#this Friday there's another work I have to hand in | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokileaf · 1 day ago

Text

Back To Friends

Dean Winchester x f!Reader

AN: sorry I’ve been gone for a bit, i went on a few camping trips back to back and wasn’t able to post or work on my WIPs. i’m officially back and have a few new fics coming soon!

Summary: When a hunt goes terribly wrong, Dean is forced to reckon with his feelings for you.

Warning: 18+, sexual content, abduction, physical violence

Word count: 3.6k

You pressed play on the movie you had put on your small TV, sighing as you let yourself fall back on your bed and grab the convenience store bag full of snacks.

Another Friday night alone, you thought miserably to yourself.

You had made plans with your friends to get dinner and see a movie but everyone had bailed for some reason or another. Again.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your miserable reverie. A text from Dean.

Are you home?

Your heart skipped a beat, pulse quickening as you determined how you should reply.

No, you typed back curtly.

A pause before your phone buzzes once more.

I can see your TV is on.

Your gaze snapped to your window, the blinds completely open despite the late hour. You let your head fall into your hands, scrubbing them harshly over your face. A sharp knock at your window attracted your attention and you paused the movie just as Dean's face appeared. He pointed down at the closed latch, silently asking you to let him in. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that forced its way onto your lips as you reluctantly undid the latch and slid the window open.

"What are we, fourteen?" you teased as he lifted himself up and over the windowsill.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart, this is the pinnacle of romance," came his quick reply as he settled into place on top of your duvet. He gave you a cocky smirk and folded his arms behind his head, his eyes trailing up and down your body before catching on your less-than-flattering teddy bear pajama pants.

"Teddy bears... sexy," he teased. His gaze found your bag of snacks and he snatched it up, immediately gravitating to the family-sized bag of chips.

"Hey! Those are mine!" you snapped, snatching the bag from his hands before he could tear it open. He chuckled softly and pulled you down next to him on your bed, swiftly rolling over top of you and trapping you beneath him. You felt your face flush under his intense gaze as he stared down at you.

"Hi," you squeaked out, desperate to break the silence.

"Hey," he replied, "it's been a while."

"Yeah, well... I've been... busy."

Dean glanced around your room at your solitary movie night before looking back down at you.

"I can see that," he stated with another devastating smirk. His eyes softened as he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours before claiming them in a tender kiss. You let him take control, sliding a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair.

His tongue ran the length of your bottom lip, silently asking for permission before slipping into your mouth.

I need to tell him, you thought anxiously.

The two of you had previously come to an understanding; he would come and go as he pleased and you would let him. Despite your requests for more commitment and his adamant refusals, you could never quite bring yourself to turn him away when he came knocking.

Dean’s hand slid under your oversized t shirt, resting on your ribcage in a silent question. Pushing your moral dilemma from your mind, you nodded silently into his kiss and he pulled your shirt up and over your head. Goosebumps broke out across your flesh as the cool air hit your skin.

“You’re unreal,” he mumbled, voice just above a whisper as he took a moment to really look at you. You covered your blush with a roll of your eyes, your body heating as you felt him grow hard against your inner thigh. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, swiftly pulling it over his head. The warm skin of his torso pressing against yours made you shiver and you threw your head back against your pillows as he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses down your neck and across your collarbones.

Your hands slid down his chest and stomach, settling on his hips before making quick work of his belt buckle and jeans button. You could feel his smirk against your shoulder as he lifted his hips, allowing you to push the offending article of clothing down to his knees before he kicked them to the floor beside your bed.

Left in only his briefs, you could blatantly see the outline of his hardened length pressing against the black fabric, begging for release. You bit the inside of your cheek and slid a hand between your bodies to grip him softly. A self-satisfied smile broke out across your lips as a small groan escaped him at the contact. He took your wrist in his hand, pulling it up to pin it firmly in ver your head.

“Not yet,” he mumble in your ear, his voice husky with desire.

His fingers trailed down your torso, making you shiver slightly in their wake before settling on the waistband of your (frankly embarrassing) teddy bear pajama pants. You lifted your hips and Dean took the opportunity to slide them down, letting them join the rest of your clothing on the floor.

Your hands squeezed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin slightly as he pressed his thinly clothed cock against your aching core, the heat of his body making your head spin. You wrapped your legs firmly around his hips, pulling him closer so you could grind yourself shamelessly against him. His jaw clenched at the friction, his breath quickly becoming labored.

He quickly regained his composure, looking up into your eyes as he took a nipple into his mouth, his tongue making slow, torturous circles around the sensitive bud.

Dean looked unbelievable like this; with his face flushed pink, lips slightly swollen, hair gently tousled. Despite his repeated refusals to label your situation as anything other than casual, you couldn’t believe that you got to have him in this way.

You had begged and pleaded for him to take you with him.

I don’t mind leaving it all behind, you had repeatedly reassured him.

You know I can’t let you, sweetheart. Besides, I don’t do relationships, was always his curt reply.

The sting of his blunt rejection never seemed to subside but that had never stopped you from trying again.

And again.

Up until recently, this endless cycle had done nothing to deter you.

Until you received a drunken text from his number asking about a second date that was clearly meant for another woman.

It was in that moment you had decided that you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself knowing that there was nothing you could do to change his mind.

This would be the last time.

Dean's lips found their way back to yours, pushing all thoughts of your impending separation to the back of your mind. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers hooked themselves into the waistband of your underwear, just barely skimming your skin as he started pulling them down.

His mouth trailed down from your neck all the way to your hips, your skin burning in his wake. In a moment of insecurity, you tried to squeeze your legs together to keep him from seeing how wrecked you already were for him. Before you could do so, his hands hooked around your thighs, parting them to expose your center to him.

"Don't hide from me," he mumbled before licking a hot stripe up your core. Your back arches involuntarily, your hands flying to find purchase in his hair and making him grunt against you as you pulled on it. Your mouth fell open, eyes clenching shut as his tongue made delicate circles around your clit. He gripped your thighs once again, throwing them over his shoulders to give himself better access.

Your body tenses as his tongue dips into your soaked cunt, your thighs squeezing him closer. His fingers slip inside, quickly replacing his tongue as it continues to caress your sensitive nerves.

It isn't long before you felt that familiar tension building in your abdomen, your lower back arching off the mattress.

"Dean-" you moan, pressing his face closer and he hummed in response. "Don't stop," you replied breathlessly. You felt his lips quirk up into a smile before sucking your clit into his mouth. Your hands clenched in his hair as release crashed over your, your cunt clenching around his fingers. He let your undulating body rut against his face, using him to ride out your climax.

He presses a final kiss to the apex of your thighs before crawling up the bed and rolling you on top of him. You watched with hooded eyes as he reached between your bodies to free his cock from his briefs, swiftly sliding them off. Lifting your hips slightly, you let him line himself up at your entrance before sinking down onto him.

A soft sigh escaped your lips at the feeling of his length stretching you out and you couldn’t help but roll your hips to generate some friction. Dean slid his hands up your thighs to rest them on your hips, guiding your movements as he thrust himself up into you.

Resting your hands on his chest, you looked down at him, watching how his stomach clenched with each thrust, how he bit his lip in concentration.

“I’ve missed you,” he grunted, his gaze meeting yours once again. Your pulse quickened, torn between the giddiness of knowing he had been thinking about you and the sadness of knowing you had to end your little arrangement with him.

“I missed you too,” you managed to reply.

You slid a hand down between your bodies to rub tight circles around your clit before he teasingly slapped it away, replacing your fingers with his own.

“Let me take care of my girl,” he demanded, voice low and raspy.

His girl…

The term of endearment grated on your already raw heart, taunting you with the knowledge that he would never actually mean it.

His thrusts quickly became rushed and sloppy, your climax building rapidly as he hit just the right angle. Dean’s free hand slid up the length of your body to rest on your tit, rolling the nipple between his fingertips harshly.

“Oh fuck, Dean” you gasped, raking your nails down his chest as you found your release. He continued to fuck himself up into you before pulling out, spilling his cum over your lower stomach.

You rolled off of his body to lay on your back while he jumped up to grab a hand towel. You stared up at the ceiling of your bedroom as you listened to him turn the bathroom sink on and wet the towel. Putting on your best poker face, you smiled softly up at him as he cleaned you up and slid his briefs back on. He tossed the used towel into your clothes hamper and your heart clenched at his easy familiarity with your room.

He flopped onto your bed next to you, turning on his side and propping his head up on his hand. Giving yourself a moment to collect yourself, you snatched your shirt and underwear from your floor and slid them on before turning to face Dean.

He tenderly brushed a strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear, his devastating green eyes searching your face.

This was it.

“Dean?” you started, heart beginning to hammer in your chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Have you… given any thought to what I said?”

Your stomach dropped as the smile fled his face. He grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips for a quick peck.

“Sweetheart, we’ve already talked about this…”

“I know but I just thought that since I finished my degree I don’t have anything keeping me here and I could-“

“No. You can’t,” he cut you off, sitting up on the edge of the bed and running a hand through his hair.

“Please just listen-“

“I said no!”

You fell silent, tears stinging the back of your eyes as you waited for him to continue. He didn’t say anything; he only gathered up his things, sliding his jeans back on and throwing his shirt over his head.

“I think it would be better for both of us if we stopped… whatever this is.”

There. You had said it. It was out in the open.

He paused the buckling of his belt and looked up at you, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

“Is that what you want?” he asked quietly, the silence of your bedroom deafening.

“You know what I want. But you’re not willing to try, I think it would be better if we went back to just friends,” you admitted.

“How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed?”

There was a heavy pause.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be friends, either.”

The hurt look that flashed across his face almost made you take it back on the spot.

Almost.

“Right…” he trailed off, making his way to your window and sliding it open.

“Dean, wait.”

He paused, watching with red rimmed as you caught up to him. You reached a hesitant hand up to cup his face and he let you, leaning into your touch. You pulled him down for a final kiss, pouring all of the emotion you could into it before letting in go.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a single tear betraying you as it glided down your cheek. He lifted himself up and over the windowsill before looking back at you.

“Me too.”

~~~

Your heart lurched as your phone buzzed with a text message.

Dinner tonight? On me.

You couldn’t help the disappointment that flooded your chest when you realized it was from your sister and not him. You tossed your phone back onto your desk, returning to your book that wasn’t doing a very good job of taking your mind off of your predicament.

It had been a month since you had last seen Dean and you couldn’t stop replaying that night in your head over and over again. The hurt look in his eyes had kept you up a night, tears staining your cheeks and sheets.

After a few minutes of pretending to read, you sighed and snatched your phone back up, clicking on your sister’s message.

Sounds good to me. You choose the time and place.

You decided it would be good to get out of the house and actually talk to someone rather than stay at home and wallow for another night.

The diner on 11th, 6:30.

That gave you about an hour to make yourself look semi-presentable.

After a quick shower and blow drying your hair, you sat in front of your vanity mirror, debating whether or not it would be worth it to throw some mascara on. Deciding you might as well, you swipe on a few layers before grabbing your purse and heading out the door and beginning your walk. The diner was only a couple blocks away and you could use the fresh air. You lived in a quiet part of town, occupied mostly by families and retirees, making it a relatively safe area.

There were typically more people out and about at this hour but the streets were uncharacteristically empty tonight. Dean had mentioned the case he and his brother were working on that had brought them into town but the details became overshadowed in your mind by that last night together.

You shook your head, banishing all thoughts of Dean. Tonight was supposed to be an escape from him. You turned your thoughts toward what you would order from the diner, settling on the short stack of buttermilk pancakes with strawberries that made up your usual order when you were in high school; you wanted the comfort and familiarity that came with it.

You were halfway to your destination when you became aware of heavy footsteps behind you, a sense of unease creeping its way up your spine.

Relax, it’s fine, you told yourself. You made a few unnecessary turns to get whoever was behind you off your trail but the footsteps persisted nonetheless. You nervously palmed your house keys, holding them between your fingers like claws before ducking into an alleyway, hoping to let your stalker pass.

As you turned to face the sidewalk again, you caught off guard by a man blocking you in.

“Can I help you?” you asked aggressively, backing away from the stranger. He advanced toward, an unsettling smile breaking out across his face as his eyes turned completely black.

Oh fuck, you thought just before his hand shot out to grab you by the neck. You dug your nails into the flesh of his exposed hand in an attempt to make him let go but his grip was iron. He cocked is other fist and threw a punch square at your jaw. Pain burst across your cheeks as he landed blow after blow until you went limp, your vision going black.

~~~

You weren’t sure how long you had been out when you finally came to, your back to a wooden beam with your hands restrained behind you. You squinted into the dark and an attempt to pinpoint anything that would clue you in as to where you were. It looked like you were being held in a basement with nothing but a wooden staircase tucked in the corner that led to who knew where.

Your face and jaw ached from the demon’s punches and you could taste blood from your split bottom lip, but you were otherwise unharmed. You pulled against your restraints to see if there was any chance at freeing yourself but they held firm.

Letting your head fall back against the wood behind you, you stared up at the ceiling and allowed the tears to fall.

This is utter bullshit, you thought bitterly.

First you destroy your… situation with Dean then you get abducted by demons when you finally decide to do something other than wallow at home.

You heard descending footsteps and snapped your gaze over to the stairs, squinting in the darkness.

Two male figures materialized from the floor above, making their way down the steps. One of them flicked the lights on as he reached the bottom and you blinked profusely, eyes watering from the sudden bright light.

“This is your plan?” one of them snapped as he made his way over to your restrained position on the concrete floor. The demon squatted down next to you, eyeing you closely. You assumed this one to be the leader.

“Trust me, he’ll show up,” the other answered, a smug expression on his face.

Who will show up? you thought silently.

His boss reached out his hand and ran a finger down your cheek, adding to your fearful irritation. You used your limited range of motion to jerk away from his touch and spat at him.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, the venom in your voice an attempt to cover your fear.

The demon backhanded you sharply across the face, involuntary tears springing to your eyes at the painful sting. He stood and supplied you with a swift kick to the ribs for good measure before brushing his hands on his host’s jeans. You held In a grunt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of you.

“Roughen her up a little,” he commanded his subordinate as he disappeared back up the stairs.

Your heart sunk as the remaining demon circled you, a nasty smirk breaking across his lips. Tears streamed freely down your face as the kicks and punches rained down on your already exhausted body.

You couldn’t tell how much time had passed as you waded in and out of consciousness. You assumed a few hours had gone by at minimum, with a different demon coming down every once in a while to take their turn beating you senseless.

You were in the verge of blacking out again when you heard commotion from the floor above. Several different voices were shouting but you couldn’t make out anything specific. A gunshot went off and you flinched, terror beginning to creep up your throat at the thought of the conflict making its way into your proximity.

The door leading to the basement opened, flooding the staircase with light. You stayed deathly silent in an attempt to avoid enticing any demons to enter again.

“Dean!” a familiar voice yelled, followed by a thud a quiet grunt. Another gunshot followed by footsteps retreating from the door.

Dean?

Your heart began to race with hope at the prospect of a rescue.

“DEAN!” you screamed, pouring the remainder of your energy into making yourself as loud as possible. The footsteps paused, followed by a deafening silence.

“DEAN, I’M DOWN HERE,” you continued, “DEAN, PLEASE!”

Your screams were cut off by your own sobs wracking your chest, your head falling back as you let yourself fall apart completely. You only cried harder at the sight of Dean sprinting down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

His face fell when he saw you, tears quickly brimming his eyes as he took in the sight of your bruised and broken body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he slid to his knees in front of you and snatched a pocketknife from his jeans. He made quick work of your restraints, slashing through the ropes before picking you up bridal style. You wrapped your sore arms around his neck and buried your face in his chest, sobbing heavily into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair as he carried you up the stairs. You lifted your head slightly to catch a glimpse of the aftermath.

“Don’t look, sweetheart, eyes on me,” Dean instructed, looking down into your eyes.

You continued staring up at him as he kicked the rickety front door open and carried you to the parked Impala. He finagled the passenger door open with one hand and set you down in the car’s front seat. His hands cupped your face as he looked you over, mentally documenting all of your visible injuries.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” you choked out, gripping his wrists as if you were afraid to let go of him. He pulled you into a gentle hug and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest as it pressed against yours.

“I’m here,” he whispered before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You stayed like that for a few minutes until the crunch of gravel underfoot announced Sam’s arrival.

“They’re all taken care of. Is she..?” the younger Winchester trailed off.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted quietly. He pulled away, taking your face in hands once again.

“We have to get out of here. We have a motel room 20 minutes away. I’ll take care of you,” he stated softly.

“I was supposed to get dinner with my sister, she’ll”

“I’ll take care of it,” he interjected, giving you a reassuring look. You nodded and let him close the car door as Sam squeezed into the backseat. Dean quickly took his place in the driver’s seat and started the car, speeding away from the rundown house.

You must have fallen asleep immediately because you couldn’t remember any of the drive or how you ended up in a motel bed. Your body ached all over as you slowly propped yourself up on your elbows.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean’s familiar voice said from a bedside chair. You blinked wearily as he stood and moved to sit next to you on the mattress. You looked around the otherwise empty motel room.

“Where’s Sam?” you asked, voice hoarse and rough. You looked down and realized you were wearing one of Dean’s t shirts.

“Out getting us lunch. You should lay back down,” he answered and you nodded, doing as he said. He leaned down next to you, propping himself up on his elbow and brushing your hair out of your face with his free hand.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, his eyes red with unshed tears.

“It’s not your fault,” you croaked, taking his hand in yours.

“Yes it is. I wasn’t there to protect you. If I would’ve just-“ he choked up, squeezing your hand as the tears finally fell.

“Just what?”

“I love you. And I want you with me. All the time. Everywhere,” he finally admitted. Your chest swelled with emotion and you pulled him down on top of you, hugging him as tightly as your battered body would allow.

“Finally,” you sighed, making him chuckle into your shoulder. He pulled back slightly and kissed you tenderly, his hand cupping the back of your head. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

The two of you broke apart as the motel room door opened to reveal an exhausted-looking Sam, his arms full of to-go bags.

“Ah, looks like you guys worked it out,” he stated awkwardly.

“Something like that,” you replied, smiling up at your lover.

126 notes · View notes

capuccinodoll · 10 hours ago

Text

The boyfriend act, part 17: "The one with the vampire girl" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Frankie opens up to you. And suddenly, it hits you. WC: 12.3k

A/N: Writing this chapter took me ages. Between medical appointments and the end of the semester, I was so eager to get to this part of the story. I hope you enjoy it <3 Tag list CLOSED, it ain't working anymore, too much of youu<<3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Friday, November 1st, 2019

The door burst open.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Mai was already irritated. She crossed the room in long striddes and landed a firm punch to Frankie’s stomach, not hard enough to hurt that much. “Get up. You’re not spending the night here sulking like a loser.”

Frankie let out a groan, his hand drifting lazily to the spot she'd hit. He was sprawled across the bed, one sock half-off, one eye barely open.

“This doesn’t even make sense,” he muttered as he stretched. “Halloween ended like, like yesterday.”

Mai didn’t bother replying to that. She was already at the dresser, snatching the bag from where it sat on top.

“Yeah, I don’t care. Whatever reason you’ve got in that head of yours, save it. Get dressed,” she said, tossing the bag toward him. “Or I swear I’ll drag you out by your hair, I’m not joking.”

Frankie sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“I’m not going,” he was pushing himself up off the mattress. “I’m grabbing drinks with dad.”

She turned. “You mean dad and his friends?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d really rather go hang out with a bunch of sixty-year-old than come out with me tonight?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“Jesus, dude. You’re so tragic sometimes.” She climbed onto the bed and sat with her legs crossed. “I’ve got free drinks lined up all night. We could actually have fun. Remember fun?”

“No.”

She let her head fall back with a dramatic groan.

“I said no,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie walked out of the room with the costume on.

Gabriel appeared in the hallway, clicking his tongue. He was holding a small handful of almonds, pinching them one by one from his palm.

Since Helena had started seeing a nutritionist, Gabriel had decided to "support" her, which mostly meant copying her eating habits. Frankie wasn’t sure his father had fully grasped the concept of moderation; every day, he watched him consume what looked like an entire bag of almonds, convinced he was doing something virtuous simply because they were technically healthy.

He laughed now, head tipping back a little. “You look like me thirty years ago.”

“Blame your daughter.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What? You trying to say looking like me at your age is a bad thing?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure,” he said, popping another almond into his mouth. “Doesn’t mean I believe ya.”

Frankie sighed and moved past him, adjusting the jacket on his shoulders as he walked. He was nearly at the door when his dad’s voice stopped him again:

“Hey.”

He turned.

Gabriel wasn’t smiling this time. “Try to enjoy yourself, yeah? A bit of fun might actually do you some good.”

Frankie nodded. “I know.”

“And watch out for your sister.”

“I will,” he said, tilting his head in a small, quiet gesture of reassurance. “Take care at the bar, alright? Don’t overdo it.”

Gabriel chuckled. “You too, Morales. God knows where you got that party streak from.”

Frankie smiled as he turned back toward the stairs, but didn’t answer.

Downstairs, Mai was waiting for him.

When she saw him, her mouth opened, ready to say something overly encouraging.

“Shut up,” Frankie said, before his sister could say anything, heading straight for the door.

Two hours in, and Frankie had already downed a couple of drinks. Not enough to feel good, not really, but... just enough.

He stood with one shoulder pressed against the bar, arms crossed, watching the crowd move like a single overstimulated organism. Everyone sweating and smiling too wide. Everyone trying a little too hard.

He hated it.

Mai had vanished ten minutes ago, promising she'd be right back, her voice already trailing off as she disappeared into the crush of bodies in search of her friend Pam. He hadn’t seen her since.

Now the air was dense, humid with other people’s breath and perfume, it was disgusting. Thanks to the music pounding from the walls, conversation was impossible and thinking inconvenient.

He needed a cigarette. Desperately.

Frankie tipped his head back and exhaled through his nose, eyes skimming the ceiling as if it might offer him oxygen or answers.

What kind of overpriced, allegedly exclusive nightclub didn’t have a smoking area? Or at the very least, some kind of outdoor patio? They were six floors up, sealed in by glass and neon, and it felt like being trapped inside a very loud snow globe. With strobe lights. And smoking inside wasn't an option, not for him, at least.

He didn’t even think about telling anyone where he was going.

He wandered away from the bar, weaving through a few clusters of people without making eye contact, and headed vaguely in the direction of the restrooms. It was quieter there, only marginally, but enough to make him feel like he could breathe again.

That’s when he saw the staircase. Tucked behind a half-open maintenance door, mostly unnoticed.

He climbed the narrow, uncomfortable steps and there, on the door, there was a sign posted at eye level. Something official-sounding about restricted access or authorized personnel only, whatever, he didn’t read the whole thing. His attention was already on the lack of a handle on the outside. He knew what that meant. He also knew he didn’t care.

He pulled the door open with both hands, glanced around quickly, and spotted a greasy rag crumpled on the floor nearby. It looked like it had been there for weeks.

So he bent down, picked it up, and wedged it between the frame and the edge of the door, testing it once to make sure it would hold. Then, with one final glance over his shoulder, Frankie stepped outside.

It turned out to be a terrace. Just that. Nothing fancy. No lights, no chairs or benches, not even a trash can. Just concrete under his feet and open sky above him, vast and black and indifferent.

He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding tension in his chest for the last hour.

Frankie figured he’d stay out there until Mai came looking for him, or until she got tired of the party and decided they could leave. Whichever came first.

So he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, balanced it between his lips, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up around his face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cold edge of the terrace railing.

Below him, Austin sprawled in every direction. Glittering streetlights. Red brake lights inching down the avenues. A city that never quite shuts the fuck up.

And without meaning to, without even wanting to, his mind circled back to Nico.

Nico. A year and three months, almost to the day. And still, Frankie thought about him daily. Sometimes it was brief; a flash of his voice, a dumb joke they used to share. Other times, like now, it hit deeper, caught him right beneath the ribs. 'Cause something inside him still hadn’t accepted the finality of it.

The thing about losing a friend like that—suddenly, permanently—was that it never felt entirely real. It was sharp. Blunt. Unreasonable. One day Nico had been there, and the next, he wasn’t. Just gone. No warning. No goodbye that felt like a goodbye.

The last night they’d seen each other, Frankie remembered it perfectly.

It had been their night off. They’d gone to the bar they always ended up at when they were tired but could afford to waste a little time.

Nico was happy that night. He’d waited until they were halfway through their drinks before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the ring. Small, gold, classic. Nestled in a navy velvet box.

Gemma. That was her name. He was going to propose as soon as he got back to their city. He had it all mapped out, all of it.

They wanted a family, a home. But not just any home. A peaceful one. Something quiet and soft and normal.

Nico had never had that kind of life. He’d grown up with too much noise, the wrong kind of silence, and an ever-present sense of walking on eggshells. A lonely childhood followed by a teenage wasteland of rage and locked doors. He never talked about it unless he was drunk or tired enough to forget to be guarded. But Frankie knew. He always knew.

Nico told Frankie bits and pieces over the years, never all at once. A mother who screamed until her throat gave out. A father who disappeared for days and came back angry, high, or both. Doors slammed in anger. Food locked in cabinets. That constant feeling of being too much and never enough.

He didn’t want to replicate any of it. He was careful not to, in fact. He wanted a safe house. Children who weren’t afraid to come downstairs in the morning. A partner who never had to walk on eggshells just to make it through the week.

That night they talked about all of it. The future: What do you want for your future?

Frankie had told him the truth. That what he wanted was a peaceful life. Nothing extravagant, just peace. Happiness, if the universe was generous. He wanted a family. To fall in love, maybe. With someone kind. Someone who didn’t make everything feel like a battle. He remembered saying it out loud and immediately wanting to take it back. It had sounded too earnest, too fragile.

“God, that’s corny,” he’d said, wincing into his drink.

But Nico only smiled.

“Nah, it’s not corny,” he said. “But be careful. You fall too easily.”

They had one more beer after that, maybe two. Then they’d stood up, a little unsteady, promising to text in the morning, maybe grab coffee before Nico’s flight. It was nothing dramatic. No final words that hinted at their finality. Just a night between friends, and the assumption of more time.

Nico died the next morning.

A bike ride, a sharp curve, a truck going too fast. It didn’t seem real at first. Frankie remembered getting the call, and the words not making sense in his brain.

And even now, months later, it still felt like the biggest fucking lie life had ever told him.

How could someone like Nico be here one minute, talking about marriage, about peace, about all the things he’d never had but was finally ready to build and then just… gone?

What kind of joke was that?

He kept asking the same questions. How? How? How?

Wasn’t it unfair? Wasn’t it cruel? Wasn’t it complete and utter bullshit that someone like Nico didn’t even get the chance to try?

If there was a God, some higher being keeping tabs from above, then what the hell was He doing? Watching? Testing? Letting good people get crushed under the weight of completely avoidable tragedy?

And then there was his own life. The work Frankie did. The structure he was part of. Always carrying grief around like equipment. Failed missions. Names that didn’t make it onto safe lists. People dying. Families never getting the phone call they’d been praying for.

What was any of it for?

Every time he closed his eyes, it was Nico’s face he saw. Not smiling, just gone. The feeling of too much time and not enough breath. The senselessness of all of it.

He lit his third cigarette, the tip flaring red as he pulled in smoke and let it burn his lungs.

Below, the city carried on. Lights stretching out in messy patterns, people dancing to music that pulsed from the floor beneath him.

And all he could think was: none of this makes sense.

Not the dancing, not the laughter, not the overpriced drinks, not even the cigarette between his finger or the weight of grief or the fact that the person who’d understood him best would never call him again.

None of it made sense. Not then. Not now.

Just pure SHIT.

And then there was the costume. He looked ridiculous. Like someone else entirely. Maybe that was the point, but it didn’t make it feel any less stupid.

He raised the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled—and behind him, something slammed. The door.

Frankie choked.

He spun around, coughing, eyes watering. For a second, he thought maybe the wind had pulled it shut or that the rag had slipped, betrayed him. But no, the door hadn’t moved on its own.

There was someone standing in front of it.

A woman.

“Jesus,” he said, catching his breath. “What the hell—?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, stumbling back a step before she turned to face him fully.

“Oh my God! You almost scared me to death,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

Frankie stared at her, annoyed but too tired to express it properly. He reached up to rub a hand over his face, forgetting about the mask. The fabric scraped against his skin and the gesture landed half-heartedly.

He exhaled. “You closed the door.”

She turned, registering it for the first time. The door was definitely shut. No handle on this side. No way back in.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Frankie took her in now. She was wearing a little black dress, tight, cut just below her collarbones. A pair of delicate black horns sat perched on a headband in her hair. White transluscent thigh-high stockings. Tall, black lace-up boots. Small bat wings, stitched and glittering, stuck out from her shoulder blades.

He raised an eyebrow. “Vampire?”

She turned back to him, like she’d forgotten he was there. For a second, her face was blank. Then she caught on and nodded once, lips quirking slightly.

“Zorro?”

Frankie nodded, exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth. “Yeah. You almost gave me a heart attack, by the way. And you just locked us up here.”

Her hand flew to her forehead, the gesture dramatic and a little self-conscious. “Oh, shit. Shit. I’ll call my friends, don’t worry.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t actually care.

So he turned back to the railing, settling into the same position he’d been in before she’d arrived. One foot crossed over the other. Cigarette balanced between his fingers.

There wasn’t anything urgent to return to anyway. Inside was just noise. He could live without it.

So he smoked. And did exactly what he’d been doing before the interruption; staring out at the city and letting his mind drift wherever it wanted. Thinking about his own life. Thinking about other people’s lives too, sometimes, because that was easier.

He felt so empty. Not in a dramatic, falling-into-a-void kind of way. Just blank. He assumed that was normal. Or at least, normal enough not to mention.

After a few minutes, she appeared beside him again. Frankie didn’t notice her at first. He was still leaning on the railing.

“They're not answering,” she said, glancing sideways at him. Her voice was quieter now. Less sure. “What are we supposed to do?”

Frankie turned his head and met her eyes. He hadn’t expected to find them so close.

Something in his chest hit pause.

She gave him a nervous smile. “I’m sorry. Do you think you could call someone?”

It took him a second longer than it should have to respond. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He reached for his phone, thumbed through his contacts. First Mai. Then Pam. He held the phone to his ear, listening to the tone of voicemail.

He tried again. Same thing.

And again.

He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the phone until the fourth time.

There wasn’t a fifth.

With a long sigh, Frankie sank to the ground, lowering himself until his back met the railing.

She was already sitting next to him, legs stretched out in front of her, her phone resting on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, turning her head slightly. “I was just looking for one of my friends.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, not quite annoyed. “And you thought she’d be up here?”

“You don’t know her.”

Frankie studied her profile for a moment, the way her hair brushed the top of her shoulder, the way she bit her bottom lip, the way her eyelashes brushed her cheeks with every blink. Then he leaned his head back against the railing, eyes drifting toward the sky.

“Well, it’s fine. I was feeling like shit anyway, so honestly, you have great timing.”

She looked at him. “What? Why?”

Frankie gave a half-laugh, nothing too revealing.

She laughed too, softly.

“Come on,” she said. “Tell me, what’s Zorro doing on a rooftop, miserable on a Friday night at a party?”

“I don’t know. What does a vampire do when she’s stuck on a rooftop and the threat of sunrise is getting closer?”

She raised both eyebrows, impressed. “I think the answer to both is: I closed the broken door.”

Frankie looked at her and smiled. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

“Well, feel free to continue your misery spiral. I can join you, if you’ll have me.”

His eyes drifted shut.

“Be my guest,” he murmured. Then, after a beat, his gaze flicked toward her. “But let me tell you something. You won’t win.”

She blinked, parting her lips.

“You’re suggesting this is… competitive?”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

A laugh slipped from her. “You honestly think you’re more miserable than me tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

She pushed off the wall, stepping forward, one hand braced casually behind him, fingers splayed across the chipped paint. Her legs crossed at the ankles.

“Want to make it interesting?”

“Define interesting.”

“Wanna bet?”

“On what?” He furrowed his brow. “I don't have anything left to give.”

She tilted her head. “How dramatic. Not even a drink?”

He exhaled softly, something close to a smile threading through his voice.

“A drink I can manage. Actually, I can manage several. Want to know something?” He leaned in a fraction. “I’ve got connections.”

She laughed. “Connections?”

“Swear to God. I’m an honest man.”

“What, you’re like… Halloween party royalty? Nepo baby of the booze table?”

“Technically,” he said, eyes narrowing, “nepo brother.”

“Oh,” she grinned, closing the space between. “A nepo bro.”

She was close now, really close, and he wasn’t entirely sure she’d clocked the distance yet. But he had. His heart, irritatingly, had too.

There was something unnerving about being looked at like that by someone so stunning, so unbothered by proximity. And worse, knowing she could probably hear the slight edge to his breathing.

God, he hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“So,” she said suddenly. “What’s going on with you?”

Frankie exhaled. His eyes drifted upward, as if the answer might be there.

“Well,” he said eventually, glancing back at her, “first of all, I didn’t even want to come here. I was basically dragged. My actual plan was to grab a drink with my dad tonight.”

He caught her nodding.

“Second,” he continued, “I’ve been drinking a lot, like, enough that I should probably be on the floor by now, but somehow I’m not, which feels… unsettling. Third,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck, “this whole year has been, honestly, a disaster. I quit my job. Moved back in with my parents, which—humiliating. Constantly questioning the entire structure of my existence. But mostly, I miss one of my best friends. And he’s dead. So.”

She opened her mouth, the automatic reflex of sympathy, but he raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

“Don’t. Please don’t say you’re sorry. Let’s not do that. Now, your turn,” he prompted. “Unless you already know I’ve won, in which case you can just buy me a drink and concede defeat. I’ll take whiskey. Or vodka. Honestly, anything with alcohol will work.”

She squinted at him, half-smiling, half-scolding. “How charmingly confident you are.”

He shrugged, almost grinning.

“Well, let’s see,” she began, arms folding tightly across her chest. “First of all, my ex-boyfriend is somewhere down there, in the middle of that crowd. We broke up a week ago because he said he needed to be alone to figure himself out.” She pulled a face. “Except, apparently, he’s figuring himself out by making out with someone else at this very moment. So. There’s that.”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Your big tragedy?”

“Please. That’s just the headline.” Her voice softened as she continued. “I’ve been—God, I’ve been stressed. Not like, ‘busy-week’ stressed. It’s this constant buzzing in my body. Even when I’m asleep, I can’t unclench my jaw. I wake up with these headaches that feel like my skull’s being split in two.”

He watched her carefully now.

“I have to run this family business that my father left me, and I thought I’d feel good about it, but instead I’m terrified I’m doing everything wrong. And I can’t ask my mom for help because she left the city. For good. Just packed up and left a few weeks ago. Like she didn't even care about me. And my dad... I miss him more than I can explain. But he's dead. And I still feel like I’m waiting for him to walk through the door. And the worst part?” she added finally, her gaze locking onto his. “I feel lonely. Like, really lonely. Even in a place like this. Especially in a place like this.”

Frankie watched her, saying nothing. He caught it, that brief flicker behind her eyes, like someone had turned down the brightness for just a second before she recovered. He almost said I’m sorry, but he bit the words back.

Instead, he exhaled softly and said, “I was standing here a moment ago, thinking about jumping off.”

Her expression shifted instantly. “What? Are you serious?”

He nodded once. “Just… wondered what it’d feel like. You know? The fall.”

She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes. “Yeah. Right. I’m not falling for that. You’re not winning this competition.”

Frankie laughed. “I tried.”

“Want to know something really pathetic?”

“Obviously.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, eyes dropping for a second before meeting his again.

“When I was little, my dad used to take me out for strawberry shortcake. It was my favorite thing. Still is, probably.” She shrugged lightly. “We’d go just us, or sometimes the rest of my family would come too. He always got me cake on special occasions. Or if I did something worth celebrating.”

She exhaled, a faint, humorless laugh slipping through. “Last night, I bought myself this tiny shortcake from the grocery store. One of those sad little ones with the plastic lid. Sat in my kitchen, ate the whole thing by myself, and cried like some cliché. Just sat there thinking, God, I’m so pathetic.”

“What was the occasion?”

“There wasn’t one,” she replied, her mouth pulling into a crooked smile as she glanced at him sideways. “I cheated. Bought it for no good reason. I felt awful, and I—” She paused, searching for the words. “I just needed sugar. Something sweet to drown it out.” She laughed quietly, but there was no joy in it. “Didn’t help. It made it worse, actually. The taste reminded me of him.”

Frankie opened his mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t anything useful to say. No polished, comforting sentence that wouldn’t sound cheap.

So instead, he just looked at her, and she looked back. He let himself drown in her eyes and for a moment, it was as if time had stopped completely.

A few seconds passed, Frankie didn't know how many. It felt eternal. And then, she let out a quiet sigh. Her lips curved into a smile, and she turned away, leaning back against the railing beside him until their shoulders brushed.

Without saying anything, she tilted her head gently onto his shoulder. Frankie froze, not in panic, but because her proximity knocked the words straight out of him.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. It could’ve been minutes, or more. An hour, maybe. He didn’t know. It was just the two of them, in silence, her head resting on his shoulder.

Then, her voice came through, soft.

“You have really beautiful eyes,” she murmured.

His face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up his neck before he could stop it. He smiled without meaning to, a small, private thing that stayed tucked into the corner of his mouth.

She tilted her chin up, her eyes meeting his again. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

He let out a breath, deciding against retreat. “Apparently, that’s what happens when a beautiful woman leans against me.”

He saw it. The exact moment her face changed — the flicker in her eyes, the slight, almost embarrassed curve of her mouth, the way her lashes dipped for a second, like she wasn’t entirely prepared for him to say it.

“How charming,” she whispered, but her voice wavered slightly, just enough to give her away.

Frankie felt it too; the spark at the center of his chest, sudden and electric, pulling him toward her like he couldn’t help it.

When he reached out, his hand settling gently along the curve of her cheek, his fingertips tingled like static had built up under his skin.

Her eyes softened, her voice barely above a breath. “Can I see your face?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb brushed lightly beneath her jaw, and for the first time all night, everything else faded; the noise, the crowd under them, even the ache that had been sitting under his ribs for weeks.

Just her. Right there.

“Hey—hey, you two. You can’t be up here!”

The voice cut through the quiet, loud and so, so uninvited.

They both startled, shoulders tensing in unison like they’d been caught doing something criminal. Frankie turned toward the sound and saw a man standing in the doorway, holding it open with one hand. He was dressed head to toe in black, his suit expensive enough to suggest authority, his expression hard and bored and unamused.

“Come on, downstairs,” the man instructed, gesturing with a clipped movement of his wrist.

Frankie was the first to react, pushing himself to his feet and instinctively holding out his hand for her. She slid her fingers into his, and their hands stayed joined as she stood, their fingers brushing, tightening. They both laughed, the sound bubbling up at the ridiculousness of getting scolded like teenagers.

They slipped back inside, moving fast down the narrow stairwell, her shoulder bumping his every other step.

When they reached the lower floor, the music hit them all at once. Heavy, loud, annoyingly pulsing through the walls and floors like the building itself was vibrating.

She turned to him, that same smile curling at her mouth, the one that had been steadily undoing him since the moment they started talking.

He stepped closer without thinking, close enough that the bass rattled in his chest, close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering near her ear.

“Can I get your number?” His voice was rougher now, shaped by nerves, barely carrying over the music. He straightened up slightly, still too close. “Only if you want to. If you think—”

“Oh my God!” Someone interrupted loudly behind them. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where the hell were you?”

Two girls pushed through the crowd toward them. One wore pink bunny ears, the other had a leather cap tilted low over her forehead, some costume Frankie couldn’t quite piece together.

He glanced at the vamp in front of him, her mouth was already half open, like she’d been about to answer before they were interrupted.

“I—” she started.

“We’ve gotta go,” Bunny Ears said urgently, grabbing for her wrist. “Lizzy confronted Alex, and he’s freaking out and wants to talk to you.”

Everything happened quickly. They were pulling her away, her body turning reluctantly, her eyes still on him like the rest of her hadn’t caught up yet.

But before the crowd could swallow her completely, she twisted over her shoulder and called back, voice rushed but clear:

“Berta's Café, tomorrow—no! Monday. Five o’clock!”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the mass of bodies, their hands slipping apart.

Frankie stood there, heart pounding in his throat, realizing as the music crashed around him—he hadn't even asked her name.

Saturday, November 2nd, 2019

“You should just make posters or something,” Will said, barely looking at him. He cracked open a can of Coke. “Zorro looking for vampire girl from Kairos party. Real subtle.”

Frankie clicked his tongue. “That’s desperate.”

Will shot him a sideways glance, lifting the can to his lips. “And what exactly do you think this is? You look desperate already.”

“I’m not doing anything. Monday I’ll go to the café. That’s it.”

Will snorted, kicking his foot lightly against Frankie’s leg. “You say that like you’re calm. Inside you’re losing your mind, aren’t you?”

Frankie didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Will laughed under his breath. “So what was she like?”

“Jesus, man, I already told you. Stop being a dick.”

But the truth was, yeah—he’d already told him. Twice. And replayed it in his own head a hundred more times than that.

That morning, Frankie woke up with a headache that pulsed behind his eyes and this gnawing, unavoidable sense of loss, like he’d misplaced something vital. His body ached from bad sleep, his thoughts worse.

He stayed in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, dissecting the night before with surgical precision. Every word, every glance, every near-miss. He regretted a lot of things—first, not kissing her when he’d wanted to. Second, not asking her name. Third, not offering his.

Stupid. All of it stupid.

But he still had one chance left, the last card to play. Monday. Berta's Café. Five o’clock.

She’d said it, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t forget… would she?

He hated how hopeful he was about a stranger. Hated how much of him had been unraveling ever since.

He probably would’ve stayed in bed all day if Will hadn’t called around noon, insisting they drive to San Marcos to look at a car. There wasn’t really a question in it, Will already decided Frankie was coming.

Frankie knew what was happening. The whole group had been doing this since he moved back to Austin; dragging him out, pulling him along to things he wouldn’t have gone to on his own.

For the first few months, he’d resisted all of it. Locked himself away in his parents’ house, only leaving when it was unavoidable. Grocery runs, doctor appointments, obligations he couldn’t talk his way out of. That was it.

That’s why Will had reacted the way he did when Frankie mentioned the Halloween party. It was disproportionate, like Frankie had announced something miraculous. He’d lit up, started peppering him with questions: Who was she? What did you talk about? Why didn’t you kiss her? Why didn’t you ask her name? Why did you do that? Why didn’t you do this? why? Why? Why?

Frankie answered them all, mostly because he needed to talk about it, needed to say the words out loud to someone who wouldn’t let him sit with it quietly and rot.

And when they got back to Will’s place later that afternoon, they sat outside on the patio. Will kept circling the story while offering Frankie cold cans of Coke and brought out his most creative side, mocking him while reciting ideas for posters.

“Lost: one vampire girl from Kairos party. If found, please return to lovesick idiot in Zorro costume.” He said once. And then: “Missing: vampire girl from Kairos party. Last seen disappearing into a crowd. Answers to nothing, because Frankie didn’t bother to ask her name.”

It was irritating, but also, it wasn’t. Frankie let him push.

When he finally stood to leave, it wasn’t even four yet.

“I’ll see you at Santi’s later, right?” Will asked,and Frankie heard the warning beneath it.

“Obviously, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

And he meant it. Whatever else he’d been avoiding, he wouldn’t miss Santiago’s birthday.

Thursday, October 29th, 2024. Now.

You were sitting beside Frankie on the sofa, knees barely an inch from his. You hadn’t looked away from him once, not since he started talking.

And he had told you everything. Every detail. Every small, awkward, uncomfortable truth.

Frankie couldn’t begin to guess what was happening inside your head but he forced himself not to overthink it, at least not yet. He had to get through the story. He owed you that much.

“I didn’t know what to do when I saw you at Santi’s,” he admitted finally, the last thread of explanation hanging there.

You exhaled then, finally, your eyes dropping to your hands where they rested tangled in your lap. Your breathing was uneven, shallow, your shoulders still locked with tension. He noticed that instantly; the way your whole body language screamed uncertainty. And the worst part? He couldn’t tell if it was directed at him. He couldn’t tell if you were angry.

“It was you,” you said, barely audible. “All this time… it was you.”

Your eyes lifted, meeting his. Frankie froze under the weight of your stare.

“All this time you were right there,” you whispered, “and I didn’t see it.”

Frankie shook his head softly, his throat tightening. The question slipped out before he could second-guess it: “Are you mad at me?”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips. You shook your head once, then again.

“No—I… I’m just…” You broke off, shutting your eyes. “Francisco, this whole time you’ve been Zorro?”

Frankie nodded once.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question hit him like a quiet accusation, more hurt than angry. “Why didn’t you say something the first time you saw me after that night?”

Frankie sighed, dragging his hand across his face.

“That’s the thing, I…” His eyes found yours. “When I saw you that night… at Santi’s… I swear to God, my heart just stopped.” He shook his head, like the memory still disoriented him. “I couldn’t believe it. You were standing there, and it didn’t feel real. I’d literally been talking to Will that day—about the party, about you, about how ridiculous it all felt. And then there you were. And I just—” He paused, running his palm across his mouth, struggling to untangle the words. “I didn’t expect it. You being his sister. You being right there. It completely—I didn’t know what to do, or what to say. It felt like my brain short-circuited.”

You stayed quiet, watching him unravel.

“I thought you might recognize me,” he admitted, a faint, sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but there was no humor in it. “I mean, yeah, I had the mask on at the party, but still… I thought maybe, somehow, you’d just know. But then I saw how you acted that night. You were… distant. Not even friendly, barely looking at me. And I panicked. I thought, Shit, she figured it out. She recognized me. She’s disappointed. I wasn’t what she expected.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “So I jumped to conclusions.”

You stared at him. “You seriously thought…that the way I acted toward you that night was because… you weren’t what I expected?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor for a moment, his posture folding slightly inward.

“What other explanation was there?” His gaze lifted again, searching your face. “You didn’t know me yet. That was supposed to be the first time we met, officially. It didn’t make sense any other way. I figured, you must’ve realized it was me, and you regretted it.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I know, I know that now.”

“I told you, I told you weeks ago why I acted like that. You already know.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, and that’s when I finally understood… you never realized it was me.”

He could still remember that night —five years ago— with frustrating clarity.

Santi’s house had already been full of people by the time he arrived. The usual group. Drinks in hand. Of everyone there, it was only him and Tom who hadn’t met you yet.

And then he saw you.

It was immediate, the way his chest tightened, the way everything slowed down around him. But it wasn’t like before. This time, you were standing right there in front of him, just a few feet away, staring back at him with an expression he couldn’t decode. Your smile looked polite, but fake. Your eyes flicked across his face like you were trying to place him.

And Frankie’s heart sank. His first thought was: She recognized me, and she doesn’t like me. Not at all.

His throat tightened now just thinking about it.

“I was so nervous that night,” he admitted. “I couldn’t handle it, seeing you there. I completely lost my ability to function like a normal person. That’s why I acted the way I did. Weird, awkward, whatever you want to call it.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression unreadable as you edged a little closer.

“I couldn’t look you in the eye,” he continued. “I couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t… be near you, really. I thought, if there’s even the smallest chance you didn’t recognize me, I had to hold onto that. It felt safer.”

“Safer?” you repeated softly. “Why do you say that? I would’ve liked to know it was you.”

Frankie exhaled, a dry, half-laugh escaping as he met your eyes. “Baby, after that first moment when Santi introduced us? It was obvious you didn’t like me. I could feel it.”

“Because you were weird with me!” you argued, amused. “You made it weird.”

And you weren’t wrong.

After that awkward introduction, Frankie had done everything he could to act normal, to seem indifferent. He tried not to stare when no one else was looking. Tried not to react when someone mentioned your name casually. Tried not to let his nerves chew through him every time you were nearby.

But of course, he failed.

Of course he acted weird.

Dinner was the worst part, everyone talking around the table like it wasn’t the most tense situation imaginable for him. And then Santi, completely oblivious, asked you how the Halloween party had gone the night before.

Frankie’s entire body locked up. He stared at his plate, willing himself to stay composed.

You started talking. About the party, about everything. You mentioned Emma. You mentioned Lizzy. Nothing remarkable in what you said, but your voice made his pulse trip all over again.

And when he finally looked up from his plate… Will was staring at him.

Frankie felt the heat rise to his cheeks, so he lifted his glass to his mouth mostly to avoid himself, to focus on something other than the awkward tightness sitting in his chest. He forced his attention toward your cousin Irene, who was sitting beside him, telling a terrible joke. He laughed anyway.

And then Will, perfectly timed as always, turned to you and asked, “So, what did you dress up as?”

But before you could answer, Frankie had jumped in, cutting across the conversation with something else entirely, some clumsy attempt at changing the subject. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said now, just that it had been rushed, probably dumb, and definitely transparent.

Sitting with you now, the memory hit differently.

“I thought you were being rude,” you said. “When you did that, interrupted me, I felt awful. I thought you were trying to make a point. Like, you couldn’t be less interested in what I was saying, or maybe you were bored, or… I don’t know. It just… sucked.”

Frankie shook his head. “No, no—it wasn’t that. Jesus, it’s such a disaster in my memory now.”

He paused, meeting your eyes, his expression uncertain.

“Do you remember what you overheard? From the bathroom? That night?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You mean the thing I’ve been asking you about for weeks? That?”

He laughed, the sound dry, self-conscious. “Yeah. That.”

You crossed your arms, waiting.

“Okay, so… Will was the only one who knew about the Halloween party. I told him everything because we drove to San Marcos that day, and I… I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to say it out loud to someone.”

You nodded.

“He knew all of it,” Frankie continued. “What you looked like, what costume you wore, everything. So at dinner, when you started talking about the party… when you mentioned how your night went… Will clocked it instantly.”

He paused, watching your reaction carefully.

“If you had told him that night you went as a vampire, he would’ve known. Confirmed it right there.”

Your eyes narrowed, the corners of your mouth twitching like you were trying not to smile. “Okay… so?”

“So after dinner, he cornered me immediately. He didn’t even give me a chance to breathe.”

You tilted your head, eyes bright now, waiting for the next part.

And Frankie couldn’t help it, his chest tightened all over again, remembering exactly how badly he’d handled it all.

“You’re basically confirming everything for me right now, Fish,” Will said. “It’s her.”

Frankie shook his head immediately, too too quickly. “Of course not. You’re insane.”

“She was at the same party last night,” Will pointed out, like the evidence spoke for itself. “And now you’re acting weird as hell. I know you. You’re not subtle.”

Frankie shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Will didn’t flinch. “Nothing’s wrong with you around everyone else. But around her? You’re completely—” He paused, narrowing his eyes, the grin creeping onto his face. “You’re being weird. Why? Is it because she’s the vampire girl? You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

“Dude, stop. Stop making shit up. Santi’s sister isn’t the vampire girl.”

Will raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“She’s just… I don’t know. She’s weird,” he blurted finally, immediately regretting it.

Will tilted his head. His expression practically screamed really?

“Weird?” Will repeated, crossing his arms tighter. “What does that even mean?”

“You saw it,” he said, grasping for footing. “When Santi introduced us? She gave me weird vibes. I’m not even sure she likes me.”

“That makes way more sense than her being weird. You probably made her uncomfortable.”

Frankie snorted, his mouth twisting into something like a defensive grin. “Or maybe there’s something you’re not seeing.”

Will shook his head. “Nah. I’ve known her longer than you. She’s nice. She’s funny. Usually.”

Frankie’s heart kicked uncomfortably in his chest, but he kept his expression flat.

“Well,” he muttered, avoiding Will’s eyes, “not to me.”

“You know what I think? You’re full of shit. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool night air. His eyes flicked toward Will but his expression stayed carefully blank.

“She’s not,” he replied simply. “I’d recognize her.”

“What you’re telling me isn’t enough, man. I don’t buy it.”

Frankie shrugged. “Then don’t believe me. I’m not here to convince you.”

“But what’s wrong with her, then? You’re being weird and cagey, and I know you, something’s off. What is it?”

Frankie hesitated, dragging the cigarette to his lips again, stalling for time. His head tilted back, eyes tracing the outlines of tree branches above them as he exhaled.

“I just... I mean I don’t know,” he began. He shook his head. “I can’t explain it to you. There's just something weird about her.”

“That doesn't mean anything. You'll have to give me more than that.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, no. I don't think so.”

Will let out a frustrated noise, shifting his weight. “Talk to her. She’s nice. Kind. Cool. Unlike you right now.” He lifted his beer to his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. “I get it, whatever, you have your weird feelings about people. But she’s Santi’s sister. Just make the effort.”

Guilt tugged at Frankie’s chest. Will probably wasn’t wrong.

So instead, he smiled. That detached, defensive kind of smile he knew annoyed Will more than anything.

“I don't want to be dramatic,” he said, taking another drag on his cigarette, “but I'd rather sacrifice myself in another way.”

Will huffed. “God, you're ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

Will smirked faintly, shaking his head. “I still don’t believe you. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie took another drag, saying nothing.

“When I asked what you’d heard… back then,” Frankie said now, “I wasn’t trying to avoid it. I just… needed to know how much you already knew, so I could explain myself properly.”

He watched you, the glassiness in your eyes making something sharp twist in his chest. His throat tightened, and for a second, it was hard to keep talking.

“All these years,” you said quietly. “All this time, it was you. And it was just—” You paused, your jaw tightening. “It was a misunderstanding. A stupid misunderstanding that… maybe could’ve been avoided?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His hands found your face, warm against your skin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell you because I... I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.”

“Do you know how excited I was to see you? At the café… that Monday?”

Frankie’s stomach dropped. His breath hitched slightly.

“You… you actually went?”

You nodded, looking at him like you couldn’t believe he’d even question it.

“Of course I did. But you didn’t show.”

“No,” he said quickly.“No, No, I did go. I swear I went.” His hand dropped to yours, fingers curling around your wrist. “I went to both.”

Your brow furrowed. “Me too.”

A small silence stretched between you as the realization began to untangle itself.

“What time did you go?” Frankie asked.

“Five o'clock. Like we agreed.”

“Me too. Which one did you go to first?”

You paused, considering. Frankie watched the small movement of your hands brushing against your own skin.

“The one in Central Austin,” you said eventually.

Frankie let out a breath, shoulders sinking. “I went to the one downtown first.”

Your expression softened. A small, exhausted smile curved on your lips.

“We didn’t coordinate, right?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Apparently not.”

You slipped your hands from his, your palms ran over the sides of your neck.

Frankie studied you. Your face, your hands, the visible tension still clinging to your shoulders, trying to read you the way he always tried to. But today, he couldn’t. Not entirely.

“All this time… you knew,” you said. “You let me hate you.”

“I didn’t let you,” he replied, blinking. “It wasn’t some grand plan. I didn’t think it would get that far, but… it did. It just… happened.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At first, I kept my distance because I honestly thought you might recognize me. I kept waiting for it, convinced it was going to click for you at some point. And then…” His mouth twisted, self-deprecating. “Then we started actually not getting along. And I thought, shit, maybe this isn’t what I imagined at all. Maybe you weren’t who I thought you were.”

You smiled softly.

“I started to really dislike you,” Frankie admitted, his voice almost apologetic but laced with amusement. “Which was… weird for me. But you rejected me so, so bad. You made it seem so easy to dislike me. It just became—natural, I guess.”

You tilted your head. “Did you hate me that much?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I didn’t hate you. Hate feels dramatic. I really, really disliked you, sweetheart.” His mouth curved into a grin. “You were unbearable. You’ve got to admit that.”

A laugh escaped from your lips despite yourself, and Frankie smiled instantly.

“Oh, me?” you challenged. “You’re unbelievable. What about you?”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Francisco,” you snapped playfully through gritted teeth, reaching over to pinch his arm, gently. “You were unbearable. I remember it real good. It wasn’t even that long ago, like, what, three months? The memory’s still fresh.”

Frankie laughed. He leaned in, tapping your shoulder with his index finger.

“You threw a dart at me,” he reminded you. “You literally scarred me.”

“That’s fair.”

Frankie’s heart pressed up against his ribs as he watched your face. You could’ve confessed to anything in that moment, and he would’ve forgiven you for all of it.

“I’m sorry,” you said lightly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

You tilted your head, eyes tracing his face. Then your hand lifted, fingers brushing his cheek with hesitant tenderness.

“It’s you,” you whispered. Your eyes were shining in that way that made Frankie’s chest ache. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Disappointed?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m glad it’s you. Because I have this ridiculous, hopeless crush on you. In case you somehow missed that.”

Frankie let out a soft laugh.“You’re going to have to be a lot more obvious than that.”

You rolled your eyes, tapping his shoulder lightly, and before he could answer, your arms were around his neck, your mouth pressed to his, and the world tilted, just for a second.

The kiss was messy, deep. Frankie’s hands settled on your waist as you leaned into him, and for the first time in weeks —maybe longer—he felt weightless. The knot of anxiety in his chest unwound quietly as your lips moved against his, the unspoken things between you burning off into nothing.

It was simple. You knew now. Everything was laid out, and you were still here.

When you finally pulled back, your breath uneven, your eyes scanned his.

“Are you staying the night, Zorro?”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. “I'd want to, baby, but I’ve got my new roomate at home.”

“Oh… right,” you nodded, considering. “What if you bring him?”

His hand drifted along your back. “You sure?”

Instead of answering directly, your lips found the side of his neck. “Yes.”

He smiled, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

“What about Darcy?”

“Mr. Darcy gets along with other cats.”

Frankie didn’t need more than that.

The truth was circling in your mind over and over again as you lay flat on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, barely blinking.

It had been him.

All along, it had been him.

And somehow, it clicked into place now. That strange sensation you'd had around him, the way he always seemed to be nearby, like an annoying shadow that knew more than you did. And he did.

You felt the disbelief settle in your chest like static. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... strange.

You’d thought about that night more times than you’d admit. The party. Zorro. The weightless blur of it all. The way you’d felt when you locked eyes with him, something flickering inside you that you hadn’t understood then, and maybe still didn’t now. But Frankie had those same eyes. They had always been his. How could you not have seen it?

The answer was easy and humiliating: you’d been too consumed by your own resentment to really look. Anger had narrowed your vision.

Now Santi’s birthday replayed in your mind: Frankie hadn’t been cold, he’d been anxious. And that conversation with Will—God, if you’d just stayed a few seconds longer. If you’d paused before walking away. You might have known then.

That Monday, you’d gone to the café like you said you would. Expectant. Maybe even a little too hopeful.

But he wasn’t there. Or at least no one who looked like the version of him you were imagining. He would’ve recognized you, you were sure of that. He’d seen your face.

So you tried the other one.

Nothing. No trace of him.

And you felt a little foolish. He hadn’t shown up. Of course not.

If only you’d known you'd already seen him two days earlier, standing in your brother’s living room, laughing too tightly, his shoulders tense.

You told yourself to stop thinking about it, to let it go. But you didn’t. Not fully. Not deep down.

Because there was something inside you, swelling, shifting, growing. A current of excitement that buzzed just under your skin, tangled with shock and with something else entirely. Something you couldn't name yet. Because giving it a name would make it real. And real was scary.

But still, it sat on the tip of your tongue.

Frankie showed up about twenty minutes later, hair damp, wearing clean clothes and carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. In his other hand, he held a medium-sized pet carrier that shifted slightly with movement inside.

It was already late. The apartment was quiet, dipped in a soft stillness that only came after midnight. You were tired but your smile didn’t carry any of it when you opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

Upstairs, he set the carrier down and unlatched the door. The tiny kitten crept out, inch by inch, his paws tentative against the hardwood floor. He blinked up at the unfamiliar room, wide-eyed and twitchy, like every sound was urgent.

“Come on, buddy,” Frankie said, kneeling beside the crate and tapping two fingers lightly on the floor.

Mr. Darcy had been sitting a cautious distance away, his fur puffed out with theatrical indignation. The hiss came out sharp and instinctive. But the little one didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looked more intrigued. He blinked once and padded toward the older cat, wobbling slightly as he walked.

You crouched next to Frankie, knees bent, arms resting loosely on your thighs.

“He needs a name,” you said, watching as the kitten inched closer to Mr. Darcy, whose tail flicked like a metronome behind him. “He can’t just be the kitten. He’s earned a real name.”

Frankie chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to think of one.”

You both stayed like that, watching them circle each other. Darcy sniffed once, eyes narrowed. The kitten copied him, clumsy andcurious. There was a cautious sort of respect between them.

Then, just like that, it shifted. The kitten darted across the rug, then turned back and pounced on nothing in particular, tail flicking in excitement. Something in Darcy's posture relaxed, though he wouldn’t admit it.

Frankie got up and walked into the kitchen to set down a small bowl of food. You remained where you were, eyes still on the cats.

When he came back, you tilted your head slightly and said, “What about Bingley?”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Bingley?”

“He’s Mr. Darcy’s close friend in Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Bingley. It fits, doesn’t it?”

He repeated the name under his breath, trying it out. “Bingley. Bing. Mr. Bingley.”

“Bing like Chandler,” you added. “Bingley like Mr. Bingley.”

He grinned, looking over at the kitten, who was now sniffing the base of the coffee table.

“I kind of love it. Sounds distinguished. And look at him—look, those spots. It’s like he’s wearing a little dress shirt. He's really formal.”

Right on cue, Mr. Darcy extended a paw and gave the kitten a light smack on the back. Not hard, more like an announcement of dominance.

“Exactly,” you said. “A shirt. A formal little gentleman.”

Mr. Darcy leapt onto the coffee table, casting a glance down at the newcomer below. He looked vaguely pleased with himself, like he’d reclaimed his throne.

You watched him carefully. For a second, it looked like he might knock something over; the notebook you’d left there, maybe a pen. He hovered beside it, his paw lifted just slightly. But then he changed his mind, curled into himself, and lay down instead.

From his vantage point, he kept his gaze locked on Bingley, who wandered the room in tiny zigzags, absorbing every smell.

When you finally made your way to bed, Darcy and Bingley remained curled up on the couch. The kitten had parked himself a few inches from Darcy, close enough to signal friendly intentions, but still cautious, unsure if the proximity would be tolerated.

Darcy didn’t seem to care. His eyes had already drifted shut, body slack with sleep, unbothered by the new presence at his feet.

In the bedroom, you slipped beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against your skin, the pillow already shaped to your head. You turned onto your side and watched as Frankie moved around the room.

He peeled off his t-shirt, then his jeans. He draped them over the back of the chair in the corner; his version of neat.

“Don’t look at me, I’m shy,” he said over his shoulder, and you could hear the teasing in his voice, the smile.

You rolled your eyes without replying, stretching your arms above your head as a yawn pulled at your mouth.

“Okay, fine. Good night,” you mumbled, already halfway turned away from him.

You flicked off the lamp on your nightstand, and the room dipped into a softer darkness, quiet except for the shifting of blankets and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. You exhaled slowly through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.

You felt the mattress dip behind you.

And then, he was there. His body pressed against your back, warm, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your T-shirt. His fingers moved across your ribs.

“I’m not that shy,” he murmured just behind your ear, and you could feel it more than hear it.

You smiled, one hand reaching behind you, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck. He dipped his head to kiss you, his mouth finding yours without hesitation, while his other hand roamed higher.

His palm brushed over your stomach, then your chest. His fingers found your nipple, thumb and forefinger moving against it in a way that made your breath catch and something unspool inside you.

A sound escaped your lips, a quiet moan. You pulled back just enough to breathe, tilting your hips toward him. You could feel him against you, already half-hard, his breath hot against your skin.

He wasn’t panting, not exactly, but there was a rhythm to it, something restrained, like he was holding himself back from giving in too fast.

His hand moved downward, tracing a path over the curve of your ribs, then your stomach. His fingers made small patterns there.Then, without pausing too long, he slid his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

His touch met you exactly where you were aching for it, and the contact made your breath catch in your throat, your body instinctively curling toward him. You moaned softly, your hips pressing back against him, searching.

He wrapped his other arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, anchoring you to his chest. One hand still between your legs, the other finding its way back to your breast. Your whole body felt overheated and starved.

Your hips started moving, just barely; grinding gently against his hand, against his body behind you. Your breath grew ragged and you felt the tension building.

And then, all at once, he stopped.

“Turn on the light,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You blinked, dazed, and reached toward the lamp on the nightstand. The warm, amber light filled the room. And when you turned back, Frankie was already moving, pulling your shirt higher, then off, exposing your bare chest to the air. Your skin prickled instantly, your nipples tightening from the shift, from the way his eyes locked onto you.

The glow from the lamp caught the flush in his face, the light bouncing off his skin, peach and rose and gold. He looked untouchable. You reached for him without thinking, your fingertips brushing down his arm, across his chest. Because you could. Because right then, he looked like he was yours.

You slid back into the center of the bed, his gaze never breaking from yours. He leaned down and began kissing your neck, his mouth tracing the outline of your collarbone, then lower, across your chest, until his lips found your breast. He sucked gently at first, then bit just enough.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, fingers curling around the fabric of your panties. You raised your hips for him without needing to be asked. He dragged them down your legs, his mouth still on your skin, still moving, devouring, worshipping, taking his time.

You looked down at him as he began to kiss his way lower. And something inside you broke open. Your stomach flipped, your chest burned, your skin came alive under his mouth.

You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a trembling sigh, like you were letting go of everything you’d been trying to hold in.

Just drop it.

Frankie moved between your legs, his hands warm against the inside of your thighs as he eased them open. His mouth followed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin, first near your knees, then higher.

You reached for him, fingers threading through his hair. And your stomach tensed with anticipation. It was hard to think clearly. You watched him, watched the way he looked at you.

He kissed you, right there, with a tenderness that made you gasp. One kiss. Then another. Each one dragging something deeper out of you. When his tongue finally moved against you, you flinched from the intensity of it. It wasn’t even pressure, not really. Just sensation. His mouth coaxing you open, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

Everything about you felt raw; your skin, your breath, your thoughts. Even the brush of the sheets along your back felt overstimulating. You rolled your hips instinctively, searching for more of him. His tongue moved with intention now, his lips wet against you, a moan vibrating up from his throat and into you.

Then came the rhythm. Flat, circular strokes on your clit that made your thighs tremble. The build was fast and intense, something white-hot and total. It tore through you before you could hold onto it, a kind of release that caught you off guard.

You came quickly, too damn quickly, your fingers curling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head. For a second, you felt embarrassed by how fast it had happened. But how could you not? Look at him. He was him. And he was there. Between your legs. Like that.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling hard, your skin flushed all over. Frankie looked up at you, smug and pink-cheeked, his mouth shining. There was something devilish in the way he grinned—proud and utterly unfair.

You touched his cheek, brushing your thumb just below his eye as he climbed up your body, lifting his face to meet yours.

“What am I going to do with you, Dante?” you whispered, voice shaky.

He furrowed his brow, smiling lopsidedly. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“At this point? Whatever you want.”

You rolled your eyes. “So you're up for anything, then?”

Frankie gave a soft snort. “Sweetheart, I’m not up for anything—I give myself away.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “So that’s your thing? You just give yourself away too easily?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Yeah, I’m not falling for that.”

You laughed. “Smart man.”

Frankie smiled against your mouth and kissed you again, his hand cradling your jaw. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, your body melting into his.

It should’ve been a given by now, after everything, how much you liked the way he kissed you. But somehow, each time felt new. You found yourself thinking about it again in real time—not as a memory, not as a fact, but as a feeling that struck you fully in the moment: the way his lips moved with yours, the weight of his hand on your waist, the familiar taste of him, the way his tongue brushed yours.

You could’ve stayed there for hours, just kissing. Letting time pass around you like water. But it was late, and the night was quiet. The only sounds in the room were your mingled breaths and the wet, rhythmic hum of his mouth against yours.

Eventually, he moved lower, trailing kisses along your jaw, then down your neck. Your eyes fluttered open, head tilting back to give him more access, a soft sigh slipping from your mouth. You brought your hand to his chest, your fingertips tracing over his skin, following the subtle lines of his torso until they met the waistband of his boxers.

You let your hand rest there for a beat before pushing gently against his chest, just enough for him to understand.

He pulled back slightly.

“Lie back,” you told him.

Frankie obeyed, settling onto his back, arms at his sides.

You shifted onto your knees beside him, your gaze flicking down, drawn, unavoidably, to the shape pressing against his boxers. The sight of it, so obvious and unashamed, sent a rush of heat to your face, your chest, your thighs.

You moved between his legs, and your fingers curled under the waistband and tugged, inch by inch, your eyes locked on his as you pulled them down. His smile widened into something cocky.

He sat up just enough to push his boxers down the rest of the way, discarding them with one swift motion before reclining again.

And when your eyes dropped back to him, your breath caught. Your mouth actually watered, and not in some dramatic metaphor, you felt it.

Frankie was already watching you, that knowing look still etched into his features. Like he could read your thoughts before you even had the chance to say them out loud, or show him.

You kissed the line of his stomach, the subtle ridges of muscle, trailing downward in measured steps. And when you reached his cock, you paused, just for a second. It was hard, warm, flushed, and heavy against his abdomen. Your hand wrapped around him, your fingers barely able to meet. You leaned in and gave him a long, teasing lick from base to tip, tasting salt and skin and heat. Then you closed your mouth over the head, your tongue pressing against the underside as your lips formed a seal.

Frankie exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut. He murmured something under his breath, but the words were blurred and indistinct.

You began to take him in, gradually adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue. Your hand moved at the same time, up and down from the base to where your mouth met it, hungry. At first, you tried to keep yourself in check, to pace it, but your heart was pounding, your breath already uneven, and you could feel the change in him too.

His hands moved instinctively, one brushing through your hair, the other cupping your cheek. His touch wasn’t rushed, but there was tension behind it. He sighed against the ceiling, trembling, and the sound made you want more.

So you took him deeper, inch by inch, until your mouth was full and your throat tightened around him. He groaned, a low, broken sound, and you clenched in response. You moved again, up, then down, your lips tight around the slick heat of him, spit slipping down your chin in thin threads.

The sound was indecent and it filled the room in the absence of anything else. But the image of Frankie beneath you was even filthier. His jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded, his chest rising unevenly. He looked undone. And you loved that you were the one doing that to him.

You kept going, licking and sucking, adjusting your angle, letting him slip in and out of your mouth. Every few moments, you’d pull back slightly, just enough to let him breathe, to keep him from falling apart too soon. But even then, he was close, you could tell by the way his hand tightened in your hair, the way his hips shifted toward you, just a little, like his body couldn’t help it.

When you began to suck harder, his response was immediate. He moaned from deep in his chest, his hand fisting in your hair, commanding, pulling you back with a soft pop, your lips swollen, your hand still stroking him.

Frankie tipped his head back against the pillow and let out a breathless curse.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice hoarse.

You let him go and placed your palms on his sides, fingers spread wide, lifting yourself up and shifting forward, settling on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips. The look on his face, half awe, half hunger, was enough to make your pulse stutter all over again.

His hands flew to your waist like instinct and you placed your palms flat on his chest, shifting your hips back just enough. But before you could reach for him, Frankie was already there, guiding himself with one hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick, the pressure teasing, dragging across your clit, then slipping through your folds again. You inhaled sharply, hips twitching against the sensation.

Then, with barely a sound, he lined himself up.

You leaned back, thighs flexing around him as you began to lower yourself onto him. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch so intense it bordered on unbearable, but you craved it. Needed all of it.

Your moan echoed in the space between you, met by his; low and ragged, almost disbelieving. You stayed still for a beat, seated fully, your body adjusting to the fullness, your fingers curling against his chest. His hands tightened at your hips, like if he let go, he’d lose control entirely.

And then you started to move.

Up, then down. Gradual at first. And Frankie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his lips parting in a breathless sigh, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It lit something in you. You wanted to ruin the calm on his face.

So you moved faster. Harder. The sound of skin on skin filling the room, your hips bouncing against his, the force of your movements creating a desperate rhythm. The headboard tapped against the wall, again and again and again, in time with the pace you set.

“Shit,” Frankie groaned, strained, teeth clenched as he lifted his head to look down at the place your bodies met. His hands clamped tighter around your hips, guiding you, grounding you, lost in the sight of you taking him.

The sound of it all; his moans, your wetness, the sharp breaths and quiet curses, was almost too much. You threw your head back, chasing friction, chasing the building tension as his pelvis ground up against your clit with each thrust.

And then Frankie rose slightly, propping himself on one elbow. His other hand was still gripping you.

“Yes, baby,” he whispered, wrecked and shaking. “Fuck me just like you need it. Don’t stop until you get what you came for.”

Your hands were still on his shoulders, one of them drifting upward, fingers brushing his neck. You squeezed there, just enough for him to feel it. And your mouth found his.

It was close now. You could feel it coiling in your belly, all-consuming. You pulled away from his mouth, lips parted like you were trying to speak but couldn’t find the words in time.

Your heart beat so fast it felt like it might escape your chest. Your entire body vibrated with it. Little sounds left your mouth; half gasps, broken syllables, soft whimpers you couldn’t have controlled even if you’d tried.

“Oh my—Fran—”

Your head tipped back, mouth opening on a soundless cry as your orgasm hit, sharp and blinding, splitting you open from the inside. It was too much, all at once. It left no space for thought, only feeling. You shut your eyes and saw stars behind your lids, fragments of light flickering against darkness.

Your rhythm stuttered as the sensation tore through you, and Frankie caught you with both hands, grabbing your hips hard as he took over. He thrust up into you, hard, the angle deeper, sharper. The slap of your bodies meeting filled the room, louder than your moans, louder than anything else.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gritted through clenched teeth.

His chest was flushed, blooming pink down to his stomach. You were still shaking, the aftershocks of your climax rolling through you in unpredictable waves, and all you could do was hold onto him; eyes glassy, mouth open, whispering yes, yes, yes as he moved inside you, every thrust dragging up and down again and again.

You could tell when he got close. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering. You felt him thicken inside you, the tension rolling through his entire body. Then a sound escaped his throat, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as his release overtook him.

His stomach clenched, his jaw locked. He looked completely wrecked.

You moved again, instinctively, chasing the end of it. Frankie groaned like it hurt in the best way, and his grip on your hips turned punishing, fingers pressing so firmly into your skin you knew you’d see the marks in the morning.

“Shit—baby,” he rasped, ragged and almost too quiet to hear. “Easy… easy.”

You softened your movement, easing your hips down until he dropped his hands to the mattress, spent and trembling.

You stayed like that, straddling him, his body still buried inside yours. He was warm everywhere. His breath came in shallow waves, and his eyes stayed closed for a few seconds longer.

You looked down at him, memorizing the mess of him beneath you: messy hair, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run for miles.

And it hit you so, so clearly.

You loved him.

You loved him so much it terrified you.

But you kept the words where they were; tucked inside your mouth like a secret.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446 @whitewolfstar01

135 notes · View notes

svthui · 1 day ago

Text

Like Real People Do

Pairing: Nanami Kento x f!Reader

Synopsis: He was just your kind, taken coworker — until he wasn’t. Now he’s looking at you differently, and hope is harder to ignore.

Genre: Coworker AU, coworkers to lovers, slow-burn romance, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, modern office setting, angst, fluff.

Content Warnings: MDNI; strong language, themes of longing and emotional healing, soft smut. Please read responsibly.

note: fulfilling my fantasy of nanami as a finance bro but not the cringe type of finance bro

part 2...coming soon

PART ONE

You never meant to fall for him.

It started the way quiet things often do—gradually, then all at once.

The first time you met Nanami Kento, he handed you a pen.

You were new, barely a week into the job, fumbling with paperwork during a Monday morning meeting, and yours had run out of ink. Without a word, he slid his over. Sleek, clean, no chew marks—of course—and warm from his hand. You tried to give it back afterward, but he only nodded and said, “Keep it. I have another.”

That was it. A nothing moment.

Except it wasn’t.

Because the next day, there was a sticky note on your desk—your name written neatly at the top—with a reminder about a deadline you’d forgotten. Then another one later that week about a change in the agenda for Friday’s client call. He always signed them with his initials. Never a full name. Never anything more.

Just: Please remember to update the numbers on slide 4 before the 10 a.m. review. — K.N.

Polite. Efficient. Thoughtful in the way someone is when they don’t want you to trip over the same cracks they’ve already memorized.

And then came everything else.

The way he’d wait until you arrived before ordering his coffee. The way he'd slide into the seat beside yours during department meetings before anyone else had the chance. How he never forgot how you took your tea. How he walked just a little slower when the two of you left work together—even if he had somewhere else to be.

You told yourself it was just how he was. Polite. Reliable. Considerate. The kind of person who doesn’t raise his voice. Who straightens your stapler when you’re not looking. Who always finishes his reports a full day ahead of deadline. A man carved out of quiet routines and impossible restraint.

It would’ve been easier if he were rude. Or cold. Or distant.

But he wasn’t. He was just… Nanami.

And Nanami had a girlfriend.

You’d known from the beginning. He didn’t talk about her much, but he didn’t have to. The others did. “They’ve been together since high school,” someone had said once. “Real solid couple. She’s in publishing, I think.”

You’d smiled and nodded. And after that, you stopped letting yourself imagine anything too dangerous.

You learned to live in the half-spaces. In the warmth of a borrowed pen. In the comfort of his voice when he called your name across the office. In the quiet, flickering maybes that only existed in your head.

You were just his coworker.

And he was just being kind.

Still, every time you found a note with your name on it in that familiar handwriting, your heart betrayed you.

You never asked for more.

But god, you wanted it.

***

Fridays meant lunch with Utahime and Shoko.

It had become tradition—escaping the sterile glare of fluorescent lights and the endless drone of office chatter for the cozy bistro tucked just across the street. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet, with warm bread, clinking cutlery, and cheap wine that tasted better in good company.

You were halfway through telling Utahime about the disaster of an email thread you’d accidentally replied all to when Shoko paused mid-sip of her wine, eyes flicking toward the front window.

“Well, would you look at that,” she murmured, setting her glass down slowly.

You didn’t have to ask what.

Utahime followed her gaze immediately. “Is that—oh. Yep. That’s Nanami.”

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t turn around.

Shoko’s tone stayed casual, but there was something sharper beneath it. “And that must be the girlfriend.”

“She’s pretty,” Utahime noted, squinting through the sunlight. “Tall. Good skin. They kind of look like one of those couples in the frames at home decor stores.”

You forced a small smile and kept your eyes on your fork.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen them together. Just the first time in a while. Nanami was always discreet about his private life—he didn’t talk about her at work, didn’t show her off, didn’t parade her into the building like some people did. You’d only seen them once before, months ago, when she stopped by briefly to drop something off.

Even then, he hadn’t introduced her around. Just thanked her and returned to his desk.

Still. You remembered the way she’d looked at him.

“She’s classy,” Shoko said, lips curling around a cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light inside. “Looks like someone who reads real books.”

“Stop,” you said, barely above a whisper, stabbing your salad.

They both glanced at you—Utahime with a guilty grimace, Shoko with a softened gaze.

“We’re not saying anything bad,” Utahime added quickly. “We’re just... curious.”

Shoko leaned on her elbow, watching you carefully. “You okay?”

You nodded. Lied. “I don’t care.”

You cared.

Of course you did. But you’d gotten good at pretending.

When you finally allowed yourself to look, it was cautious. Just a glimpse. Nanami was seated by the window, his posture as composed as ever, but he looked... softer. Like this version of him was from some other life. One that had nothing to do with you.

His girlfriend laughed at something he said. He didn’t smile, but you’d seen him enough to know that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. His eyes were relaxed. Shoulders unburdened. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he belonged.

Your chest ached.

Then, without warning, she stood up.

The three of you went still.

She gathered her coat, said something—something short—and walked out, leaving Nanami alone at the table. He didn’t get up. Just sat there, staring down at his untouched coffee.

“...Huh,” Utahime murmured.

Shoko tilted her head. “That was abrupt.”

“Did they—?”

“No way. That didn’t look like a fight.”

Utahime raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t not look like one either.”

“Maybe they broke up?” Shoko offered, almost too casually.

You froze.

Then pushed your plate away.

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, standing up and reaching for your bag.

They both blinked.

Utahime reached for your wrist. “Hey—wait. We’re not teasing. We’re just talking.”

You didn’t pull away, but your voice came out more tired than you meant it to. “He’s not mine. He never was. So whatever’s going on—it doesn’t matter.”

But as you turned toward the register, you couldn’t help glancing back.

Nanami was still sitting there.

Still alone.

And for the first time in three years, he looked like someone who wasn’t sure what to do next.

***

The thing about Nanami Kento was—he never changed.

Not in any obvious way.

The Monday after the bistro, he arrived at 8:03 a.m. sharp, just like always. Shirt pressed. Tie knotted cleanly. That same calm, unreadable expression on his face as he stepped into the office with a coffee in one hand and a document folder in the other.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been left sitting alone in that bistro while his girlfriend walked out the door.

You kept waiting for something—anything—to crack. A wrinkle in his routine. A missed coffee. A distant look. Something subtle you could cling to.

But Nanami remained Nanami.

He still gave you sticky notes with neatly written reminders. Still lent you his pen when yours went missing. Still waited until you arrived to choose his seat in meetings, claiming the spot beside you with his usual quiet presence and a nod that always felt too gentle for the room you were in.

Everything was the same.

And that made it worse.

Because maybe it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe she’d just left for a call, or a meeting, or—god, you didn’t even know. Maybe they hadn’t broken up at all.

Why would they?

They’d been together since high school. That was the kind of thing that lasted. A whole life built on familiarity and comfort and shared years. Not like whatever this was—this strange rhythm you’d built with someone who didn’t even know you watched him like he hung the moon.

“Still brooding about him?” Utahime asked, bumping your shoulder as she passed your desk with her lunch in hand.

You didn’t even look up. “Not brooding.”

“Brooding in silence is brooding,” Shoko chimed in, appearing beside her like a cigarette ghost, coffee in one hand, mischief in her voice. “He looked tired this morning. Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Trouble in paradise?”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”

Utahime smirked. “But we do know he hasn’t been seeing her lately. She used to come by sometimes, remember? Dropped off lunch once, picked him up after work…”

“Maybe she’s busy,” you muttered, trying to focus on your spreadsheet even as your vision blurred slightly.

“Or maybe,” Shoko drawled, “you finally have a chance.”

You hated how fast your heart responded.

“No,” you said firmly, pushing away from the screen. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me hope for something that doesn’t exist.”

Utahime’s expression softened. “We’re not trying to make it harder for you. But it’s okay to want it. You’ve liked him for—what, three years?”

“Three years and change,” Shoko said helpfully. “Give or take.”

You sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Even if they did break up… he wouldn’t just turn around and—fall into something else. That’s not him. He’s not like that.”

And he wasn’t.

You knew that better than anyone.

He was careful. Measured. Someone who thought ten steps ahead and never made a move he couldn’t live with.

Even if he was newly single—if—he wouldn’t come looking for something soft and messy and untested. Not with you.

So you buried it again.

Like you always did.

Smiled through the ache and let the quiet between you linger, even as the part of you that still hoped curled in on itself a little tighter.

Because if he’d been hurting, he never showed it.

And if he was healing—he wasn’t doing it with you.

***

You’d been the last to volunteer.

It wasn’t even volunteering, really—just your manager’s hopeful suggestion that you’d be perfect to organize the upcoming team-building retreat, since you “had such a natural sense of structure” and “got along with everyone.” Which was just corporate-speak for no one hates you and you know how to use Excel.

Nanami had been appointed the finance rep. No surprise there. He was team lead, respected, reliable. The kind of person they trusted with numbers and logistics and, apparently, adult camping trips in the woods.

Which was how you found yourself alone with him in the empty conference room at 7:42 p.m., surrounded by folders, printouts, and three empty coffee cups.

Everyone else had trickled out hours ago. Some had real excuses—children to pick up, appointments, actual lives. Others, like Shoko and Utahime, had just exchanged a look before whispering something about “giving you a chance” and disappearing behind conspicuously loud heels.

You hadn’t minded. It gave you something to focus on.

At least until you realized Nanami was still here.

You glanced up from your laptop, surprised to find him still beside you, flipping through a document with one hand and sipping lukewarm coffee with the other. His jacket had long since been draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up.

You blinked at him. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ve got the rest of this handled.”

He looked up slowly. “I know.”

“Really. I can finalize the itinerary and email it tomorrow.”

He tilted his head. “And leave you to carry the entire thing by yourself? I don’t think so.”

You gave a small laugh. “I’ve handled worse.”

Nanami’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should’ve. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes before he looked away.

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home,” he said softly, eyes back on the page. “So it’s fine.”

You stilled.

For a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard him right.

But the weight of his words settled between you like a dropped stone.

He said it so easily, like it wasn’t meant to mean anything. But it did.

You tried to keep your voice even. “So... you’re not—”

“No,” he said, still not looking at you. “We ended things.”

Silence.

Your heart climbed into your throat and stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” you offered quietly, unsure if you meant it for him or for yourself.

He gave a small shake of his head. “It was mutual. Or maybe overdue.”

Something bitter curled in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t elaborate. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed now, gaze trailing toward the ceiling like he was suddenly very far away.

You didn’t know what to say. You’d imagined a thousand ways this could happen—guessed and wondered and hoped—but now that it had, your chest ached with something heavier than joy.

He’d always seemed so... steady. Anchored. Like his whole life was already mapped out, clean and structured and out of reach.

But now...

Now he looked tired.

Not worn out—just undone. In the quietest way.

And maybe that was why, after a moment, he said softly, “You know, I don’t hate this.”

You blinked. “Hate what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely—at the room, the papers, you. “Working like this. With you.”

A pause.

Then, like it cost him nothing at all: “You make things feel less heavy.”

You stared at him.

He wasn’t looking at you when he said it—he almost never did when things mattered—but the words found their way under your skin anyway, warm and terrible and dangerous.

Because for the first time in three years, it wasn’t just you imagining it.

Something had changed.

And neither of you was pretending it hadn’t.

“Do you want to grab dinner?”

You weren’t expecting the question—not from him, not after that conversation, and definitely not with the clock already pushing past eight.

You looked up from your bag, half-packed and ready to head out. Nanami stood beside the conference room table, sleeves still rolled, his expression unreadable but calm, like he hadn’t just said something quietly devastating thirty minutes ago.

“I… shouldn’t you head home?” you asked, gently.

He shook his head. “I told you. No one’s waiting.”

Right. Right.

Still, your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

“I’m not asking to make things awkward,” he added, voice lower now. “I just thought… you might want a proper meal. Something not from the office vending machine.”

He was trying to be kind. You knew that. It was how he always was—with you, with everyone. But now that you knew, really knew, that he was newly single… something about that kindness made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t nothing anymore.

Still, you agreed. Quietly. Softly. And tried not to think too hard about what it meant.

***

You ended up at a quiet soba place tucked behind a side street, dimly lit with private booths and warm, steaming bowls that smelled like salt and comfort. It wasn’t far from the office, but far enough that you didn’t recognize anyone.

Still, as you slipped into the booth across from him, you couldn’t stop glancing toward the door.

Nanami noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he said, not accusing, just observant.

You winced. “No—well. Not uncomfortable. Just…”

His eyes stayed on you, steady.

You finally exhaled. “It’s just—what if someone sees us?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re coworkers.”

“Yes, but,” you said, stirring your tea just to give your hands something to do. “People talk. And the breakup—it’s still recent, right? I don’t want it to seem like I’m—taking advantage. Or like you’re… trying to move on too fast.”

That part you didn’t say aloud, especially not with me.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

There was a calmness to him, yes, but something else, too. A stillness that wasn’t peace. A kind of weariness that looked like someone learning how to be alone again.

But when he added, “And I’m not trying to move on,” your heart twisted.

Because he didn’t sound sad about it.

Just honest.

He let the silence stretch before continuing, voice softer now, “You know, I haven’t had dinner with someone outside of work in a long time.”

You offered a weak smile. “So this is work?”

“I said outside of work. Not that this is.”

You looked at him then, and found him already looking at you.

There it was again—that shift. That subtle, impossible thing you’d never dared name.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, quickly chased by doubt. You lowered your gaze to your bowl and forced yourself to eat.

Because whatever this was—it couldn’t be real.

Not yet.

Not when he’d only just closed one door.

But god, sitting across from him like this—half-laughing at your mutual hatred for trust fall activities, quietly debating what snacks to bring to the team retreat, and watching the crease between his brows soften every time you said something sarcastic—it was hard not to imagine that maybe, just maybe, something new had already started.

***

Weeks passed, and nothing was said.

Not about that dinner.

Not about the breakup.

Not about the subtle, quiet shift that had begun to stir between the two of you.

But things changed.

Slowly. Gently. Like gravity had tilted just enough to draw you into each other’s orbit.

It started with small things. More shared overtime sessions—planning the logistics for the team-building retreat had turned into long evenings in the empty conference room, laptops open, half-finished coffees cold between you.

Nanami started bringing two drinks instead of one.

“Chamomile,” he’d say, placing the cup beside your hand without looking. “You sleep like shit after black tea.”

You never told him that.

He started waiting for you after meetings, even ones that had nothing to do with your departments. Quietly, without announcement. Just standing beside the elevator or at the end of the hallway, like he’d happened to be there.

You didn’t ask questions.

And when he walked you to the station in the evenings, he never said why. But he always kept pace with you. Always glanced your way when you crossed the street. Always stood between you and the edge of the platform.

It wasn’t anything.

Not officially.

Not out loud.

But it lingered in the way your desks were somehow always side by side in every planning session. In the way your fingers brushed when you passed him the sign-up sheet. In the way he spoke more freely when it was just the two of you—drier humor, a touch more teasing.

Once, you made him laugh. Not the polite kind, but the rare one. Low and warm and real.

You didn’t know what you said. You just knew it stayed with you for days.

Still, you didn’t ask.

You didn’t dare.

Because even now—especially now—he didn’t talk about her.

You didn’t know if it was because it still hurt, or because it didn’t, and maybe that was worse.

But when Utahime leaned over your desk one afternoon and whispered, “Okay, seriously, how are you two not dating?” you flinched like she’d touched a nerve.

Shoko, ever the instigator, just hummed as she blew smoke out the window. “Give it time. He’s not subtle.”

“He’s not obvious either,” you muttered, eyes locked on your inbox.

Utahime rolled her eyes. “He brings you tea and drives you home. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not a confession if he’s just being nice.”

“You’re the only one who still thinks that,” Shoko said.

You wanted to argue.

But when Nanami showed up a few minutes later to discuss the finalized schedule, he didn’t knock. Just let himself in, eyes sweeping over your desk first, then the others.

And when his gaze found yours, something quiet passed between you. Familiar now. Gentle. A weightless recognition.

He gave a small nod. Just for you.

That was the loudest thing he’d ever said.

***

The retreat had already been teetering on the edge of chaos.

Between missing luggage, broken team flags, and a whiteboard marker war that ended in a minor nosebleed, things were holding together only by your clipboard, your caffeine intake, and Nanami’s deeply intimidating ability to command order with a single glance.

Then Gojo Satoru showed up.

You heard him before you saw him—laughing, loud and smug, and definitely not on the RSVP list.

Nanami froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing toward the hill at the edge of the campgrounds.

And then, “Ohhh~ is that my favorite number-crunching killjoy over there?”

You turned just in time to see the man himself.

Gojo Satoru, CEO of the company, breezed down the slope wearing white linen pants, a graphic tee that said “CEO,” and sunglasses despite the cloud cover. Behind him trailed a poor intern holding three duffel bags, a folding chair, and—for some reason—a karaoke machine.

You blinked.

You heard someone whisper behind you, “No one told me he’d be here.”

Utahime muttered, “Why would he be? He’s the CEO. He doesn’t even go to board meetings.”

“Is this a fever dream?” you whispered.

Shoko lit a cigarette. “You’ll get used to him. Or you won’t. Either way, pray.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is he here?”

“Team-building, duh!” Gojo beamed as he reached the bottom of the hill. “Come on, Nanamin, I couldn’t let you run this thing without me. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t show up for my loyal little minions?”

You weren’t sure if he was joking. Actually, you hoped he was joking, because the moment Gojo caught sight of you, he gasped dramatically and pointed.

“Ohhh! You must be her! The her!”

Your blood turned to ice. “I—sorry, what?”

Gojo reached out like he was about to ruffle your hair and—

Smack.

Nanami slapped his hand away.

Effortlessly.

Like it was routine.

You stared.

Everyone stared.

Gojo didn’t even flinch. He just pouted, rubbing the back of his hand like a child. “So violent, Nanamin. Is that any way to treat your boss?”

“You’re barely a boss,” Nanami said, voice flat. “Stop harassing people.”

“I wasn’t harassing,” Gojo whined. “I was being charming. You know, warming up the team spirit.”

Nanami turned to you, calm as ever. “Ignore him. He’ll lose interest if you don’t react.”

You blinked up at him. “You just hit the CEO.”

He shrugged. “He can’t fire me. He’s tried.”

“...What?”

Nanami didn’t elaborate.

Gojo was already dragging someone toward the egg relay, shouting something about “betting stock options on the winning team.”

“Do I even want to know what that was?” you asked, still dazed.

Shoko, behind you, exhaled smoke. “He’s been like that since college.”

Utahime grumbled, “I’m still recovering from the last time he ‘supervised’ a company event. He made everyone take turns doing dramatic readings of our mission statement.”

You looked at Nanami.

He looked tired.

But beneath the exhaustion, there was a flicker of something dry and fond in his expression. Not quite affection, but the kind of weary tolerance you reserve for a very annoying, very beloved childhood friend who refuses to die.

Still. You had a new question now—one that buried itself under your skin and stayed there,

What kind of person could survive Gojo Satoru... and remain this steady?

You weren’t sure.

But you were starting to think you’d like to find out.

The retreat's second day started with a clipboard in your hand, a schedule you believed in, and a hopeful heart.

It ended with your clipboard lost in a mud pit, the schedule on fire (literally), and your heart wondering if it was medically possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

In theory, the afternoon was meant to be simple: a sequence of games and bonding activities. You and Nanami had mapped it all out with military precision. Flag races, blindfold trust walks, cooperative tower-building challenges. Neat. Efficient. Structured.

Then Gojo decided to “join in.”

And everything went to hell.

First, he replaced the color-coded team flags with glitter-drenched capes from his personal stash. “It’s more festive,” he said, moments before one caught on a tree branch and sent an intern into the bushes.

Then he turned the egg relay into a “high-stakes obstacle course” by scattering water balloons mid-track. He refereed it himself—with a foam sword and zero rules.

Nanami stood beside you through it all. At first, stone-faced. Stoic. Clearly calculating how many HR reports Gojo was racking up per minute.

Then Gojo rode a wheelbarrow down the hill yelling “Team Purple rides again!” and crashed into a food table, sending snacks flying like confetti.

Nanami just sighed.

And you—helpless, overwhelmed, standing beside the only other sane person left—couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You started laughing.

It bubbled up, half-horrified and half-hysterical. And once it started, you couldn’t stop.

Nanami looked at you, brows raised. “You’re cracking.”

“I’ve been cracked,” you gasped, holding your stomach. “There’s nothing left to save.”

He blinked once. Then—so subtle you almost missed it—he smiled.

It was real. Small, crooked. The kind of smile that didn’t show up often. It caught in his cheeks, softened his entire face, and made your breath catch mid-laugh.

He looked... warm like this.

Still him. Still calm and reserved. But the edges were gentler now, like something about all of this—this disaster, this absurdity—had let him exhale.

“I take it back,” he said dryly. “You’re terrifying when you’re sleep-deprived.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You should see me during the fiscal year-end.”

The games dragged on. No one followed the rules. Someone accidentally locked themselves in the supply shed. Gojo declared himself honorary DJ and blasted early 2000s boyband hits from a portable speaker.

You and Nanami didn’t try to control it anymore.

You gave up. Found shade near the edge of the field and watched the slow unraveling like two prisoners resigned to fate.

He sat beside you on the bench, close but not too close. Just enough that your knees brushed when you shifted.

“Remind me why we did this,” you asked.

“For the sake of employee morale,” he said, deadpan.

You looked at him. “You’re a very convincing liar.”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Well, if it’s any consolation—” He nodded toward the chaos, where Utahime was chasing Gojo with a clipboard and the Red Team was building a fort out of catering trays. “I think they’re having fun.”

You stared. “That’s what you call fun?”

Nanami looked at you again. There was something softer now in his gaze. Less guarded. More like the man who stayed after hours to walk you to the bus station. The one who brought you tea and remembered how you liked your post-its stacked in color order.

“I think you’re doing a good job,” he said simply.

The words hit somewhere low in your chest. A surprise. Quiet, sincere, and terribly dangerous.

“Thanks,” you said, just as quietly. “Wouldn’t survive this without you.”

For a moment, you both just sat there. Not speaking. Letting the noise of chaos hum in the background like a distant storm.

And then—

“NANAMI! I NEED YOU TO JUDGE THE DANCE-OFF!” Gojo shouted from the hill, spinning in a circle with glowsticks he definitely didn’t have ten minutes ago.

Nanami looked up at the sky like he was reconsidering his life choices.

You bit back another laugh. “We could run.”

“Too late. He’s seen us.”

“Maybe if we fake an injury—”

“He’d call an ambulance just to make a scene.”

You sighed. “We’re not getting out of this, are we?”

“No,” Nanami said. Then, quieter: “But at least you’re here.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

But his hand brushed against yours when he stood up.

The fire cracked and spit embers into the dark, its glow flickering across tired faces and half-empty beer bottles.

Someone was still singing karaoke. Off-key. Loud. You weren’t sure if it was Shoko or Utahime—they’d both hit their limit an hour ago and were currently slumped together on a picnic blanket, limbs tangled like lazy vines, swaying in time to whatever slow ballad was butchering the night air.

A few other coworkers had passed out near the fire or wandered off toward the cabins.

You stayed.

So did Nanami.

He sat beside you, legs stretched out in front of him, a barely touched bottle in his hand. He hadn’t said much in the last hour. Just listened. Observed. Occasionally made a dry comment that made you snort into your cup.

You didn’t feel drunk. Just warm. Loose. A little sleepy from the fire and the long, ridiculous day.

The world had softened around the edges, like it always did when the sky turned black and the noise settled down and the laughter faded into silence.

“Are you tired?” he asked suddenly.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Nanami hummed. “Neither am I.”

The fire popped again.

From the speaker, a slow song bled into the background. A love song. One of those nostalgic ones that people always sang during retreats or weddings, usually around the time everyone got too sentimental or too drunk.

You looked over at him.

His shoulders were relaxed. Tie loosened. Shirt rumpled. He didn’t look like Nanami from the office—the composed, courteous professional who handed you pens and sat beside you in meetings like he didn’t know you were slowly, painfully, always falling in love with him.

This version was softer.

So you asked before you could stop yourself:

“Were you really okay?”

Nanami turned his head.

You clarified, voice quieter. “After the breakup?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“Yes.”

Just that.

You waited. Said nothing. Let the fire fill the space between you.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke next.

“We were together for a long time. Since high school. First love kind of thing.” His voice was steady. Low. “It stopped feeling right a while ago. We both knew it. We just... didn’t know how to end it.”

You swallowed. “I saw you. That day at the bistro.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Briefly surprised. “You did?”

You nodded. “With Utahime and Shoko. We didn’t mean to pry but—well. They’re nosy.”

That got a small chuckle out of him. He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. It was a rare thing to see—Nanami flustered. It made your heart ache in a new way.

“I figured someone might’ve seen us,” he said eventually. “We didn’t fight or anything. She just walked out. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. I agreed.”

“That sounds... awful.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t. Not really. It was overdue. No bad blood. I’ll always love her. Just not the way I used to.”

You looked down at your hands.

That part was harder to hear than you expected.

Because always was such a heavy word.

And yet—so was not the way I used to.

You felt something sharp and foolish rise in your chest.

Hope.

It felt wrong.

Because the breakup was still fresh. Because he’d loved someone else for years. Because you were just the woman who sat beside him at meetings, who borrowed his pens and tried too hard not to care when he asked how your weekend was.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you said, meaning it.

He was quiet again.

“I think I wasn’t. For a while. I think I stayed in something because it was familiar. Comfortable.”

You nodded slowly.

“I know how that feels.”

He looked at you again.

And this time, he really looked. His gaze lingered. Held.

The fire cast shadows across his face, golden and soft. His eyes were gentle—tired, still—but open in a way they rarely were.

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “What I want now. What feels right.”

You were afraid to speak. Afraid you’d say the wrong thing. Or say something that would make the hope bloom further, out of control.

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added, quieter now. “Not again.”

You nodded.

Me neither, you almost said.

Instead: “You won’t.”

Another long pause.

The fire hissed. Someone snored from across the clearing. Crickets hummed in the trees.

And Nanami said your name—softly, like tasting it.

“I think I always enjoyed our time together,” he admitted. “I just never let myself think about it too much.”

You felt the breath catch in your throat.

“But you had someone,” you said. “And I wasn’t going to—”

“I know,” he cut in. Not sharply. Just with understanding. “And I appreciated that. I still do.”

He didn’t touch you.

He didn’t need to.

The air between you was thick with the things that hadn’t been said. All the years of almosts. Of longing. Of polite distance that masked something far more dangerous.

You didn’t ask what this meant.

You didn’t press.

Because if he reached for you now, if he leaned too close, you wouldn’t stop him—and that would feel wrong.

So you stayed still.

Hopeful.

And aching.

Because you were beginning to see it in him too.

And maybe—just maybe—he was beginning to see it in you.

#jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #romance #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen nanami #kento x reader #kento x y/n #kento nanami #jjk gojo #jjk shoko #jjk utahime

85 notes · View notes

redd-blushing-roses · 21 hours ago

Text

A Visit From the Wilson's

word count: 3.7k

pairing: (FarmhouseAU Bucky Barnes x reader)

warnings: allusions to a previous miscarriage. nothing overly sad in this one. just some more fluff.

summary: you and bucky invite the wilson family over to share some exciting news!

notes: helloo! here with another farmhouse au fic. i'm still working on the next part for its fear (i haven't forgotten) it's just taking some time. hope you all have a wonderful friday and happy fourth if you celebrate!

enjoy reading :) ------------------------------------------------------

It’s hot in the kitchen, the smell of barbecue ribs and smoked meat wafting through the sliding door as you come in. You step in from the backyard, a small basket of peaches from your trees in your arms.

Bucky carefully flips over the meat he’s watching, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, metal hand gleaming.

You were both preparing lunch for the Wilson family, your favorite company who visited the farm. Your only company actually.

Bucky didn’t let many people visit the farmhouse, worrying it might compromise your safety. And especially now…

Bucky smiles as you come behind him, feeling your arms wrap around his torso, the small swell of your belly gently pressed into his back.

“It smells divine in here,” you say into his shoulder, Bucky’s hand coming to rest over yours at his waist.

“It better. It’s Sarah’s recipe.” You hum, letting him go, your fingers lingering a moment longer than they should. Not that he was complaining. You move towards the fridge, beginning to pull out the food you’d prepared for your friends. The large garden salad, fresh lemonade, cold pasta and potato salad. All the works.

Only the best for your friends.

Bucky couldn’t help staring as he watches you move around the kitchen, his eyes only leaving when he needed to turn over the meat. Ever since you found out you were pregnant, he’d been extra observant. Making sure you had enough water, helping you around the house when the nausea became too much to do anything, making sure you never felt alone in your discomfort or pain.

You were just past the halfway point, your belly past the questionable bloated stage and now a prominent bump, 24/7. And you both loved it.

You loved waking up every morning to see the progress. No matter the insecurities which whispered in the back of your mind about weight gain and your changing body, they were always drowned out by the evidence you were carrying a new life. Those small flutters you felt, like a small fish wiggling and sliding, made you giggle every time you felt your baby move. Your precious baby, not even here yet and already so loved.

By you and Bucky both.

Bucky loved coming up behind you and resting his hands beneath your bump, he loved laying on the couch with his body on top of you (very carefully of course, he was a big guy after all) his ear pressed against your belly as he listened to his baby’s heartbeat. He loved listening to you late at night when you both couldn’t sleep, heads tucked close together, taking in your hopes and excitement about the future.

It was hard, you wouldn’t lie. Between being sick almost every morning and feeling so tired you couldn’t help the naps you had begun to take every afternoon; between Bucky’s nervousness at how silently you took on any aches and pains and his own insecurities at becoming a father, of being in charge of such an innocent life.

And of course the breath you both held during those first 12 weeks, waiting for you baby to be in the safe zone.

It was hard. But so worth it, the joy you both shared overflowing. And now you were finally ready to share that joy with your closest friends.

“Buck, have you seen the cloth napkins?” You call out from the hall, digging through the cabinet where you kept the linens and tablecloths.

Bucky looks around, spotting the laundry basket full of folded napkins you had washed and pressed the night before, sitting by the kitchen table.

“They’re in here doll,” he cranes his neck to look down the hall at you, flipping another piece of meat with a sizzling pop.

You sigh, quietly kicking yourself as you remember you had put them there so you wouldn’t have to go looking for them. Pregnancy brain was no joke.

You come back in the kitchen, setting up the table with the napkins, placing silver cutlery around every place, fingers gently moving the flowers in the vase so they sit just right.

(the flowers Bucky had brought you this morning, surprising you as you got ready with the small pink and blue bouquet)

Bucky chuckles at the way you pay attention to every detail, making sure all the chairs are spaced just right, the food laid in the right order on the counter; seeing to it that Alpine had her own food set up and was taken care of, asking Bucky if he needed anything- you were going to be a great mom, he was sure of it.

“Hon, everything’s going to be alright.”

“I know,” you lean back against the counter, watching as Bucky plates the meat, covering the dish with foil and setting it in the spot you had saved on the counter. Your hands rest against your bump, fingers gently tracing the space where you can feel the baby move. “I just want it to go well.”

Bucky licks a bit of sauce off of his finger, coming beside you, his hip gently resting against yours.

“We don’t have to tell them if you’re not ready.”

“No, no I am,” you sigh. “I just… after what happened last time…” you trail off, trying not to relive those memories, bloody and heart wrenching. Your eyes are distant, mind adrift in the pain of loss, your fingers gently caressing your belly, reminding yourself your baby is alright. Bucky pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head, softly whispering your name into your hairline. You look up at him, grateful for how caring he was. “I just don’t want to have to disappoint anyone again.”

“No one was disappointed. Not in you,” Bucky reassures you. He pats your hip, bringing his hand up to the side of your bump in a comforting manner. “It’s going to be great, doll. I’m sure AJ and Cass will be excited.” You scrunch your nose, making a face.

“They’re boys. The only thing they care about is whether or not you’ll show them how you can lift the fridge with one hand.” He shrugs.

“Maybe.” You give him a smile, kissing him. He always knew how to talk you out of your anxieties, something which had developed over years of loving you, of learning your person, both inside and out.

Bucky tilts his head, listening. You glance at the open door, watching as Sam’s blue pickup truck pulls up besides your car. You take a breath, looking down as Bucky takes your hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

“I love you,” He tells you, his thumb brushing over your bump.

“I love you too James.” You kiss him again, and move into the living room, pulling on one of your new oversized button up shirts. It hung on your body in just the right way, hiding the bump and its prominence. You give Bucky a little twirl, and he nods.

“It’s cute. You sure you don’t want to just rip off the bandaid? Have them see you as they come in?” You shake your head, heart racing at the thought.

“No, it’s better to wait. I think.” You hear the truck doors open and slam, Sarah’s voice echoing in the driveway as she sternly reminds the boys not to close the door so hard. You don’t have time to rethink your plan, instead putting a smile on your face as you move to the screen door, opening it with a creak and stepping onto the porch.

“There she is, my favorite Barnes!” Sam locks up his truck, shuffling over to you and pulling you into a hug. You smile, trying to discreetly keep him away from your belly.

“Hi Sam,” You pat his back, the screen door opening behind you as Bucky steps out.

“I’m not your favorite birdbrain?” He glares at Sam, a smile breaking through before he can fully commit to the bit.

“Of course. She’s the one who actually lets us know you’re still alive between missions.”

“Alright, well..” Bucky trails off, Sam pulling him into a hug. AJ and Cass both give you polite hellos, although they’re rushed as they clamber over to Bucky, their voices running over one another as they ask him about his arm and the fridge.

You give him an amused look as he rolls his eyes, playfully throwing Cass over his shoulder, AJ jumping on the balls of his feet as he tries to get Bucky to pick him up as well. He's so good with the boys- he's going to be a great dad. You just know it.

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” Sarah says as she comes from around the truck, a plate full of macaroni and cheese in her arms.

“Sarah,” you smile, giving her a hug, mouth watering at the thought of her dish. “I have been dreaming about this macaroni,” you say, pulling away from the hug, your finger gesturing towards the dish.

“It is to die for. Thanks for having us over,” she says, handing Sam the dish as Bucky leads him and the boys into the house, the kids loud and joking around. “You look good.” Sarah looks you up and down, her eyes observant.

You flush, trying to keep your smile controlled.

“Thanks. And of course! We always love having you over. Bucky would never admit it, but he enjoys talking with Sam. Even if it’s just about which bad guy they’re going to take down next.” Sarah smiles, giving you a small laugh.

You can feel the baby move and you have to resist the urge to caress your belly like you usually do to calm them. Sarah looks at you oddly, as if she can sense your hesitance.

You try not to let her gaze wander for too long, ushering her into the house before she can get a really good look. You knew if she looked too closely, she’d see the way your belly seemed to protrude a little too far into your oversized shirt, a little too bloated to be considered normal. ------------------------------------------------------Lunch is served with smiling faces and laughter filled conversation.

AJ and Cass fawn over Alpine like they always do, the poor feline giving them a grumpy face as they pick her up, playing with her paws gently. Bucky and Sam get into playfully heated conversations about Captain America duties and different missions they’d gone on (You occasionally had to intervene, resting your hand on Bucky’s knee as you try and defend his argument, although most of the time you had no idea what he was talking about).

Sarah catches you up on her small business and her meal prepping service. You were always so in awe of how generous the woman was, how caring she was with both her family and her whole community. You admired her as a person and as a mother, hoping to be just as thoughtful and intentional as she was.

Bucky’s hand never strayed far from where it rested on your knee, reminding you he was there with you the whole time, knowing you were nervous waiting for the right moment to break the news to your friends.

“Man,” Sam says leaning back in his chair, most of the food devoured by all of you. “That was good. Sarah you got competition.”

Bucky laughs, embarrassed, and Sarah gives him a playfully competitive look.

“He better not. Or I’m taking my recipe back.”

You chuckle, looking down as Alpine jumps into your lap, snuggling into your belly like she usually did. You pet her gently, listening to your friends, an absentminded smile on your face as the feline purrs, safe from the boys who are running around in the backyard now.

“You know, I wasn’t sure about it at first, but farm life has treated you both well,” Sam nudges Bucky’s arm, your husband's brows furrowing.

“What?” he laughs, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, before you were Captain America’s sidekick (Bucky glares seriously) okay, before everything that happened with the shield, you two were all skinny and depressed.”

“Sam,” Sarah chides, her head tipping as she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh no, I know why. But I mean, look at them now,” Sam gestures between the two of you. “You both have a certain glow about you, like you’ve gotten some decent meals. Not to toot my own horn, but it’s got to be that southern influence, come on.” You laugh.

“I guess.”

“He’s right though, you both look different.” Sarah says, eyeing the both of you, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Happier, I think.”

You and Bucky look at each other. He smiles at you knowingly, eyes glancing down at your belly on instinct. Alpine is still snuggled against your body, your fingers gently splayed in her fur.

You bite your lip, your heart racing. Bucky squeezes your thigh, likely hearing your nerves, a reminder he was right there beside you. He nods, encouraging you.

“Well,” you begin, sitting upright in your chair. “We actually invited you both here to tell you-” The words are lost in Sarah’s squeal of delight, Alpine jumping out of your lap as Sarah gets out of her chair, enveloping you in a big hug.

“I knew it! I knew it,” you laugh, Sam giving his sister a confused look and Bucky smiling amusedly. “The moment I saw you outside, I just knew it!”

“Knew what?!” Sam asked, confused. “What were you going to tell us?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer but Sarah is faster, giving her brother a look.

“Oh, come on Sam. You were just going on about ‘southern influence’ and ‘the glow’. Look at them!”

Sam looks at the both of you. Really looks.

At your glowing cheeks, a bit softer and fuller than when he’d last seen you, the large button up shirt you wore, not your usual style.

At Bucky’s flushed nose, the warm smile which seemed permanently fixed in his eyes, the way his eyes kept drifting to your midsection.

Sam narrows his eyes, thinking he might understand.

“Wait…” he trails off. Bucky laughs at his confusion, standing from his chair to come beside you as you stand as well.

“Does this give you a clue?” You open the large shirt, running a hand over the small swell of your bump, barely popping.

“No shot,” Sam whips his head to Bucky. Sarah laughs, her hand squeezing your shoulder. “You! And You!” He points between you both. “Parents!”

“It’s hard to believe, I know.” Bucky smiles down at you, his hand at your waist. Your hands have drifted to the top of your bump, the baby fluttering beneath your fingers, as if they missed you during that long hour of trying not to touch your belly.

“Dang, congratulations man!” Sam rounds the table and pulls Bucky into a hug, the man beaming with pride. Sam hugs you as well, gently giving you a squeeze, telling you how happy he was.

The smile on your face doesn’t seem to disappear as the Wilson siblings laugh and congratulate you. The relief you feel is tremendous, and the excitement is almost overwhelming.

“How far along are you?” Sarah asks, her hands clasped in anticipation. You sit back down, everyone following. Bucky slides the fruit bowl over to you, already anticipating what you wanted, and you accept it gratefully.

“I’m about 22 weeks now. We wanted to wait to tell you until...” you drift how, exhaling shakily. You should be surprised at the emotions which had suddenly cropped up, but everything had been so overwhelming lately, there usually wasn’t a day where you teared up. Bucky finishes for you, his hand reaching over to envelop yours.

“We just wanted to make sure everything was all set before we told anyone.” He gives you a gentle smile. Sarah nods, Sam giving you an understanding look.

“That’s good. Give you a little time to enjoy the news just for yourselves too.” You sniffle, laughing.

“Yeah,” you say, grateful for your friend. She winks at you, beaming.

“You know the gender yet?” Sam asks.

Bucky chuckles, thinking of all the debates you’d had over the past couple of weeks.

“We don’t find out till this weekend.”

“Ohh, I was wondering what kind of doctor’s appointment you had on Friday,” Sarah points to the calendar on the fridge. You kick yourself again, remembering you were going to remove it before they came. “What do you think it is?”

“I thinks it’s a girl,” you smile, hand gently caressing your belly.

“Really?” Sarah asks, surprised. “You sure? You carry like I did with the boys. All outward not spread.” You roll your eyes.

“That’s what Bucky said. He thinks I’m having a boy.” Sam makes a face, turning to Bucky.

“How do you know how women carry babies?” Bucky takes a sip of his drink, ears red.

“He’s read the books,” you whisper to Sam, your friends eyes going wide with surprise.

“No, I haven’t,” Bucky shakes his head laughing. (He had. When your pregnancy book had went missing you had eventually found it in the garage, a large grease stain on its cover. Bucky went red as a tomato when you'd asked what he was doing with your book)

“Well, I’ve skimmed them, but that’s not how. Steve’s mom was a nurse. Learned a lot about babies at his house.” You smile.

“I don’t know, I just have a feeling. Like last time.” Bucky’s eyes trail to your bump again, and it’s your turn to squeeze his hand comfortingly.

“You should listen to her Buck. She’s usually smarter than you,” Sam jabs, already laughing at his quip.

“Hey,” Bucky glares playfully. They begin to argue and you roll your eyes, standing and leaving the table to pull out the icecream and sliced peaches you had set up for dessert. Sarah comes over to help you, asking Sam to get the boys in from outside.

“I’m really happy for you both,” Sarah says, leaning over the counter as she watches you dish up dessert.

“Thank you, Sarah. That really means a lot.”

“Woah.” You hear the boys clamber in, their eyes on your larger figure. “Are you having a baby?”

“Yeah, uncle winter-soldier is daddy winter-soldier now.” Sam nods. Bucky makes a face.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Cool.” “Congrats.” The boys both say, Sarah nudging them both. AJ turns back to Bucky.

“So, can you lift that cow with your metal hand?”

You laugh. Your heart has never felt so full.

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

Bonus:

Your leg bounces against the plush armchair. Excited. Nervous.

It was Friday.

Bucky comes back from the small check in counter, where he was turning in the clipboard you had filled out. He grunts as he sits on the footrest next to you, legs spread, a hand running through his hair.

The doctor’s clinic in town was small. Private. Safe.

You both didn’t have the best track records with doctors, what with Bucky’s experience with HYDRA tainting any medical experience he’d had and with your old boss breathing down your neck about medical check ins and health concerns.

“I’m so excited I feel like I could throw up.” You say, hands resting on your bump, feeling the small flutters of your baby. Baby girl? Or baby boy?

Bucky gives you a small smile, rubbing your shoulder gently.

“I know. Still positive it’s a girl?”

You nod. “I can just feel it.”

He sighs, mumbling something about how you’re always right. You frown as he looks down, his face downcast. Worry creeps into your chest.

“Buck, are you okay if it’s a girl again?” Maybe he didn’t want a girl. Maybe, after last time, he’d set his hopes on it being a boy, as if the gender had anything to do with the health of your baby. You frown. Maybe he didn’t want this baby.

Bucky looks up at you, registering that you asked him a question. He’s surprised to see your eyes misty, mouth parted as if words are trapped, your mind running a mile a minute.

“What? Of course I’d be okay if it was a girl.”

“Are you sure?” You whisper, and Bucky realizes you were going through one of your anxious spirals. You’d gotten them more frequently since becoming pregnant, overwhelmed more easily. He takes your hand in his, kissing your nose gently.

“Of course. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. I just want them to be healthy.” You nod.

“Me too.” Bucky cocks his head, giving you a knowing smile.

“You want a girl though.” You bite your lip.

“I really do.”

“That’s okay. I’d like to have a mini you running around the house.” You smile and quietly thank him with a hug.

“Mrs. Barnes?” A nurse stands beside your chair, smiling (She’s a little in awe of how affectionate the both of you are, of how despite the quiet air of damage and grief, there’s still so much love between the both of you). “Are you ready to see baby again today?”

The gel is cool against your belly as you lay on the examination table, Bucky beside you helping you situate your shirt.

“Alright, let’s check up on baby. Are you finding out the gender today?” You look up at Bucky and he nods, giving you a smile.

“Yes. But we can hear the heartbeat first, right?” The doctor gives a small laugh, grabbing her ultrasound wand.

“Of course. Is this dad’s first time hearing baby’s heartbeat?” You bite your lip.

You couldn’t tell her that your husband was the one who got to hear your baby every night, his ear pressed against your belly as he drifted off, no matter how uncomfortable the position might be.

“No, we’re just excited to hear the baby again,” He answers for you, giving you a not so subtle wink. You smile.

The doctor turns up the speaker for you as she gently rubs the wand over your belly, the soft thwump of the little baby’s heart filling the room. You close your eyes, memorizing every beat, every little change and pattern you hear. That was your baby. The culmination of yours and Bucky’s love for each other.

You wipe away happy tears, eyes drawn to the monitor as the doctor turns it around.

“There’s your baby. I see their beautiful little face. Everything looks good, all ten fingers and toes forming nicely.” Bucky leans over you, eyes intently scanning every inch of the monitor. That was his child. His baby.

God, he was already so in love with them, it was overwhelming honestly.

“Now, let’s see if we can see what is going on between those legs, huh?” The doctor gently moves the ultrasound wand, coaxing the baby to let her see. “Oh, there we go, uncross those legs baby. Alrighty, perfect and we have…”

You crane your neck to see, a big smile on your face. Bucky laughs as you look up at him proudly.

“Congrats mom and dad. You’re having a baby girl.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #sam wilson #sarah wilson #bucky barnes #farmhouse bucky au #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader fluff

68 notes · View notes

twilightxprincesss · 2 days ago

Text

Roommates

You and Kenma’s relationship extended only to being roommates. Rent was cheaper when it was split with another, and Kenma didn’t bother you, so it was perfect. You were fine with your relationship being only one of convenience. So why did your mind always wander to thoughts of him during late hours of the night?

warnings: slightly suggestive parts (kissing/making out, sitting on kenmas lap 🙏), implied afab reader, maybe ooc? idk

You and Kenma were roommates. Nothing more than that. You got along sure, but you wouldn’t exactly consider yourselves friends.

I mean maybe you always cooked an extra portion of dinner for him since you knew he often forgot to feed himself due to his streaming schedule. And maybe he’d always “accidentally” buy an extra pack of your favorite snack any time he made a convenience store run. But roommates were all you and Kenma were. Nothing more, nothing less.

Or at least that’s what you’d tell yourself. Still, that didn’t stop you from getting curious one night and tuning in to one of his streams. He was playing a relatively relaxing game, Stardew Valley, but the Kenma you saw on the screen was…different.

This version of him was more talkative, asking the chat how their night was going, and going off on small tangents about his day. You had never heard Kenma talk this much, and as you watched him play you started to understand why he had so many fans. He was honestly pretty entertaining.

That night you said to yourself that was a one time thing…then it turned into a two time thing…and soon you were tuning in regularly to watch his streams.

It was a bit strange watching your roommate play video games when your rooms were barely 5 feet apart, but peering in to this secret side of Kenma was too interesting to you to give up.

Kenma was sassier on stream, and you often found yourself laughing under the covers of your bed to his remarks about how “trash” the other players were.

Little did you know Kenma always knew when you tuned in to his streams. His golden eyes would flit to the side momentarily to read your comments in his chat.

You had no idea that he knew it was you, so you felt comfortable commenting; assuming he wouldn’t even read them anyways.

This became a routine for you. Kenma always streamed on fridays, and coincidentally for you he’d start his streams right as you got home from work. You’d quickly get out of your work clothes before changing into comfortable pajamas and secretly tuning in to his stream.

Still, watching him just through the screen always made your mind wander to thoughts of the possible relationship that could blossom between you two if you’d just get up and walk 5 feet away to his room.

But you never did. The two of you still passed by each other wordlessly throughout your apartment whenever you passed by one another. Kenma barely left his room as it was, but whenever he did you couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then. Something about him caught your eye now…he wasn’t just your roommate anymore. You had seen a completely different side of him, and you longed to have that for yourself.

One night you were feeling hungry so you got out of bed at 11pm to go make some instant ramen. You fished out a pack of spicy noodles from the cabinet above your stovetop before getting a pot and filling it with water. After placing the pot of water on the stove you stood with your back against the counter waiting patiently for it to boil.

Once you were finished making the ramen and adding in all the extra packets you filled up a bowl with the piping hot contents. You finished pouring half of the ramen into a small bowl before you heard a door open and close down the hall.

You didn’t notice it, but Kenma had walked up behind you.

“Smells good.” He mumbled out. You flinched at the sudden sound of his voice, and looked behind you to see him standing with his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. His eyes trailed behind you to the ramen before he glanced back to you.

He looked a little tired, and his grown out hair was halfway tied up into a small bun, but the way he looked at you just now…

“Kenma…hi.” You spoke, still a little surprised by his sudden appearance. You knew he’d be awake gaming, but he normally didn’t come out of his room much.

“Hi.” He replied back calmly.

You noticed him still standing there, almost like he wanted something. He stepped closer to you, and the closer he got the further your back pressed into the counter. You could feel your heart beating in your chest at how close he was, and you swallowed nervously; praying he didn’t notice.

“Can I have some?” Kenma asked. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before you noticed him looking behind you hungrily. Of course. He probably hasn’t eaten in hours. He often forgot to eat, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Oh.” You blinked before nodding.

“Y-yeah, sure.” You nodded before turning around. You reached above to get a bowl out for him before filling it with the still piping hot ramen. Kenma had walked away to take a seat at the small table you two had, and he was leaned back watching you silently.

You placed the bowl down in front of him before focusing your attention on your own bowl.

“Thanks.” Kenma said before he blew on the steaming ramen. He lifted the bowl to his lips to take a sip of the broth. You glanced up to see his eyes widen momentarily. He probably hadn’t been expecting the spice. He swallowed the warm liquid before he cleared his throat. You could see a small bit of sweat form on his face.

“You can’t handle spice?” You asked in amusement. Kenma shot you a small glare and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I can handle it just fine.” He grumbled as he sniffed. His nose was beginning to run slightly, but he powered through it. He used his chopsticks to shovel the noodles into his mouth as you watched him with a faint smirk.

“Mhm…” You hummed with a small roll of your eyes before you returned your focus to your own bowl. You took a sip of the broth yourself to see if it really was that spicy. The moment the warm liquid hit your throat you could feel yourself sweat.

“Shit— That is spicy.” You cleared your own throat, feeling the spicy liquid coat your tongue.

“Guess you can’t handle your spice either.” Kenma hummed in response, giving you the smallest hint of a teasing smirk.

Your eyebrows raised momentarily at the unexpected tease from Kenma. Seeing the smirk on his face made your heart start to race and you gave him a small scoff in return. Not being able to hide your own smile.

Still, even though the ramen was a bit too spicy for the both of you, it was surprisingly nice to enjoy a meal with him. The two of you continued to eat in silence, but somehow it wasn’t awkward like it normally was. You felt almost…comfortable around him.

After eating your ramen the two of you wordlessly cleaned up your bowls and returned to your rooms. Even though there wasn’t much of a conversation that sparked from that interaction, it was the most you two had spoken in a while.

Sitting with him and eating that spicy ramen allowed you to see a small bit of his true personality, one that he seemed to only show on stream. That small tease from him lingered in your mind that night as you went to sleep.

After getting a small taste of the real Kenma that night, you began thinking of him even more. It wasn’t on purpose, but your mind would stray even during work to thoughts of him.

What was going on with you? There’s no way you have a crush on your roommate…Even if you did, it wasn’t like he liked you back.

Right?

Later that evening you got home from work. To your surprise Kenma wasn’t in his room streaming, he was sitting on the couch in your living room. Your eyes immediately met as he turned around slightly to see you.

“How was work?” Kenma asked, much to your surprise. You had expected to just make eye contact and that would be the end of it.

“Work? Oh, uh, work was fine. Tiring.” You turned around to hang up your purse on the coatrack near your door. God, why was he making you so nervous??

Kenma hummed in response before turning back around on the couch.

Guess that’s the end of that conversation…

You walked past him into your room to change out of your work clothes. After a few minutes you returned to the living room, taking a seat next to him on the couch, but still leaving some space between you two.

Kenma glanced up from his phone at you. Though he still had a pretty neutral expression, you could tell your presence next to him on the couch surprised him.

He soon returned his gaze to his phone, but you didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on your face for a second too long.

Not even a moment later you heard a soft mumble from Kenma.

“Shit.”

Your eyes flit up from your phone as you gave a shared look of annoyance with Kenma.

“Wifi’s out for you too?” You sighed. Kenma nodded as he set his phone down next to him. He leaned back with an annoyed huff as he rested his head back on the couch.

His eyes gently closed as he leaned back, and you felt your cheeks dust a soft pink as you tried to discreetly stare at him. Your eyes trailed over the gentle slope of his nose, then to his slightly chapped lips, and then back up to his unfairly long and dark eyelashes.

“You’re staring.” Kenma spoke up as he opened one eye to look at you, catching you in the act. Your face immediately flushed a deeper pink as you tried to think of an excuse.

“I wasn’t—“ You scoffed as you glanced away.

Kenma let out a scoff of his own at your attempt to lie to him. Still, he found the flush on your cheeks pretty endearing…

“Mhm…” He hummed slowly. His own eyes were slowly trailing down your face, then down your body.

He was shamelessly checking you out right now.

Of course you noticed, it was hard not to feel his eyes on you. You couldn’t ignore the quickening beat of your heart as he continued to look at you.

“Now you’re staring.” You muttered. Kenma didn’t miss this, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips.

“Guess I am.” He spoke back with a teasing hum.

“What are you gonna do about it?” He whispered.

You didn’t miss the way your heart skipped a beat at those words. Was he flirting with you now?? Why was he being so bold??

Your eyes widened as you finally looked at him. Kenma held your gaze, but the longer you went without responding, the more you noticed his cheeks dusting a light pink.

Still, he didn’t look away as he waited to hear a response from you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly at him before you crawled closer to him on the couch. Kenma’s widened eyes relaxed as you got closer to him.

You now sat directly next to him, turned to face him. Kenma followed suit and turned his body to face you.

Neither of you said anything as you stared. It seems like Kenma hadn’t expected his flirting to actually get a reaction from you, and now he was unsure of what to do.

He glanced away momentarily as he nervously fidgeted with the strings of his black hoodie.

“Don’t get shy now.” You hummed. Now it was your turn to be bold.

Kenma glared back at you and you didn’t miss the way his face got redder.

“I’m not…” He mumbled.

It was almost endearing how flustered he got the moment someone reciprocated his flirting.

“Yeah?” You hummed back teasingly.

Kenma’s glare narrowed further at you, and unbeknownst to you, both of you were slowly starting to lean in closer.

Suddenly, you felt Kenma’s hand brush up against your thigh on the couch. Your eyes flit down to his hand, then back up to his face.

“What are you doing…?” You whispered. Now it was your turn to be nervous.

“Just…close your eyes.” Kenma mumbled.

“Can’t do this when you’re staring at me.”

You immediately obeyed, much to Kenma’s amusement, and gently closed your eyes.

The next thing you knew, Kenma had leaned forward just enough to brush his lips against yours. He didn’t apply any pressure yet, out of fear he’d somehow misread your signals.

You kept your eyes closed, but as soon as you got over the initial surprise, you reached forward and pulled Kenma closer by his hoodie.

Kenma’s hands immediately went to your waist as he kissed you back. Now that he knew you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you, he wasn’t holding back.

His hands traveled further down before he pulled you closer, sitting you on his lap on the couch. You let out a sigh into his lips as you continued to move your lips against his.

Seems like neither of you wanted to break the kiss, until Kenma slowly pulled back. He was panting softly as he slowly opened his eyes and looked up at you. His slender hands that were resting on your hips gave you a gentle squeeze before he leaned forward, resting his head on your shoulder.

“I’ve wanted to do that…for a while.” He mumbled into your shoulder. Your hands that were holding onto his hoodie slowly moved to tangle into his hair. You ran your fingers through the soft strands of grown-out bleached hair, before Kenma raised his head.

He was looking at you with an expression you hadn’t seen on him before. His eyes were half-lidded, and his pale cheeks were flushed a soft pink.

“You have no idea how long i’ve held myself back for…” Kenma spoke up. His hands nervously gripped onto your hips as he held your gaze.

“Yeah…?” You asked breathlessly. You couldn’t hide the smile that was beginning to spread across your slightly red lips.

“Wanna do it again?” You whispered.

“You know…just to make sure the memory lasts.“

Kenma wasted no time in recapturing your lips with his. This time he was greedier than the last, making sure that he had a tight grip on you as his lips moved against yours.

The kiss grew sloppy as time went on, a mix of tongue and lip as you pressed yourself closer to him in his lap.

Kenma groaned softly as you pressed against him, and his head tilted back slightly.

When you finally pulled away again, Kenma was looking up at you with a slightly dazed expression.

Now you got to see a side of Kenma none of his fans would ever be able to.

He was no longer just your roommate…

this fic was genuinely torture to finish but i hope u like it 🥀

writing kiss scenes isn’t my specialty so i apologize if it’s awkward 🥴

anyways, live laugh love kenma

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fanfiction #kenma x reader #kenma x you #timeskip kenma #kenma x y/n #kenma kozume #kozume kenma #hq kenma

71 notes · View notes

meadowfics · 3 days ago

Text

loving grants

kang sae-byeok x f!reader

this is another feature to my 'small business' series linked here

synopsis: there was nothing more that you wanted to see than to see sae-byeok having her family back.

you lock the front door of your small shop, the jingle of the bell fading into the quiet evening. its 7pm, finally.

the shelves are tidy, the last of the day’s stock is tucked away in the back closets, and the faint scent of fresh linen and denim fade in the air. it’s a tuesday, and you know what that means...sae-byeok will be heading out soon to grab ice cream for cheol.

every tuesday, friday, and sunday, like clockwork, she makes the trip to the orphanage, a small cup of ice cream or popsicle in hand for her little brother.

you’ve seen the way her eyes soften when she talks about him, the way her voice carries a quiet determination to give him a better life.

it’s one of the many things you love about her, your girlfriend of nine months, the woman who’s become your partner in more ways than one.

you glance at the clock above the counter.

it’s just past seven, and sae-byeok is in the back, shrugging on her jacket. the woman's dark hair is pulled into a loose mini ponytail, and she’s got that focused look she always wears when she’s about to head out for cheol.

you’ve got plans of your own tonight, though...plans you haven’t told her about.

these are plans you’ve been mulling over for weeks, ever since you noticed the way her shoulders tense when she talks about her mother.

sae-byeok doesn’t say much about it, but you know the weight of it.

the worry. the hope. the endless waiting.

your girlfriend's mother is still in north korea, and sae-byeok has been working with a broker named man-cheol to bring her across the border.

it’s a slow, agonizing process, and the cost...both financial and emotional...has been eating at her. you see it in the way she stares off sometimes, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, her mind somewhere far away.

you can’t stand it anymore.

you have enough money, more than enough, from the shop’s profits to help saebyeok. you and sae-byeok run this place together, splitting the work and the love that goes into it. you know that sae-byeok has the money for the broker too, but you just want to help her with this one thing.

tonight, you’re doing something for her, something you hope will lighten the load she carries.

you’re going to see man-cheol, the broker, and you’re going to give him whatever he needs to get sae-byeok’s mother to south korea.

you’ve got 50 million won tucked into an envelope in your bag, and you’re ready to hand it over if it means sae-byeok can have her family back.

“i’m heading out,” sae-byeok calls from the back, her voice pulling you from your thoughts.

she steps into the main shop, her boots scuffing lightly against the floor. she’s got that half-smile she always wears when she’s trying to act like everything’s fine, but you know her too well.

you can see the faint lines of worry around her eyes, the way her hands fidget just a little before she shoves them into her pockets.

“okay,” you say, keeping your voice light, “tell cheol i said hi. and don’t let him con you into extra sprinkles again.”

she snorts, rolling her eyes.

“he’s got me wrapped around his finger, and you know it.”

you laugh, but your heart’s racing. you don’t want her to suspect anything, not yet.

“get going, then. i’ll finish closing up.”

sae-byeok nods, stepping closer to press a quick kiss to your cheek. her lips are soft, warm, and you catch the faint scent of her coconut shampoo as she pulls away.

“i’ll be back soon,” she says, and then she’s gone, the bell jingling as the door swings shut behind her.

you wait a few minutes, just to be sure she’s not coming back for something she forgot. afterwards, you grab your bag, lock up the shop, and head out into the cool evening air.

the streets are busy, the neon signs of seoul casting a soft glow over the sidewalks. you’ve got man-cheol’s address memorized, a nondescript office tucked away in a quieter part of the city.

sae-byeok’s mentioned him enough times for you to know he’s the one handling her mother’s case, and you’ve done your own research to make sure he’s legit.

he’s not like some of the shady brokers out there, the ones who take the money and disappear.

man-cheol’s got a reputation for being careful, discreet, and most importantly...honest.

the office is small, with a flickering fluorescent light above the door. you knock after walking up a few flights of stairs, your heart thudding in your chest.

a man opens the door, middle-aged, with a tired but kind face.

“you must be y/n,” he says, his voice low but not unfriendly. sae-byeok must’ve mentioned you at some point, which makes your chest tighten with a mix of pride and nerves.

“yeah,” you say, stepping inside.

the office is sparse, just a coffee table, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet in the corner. there’s a map on the wall, marked with pins and string, and you wonder how many families it represents, how many lives man-cheol’s helped piece back together.

you sit across from him, pulling the envelope from your bag.

“i’m here about sae-byeok’s mother,” you say, getting straight to the point.

“i want to make sure that her mother gets here, no matter what it costs. i’ve got 50 million won that I can give to you for the brokers.”

man-cheol’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans back in his chair, studying you.

“50 million?” he says, his tone careful, “that’s… more than necessary. far more.”

you frown, confused.

“i don’t care. i want to make sure it’s enough. whatever it takes to get her here safely.”

he shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“you know...you’re a good person,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes you believe he means it.

“but 50 million is too much. the cost for the transport, the connections, the bribes...it’s closer to 30 million. i won’t take more than i need.”

you blink, surprised by his honesty. you’d braced yourself for a negotiation, maybe even a fight, but man-cheol’s not like that.

he’s not in this for the money, not entirely.

you can see it in the way he talks, the way his eyes soften when he mentions sae-byeok’s mother.

“okay,” you say, your voice firm, “30 million, then. but you make sure she gets here.”

he nods, taking the envelope you slide across the desk.

“i will. we’ve been working on her case for a while now. it’s… complicated, but we’re close. i’ll make sure it happens.”

you feel a weight lift off your chest, but it’s replaced by a new kind of nervousness. you haven’t told sae-byeok about this, and you’re not sure how she’ll react.

she’s proud, fiercely independent, and you know she’s been saving every spare won she has for this. however, you couldn’t wait any longer. you’ve seen the toll it’s taken on her, the way it lingers in her quiet moments, and you’d do anything to ease that burden.

“thank you,” you say, standing to leave.

man-cheol nods again, and as you step back out into the night, you feel a strange mix of hope and fear.

you’ve just done something huge, something that could change everything for sae-byeok.

you just hope she’ll understand.

the next evening, you’re behind the counter at the shop, arranging a rack full of trench coat jackets. the faint hum of kpop plays through the speakers, a cheerful contrast to the quiet of the late afternoon.

sae-byeok’s on her lunch break, out grabbing a quick bite at a nearby café. you’re trying to focus on work, but your mind keeps drifting to last night, to the envelope you handed over, to the promise man-cheol made.

you haven’t heard anything yet, but you’re not expecting to...not so soon.

the bell above the door jingles, and you look up, expecting a customer.

instead, it’s sae-byeok, back early.

your girlfriend's face is pale, her eyes wide and glassy, like she’s holding back tears.

you freeze, your heart dropping.

you’ve never seen her like this, not in nine months of your loving relationship together and the two intense and angered weeks before that.

she’s always so composed, so guarded, but now she looks… vulnerable.

“you did that… for me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

she’s standing just inside the doorway, her hands clenched at her sides.

you swallow hard, your throat tight.

she knows. somehow, she knows.

maybe man-cheol called her, or maybe word got back to her through one of his contacts.

you nod, stepping out from behind the counter.

“yeah,” you say softly.

“i did.”

sae-byeok crosses the room in a few quick steps, and before you can say anything else, she’s pulling you into a hug.

your girlfriend's arms are tight around you, her face buried in your shoulder, and you feel the faint tremor of her body as she holds back sobs.

you wrap your arms around her, your hands resting gently on her back, and the kpop music fades into the background, a soft, distant hum.

“he told me,” she says against your shoulder, her voice muffled.

“man-cheol. I went to go give him my money but he said it was no use. he said you gave him the 30 million won. for my mom.”

you nod again, your cheek brushing against her hair.

“i had to,” you say, “i know how much it means to you. how much she means to you.”

she pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes shining with tears she’s trying so hard not to let fall.

“you didn’t have to do that,” she says, her voice breaking, “that’s… that’s your money. our money. the shop—”

“it’s worth it,” you interrupt, your voice gentle but firm.

“you’re worth it. i couldn’t keep watching you carry that weight alone.”

sae-byeok’s lips part, like she wants to argue, but no words come.

instead, she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. your lover's lips linger there, warm and steady, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the feeling sink in.

“he told me she’s out,” you say quietly, pulling back to meet her gaze.

“your mom. she’s out of the prison camp. she’s sick, but man-cheol’s working on finding another broker to get her through china. it’s happening, sae. it’s really happening.”

she's breath catches, and for a moment, she just stares at you, like she’s trying to process it.

after, she’s hugging you again, tighter this time. you feel the first tear slip down her cheek, warm against your neck.

“i can’t believe you did this,” she whispers.

“i… i’ll pay you back. i swear.”

“no,” you say, shaking your head, “you’re not paying me back. this isn’t about money. it’s about you and cheol.... and about us.”

she pulls back again, her hands still resting on your shoulders.

the woman's eyes search yours, and you can see the storm of emotions there...gratitude, love, maybe a little fear.

“i can’t wait for her to meet you,” she says, her voice soft but steady now.

“my mom. she’s gonna love you.”

you smile, your heart swelling.

“i hope so,” you say, “i love you, sae. i’m not letting you carry your pain alone anymore.”

“i love you too,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s said it so openly, so unguarded.

she leans her forehead against yours, her hands sliding down to lace with yours.

“and… okay. i won’t pay you back. but you're insane if you think I'm not gonna make this up to you somehow.”

you laugh softly, squeezing her hands.

“just keep taking care of cheol and us. that’s more than enough.”

the next week, as you’re closing up the shop together, she turns to you, her expression thoughtful.

“when my mom gets here… i want her to see what we’ve built. this place. us.”

you nod, your heart full.

“she will,” you say, “and cheol, too. we’re gonna be a family, sae.”

she smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes everything else fade away.

“yeah,” she says.

“we are.”

masterlist

authors note: my HC for this series is that reader has no family. that she was lonely before sae-byeok came into her life. y/n had opened up her own shop due to inheritance from the death of her parents, and she was the only child with no friends. so, she looks at sae-byeok getting her own family back in hopes that they'll both have family again.

#kang sae byeok #kang sae byeok x reader #player 067 #player 067 x reader #sae byeok #sae byeok x reader #kang saebyeok #squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game x reader #squid game s2 #squid game season 2 #squid game x y/n #squid game x you #ji yeong #wlw #wlw post #sapphic #wuh luh wuh

91 notes · View notes

love-bucky-3000 · 2 days ago

Text

4th of July Bang (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Summary: Steve gets nervous around fireworks so you come up with an idea to take his mind off of them- or: more than just the fireworks get off on Steve's birthday

wc: ~3200

content: handjobs, semi public/ public sexual activities (sorry)

a.n: I will be updating the And You Are?... series next! hopefully you enjoy this little filler for Steve's birthday in the meantime :) this is unedited sorry for any mistakes

share and enjoy!

People seem to forget how traumatizing fireworks can be for veterans. The loud bangs from the colorful sparks in the sky sound no different than the sound of a bomb. Steve has been on edge since the firework stores have popped up around the neighborhood. It wouldn’t be so bad if everyone kept the bombs from going off until the night of the fourth. If Steve knew when the fireworks were going off, they wouldn’t set him off so easily, but no. The neighborhood kids just have to set them off at random times throughout the night. Every. Single. Night.

Every night, you curled up with Steve before turning the bedroom lights completely off. You would catch up on a show while Steve read, your head on his chest and your arm slung over his midsection. At every boom sounding from a distance, Steve would jerk. Arm tightening around your shoulder where it was slung and hand creasing the soft bounding of the book in his hand. You tried turning up the volume on the tv to distract from the chaos outside, but it wouldn’t stop the feeling of the sound gliding over your room if the fireworks were shot off too close.

You hated the week leading up to his birthday for his sake. He didn’t sleep. You would catch him laying stiffly, staring at the ceiling, mentally preparing for another round of booms to sound that may or may not come. You tried everything to help him. Fixing him tea to help him sleep. Giving him earplugs. Washing his hair and giving him a massage before bed. Anything to get Steve to relax enough to sleep. Nothing really worked.

You sighed as you went through your mail that was just delivered to your shared apartment, Tony’s brightly colored “Fourth of July Banger! (Steve’s birthday)” invitation staring you in the face. It was happening in upstate New York and all Avengers were invited for the weekend. Promises of good food, company, and relaxation featured on the invitation. Steve told you about it last week when Tony mentioned it during a team briefing (he didn’t know Tony- or Pepper rather- had already reached out to you about it). Steve wanted to go, stating he felt more comfortable with Tony directing the firework show rather than random people. You didn’t agree with him, given Tony’s track record, but the absence of unannounced firework shows would do Steve good.

Since the fourth was on a Friday this year, Tony insisted that you and Steve come up to the cabin on Thursday so Steve didn’t have to spend his birthday traveling. You met Tony at the luxurious cabin, his mouth moving a mile a minute while showing you around the campus. He kept boasting about the huge firework display he had planned, assuring Steve that everything will be announced and timed to offer any comfort it could. Tony dropped you both off at the door to your suite, throwing a “Dinner’s at 6!” over his shoulder as he left. After Steve set your bags down, he flopped down on the bed and groaned, his hands coming up to rub over his face. You laid down next to him, you head propped up on your hand as you used your other one to stroke up and down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of it as he breathed.

Steve revealed his face with a groan and stared blankly at the ceiling, catching your hand as it moved over his upper chest, bringing your hand up to his mouth to kiss your fingers. You squeezed his hand in response, humming. “What’s on your mind, honey?” You asked, rubbing the back of his hand still holding yours with your thumb. He sighed and spoke. “I don’t know. I’ve never really had a birthday celebration before. We did it the best we could when I was younger, but that will be nothing compared to what Tony could do tomorrow.” You knew Tony was preparing a party. Pepper reached out to get all the details on Steve. From his favorite cake flavor to his favorite songs. You thought it was sweet of Tony to throw Steve a party, but you were worried about the fireworks. PTSD can be unpredictable and you just hoped being secluded in the woods would do more good than bad.

You brought his own hand up to your mouth and kissed it like did yours, smiling back at Steve who had a pretty blush. He still wasn’t used to someone treating him so kindly. “All you have to worry about tomorrow is having fun. If you don’t wanna watch the fireworks, we can come back here and cuddle. Tony will understand.” He nodded and turned back to the ceiling, taking deep and even breaths to calm his mind. You curled up with him, your joined hands resting on his stomach. You placed your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You almost fell asleep like that, tired from a long day of travel, but JARVIS announced dinner was ready. You and Steve laughed a little at the jumpscare before heading off to find the dining room.

You woke before Steve the next morning, which was unusual, especially since you were sleeping in an unfamiliar location. The early morning light streamed through the cracks in the curtains, casting a glow over the bedroom. Steve had you tucked under his chin, arm curled securely around your waist. The tension that plagued Steve for the past week was nowhere to be seen- well, you could feel where it went. Straight down south and it's currently pressing against your ass. You giggled quietly, heat flooding your core at the idea of him waking up hard for you.

You were toying with the idea of simmying down to help him out when he stirred. He groaned and stretched behind you, kissing the back of your head and bringing you closer, his hips pushing into your ass harder. His soft groan turned deep as his clothed cock nestled between your asscheeks. “Good morning,” he said into your ear, his voice still rich with sleep. He kissed your ear afterwards, trailing kissing from your ear to your collarbone that was exposed from your oversized sleep shirt slipping overnight. “Mhm, good morning, Stevie. Happy Birthday.” You pushed your hips back harder against his own, causing him to bite back a curse and his hand to rest on your hipbone, guiding you back harder. “Ooh, fuck, baby, you gonna give me a present this early? My birthday has barely started.”

You turned in his hold, causing him to whine at the loss of contact. He mentally cursed his super soldier serum for making him extra sensitive to touch. You playfully shooshed him and pushed at his shoulder until he got the hint to roll on to his back. You followed him, straddling his narrow waist, his cock trapped beneath your hips and his briefs. You leaned some of your weight onto your hips, pushing against his erection as you leaned over him, one arm on each side of his head, brackening him in. His hands came to rest on your hips again, gently guiding your hips to rock against his.

Your mouth found his neck, sucking small bruises into the pale skin. They would fade by the time you left the room, but it was nice to mark him for the time being. His breath was harsh and little noises of pleasure were escaping his teeth-bitten lips every few slow thrusts of your pussy against his cock, the barrier of underwear stopping him from falling over the edge quickly. You kissed and sucked across his neck, taut from his head being thrown back against the pillows. “Are you complaining about an early birthday present, Captain? Because, I think you deserve some treats,” you whispered into his ear during a particularly deep thrust of your hips to his.

He muffled his whiny groan into your neck, placing his own bites. His arms wrapped around the small of your back, giving you no choice but you rest completely against him. Your hips slotted completely against his, continuing the slow deep grind. Steve’s hands were running up and down your back under your shirt, clinging desperately to you, as he kissed and sucked around your neck. You pushed up against his chest, forcing his arms to go slack and fall to your hips as you leaned up. You smirked at the debauched look on his red face. You traced your fingertips slowly over his heaving chest, drawing them closer and closer to where your core rested on his. His dark blue eyes followed your every movement. Just as you were about to reach the wet spot under the band of his boxers, your hands switched directions and landed on the hem of your shirt.

“Yea, baby, take it off for me,” Steve whispered huskily, his fingertips digging into your hips harder in anticipation. You teased at the hem of your sleep shirt, barely flashing Steve your blue panties. Steve’s lip was sucked raw watching you tease him. “Come on, baby, don’t tease me on my birthday,” he all but whined. You giggled, “Fine, since you asked so nicely…”

Your fingertips curled into the hem of the shirt. Steve’s hands brought you down harder on his cock as you exposed where you touched. You paused with your shirt tucked underneath your breasts as you looked down your body. Steve’s cock was hard and hot underneath your pussy, perfectly placed to where he would be sliding between your folds if you were naked. You suddenly wished you were. At the thought, you continued to lift your shirt, only to be thrown off by a voice coming over the room.

“Sir has requested you both for brunch. Guests have arrived.” Steve cursed the robotic voice and cursed Tony. You laughed and leaned down to give him one more kiss to his bitten lips before jumping off the bed. Steve whined at the loss and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow and grumbled. You laid a playful smack on his ass that was uncovered when rolled over on your way to grab your outfit. He growled into the pillow, and lunged over to snatch your waist as you walked past again. You shrieked and giggled, playfully slapping his arms as they locked around you. “Steve! We need food.” You urged him to let you go but he held tight, his lips returning to the back of your neck. “Sorry, can’t hear you, all the blood in my head is in my dick,” he mumbled into your neck. You laughed at his dramatics, somehow managing to turn around in his arms. You looked up into his eyes, filled with love and passion. You kissed his nose, causing him to wrinkle it cutely. “If I promise that I have a surprise planned for the firework show tonight, will you let me eat?” Steve debated letting you go or throwing you back into the bed and having his way with you when your stomach growling between the two of you. Steve laughed and let you go with a “fine, but wear something cute.” You rolled your eyes and went to the bathroom to get dressed. Before you closed the door, you leaned back out to Steve. “Hey, Stevie?”

“Yea, baby?”

“Leave your problem for later.” You winked at his shocked face and giggled to yourself as you closed the bathroom door.

The dining room (or hall almost) was packed with Avengers and various people Steve has met (mostly through Tony). Steve made his rounds, thanking everyone for the birthday wishes and for coming all this way. “I wouldn’t miss free food and a firework show for nothing!” Sam had teased. The day flew by in a whirlwind of red, white, and blue. Tony managed to put together a small museum of Steve’s stuff from the 30s and 40s to showcase. Steve had tears in his eyes after walking through. Of course, those tears dried up when he heard Bucky telling a quite embarrassing story of Steve getting stuck in a pair of the blue tights after a mission.

Darkness grew as the sun said its goodbye over the horizon. The trees surrounding the cabin would have been eerie if it wasn’t for Tony looping string lights around the branches. The soft glow washed gently over Steve’s happy face as you took your seats on the benches outside, waiting for Tony to start the show. You had guided Steve to a loveseat at the back of the semicircle of seating, only winking when he sent you a confused look. You felt bad for taking Steve away from his friends, but your plan couldn’t be set into motion with Bucky sitting right next to you.

You sat down next to Steve and gently tugged a blanket across your laps. “I really don’t think we need this, I run hot enough for the both of us,” Steve joked. You were grateful for the almost silent massive fans Tony had set up around the circle because Steve was right. It was hot as hell out here even with the sun down. “You’ll thank me for it in a little bit.” Steve was confused about your comment, but couldn’t respond due to Tony’s voice drawing everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the time has finally come. If you look to your left, I have set up a timer to count down for each firework to go off so no scares,” Tony clapped his hands together before finishing, “Let’s send this 4th off with a bang!” The time started to count down from 60 seconds. You snuggled into Steve’s side, feeling his tense. “You okay?” He nodded and smiled down at you. “The timer helps, but I’m still nervous.”

You curled your arm around the back of his neck, twirling with the hairs there. “I have an idea that will take your mind off the fireworks…” you whispered. He gently shivered at the tone of your voice. “10!... 9!... 8!” A countdown filled with excited and happy voices started and you took the opportunity to glance around to the crowd. People would have to turn almost completely around to see you and Steve which was perfect.

As the countdown reached one and the pop of the first firework sounded as it lifted into the air, your hand grasped Steve’s cock through the fabric of his athletic shorts. His startled gasp-turned groan was hidden by the loud bang of the explosion. Steve grabbed your wrist as you set a rough pace, massaging against the top half of his cock where he was the most sensitive. “What are y-you doing, fuck!” Thankfully, the fireworks were shooting off in quick succession because the more pressure you put against Steve, the less he could control his voice. You tugged at the hairs you were playing with earlier, forcing his head up and back. “Watch the show, pretty boy, it’s for you after all. You wouldn’t want Tony to think you were grateful,” you lick a stripe down his neck after your words, resting your head on his shoulder. You made it look like you were just cuddling if anyone was to look back.

A burst of heat shot through Steve at the thought of anyone knowing what you were doing under the blanket. His cock gave a hard twitch against your palm at the thought. A wicked smile stretched across your face. “Aw, baby, did you like that? You like the thought of someone looking right now and seeing you with your cock out?” You felt the rumble in his chest from his groan since you couldn’t hear over the booms still happening around you. You could feel the fabric of Steve’s shorts growing wet, the fabric spilling around the head of his cock under where your fingers were swirling around it.

Steve’s hips were restless. Constantly pushing up against your hand. After another violent twitch of his cock and a pitiful moan that escaped from his throat during one of the few quieter moments of the firework show, you decided to help Steve out. The show was escalating, booms coming faster and faster and you knew the finale was near- for both the show and Steve. You gently took Steve’s cock out of his shorts, the warm summer air not doing anything to help him out. Steve still had his head thrown back, hoping that he looked like he was enjoying the show and not just your hand wrapped around his dick. You firmly stroked him from base to tip, circling the tip every time you reached it. His breathing was harsh and you knew if you glanced at his face, it would be blood red. His hips kept making aborted thrusts upwards, trying not to buck the blanket of your laps.

“Finale!” came Tony’s shout. “You have until the fireworks are over to cum, Stevie.” He struggled to bring his head down to meet your eyes. The blue was absorbed by darkness and you could see a little blood on his bottom lip from his struggles to hold in his moans. As the finale started, so did your hand. Your hand rocketed up and down his shaft, his pre cum making the glide perfect. The rough blanket was rubbing against his tip, giving him delicious friction. Steve’s forehead landed on yours, his eyes closed tightly. His breath panting against your lips. “Come on, Steve, cum for me, baby. You deserve it. Make a mess of my hand.” Steve’s final moan was swallowed by the final firework boom. You quickly kissed him to silence his whimpers as the crowd cheered. You slowly jerked his cock a few more times, drawing out his entire release. He shivered as the overstimulation took over and he gently took your hand off himself. He tucked himself back into his shorts just as the string lights came back on outside. You tugged the blanket away when Steve gave you the okay and discreetly wiped your hand off and rolled it up.

“How’d you like it?” Tony came up to your bench and Steve gave a half hearted smile, still trying to get his breathing under control. “It was great, Tony, thank you again. Y/N here is absolutely exhausted, so we’re heading to bed. See you in the morning!" Steve hurried to grab your wrist and jerk you up, rushing you inside. You threw a goodnight over your shoulder, laughing at Tony’s “wrap it up kids!” You hoped Steve thought differently about fireworks after tonight.

#marissa writes #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers birthday

39 notes · View notes

pankowcrumbs · 2 days ago

Note

Can I request a Joe Keery x fem! reader long oneshot where reader and Joe meet at a college party and reader almost didn’t come but her friend/roommate convinced her to go and she is so glad she did it or she most likely wouldn’t have met Joe and wouldn’t have been by his side throughout his acting and music career, and be where she is today, married to him with a family?

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

If you'd told me that one hazy Friday night at uni would be the start of my forever, I would’ve laughed in your face. I almost didn’t go. I was tired, had coursework due Monday, and frankly, the idea of loud music and too many people crammed into a student house didn’t appeal to me. I’d already curled up on the sofa in my comfiest joggers with a blanket and a tub of cookie dough ice cream when my flatmate barged into the room like a whirlwind of glitter and good intentions.

“Y/N,” she said, hands on hips, already dressed like she’d stepped out of an indie music video. “You are not spending another night being a hermit. You’ve been in your room all week. I am physically dragging you if I have to.”

“I really don’t feel like it,” I groaned, spooning another mouthful into my mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. “You said the same thing last weekend and the weekend before that. Come on. You’ll thank me.”

I didn’t know it then, but she was right.

Half an hour later, I was in a denim skirt and oversized jumper, mascara on and a half-hearted wave in my hair, standing outside a house pulsing with music and people spilling out onto the lawn. I tried to talk myself into enjoying it, mentally preparing for polite small talk and awkward nods to strangers.

The first hour went exactly as expected awkward conversations in the kitchen, warm cans of beer, and stepping over people to get to the loo. I was just about to slip out quietly when someone caught my eye across the room.

He was sat on the arm of the sofa, beer in hand, laughing at something someone said. His hair was a tousled mess not the kind that looks unkempt, but the kind that looks deliberately undone, like he woke up charming. I didn’t know who he was. Not yet. But the way he leaned in when people spoke, the genuine interest in his eyes… it was magnetic.

Then, he looked up. Right at me.

And smiled.

I immediately looked behind me, convinced he must be grinning at someone else. But when I turned back, he was still looking, still smiling and then, casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he stood and made his way over.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth and warm. “You look like you’re trying to escape.”

I laughed nervously. “That obvious?”

“Only because I was thinking the same.”

We introduced ourselves he was Joe, from Chicago, doing a semester abroad. I was Y/N, from Y/H/T, wondering how on earth I’d ended up having a full conversation with someone this effortlessly cool.

We talked for hours that night. Found a quieter corner of the garden, away from the noise. I found out he was studying theatre and music, that he’d been acting in small student productions back home. I told him about my love for writing and the book I’d been secretly working on for the past year. He didn’t laugh or look bored. He listened really listened and then asked questions that made me feel like what I had to say actually mattered.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said quietly as the party started to wind down, his voice soft over the hum of a dying playlist.

“Me too,” I replied, and meant it.

We didn’t become inseparable overnight, but we came close. Study sessions turned into coffee dates. Coffee dates turned into late-night phone calls. By the time spring rolled around, he was holding my hand in the quad like it was second nature. When he flew back to the States after term ended, I cried. Ugly cried. But he promised we’d make it work.

And we did.

Through the awkward time zones, spotty Wi-Fi, and longing glances over video calls, we made it work. A year later, I flew out to Chicago to surprise him for his birthday. He cried proper tears and told me he wanted to be with me for as long as I’d let him.

He meant it.

His acting career didn’t explode overnight, either. He did commercials, indie films, anything he could get his hands on. I was always there backstage, in the wings, holding his scripts and calming his nerves.

And then came Stranger Things.

I remember the call. I was in my tiny flat, eating toast in my pyjamas.

“They want me to play a character named Steve. Small role, might only be in one season.”

I smiled. “Let them see what you can do. You’ll make it unforgettable.”

He did. The world fell in love with Steve Harrington, but I already knew how special Joe was.

Fame came slowly, then all at once. Red carpets. Interviews. Paparazzi outside restaurants. It was surreal. But through it all, he stayed grounded funny, sweet, utterly himself. We made time for each other, even when life got mad. I moved to LA for a while. We shared a tiny flat with noisy neighbours and a leaky tap and a cat that wasn’t technically ours but kept coming back anyway.

He’d come home late from filming, exhausted, but his face would light up when he saw me curled on the sofa. We’d order takeaway and binge terrible telly, and I’d think this, this is the life I never knew I wanted.

When he started playing music more seriously, I was there at every gig. From pubs with dodgy speakers to proper venues where people screamed his lyrics back to him. I saw the way he lit up on stage, the way music poured out of him like he was born to do it.

I was there the night he proposed.

He took me to the park where we first had a proper date a little bench under an old oak tree. He got down on one knee with a ring that sparkled in the moonlight and hands that trembled just a little.

“Y/N,” he said, voice thick, “you’ve been by my side since before anyone knew my name. I can’t imagine a future without you in it. Will you marry me?”

I think I tackled him to the ground. Or cried. Probably both.

Now, as I stand in our kitchen making dinosaur-shaped sandwiches for our twins, I still think about that party. The one I almost didn’t go to. The one that changed everything.

Joe walks in, hair even messier than usual, our youngest on his hip and a milk bottle in his free hand.

“Dad’s toast is burning again,” one of the twins says with a dramatic sigh.

“I got distracted!” he protests, grinning as he drops a kiss on my cheek. “She started humming the theme song to Peppa Pig. I panicked.”

I laugh, taking the baby from him so he can rescue his poor toast.

This is our life now. A beautiful chaos of toys underfoot, music playing in every room, and spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen. He still acts. Still sings. Still writes music that makes me cry. But at the end of the day, he’s just Joe. My Joe.

Later, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, we curl up on the sofa not unlike that night years ago, when a different sofa hosted our first real conversation.

“D’you ever think about that night?” I ask, head resting on his chest.

“All the time,” he murmurs, fingers gently tracing circles on my arm. “I was ready to leave, y’know. Didn’t think I’d meet anyone interesting. Then I saw you standing in the doorway, looking like you wanted to disappear.”

I laugh. “I did.”

He smiles. “Good thing you didn’t. Everything I have this life, our kids, the music it all started with you.”

My throat tightens. “I’m glad I listened to Sophie.”

“Me too. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Y/N.”

I shift so I can see his face, all soft eyes and that familiar crooked smile. “And you’re mine.”

He kisses me, slow and certain, and for a moment I forget about the laundry pile and the emails I haven’t answered and the dishes in the sink.

All I can think is thank God I went to that party.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #joe keery #joe keery x reader #stranger things #steve harrington #joe keery x you #joe keery imagine #joe keery one shot

29 notes · View notes

movingmusically · 21 hours ago

Text

Something Sacred - Part 4

Synopsis:

He talks about trauma like it’s sacred. She calls it manipulation. But the longer she stays, the harder it is to tell the difference.

Warnings:

References to suicide.

Word Count: 6.8k

Masterlist

You arrived early Friday evening.

By now, there was no ceremony to it. Just your bag set down in the same room. A quiet hello from someone passing through the hallway. The usual hum of soft voices and clinking plates drifting in from the kitchen.

You were heading that way when you saw Marianne struggling to carry two crates of vegetables across the courtyard, her hair half-tumbling from its clip. She looked like she was trying to keep pace with a day that had gotten away from her, expression pulled tighter than usual.

You ran over and reached for one of the crates. “Need a hand?”

She gave a quick breath of relief, then nodded. “Rebecca. Thank you — I’ve been chasing the clock all afternoon. Vernon’s in town giving a talk, and somehow everything’s behind.”

She shifted the other crate in her arms. “I still need to finish prepping dinner — if you’re up for helping, I’d really appreciate it.”

You followed her through the side door into the kitchen, where the warm air hit you immediately — cumin, lemon, something slow-roasting in the oven. A tray of chickpeas sat cooling by the sink, and a chopping board waited beside a half-finished bowl of herbs.

Marianne set her crate down with a soft grunt. “Tomatoes and cucumbers are in there. If you don’t mind slicing — I’ll sort the rest.”

You nodded and stepped in beside her. The quiet was easy, filled with the soft sounds of movement — a spoon tapping glass, the low clatter of bowls. The kind of rhythm you didn’t have to think too hard about.

After a while, Marianne spoke — casually, but not without intent. “Have you changed your mind about all this yet?”

You glanced up.

“About the retreat. Vernon.” She gave a small shrug. “We weren’t sure what to expect, when he told us someone from outside was coming. A therapist.”

You blinked. “He told you about me?”

Marianne gave a slight smile. “Just that you were sceptical. Worried about what he does here. He wanted us to know.”

You weren’t offended, exactly. But something in you shifted. “What did you think?”

“I thought it made sense,” she said simply. “Most people who come here are carrying trauma that doesn’t fit cleanly into language — especially the kind of trauma Vernon’s work touches.” A pause. “It’s rare to meet someone who wants to understand it without needing to explain it away.”

You let that sit for a beat, then gave a faint smile. “The first weekend, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Now it feels... familiar, I guess.”

“Familiar’s a good place to start,” she said, reaching for the herbs.

You hesitated a moment before speaking again. “Can I ask—how long have you been part of this?”

Marianne smiled softly. “Longer than I expected. I came thinking I’d stay for a weekend. That was... almost two years ago.”

You raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt.

She went on, more quietly now, “I didn’t talk about what happened to me for over a decade. Not even in therapy. I used all the right words. All the trained responses. But I never really let anyone see it.”

You were quiet.

“He didn’t ask for details. Not right away. Just gave me space. That was... new.”

You reached for another tomato. “Did you do a one-to-one with him?”

Marianne nodded. “Eventually.”

You looked over. “What was it like?”

“Strange,” she said honestly. “But grounding. It wasn’t about him. That’s what I remember most. He didn’t try to fix me, didn’t guide me toward anything. He just stayed with me through it. Let me stay in my body, even when it felt impossible.”

You were quiet for a while, then said, “He offered one to me. Last weekend.”

Marianne didn’t look surprised. “And?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She gave a small nod. “He’s careful about who he invites. But if he offered — he probably sees something you’re holding back.”

You didn’t answer.

Just finished slicing the tomato.

Dinner was unhurried — plates passed, laughter rising in brief pockets, the kind of end-of-week energy that softened everything at the edges. You stayed behind to help clear up, lingering over mugs and folded napkins, not quite ready to step away.

Eventually, you found yourself on the margins again, standing just outside the circle of conversation beginning to gather under the soft terrace lights.

“Rebecca,” Mara called, her voice gentle but sure. “Come join us.”

You crossed the courtyard and took the empty seat beside her. Someone passed you a folded blanket. You tucked it across your lap, grateful for something to do with your hands.

The bench was warm, and the air around the group was loose with the end-of-day quiet — not sleepy, just unguarded. No one turned to greet you directly, but there was space made for you all the same.

They were already mid-conversation. Something about how strange it felt to be asked how you felt rather than what you thought.

“It's disarming,” someone was saying. “To be invited into your own body again. Gently, but without apology.”

A woman across from you added, “I used to dissociate just walking into a room like this. But the work here... it helped me notice the difference between disappearing and letting go.”

You listened without trying to analyse, letting the rhythms of their voices move around you.

Mara glanced over. “He sees things most people don’t say out loud. That’s what scared me the most, at first.”

There was a hum of agreement.

“Someone asked me once,” the man opposite said, “if I ever felt like I gave too much away here. I remember thinking—no. That was the whole point.”

“I didn’t think I had anything to give,” a woman added. “Not like that. But somehow… he made it feel like a choice. Not a performance. Not a test.”

“Like being allowed to take up space again,” someone else said softly.

You glanced between them. No one was trying to impress each other. They weren’t talking about Vernon so much as talking around him — the way you might describe a place by the shape it leaves in your memory.

Mara stirred the last of her tea. “I fought it, the first time. Thought if I gave in, I’d be handing him power. But it wasn’t like that. It was the opposite. I got to decide what I gave.”

“And when,” another voice said. “That part matters too.”

The woman beside you turned, voice low. “Are you thinking about doing a session with him?”

You hesitated.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean to pry. Just… sometimes it helps, hearing how it’s been for others.”

You gave a small, noncommittal nod. The kind that leaves things open without inviting more.

There was something unspoken in the air for a moment — not heavy, but charged. You couldn’t have named it if someone asked. But you felt it.

You sipped your drink slowly. “Do people ever—feel like they’ve gone too far?”

“No,” Mara said. “But sometimes they realise how far they’ve wanted to go. That can be confronting.”

“Especially when someone actually meets you there,” someone added.

You didn’t ask what that meant. You weren’t sure you needed to.

The conversation drifted after that — someone asked about tomorrow’s workshop, someone else mentioned dreams they'd been having since arriving. The tone was light, but the ground underneath felt solid. Safe.

Eventually, the group began to thin out. Cushions were gathered. Blankets folded. Mugs returned to the kitchen.

As you stood, you looked over at Mara. “Do you still want to talk tomorrow? We don’t have to do anything formal. Just… check in.”

Mara nodded. “I’d like that.”

You stayed outside a little longer after the others drifted off, the night air brushing your skin as your mind circled what had been said.

You sat by the small table in your room, elbows resting on the wood, thoughts still turning over. The conversations from dinner hadn't faded — they’d lodged somewhere deeper, unsettled something you weren’t quite ready to name.

It wasn’t discomfort, exactly. But there was a weight to it. The kind that didn’t lift just because the day was over.

You reached for the carafe out of habit, then noticed it was nearly empty. Of course it was. You hadn’t refilled it after dinner.

The quiet pressed in.

You stood, slipped your arms into your cardigan and drew it close, and took the carafe with you. A short walk. Something to do with your hands. Maybe the night air would help you think.

The path between the guest rooms and the main building was dim but familiar now — the low crunch of gravel, the faint rustle of the breeze through dry grass. You moved without hurry, aware of how quiet it was now — no laughter, no clatter, just the hush that settled when everyone had gone to bed.

You’d nearly reached the main building when headlights cut across the far wall. A car pulled in slowly, tyres soft on the gravel, engine humming low. A moment later, Vernon emerged, one hand on the top of the door. His jacket was cream — the same one you’d seen before — worn open over a pale shirt, the collar open enough to reveal the lines of ink across his chest. His hair was tousled, eyes shadowed with tiredness, but when he glanced up and saw you, his mouth curved slightly.

“Rebecca,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see anyone still up.”

You held up the carafe in explanation. “Forgot to fill it after dinner.”

A small smile flickered at the edge of his mouth. “Of course. How was the evening?”

You shrugged lightly. “Quiet. Good.”

He closed the car door gently and started toward you, slowing as he drew near. The silence stretched, not awkward, but weighted.

You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Or if you were waiting at all. But something about him standing there — tired, quiet, just back from somewhere else — pulled the moment into focus.

“I’ve been thinking about your offer,” you said.

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence for you.

You let out a slow breath. “If it’s still open… I’d like to do a one-to-one session.”

Vernon nodded once. He didn’t look surprised, only steady, something measured settling in his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Late morning?”

You felt it take shape in your chest — not exactly fear, and not quite relief. More like inevitability, quiet and certain.

You nodded.

And he gave the smallest of smiles. “Get some rest.”

Then he stepped past you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he made his way toward the main building.

You stood for a moment longer, then turned back toward the kitchen, carafe warm in your hands now from where you'd been holding it.

Vernon found you just after breakfast.

You’d stayed behind to rinse your mug, lingering by the open window while the others drifted toward the gardens. Morning light had begun to shift — warmer now, but soft, like it hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be. When you turned, he was already approaching, his steps soundless on the wooden floor.

“Rebecca,” he said softly. “Are you ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything more. Just turned and began walking, and you followed — out through the courtyard and into the main building, through a side door you hadn’t used before. The hallway was quiet. Cooler here. He stopped at the end, opened the door, and stepped aside so you could enter first.

Inside was nothing like the guest rooms. Sunlight filtered in through half-drawn blinds, softening the space. The air held a trace of something earthy — cedar, maybe, or sandalwood. The room didn’t feel staged. It felt prepared.

There was a low woven rug in the centre of the floor, with two cushions placed across from each other, and just enough furniture to feel real: a desk, a chair, a shelves lined with books. Nothing crowded or clinical.

The camera on the tripod beside the desk caught your eye.

“It’s off,” Vernon said gently. “I record content here sometimes. For the online side of things. Never during something like this.”

You gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Vernon moved toward the rug and settled onto one of the cushions, knees folding easily beneath him. His posture was calm but attentive — the kind of stillness that isn’t passive. He gestured to the one opposite. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You lowered yourself slowly. The rug was textured beneath your palms, anchoring. The cushion gave just enough to catch your weight.

“Before we begin,” he said, his voice steady, “I want to offer a few things that might help.”

He reached beside him and held out a smooth, rounded stone. Dark grey, worn down at the edges. “This is for grounding — just something to hold onto. A tether, if you need one.”

You took it. The weight surprised you — not heavy, but solid. Real.

Then he lifted a folded scarf — dark and worn-in.

“Some people find it helpful to remove visual distraction. To look inward without external cues. The scarf’s there if you want it — you don’t have to use it.”

You looked at it. Soft cotton. Nothing threatening. But your pulse ticked up, just slightly.

“It’s not about control,” he said, as if reading your thoughts. “It’s about quieting the part of the mind that always needs to perform.”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “No, it’s okay,” you said. “I want to try.”

Vernon rose onto his knees and leaned forward, slipping the scarf gently over your eyes. His knuckles grazed your temple, a breath of contact, featherlight but anchoring. Your chest tightened for a moment — not from fear, but the sudden hush that comes with surrender.

Then the darkness came, quiet as an exhale. Soft. Complete.

“Go ahead and lie back,” he said quietly. “Let your body settle.”

His hand touched your shoulder — warm, steady. You leaned into it, letting him guide you. His other hand met the bend of your elbow, firm and sure, easing you down.

Without sight, everything sharpened: the texture of the rug beneath you, the shift of your own breath, the way his touch anchored each small movement until your spine found the floor.

Your body settled into the rug, each breath stretching out a little further than the last. Your fingers curled slightly around the stone.

You didn’t feel exposed, exactly. But there was no performance left in you now. No expression to control, no eyes to meet.

Just sensation. And him, somewhere above you — voice steady, presence unyielding.

“I’ll guide you through some breath work first,” Vernon said. “And if you hear a soft chime, it’s just a cue. A way to come back to the body if you need it. Nothing more.”

His voice wasn’t far. You could feel it more than hear it — low, close, like a current running parallel to your own.

“Notice the weight of your body against the floor. The places where the rug meets your spine, your shoulders, your heels. Let yourself rest there.”

The rug was coarse at the edges. A single thread itched your wrist, but you didn’t move. The scarf muted the light, pulling your attention inward.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, just let the quiet stretch.

“Breathe in,” he said.

You did. The inhale was thin, the exhale uneven.

“You hold so much,” Vernon said, softer now. “Even now. In the way your shoulders brace. In the way your breath waits.”

You swallowed, but said nothing.

“It’s not weakness,” he murmured. “It’s vigilance. You’ve made a home out of hyper-awareness.”

The words struck something. A shimmer of truth beneath your ribs.

“Breathe in again, deeper this time. Into the base of the belly.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Now hold.”

A beat.

“Exhale.”

One hand stayed clenched lightly around the stone, the other resting over your stomach, tracking movement.

And again.

Until breath turned to rhythm. Until you weren’t counting anymore.

“Good,” Vernon said quietly. “Stay with that. Stay inside.”

Silence stretched.

Not empty, but heavy — like the air between you had thickened. You could feel it pressing at the edges of your skin.

“Let the breath move through,” he murmured. “And notice what stays behind.”

A pause. Then:

“Is there a shape beneath it?”

You didn’t answer.

He waited. Let the quiet settle.

Then tried again. “A moment your body hasn’t let go of?”

Your fingers tightened around the stone. The muscles in your jaw locked — not from fear, but something else. Bracing.

“I don’t know,” you said. Too quickly.

But Vernon didn’t fill the silence. He let the words echo and fall. Then—

“You’re holding back,” Vernon said quietly. “Not out of fear. Out of habit.”

You swallowed. The scarf dulled everything but your breath and the scratch of the rug beneath your wrist.

“It’s hard to let go when you’ve built your life on staying two steps ahead,” he continued. “Even now — you’re waiting to see where I’m going before you decide whether to follow.”

Your hand twitched. Just once. A subtle reflex. Not enough to count as movement, but enough to feel it. The weight of the stone. The shape of your grip. He wasn’t wrong. But you didn’t respond.

“You didn’t trust any of this at first,” he said softly. “Not me. Not this place.”

“It’s not like—”

“But you stayed.”

Your throat caught. The words weren’t a challenge. Just a fact. Observed. Accepted.

He didn’t move. But his presence tilted slightly toward you, like a current shifting direction.

“You don’t have to say it yet,” Vernon said. “But your body already knows.”

And it did.

Because your breath hitched. Not from effort, but memory. A curl of heat under your ribs. The faintest tremble through your belly — old, familiar. You pressed your free hand down, grounding against the rug — trying to pin yourself back into now.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “There’s nowhere else you need to be.”

The scarf stayed soft against your temples. The air held still.

And when you spoke, it didn’t feel like a choice.

It felt like an undoing.

“My cousin died.”

The words came out without warning, barely above a whisper. But once they were there, they wouldn’t leave you.

“She was seventeen. Her name was Leah.”

You exhaled — shakier this time. A flicker behind your eyes: the funeral. The food laid out like a church potluck. The way people said tragic the way they might say wet summer. Your dad not speaking. Your mom crying in the kitchen, trying to hide it. The way Cassie curled into your side that night, not old enough to understand why the house had gone silent.

Your chest tightened. But you didn’t retreat.

“She took her own life,” you said. “Cassie’s sister.”

You felt Vernon quiet even further — his breath, his energy. Not withdrawn, but attuned. Present without pressure.

“I was fifteen. It was summer. I remember thinking Leah had gone quiet, but not in a way that set off alarms. Just… less there. She stopped teasing me. Stopped rolling her eyes at dinner. Said she was tired. Went to bed early. Everyone thought—she’s just being a teenager.”

The words tumbled now — not neatly shaped. Just coming.

“But it was like… she was already halfway gone. And I didn’t see it.”

You shifted slightly on the rug. The scarf tugged faintly at your temples. One of your hands had come to rest over your sternum, holding something in.

“Afterwards, everything went quiet. My aunt didn’t speak. My uncle fixed things obsessively — lamps, fences, pipes that didn’t leak. My parents tried to hold the house up around them. I tried to hold up Cassie.”

The stone slipped slightly in your grip.

“She was so small. Kept asking where Leah went. And no one… no one gave her a real answer. Just vague stuff about heaven or peace. But the house didn’t feel peaceful. It felt like we were all waiting for someone to say something that never came.”

You weren’t crying, not quite. But the grief wasn’t distant anymore. It pressed into your ribs, your throat.

“I told myself I should’ve known. She was right there. I thought, if I’d been paying attention, I could’ve stopped it.”

A long breath. Shaky. You didn’t try to fix it.

“After that, I just stayed calm. I did what needed doing. Looked after Cassie. Made myself useful.”

Another breath. Vernon said nothing, but you could feel him there — near, steady.

“And I thought… if I could stay ahead of things, if I listened hard enough, I’d see it next time. I’d never miss it again.”

You paused. The next words lodged in your chest, but you let them rise.

“I made it my job to see it.”

You heard your voice start to explain — to find the why, the shape, the function of it — and felt it tilt too neatly into something you could use.

Vernon’s voice stopped it before it went any further.

“Come back to your body.”

It was soft, but immediate. Like he’d caught you halfway out of yourself.

“Right now,” he said. “What do you feel?”

You didn’t answer. Not at first.

Because your throat was tight. Because the air felt heavier. Because your fingers had started to ache from holding the stone too hard.

“Not what it means,” he said gently. “Just what’s happening.”

Your breath shook on the inhale. “My chest,” you said, barely audible. “It feels…”

You didn’t finish.

He didn’t make you.

The next breath came shallower. You pressed your heel into the rug, the edge of it digging into your skin like something to hold onto.

“It’s not leaving,” you said. Not to him — just aloud. “It never left.”

That was the crack. The break in the surface. Not reason, not memory — presence. And underneath it: the weight you’d carried so long you’d stopped feeling it.

Vernon’s voice came softly, just above your shoulder. “And what happens when it’s your pain?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because your throat was tight again. Because your chest still ached. Because something in you was pulsing with the effort of holding on and breaking open at the same time.

“I don’t let that happen,” you said. Quiet. Flat. True.

He didn’t move, but the air shifted — like he’d leaned closer without touching, a current drawing toward you.

“You were a child, Rebecca,” he said, voice low. “You weren’t meant to save anyone.”

Your fingers tightened around the stone again. Not in defiance — in reflex. Like letting go would mean falling.

“Grief doesn’t ask for permission,” he murmured. “And somewhere in all of that, you forgot you were allowed to fall too.”

Something cracked at that — not a sob, not a sound. Just a ripple down your spine. Your body heard it before your mind did.

Your voice came rough, frayed at the edges. “If I let go… who holds everything else?”

The silence that followed didn’t press. It steadied.

And then his voice again, quiet but certain — the kind of certainty that doesn’t demand anything.

“I’m here. For as long as you need.”

You didn’t reach for him.

Didn’t need to.

Because right then — with the scarf still soft against your skin, with the stone warming in your hand and the floor beneath you holding all your weight — something old, something buried, finally let go.

And for once, you didn’t try to catch it.

Time felt suspended. You weren’t sure how long you lay there. Long enough for your breath to settle into something steadier. Long enough for your grip on the stone to soften slightly.

When Vernon spoke again, his voice was quieter than before — like he didn’t want to startle the quiet back out of you.

“Start to notice your body again,” he said. “The way the rug holds you. The breath in your chest.”

Your hands shook faintly where they rested, the kind of tremor that came after release.

“Let your awareness come back to the edges,” he murmured. “To your skin. Your spine. The weight of your limbs.”

The words didn’t feel like instructions. They felt like anchoring. Like someone holding a light just far enough ahead for you to walk toward it on your own.

You shifted slightly. Your back moved against the floor with a quiet creak of muscle. Slow. Present.

“When you’re ready,” Vernon said. “bring a little movement in.”

You flexed your toes. Shifted your palm on the rug. The ground beneath you felt real again, but your body hadn’t quite caught up.

You moved to sit — slowly — but the air tilted around you, balance tipping. Before you could reach to steady yourself, his hand was there. One palm braced lightly between your shoulder blades, the other at your elbow. A touch that didn’t guide — just supported.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Take your time.”

You nodded and let him help you upright with the same quiet care he’d shown before. But this time, the stillness between you felt charged — not tense, but close. Like your body hadn’t yet remembered where its edges stopped and someone else’s began.

The scarf was loose now, and you felt his fingers brush behind your head, finding the knot with gentle precision. The fabric slipped free. Light returned in a soft, warm haze. You blinked against it, your lashes damp.

The room looked unchanged. But you were not the same inside it.

Vernon was beside you now — not on the cushion, but on the rug itself, facing you. Close, one leg drawn up, the other folded beneath him.

Your eyes met his — only for a moment — and something flickered behind your ribs. Not shame. Not vulnerability. Something quieter. More human.

He didn’t speak. Just reached beside him and held out a glass of water.

You reached for it without thinking, the coolness grounding your fingers. The first sip surprised you — not the taste, but the way it slid down your throat like you’d forgotten you were real for a while. That your body had weight. Edges. A pulse.

Vernon stayed close. One arm resting across his knee, the other braced lightly behind him. Still angled toward you. Quiet. Attuned.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

You considered the question. The answer didn’t come all at once. Just impressions: the ache behind your eyes, the heaviness in your limbs, like after crying in your sleep. That strange, hollow tenderness.

“Tired,” you said softly. “But like something’s… shifted.”

He nodded once. “That’s good.”

You looked down at your hand, at the stone resting in your palm. Then met his eyes again. “I didn’t think I’d actually go there,” you said. “Not like that. Not with you.”

His expression didn’t change, but something sharpened — like a ripple in still water.

“Most people don’t,” he said. “But you did.”

You swallowed. Your gaze dropped to the rug, then back to your hands.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said. “It just… came out.”

“You’ve been holding it too long to keep it neat,” he said. “That’s not a failure. That’s a body remembering it’s allowed to speak.”

The breath you took wasn’t smooth. But it landed deeper than before.

He watched you for another moment, then said — more carefully —

“You don’t let yourself need people. But you do let them need you.”

A flicker of tension passed through your shoulders — barely there, but he saw it.

“That’s not the same thing,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. Not in defiance — in recognition. Like a thread had just been pulled somewhere you hadn’t noticed fraying.

“I don’t know how else to be,” you said. Quiet. Barely audible.

“I know,” Vernon replied.

He reached out, fingers brushing your elbow again.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now. Just don’t close the door on yourself again.”

You nodded. Your throat felt tight again, but in a different way now. Not from grief. From being seen.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The scarf lay crumpled beside you. The glass still cool in your fingers.

Vernon stood slowly and held out his hand — palm up. Open. Offering.

You took it.

He helped you to your feet with the same steadiness he’d used to lower you — but when you rose, your knees almost gave. His hand stayed. His other hand came to your waist, holding you in place until you could steady yourself.

He didn’t let go right away.

“You did well.”

His voice was low. Measured. Then, with a tenderness that asked nothing of you, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

Your breath caught. Just enough that he would’ve felt it. It wasn’t invasive. It didn’t feel wrong.

His touch was featherlight — more gesture than contact — but it stayed a moment longer than necessary. Like he hadn’t just meant to move the hair, but to acknowledge something.

You looked at him then. But he didn’t comment. He just looked at you. A softness in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Like he saw something in you that was real.

“You should rest,” he said. “I’ve moved your sessions for this afternoon.”

Your brow lifted slightly, surprised. You hadn’t said you needed that.

He tilted his head slightly. “They’ll still be here later, or tomorrow. But you don’t need to hold space for anyone else right now. Give yourself the same care you offer them.”

You didn’t argue.

Vernon led you out of the room with unhurried steps, his hand returning to the small of your back.

He paused at the threshold, “If you need anything,” he said gently, “I’ll be nearby.”

You met his gaze. “Thank you.”

It didn’t feel like enough. But it was all you could offer. And he seemed to understand.

You didn’t look back as you stepped into the hall.

But something had shifted. You felt it in your limbs. In the soft tread of your feet against the floor. In the light — which seemed clearer now, though nothing had changed. As if some invisible film had been peeled away.

Back in your room, you eased the door shut and stood there for a moment. Listening to the silence.

It should have felt like a return. But the room wasn’t quite yours in the way it had been that morning. The edges had changed. Or you had.

You lay down fully clothed, arm draped over your stomach, and stared up at the ceiling.

Your breath was even, your limbs still heavy with that strange, echoing softness — but rest didn’t come.

Every time your eyes drifted closed, your mind stirred behind them. The rhythm of his words. The hush of the room. The way his hand had lingered just long enough to make you feel held.

You weren’t used to that — the stillness of it. The care that asked nothing in return.

Eventually, you sat up. Reached for your notebook and wrote without thinking at first. Fragments. Feelings. The texture of the rug. The taste of water.

Then, slower, more deliberately, you tried to name it. What had changed.

You wrote:

I didn’t expect to feel safe with him. I thought he was clever. Dangerous, maybe. Too good at finding soft spots. But today — I don’t know. It didn’t feel like performance. It felt real. And I don’t know if that’s what scares me most.

You stopped, pen hovering above the page.

Part of you wanted to analyse it — dissect every beat the way you would with a patient. But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull it apart like that. Not yet.

Instead, you sat quietly, the notebook warm on your knees, and let the contradiction sit alongside you.

You found Mara later in the sunroom, folding linens, her hands moving with unhurried care, creasing corners, smoothing edges.

The afternoon light had shifted — softer now, slanting through gauzy curtains and catching on the stacks of white and sand-coloured sheets and towels spread across a low table. She looked up when you stepped in, brushing a loose sleeve back with her wrist.

“Still alright to talk?” you asked.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You joined her without further comment, pulling a towel from the pile. The fabric was warm from the dryer. Soft. Familiar. You focused on aligning the corners.

It was Mara who spoke first.

“I couldn’t have done this a few weeks ago,” she said. “Just… be in my body. Be in the day.”

You glanced over. Her voice wasn’t light, but it didn’t tremble either.

“I remember,” you said. “You looked like you wanted to disappear.”

“I did.”

She smoothed the towel under her hands, thumbs working at a crease like it might be a question.

“It’s still there,” she added. “The noise. But it doesn’t run the whole show now. I can breathe between the thoughts.”

“That’s something.”

Mara looked down at her hands. “I think it’s the routine. The rhythm. The way people look at you like you’re still worth something, even when you’re a mess.”

You folded another towel. “And Vernon?”

She hesitated. “He sees people. I don’t always know what he sees in me, but… it’s something. And it doesn’t feel like pity.”

You didn’t speak. Let the silence stretch, just long enough to see if she needed to fill it.

“I think part of me still expects it to fall apart,” she said. “But the other part… it keeps showing up.”

You nodded once. “That part’s stronger than you think.”

Mara glanced sideways. “And you? What made you stay?”

You didn’t answer right away. The towel in your hands had a frayed edge you hadn’t noticed before.

“I wanted to check in with you,” you said honestly. “And… something about being here makes it harder to keep things at arm’s length.”

Her gaze lingered. “Did you do a session?”

You nodded. “This morning.”

“Was it what you expected?”

“Not exactly. It was quiet. Focused. He didn’t say much. But it got under the surface.”

You left it at that. Enough to acknowledge it without stepping outside your role.

They were just towels, but when the last one was folded, it felt like something else had been put away too. Not resolved. But placed gently back into its container.

Mara reached for the basket. “Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“Coming to find me.”

You offered a faint smile. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I did,” she said. “Still do.”

She lifted the basket, and you walked with her toward the hallway, arms brushing once in passing.

The space felt quieter now. Or maybe it was you.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you were starting to understand why people stayed.

Why they came back. Why they kept unfolding.

You weren’t avoiding sleep. Not exactly.

The night had simply stretched too long across your skin, your limbs too restless with thought.

You hadn’t meant to end up here again, but your feet had carried you, and now you were on the same bench where you’d first watched Vernon speak. Back when you’d only just arrived — still wary, still watching for cracks. You remembered how composed he’d seemed that day. Measured. Magnetic. The way the others had leaned in.

You hadn’t let yourself lean.

Now you sat in the same place, elbows on your knees, fingers idly laced. The lanterns cast a soft, steady light. You weren’t trying to analyse anything. Just breathing. Letting the space hold whatever hadn’t settled.

You looked out past the open edge of the structure, toward the trees where the path dipped out of sight. The night held itself like a breath.

Then a soft crunch of gravel pulled your attention sideways.

Vernon stepped into view a few moments later. A quiet recognition on his face, like he’d expected to find you here.

He paused a few steps away. “Mind if I join you?”

You gave a small nod. He sat beside you, close enough that you felt the change in air between you, but not so near as to press. His posture was easy — forearms resting loosely on his thighs, head tilted slightly like he was listening for something beyond what you might say.

The silence didn’t stretch this time. It settled.

You kept your hands laced between your knees, gaze on the dark beyond the edge of the platform. But the tension in your shoulders eased — just a fraction — with him beside you.

Eventually you said, “I’ve been thinking about that talk in Eddington. The first time I saw you speak.”

His head turned slightly. “And?”

“I thought you were full of shit.”

That made him smile. Not smug — more like someone glad you’d said it.

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “I still might think that.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he said easily.

That softened something in your chest — enough to admit, “But something happened today.”

He didn’t move. “With the session?”

You nodded. The weight of the word hung in the air between you.

“I’ve talked about it before,” you said. “Leah. Her death. I’ve analysed it. Written papers on trauma responses, family systems, narrative memory. It’s not new.”

“But?” he said.

You breathed in. “It felt different today. Like I wasn’t holding the memory. It was holding me.”

You didn’t realise you’d gone quiet until Vernon asked, gently, “What stayed with you after?”

You hesitated. “You mean after Leah died?”

“I mean after everyone else stopped talking about it.”

A pause.

“When it was just you, carrying whatever was left.”

Your throat tightened. Something in his phrasing struck bone.

“I don’t think I ever stopped,” you said. “Carrying it.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Just the faint incline of his head, like: go on.

“I got good at… holding it down. Letting a little of it come up when it felt safe. Then folding the rest away.” You looked at your hands. “I’ve always been the strong one. The reliable one. I’m the person people lean on when everything goes to hell.”

Vernon’s voice stayed low. “And who do you lean on?”

You let out a short, brittle laugh. “No one wants to see that.”

“Are you sure?”

His tone wasn’t chiding. It was curious. Quiet.

“Or is it just easier to believe they don’t?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

“And now?” he asked. “What happens when the grief still shows up — not loud, just… in the quiet?”

“I manage it.”

“That’s not the same as feeling it.”

“I do feel it,” you said, more sharply than you meant to. “I’m not numb.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replied, calm as ever. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften it. Just said, “You want things simple and neat. Contained. So the grief doesn’t spill. You’ve trained yourself to look steady. Even when you’re not.”

You didn’t answer. The truth of it sat too close.

Vernon was quiet a moment, then shifted — just enough to face you more fully. His voice stayed soft.

“Where do you feel it now?”

You hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“In your body. Right now.”

You blinked. That wasn’t how you were used to talking about pain. You were used to tracing origins, drawing maps. Not… this.

Still, your hand moved — slow, uncertain — to the centre of your chest. Not pressing. Just resting there.

Vernon reached out. Careful. Steady. He laid his hand gently over yours.

The warmth of his palm startled you. Not for its heat, but for how quietly it arrived. No demand in it. Only presence. His eyes were still on yours — steady, patient, not asking you to look away.

Your breath moved differently with his hand there. Deeper. A little uneven.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stayed with you in that small, charged stillness.

“What happens if you stop trying to hold it still?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“Try.”

You weren’t sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe nothing. Maybe just this — the moment you stopped narrating and let yourself feel what was actually there.

The ache beneath your breastbone. The strain behind your ribs. The tight, invisible thread you hadn’t realised was still pulling taut from somewhere deep in your chest.

You tried to speak — to make sense of it, to name it — but the words caught.

Vernon’s hand stayed firm over yours. A steady weight. A tether.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then his voice, low: “Don’t explain,” he said. “Just show me.”

You stayed still for a breath.

Vernon’s hand rested over yours — warm, grounding, impossibly steady.

Something in you shifted. Not in your thoughts, but lower. A sensation curling through your chest, down your spine. Like your body had recognised something before your mind could catch up.

Your eyes didn’t leave his.

Then you moved — slow at first, then sure — closing the space between you.

Your knee brushed his.

And then your mouth found his.

And everything else slipped quiet.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog @jjubilee-fluff

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #fan fiction #fanfic #imagine #fiction #austin butler x reader #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fanfic #austin butler x #austinbutler #austin butler x you #vernon jefferson peak #vernon jefferson peak fic #vernon jefferson peak fanfiction #eddington #eddington fanfiction

26 notes · View notes

theraspberr1es · 2 hours ago

Text

Jealous | Eddie x Reader x Volt

Spoilers for the Love ending for Eddie and Volt

Synopsis: Someone gets jealous and you pay the price.

Relationship: Eddie x afab Reader x Volt

Read on Ao3?

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Working behind the bar at the Breaker Box is no sweat off your brow. In all honesty, it's nice to see your furniture interacting with each other. Penelope often comes up to ask you for advice. Dirk is always seen talking to at least one person per night, with Bats, unless Harper is present at the same time, in which case he’s painfully avoiding her. Dolly loves talking to you about her research while she nurses a beer. It’s fun.

Another pro would be dressing nicely. There is literally no reason to dress up at home unless you’re helping Eddie and Volt at the bar. There was a sort of light bulb moment the minute the two men invited you back to keep helping out.

The first time you pulled out a dressy blouse, slacks, and dress shoes, you beamed at the thought of getting ready with Barry. You were craving a reason to feel pretty.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your heels clack against the wood flooring of the Breaker Box, announcing your arrival to Eddie and Volt. They sit at a booth talking over the game plan tonight. It’s a Friday, so it’s going to be packed.

Once you get close enough, both Eddie and Volt look up from each other, and they both smile at you. Although Eddie’s is more of a light twitch of the corner of his lip.

“Live wire, come.” Volt scoots down the booth chair and pats a spot right next to him. You give a kiss to Eddie first before you slip into the booth. It’s a short and sweet one that has him subtly leaning in for more once you pull away. Once you’ve plopped down, you kiss Volt, which makes him greedy. He eventually pulls away with a breath of pent-up energy that courses through his veins.

“We’re just discussing what needs to be done backstage and what drink we should feature next season,” Eddie says, shuffling a few papers around.

You perk up at the mention of potentially helping backstage. Although your first instinct is to be disappointed in the fact that you won’t get to show off your outfit.

“Do you need help?” You ask Eddie, looking into his gray eyes that look less tired than they did when you first met.

“Huh? Oh..no, I’m fine,” Volt nods beside you as Eddie speaks. “It’s just a few small things to do before Miranda gets on stage and I’ll come out to help you after.”

You observe Eddie, hoping he’s not under-selling the amount of work he needs to do. “If you’re sure,” you say, turning to look at Volt to see if his face will tell you anything. All you see is a comforting smile.

“He’s got it, live wire,” Volt nods at you. Eddie’s gray eyes dart to the clock above the bar and moves to slide out of the booth.

“We’ve got to set the tables.” The dark-haired man walks over to the bar to get a rag behind the counter. As he does so, Volt grabs your chin and turns your head to face him again. The last thing you see is his smirk as he continues his kiss from earlier. He only gets far enough to lay a hand on your hip, and Eddie speaks up.

“Get up or we’re not having sex tonight,” the shorter man says as he puts the chairs back down onto the ground.

Volt pulls away suddenly, leaving you semi-breathless. There is a blown-out appearance in your eyes as you look at Volt’s lips as he chuckles at Eddie’s words. Your lipstick is smeared over his lips.

“Now I have to fix my lipstick, Volt!” You huff as you try to wipe at the edge of your lips with your finger, but Volt beats you to it by swiping the smear up with his thumb.

“3…”

“Are you counting down?”

“2…”

You and Volt scramble to get out of the slippery booth chairs.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The night is in full swing as patrons come up to the bar for drinks. It’s still early enough for Eddie to still be in the back. Miranda y las Migas are playing smooth rock that sets the intimate tone of the dimly lit bar.

Just as you sent Dante off with his fireball mule, someone slides right up in front of you.

“How ya’ doin sugar?” The black-haired man’s words slide off his tongue from the multiple instances he’s said those specific words.

“I’m great, Tony! What about you?” You say, beaming a smile at the burly man in front of you. He looks good in a button-up, though it's hardly hiding his collarbone and his stupid set square necklace.

“Oh…ya know, I’m just fixing everything up around the house,” Tony says, looking down at the bar’s countertop, seemingly more interested in the scratch that was left by Tina’s new bracelets.

“Thats…” you look down at Tony’s hand idly drawing circles on the bar, “really great!”

“Yeah, I was thinkin we get outta here and we do some repairs together,” Tony said while still not looking at you. If you look closely, you could see a hint of red on his cheeks. It's hard to see in the dim lighting, so you’re just going to ignore it.

“You know…like nail somethings and…uh, pound them inwithahammer.” He rushes through those last few words with an intended charming smile, but it looks more strained than anything.

A short silence between you fills the air with only the band playing in the background. Then you burst out cackling. Not at Tony, though. At the situation.

Unbeknownst to you, as you laugh so hard you have to close your eyes, Tony’s face becomes frazzled, and Tony is the type of man who was never frazzled in his life.

“I’m sorry…” you let out between wheezes as Tony just looks over his shoulders, paranoid that someone saw what just happened.

“I’m not laughing at you, Tony…it was a good joke!” You giggled out as you push your hair behind your ear before you go to wipe at the tears that have accumulated.

Tony starts to read your response and starts laughing too. “Ha Ha! Yeah! Got ‘em!” He says slowly, genuinely laughing at his attempt to flirt with you. Maybe he should have listened to Rainey.

“Alright, what can I get you?” You smile at Tony, it's award-winning in his book.

He is caught off guard by your smile. “Oh, uh, just a Corner beer.” You nod with a grin and start pouring him one straight from the tap.

The conversation between you continues between the customers you serve. Its actually enjoyable for both of you. Tony isn’t embarrassing himself anymore. He’s making you laugh with almost every word out of his mouth.

The chime of your laughter is heard across the building where Volt is busy doing his hostly duties. He has to stop paying attention to what Luke is babbling about to look for you at the bar.

Tony’s body is almost fully leaning over the counter to get closer to you. You’re leaning in to hear the toolbox better as he basically whispers into your ear about something surely not so interesting to be almost cheek to cheek.

Volt digresses, its not cute. In fact, Volt’s body starts letting out a slight blue hue.

“Whoa, I haven’t seen a look that deadly since we were surrounded in the great battle of 10,000 swarmers in the wastes,” Luke says seriously while looking off in the distance, like he was reminiscing about that specific memory.

“My deepest apologies, Luke, but I must…take care of important business.” Volt does not spare a look at the redhead as he swiftly walks away from the table that only Luke occupies.

Volt physically cannot look at the two of you anymore as he storms backstage to find Eddie with a screwdriver in his mouth, propped between his teeth.

With a casual glance over his shoulder, Eddie’s thin eyebrows scrunch up into a concerned look. He quickly removes the Philips head from his mouth and turns his body to look at Volt, who appears to have a blue light shining on his back.

“What happened?” Eddie blurts out, scrutinizing his lover for any physical tells.

Volt crosses his arms and speaks softly to rein in his attitude. “You better get out there and go to the bar.”

“Why? Did something happen to her?” Eddie huffed, basically pushing Volt out of the way to slip past him.

Just as Eddie pushes the door open, Volt follows after him as he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of you almost folding in on yourself from laughter. Tony sits across from you as he goes to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“What. the. Fuck?” Eddie exasperates as he looks at the very clear flirting…okay maybe only on Tony’s behalf, but why did you let him touch you?

Eddie sighs and rubs a hand down his face as he feels Volt getting more bitter with every passing moment. One of them has to be the voice of reason; this must mean Eddie has to be it for once in his life.

“Look, I’ll go over there now and keep an eye on him, okay?” Eddie says while looking at the tall Englishman. But he seems so intent on looking at you and Tony that he doesn’t even acknowledge Eddie.

Another groan from Eddie and a reluctant grab of Volt’s hand. It feels weird for Eddie to show affection in public, especially when the Breaker Box is filled.

“Hey…” Volt’s eyes dart down to their hands and then to Eddie’s gray eyes. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Volt nods, then brings Eddie’s hand to his mouth to kiss and lets go. He is swift to walk into the crowd of tables.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“So I says to her: What's got ya’ all heated?” Eddie overhears the ending of another one of Tony’s stupid stories.

“Oh my god! You did not! Poor Winnifred!” You giggle, bringing your hands up to your mouth to cover the grin on your face.

“I did-i did-” Eddie walks right up behind the bar, and you interrupt Tony in the middle of the conversation.

“Hey! You’re back here early-” You’re stopped from uttering another word as Eddie grabs your waist and leans in to kiss you.

A surprised yelp comes from you. It lasts for only a few seconds, but it’s all-consuming. Eddie pulls back with your bottom lip between his teeth and lets it slip out of its own accord.

“Oh, hey Tony.” Both of Eddie’s hands now rest on top of the bar. They’re spread a bit from each other so that Eddie takes up Tony’s field of view from you, who is standing there, mouth open.

“Need something?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. His lips are smeared with the exact shade on your lips.

“I-” Tony is again interrupted, but this time by Volt.

“Live wire, be a darling and come help me with something,” Volt coaxed you from behind Eddie as he leaned against the bar. Tony looks at the white-haired man and observes the very same shade of red on Volt’s lips.

“Uh-huh,” you mindlessly voice as you walk behind Eddie, who is still staring down Tony.

As Volt guides you away from the bar, you try looking over your shoulder at Eddie, but your lover is careful to keep your eyes in front of you.

“Is…Eddie okay?” You ask, tilting your head to try and look Volt in the eyes. “Rest assured, live wire, he is just fine,” Volt lets the words roll of his tongue as he softly pushes the small of your back towards the backstage room.

As Volt swiftly closes and twists the lock on the door in one move, he corners you to the back wall. You stumble back as Volt invades your space. Your eyes blow wide again, for the second time today.

“What-” you begin, but Volt grabs your chin to tilt your head up. He looks into your eyes for a few seconds.

“You know what you’re doing,” he deduces, then his hand slides from your chin down to your neck. Volt wraps his hand around the column of your neck, not squeezing, yet. He can feel your pulsing veins even from the light hold he has on you.

He chuckles and leans down to you. You close your eyes, waiting for a kiss, but he stations his lips right next to your ear.

“You’re such a naughty girl,” Volt purrs out slowly, then gives a nip at your earlobe. You slightly jerk your head away from his lips, but his hand on your neck makes its presence known by tightening its grip. He slowly applies pressure to the side of your neck, targeting your blood vessels and not your airway.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” you huff out from how charged up Volt suddenly is. You take it in stride, though.

Volt slides his knee between your thighs and all the way up to the gusset of your panties. Another yelp is ripped from you as he slowly applies pressure with his strong thigh.

“What has gotten into you two?” You ask breathly, huffing into the air. Volt starts to slowly bounce his knee, and your hips jerk involuntarily with need. He lets go of your neck to roam your body.

Silver fingers find their way from your back to your waist and finally your hips. He grabs them and forces you to down further onto his knee. The friction feels good. You can feel your panties starting to dampen.

“You’re ours,” Volt growls right before he roughly kisses you and pulls away right as you relax into it.

He pulls his whole body away from yours and fixes his vest and runs a hand through his hair to push it back.

“What?” You exclaimed as you squinted up at electricity personified. Your hair is ruffled, and your lipstick long gone.

“You’re in for it tonight,” Volt says, turning around and grabbing his jacket that fell on the ground as you made out.

“Are you serious?” You’re left alone, heavily breathing while looking at the door in disbelief.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

He was serious. You walked out of the back room to hop right back into helping Eddie with the bar. Tony was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the night.

As Volt escorts out a very drunk Jerry, you are left to close up the Breaker Box with the gray-eyed man.

As you wipe at glasses, you side-eye Eddie as he wipes down the countertop.

“So…” you drag out the ‘o’ sound, “what was tonight all about?” You question, casually trying to read the room.

“Apparently, you know all about it, so you tell me,” Eddie says, placing the rag down and turning his head to look at you.

You stand there and let out a scoff of a “hah.”

“So you’re also being cryptic,” you shake your head in disbelief, and actually start getting frustrated.

“Why were you letting Tony talk you up?” Eddie finally says it, and you can’t help but laugh in his face.

Volt finally walks into your conversation and slides up right behind you.

“We’re serious, love,” Volt takes the rag from your hand and folds it up to place it into a basket.

“Ah-he was not talking me up!” You exclaim as you turn to look back at Volt. Your furrowed eyebrows portray how genuine you are.

“You cannot be this stupid…” Eddie sighs as he brings a hand up to his eyebrows, trying desperately to stop himself from running a hand down his face.

“He wasn’t!”

“He was, live wire, and you know better, so stop being a brat and head upstairs,” Volt says with finality. He put on the ‘not another word of it’ voice, which made you automatically want to lash out.

Volt steps out from behind you and in front without looking at you. You curl up your fists like you could physically do something about it, but you settle for a mean little tongue out.

You stomp your way up the stairs, and Eddie yells up after you, “You better be naked before we get up there.”

You throw a middle finger over your shoulder without stopping.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You shuck off your heels and your dress quickly while grumbling about everything and nothing.

It goes along the lines of ‘is it a crime to laugh with someone?’ and ‘god forbid a girl has joy in her life!’

“Oh, look at me, I’m Volt and Eddie, and I think I’m always right!” You mock both of them while shimmying off your still-damp panties.

“Ugh!” You get so frustrated that you don’t have the patience to properly unhook your bra.

That’s when you feel a pair of hands swiftly unhook your lace for you, and you just hang your head down in surrender. You look a little funny with your hands dangling as you slouch in place, not to mention your bra unhooked.

“Come on,” Eddie’s voice rings out as he tugs on one of the straps. You shrug the strap down your shoulder and the other one. You were finally as clothed as the day you were born.

Eddie guides you to the bed while holding your hand and positions you the way Volt likes this time. Pillow princess, as always, he sets up your pillows and fans out your hair. He’s taking every artistic opportunity to get you on Volt’s good side.

“Is this a present for me?” You hear his voice before you see him, as your vision is filled with Eddie.

You feel Volt sit on the other side of the bed as Eddie brushes a few strands away from your face. Silver fingers beeline it to your exposed core. A small shock is sent through your body as his fingers meet your hole. He scoops up some of your wetness and brings it to his mouth.

“Perfect, always tastes better when you’re boiling,” Volt whispers into your ear as he starts kissing your neck. He giggles as you jolt away from his nipping. His ultimate goal is to leave you looking like a polka-dot pattern.

Eddie starts undressing while watching the two of you. He can feel himself start to harden from how Volt teases you. The white-haired man works his fingers into you as he kisses at your face, lips, and neck. It’s like he can’t get enough of you.

“You need to open up more, live wire,” Volt coos at you as your hips jerk up and a whine bubbles from your chest. Your body is already hot to the touch. Eddie’s cool fingers grasp onto your thighs and squeeze them to let you know he’s there.

The dark-haired man makes you sit up so that he can sit behind you. He leans you back and you can feel his cock poking you. His pre-cum makes you shiver. As Eddie gets settled, Volt starts kissing his way down your body.

Eddie rests his legs outside of yours and eventually hooks yours over his.

Volt’s hand reaches to your clit before his lips can. His lips make a pit stop at your thighs to give it a bite mark. “Volt!”

“Mh-mm-mm,” Volt hums into your skin as your legs jerk to try and get him to unlatch from the fat of your thigh. Eddie’s hands move to hold your knees still. As Volt rubs slow circles on your clit, he sends small zaps that make your hips buck back into Eddie’s hard-on.

A grunt comes from Eddie as your hips reel back again. “Careful, live wire, or else Eddie’s going to be bad cop,” Volt chimes in, now swiftly undressing himself on the side of the bed.

Eddie’s gray eyes roll at the comment. As Volt shucks off his underware, he kneels in front of you and props his cock on top of your mound. He pumps himself a for a few strokes and smirks down at your anticipatory gaze.

“You looked so beautiful tonight,” Volt purrs as he taps his cock on your clit. You huff at his endless teasing.

Volt’s right hand reaches past your head to right under Eddie's mouth, and they have a conversation filled with looks as the dark-haired male spits into Volt’s hand.

Volt whispers a thank you and slathers his length with Eddie’s spit. Just as silver fingers go to push his head into your pulsing hole, he just has to say something.

“Say you’re ours and I’ll fuck you,” Volt’s face is serious, he drops his smirk and looks down at you with expectant eyes.

“Come on, just say it for us,” Eddie decides this is the perfect time to pitch in behind you. He whispers it right into your ear.

“I’m yours!” You rush out trying to get Volt to just push in already. “Only ours?” Volt tilts his head down again to catch your eyes.

“Yes! Only-YOURS!” In the middle of your response, Volt sinks in and lets out a very sexy groan that leads into a chuckle. Eddie’s hand snakes from your knees to your clit and starts rubbing tight circles at it.

“No, no, Eddie, I’ll cum too fast,” You whimper back to him trying to push away his hand as Volt starts to thrust. His hand binds both of yours at your wrist. He keeps them pinned to your chest as he starts a rough pace.

Air is punched out of you with every pound. It’s almost too much with how much is going on.

“Be a good girl for us,” Eddie whispers as his unoccupied hand pinches at your nipples. You can’t help but gasp for air as Volt angles his cock at the right place. Your insides clench around him like a vice at how quickly they are getting you to the edge.

Eddie leaves bites of his own on your neck as your body rocks into his cock. He’s definitely getting off on the sensation. He is so focused on keeping a steady pace on your clit to get you to the edge.

“My pretty girl,” Volt pants out as he looks down at your face, glistening with sweat as he and Eddie work you up to your release. His left hand goes to grab your face by your jaw and jerks your head to look at him.

“You’re ours. Not Tony’s, not anyone else. Ours,” Volt punctuates every word with a hard thrust into you that is accompanied by yelps from you. The band in your tummy snaps and you cum hard and fast on Volt’s cock. It's squeezing the life out of him. He hisses as his cock is forced to pop out from the gushing. Eddie is stunned for a second at the sight of Volt’s lower abdomen getting drenched, but he works at squeezing every last bit out of you.

Your hips writhe under Eddie’s fingers. You whine, and Volt quickly shushes you as he slides back in to use you to finish. His thrusts are off beat and desperate.

“Be a good girl for him.” Eddie’s voice is strained, and his words slip through clenched teeth. Volt moans unapologetically as he cums in you. You moan with him and feel him dump loads in you.

Volt gives the two of you a second to catch your breath, but pulls out and flips you over and yanks you back by the thighs till your face is at Eddie’s cock. It throbs in the air and is leaking pre-cum down his shaft.

“You know what to do,” Volt says lightly patting your ass that’s in the air as you lean down to take Eddie into your mouth.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” Eddie says, brushing your hair back from your face and caressing your head. You press your tongue against the underside of his cock as you slowly bob up and down. Hollowing your cheeks, you focus on his tip and swirl your tongue over it. Eddie groans.

“I’m gonna cum soon,” He gives a warning, as he brings his hand up to his hair to push is back. You try hard to take him all the way, but you gag around his tip. That’s the tipping point for him as he lets out a strangled moan.

You have no choice but to lick up the cum he spurts in your mouth.

“Good girl,” Volt chimes in with a wet rag in his hands, he’s already wiping at the mess he’s made of you. You collapse on the bed with your head propped on Eddie’s thigh and your ass still in the air for Volt to clean up.

“You were so good for us,” Eddie whispers to you as you close your eyes in exhaustion.

“Get up, we need to change the sheets since someone wet-” Volt is cut off by your loud, “STOOOPPP!”

“Aw, its not embarrassing,” Volt chuckles as Eddie princess carries your limp body off the bed. Volt kisses the back of your head as Eddie passes him to go to the bathroom.

Eddie lets you do your business and sets you in the middle of them on the bed as he guides you with your jelly legs.

The light in the room is turned off, and you start to drift to sleep, but Volt speaks up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten so…jealous of…Tony,” Volt has to grit out the words ‘jealous’ and ‘Tony’ like it’ll kill him if he says it. “But I can’t help but be protective of the things I love,” He ends his soliloquy with a kiss to your forehead and a rub on your back as he hugs you in bed.

In the dark, Eddie smiles at the two of you. He’s glad Volt took his advice.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Thanks for reading! Let me know what other situations you would like to see these hot sexy men in! - (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

#x reader #eddie x volt #eddie x reader x volt #eddie watts #eddie date everything #volt date everything #eddie and volt #smut #date everything #date everything x reader #volt x reader #eddie and volt x reader #breaker box boys

25 notes · View notes

ahumoki0 · 1 year ago

Text

Running on fumes of less then 4 hours of sleep, I managed to get most of the work done.

There's still two parts left, and using Revit always takes longer then I think, but I hope I can get this ready by Wednesday without another all nighter

#Monday's work is not complete #thanks to my group #but I'm not stresing on that one yet #this Friday there's another work I have to hand in #all in group #but nobody does anything.....🫠

0 notes

satorena · 4 months ago

Text

HOTLINE BL☆NG!

summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .

cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.

rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”

god, you do.

you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.

now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎‍♂️

#rena☆star.#jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo thirst #jjk gojo #gojo satoru

11K notes · View notes

fushitoru · 8 months ago

Text

back to the kittty, cause she's kinda pretty!

pairings ⸺ (SEPERATE) bf!sukuna x reader x toji, masseuse!nanami x reader, bully!suguru x reader, childhood best friend!choso x reader, best friend!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ jjk men as overused p0rn tropes! (part 2) inspired by this awesome post by the cool and super talented @/osamucide! pls check it out and the rest of his work :3

warnings ⸺ SMUT (mdni), sub!satoru supermacy, porn no plot, vaginal sex, doggy, fem reader, "sloppy seconds," pre-established consent for all, reader accidently eats an aphrosidiac for choso's, bullying in suguru's, oral (m and frecieving), fingering, semi-public humiliation, lowk pathetic toji, art by 3aem, nOT EDITED

a/n choso's is my favorite yet again i love a pathetic man that rails me into next tuesday <3

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

KAMO CHOSO ⸺ MY HOT CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND ATE SOME WEIRD CHOCOLATE AND WANTS ME TO DICK HER DOWN!

Your best friend, Choso, was lounging on his couch, flipping through different movie options on Netflix while you were in the kitchen, bending and squinting through the different options. It’s a Friday night, and the both of you opted to stay in for movie night.

“Choso!” You complained, huffing while putting your hands on your hips to shout at him in the living room. “Why do you only have fuckin protein shakes and raw chicken in your fridge?”

All you get is a noncommittal shrug while he pauses on the preview for some shonen anime. “There should be some chocolate.”

Gasping in excitement, you go back to rummaging through his fridge like a raccoon and there you find it—-a pink chocolate box titled “tabs.” Smiling to yourself in excitement, you don’t hesitate before popping on of the bars in your mouth, appreciating the cherry flavor while grabbing another one. With your mouth full, you ask, “Do you want one? These are sooo good, where'd you buy them?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just come over here, you’ve been taking too long.” He sends you a glare and motions for you to sit next to him, to which you set the chocolate back in the fridge and pad your way over to him. “I think Sukuna bought these off the internet and that they were kinda bougie.”

You look at him, slightly alarmed. “Isn’t he going to kill you?”

He looks over at you—a little softly, you note—and ruffles your hair, to your dismay. “It’s okay, I’ll buy it again for him. Gonna blame your big back ass for it being gone.”

“Die.” You stick your tongue out, crossing your arms while settling into his side.

Choso noted that you were being a bit more cuddly than usual, touching him more as soon as you got onto the couch. He decides to ignore it. “Ok, we’re going with Spider-man, k?”

You nodded into his side—he could tell you were flushed by the way you had continued to grow warmer and warmer, with beads of sweat dotting your temple. He paid it no mind, choosing instead to click on the movie and watch it play.

You were heating up.

You tried to ignore it, because you hadn’t felt feverish before or done anything in particular to cause you to be sick (your coffee and ramen diet had been fixed after midterms season after Choso got on your ass about it). But about 25 minutes into the movie, you couldn’t bear it anymore, your vision blurring at the edges as you mumbled, “‘ts too hot. Gonna take off my shirt.”

Choso, who had been focused on the movie, tensed and looked at you, eyes slightly widened. “Wh—” Before he could even get a word out, you stood up—eyes slightly unfocused—arching your back while grabbing the bottom hem of your t-shirt and peeling it off, causing Choso to gulp as you uncovered the swell of your breasts in your red lace bra. You went back to borrowing yourself on his side, the softness of your boobs pressing against his arm.

Choso closed his eyes because there was nooo way he was popping a boner for his best friend. No way. As both of your eyes went back to the movie, Choso focused on reciting the Japanese National Anthem to distract himself from the soft breaths you were letting out near his ears—and the way they tickled them—as well as the rise and press of your chest against his arms as you heaved.

You, on the other hand, did not feel relieved. At all. There was a stickiness in between your thighs that made you think your period had started, but it had ended a week ago. You were probably just ovulating. Cuddling into Choso further, you put your legs on either side of his torso, burying your face into his neck and taking a deep sniff. At this point, you ignore the movie as you tried the soothe the heat that was going through you.

“What are you doing?” Choso was ram–rod straight and turned to peer down at you incredulously while reciting in his brain, until the tiny pebbles, grow into massive boulders.

You continued your whiffing—-he just smelled sooo good—and sobbed, “I don’t know, but it hurts.” At this point, the feeling between your thighs was unbearable. You started to subtly grind on the side of his torso, much to Choso’s surprise. “‘M sick, Cho, but I’ve been eating healthy! I promise!” you whined. “Except for the chocolate right now. It hurts!”

At that moment, he knew he fucked up.

These were the tabs chocolates Sukuna was buying for his girlfriend. The ones viral on social media for serving as aphrodisiacs.

“Fuck,” he groaned while you continued to rub yourself onto him, now fully moaning and sighing as you tried to chase relief. “Fuck! I fucked up.”

“Choso,” you whined loudly, prompting him to leave his state of anguish to look at you worriedly. “I feel so empty.”

Choso snapped.

Bent over, face buried in a pillow on the couch, Choso rams into your creamy, wet pussy, the squelching sounds echoing across the empty apartment. Punctuating his words with a thrust, “is-” plap! “what-” plap! “you-” plap! “wanted?”

“Yes!” you squeal, body bouncing as his rough snaps of his hips jostled you around, “You’re making me feel so good, Cho!”

“Do you know how much of a tease you’ve been?” he growled, balls hitting your ass as he pulled a hand back to spank you, red handprint imprinting itself on your cheeks. He groans at the sight of him leaving his mark on you. “Gonna take my cum, right?”

FUSHIGURO TOJI AND SUKUNA RYOMEN ⸺ I GET MY BEST FRIEND’S SLOPPY SECONDS! (a/n lol im not gonna lie this is just me ovulating and wanting to be creampied by two men)

Whenever Toji was at Sukuna’s place, it was like you, his girlfriend, pretended he wasn’t there. Because why were you always dressed in the tiniest of shorts and a tank top that could barely even hold your tits in and keep them covered? Sometimes, Toji thought it was Sukuna’s play—dangling you in front of him like a piece of meat, reminding him what he couldn’t have.

Sukuna and Toji did have a bit of a…competitive friendship—one of good nature, of course. Toji, nonchalant as he is, didn’t really care whether he lost or not in the little skirmishes they had, whether it be seeing who can lift the most at the gym or walk somewhere faster. But he’s definitely seen Sukuna eye his groin in a mental competition to see if he was bigger or not.

Safe to say, Sukuna relished in the win. In a sense, he was obsessed with the submission. Not that Toji could care. He didn’t care when he flaunted his girlfriend around, groping you in front of him just to make him feel jealous…right?

Because why was his dick hard, him all hot and bothered as he listens to your moans and the plap! plap! plap! and squelches of Sukuna’s dick drilling in you? You’re both in the room, and Toji’s in the living room, confused as to why the fuck Sukuna asked him to come over when you clearly had a dick appointment with him.

“Mmm, Sukuna you’re making me feel so good!” You whine, and Toji curses, closing his eyes and cursing whatever god was out there to make him subject to such torture. In his gray sweatpants, his bulge is undeniable as he hears Sukuna pleasure you.

Then, he hears Sukuna call out to him, jumping as the other man yells, “Yo, Toji. I know you’re out there, man. Come in!” He then laughs meanly, speeding up to silence whatever protests you were making. Toji curses once again and moves to open the door just for his eyes to widen at what he’s seeing.

There is an obscene amount of cum oozing from your hole, it looked battered and swollen from the abuse Sukuna has dealt to it. There are tears in your eyes, a pretty pout on your face as Sukuna continues to use you as your fucktoy. And Toji realizes that Sukuna is looking at him while his hips languidly gyrate into you.

“‘kuna–” you sob, embarrassed and cheeks heating up even further as you felt Toji’s eyes rove over your form, utterly decimated by Sukuna.

But you’re interrupted out of any potential protests you can make as Sukuna smacks your ass—Toji’s eyes not missing the jiggle—as he abruptly pulls out and motions Toji to come closer. “I’m gonna let him borrow you, okay baby? You see, Toji’s kind of pathetic here. Might as well give him sloppy seconds, right?”

With that, Toji is moaning as he slowly enters you, your pussy sweetly clamping on his dick as he can literally feel Sukuna’s cum every time he thrusts. The utterly debauched feeling of his still-hot come lubricating his every thrust makes his eyes roll back, lost in the feeling of your pussy as you whimper and squeal everytime he hits your g-spot.

“Yo,” and Toji’s attention is temporarily swayed to Sukuna, who’s watching the both of you with darkened eyes, manspread in a chair. “Come inside, okay? It’s my treat.”

NANAMI KENTO ⸺ DIRTY MASSEUSE GIVES HOT BABE A DEEP TISSUE MASSAGE! (WITH A HAPPY ENDING)

Working in corporate was hell.

Sitting in a chair all day slaving away at spreadsheets and emails was definitely not something your younger self imagined you doing, but alas, you were only but a slave to capitalism. Even your hip flexors could feel it—they were tight, and your upper back hurt a lot.

So, here you were, in the waiting room of this bougie massage salon that you decided to treat yourself to. After all, you’ve been a good girl with your savings, making sure not to spend loads on stress-virtual-shopping so you can blow lots of bucks into this 2 hour service. The lobby is neat and glamorous, as you wait while rubbing your back. You’re currently engrossed in watching a compilation of Moo Deng videos until a deep cough interrupts you. “Miss?”

You turn to face the rich, baritone voice that’s said your name, and then suddenly reeling back. In front of you was probably one of the most handsomest men you’ve ever seen, with blond hair and sharp cut facial lines. He’s rubbing his palms together, which seem laden with oil as he looks at you plaintively. “Shall we take it to the massage room?”

“Y–yes. We can do that,” you nervously affirmed, gathering your purse and belongings to tightly follow behind him.

When you arrive at the room, the stoic man motions for you to get changed. “Please put on a towel. We’re going to be doing a deep tissue massage, so the towel will serve as a protective measure.”

You blush at the thought of this man seeing your body covered in nothing but a towel, but follow his directions regardless, putting your belongings in a corner while you step out of the changing room and into the massage room once again. You try to preserve your modesty as best you can as you go to lie down on the table. The only things you hear from him are the clinks of bottles as he rummages through different oils, uncovering them. The smell hits you dead on, soothing your senses already with the essential oils.

And then, his rough, big hands are on your back, pressing into your shoulder blades. You jump, like a scared deer, and he lets out a deep chuckle. “My bad. I’ll be doing your back side first.”

“Okay,” you whisper in response, already closing your eyes in bliss with the way he’s roving his thumbs over the planes of your back, pressing in deep as he works out the kinks in your back.

In one particular spot in your lower back and hips—the one that’s been hurting like a bitch because of your endless time sitting in a chair—he presses his thumbs with the exact right pressure, and you moan.

You can’t help it—the chronic back pain has always been there, but he makes it disappear with a languid movement of his fingers over your back. But he pauses slightly as soon as the whimper comes out of your mouth. “Miss, are you alright?” Flushing, you are quick to affirm. “Yes, sorry.” With a lower voice, you say, “That was, um, that was just really relieving.”

He laughs melodically and continues his ministrations, going even lower, but pausing right before putting his hands on your ass. “May I pull the towel up? Direct contact will be helpful in this region for a deep tissue massage.”

“Y-yeah,” you say softly. “You can do that, you’re the professional.” He’s just doing this for massage reasons, right? With your consent, he slowly inches up your towel to uncover your bare ass to him, you clenching your thighs with the fact that he can see everything.

He then puts his hands on the fat of your ass, moving his hands in a circular motion that spreads your ass every time he moves in an outward rotation. Kento’s trying really hard to stay professional, but seeing your glistening wetness makes him groan inwardly. “Miss,” you perk up slightly as he refers to you, “I’ll continue with the deep tissue massage as requested, okay? There’s a spot that I believe really needs my attention.”

Innocently, you nod, and Kento can’t help but feel so aroused that you’re so naively believing him, letting him touch you as if it’s an appropriate part of his job. His hands inch closer and closer, and soon enough he’s fingering you while languidly licking you up.

“Does this feel good, miss?” Kento is out of breath as he nudges his nose deeper into your pussy while you’re squealing at the feeling of his fingers slamming into your g-spot, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he goes in, sucking at your clit just perfectly.

“It’s rude not to answer someone,” your masseuse gives you a slap, and quickly soothes it over.

“‘M sorry!” you squeal, bucking your hips as soon as you feel like you’re getting closer, “It feels soo good.” With that, he pauses his ministration to give you a gentle kiss on your pussy, and the plush of his lips is enough to set you squirting, riding his face as you drench him in your juices. Safe to say, you were feeling very de-stressed.

GOJO SATORU ⸺ BEST FRIEND CATCHES HIM MASTURBATING, JOINS IN ON THE FUN!

Satoru groans, squeezing his ball at the base to avoid cumming prematurely. What he was originally doing was trying to find some porn to empty his balls to, releasing stress and gaining dopamine from masturbating. But eventually—like he’s been doing a lot these days—his fingers direct him to your Instagram profile. You, his best friend.

Satoru does this in secret, waiting until he’s alone in his and Suguru’s apartment to go into his room, close the door, and sin by thinking of you in a way friends don’t of each other. So, he’s trying not to bust too early while he zooms in on your tits in the cute bikini picture you posted just last week, the ones he took of you. The pixels of your magnificent breasts zoom in, sweat and water glistening off of them as your bra hugs and makes them sit just right. He groans, throwing his head back as he feels his cockhead pulse again, deciding to end his edging to cum.

In his focus on stroking his dick—the squelching and whines echoing in his room—he doesn’t notice the sound of the door opening. Nor of the footsteps heading towards his door, because he moves his hand up and down, up and down, up and down until he’s so close to cumm—-

“Satoru! I got us some mochi!” You yell loudly, and Satoru screams in return, albeit for a different reason. As your head whips up to look at him, alarmed at his shout, you register that his cock and balls are out. And that, in his left hand, is a photo of you.

You blink, and Satoru blinks back, except with a red, throbbing length in his hand. Then, slowly, you ask, “Why is my picture open, Satoru?”

Satoru swallows, already hearing funeral bells and utters out, “I—I—that was a mistake. I meant to be on Pornhub. Haha! I mean,” he continues on rambling, “why would I be looking at your picture? Obviously, my hand slipped while I was jerking off I mean—” he cuts himself off, because in his yapping, he’s failed to notice how you’ve stalked over to his bed, now straddling him while spitting on his cock.

“Fuck,” he curses, as his pupils dilate watching the thicky, frothy mix of your spit ooze down from your pursed lips onto his dick. “W–what are you—” You motion for him to stand up, orienting yourself so that your throat was hanging off the bed and you were on your back on his mattress.

“Since you’re so desperate,” you give him a deadly sweet smile as he stands, dick above your face. You give his tip a little kiss, and he shivers. “You can fuck my throat.”

Satoru definitely takes you up on that offer.

He can’t even believe that he’s here, you deepthroating his dick so nice. “Thank you, thank you,” he whines, gyrating his hips sloppily into the tight, wet heat of your mouth as your lips suckle on him. “Needed this so, so much.” You’ve even uncovered your tits, them bouncing nicely as Satoru continuously lodges himself in your throat. “Please, please let me cum.”

You gently push against his hips, indicating you want him out of your mouth. Raspily, you wipe the trail of spit that’s left your mouth and laugh meanly and give him a deceptively sweet kiss on his balls. “You have to last at least 10 more minutes, okay?”

And Satoru can do nothing but obey you, driving himself to the hinge of climax but never over, whimpering as your mouth swallows him up.

GETO SUGURU ⸺ BIG DICKED BULLY FUCKS CUTE ANIME GIRL INTO SUBMISSION!

Your safe haven is your library. There, the man who’s been torturing you for most of your college career, Suguru Geto, doesn’t know where you hide, nor does he frequent the place. You’re focused in on your assignments right now, having fallen behind due to Suguru’s antics of bothering you and disturbing your peace to humiliate you across campus. It’s late at night, and there’s not a lot of people to disturb you. You thought.

You’re wrenched out of your state of focus as someone harshly pulls your chair back, grabbing your chin to meet your eyes with his. Your bully, Suguru.

You gasp in surprise as he roves his eyes over you and what you’re wearing. A short skirt, one he dare wouldn’t admit made you look cute, and a sweater. Silently, he sits down while you tremble, looking at him with shaky eyes that makes his cock swell in his pants.

He smirks. “You thought you could hide from me?” He then ticks his head towards your textbook. “Whatcha reading? Recite it to me.”

Even though you were confused as to why he would have you do that, you hurried to do as he said. Meanwhile, his siren eyes roved over your form, choosing to settle in between your thighs.

“Schroedinger’s theory had proved classical physicists wro—-“ You’re interrupted by your own gasp, because Suguru’s laid a hand that’s gently caressing your inner thigh.

“Go on,” he purrs, getting closer and closer to the heat of your pussy.

You swallow and go on. “…had proved classical physicists wrong, showing that unexplained phenomena in spectroscopy and atoms demonstrated discrete—-“

Meanwhile, he’s inched his hand inside of your panties, softly rubbing at your clit in a manner unbecoming of the mean Suguru you know. Before you know it, your orgasm was creeping up on you, and your legs were trembling while Suguru buried his face in your neck, giving you soft kisses.

“Cmon, you slut,” he whispered, the softness of his voice contrasting with the harshness of his words, “are you too stupid to read?”

You whimper as he delves a finger into your hole, collecting the ooze there and going back to your clit. “…atoms demonstrated discrete properties, referred to as quanta—-“ It’s with a nasty lick to the shell or your ear that you’re cumming, squealing loudly as you cream on his fingers, humiliated at the show you were forced to put on in the library.

Suguru pulls his fingers out and sucks on them languidly, looking you in the eye. “Now slut, you’re going to do that seated on my dick. Got it?”

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

a/n hiii pookies this was late sorry </3 but ANYWAYS im excited to write (and ride) cowboy geto and spiderman!gojo next! consider joining my kinktober taglist if you're interested <3 part 1 of this here btw

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots :p

TAGLIST

@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae

@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto @cheescakebroom

@r0ckst4rjk @callmeagardengnome @rottmntrulesall @blankwashed @sindulgent666

@honeynanamin @obsessgurlll @starrnai @herefor-tojis-tits

8K notes · View notes

madamechrissy · 3 months ago

Text

Just Friends!?

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and popular F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

Warnings - Will be explicit and smutty (it's me!?) Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- his chap, mentions of sex/getting turned on, Gojo being a cute little nerd, embarssment level a million, this was gonna be a oneshot but... no, don't think it'll happen, so three parts maybe, welcome to part one

Based on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazinggg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙 -

Masterlist - Part Two

Part One

Eight years ago- Satoru Gojo - age eighteen

Satoru Gojo is wearing his finest polo, grinning at his reflection in the mirror, he finally got his braces off, wearing just this clear retainer, which his dentist had even made it Digimon, a little Lucemon embedded in that acrylic, he snaps it in and grins at himself now. He’s looking rather spiffy, if he does say so himself, talking to the mirror now.

“You can do it, just… tell her. Just tell her.” He’s grinning with newly straight teeth, putting on his glasses now so that he can see, spiking up silky white locks just a bit, Satoru singing to that mirror, his favorite song, the one that makes him think of you. “Yeah baby, hah- I know.” He is practicing winking at his reflection, trying to be cool, leaning this way and that.

The song continues, Satoru grabs his hairbrush, singing into the handle like a pro, as he pictures you, snowy lashes fluttering shut, a little grin on his face. He leans against the mirror now, picturing his hands barring you on either side, when he leans to the mirror and presses his lips on the cool glass.

“Oh… you want a kiss, hmm?” He’s whispering, he’s constantly been practicing his first kiss.

You’ll be his first kiss, he’s sure of it!

When his mom knocks on the door, right in the middle of this, he panics, swiping off his own spit from the mirror, shutting off his speaker and clearing his throat as he opens the door, his mom gushing now, hand on her chest. “Oh little Toru, you’re just so precious! Mwah!”

“Mom, stop!” She’s smacking kisses on his cheeks, over and over, relentless in her assault on his face. “I’m not a little kid mom, it’s graduation night!”

“Oh you’ll always be my baby.” He sighs, and she looks over at the pictures now, of Satoru and his best friend - future wife (you don’t know it yet) - decorated along his walls, mixing with various posters and pictures. “Aw, is tonight the night?”

Satoru blushes bright pink, looking back at the pictures, you’re both smiling, laughing, you’re kissing his cheek, hugging him. Shit, last time you kissed his cheek he avoided washing that exact spot, for so long, and once he had you luckily had bestowed another on him. You were his best friend, but…

He wanted more.

You were the most popular girl in the school, everyone just adored you, everyone knew who you were, but Satoru? He had a few friends, you, Nanami, Suguru, Shoko… that was it though, he was overwhelmingly annoying to just about everyone, constantly besting them all academically. He asked for extra credit to the groans of the room, he played Digimon to his heart's content.

He was…

Well, a nerd.

But you loved him how he was, there was a box just full of your little notes saying just that, you defended him against anyone who’d dare say a word, thus Satoru became somewhat popular by association. Moreso, they were terrified of the consequences of being mean to your ‘best friend furr-ever’ as you referred to him.

“You just be yourself, Satoru.” His mom says sweetly, pecking another kiss on his forehead.

He sighs then, frowning. Himself… isn’t who got the girls, no you’re in one break up after another, with football stars, with the popular boys, and Satoru holds you as you cry, as another one doesn’t respect you, doesn’t deserve you. Yet Satoru never, ever told you how he really felt.

He wants to be more.

*****

As Satoru Gojo weaves his way through the insane party later that night, Suguru and Shoko come up, smiling, handing him a red solo cup, he sips it and winces at the taste. “Where is she?” He asks, holding your yearbook you’ve asked him to sign, clutching it for dear life- because it has it all, the confession of his feelings.

“Saw her doing a keg stand over there.” Shoko says, Satoru looks over to see you flipped upside down, people cheering you on.

Suguru pats his friend’s shoulder. “You can do it man, don’t be scared, I’m sure she feels the same.”

“I’m gonna do it.” You are set back down on your feet, when you see him, jumping up and down and running to him, big grin on your face, he holds out an arm for you to cling to him.

“Satoru! You’re here!” You’re bouncing now, just making your tits bounce just so in that little bustier you’re wearing, pulling back and giggling like crazy, the alcohol having rushed to your head. “I’m so happy, ah if you missed it I’d have been so bummed! Come on!”

Satoru eyes his friends, who murmur a ‘good luck’ as you eagerly run up the stairs to your bedroom, the party is of course at your place because your parents are out of town. Satoru passes couples making out in the hallway, dancing all over, kissing on the stairs, as you open your door, glaring now.

“Ah - ah, out!” You shoo away two drunk friends kissing, sighing and shaking your head, leaving the door shut, as Satoru holds his breath. “Jesus, they’re all horned up, huh? My god!” You lay down now, plopping on your pretty white day bed, as Satoru sees just the color of panties you’re wearing, making him blush more, looking away from that pleated skirt.

“I… signed your yearbook.” He murmurs softly, you sit up now, a strap falling from your shoulder, and Satoru starts to feel…

Too much.

He’d been jerking it to you since he knew what that even was, but looking at you now, he had trouble holding back, so he started to blush and stammer, as you tilt your head curiously, legs swinging a bit while you study him. “What’s wrong? Do you need a little air, I can crack open the window!”

You hop up now, bending over to lift your heavy window, the breeze starts filtering in, billowing your pretty curtains, and Satoru has to ignore the reaction of his body, willing his cock to go down. He is shutting his eyes and thinking of anything else, when suddenly you’re cupping his face. He opens pretty blue eyes to look down at you, at the girl he’s been in love with since he was just a kid.

“You alright? Not your scene, is it?” Your voice is soft with understanding, Satoru sets the yearbook down now, his own hands brushing your arms, making you tremble just a bit. “You smell so good. You look so cute! Look at your teeth! Ah, you’re so handsome, yes you are!”

You’re pinching his cheeks, ending any thoughts of maybe kissing you, as you’re cooing over him. “Stop it.”

“Oh…” You pull back, sighing. “Is it too… it’s weird to be so close to you as we get older, isn’t it?” You frown now. “You’re going to freaking Ivy league, god you’re so smart. I’ll be at Community and…”

“What, no not that. I…” He brushes your hair back, or attempts to, only to accidentally poke at your eye.

“Ah, shit ow!”

“Shit, sorry…” He tries then to grip your chin, like he sees in the movies, making your lips purse just like a fish, and he stutters. “Oh my god I… shit I…”

“Satoru, what is wrong? You’re acting so weird.” You are rubbing at your eye now, as your other strap falls, and your tits nearly fall out, making him panic, turning away and covering his face. “What-”

The door opens now, as Sukuna waltzes in, grinning at you. “Sexy, look at those tits.”

“You’re so rude, Sukuna, ugh.” You cover them up quickly, and Sukuna laughs, throwing his head back, eyeing Satoru now.

“Aw, you two are so cute, why don’t you come dance, baby?” You roll your eyes, shoving him out of the room.

“Bye! I am not your baby.”

“I feel bad for you man…” Sukuna mumbles, roughing up Satoru now, hand ruffling up his hair, as Satoru shoves at him.

“Go on Sukuna.”

“Why little buddy!?” He says your name now, as Satoru sets the yearbook on the bed, and Sukuna plops on it, leaning on an elbow. “Wanna watch how to please a woman 101?”

“Sukuna fuck off please.” You’re yanking at the big lug of a man, who just pokes at your breast, grinning. “You’re such a child!”

“C’mere now.” He yanks you on top of him, right in front of Satoru, you heat up at memories of him, your experiences with him were not the reason you broke up, it was more so he was an ass. “I’m sorry I was such a dick, baby. Can’t orgive me? Shouldn’t the captain of the football team be with the head of the cheer squad?”

“No, they shouldn’t, and no pouting. I’m spending time with my friend.” You finally shove him off, springs creaking as his heavy weight leaves, and he snatches up his yearbook now.

“You won’t even sign mine?”

“No way. Out.” Sukuna pecks a kiss on your cheek, earning a smack and Satoru’s glare behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

“Shit, man.” Sukuna wraps an arm around Satoru’s narrow shoulders, huge in comparison, as Satoru grimaces. “Friend zone is a bitch.” You blink in confusion, shaking your head.

“Friend what now? Go on, we’re talking!” You shove him out of the room finally, sighing as you see Satoru clutching that year book, the music still vibrating through the room, quieter now. “What’s he mean?”

“How would I know? Sukuna’s not exactly a friend.” He rolls his eyes, and you giggle a bit.

“Yeah, he’s kind of a dick.”

“Just kind of? Why’d you date him.”

“Well… he’s also hot?” Satoru rolls his eyes again, as your cheeks heat up, covering your laughter with your hand. “Sorry, let me see this.”

You snatch up his burgundy and black yearbook, and Satoru’s heart races in his chest, eyeing your room nervously, when you sit on the bed with your legs crossed, flipping open the glossy pages now. Satoru hears laughter then, nearly breaking his heart, his eyes shut as his fingers brush along one of your stuffed animals, he was an idiot, right, no way you could feel the same.

“Satoru what’s this - had a badass time banging you in the ‘vette, baby!??! Is this a joke like…” He panics then, eyes wide open, snatching the yearbook from your hands, cursing now.

“Shit this is Sukuna’s… Oh no��”

“Oh, no big deal. Oh, Satoru, I haven’t given you that gift!” Satoru’s sweating now, he can’t handle anyone ever seeing what he wrote but you, surely Sukuna is too drunk to notice, right? “Here, do you love it!?”

It’s a bright pink shirt, you hold up two of them in different sizes, embossed pictures of the two of you sipping on milkshakes, with little cat bodies. “What the… what?”

“You’re the white cat, and look I gave him shades!” You’re bouncing up and down again, yanking the shirt over your head, revealing just your bra, making Satoru’s eyes nearly bug out as he sees your breasts damn near.

“Stop, shit…”

“I’m stuck!” You’re laughing, breathless, when he tugs the shirt down now, so close your breath catches. You bury your head against his chest, the soft silk of his polo against your skin. “You saved me!”

“Always.” His soft words have more meaning than you know, as you slip his shirt off now, blushing as you see his body, more defined and cut than you expected, he’d definitely gained some muscle this year it seemed.

“Damn, look at you, all cut huh? Hottest bestie ever!” Your words make him stutter, then you’ve slipped the matching shirt, he stares at it in the mirror with horror filled eyes. “Besties furr-ever! God you look so cute, Satoru, let's take a picture, we’ll show our moms!”

Satoru grimaces then, as the realization hits. “Oh god…”

Friend Zone.

He was stuck in the friend zone.

Furr ever.

Then he hears it, laughter down the halls, you rush after him when he runs out, and there Sukuna is at the top of the stairs overlooking the partygoers all around the house, reading it out loud. Sukuna and everyone sees Satoru then, in that bright pink shirt with dumb fucking kittens, pointing at him and laughing as you walk out, crossing your arms.

“Hey now! Stop it! Everyone can go, I swear!”

“Wait, wait, you should hear this. ‘When it’s me and you, it’s like our own little perfect world, just Satoru and-’ You listen as Sukuna reads off it in horror, as Satoru begins to shove at Sukuna, and he keeps holding it higher, laughing. “I love you so much, you’re so special to me, you-”

“Give it back!” Satoru shoves a drunk Sukuna out of the way finally, making the big man in his letterman’s jacket stumble, as you blink in confusion, words you never expected from him, hitting so hard.

It couldn’t be.

Satoru and you were so close all these years, and not once had you even had an inkling. “Satoru…”

“No.” He runs down the stairs, yanking off the kitten shirt, leaving him bare, as everyone sings the song lyrics he’d written in your yearbook, making kissy faces as you yell at them all. “Fuck this town.”

“Satoru!” Shoko and Suguru come out front with you, as he kicks on the pedal of his bike, and you’re rushing. “Stop, please.”

“No, I’m done, with everyone here. Fuck you all.” They’re still making obscene gestures, earning your scowl, as Sukuna and the other jocks just grow louder.

“Leave him alone! Satoru, don’t go, I’ll send them all home.” You’re touching his chest now, making him falter, embarrassment pouring in.

“No, you’re popular, right?” His words hurt suddenly, you pull back as if they wound you. “You’re always popular, and I’m not.”

“You’re my best friend, who cares what they think of you? I know you’re amazing.” Your eyes fill with tears now, but Satoru’s embarrassment has taken over, they’re all spread across your front yard making kissy faces, chanting ‘friend zone friend zone friend zone’ “God don’t listen. They’re stupid!”

“No, I’m stupid, I can’t wait to leave this town, and never come back.” You’re crying more now, shaking your head.

“Please, we can… go somewhere, like we used to. I want to know… is what you said in the yearbook…”

“No, it’s… it was a joke. Okay?” You sniffle now more, and Satoru hops back on his bike. “You’re all a joke! Gonna be burnouts, and watch me get… so famous!”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Sukuna earns Satoru’s flipping him off, shocking the crowd, the quiet nerd had never been this way. He takes one last look at you, brows together, lips trembling.

You’d never like him anyway.

“I’m gone, and not looking back.” He rides off, hearing you shouting his name, hearing the laughter, his couple friends also trying to get his attention. You blow up his cell phone all night, all week, fuck all summer, his facebook, shit you call his damn mother, but Satoru leaves.

He leaves and never looks back.

*****

Present day- Satoru Gojo- age twenty six

It’s a bustling party, spring break is here and what place is better than Hollywood, really? Satoru is the most famous up and coming model there is, and he may or may not also be a complete whore of a man. He’s in a three piece Givenchy suit, sipping a martini and winking at a sexy waitress, who blushes immediately, earning the glare of the girl he’s with.

“This is what I mean! You only care about sex!” Satoru snorts now, as the eyes of the party start peering curiously.

“Didn’t I have you cumming like ten times this morning?” He murmurs, tilting her chin up, she falters a bit, lips parting for a moment. “That’s what I thought, sweets, don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

He’s grinning brightly down at her, a beautiful model in her own right, but women were… easy, easy to get, fuck they flocked to him, and he just kept one major rule about them all. Never, ever, become their friend, he could not handle the heartbreak eight years ago, the girl who he never spoke to again, fuck you’d never recognize him now, would you?

“I do, of course but… I want something more serious.” Satoru pouts.

“That’s a shame, we were having so much fun, Michelle.”

“That’s not even my name, ugh! It’s Marie! How-”

She’s freaking out now, he must have got her confused with his other hook up, he just watches her with cold blue eyes, tapping an olive into his mouth and nodding, pretending to care. It’s just sex, but Satoru loves to fuck, he loves watching women cum for him, screaming his name, something the boy with pink kitten shirts, glasses and a retainer couldn’t dream of.

He wasn’t a skinny nerd now, he was buff, he was sought after, he bets now you’d fold for him too, but he never visited home again to find out either way. He flew his mom and friends out to Hollywood instead, the taste of the little town left in his mouth far, far too disgusting, but of course he wonders about you, but he’s never managed to find out, to ask.

Satoru shakes off the thoughts of you, realizing another girl has walked up, and she’s yelling now too. “What’s wrong with you? Who are you?” He asks curiously, making her mouth drop open, arms crossing under her breasts.

“You don’t even remember me!?” The blonde girl asks.

“Michelle?”

“No, I’m Britney! Who is Michelle!?” Satoru curses, he thinks he remembers fucking Britney in a bathroom stall, but he’s not sure.

“Um… I think I’m gonna go.” He pats their shoulders, grinning with those bright white teeth. “I have places to be, ladies.”

Satoru earns two smacks, wincing and touching his cheeks, as his friend snorts in laughter next to him. “You’re such an ass, Gojo.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shit…” His phone keeps ringing, and soon he sees it, his manager won’t stop calling. “What is it?”

“Satoru, you have connections back in New Hampshire, right?” Satoru frowns now, he never ever wants to think of his hometown again.

“Why?” He leans on the bar, as he gets another martini, winking at the bartender who can’t keep her eyes off him.

“An ideal slot for an impromptu show, and you’ll be the star! You can book a trip this week right?”

“No!”

“What do you mean no? It’s perfect, the hometown boy got famous, they’ll eat it up, money in our pockets.” Satoru’s panicking now, visions swirling in his mind, of leaving you that night.

Should he have stayed?

No way, he’ll never be in that ‘friend zone’ again, looking like an idiot. Let him go back, show them all what he’s become. “You know what… fuck it, I can.”

“That’s my Star. Alright, booking tickets!” Satoru hangs up the phone, thinking of you suddenly… surely you were long gone.

Just how were you?

Why did he care?

That life was long, long gone. He eyes the pretty bartender now, tapping his martini glass, blue eyes dipping low. “Guess I’m visiting my hometown.”

“Oh yeah, where from?” She asks softly, and he smirks, as she shakes the martini up.

“Small town, middle of nowhere. You watched me get slapped and did nothing, by the way!” She giggles.

“You look like you deserved it.” Satoru sighs, giving her the cutest pout, as she leans over, but instead of even being attracted, you’re swirling all through his damn mind, one phone call and…

He couldn’t get the memory of you to leave.

Did you look the same, were you married with kids like you always wanted, or did you have a career, did you ever end up teaching? That was your dreams, small dreams to him, but to you they had been everything. He keeps hoping the money, fame and women will fill this gaping hole you left, and he supposes he can pretend that it did, but it’s gnawing it’s way open in his chest.

He sighs, as the music fades, and his ears rush with blood, remembering you that night, so vivid it’s like you’re there, and he has to blink, to focus on the bustling, expensive party surrounding him. He contemplates it then, what would Nerd Gojo think of himself now?

“Maybe I did.” He mumbles, when he’s back home, preparing for the trip, packing his finest outfits in a Gucci suitcase, he stumbles upon that one picture of you and him that he kept then, touching it gently, withered a bit with age, with time.

He whispers your name, before shoving it deep in the suitcase and closing it, laying back on his bed.

The ‘nerd’ Gojo they knew was gone.

He was a fucking model now, he fucked models for fun, he was filthy fucking rich, and he’d show them all, right?

But… what about you, the girl who always treated him so sweet, the one he has to swallow down emotions thinking of the memory.

What about you?

Next part- Satoru comes home!! And you just so happen to be there, what will you think of the changes Satoru has made? Gonna be a lil emotional, mostly fun and sweet!!! Satoru gonna be an ass but it's okay he'll learn lol.

taglist #1- @pinkyvomit @saitamaswifey @kachowness @vraiao @artbligh @psychoartiste @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @bsenpai @simp-for-wanderer @rjreins @emonaculate @myahfig4 @casua11ycrying @psycren @blushedcheri @ureuphoriasworld @frozenmallows @kanaojacksonofc @rcveriees @xlilycoco @yukimaniac @sypnasis @tokina @sharkubi @tztuoo @hyori2 @yesdere @gradmacoco @gamerhere @seikamuzu @xinsonyax @vvaoo @angie420 @ria54sworld @blue-musingss @mysticmyth @asimpinamillion @arabellasolstice @ilovebeansyay @notme000 @emochosoluvr @iv-vee @heh123321 @fushikamo @danilovesboba @spookyy-gracee @satorusleftnut @clqxuds @femaholicc

#satoru gojo x you #gojo x reader smut #satoru x reader #nerd gojo #nerdjo #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #satoru smut #satoru gojo fluff #gojo x you #divider by cafekitsune

5K notes · View notes

leriexoxo · 26 days ago

Text

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

Next>>

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn��t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

��I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

3K notes · View notes