your mind.

Dean’s disgustingly in love with you. He worships the ground you walk on and dreams about you saying you love him. And you do love him, but he doesn’t love you, and it’s dangerous to hope that he’d love you, and-

And he still looks so beaten down when you exit the shower. He barely looks at you as you cross the room, his attention wholly on your jacket, and when you drop on the bed and clear your throat, you could sworn he pales.

“Are you,” you swallow, forcing your voice to be stronger. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yep” He mutters, still not looking up. “Stitches are fine, Sweetheart. Good work.”

You flush slightly, but push on. “And your head?”

“Pounding like a bitch, but I’ve gotten through worse.” He shrugs, and words start to creep like vomit up your throat. “We’ll grab Sam in the morning and get goin’-“

“What did you mean?” You blurt, and Dean freezes. “When you said the demon wasn’t lying?”

Dean sighs, and drops the rag, running his hands over his face before turning to you, his voice low and elbows braced on his knees. “What I said.” He grunts, his eyes now refusing to leave yours. “He didn’t lie.”

“About-“

“All of it.”

Your breathing is shallow, your voice barely a whisper, but you have to ask. It will ruin everything, but you need to ask.

But you’re a coward, and you ask the wrong thing.

“Why did you tell the country club we were married?”

Dean lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Because I thought it would be fun. I’d get to call you my wife and see you blush all freakin’ week, and this case was gonna be shit so I thought what the hell.”

“Oh.” You whisper, unsure what to make of that. “Okay.”

Dean still doesn’t look away. If anything his eyes sear into you as his voice drops lower, his expression darkness and unreadable. “How’d you figure out I was possessed?”

You’d practiced this. You just did. You just knew it wasn’t him. That’s all you have to say, and you can’t. Something grabs your tongue and all you can say is the truth.

“Because I know you.” You mumble, unable to break his gaze. “And that wasn’t my Dean.”

“Your Dean,” He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Wasn’t sure I was your anything, kid-“

“Well, I didn’t think you loved me.” 

You say the words before you can actually think them through, and time freezes. Dust seems to the hanging static in the air, red water still and motionless on the table, the hum of the bathroom fan stuck on one long note, and you and Dean both trapped in place. Neither of you strong enough to speak, but not weak enough to run, and why did you say that, Dean doesn’t love you-

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” He’s searching over your face, words low and whole body tensed. “And I’d try to take it back for you, but-“

“Don’t take it back!” You almost yelp, and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t want you to take it back, I just- I don’t-“

“You don’t believe me.” 

You nod weakly, wishing he would look away. Wishing Dean would just let you curl into yourself and hide for a million years, until this ends. Until this sore heat of shame over your skin and blooming warmth of hope that Dean might, maybe, really, possibly love you both die a quiet, easy death.

But he doesn’t look away. Dean pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, walks on unsteady legs to stand before you, and takes your face between his hand, his words deep and firm.

“I love you,” he says your name, lowering his face to yours. “And I know it’s not what you want, but I do. I won’t apologize for it, but if you’re done messing around with me because of that, I’m never gonna make you pretend you love me back-“

You’d been sent into a daze of Dean loves you, he’s saying it himself and it’s the truth and he loves you, and that snaps you out of it. You close the last breath of space between your lips without effort, and this is a long, lazy, peaceful kiss that people without blood and demons would have. It’s cementing, steeling it fully into you that Dean loves you. You’ll never have to try and force yourself to hate him, because it’s shit work to hate Dean Winchester and there’s no point it anymore. He loves you, and it’s impossible to doubt that he loves you when he’s kissing you like this—not invasive but deep, not demanding but still dragging small moans and happy sighs from your throat, holding your cheek with one hand and cupping the back of your head with the other—so it’s not a war with yourself push him back a little and finally say words that have been stuck in your throat for years.

“I love you too.” You smile at him, and his eyes flash. “I don’t have to pretend, and this is what I want, so please,” you take a shaking breath, moving your hand to hold his against you. “Please don’t apologize for this. And please,” you lean a little further forward, bumping your nose with his as he continues to stare. “Keep messing around with me, Dean. I love you, so I’d-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Dean pulls you back into a kiss, this one heavier and sloppier, leaving you with ragged breath and puffed lips. Your hands curl into his shirt as he drops onto the bed at your side, hauls you over him with only a low, slightly pained grunt, and looks up at you with a slight frown on his face.

“That son of a bitch kissed you.”

“I thought it was you,” you mumble, tracing a small patten on his chest with one finger. “Sorry-“

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean gives you an amused look, pressing another, smaller kiss to your lips. “I’m mad at that douchebag, for trying to get with my girl.”

His words are mumbled against your lips, settling deep and warm in your stomach, and you can barely manage a hum of, “Oh. Okay.”

He chuckles, his hand moving under your shirt to run up the skin of your waist, your body shivering with pleasure at the touch. “I’d like to fuck you,” he mutters your name, his eyes on yours so attentive and dark that you might agree to jump off a cliff if he asks. “But my doctor said I need to take it easy-“

“I’m your doctor,” you gasp, dropping your brow to Dean’s as he brushes the underside of your breast. “And I think that- shit, Dean-“ He’s adjusted you in his arms, settling your core right over the obvious, proud bulge in his jeans. “If we take it easy, and you promise to let me stay on top-“

Dean shakes his head, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “That’s gonna be a real hard,” he ruts up into you, and you whimper. “Promise to keep, babygirl-“

“Well it’s that,” you lean back, giving him a stern glare. “Or nothing, Winchester. Your choice.”

He gives you a look of mock disbelief. “I can’t believe I fake married someone so freakin’ mean to me-“

“I can.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your own lips curling up slightly. “What’s it gonna be.”

Dean narrows his eyes at you, his hand trailing down your stomach to cup you right over your pussy as he drawls. “I think you should make that choice, Sweetheart. Tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you.”

“I-“ You lean forwards, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle your moans. “I already-“

“You said you stay on top, but that can mean a million things,” he mutters your name, kissing right under your ear. “I can fuck up into you, or you can ride me, or,” Dean starts to rub you through your pants, his thumb drawing rough, taunting circle over your clit. “I can finger fuck this pretty pussy until you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

“Dean,” you moan against his skin, your nails digging into his back. “Fuck, I-“

“This,” he moves his free hand up, playing with the waistband of your pants. “Seems to be getting in our way. Take it off for me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You almost scramble to pull off your clothing—still manage to shoot Dean a glare for his low, teasing wolf-whistle when you’re fully bare before him—and almost throw yourself back onto him before you freeze. He’s still dressed—you can see the outline of where his pants must be becoming painful—and he’s still hurt. That’s why you had to stay on top in the first place. Dean won’t say it, but he’s in pain, and that’s more important than sex. You’re aching for him between your legs, you whole body whining to be pressed to his, but you can’t let him injure himself.

So you drop to your knees, help him out of his pants and boxers—feeling Dean track your every movement, remaining silent as you work—and swallow as his cock springs into view. You’ll never get tired of the sight of it. Big and meant to fit so well inside of you, pretty because it’s Dean’s, and he’s not really capable of being ugly.

Dean grunts your name as you take him in your hand, your fingers trailing over his strong thighs as you start to pump him slowly.

You smile up at him, raising your brows. “Do you like that?”

“Of course I fucking like that-“

“Do you love me?”

You say the words innocently, squeezing your hand lightly, and he blushes slightly, throwing his head back as he groans. “Shit, Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me-“

“I do,” you whisper, pressing an open mouth kissed to the broad, red tip of his cock. “You do it to me too.”

“’S not-“ You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting him bump against your throat, and he cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, ’s not the same-“

You pop off of him with a frown. “It is. I love you too.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He mutters, moving hold your cheek, his cock twitching in your hands as you lean into the touch. “But you don’t gotta do this for me just cause you love me-“

“I like doing it.” You shrug, licking a long stripe up his shaft to prove your point, savoring the grunt it draws from his chest, the way his hand moves to fist in your hair. “I might love you, Dean Winchester,” you grin at him, replacing your mouth with your hand as you speak. “But I also really just like sucking your cock.”

“Son of a-“ Dean’s voice is a growl, his eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “You’re- fuck it.”

You squeak as he pulls you up, back to his lap, and impales you on his cock in one smooth motion. 

“Dean!” You try to gain a little power over your mouth, your fingers running over his fresh stitches. “Your doctor did not, fuck-“ He rolls his hips, and you bite your tongue to stop your moan. “Winchester, your doctor did not approve picking heavy things up-“

“You’re not that heavy.” He shrugs, kissing your shoulder as his arm braces you against this chest, his words teasing and low. “And lucky me, my fake doctor is also my fake wife, and they’re both,” he moves his mouth back over yours, muttering against your lips. “Begging me to fuck them all pretty.” His other arm wraps around you, starting to guide the rolls of your hips, his eyes on yours so soft for how he’s splitting you open and bumping against the deepest places inside of you. “And get them to cum all over my fuckin’ cock.”

You moan, throwing your head back as you start to grind down on him, and you’ve done this a million times before, but it feels different. You’ve fucked Dean enough that you must have covered every base—rough and fast and soft and slow and teasing and desperate and angry and blissful—and it’s the same to your body, but different to your mind. Dean’s hands still ignite fire on your skin as he holds you as close as he can manage, but you’re not worried about how they might drop away. He’s still kissing you everywhere he can reach, but there’s nothing turning in your head about how he might not like what he tastes. He’s doing it all right—he always does it right—but it’s so much more.

You squeeze around his cock and he moans your name, almost pinning you into his laps as he latches his mouth to your upper chest. Sucking and nipping you where people can see. He’s always kept his small habit of marking you to where it won’t be visible, where people won’t jokingly ask you who got messy. But people will see this, and he knows that, and it seems to spur him on. His mouth crashes back into yours, his hands keeping your rhythm on him steady as his mouth and cock unravel you above him.

“You gonna cum, Sweetheart?” Dean growls down your throat, and you just nod frantically, swiveling your hips around him. 

“So close,” you whine, trying to find just a little more friction. “Please, Dean-“

He starts to slam up into you, holding you steady with one arm as he leans back, bracing himself on the bed. His stitches are somehow still closed, he’s looking at you like you’re all the world gathered for him to hold, and his mouth is lowering to pull your nipple between his teeth. Keeping you right on the edge as his thrusts grow uneven, his hands bruising on your skin in the best way.

“Fuck, you wanna cum with me, babygirl?” He groans, flicking your nipple with his tongue before pulling you down to him, dragging you into a kiss of spit and need and pure fucking desire. “Think you can ask me real pretty-“

“Please. Please, Dean, please.” You gasp, your clit starting to rub against his abdomen, your whole body so close to bursting into flames. “So fucking close, need it so bad-“

He bites on your lower lip, smirking at your high whine. “Good girl.” He jerks up into you one last time, the movement rough and uncontrolled, and groans into your ear. “Cum.”

You might have screamed, but everything goes blinding and loud and holy like a hymn you only know in the language of Dean, and you never want to stop singing for the rest of your life. You can hear him shouting your name as he spills up into you, but you’re so high on your pleasure— on the smell of Dean everywhere around you and his lingering taste on your tongue—that it’s distant and only a rush of good. Dean feels good, and he’s muttering in your ear that he loves you, so you think everything might be really good.

And it is. This isn’t blood or work. This is Dean’s cock still buried inside you, his hot, warm cum running down your thighs, and your hands tracing over his warm skin to check that his stitches are still together. This is your face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hands combing through your hair, and a priceless sense of peace. It’s always lingered before, but it would wash away as you both left the bed, and drift into nothing as you wandered back into the real world. It feels more certain now. It feels more set into your bones, and you know you’ll see more blood and stitch more wounds, but this is going to stay. Dean is going to stay, and you have all of him. And that’s welcoming this sense of peace that’s so finite and rare, you’d have to be insane to let it go. 

So you won’t. And you won’t have to cling to him, because Dean isn’t foolish enough to let you go either. You’ll keep all of Dean, he’ll do the same for you, and he’ll keep igniting a spark in your gut by saying my girl that you won’t ever allow to go out. 

End Note: Look! A Rare Dean Winchester dealing with his own emotions! Spotted in the wild! And I am physically incapable of writing a short one-shot, and I'm very sorry about that.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature

[trustmypoison]

First time with Wonwoo

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘hey jj!! can i req for a drabble on wonwoo and reader’s first time in bed tgt? i feel like the way you write bed scenes is just so intimate and loving and i would love to see one for wonwoo!’

TW/CW: explicit smut with mentions of protection (stay safe). First time with each other (not virgins). MDNI. 

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: Thank you to the requester for the sweet compliment. I'm still trying to get comfortable writing this sort of content, so I hope you enjoy.

Wonwoo thinks your nervousness is rubbing off on him.

You two have been dating for a while - a few months to be exact. Life has gotten in the way and this is only the fifth date. But he’s talked to you every spare moment, texting you constantly even when he’s on the other side of the world. He’s very into you. He knew he would be from the moment you said hi. 

But he can kind of tell where the night is going. You’re not his first girlfriend and you’re also not his first time, and the tension simmering throughout the date is crystal clear to him. But so is your nervousness. It sort of cuts through the excitement of it all, serving as a warning to tread carefully. 

Admittedly, he’s a little nervous too. He can’t remember a time that he’s ever been all that anxious about this sort of thing, but this is a special moment. A tipping point that often makes or breaks a relationship and he’d really like this one with you to work out. So he resolves to just see where the night goes.

He talks to you through dinner like he normally would and guides you to the car with his hand on your back. He holds your hand in your lap on the way to your apartment as he drives. He likes the innocence of the affection you two share so far. His touch is gentle as usual, but tonight, your grip is a little tight on his hand. 

He insists on parking and walking you up to the door. There’s no motivation behind it beyond making sure you get inside safe. He expects to walk you to the door that he met you at earlier tonight and maybe give you a little kiss before being on his way. But you shove the key in the lock and pause in the doorway. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

Of course, he does, and he says so. He expects you to offer coffee or tea, maybe a snack. Maybe a kiss or two good night when it’s time for him to go. You two have done all of that before once or twice.

He doesn’t expect you to corner him in your entry way and press your lips to his as soon as the door is closed. Wonwoo sighs into the kiss, one hand finding your face to cup it, the other wrapping around your lower back to pull you close. It’s not the first time you two have kissed, but it’s certainly the most intense one you’ve shared. The others have been sweet pecks at the door or in the car. 

The more you lean into him, pressing your body against his, he can’t help but gently spin you so that your back is against the wall instead. You sigh at the pressure as your hands roam - his shoulders, his chest, his waist. When they drift to his belt, he pulls away from your lips. 

He loves the duality you have. You look a little sheepish staring up at him, and he could feel the nervousness radiating off you all night. Yet, you’re still bold in the face of nervousness, not shying away. He still pumps the brakes, pulling back to put a few inches between the two of you. Your hands slide to curl around his shoulders again, like it’s a safe zone. 

You smile, that tinge of nervousness present again. “Sorry. Too forward?”

“No, it’s not that,” Wonwoo soothes immediately, hand combing back some hair from your face. “I just didn’t want you to be under the impression that that’s all I’m here for.” You stare up at him like you aren’t sure what to say. Wonwoo purses his lips. It occurs to him that you might feel some kind of invisible pressure to conform to a timeline, like five dates or less is the magic number for this sort of thing. “I’m not turning you down. I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have no expectations.” He punctuates this with a gentle squeeze of your waist. 

“I know,” you mumble. “You’ve give no indication that you do. But I definitely wouldn’t mind it.”

“Wouldn’t mind it? Or want it?” Wonwoo clarifies because the distinction is important to him. He won’t move a muscle if it’s not a want, not even when your expression shifts a little. You swipe your tongue across your lips and Wonwoo resists the urge to suck in a breath at the sight. 

“I want it. If you do, that is,” you finally say. 

Certain images flash through his mind, ones that make his head spin, and he resists the urge to make any of them a reality right now. You two have never discussed what you like in bed. This conversation is the closest you’ve ever come to addressing the topic of sex. So, he takes you by the hand, pulling you into your living room. He sits down, pulling you to stand between his legs, hands on your hips. He stares up at you for a few seconds. “I want it. But what we do is up to you.”

That little slice of boldness is back, because your hands are on his shoulders again, pushing him to lean back as you crawl into his lap, straddling him. His legs spread wide as he gets comfortable, and your dress bunches up your thighs as you move with him, tempting him, but he keeps his hands pinned to your waist as you lean into his lips again. His breath catches when you boldly swipe your tongue across his lips. He lets you in, hands gripping your waist tight. But as you both find a rhythm, his hands start to drift. He keeps going because you shiver and sigh into his mouth at every sweep of his hands. 

Wonwoo’s hands finally land on your thighs, just above your knees, squeezing gently. You settle even more into his lap and his hands inadvertently slide up your thigh a little more when you do. Your weight fully on him has him gripping your thighs a little tighter, thumb sweeping into your inner thigh. You let out another shiver, accompanied by a little sound at the back of your throat - not quite a moan or a whimper, but it’s encouraging. Encouraging enough that the tips of his fingers slide under the edge of your dress a bit, exploring the skin of your upper thighs. 

You’re starting to grind a bit, perhaps without even realizing it, and this paired with the creeping of his hand means that eventually his thumb brushes your core. You gasp softly and he’s elated by your responsiveness, letting his thumb sweep across the lace of your panties gently again. “Okay?” He asks. You nod and he likes how your eyes drift closed as he applies a little more pressure, your clit right under his thumb with every sweep. 

He peels away one side of your panties, fingers exploring. You both sigh against each other’s lips as he feels how wet you are. He circles your clit, helpless to press his lips into your neck when your head tilts back, sucking and nibbling lightly. Your fingers dig into his shoulders a little when he slides a finger into you, body jerking slightly at the sensation. He smoothes his other hand up and down your side. When you ask for a second finger, he sighs against your neck, giving it to you. The feeling of you like this has him throbbing in his pants and he begins to pump his fingers steadily. 

You start to make little noises that Wonwoo needs to taste, so he pulls you down to kiss him. He knows when you’re getting close. He can feel it in the way you wrap around his fingers a little tighter, particularly when he gives you third, and how your fingers dig into his hair. You stop kissing when you’re at the edge, a little pinch between your eyebrows. He kisses your slacked jaw. “It’s okay, let go for me.”

You do, and Wonwoo continues pumping his fingers gently as you shake. He wraps an arm around you as you sag a bit when you’re done riding it out. He pulls out his dripping fingers, righting your panties. You give him a bit of a hazy smile and he presses a kiss to your lips. “Feel good?” He asks with only the tiniest bit of ego, but you still chuckle. 

“You couldn’t tell?” That tinge of nervousness is back. “Sorry, it’s been a while for me.” 

Wonwoo shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear you say sorry for anything that just happened. “Don’t apologize, you were perfect. We don’t have to continue though, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh no! I want to,” you say confidently, before biting your lip. Your duality drives him crazy. “Only if you want to continue.”

“Can I take you to your room?” Wonwoo asks. “It would be more comfortable.”

You beam, haziness gone. “First door on the left.” Wonwoo stands up, taking you with him. You wrap your legs around his waist, a little gasp leaving your mouth close to his ear. He follows your instructions, flipping on a lamp inside your room before plopping you down on the bed, landing on top of you. Your hands wind into his hair, pulling him down to you. He’s lost in how you feel underneath him, particularly when you don’t unwind your legs from his waist right away. He’s unsure of how much time passes on top of you, kissing you with increasing fervor. 

His hands roam from your hair, down to your neck and chest, down to your waist and hips, and then back up again. When his tongue dips into your mouth, your legs tighten around his waist, his hardness pressing right against your core. Your hands drift down, finding the hem of his shirt and he helps you yank it off. Your touch feels better on his bare skin. It’s soft, but your rings are cool against his skin and your nails prick a little every now and then. He wants them in his back at some point.

You reach for the zipper of your dress on your side and he helps you drag it down, sliding the material off. “So pretty,” he sighs against your heated skin, leaving little marks down your collar bone and breasts. He’s working his way down to be between your thighs when you pull him back up, hand landing on his belt. “Later. Can I have you now?”

Wonwoo catches his breath, mostly because your words do something crazy to him. “Condom?”

“Top drawer,” you say, gesturing to the bedside table. He’s quick about fishing one out, but you’re quicker about sitting up with him, hand still on his belt. “May I?” Something about the way you say it makes Wonwoo pinch his eyes shut and nod. You seem to like the impact you’re having on him, biting your lip as you undo his belt, reaching for the button and zipper of his pants. He kicks the material down, along with his boxers. He feels exposed if only for a split second before you’re taking the condom from him, rolling it on for him. He shudders at your touch, desperately needing the distraction of pushing you back onto the bed, undressing you completely. If you kept touching him like that, he wouldn’t last long. 

Wonwoo falls in between your parted legs and you both sigh at the feeling of him against you with fewer layers between you both. “Are you sure?” 

You nod, and he squeezes your waist, asking for a verbal answer. “Yes, I want you.”

He loves the sound of that, but he still tacks on a genuine, “Stop me at any point.” 

You pull him into a lingering kiss as he rubs the head of his cock against you, gathering your wetness. The sensation makes your thigh twitch in his hand. But when he notches the head into your entrance, he feels you tense. He presses another soft kiss to your lips. “I’ll go slow, but tell me if it’s too much.” Only when you nod does he start to push in inch by inch. He bites back a groan at the back of his throat, both at the feeling of you engulfing him and the way your mouth drops open at the stretch. Once all the way in, he places soothing kisses along your cheeks and jaw, hands running across your body soothingly. “Okay?” 

You nod, though there’s still that little pinch between your eyebrows. Your nails are still biting into his shoulders. “You can move.” He sits back on his knees, pushing your legs up just a bit, but he can see that it changes the whole angle for you. He slides out and back in, and that pinch between your eyebrows is totally gone, replaced by a blissful look that makes him groan. You yourself pull up your legs even more and he slides in deeper with each pump. 

Once all signs of discomfort for you are gone, Wonwoo picks up the pace and the noises you make are heavenly. He cages you in below his body, hips moving faster with every minute that passes. He feels how you grip his hand, fingers intertwining with his. “I’m close,” you say, words a little lost between the sweet whimpers and moans. He’s pounding into you, rougher than he ever planned for this first time to be with you, but you seem to enjoy it as much as he does. 

Like earlier in the living room, your jaw goes slack as you fall off the edge, clamping down around him, back arching off the bed. One of his hands slides underneath your back, holding you like that to keep the deep stroke. It only takes a few pumps like this for him to fall off the edge too. 

Once he’s caught his breath and your body has relaxed, he gently pulls out of you with a little kiss, going to your ensuite bathroom to dispose of the condom. He comes back with a damp towel. You shiver when he cleans you carefully. You fold into his side when he’s back in bed and you both are out like a light. 

The next morning, you find Wonwoo in your kitchen, clad in boxers only while he makes some breakfast. He looks over his shoulder at you as you wrap your arms around him. “Aren’t you cold?” You ask.

“A little,” he shrugs, flipping off the heat for the burner and placing the skillet aside. He turns to you, arms folding around you. He’s felt a little anxiety about how the morning would go, and the way you fall into him inspires some hope. 

“You should bring a change of clothes next time,” you say casually into his chest. 

“You’d like there to be a next time?” Wonwoo asks cautiously. 

“As long as you do,” you say simply, pulling away to look up at him. “As long as you enjoyed it.”

Wonwoo presses a long kiss to your lips. “I did. As long as you did.”

You laugh at the way he throws your words back in your face. He picks you up, placing you on the counter so he can stand between your legs. “Are you free today?” You ask, fingers folding into his messy hair. He nods, humming against your lips. “Good, I have some ideas,” you say with a little bit of a mischievous look. 

Wonwoo chuckles, pinching your hips lightly. “Oh?”

“Mhm,” you nod, easy smile on your lips as your hands drift to his chest. He loves everything about this, but particularly that the nervousness from last night is almost totally absent. Your fingers drum against his collar bone lightly. “I was thinking of starting with a shower. Breakfast can wait.” 

He doesn’t think anything of snatching you off the counter and carrying you out of the kitchen as you giggle in his ear, clinging to his shoulders. He thinks he could do this for the rest of his life. Not just the sex, but really anything with you. 

[hyunniesgirl]

Trophy Husband

Just a little something I wrote for Changbin

This content is +18 only, minors do NOT interact

You never found it particularly interesting to be a housewife, there's nothing wrong with being one, it's just that that is not your cup of tea.

That's why you spent years of your life hearing your family nagging you about a husband and children but you just brushed it off until you reached your goal: being successful.

When it finally happened, after years of you working your ass off it was natural for you to want to take the next step. So it's time to arrange the family you've been putting on hold for so many years.

You have wasted your time on more than ten dates, every man you met wanted the same thing: a pretty wife to be a stay at home mom. Even though they all told you they had no problem with you keeping your job, you have a lot of problems with working outside and then having to come back home to work in the house too.

So you changed your matches. Other than successful men, you started focusing on young men that didn't have long-term plans for their career, landing on the perfect partner: Seo Changbin.

He's a model, that's good, he doesn't have a fixed work schedule. He's handsome, so your children will be good looking too. He's funny and sexy, just the way you like it.

You propose to him by your second month of dating, taking him by surprise and promising you'll take care of him forever. He just has to be pretty and work hard to make your happy little family happen, you want at least two kids, after all.

You didn't actually have to ask him to work hard on that, as it is his pleasure to bend you over your desk in the middle of the day while you work from home. Changbin thrusts into you so deeply you can feel the head of his cock poking your cervix. He's making sure his seed is going to make its way safely to where you need it.

He fucks you when you wake up, lazily dragging his cock to your entrance, moving his hips slowly at a pace that would kill your impatient self if you weren't so dizzy from the slumber you just got out of. He fucks you in between meetings, making sure you are well motivated for the next few hours. He fucks you on the kitchen after the dinner is served, putting you on the table and eating you out before fucking you again. He fucks you before sleep too, pulling you by your ankles and positioning himself in between your legs, filling you up with his cock, thrusting so hard you think he could break your hips.

He'll make you stay still, legs up, for at least ten minutes before landing a kiss on the top of your head, saying you did a good job and that you should sleep now.

It doesn't take much of this routine for you to get pregnant. You go to the events at the company you work for, showing off your husband in a tight suit and the bump in your belly growing slowly. You're the happiest right now with your little family. You have the perfect husband by your side and soon you'll have your child in your arms too.

[livinghalfway]

Younger Years Pt. 3

Part 2

Summary: Damian gets temp de-aged to 6yrs old; cue him asking where his twin is. This is how everyone finds out about Danny's existence Word Count: 1664

The next morning when Damian woke up everyone was much more prepared to deal with his inevitable attack. The restraint on his ankle and Alfred the cat still napping on him helped deal with most of the initall anger that radiated off him though. The goal right now was to convince Damian that he had been de-aged, and all he needed to do was stay with them until the magic wore off. 

The topic of Danyal would come later, for now they needed to focus on Damian. 

Everyone had also prepared an item to show Damian to prove to him that they were telling the truth about his current situation. Alfred was first and had brought him a cup of tea the exact way the young boy preferred when he had first joined them at the manor. Duke showed Damian his school yearbook, and had marked which pages had an older Damian in them. Jason rummaged through the art room and pulled out a few old sketchbooks. 

Those had done well enough to calm the baby assassin down so that Bruce was able to explain the details to the young Damian. Which only served to make him think that instead of this being a test from his grandfather it was actually a scheme to draw him away from his birthright as one of the heirs to the demon head. 

To help further convince him Tim printed out the first DNA test they had done with Damian; making sure to note that the dates on these can’t be altered. Then Dick had showed him photos of him dressed in his Robin costume. What was strange though is that Damian didn’t look pridefully at the photos, only confused. 

Finally it was Bruce’s turn and no one was surprised when it turned out to be a family photo album. It was filled with photos of everyone from the last few years. Pictures of both big and small moments that the family had gone through. What was surprising though is when Damian practically exploded with rage with every page he turned. 

“Chum, is something wro-” Bruce tries to start once he sees how affected the photo album is making him. Only for said book to be launched at his head before he can finish speaking. 

“Get out!” Damian snarls as his eyes dart to everyone around the room as he repeats his words, “Get out!” 

“I told you this wasn’t going to work.” 

“Not now, Jason.” 

Dick makes an obvious move of wanting to comfort Damian, but is clearly holding himself back knowing that his succor would only make things worse. “Dami…” 

“You do not have the right to call me that,” Damian's breath starts to speed up with tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “The only one that will ever be allowed to use that name has apparently been long absent from my life. So I will repeat myself only once more; get out.” 

No one makes any move to leave at first and it isn’t until Tim clears his throat as well as putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder does the others finally move. It takes both Duke and Tim to get Bruce out of the room, and Jason ends up having to practically drag Dick out. 

“Why did you pull me away from him! He was clearly on the verge of a breakdown based around the fact that Danyal, his twin, never came here with him! Damian needs someone to be with him right now!” Dick angrily breaks out of Jason's hold on him. 

Jason, immediately matching Dick’s tone retorts, “Since when has that kid ever liked having family much less strangers comfort him? Cause newsflash Dickiebird that what we are to him right now, nothing but strangers who are trying to act way too familiar with him. The only thing your sympathy will do right now is just make things worse!” 

“I’m not going to let my currently 6 year old baby brother mourn a death by himself!”

“We don’t actually know if Danyal is dead or not right now. Just that he didn’t arrive with Damian at the manor 4 years ago.” Tim interjects before any more arguing between the two can continue. “For all we know Ra’s could have sent one twin away to here while keeping the other involved with the league.” 

“Wouldn’t have Damian said something by now if that was the case? He obviously cared a lot for Danyal.” Duke honestly doesn’t know what the right decision is right now, but he’s more inclined to agree with Jason right now. 

Tim runs a hand through his hair in thought, “14 year old Damian, maybe. The Damian that first arrived at the manor four years ago, no way. Especially if he was told explicitly not to say anything. That little brat was still deep in the league mindset, and would have done anything Talia or Ra’s said.”

“Wouldn’t have Ra’s already used Danyal against Bruce though? He’s had plenty of opportunities to use the knowledge of a second child to get B to do practically anything for him. What possible scenario would he be saving that information for?” Dick at this point seems to have calmed down. He’s still obviously wanting to be with Damian, but also knows that Jason is right about how his presence wouldn’t be appreciated at the moment. 

Jason instead of offering any answers to Dick’s questions turns to direct his lingering anger at Bruce, “You’re being awfully fucking quiet right now B, what do you have to say about all this?”

“... I think it’s time to call Talia. I wanted to wait and give Damian the chance to explain himself before doing so, but if the league does still have Danyal we need to start planning his rescue as soon as possible.” 

After asking the boys to keep an eye on Damian, and to check in on him every once in a while without distressing him more Bruce headed upstairs towards his office. Once there he silently stares at the phone in his hand. 

It had been devastating to learn that he had a son, and missed out on so much of his life. Bruce had been angry at Talia, furious even, especially when she had raised Damian to be a child assassin. To learn that she had done this not once but twice shattered him. Even more so when he thinks about how his second son might still be a part of that life when he could have been living here with him instead. 

The alternative to that thought though, the unfortunate more likely option, is that Danyal is dead. 

That he had failed yet another child. 

Bruce presses the number and puts the phone to ear. With each unanswered ring he sees flashes of what could have been if both boys had arrived that day. What was Danyal even like? Was he similar to Damian, or was he the complete opposite? 

“Beloved, what a pleasant surprise hearing from you.”

“I know about Danyal.” Bruce leans back in his chair with his eyes closed. Today has already been exhausting, and he knows that it’s not going to get any better anytime soon. “What happened to him?” 

The amount of silence that follows tells him that for maybe the first time he has truly shocked Talia with his words. Eventually though she answered, sorrow clear as day in her voice, “How much do you know?” 

“I’d rather you tell me what you know right now.” 

“Danyal died two weeks before Damian was sent to live with you.”

There it was, the hard truth. A child that he was never given the chance to hold, to meet, and to love was dead. Bruce had nothing to hold onto from a child that died way too young. 

“My Father and Damian are the only ones that truly know what happened in that room; I didn’t even know at the time that he had pulled the two of them from their afternoon studies.” She continues softly, “By the time I reached them Danyal was gone. I imagine Ra’s wanted to make an example out of him because he had put his body into the pits … only he never came back out. The pits had even taken his body with them.” 

“Did you never question what happened to him?” 

“Ra’s told me it was none of my concern when I questioned him, and he forbade Damian from telling me himself. He had all evidence of Danyal erased after that; he only exists now in the memory of those who knew him.” 

“Would you have ever told me about him?”

“No.” 

“Hm.” Bruce doesn’t do anything more than acknowledging her response before hanging up, and putting the phone down. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of her, and he had more important things to focus on right than interrogating Talia. It seems they’re all just going to have to wait for Damian to learn what happened to Danyal anyway. 

For now though he needs to go back downstairs and make sure they haven’t exploded into chaos due to his absence, but as he exits his office he makes a quiet promise to himself and Danyal. “Even in death you will be a part of this family; I’m so sorry you will never get the chance to know just how much they already love you.” 

Once he reaches the batcave once more he sees Tim and Duke at the computer, Jason laid back with his feet on the center table, and Dick leaning by the med bay door. All of them though stop what they’re doing and look towards him as he enters; waiting for him to tell them what has become of the brother they’ve never met. 

“Danyal is dead.” It hurts to watch his sons lose what little hope they had that maybe by the end of this their brother would be coming home. 

[lxvebun]

in sickness and in health♡

synopsis: JJK boys nursing you back to health<3

content: Gojo/Geto/Nanami/Hiromi x gender neutral reader. Fluff+ comfort. Common fever symptoms. Painkillers. The boys are very doting<3 lots of petnames: (my) love, sweetheart, honey, angel, baby. Eng is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes♡ 2.6k words<3 forgive the odd mistake here and there. Eepy

“Oh, my sweet angel, look at you” Satoru coos, voice velvet and soft. You think he takes some kind of wicked satisfaction out of this. Seeing you curled up in your shared bed, sniffling lightly to clear your nose, buried under the thick covers, cocooned in his sweater…

He wants you safe and healthy, truly, but this is the only time you really let him dote and care for you to his heart's content. You’re usually so quick to brush him off, turning shy under the way he looks at you. It's not a secret Gojo can be very intense. Often gazing at you like you hung the stars in the sky just for him, like he wants to serve you everything good down on his knees and on a silver platter. That shyness is gone, for now. Mind and body being too occupied and focused on fighting off the fever to care and he’ll indulge in every moment he can get from it.

“Luckily for you, i’m here to nurse you back to health”

“Go away.” Your voice is croaky and sore and completely lacking any sincerity.

“Sorry, I know I'm missing the nurse outfit. Next time, I promise”

Unless his ears are deceiving him he’s sure that he heard a small giggle coming from you, the mountain of blankets you're currently covered under however does a fantastic job at dulling the melodic sound.

“I brought you some tea. Extra honey~♡"

You don’t really reply, it’s a hum and a nod here and there but he knows you’re grateful. It’s the little signs that show him, your eyes tracing his every step, looking at him so lovingly as he places the tea down on your nightstand and crouches down next to you. The longer he looks at you however, sky blue eyes all soft and cloudy while you feel icky and anything but pretty makes you find solace in the blankets your under, pulling them up and using them as a shield to cover half your face

“C’mon, don’t hide from me” It comes out as a playful whine more than anything

“You’re too pretty for that.” His fingertips trace over the edge of the fabric, right where it meets your skin and you can see that stupid, completely fabricated pout begin to pull at his lips. You hate how it actually works

You roll your eyes as you swat the blanket off and sit up straight, ignoring the dizziness from the sickness and the way your heart flutters at the sight of him lighting up.

“I’m sick, Toru. don’t feel very pretty at the moment.”You mumble, but more audible now that the blankets are off

“Feeling and being are two very different things, baby.” He chides gently as he hands you your tea, fingertips holding the hot mug by the rim so you can safely grab it by the handle, clicking his tongue as he sees you reach for the mug itself instead. He lets go when you have a good grip on it. 

Making himself comfortable on the bed, sitting next to your legs, he lets you fall into a comfortable silence for a bit. sipping quietly on your tea while he feels just a tad bit jealous of the steam caressing your skin.

“Now,” he begins. “I need you to remember how much you love me and how much of a good, amazing, caring boyfriend I am.”

Your body immediately stills, mug still raised halfway to your lips as you squint your eyes at him.

“What did you do?”

The sympathetic smile he throws your way in silent apology does little to ease your nerves and then, slender fingers dipping into his pocket, he fishes out exactly what that smile was for

“Absolutely not”

“It will make you feel so much better, baby !!”

You flinch back as he shakes that horrendously yellow box in front of your face. Cough syrup, the disgusting, bitter, “are we sure it’s not actually poison” kind

“Please, Satoru,” you plead but it goes ignored

he’s already opening the box </3

( you have three options Y/N. take it like champ, have him play airplane with you, or get him to feed it to you baby bird style) geto/nanami and hiromi under the cut !! ♡

Geto 

You can almost hear the “I told you so” spill from his lips as he enters your shared home and finds you bundled up in a heated blanket on the couch with a wet cloth on your forehead. He did tell you to dress warmer on your little cafe hopping spree, did tell you to bring an umbrella with you just in case, “it’s just a sprinkle of rain, if anything” you’d countered

Luckily for you, Suguru is too sweet to tease you about it, especially in the state you’re in. Shivering but hot, little coughs spilling from your throat making your entire body ache.

He’s on you in the blink of an eye, shrugging his own jacket off and toeing his shoes off in the process before he finds himself crouched down in front of you, brows furrowed and golden eyes carrying a tinge of worry.

You’re exhausted, the bags under your eyes prove that if the fact that you can barely keep your eyes open wasn’t clear enough. You make a little hum of acknowledgement to his presence. Still sounding surprisingly content despite the soreness in your throat

“Hi, Sweetheart. Can I check your temperature?” Suguru keeps his voice soft, feathery and barely above a whisper. God, just the sound of his voice has a soothing effect on you.

You nod slowly, your throat hurting too much to speak. Usually he’d wish for you to use your words to be sure you’re actually okay with what he’s doing, be it a hug, a touch or a kiss, but he’ll let that go for now.

He’s gentle in the way he cradles your head, and his hands feel nice and cool against your flushed skin. A sigh of ease escapes your throat involuntarily as you lean more into him.

“You’re very hot ... .warm-” he corrects himself, already seeing that teasing smile on your lips, usually he’d indulge in a bit of banter but he’d rather not add any stress to your throat “- did you take any painkillers yet?”

You nod again

That’s good, of course, he’s glad you have taken them by yourself, knowing how much you hate it, but it makes him a little antsy. It obviously hasn’t improved your state yet and there’s not a whole lot he can do for you now. He takes his eyes off of you for a moment

Something you despise really

Turning things over in his head, feeling a little useless before he turns his gaze back on you. Pressing a kiss to your cheek and taking the now warmed up cloth from your forehead

“I’m going to get you a new cold cloth and then we can watch a movie, yeah? See how you feel in a few hours and if you can keep some food down”

He’s up and gone towards the kitchen before you get the chance to give him any sign of approval. You settle into the blankets a bit more, twisting your body and stretching out your sore muscles. You still feel sick, the world around you a little fuzzy, skin a little clammy but now that Suguru is home, it’s almost as if your body and mind realise that you’ll be just fine. A wave of relief washes over you, head becoming a little more foggy as you think of how safe he makes you feel

He’s quick to come back, with a few extra painkillers and a cup of tea as well

You’re still in that syrupy sweet mindset as he enters your view again and it must have shown because he looks a little surprised before his features turn soft at the way you’re gazing at him. Eyes a little glassy but so full of adoration, gratefulness, almost enough to pull him into a trance and make him kiss you silly because truly there’s nothing to thank him for. He loves caring for you.

( He’d break his own ribs and split his heart in two if it helped yours beat.)

Almost. The need to nurse you back to health first is just a tad stronger. You both have to settle for a sweet kiss to your forehead before he places the fresh cold cloth on it again.

(there will be enough time to make up for all the missed kisses when you’re rested and healthy again prepare yourself)

Nanami

He feels utterly horrible for not realizing you were sick. Having left early in the morning, rushing to work because a mistake only he could fix was made. He blames it on the sleep clouding his eyes and mind for not noticing your lack of response to him getting out of bed or the quick kiss he pressed to your cheek before rushing out the door.

Blames it on the agitation seeping into his bones as this, very preventable, mistake will take hours of scrutinizing stacks of paperwork and documents to fix, leaving him radio silent for the bigger part of the day, not once thinking about the fact that you haven’t send him you’re usual messages yet. A cute picture of yourself eating breakfast, asking him if he’s eating around lunch time…. Your lack of presence should have run multiple alarm bells. He was tired, annoyed, stressed....

It’s not an excuse, he should have been home sooner

He reminds himself of that as he finds you balled up on the bed, empty packets of pain relief on the floor, a cup of tea cold and half drunk on your nightstand

(He winces at the image of you having to get up on shaky legs to make yourself some tea)

Blankets thrown a mess from your shifting and fidgeting while trying to find a comfortable position and the tissues overflowing the bin next to you. His heart picks up in pace as he sees a few bloodied ones among the pile

“Oh, honey, I’m so so sorry” he’s a bit frenzied in his movements as he kneels beside the bed, cradling your face in his hands and pressing a plethora of apologetic kisses into your hot skin. A silent apology for leaving you alone all day, although he knows it’s not enough.

You try to shake your head, wanting to assure him there’s nothing to be sorry for, but he stills it for you

“Dont. I should have been here to take care of you. Where did the blood come from?”

“S’just a nosebleed. Must have blown to hard” you’re voice is weak, most of your energy drained by the fever.

His hands, still holding you, relax a little at your words.

“Tell me what you need, my love. How can I help?” it comes out breathy, desperate. The stress from work, the stress from seeing the love of his life sick bleeding over into his voice.

“Wanna cuddle”

He’s up in a heartbeat, hastily ripping his tie off, and undressing himself from his work clothes before sliding into bed next to you and scooping you up into strong, safe arms. Pressing another kiss to your forehead for good measure.

“Do you need anything else?”

You hum, sliding your arms out from under the blankets onto his side of the bed and under his pillow, with shaky hands fishing out his book from underneath it

“Read to me”

He smiles softly as he takes the book from your hands, but you don’t see it, already finding your place in the crook of his neck, taking deep breaths of his cologne and focusing on the way he’s rubbing up and down your back.

You know reading relaxes him. Really you’re a fucking dream, an angel to still take care of him in your feverish state.

“Of course. Just focus on resting and the sound of my voice”

(need him to kiss me silly right now)

Hiromi

“You should have called me, darling. I would have come home earlier” Hiromi expresses with unease. Disdain at the fact that you hid your fever from him is clear in his expression. Even worse how you acted like nothing was wrong over your text messages, sounding as bubbly and sweet as ever as you asked him if he’d eaten yet, when he’ll come home and that he needs to take it easy.

He needs to take it easy? When he came home, You were attempting to begin cooking dinner on shaky legs, swaddled in a blanket to ease the shivering. The fact you’re out of bed at all makes him anxious.

“Didn’t want to bother you-” 

“Sweetheart,” he’s quick to interrupt, hating the implication that you could ever be a bother to him.

“It’s just a cold, Hiromi” you send a small smile his way but your voice is slurred and unsteady. Your claim that “it's just a cold” lacks evidence in his opinion.

He can practically see the heat pouring off of you but you feel nothing but a freezing cold nipping at your skin, even when bundled into a thick throw blanket and fuzzy woolen socks. You're shaking like a leaf and your movements are sluggish. You just look so tired, his poor angel :(

“Think it’s more than just a cold, darling” he's gentle as he grabs your hand, warm, and pulls you closer to him. Fixing the blanket that's threatening to slip of your shoulders before pressing loud, wet kiss to your cheek “let’s get you back into bed”

You whine in response, ready to remove yourself from his grip but he won’t let you. Not necessarily to control you but purely because it looks like you’re ready to faint any second now.

“You need to eat, Hiro”

“So, we'll order something from your favorite place, hmm? Although their desserts are probably not the best thing to be eating right now, i’ll turn a blind eye” he teases as he leads you to the bedroom to tuck you safe and sound back under the blankets.

“Instigator” you mumble as he raises the comforter for you to climb under, waiting until you’ve settled comfortably before tucking it up to your chin.

“I plead the fifth”

He turns to make his way out of the bedroom again after he sees you’re doing okay and are comfortable. You can hear him turn on the kettle, water slowly coming to a boil, the heavy thump of his briefcase being placed on the table. You cringe a little. You can tell that he has brought a lot of work home again..

He comes back with tea in one hand, a stack of papers and stationary in the other. Placing the tea down next to you, mumbling to let it cool down first, he places the papers and stationary on his side of the bed.  You realize he’s planning on working on his files and cases next to you. He’s so sweet. Too sweet for his own good, able to make your heart all warm and fluttery even amidst sickness, but at the same time it makes you feel like you’re overburdening him (not that that exists in his opinion)

“I’m sure the kitchen table will be more comfortable, Hiro” you speak, as you watch him place one of the bedside table lamps on the floor. This way it’s dim enough for you to sleep and bright enough for him to work and not strain his eyes too much.

“I think i’d be more comfortable next to you, actually”

You sigh, secretly glad he’s staying

“I don’t deserve you”

“Stop that.” Voice firm, leaving no room for arguments “of course, you do. Now try and get some rest, food should be here in an hour” he climbs next to you in bed, although unlike you, decides to sit on top of the covers. He’s already engrossed in his paperwork and honestly, you’ve always found it an attractive sight to see him work, focused and diligent, but especially now as you notice he has shed his suit and tie for a loose white t and some joggers. If you weren't sick you’d kiss him breathless *threateningly*

“You’re very pretty, you know that?”

He hums in response, turning his face to the side, acting as if he’s searching for another file to hide the smile threatening to pull at his lips.

“Think you're suffering from fever induced hallucinations-"

"Hey, now-

You begin to sit up but he's quick to gently push you back down. Intertwining one of his hands with yours, tracing invisible heart shapes with his thumb. He starts to think he should do this more often. Working next to you somehow makes even the toughest, most dreading cases seem like a breeze to work through

"Get some rest, sweetheart. I'll be here when you wake up~♡"

Thank you for reading!!<3

[0bticeo]

lay your hands on me | dabi x reader

summary.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times. 

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face.

what he does next nearly kills you. 

“open wide for me.”

wc. 2.9k

tw. reader is an oblivious idiot, spoilers for the overhaul arc, slight canon divergence bc fuck you the league gets to keep the bar in kamino, hand fetish, finger sucking, finger fucking, alley sex, kissing, somehow very soft (they were supposed to fuck nasty i don't get it.)

being a UA dropout isn’t all bad. neither is kamino district. no, really. you just have to know the right spots.

and you had time to do so ever since eraserhead’s wonderful decision of kicking you out of the damn school. something about how vigilantism wasn’t tolerated. something about how you, as a third year, should have known better. 

you were close. so close to graduation. then it happened. it. your one true heroic act.

no cameras, no shiny deals, no public appreciation, no nothing. just you, a creep following a seven year old, and dark, dark streets.

you acted out of sheer instinct, the ink on your forearms springing to life, twin tattooed snakes sinking their fangs into that bastard’s skin. 

the girl was fine. blissfully unaware. the creep, not so much, sprawled in a dark alley near your favorite conbini. you’re not too sure about the inner workings of venom. not the the one given life to by your quirk. 

somehow, you have a feeling it hurts like hell.

having principal nezu sit you down and kindly explain that you would no longer be attending classes at UA, mouse-head split in a wide grin, hurt more.

“what are you sanctioning me for, exactly?” you ask, knuckles turning white with how tight you’re holding your tea cup.

he smiles at you. you feel every condescendent edge of his rodent teeth.

“vigilantism is illegal, as i’m sure you well know.”

"you-”

“aizawa-san already filled me in on the details.”

a sharp inhale. of course. of course, just because there aren’t any cameras doesn’t mean there aren’t witnesses. it’s not like the girl could testify. you made sure to be quiet. you made sure the creep was quiet.

you set your teacup back on its saucer, the rim silent as it meets the porcelain. nezu watches you, his eyes dark and empty. intelligent. inhumane. he sighs.

“such a shame to lose a student of your caliber. but the law is the law. no exceptions can be made,” he says, quietly sipping his tea.

you smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes. you think your palms might be bleeding with how hard your nails are digging in the skin. it’s fine. the deep green of your skirt is dark enough for the nature of the stain to be unidentifiable. 

“please. i have nowhere to go.”

the law is the law. nevermind that attending UA is expensive. in the promotion material, they mention the entrance exam (not that you can get yourself killed in it), the heroes (celebrities!) serving as professors, the facilities. 

now, the government might be funding a part of the infrastructure - those killer robots they have at the entrance exam aren’t going to finance themselves - but the rest? the tuition fees are expensive enough for the students to enter the hero life in debt. 

it’s fine. those from UA are pretty much destined to make it big. it’s not the best hero school in the country for nothing.

the law is law. 

you’re kicked out of school three weeks away from graduation without a backup plan. the only thing you have to yourself is a dingy studio in kamino district.

(aizawa had crossed paths with you on your way out of nezu’s office. he’s watched your eyes turn cold, and for a split-second, wondered if the law was fair.)

back on track. cut to four years of fruitless job hunting because nobody wants an UA dropout in their agencies. doesn’t matter if you were the top of your class, if endeavor himself wanted you to work under him at some point.

all they see is the black mark on your resume and the ink spreading and spreading over your skin, wrapping along your arms.

they smile and deny you the job you oh so need.

bye, bye morale, hello shoplifting. you’re quick on your feet and nimble-handed. get in, get out, you don’t get caught.

until you steal from the wrong person. until a hand wraps around your wrist, all five fingers digging in your flesh with the intention to kill.

meeting shigaraki tomura was… an interesting experience. so was your skin not decaying. maybe a side-effect from your quirk. your arms are more ink than skin these days. more tattoos, more power.

maybe your wrist being still intact landed you here. maybe it was the hero killer stain, his blade digging in the roots of a corrupted system and twisting. heroes are rotten, you know. true heroism is punished.

maybe you were angry, too. 

so now you spend your nights sitting in the league of villains’ base. a bar. it’s classier than expected for a ragtag team of villains. you highly suspect kurogiri’s distinguished demeanor is the sole reason for the said classiness.

shigaraki’s ranting again, chipped nails scratching his neck hard enough to bleed.

you’re barely listening, sprawled as you are on the counter. there’s a scrap of paper in front of you and a pen in your hand. on you doodle, hand cradling your cheek, occasionally humming to show you’re still listening. 

everybody’s here for a change.

twice, being his usual versatile self, one minute praising shigaraki’s genius planning, the next tearing it to shreds with a few well placed curses. troubled little fellow, really sweet. once lent you his lighter, so he’s high up in your good graces. 

next to you, toga kicks her feet, golden eyes glinting mischievously in the low lighting. there’s a wide grin tugging at her face, revealing sharp canines. she’s eager to get back in the fray. something about seeing a certain izuku. 

compress is fiddling with his gloves. shimmering orbs flash between his skilled fingers, twirling between them before disappearing wherever. a magician never reveals his secrets. how he managed to gain back such skill after losing his arm is beyond you.

spinner is watching on seriously. bless him.

(magne’s dead. your grip on your pen tightens.) 

and dabi… 

dabi’s leaning on the counter to your left, elbows nonchalantly propped up against its wooden surface, the sleeves of his jacket baring a hint of his bicep.

you watch, eyes half-lidded, the curl of his wrist, the way his fingers drum against the lapel of his jacket, flexing, flexing. 

you shift in your seat, crossing your legs.

three strokes of your pen. the shape of his hands come to life.

broad and warm, the skin of his palms pulled taut by the staples holding him together, little flashes of silver.

the fingers, next. clever. long. deft. curled in a way that has the fine lines of his knuckles jutting out and your cheeks warming. still, not quite right. 

you glance at his hand again and find it wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the heat of them fogging up the glass. there it is, again. that slow drumming, index finger tap, tap, tapping away on the glass. the staples on the back of his hand dig in his skin, right under the bone.

you bite back a groan.

hands are hard to draw.

you don’t know what it is about his fingers, but you can’t get them right. doesn’t matter if your muse is right there, a barstool away from you, sitting pretty with those damned fingers of his, you can’t seem to will your pen to mimic them. 

you risk another glance and meet blue, blue eyes. something like amusement flashes in them, his lips quirking up by a fraction. heat creeps up your neck. you twirl your pen and advert your eyes.

“irezumi-chan.”

leave it to shigaraki to give you dumb nicknames. 

you tilt your head.

“yes?”

“are you listening?”

turns out you’re needed for a job involving, out of all things, your tagging skills. and why the hell not. if the boss man wants you to sneak around in shady neighborhood near the shie hassaikai’s quarters in the dead of night, who are you to say no. (they’ll pay for what they did to magne.)

surprisingly, dabi’s drawled out a “count me in”, before downing his whiskey. (you’ve watched with bated breath his adam apple bob up and down as he swallowed his liquor.) 

so dabi’s tagging along, hands regrettably shoved deep in the confines of his pockets.

you’re not disappointed. absolutely not.

just worrying about your safety. understand, your quirk makes it so that you practically have to be half-naked for maximum efficiency. skin revealing tops and all, because you’re tired of your clothes being rippef to shreds whenever your tattoos come to life. so dabi’s hands in his pockets? they’re limiting his ability to defend you both if needed be.

nevermind the speed with which he fights, spread hand igniting from palm to fingertips, fire flashing bluer than his eyes as he burns it all. nevermind your own skills. it’s just that these yakuza bastards are lethal, more so than the league.

yeah, right. and tattooing your back piece yourself was an easy ordeal.

you let out a sigh and stop dead in your tracks, eyeing a wall. covered in graffiti, the whole surface of it a mess of superposed designs.

“this should do.”

dabi leans back on the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“do your thing.”

you crack your knuckles, your wrists, grab the spray paint and get to work. here’s the great thing about your quirk. whatever you draw can come to life, as long as you’ve seen it beforehand. call yourself yoshihide and your quirk hellscreen with how good you are. 

the medium doesn’t matter - the drawing comes to life if you will it so. and sure, it might disappear after an hour’s worth of use, but given your drawing skills, it’s versatile enough to give you the advantage in a fight.

the smell of spray paint fills the air, black micro droplets dusting your fingertips, your wrist. you kneel, leaning back ever so slightly to assess your handiwork.

you cannot afford to mess this up. not if you want shigaraki’s admittedly funky plan to succeed - and given you know UA is going to involve itself with that bastard overhaul… oh well. you don’t mind giving the students an explosive hand. as a thank you gift. 

smoke curls in front of you. nicotine.

you groan, rising to your feet and brushing the dust off your cargo pants.

“really dabi?”

you don’t need to turn around to know he’s grinning.

that grin.

the one that has him baring just a sliver of teeth, stitches pulling at the corner of his eyes with the mischievous glint flashing in them. a menace. 

“what?” he drawls. “can’t handle a little smoke?”

you shake your can of spray paint with a grumble.

“i’m trying to quit.”

a low chuckle.

“poor you.”

a lick of warmth at your back. you stop drawing that grenade. no need to mess it up. you feel the lean heat of him before he presses against you, fingers trailing up, up your arm, from your wrist to your collarbone- he’s tracing your tattoos. 

“you know, you get real cute when you’re flustered.”

his nail presses down on the detail of one of your pieces - a dragon’s scale, its great maw gaping open in a blast of heat stretching over your shoulder. you shudder. his hair brushes against your cheek.

“i’m not flustered,” you mumble, weakly.

he chuckles, low and warm and just a little mean. you feel the vibration of it on your back, spreading deep in your ribcage. you think you’re forgetting to breathe. 

“no?”

his fingers come to view, joints stretching the skin taut. they’re big, thumb massaging your forearm, digging in the coils of the leviathan snaking around your wrist.

“i see the way you look at me when i fight. at the bar…”

your mouth goes a little dry. you lick your lips and feel dabi’s breath on your cheek, his nose brushing your ear. he could take a bite out of you with how close his mouth is to your neck. 

“hands are hard to draw.”

you don’t see his grin. you don’t see the white flash of teeth you’ve grown to love, the way his lips split wide, stitches pulling and pulling at the seams of his mouth.

“hands?” he lifts one of them, the one that isn’t lighting a fucking inferno at your hip with how maddening his touch is, his index slowly tracing your waistband. “you like my hands, huh?”

you whine. actually fucking whine at that, low and needy and desperate, hips pressing back against his.

and fuck, if the way he laughs at that doesn’t turn you to putty in his hands, you don’t know what does.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times. 

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face. what he does next nearly kills you. 

“open wide for me.”

his fingers curl, index and middle held before your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing it before they slip in you, resting on your tongue.

you taste him - something salty and distinctly him that makes your head spin.

his fingers are warm, the entirety of him is, and you’re panting against him, your own fingers clenching your can of spray paint like a vice.

his free hand snakes under your shirt, splaying over your chest, burying itself between the plushness of your breasts. he feels your heartbeat, wild, erratic little thing against his palm.

“that’s it… now suck.”

a metallic clang rings somewhere in the distance. you wouldn’t know where, with the sharp ringing in your ears, the way the world has narrowed down to dabi’s heavenly touch.

tiny pinpricks of cold brush your chin, lightning flashes of pleasure as his staples make contact with your skin, as his nails drag against your nipple, pleasure-pain at its finest. 

he’s dragging his fingers, pushing down on your tongue as you eagerly suck on them. he mouths at your neck, the press of teeth against your skin having you keening around his fingers.

you think you’re burning, little inferno of desire wasting away in his arms, your hips grinding against his, eager, eager…

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, thin threads of saliva linking them to your parted lips, and you whine at the loss.

then his fingers find your slit and drag, and his touch is scorching against your core and you’re begging. wet little sounds fill the alleyway, and it’s loud, the only thing you can hear. and fuck, the way his thumb circles your clit just right- 

and that fucker takes his hand out of your pants and brings it to his face with a low chuckle, thin threads of your slick coating his fingers from the tip to the knuckle. your eyes widen, the sight embedded in your retina.

he grins against your cheek. 

“i’ve barely touched you…” 

there’s a hint of awe in his voice, you think, hazily. then again, you’re not sure. not really. you’re impeccably warm like this, all pressed up against dabi’s lithe body, head lolled back on his shoulder. 

“dabi, please…”

he spins you around, all but slamming you against the wall behind you. you groan, because fuck, every single nerve ending in your system is begging for release, and the acrid scent of spray paint is filling your senses, and you’re pretty sure it’s smudging against your back-

you meet his gaze and your breath catches in your throat.

he’s watching you, blue, blue eyes swallowed up by his pupils. he’s panting, you realize, lips bloody with how hard he’s bitten them. you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than him, looming over you in the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the golden light swallowing him whole. 

“let me draw you,” you blurt out, cheeks heating up immediately.

he laughs, a low, raspy little thing of a chuckle as his fingers find your core again and you gasp at his touch.

“you already do, don’t you?”

you feel you might spontaneously combust and die, your head tilting to the side, trying not to meet his stare. you don’t see his smile, inexplicably fond. 

“c’mon, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face when i make you cum on my fingers.”

his forehead presses against yours, his fingers digging in your hips, in the meat of your thigh. your breath mingles with his in sharp little gasps as he resumes unraveling you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

it’s unfair, the effect he has on you, how good he is with these blasted fingers of his. you fist at his clothes, hands burrowing in the strands of hair at his nape, tugging hard enough to make him groan, low and heavy in your ear. his fingers curl. you keen, falling apart as you choke around his name. 

his lips press against your neck, a soft, almost chaste peck.

“you did so good for me, pretty.”

you’re about to gently push him away from you. you have a job to do, a revenge to take, and the clock’s ticking- 

then his lips are on you. he’s kissing you, his lower lip a stark contrast with his upper lip, the perfect blend of soft roughness. you close your eyes, melting against him.

he’s kissing you, and the job can wait for a little while.

[happy74827]

Can you make more Joe Goldberg? You did such aan amazing job on the first one that I NEED a second one. Just please consider. Thank. Love your fics btw 💖💖💖

Lily of the Valley

[Joe Goldberg x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Coffee might not be his favorite, but things can change when it involves a person like you.

WC: 659

Category: Fluff

Fortunately, I already had this small idea in mind for our lovely stalker man and this request really just put the icing on top of the cake. Hopefully it fulfills your needs 🙌 (also you’re too sweet… thank you so much for the kind words 💞)

『••✎••』

Coffee. The hard, hot, and bitter drink that is the reason many people get out of bed each day and the reason why some people stay up until the early hours of the morning. He never understood the appeal.

But that didn't mean he didn't enjoy the smell of coffee beans roasting, the smell of fresh ground beans being poured into a filter, and the smell of the finished product. He didn't understand how something so bitter and disgusting could have such a calming and comforting smell.

Joe had been sitting in a booth in a coffee shop for the past few hours, watching the world outside go by, sipping a small mug of tea, and his current read, "The Woman In The Window" by A.J Finn, in front of him. His eyes were trained on the people going by, not really taking much of anything in. He was on autopilot, a default setting he slipped into whenever his mind was full of something else.

It was only when a waitress with a short, black pixie cut walked over to his table that his eyes come back into focus, and his thoughts began to slow down. She didn't look like she belonged in a coffee shop. With a long, floral dress, combat boots, and a cardigan, she was far too pretty and too interesting to be serving lattes. She was a rose in a garden full of daisies, a peacock among chickens.

Then, like a snap to reality, the sound of his name pulled him away from her and onto… you. The whole reason he was here in the first place.

If he thought the waitress was a rose, you were a whole bouquet.

"Jonathan! Are you going to order anything, or are you just going to keep sitting there, scaring all our other employees?" You said a laugh in your voice.

He hadn't even noticed the waitress had already left, and now, you were standing by the table, holding a coffee pot.

Yeah, he needs to stop letting his thoughts take over.

"No, no, I was just, uh, reading."

"Reading a book, or reading her?" You said, cocking your head to the side, indicating the waitress who had moved on to another table.

"Reading the book."

"Mhm, sure." You said, not at all convinced. God, he just wanted to kiss the smirk off your face. Those pretty lipstick-covered lips moving against his.

You shook your head, smiling.

"You want a muffin… or something? On the house, since you're a regular and all."

He looked down at the book again, then back up at you. Unlike the waitress, you were dressed for work in a black, collared shirt tucked into black pants and a black apron tied around your waist.

It told him a lot about you, like the fact that you were a rule follower organized. The other waitress played confidence to stand out. You wanted to blend in, but still, he noticed.

How could he not notice you?

"Sure."

"Blueberry, right? Your usual."

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll be back in a second."

You had just turned to leave before you spun on your heel and stopped.

"And, Jonathan,” you paused. "That book in your hands? Wonderful read."

As you walked away, he realized how his heart had started to beat faster, and he couldn't stop the grin on his face.

A bouquet? No, you were something far more rare and far more beautiful than that.

You were an orchid.

And when you returned with that perfectly shaped muffin and that award-winning smile, Joe decided this would be the last time he ever chased a woman. Because this one?

You?

It was as though you were a mix between all his past loves and yet someone entirely new.

You were that new orchid in the greenhouse, the lily of the valley, and he wanted to nurture you and make you grow.

It's time to stop blending in; he would bring you out to bloom.

[sleepymccoy]

I have some general anxiety about going to supermarkets aimed at specific cultures because the intended clientele is not lil white me and the staff often don't speak english and I feel inappropriate. But not once has this been true, and I've always enjoyed my visit. Anyway, that's a preface so you can appreciate how brave I am

My colleague recently made me lahpet which is a Burmese salad including pickled tea leaves, dried beans mix, and tomatoes. I loved it and wanted more. I live in a densely Chinese area and thought one of the many supermarkets might have something Burmese, so I brought the empty jar to every store.

Many don't speak english, but that's fine. I had a jar! All interactions basically went like this;

None of them knew Burmese so couldn't even tell me if they had something similar

I gave up and bought it online. Also had a hard time with that cos they don't deliver to apartments (got the vibe that it's just the shop owners son doing deliveries and he couldn't be fucked going upstairs. Valid). But I persevered and got three jars! And the dried beans mix I needed. Way too many dried beans, I totally misjudged the size of the bag being sold

I used one to show my friends this salad. They didn't go as insane over it as I did. I gave another jar to my dad who did go appropriately insane. He said he liked it, then five min later interrupted to say he really liked it, then after dinner spent time with me going through the ingredients and trying to figure out if he can pickle tea leaves himself. Booyah.

Regardless, this left me with one jar which I swiftly finished. So I'm on the hunt again and the online store stresses me out now cos they don't like apartments

I found a Burmese supermarket a few suburbs away and a twenty min walk from the station. Fucking worth it, it's added two hours to my commute home but I want these jars so much. I enjoyed the stroll. It rained a bit, so I saw a couple rainbows

In the store I was, again, immediately stressed. I went down an aisle and back again and found nothing. I found other pickled things! But not my tea leaves! I did not want this trip to be in vain, it was long and I had a shit day at work. I was really only doing it today cos the days a write off as a bad day so I may as well run an annoying errand

Anyway I pulled up the website and showed the lady at the counter a photo of the jar and she pointed me to them immediately. I returned like fifteen seconds later with four jars and she was already on a phone call with someone. I love workers rights. You're awesome, lady.

So I say four and hold four fingers up and pass her one jar. She scans and sets the price right. She then interrupts whoever's talking on the phone to ask me, "How you know this?"

So I quickly explained that my colleague made me the salad and I loved it. She pointed back at the aisle and said, "the beans, you need beans." So I was like "I have so many beans, I bought too many, I just need the pickled leaves." And she was already waving her hand at me in disinterest so I stopped talking and paid lol.

It was a long haul home. I passed and remember to take a photo of my favourite art installation, the tower of coffee cups in a pole.

There's no starbucks in my suburb so one of these at least has taken a long trip to get here. So did I today, my feet are sore

Anyway, I have four jars of miraculous pickled tea leaves. If you can figure out how to buy these ingredients I recommend it to serve alongside very fatty meals like lasagne or sausage cos it cuts through nicely. I also take a serving to work every day because the tea leaves are caffeinated so I'm skipping the second coffee

I love lahpet

[rileyglas]

Hello! Can I request Alastor x Fem!Trust Issues!Reader? I've seen quite a few fanfictions and requests where Readers were wary of Alastor, but strangely quickly began to trust him. Therefore, it seemed to me that it would be funny to see a Reader who is so distrustful of people in principle that with Alastor’s reputation this distrust reaches the point of absurdity. And when Alastor really sincerely wants to gain the Reader's trust (romantically or platonically, it doesn't matter), then it becomes a really difficult task. For example, he offers help with some little thing and the Reader immediately “what do you want from me.” Or when Alastor brings the Reader tea/coffee, she waits for him to drink first (she would probably insist that he pour it from the same ?teapot?). The other residents of the Hotel find this hilarious.

This is such a fun prompt, especially under the assumption Alastor loves nothing more than a good chase during a hunt. 😉

Like Glass (Alastor x Fem!TrustIssues!Reader)

Four months. That’s how long it took for you to finally take Charlie up on her offer of the possibility of redemption. The chance to get to Heaven seemed like a pipe dream but after a few very long talks and persuasions, you now held a key to your own room in the hotel. 

You try to keep to yourself and most seem to respect that. You’re left alone unless something is needed for one of Charlie’s exercises. You even specifically requested that Nifty didn’t bother coming to your room to clean. The less people in your space the better. 

Charlie has such a big heart but that leads to her choosing to trust even the most despicable characters. She has even trusted and allowed the Radio Demon to live under the same roof. You’ve heard all the stories, all the theories of why he was really there under the ruse of “helping” her. You didn’t buy it one bit. 

Just the other day you were trying to hang some banners the crew had made during an activity. Your ladder was rickety but unfortunately it was the only way to reach the beams. Pained grunts filled the room from you trying to stand on your tiptoes while maintaining some sense of balance. “Allow me to help, dear. Would hate to see you fall.” A staticky voice called from below you. “No thank you - I….am almost…done - shit!” the ladder shifted and almost threw you off. Alastor stabilized it with ease. “See, it is a good thing I’m here!” he yelled smugly. At this point you would rather fall than allow him to hold your life in his hands. “You’re a busy man Alastor. Hey Husk? Mind helping -”

“Nope, looks like Al has it covered.” he teased from behind the bar, relishing in your uneasy tone. You shot daggers, both angry and begging for the cat to just help you instead of Alastor. You made the last tie in the banner and swiftly came down to more solid ground. “Thanks I guess. I had it though.” you said through gritted teeth, avoiding making eye contact and rushing out of the room. Had you looked back you would have seen Husk laughing at how irate Alastor suddenly became.

Now tonight, Nifty was kind enough to serve everyone one of her more popular dinners. It was a simple dish yet as usual, you waited for everyone to nearly clear their plates before digging into it yourself. You might have been starving but you could never be too careful. We are all in Hell for a reason. Could anyone be truly trusted?

“My dear, dig in! Before it gets cold!” Alastor’s voice chirped from across the table. You glare at the toothy grinned demon, “I just like to ensure everyone is enjoying before digging in myself. Appreciate the concern though.” You try to seem pleasant but your voice always seems to drip with disdain when speaking to him, “Why are you so worried? Did you help in preparing the meal?” 

He chuckles, “I try to keep out of the kitchen when Nifty cooks but she did require a few extra hands -” You involuntarily choke and spit out the bite you had just taken. Angel and Husk also choke though it’s to hold back laughter. You sneer at their amusement. Alastor’s face twists with confusion, “Is everything alright?” “Oh uhm I’m suddenly not that hungry. Must be coming down with something. Excuse me.” You excuse yourself from the table and make your way to the library. Reading was always something that could busy your mind and right now you needed a distraction from both your growling stomach and Alastor’s attempt to help once again. He’d been making an uncomfortable effort to help you in any way he could and in your mind, that could only mean he wanted something from you.

Not many residents used the hotel library which was great for you. But of course, there was always someone who enjoyed breaking your solitude. The sound of footsteps pulls your eyes off your current page, “What do I owe the visit?” you snap over your book. 

Alastor strides over with a serving tray carrying a tea set. “Well I saw just how horrible you looked at dinner and figured some peppermint tea might help whatever ailment you’re suffering from.” He sets the tray on the table in front of you but you don’t move a muscle. “Since when do you care if someone isn’t feeling well?” you cock an eyebrow at him. 

He hums as he pours two cups of tea, taking one for himself and offering you the other, “What? Can I not offer a fellow resident a nice cup of tea?” “Nope. What do you want?” you continue to stare at the cup in his hand. His eye twitches, trying to hold back his annoyance, “Why do you insist on rejecting any of my pleasantries?”

You slam your book closed, “You’re wondering why I do not want help of any sort from one of Hell’s most vile Overlords?” He sets down your cup and sits across from you. You didn’t want company but it's too late now. “Ms. Morningstar trusts me with ensuring the safety of this hotel yet you cannot even take a cup of tea you’ve watched me both pour and drink myself. Other than what stories you’ve heard, what have I done to you to make you so cold towards me?” His eyes burn into you, eager for an answer. Although with his tone, you could only assume he knew exactly why you didn’t trust him. 

You sigh as you pick up the cup he offered. You swirl it in an attempt to examine if it looks or smells odd before hesitantly taking a small sip for yourself. “Have you ever been betrayed Alastor? By a friend? By someone you loved? Because I have. It’s how I died and how I ended up here.” 

His smile falters slightly, corners curving down before returning to their usual wide grin, “Trust is like glass, once broken it isn’t easy to fix nor will ever be the same. I admire how guarded you try to be.”

You scoff, “If it is so admirable then why bother trying so hard to earn my trust? Unless it just kills your ego that someone can see you for who you truly are -” The cup he holds suddenly shatters under his tightening grip, “Watch your tone, dear. I’ve been nothing but amicable with you. I expect the same in return.” his voice drops with static filling the air. You can’t help but smirk at how quickly you’ve managed to get under his skin. “Ooooh so it is an ego thing? Duly noted.” you bite and finish off your cup. As you stand you see Alastor’s eyes shift to black dials, his mind clearly spiraling. On your way to the door you brush a teasing hand across his shoulder, “Tea was wonderful by the way. I’m feeling better already!” Your coy laughter echoes through the library as you leave but the sounds of Alastor’s demon form drown it out. He snarls over his shoulder to you, “Don’t act so smug darling. I’ll get you to trust me one day.”

“Good luck!” You chirp walking out the door, unaware of the challenge you just put into place for the Radio Demon.  He was going to have you one way or another. It was only a matter of time and patience, two things he had plenty of when it came to getting what he wanted. You.

[tpwk-formula1]

Hey! Can I order a pizza with thin crust, red sauce bacon and pulled pork. As a drink Diet Pepsi, black tea and truly, no dessert. With Max Verstappen as a server

Thank youuu <3

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

thin crust brother's best friend red sauce rough sex bacon "What would your brother think if he caught us" pulled pork "God, I love when I fuck the attitude out of you" diet pepsi biting black tea choking truly belly bulge dessert no served by Max Verstappen

TW - choking, biting, belly bulge, unprotected sex, creampie

WC 900+

Y/N POV

"Max, literally go back to your own garage," I snap at the Dutch man standing in front of me. The same man who managed to wake me up far too early this morning.

"Schat, I literally apologized already! Stop being a fucking brat," Max snaps back making me groan and roll my eyes.

"Max! How the fuck did you manage to drop not 1, not 2, but 3 different things this morning. First, it was your fucking shoes you intentionally dropped onto the bed, then you drop my fucking Stanley after pressing a kiss on my forehead, and then those fucking keys! Can you learn to have some damn conside-" But I'm cut off mid fight by Max pushing me up against the wall of my brother's driver room holding my throat in his hand giving it a slight squeeze.

"Shut up! Drop the fucking attitude! I apologized already. The shoes where placed onto the bed, it wasn't my fault you shifted which resulted in you kicking them, the Stanley only fell onto the ground because YOU pushed me away when I tried to give you your good bye kiss and the keys fell because YOU snapped at me for dropping the Stanley and it scared me," Max seethes through clenched teeth while still choking me slightly.

"Max," I gasp when I feel his grip get a bit tighter cutting off my airflow even more.

"What has gotten into you. Been such a fucking brat lately," Max says getting up into my face still keeping his strong grip on my throat.

"I have not!" I snap back making Max tighten his grip while raising a brow.

"Wrong, one more chance to fix that answer," Max says back making me whimper knowing I was gonna have to admit I just missed him.

"Just miss you. Need you," I admit softly while closing my eyes in shame.

"Oh, so you're fucking needy and you thought picking a fight with me on a race weekend was gonna work?" Max asked clearly getting more frustrated with my admission.

"I mean, you're choking me out in my brother's driver room, so yes it worked," I reply back with a smirk making Max scoff and completely cut off all airflow for a few seconds before he released my neck and stormed out of the room leaving me alone with a light smirk.

When I got back to Max and I's hotel room later that night Max was already back and sitting on the bed in just his briefs.

"Strip," Max calls out through the room making me look at him slightly confused.

"Don't give me that look, strip," Max calls again which has me slowly putting my purse down on a chair near me before I started slowly slipping out of the dress I was wearing and unclipping my bra. Once I've slipped my panties down my legs Max is climbing out of the bed and approaching me. Once Max had successfully cornered me against the wall he pulled me in for a kiss.

"Been so desperate lately," Max mumbled against my lips as he started trailing his mouth from mine down to my neck where I felt him sink his teeth into my sweet spot making me gasp.

"Fuck," I moan when I feel him graze his teeth into my sweet spot before he moved his mouth away and replaced it with his hand where he started lightly choking me again.

"If you missed me you should have just told me, not pick a fight with me over some keys falling on the ground," Max roughly tells me while getting up close and personal.

"M'sorry," I mumble best I can.

"Mhm, I'm sure you are," Max says while roughly ripping me from the wall and dragging me to the bed where he climbed into the bed and quickly grazed a couple fingers through my folds making me gasp at the feeling.

"Already soaked," Max says with a smirk before pulling his boxers off and instantly pushing his full length into my pussy giving me no time to adjust before he is brutally thrusting in and out of my pussy making me scream at the pleasurable pain.

"Fuck," I moan when I feel Max bring his hand back to my neck giving it a light squeeze.

"What would your brother think if he caught us," Max asks with a smirk speeding up his thrusts making me gasp when I open my eyes and notice the bulge that appears each time Max fucked into me.

"I'm too big for this little pussy I had to make room in your tummy," Max says with a smirk moving his hand from my throat down to my tummy where he pushed down making all the pleasure more intense.

"Fuck, Max," I cry out when I feel my orgasm start to build.

"Is this what you needed? Needed to come back to our room and let me destroy your little pussy?" Max asks through clenched teeth clearly feeling his orgasm start to build as well.

"Yes," I gasp out getting extremely close to the edge.

"God, I love when I fuck the attitude out of you. Cum for me," Max says while speeding his thrusts up throwing me over the edge into a powerful orgasm.

"Fuck," I scream out at my peak hits feeling Max start to cum deep into my pussy making me gasp at the feeling of being filled up.

"So good," I whine as Max slowly starts to pull his cock out before laying down next to me and giving me a soft kiss.

[r0-boat]

Yandere Sitri headcannons

Aishite, Aishite, Aishite! Motto, Motto!

Cw: yandere themes, NSFW, baby trapping, Somnophilia,

Yandere!Sitri x reader

As a being who studied in Hades, perhaps maybe even lived in Hades at some point no matter how long he has lived and served under the king of wrath He will never get rid of is that true deep feeling of envy that gnaws at his stomach like a venomous green-eyed beast. As he stared with eyes full of cold, callus hatred watching all of his colleagues and even other kings fun over you and fight for your attention.

Even Satan would not be safe, as Sitri a loyal Butler and follower his adoration for the King of Gehenna slowly being consumed by his envy of him.

He self-proclaims as himself being the closest to Solomon before his death. And not only that he falls deeper in love with you everyday. It was not just love It was borderline worship. Something that only angels could notice since this deep twisted feeling of loving something to the point of insanity was all too familiar to them.

Sitri was a devil. He couldn't lie to you directly, but he could still deceive. He could still manipulate you in another way, spin half-truths, and try slowly but surely to gain your trust to have you in his arms finally. He knows he'll have a lot of competition to win someone as precious as Solomon's daughter, But he feels confident studying in Hades. That is ruled under envy. He felt as though he had been training for this moment.

As the right-hand devil of a king so possessive as Satan, he has to work in the shadows. He does not have the luxury of being so public with his true desires. And how he thinks of everyone as savage dogs getting in the way. He must ensure that he should be your only choice in the end even if He needs to twist your mind to make you think lies.

However as a devil. The hardest thing he has to do is hold back every aching desire he has in him to not grab you hold you in his arms and drag you to the darkest depths of Gehenna's dungeon so no one, not even the king can find you. Scaring you away would be a death sentence or worse being pinned as a threat to not only your safety but the safety of hell itself.

So he bites his time patiently, waiting patiently, patiently! and patiently laying every card just right so he could snatch you up in the end. Occasionally, his mask does slip, something he could only do when he's giving you his "devil's energy" where you can write it off as some kind of kink. Or filling you up and hoping it takes. He knows very little on human anatomy but he does know that you would never want to leave if you knew you had a baby with a devil.

Hopefully by that time he'll have all his plans would be meticulously drawn out. And hopefully if all goes well after the war he will confess his true love to you and if you don't accept him you won't have a choice He will not leave you He will not let you leave him like last time.

Sometimes he will indulge in his desires sneaking into your room to listen to that soft low drum of that precious heart of yours. By that point he would be slipping more herbs in your tea to help you sleep deeper as he climbs into your bed to feel your body. Pressing his bare skin against yours he feels his cock hardening. Your name not your nickname, Your name slips from his lips like a silent prayer as his cock fucks your plush thighs.

Other times, he will keep notebooks filled to the brim with information about the type of toothpaste you use. He will know you and your body down to the kilogram. And, of course, Sitri will use that information to try to gain your favor.

And oh, how he would worship you; serve you like royalty and a lover. How he dreams of waking up to you snuggling against him so close that the only thing he can hear is the sound of your hearts intertwined, beating as one as you snuggle into his chest.

He's as intelligent as he is delusional, Don't even attempt trying to manipulate him He will see right through you. He will not punish or break you.

[nepenthendline]

take my hand - neuvillette x reader

a/n: just some sappy soft slow dancing with neuvillette, implied fem reader, hydro dragon being adorable and teaching you to dance

I might do a part 2 for this!

In the last few months, you've tended to find yourself in events like this: the yearly grand ball held for Hydro Archon's birthday. In true Furina style, she goes all out each year, hosting the most magnificent, yet, overwhelming, events with every important figure and name in Fontaine.

Being assistant to the Iudex alone wouldn't normally get you an invite to such event (unless Furina is running low on numbers), but as partner of Neuvillette himself, and a close friend to Furina because of said partnership, you're considered a 'must-have' at these parties.

It's easy to feel like a face in the crowd, a nobody, at these events when you're surrounded by wealthy stuck-up diplomats or CEOs wearing only the most expensive designer gowns and suits, or how you have no idea what they're talking about half the time. The hall is loud, crowded, and slightly too shiny for your liking, but you have to stay until the night is over.

There is one thing keeping you here, though: the presence of Neuvillette. You stand at the edge of the hall, glass in hand of whatever fruity drink the bulters are serving, eyes locked on the Chief Justice as he weaves through the crowd to engage in pleasantries with the guests. Whilst you wish he could stay by your side all night, you understand he has duties to fulfil, and getting to watch his tall figure, dressed to the nines, dart around is compensation enough. Picking Neuvillette out from the crowd is never hard - he doesn't exactly blend in with everyone else with his long, icy hair and that blue glow of his, not to mention the sheer weight of his authority.

Your smile grows into a grin as you notice his steps being directed towards you. You have to hold back a giggle as you watch the guests in front of him, that are blocking his path to you, profusely apologise and move aside, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the Iudex.

'I apologise for having to leave your side for this long, you know how Furina acts when it comes to these events,' he says before cupping your cheek with his gloved hand and kissing your head, 'but I'm all yours for the rest of the night'.

'It's ok, it's your job, and besides, I don't mind watching you,' you shrug off his concerns and retort in a teasing manner. His raises one eyebrow at you before letting out a deep, quiet chuckle.

'I see, well I hope I put on a good show for you my dear,' you nod and giggle at his remark, 'even so, these sorts of things aren't exactly my cup of tea either. I prefer to observe humans...from a distance,' he adds, which you know is his polite way of saying he can't stand having to engage in small talk with so many enthusiastic people at once. 'What do you have to drink?' He asks, looking down to your glass of brightly coloured bubbly liquid, whilst brushing his knuckles over your arm as a form of comforting affection. You look into your, still mostly full, glass and wrinkle your nose slightly.

'Couldn't tell you, but you certainly wouldn't like it,' you answer, placing the glass on the tall table next to you. His mouth opens, ready to say something, when the band changes to a new song - one that is slower and gentler than before. It's one you recognised since Neuvillette played it in his office from time to time. Your thoughts are broken when he holds his hand out to you and speaks,

'Would you like to dance?' He asks, almost hesitantly, with his lips curled into a sweet smile. Your hand reaches for his but stops halfway as you look between him and the dozens of dancing couples behind you.

'I don't know how to dance...like that,' you shyly admit, gesturing to the elegantly swaying guests behind him with your head. His smile grows sweeter as his lifts his hand to reach where yours hovered, taking it in his light grasp and pressing a kiss to your knuckles,

'Then let me guide you, my love,' he walks towards the dancefloor with you in tow, finding a less crowded spot before turning to face you once again. Looking around you, you could see how all the other women were situated - one hand on their dance-partners shoulder and the other clasped with theirs. You looked back at Neuvillette and moved your own hands to match. He gave you a small nod before putting his free hand around your waist and pulling you closer. 'Good, that's correct,' he praises, 'I will lead, and you can follow my steps. Let me count for us to make it easier. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3,' he continues counting in a hushed tone as he moves slowly - first taking a step forward, then to the side, and then back. You kept your eyes focused on the floor and what you could see of your feet under your ball gown. Luckily, the steps were slow enough that you could react, taking your own steps to follow him in turn.

'Ah,' he interrupts his conducting before taking the hand from your waist away and placing a finger under your chin, gently lifting your head until your eyes were locked with his, 'keep your eyes on mine,' he directed, but the words and the intensity of his gaze made you want to bow your head immediately again. He let out a huff of a chuckle, returning his hand to your waist and pulling you closer, closing any gap between you two so you couldn't look at the floor. With this move, you had no choice but to keep your focus on his eyes. Even despite being together for a few months now, holding eye contact like this still made you nervous - you felt like a lovestruck teenager put on a spotlight against his gaze. Your cheeks grew warmer, and you couldn't help the bashful look on your face.

'I'm not used to this,' you whined, 'go easy on me,' although your tone suggested you didn't mean any worry.

'That is true, although having you look at me is for more selfish desires, I must admit.' He confessed. If anyone else said such a phrase, you would believe they were teasing, and yet his words felt so pure.

Maybe it was the reflection of the many chandeliers or the glittery dresses around you, but his eyes seemed to shine more than usual. You often liked to admire Neuvillette's features, but more so when he was unaware of your lingering glances (or so you thought). His featured looked so soft, so ethereal in the glistening light - your eyes roamed his face, and occasionally, the scenery around you. However, his never left yours once. Neuvillette is known for his status and commanding authority, and yet, right now, he had never looked so gentle.

The hand on his shoulder moved further in, brushing against the hair near his neck. You only realised he had stopped counting a while ago when he let out a quiet, satisfied hum.

'Seems you're a natural,' he commented, making your cheeks flush even hotter.

'Oh,' your head falls to look at his chest instead in embarrassment, 'I don't know about that. Maybe you're just a good teacher,' you return.

'Perhaps,' he says, although it doesn't sound like a genuine consideration at all. You shake your head gently, as if trying to wash away your discomposure, then returned your eyes to his waiting pair.

Despite your worries, you couldn't help but feel yourself sink into his hold and let go a little further whilst looking at him - it was like you were the only two in the room right now; you could barely even concentrate on the music. You let out a deep breath and smiled at him, and he smiled back, smitten.

He leaned down slightly and shortened his steps so that he could rest his forehead against yours. Your noses occasionally brushed against each other as you swayed in tandem.

'I like this,' you murmured, as if it was some guilty pleasure. The curve of his lips grew wider as he nodded slightly,

'I like this too.'