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annievrse · 1 month ago

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in plain sight

roronoa zoro x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: when the straw hats start speculating about zoro's mysterious girlfriend, you and he decide to let the rumours run wild—until the truth comes out most unexpectedly. w/c: 3.6k c/w: secret relationship, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns.

There's no other way to get through to him than being straight up. That's how it works with Zoro, and it's something Nami has learnt to do without regret.

"You're seeing someone."

The swordsman shifts where he sits against the mast, his lips quirking into a scowl. "And you think it's your business because...?"

Nami has the urge to punch him in the shoulder, but it isn't like he'd feel it anyway, so she refrains.

"So it's true, then?"

"Can you just leave me alone? Aren't there clouds you need to yell at?"

She growls, deep and irritated before stomping to the back of the ship where she knows you and Robin will be.

Zoro smirks to himself, happy that he's palmed the problem off to you. He knows Nami will figure it out eventually, but seeing her so frazzled is satisfying.

You slam your book down on your thighs, your eyes darting around suspiciously like you can feel someone scheming against you. There's a tightness in your chest before Nami stops before you, her hands on her hips and her brows set in a nasty frown.

"He's unbelievable!"

Robin gives you a sidelong look before bookmarking the page of her book and sliding it onto the table. "What's the matter?"

"Zoro."

You bite your tongue and close your own book without marking the page, eyes trained on the navigator. From the way your heartbeat increases, you already know what she's going to say.

"What'd he do this time?" You squeak, hoping they don't hear the shake in your tone.

Nami rolls her eyes as she collapses onto the sun lounge. "He's keeping a secret."

"This again?" Robin chuckles. "How can you be so sure?"

"He smiles."

You blink. "What?"

Robin can't contain her giggles. "That's your evidence?"

"Yes!" Nami exclaims. "And he showers more than once a week!"

"Maybe he's working on himself..." You offer, the cuticle of your left thumb close to bleeding. Small hands close over where you pick, and you glance at Robin who remains focused on Nami.

"Are you sure you're not looking at this too closely?"

Nami shakes her head at the archaeologist. "This is different."

"Ladies! Could I interest you in a beverage?"

Your attention turns to Sanji, who glides over to you, a tray of pink and orange drinks in his hand. They tilt dangerously to the right when he presents them before you, and you take one. The condensation is a welcome sensation against your hot skin, and you immediately slurp down the drink—the nerves simmering through your veins make you hasty.

"Slow down," Robin tuts, taking a sip of her own cocktail, her eyes narrowed.

You know she knows, otherwise she wouldn't be babying you. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

"Rumour has it..." She continues, tilting her head at Sanji. "That Zoro has a girlfriend."

You choke on your drink, but Sanji's reaction draws the attention away from you, thankfully.

"What?" He yells, spluttering. "Who? Why? How?"

It's not really a secret, just the beginning of a newfound mutual attraction—you wouldn't even go as far as calling it a relationship yet, let alone labelling you as Zoro's girlfriend.

Nami nods along, seemingly egging Sanji on despite her earlier vexation and interest in the situation.

"Who is it?" Sanji presses his hand to his forehead. "I feel bad for her. We need to get this poor girl outta there."

Robin shrugs. "It's just a rumour. Who knows if it's even true."

"He didn't deny it when I asked him," Nami says, her gaze meeting Sanji's eagerly. "We need to figure it out."

The cook nods. "And when we find her, we need to perform an exorcism."

"Do you remember that waitress from Dressrosa?"

"The one who winked at him?"

"Yes!"

Nami and Sanji disappear, the wind carrying their voices and their sandals and dress shoes heavy on the wooden deck of the Sunny as they converse to the galley.

"How long are you going to let them meddle before you tell them?"

You twist your lips. Of course, Robin knows. "We only started speaking about it a few weeks ago. Nothing's official and we aren't even sure if it would be appropriate."

She hums, mulling over your words as she swirls the straw around in the sunset-coloured liquid.

"They don't know it's you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it."

You snort. "You're evil."

Robin smirks, picking her book back up with her free hand. "Just think about it."

—

You step out of the lower quarters, Zoro’s green haramaki jacket slung loosely over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs like it belongs there. It’s warm, a little scratchy, and it still smells faintly of sun-dried sweat and steel—undeniably him. The night air bites at your legs, but the jacket holds you like a dare.

Robin’s words from earlier echo in your head, smooth and dangerous: “They don’t know it’s you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it.”

So you decide to take her advice.

The galley is quiet when you push open the door. Dimly lit, the overhead lamp hums, casting a warm glow over the countertop where Sanji and Nami are standing far too close, heads bent together in hushed conspiracy. The air smells like citrus and tension.

Sanji is mid-sentence—something whispered and scandalous—when he sees you. He freezes, jaw half-open. Nami’s eyes snap up to follow his gaze, and everything stills.

You don’t say a word as you glide past them toward the stove, bare feet soft against the tiled floor. The only sound is the clink of the kettle being set to boil and the rattle of teacups. Their silence trails you like a pair of shadows.

Then, finally—

“Wait,” Nami says, blinking like she’s trying to reset her vision. “Is that—?”

You glance down at yourself like you’d forgotten what you were wearing. Feigning surprise, you laugh under your breath and tug the jacket tighter around your body. “Oh, this? Found it in the laundry pile. Might be Zoro’s. Not sure.”

You catch the shift in Sanji’s face like a storm rolling in—he chokes on his own cigarette smoke, coughing once, twice, eyes already watering with disbelief and disgust.

“That thing?” He sputters, voice rising half an octave. “That filthy, ragged—seaweed-coloured disgrace? You—you—should be wrapped in silk, in crushed velvet! Not whatever that moss-headed neanderthal sheds after a workout!”

You raise your eyebrows, unbothered. “Mm. But it’s warm.”

Nami’s staring now, more than looking—like she’s trying to do the math on something that shouldn’t be adding up.

You pick up your mug, now full and steaming, and cradle it in your hands. The ceramic is hot against your palms, grounding. You take a long sip, letting the moment stretch.

Then, casually, over the rim of your mug, you grin. “You’re right, Sanji. His girlfriend would probably hate me wearing it. Don’t you think?”

That lands like a firework.

Nami’s hand shoots out and grabs Sanji’s arm, her eyes going wide, like she’s just been handed the final piece of a puzzle she didn’t even realize she was solving. Sanji, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to faint.

You say nothing else.

The silence breaks only as you turn and make your way to the door. You don’t look back, but you can feel their stares trailing after you, sharp and electric.

As the door swings shut behind you, the muffled explosion of whispers begins instantly. Names. Theories. Wild speculation.

You let yourself smile into your tea.

—

"I'm on the list," You say, nudging your shoulder into Zoro’s as you wander past the last row of closed market stalls.

The town’s emptying, the sun bleeding its way down between leaning rooftops and flickering lanterns. There’s a stillness to this street, a hush that comes only after a good day of noise, food, and crew-wide mischief. For once, it’s quiet—just the two of you, tucked into the rarest sliver of privacy the world ever offers.

Zoro doesn't look at you, just grunts, a familiar sound rumbling in his chest. “What list?”

“Nami’s.”

That earns a slight turn of his head, a single eye narrowing in suspicion. “What’s she doing now?”

“Compiling suspects.” You smirk. “Of who you’re allegedly dating.”

He slows a step, not quite stopping. Another grunt—this one closer to a sigh. “You serious?”

“She’s up to five pages,” You continue, voice casual like this is normal. “I’m top three. Could be number one by tonight if I play my cards right.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She’s even got Franky on there.”

Zoro barks out a low laugh, the sound brief and amused. “What, because he complimented my swords once?”

“Probably,” You hum. “She said he gave you a suspicious thumbs-up the other morning.”

“That’s just Franky’s default setting.”

You shrug. “Try telling her that.”

He snorts, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to smile. The silence between you stretches, easy and familiar, filled only by the sound of your boots on stone and the rustle of wind through paper lanterns.

“She’s also started giving me these looks,” You add after a beat, waving a hand in the air and twirling your finger vaguely around your face. “Real invasive ones. Like she’s waiting for me to confess to murder or something.”

Before your spin can complete its full, dramatic arc, Zoro grabs your hand—steady and sudden. It isn’t forceful, just deliberate. Grounding.

He pulls you closer, not enough for anyone to see from a distance, but enough that your knuckles brush the fabric of his trousers, enough that your hand is suspended in the space between your bodies. Your pulse jumps.

“So what,” He says, voice quieter now. “You scared?”

You scoff, not bothering to hide the small huff of a laugh. “Of Nami?”

He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he watches you now—something more focused than usual. Like he's waiting. Like he’s asking a question without actually saying it.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “I’m not scared. Just…” You trail off, letting the truth settle before saying it aloud. “Not ready to be the Sunny’s new soap opera.”

He raises a brow, skeptical.

You nudge his hand with your pinky. “You know how they are. One clue and suddenly there’s a betting pool, matching outfits, crew-wide interventions…”

“They’ll move on in a week,” He says, like it’s obvious.

You arch a brow. “You really think that?”

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on your hand lingers.

A breeze slips between the buildings, catching the hem of your shirt and the edge of Zoro’s sash. The moment holds, quiet and strange, like the calm before something shifts.

Then you glance up at him, smirking. “For the record, I am honoured to be on the list.”

Zoro exhales through his nose, amused again. “Be funnier if she put Luffy on it.”

“She might. Give her time.”

He finally lets go of your hand, but only so his pinky can loop around yours instead—barely touching, almost nothing.

But you feel it anyway.

—

Back on the ship, you’re curled up on the bench seat in the lounge, one of Sanji’s lemon cakes half-eaten beside you and your book lying facedown on your lap. It’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon—the kind with quiet waves, distant seagulls, and maybe even a nap—but of course, peace never lasts long on the Sunny.

Not when Nami’s around.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the cutlery in the adjacent kitchen. Nami storms in like she’s coming back from war—journal clutched in her hand, hair wind-whipped, eyes gleaming with the kind of chaos only someone with a vengeance (and a highlighter) can conjure.

“I’ve got it!" She exclaims, eyes wide with excitement.

Robin, seated at the small corner table with a cup of spiced tea and the latest historical epic, doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes slide lazily to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve got what?”

“The proof.” Nami tosses her journal onto the table with a flourish. “I know who Zoro’s seeing.”

Your stomach flips, fast and stupid, like a switchblade. You sit up a little too quickly, the book slipping from your lap and thumping against the bench. Your hands tighten around the cushion.

Robin closes her book with exaggerated slowness. “Who is it then?”

Nami slams her palm flat against the open page. In massive, block-lettered fury—underlined, circled, and highlighted in two shades of orange and one aggressive yellow—it reads:

Zoro’s Secret Girlfriend (ongoing investigation – DO NOT TOUCH)

Below it is a bulleted list—no, an attack plan—of dates, observations, and “suspicious interactions.” You recognize some of them. A late dinner. A training session at dusk. The time Zoro walked into the lounge with wet hair and didn’t immediately complain about how tired he was.

Then, the kicker.

“It has to be Vivi,” Nami says, voice deadly serious.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

She jabs her finger at the journal like she’s unveiling classified intel. “Zoro was acting weird the day we got the letter from Alabasta. All twitchy. And he left dinner early.”

“Because Luffy threw a banana at his face,” You mutter. This is the first time you've looked at her list in detail, and it's impressive. You're shocked at the level of dedication she's applied to the topic of Zoro's love life.

She ignores you. “And Vivi always smiled at him weirdly. You remember that, right?” She flips two pages, finding her next piece of so-called evidence. “Right here. Drum Kingdom. They disappeared at the same time for almost twenty minutes.”

“That was two years ago. They were getting firewood,” Robin points out, sipping her tea. She doesn’t sound particularly invested, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. You don’t know if it’s from amusement or malice. Probably both.

Nami waves her off. “So they say. But we can’t trust that.”

You cover your mouth under the pretense of rubbing your nose, just to keep the bubbling laughter at bay. Your cheeks are starting to ache.

“And the jacket?” Robin asks, tilting her head. “Would Vivi have sent it back just to—what—taunt you?”

Nami’s eyes narrow. She considers that.

“That is strange,” She mutters, tapping her pen against her chin. “But maybe it’s part of a long game. A signal. She sent the jacket as a memento—like a silent claim.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s genius, actually. Classic misdirection.”

You stare at her, mouth parted, a strangled noise somewhere in your throat. The very idea of Vivi sending Zoro anything—let alone one of his most disgusting pieces of clothing—is so far removed from reality it circles back to being impressive.

Robin covers a chuckle with her tea.

Nami beams, proud of her conspiracy. “We’ll know for sure when we dock next. If he gets mail from Alabasta, we’ll have confirmation.”

“I think you might be reading into this a little too much,” You offer carefully, voice tight.

Nami throws you a look. “You’re still on the suspect list, you know.”

You lift your brows. “I feel honoured.”

She narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t push. Instead, she closes the notebook with a decisive thud and marches off with purpose.

Once she’s gone, Robin leans toward you, voice low and amused. “You nearly cracked a rib holding that in.”

You drop your head back with a groan. “She thinks it’s Vivi. I can’t—”

“It’s not your fault you’re a better liar than Zoro.”

“I’m not even lying!”

“Not saying something is still a lie,” Robin says, smiling into her cup. “Just a polite one.”

You sigh, covering your face. “This is going to explode eventually.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You lower your hands. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Robin’s smile sharpens. “Of course I am.”

—

That night, you sneak into the crow’s nest with two mugs of tea and a plan to make fun of Nami, only to find Zoro already there, sprawled out across the floor like he owns the place.

He’s shirtless—of course he is—sweat-slick from training and radiating the kind of smugness that should be illegal after sundown. His swords are leaning up in the corner, and the faint scent of steel, wood polish, and the body soap you forced on him lingers in the air.

You pause in the doorway, catching your breath before stepping in like you weren’t just eavesdropping three hours ago on a whispered theory that placed Vivi as his mysterious girlfriend.

Now, Nami's going stir-crazy in the galley. You left her there after watching her frantically pin strings and photos to the wall for an hour. Robin took over watching her so you could come see Zoro.

“She thinks it’s Vivi now,” You announce, sliding the door shut behind you and making your way over.

Zoro cracks one eye open, unimpressed but curious. “Why?”

You hand him one of the mugs, fingers brushing as you pass it off. “She made a crime board.”

He sits up just enough to take the tea from you, tilting it toward his mouth. “A what?”

“A full conspiracy setup. Pins. Strings. Timeline. She’s gone full investigator. Sanji’s involved, too. Robin’s watching it like it’s live theatre.”

Zoro takes a long, slow sip of his drink. “That’s some serious delusion.”

“She circled Vivi’s name in red ink.” You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Twice.”

He grunts like he might actually be impressed.

You rest your mug on your knee and glance over at him. “We could clear it up.”

Zoro doesn’t look at you, but his fingers find the edge of your mug, thumb grazing where yours rests near the handle. It’s barely a touch, but it’s familiar now.

You don’t pull away.

“We will,” He says, voice quiet and low.

You raise a brow. “When? After they accuse Chopper?”

He doesn’t answer that. Just turns his head enough to meet your gaze.

“But I like this,” He says instead.

You blink. “Lying?”

“No.” He holds your stare. “Us.”

Your throat tightens, like your body’s bracing for something heavier than the silence.

You could say something honest. Something dumb. Something real.

But then he smirks, that slow, stupid, smug thing he does when he knows he’s rattled you, and adds, “Besides. Watching them unravel is better than those trash romance comics you read.”

You blink once. Twice.

Then you punch his arm, full force.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Those comics are educational,” You say, deadpan.

Zoro sips his tea like he didn’t just get assaulted.

“Sure they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The warmth of the tea seeps into your fingers. The warmth of him is worse—closer, heavier, unspoken.

And maybe you’ll tell them.

Eventually.

But for now, you sit side by side in the quiet, sipping tea under the stars like there’s nothing to hide at all.

—

It happens, of course, when you least expect it.

The Sunny is anchored just off the coast of a quiet island, one of those sleepy little towns with sun-faded paint and overripe fruit stands. The crew is gathered on deck, full from lunch and dozing in patches of sun. There’s laughter, easy and echoing, and for once, everything feels still.

Which is exactly why it can’t last.

“Alright,” Nami announces, slamming her journal on the deck beside the lounge chair with the weight of divine judgment. “I’ve narrowed it down to two people.”

You, unfortunately, are within earshot.

Across the deck, Zoro is lying flat against the grass-green towel Sanji passive-aggressively laid out for him. He’s pretending to nap. He’s also terrible at pretending.

“Two?” Robin asks, mild and amused. She doesn’t even look up from her book.

“Yes.” Nami taps her pen like a war drum. “It’s either Vivi—”

“Oh my god,” You murmur, inhaling sharply.

“—or you.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You look up from your drink. Slowly.

Sanji chokes. “What?!”

Brook drops his violin. Usopp sits up like he’s been shocked. Chopper squeaks. Luffy blinks twice, then points at you. “Wait. You?”

You sigh. “Define you.”

“You’ve been wearing his jacket,” Nami says, like she’s unveiling a murder weapon. “You made tea for him. You blushed when I said he was seeing someone.”

“She blushed,” Sanji echoes, horror-struck. “This betrayal… cuts deeper than Zoro’s ugly fashion choices.”

You glance at Robin. She’s smiling into her book. Traitor.

Zoro, still flat on his towel, opens one eye. “Are we done?”

“We are not done,” Nami snaps. “I demand an answer.”

The crew is looking at you now. Seven pairs of eyes, wide and waiting.

And honestly? You’re tired.

Of ducking glances and dodging questions. Of pretending Zoro doesn’t sneak into the galley at night to make you his weird version of tea. Of acting like your pulse doesn’t skip every time his hand brushes yours—even now, even here, in front of them.

So, you take a breath.

And then—without fanfare, without ceremony—you walk across the deck, past the gawking stares and dropped jaws, and drop to a crouch beside Zoro.

He looks up at you, calm. Familiar. A tiny, knowing smirk playing on his mouth.

You roll your eyes.

Then you lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. "I liked it better when they didn’t know.”

There’s a pause.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

“Zoro?! You—?!”

“MY HEART—!”

“Why not me?!” Sanji sobs.

Luffy is clapping. Chopper is spinning in circles. Usopp is screaming about betrayal. Brook is composing a heartbreak ballad in real time.

Robin closes her book with a content sigh. “Finally.”

Zoro just closes his eyes again, smug and unbothered.

You sit beside him, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, letting the noise roll over you.

And despite everything—despite the shouting and the flailing and the fact that Sanji might never recover—you smile.

#this has been in the drafts for 6 months #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro imagine #roronoa zoro imagine #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x fem!reader #zoro roronoa #one piece imagine

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sugoroo · 10 months ago

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TRADING CARDS!

ʚɞ summary: toji’s in need of some cash, and you’re in need of having your cherry popped! he’ll take your v card if you lend him your credit card. simple, right?

warnings: fem!reader, penetration (p in v), breast play, tummy bulge, squirting, loss of virginity (reader), fingering, oral (f receiving), age gap (reader just finished college), tojis a bit of a perv, 18+ minors dni.

wc: 7.2k

"hey, doll?" toji grunts as he pokes his head into your room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he shoots you a slightly apologetic grin. "i'm gonna need ya to cover my half of the rent again this month."

you look up from your phone, your lips pulling down into a small frown at his words. this isn't the first time this has happened, and it certainly won't be the last, either. "seriously, toji?"

toji simply gives you a noncommittal shrug in response, turning the pockets of his sweatpants inside out as if to further prove his point — there wasn't a single cent in sight. "i ain't got nothin', sweets. hardly been able to buy food these last few days."

you roll your eyes, letting out a soft huff at his not-so-subtle attempt to make you feel bad for him (which almost always worked, and he knew it.) "fine. but you better come through next month. i can't keep covering you."

he lets out a sigh of relief, reaching out to ruffle your hair with one his large hands. "yeah yeah, i'll pay up next time. promise." he was lying through his teeth, and you both knew it. but you chose not to comment on it — maybe a small part of you wanted to keep toji as your roommate, even if you had to pay his rent half the time.

toji heads back out into the living room to lazily slump across the couch, leaving you to your own thoughts.

it was really starting to grate on your nerves how much you had to support him. he's a fully grown man, and you're a young girl fresh out of college. and yet, somehow, you ended up being the one paying his bills with the leftover money from your summer job.

and maybe it wouldn't bother you so much, if you weren't so constantly pent up.

college was supposed to be your time to shine, where you'd attend countless parties and have meaningless hookups with guys in bathrooms, just like all the movies you watched when you were younger.

but it wasn't really like that. and as much as you loathe to admit it, you're still a virgin. with only your own feeble fingers to keep you company, you can probably count on one hand the amount of orgasms you've had in your life.

and that's when you have an idea.

it's just like trading cards — toji takes your v card, and in return, you lend him your credit card.

it's shameless, and you might've felt embarrassed with yourself for even coming up with it if you weren't in dire need of releasing some tension.

and if toji's as desperate for money as he makes out like he is, maybe he wouldn't mind agreeing to your little proposition.

the only catch in your genius idea is that you actually have to ask toji about it.

you've been lingering outside his bedroom door for what feels like hours, trying to figure out how to actually phrase your proposal without making a complete fool of yourself.

but just as you timidly raise a fist to knock, the door swings open, and toji walks right into you, causing you to collide face first with his toned chest. you barely register the two strong hands that rest over your shoulders to steady you, your mind suddenly laser focused on the way your cheek is squished between his pecs.

"oops. sorry, doll," toji chuckles heartily, moving one of his hands from your shoulder to gently grasp your hair and pull your now noticeably flushed face away from his chest. "didn't see ya there."

"n-no, it's my fault." you manage to stammer out, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain your composure. shit, you hadn't even asked him yet, and you were already a mess.

he raises a thick eyebrow at your skittish demeanour, his hand leaving your hair to teasingly poke at one of your adorably pink cheeks. "aww, what's this? you blushin'?"

you try and shoot him a glare, but it looks more like a pout than anything else as you meekly swat his hand away from your face. "shut up, toji. you're the one who walked right into me."

he lets out a deep, amused chortle at this, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at you with a lazy smirk. "right. and you're the one who was lingering outside my door like a creeper."

you let out an embarrassed huff at his rebuttal, knowing there's no way to deny it now. you take another deep breath, idly wringing your hands as you crane your neck to look up at him. "yeah. about that. i, um, i wanted to ask you something."

toji cocks his head to the side, his expression turning mildly curious. "oh? what could you possibly want to ask this old man, hm?" he grunts, your little nervous fidgets not going unnoticed by him.

"w-well, i, um..." you begin, your features twisting up into a grimace as you struggle to get the words out. damn it, you were already cursing your past self for thinking this was a good idea. "i have a proposition for you."

this seems to pique the dark-haired man's interest, and he straightens his back slightly, reaching up with a large hand to scratch his chin. "what kind of proposition are we talkin', sweets?"

you swallow thickly at the way he puts such emphasis on the word proposition, as if he already knows exactly what you're thinking. but of course he doesn't — how could he?

"the kind of proposition where i lend you my credit card to help with your little... money problem," you begin, fighting to keep your voice as steady as possible. "and in return, you..."

toji's eyebrows raise even higher at your words, and he lets out a grunt of irritation when you trail off at the end of your sentence. "in return i what? use your words, doll."

"and in return, you..." you repeat quietly, your voice becoming consistently quieter until the last few words come out as a mere whisper. "help me lose my virginity."

the silence that follows your words is absolutely deafening, the only noise being the faint sounds of cars passing by the road outside the apartment.

you immediately start thinking of ways to salvage the situation, maybe just laugh it off and say it was a prank or something. it's a flimsy excuse, but it's better than this painful silence.

just as you open your mouth in an attempt to backtrack, toji grasps your chin in one large hand, effectively shutting you up with the movement. "you're a damn virgin?" he rasps out, turning your flushed face from side to side as if examining it would help him find the answer.

"u-uh, yeah," you mutter sheepishly, shrinking in on yourself slightly under the sudden intensity of his gaze. "why do you sound so surprised?"

toji barks out an almost incredulous laugh, as if you were utterly ridiculous for even asking such a thing. "seriously?" he huffs, shaking his head. "you're a fine little thing. figured ya would've had guys linin' up around the block for ya at college."

your eyes widen almost comically at his words, your mouth opening and closing a few times as you try to form a coherent response. you never expected your considerably older, rough around the edges roommate to actually find you attractive. "i-is that a yes, then?"

he scoffs loudly at this, repeating your words back to you in a mocking tone. "how the hell do ya expect me to say no to that?" he mutters, the pad of his thumb skimming across your jaw. "i've done worse deals for a whole lot less."

you let out a long sigh of relief, some of the tension leaving your shoulders at his agreement. the hardest part was out the way — you'd managed to get him on board.

"hey." toji grunts, his hand on your chin squeezing hard enough to get your attention as he angles it higher, tearing you from your thoughts. "look at me when we're talkin', girl."

your eyes widen even further at his sudden commanding tone, your thighs instinctively pressing together slightly beneath your skirt. the reaction doesn't go unnoticed by toji, but he doesn't comment on it, simply filing the information away for later.

"ya sure this is what y'want, sweets?" toji asks, his voice barely above a low mutter as he leans his head down closer to your level, his hot breaths just barely puffing across your face as he seemingly searches for any signs of hesitance. "once it's done there ain't no goin' back."

"i... i know." you gulp, vaguely aware of the way his dark eyes follow the gentle bobbing of your throat. "i wouldn't have asked if i didn't want this."

he hums, appearing satisfied with your answer. his thumb moves from your jaw to the plump skin of your lower lip, pulling it down slightly before letting it snap back into place. "how long do i get ya credit card for?"

"how long?" you repeat, blinking a few times. you hadn't even thought about that. and it was becoming quite hard to focus with the way he was toying with your lip. "um... twenty four hours."

toji grunts in acknowledgement, but his lips start to spread into a mischievous grin, and you can tell he's not going to make this easy for you. "nah. forty eight."

you let out an indignant huff, your eyes narrowing at the audacity of this man. two whole days? he was probably planning on bankrupting you at this rate. "thirty six." you counter.

he lets out a hearty laugh, his chest visibly rumbling with amusement at your haggling. his thumb traces over your lip again, causing you to let out a shuddering breath. "mm. ya got y'erself a deal there, dollface."

"good." you mutter, reaching out a hand towards him in a gesture of sealing the deal. toji takes it, his large hand entirely enveloping yours as he gives it a brisk shake.

before you can even think of saying anything else, toji uses his grip on your hand to tug you closer to his chest, your face almost colliding with his torso again.

"i'm assumin' you've atleast kissed before?" toji muses, this thumb still tracing the contour of your lips as if that would answer his question.

you let out a small, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of your neck as you find yourself avoiding his gaze again. "yeah, i have."

toji tuts, yanking your chin back up again, more forcibly this time. "jesus, girl. what did i say about keeping your eyes on me?" he grumbles. "and whatcha laughin' for? i say somethin' funny?"

"sorry." you huff, your lips pushing out into an involuntary pout. "i'm not laughing because of you. it was just a really... bad kiss."

he hums in response, tilting his head to the side as his grin morphs into a small smirk. "damn. a virgin and you've never even had a good kiss. i got my work cut out for me here."

you try and shoot him another glare, a huff of exasperation leaving your lips. "no need to rub it in, toji. i'm paying you for this, remember?"

toji barks out an amused chuckle, shaking his head at your little attempts to try and look stern. cute. "yeah yeah, i know ya are. and don't worry, ya won't regret it."

you're about to open your mouth to retort, but before a single syllable can leave your mouth, toji's lips are on yours. they're rough and slightly chapped as they brush over your own, just the texture you would've expected them to be if you had to guess.

it's not a rough kiss, but it's not exactly gentle either. it's somewhere in the middle, somewhere that makes you think even the way toji kisses is just so... toji.

he pulls away after a few moments, letting out a soft huff of laughter at your dazed expression. "you still in there, sweets?" he hums, flicking his thumb against your forehead.

you can feel the way your cheeks flush darker at his taunting words, silently cursing yourself for getting so worked up over a simple kiss. damn it, it was so obvious just how touch starved you were. how were you going to make it through this?

"i'm still here." you grumble under your breath, causing toji to chuckle even harder. "and if you're just gonna keep laughing at me, maybe i'll go ask someone else to help me."

toji's chuckle turns into a bark of laughter, and his lips curve up into a smug grin as he flicks your forehead again. "no can do. we already shook on it. handshake's sacred, dollface. dontcha know?"

"ugh. you just made that—" you attempt to argue, but he shuts you up by pressing his lips back onto yours again, slightly rougher this time. you let out a sound of surprise against his mouth when his scar brushes against your skin, but slowly, you start to reciprocate the gesture.

he lets out a satisfied hum, starting to take a few steps backwards through the doorway of his room, his lips still moving against yours all the way.

you angle your face up to unknowingly chase after his lips when he pulls away, and you have to swallow down the embarrassing sound that threatens to escape you when you realize what you're doing.

toji snorts, shutting the door behind the two of you with a stupidly self-satisfied smirk stretching across his lips. "that attached to me already, huh? we only just started."

"i'm not attached." you scoff meekly, though your actions severely contradict your words as you lean up on your tiptoes in the search of another kiss.

"mhm. whatever y'say, girl." he mutters amusedly, his hand snaking under your chin again to help you reach his mouth. he meets you halfway, his kisses growing slowly more insistent as his tongue flickers out to swipe over your lower lip.

a soft gasp escapes your lips at the feeling of the warm, wet muscle asking for entrance into your mouth, but you comply, parting your lips to allow the intrusion.

he lets out a satisfied grunt, his tongue darting every which way as it expertly explores the warm cavern of your mouth. you just stand there, completely stock still, for a long few seconds before your own tongue starts to meekly lick against his.

"yeah, there we go," toji mutters into your mouth, his thick tongue easily enveloping yours as he rolls them together. he's so effortless with it, like this is second nature for him — you suppose it probably is. you're not oblivious to the amount of hookups he brings back to the apartment when he thinks you're asleep.

toji pulls back from your mouth with a lewd pop! once he registers that you need some air, observing the way your chest rapidly rises and falls like you can't get enough oxygen with silent amusement.

he's going to have such fun pulling more of these pretty reactions from you.

while you're still desperately trying to catch your breath, he slides both of his rough, calloused palms under the fabric of your shirt, his hands leaving a tingling trail of heat across your skin.

"wait—" you begin to protest, but whatever you were going to say trails off once you feel his fingers brush against the underside of your breasts.

he lets out a grunt of surprise, raising his bushy eyebrows. "no bra, doll?" toji scoffs, shaking his head. "you were ready for this, weren't ya?

your cheeks flood with embarrassment for the nth time this evening, and you feel the sudden urge to just shove his hands away and go back to your room to get yourself off with your feeble fingers. but you don't.

toji lets out yet another snort of laughter at your reaction, rolling his eyes. "i ain't sayin' it's a bad thing, girl," he mumbles, moving his hands to cup each of your breasts in his wide palms. "makes things easier for me. i like it."

you let out a small huff of relief at his sort-of-creepy reassurance, unable to fight the way your body instinctively leans into his touch, pressing your chest into his hands slightly.

he hums, removing his hands only to push your shirt up to get a look at your bare breasts, the fabric bunching up around your collarbone as he leans in closer to inspect your assets.

"toji!" you gasp in complaint, trying to push down the instinct to cover yourself up from your roommate's intense gaze. but when your hands fly up to guard your chest, he instantly grabs your wrists, making you freeze.

"ah ah," he chides with a smug smirk, easily moving both of your wrists into one hand while the other reaches out to fondle your breasts. "no need to be shy. ya got a nice pair of juicy tits right here."

his compliment is so lewd, and even with the way you attempt to wriggle your wrists free from his grip, he effortlessly keeps them trapped with one strong hand.

toji squeezes and kneads the supple flesh of your breasts, laving both with equal attention as he feels up every inch of skin available to him. he can't believe his little roommate has been hiding these pretty tits from him all this time.

when he leans down to pop one into his mouth, you let out a strangled gasp which quickly morphs into an almost pornographic moan when he starts to gently suckle at your highly sensitive nipple.

"shit." you manage to push out, your breaths becoming increasingly more erratic as he starts to flick his rough tongue over your perked bud. you can feel rather than hear the raspy chuckle he lets out at your reaction.

"so damn sensitive," toji rumbles as he pulls back from your breast, which is now shiny and slick with his salvia, before moving to the other. "y'like that, huh?"

it takes you a few moments to form a coherent response, your mind suddenly feeling unable to focus on anything other than the way he's practically making out with your chest. "y-yeah."

toji's smirk widens in a grin at your stammered words, clearly finding enjoyment in the way your body is reacting to his every touch. "bet ya do. poor thing, graduated college and still never been properly touched."

you let out an indignant huff, annoyance momentarily taking over your pleasure. damn it, why did he always have to mock you at any given opportunity? you're starting to wish you never told him about your virginity.

he snorts again at your huff, removing his mouth from your breast with a long, stringy trail of salvia connecting his lips to your chest. "whatcha huffin' for, girl? thought ya wanted this."

you shoot him another one of your trying-to-be-stern-but-really-just-pouting glares. "i do want this. but i also want you to stop laughing at me the entire time."

he rolls his eyes dramatically, acting as if not laughing at your expense was the most difficult thing he'd been asked to do today. "i'm not laughin' at you, dollface. i'm laughin' at those stupid ass college boys who missed out on having you like this."

before you can even begin to process his words, toji crowds you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you instinctively plop down onto the mattress, looking up at him with wide eyes.

he snickers at your shocked expression, moving forward to stand between your legs. from this position, he towers over you even more than usual, and you have to crane your neck practically all the way back to meet his eyes.

"why so surprised, hmm?" toji drawls, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear in an uncharacteristically gentle touch. "y'think i didn't notice how pretty ya were the first damn day ya moved in?"

you open and close your mouth a few times before managing to pull yourself together enough to speak. "honestly? i kinda figured you didn't pay me much attention — considering how many hookups you bring around here."

he hums in response, moving his hand to grasp your chin and force you to maintain eye contact with him. "so you noticed that, huh?" he grunts, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "they're just distractions, really. i've wanted you for a while, but i assumed ya wouldn't be interested in and old man like me."

you can only raise an eyebrow incredulously at his words, as if he'd just said something ridiculous. "toji, you're so dramatic. you're not that old."

he barks out a loud laugh at this, slowly lowering himself to his knees between your legs. the audible sound of his muscles protesting the movement seems to disprove your words, making you wince. "no need to flatter me, sweets. i know 'm old." he mutters, his smirk still firmly in place.

you open your mouth to argue, but quickly forget whatever you were about to say when toji's large palms start to trail up your thighs, stopping just below the edge of your skirt.

"ya got no panties on too?" he asks teasingly, although you can hear the faint sense of actual curiosity in his tone. however, when his fingers graze against the edge of your lace panties, he huffs. "hmph. you disappoint me."

you roll your eyes at his words. you would've gone pantyless too, but unfortunately the prospect of finally losing your virginity made you so wet that you had to wear them to prevent yourself from dripping on the floor of the apartment.

"you've touched yourself before, i take it?" toji grunts as his hand moves to easily cup your clothed pussy in his palm, his smirk becoming a grin again when he feels how damp the material is.

you suck in a sharp breath, your eyes fluttering in pleasure at the feel of someone else's hand except your own touching your most sensitive area. "y-yeah, i have. but it's..."

toji seems to understand why you trailed off, letting out a hum of acknowledgement as his fingers start to rub little circles against your panties. "but your little fingers can't make you cum right, yeah?"

you can only manage a feeble nod, fighting the urge to start grinding yourself into his hand. he chuckles amusedly at your reaction, his fingers just dipping under the edge of your panties but not quite.

if you were one of his usual hookups, he'd probably be balls deep inside you by now. but you're not — you're his pretty little roommate he's had his eye on for a while, and on top of that, you're a virgin.

he's going to take his sweet time with you.

toji spends what feels like an eternity teasing you through your underwear until you're squirming restless on the edge of his bed before he finally, finally makes direct contact with your pussy.

"shit," he grunts as he swipes his finger through your sopping folds, the digit practically slipping across your slick skin. "you're so damn wet, baby. i've hardly even touched you yet."

you can't stop the pathetic whine that escapes your throat, your cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink and your eyes half-lidded with need as you look down at him. "please, toji."

fucking hell. he actually has to restrain himself from just pouncing on you right there and then when you beg him so sweetly. instead, he lets out a raspy chuckle, his finger moving down to lazily circle your dripping entrance. "please what, girl? use your words."

"please..." you say again, your voice breathless as you wriggle your hips slightly underneath his hand. "touch me properly."

toji snorts at your phrasing, shaking his head. but before another retort can leave his lips, he's rendered speechless for a moment when he slides a finger into your entrance, your gummy walls instantly sucking him in.

"jesus," he mutters hoarsely, yanking your panties to the side with his other hand to get an unobstructed view of the way your little pussy flutters around his finger. "what a pretty fuckin' cunt."

you let out what can only be described as a mewl at his words, and the noise sounds foreign to your own ears. god, what is he doing to you?

he groans low in his throat at the sound you make, moving his finger around inside of you as gently as he can and brushing the thick digit against your spongy walls.

it should be illegal, really, how quickly toji manages to find your sweet spot. he's had a single finger inside your pussy for just under a minute, and the calloused pad of his digit is already grazing your sensitive g spot.

"ah!" you practically sob, your thighs instinctively clenching around his beefy arm. you've never felt such an intense spark of pleasure before — it's obvious you never managed to find that spot before when you attempted to get yourself off.

he grins smugly, brushing his finger over the spot again, almost touching it but not quite enough to properly stimulate you. "that's the spot, ain't it, dollface?" the question is rhetorical. you both know that's the spot.

but before you can start grinding yourself down onto his finger, he abruptly pulls it out, admiring the way the digit is now coated in your shiny slick.

you open your mouth to protest, or beg for more, or something, but all rational thoughts leave your mind when you see toji slip his finger into his mouth, sucking your juices from it with a low grunt.

"damn, that's good," he mutters gruffly, almost to himself, as he slides it out of his mouth with a lewd pop! — his eyes then fall back on your glistening pussy, his pupils dilated considerably more than before.

in a matter of moments, toji's slid your ruined panties down your legs, admiring the sticky mess soiled there before shamelessly shoving them in his pocket of his sweatpants.

"hey!—" you huff half-heartedly, but before you can even think of finishing the sentence, toji's chapped lips are placing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses up your thighs.

"mmph," you moan softly, not bothering to protest as he slides your thighs further apart with his palms, his lips nibbling against the supple skin of your inner thighs, undoubtably leaving small marks that will bloom tomorrow.

"wanna eat you," toji murmurs once he's face to face with your pussy, his hot breaths puffing across your sensitive skin and visibly making your little clit twitch impatiently. "can i eat you, dollface?"

you crease your eyebrows a little in confusion at his request. from what you'd heard from your college friends, guys hated performing oral for girls. but the way toji was staring hungrily at your cunt, his tongue swiping across his dry lips, made you think he would simply laugh at you again if you told him that.

"o-okay," you mutter sheepishly. and the second the agreement leaves your lips, toji's burying his entire face against your heat, groaning into your pussy as he rubs his sharp nose up and down your sopping folds.

when he first slides his rough tongue across your sensitive skin, you swear you go cross-eyed for a full moment before regaining control of yourself. it's like nothing you've ever felt before, wet and warm and so deliciously lewd.

"fuckin' sweeter than candy," toji grunts against your skin, the vibrations causing your body to instinctively attempt to wriggle away. but he's not having it, his beefy arms wrapping around your thighs to keep you in place. "ah ah, no runnin', baby."

while before you might've tried to argue a little in protest, your brain has already turned to mush from just his finger and his tongue, so you can only let out a few unintelligible murmurs.

"yeahhh," he snorts as he continues to sloppily lap at your folds, gathering as much of your syrupy slick on his tastebuds as possible. "don't hear none of that backtalk now."

god, he's so messy with it. you can hardly manage to keep your eyes open to gaze at him, but when you do, it only makes your pleasure heighten to new levels.

you've never seen your roommate so focused on anything before — not even those storage wars shows he likes to shout at on the tv. his eyes are half-lidded, his thick fingers are digging into your thighs so hard you can visibly see the marks forming, and his tongue is ruthless as it delves in and out of your dripping hole.

"t-toji, shit. feels so good," you manage to stammer out, your head thrown back and your hands traveling up to tangle in his messy dark hair without thinking, tugging on it gently.

your action draws a raspy chuckle from low in toji's throat, and his sloppy, shameless tongue seems to speed up even more in response. you vaguely register a glob of saliva landing on your pussy, but just as quick as it falls there, he's already licking it back up. "c'mon, girl, i know you can pull harder than that."

you attempt to tug his dishevelled strands harder, but your hands feel weak, and your thighs are starting to shake slightly around his head. you notice a familiar spring coiling in the depths of your stomach, but it feels more intense than any build-up to an orgasm you've given yourself before.

"t-think i'm close." you gasp out, your mouth hanging open as you try and keep your body from collapsing back against the mattress. he's quick to help, his hands sliding up the back of your skirt to support your back.

toji hums in satisfaction, a shit-eating (or, in this case, a pussy-eating) grin spreading across his lips as he continues to devour you, his tongue repeatedly massaging your g spot.

it feels like he's trying to eat you whole, and it's completely overwhelming in the best way possible.

"yeah?" he mutters against your cunt, wrapping his lips around your puffy, swollen clit and sucking the sensitive bud harshly. "go on then, baby. cum for me."

it feels like a part of you was instinctively waiting for his permission, because the second those words leave his mouth, your entire body starts convulsing in his strong arms, a strangled cry leaving your open mouth as you orgasm.

your earlier suspicion was right, because this is the hardest you've ever cum before in your entire life. (not that there's really much competition). your limbs feel all tingly and airy, and there aren't really many thoughts left in your mind except from toji, toji, toji.

"hmmph," toji grumbles, pulling back from your cunt after he's sure every bit of your sweet release is down his throat. he looks up at you, snickering gruffly at the utterly dumb look across your features.

you look completely fucked out already, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. that's what happens when you make a deal with a virgin, he assumes.

while you attempt to come down from your high, toji shifts slightly, his knees aching slightly from spending so long on the floor. but even worse than that, is the raging erection he has straining against the material of his sweatpants.

it's been there since he started kissing you, and it's only gotten progressively worse as the time stretched on. he's so hard now that it actually hurts, and the small stain of pre-cum darkening the front makes him feel like a damn teenager again.

toji gets to his feet, ignoring the way his stiff muscles protest, and sheds his sweats and his boxers in one swift movement, kicking them somewhere across the room. he makes his way between your legs, spreading them even further apart to make room for his body.

"wait..." you mumble dazedly, your words adorably slurred as you blink lazily up at him, reaching out a hand as if silently asking for something. "don't y'want me to return the favour first?"

he snorts, although it makes something inside him warm the slightest bit at your consideration. "nah, dollface. you're paying me, not the other way 'round, yeah?"

your pouty expression from earlier returns, but before you can argue further, your eyes fall on his cock, which you only just notice is free from his sweatpants. it's bigger than any you've seen videos of online before, with a prominent vein running down the length and pearly rivulets of pre-cum leaking from the pudgy tip.

your mouth falls into a small 'o' shape, a sudden sense of dread filling you at the mere thought of trying to take that inside of you. why did you have to make this deal with someone who has such an unnecessarily large dick?

toji chuckles deeply at your reaction, cocking his head to the side with a smug smirk. "what? don't tell me you're g'nna chicken out on me now, sweets?"

you could just smooth down your skirt, hand him your credit card as payment for what he's done for you already, and walk right out of his room the way you came in.

but you don't. you've come too far already to back out now — you're this close to finally losing your virginity.

"no," you murmur meekly, swallowing thickly and tearing your eyes away from his cock and meeting his eyes again. "i don't wanna stop. it's just... is that thing really gonna fit in me?"

he barks out an amused laugh at this, his rough palms on your thighs squeezing in what's probably his way of giving you a reassuring gesture. "it'll fit, baby. i loosened you up a little already, so that'll help."

"okay," you mutter, your eyes flickering back down as he wraps a large hand around the meaty base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance and rubbing it along your puffy folds, gathering some of your creamy slick on the head. "is it gonna hurt? it's gonna hurt, isn't it?"

toji huffs at your hurried rambling, leaning his head down to shut you up with a quick kiss to your lips. "it'll only hurt at the start," he grunts in as soothing a tone as he can muster, bracing a hand against the headboard above you.

this seems to ease your nerves, if only a little, and you nod in a sign of silent permission. but he doesn't appear satisfied with this, and he grasps your chin with his free hand. "that ain't good enough, dollface. use your words f'me."

"y-you can start now." you murmur in response, your eyes glued to the way the muscles in his arm flex above you as he begins to slowly push himself in.

"fuckin' shit," he groans, the sound more guttural than anything he's let out so far as his cock breaches the first ring of muscle inside of you, his beefy arm visibly shaking as he tries to hold himself back from just plunging all the way in. "so damn tight in here."

your face contorts into a grimace as a rush of pain pangs through your body, your hands clutching at the sheets for purchase. you'd heard about it hurting online, but then again, most people didn't take a cock as big as toji's for their first time.

"sorry, babydoll." he mutters hoarsely, his gruff tone holding an underlying tone of genuine sympathy instead of the amusement he's shown so far — he's clearly aware of the strain he's having on your body.

he gives you a few moments to adjust to the intrusion, gritting his teeth to hold back any sounds that threaten to spill out of his mouth when he feels your cunt clenching and unclenching around him.

"you can keep going now," you manage to say, your eyes screwed shut and your hands fisted in the bedcovers as you try to deal with the pain. "i'm okay."

he grunts in response, the hand that was around your chin moving to grasp one of your balled up hands as he continues to sink himself inside inch by inch. he can feel how hard you squeeze his hand the entire time, probably cutting off the circulation to his arm in the process.

but he couldn't care less about that. not when he so close to finally being balls deep inside of his pretty little roommate.

"biiiig stretch." toji hums, a low, drawn out sound, when he finally feels himself bottom out, your spongy walls contracting and fluttering around him as if they can't decide whether to push the intrusion out or pull it in deeper. "there we go."

you, on the other hand, couldn't manage to string together a single syllable. it feels like toji has buried himself into your guts, like he's physically rearranging your anatomy right before your eyes.

toji lets his own eyes flutter shut for a moment, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. he knows you need a while to adjust to taking all of him, but damn if he doesn't want to pound you into the mattress right now.

you let out a strangled groan, wriggling around against the covers as your body stretches to accommodate his sheer size. it feels like he could split you in half without much effort. "p-please... start moving, toji."

"you sure?" he rasps gruffly, his hand gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles have gone completely white. "once i start i prolly won't be able to stop."

"i-i don't care. just..." you begin, unable to even finish the thought when he shifts slightly, unintentionally pushing into you even deeper. "move."

he snorts at your desperation, but the sound turns into something akin to a growl when he pulls out slightly, before shoving himself right back in all the way.

"ah!" you sob pathetically, clinging onto his hand even tighter as he starts to shallowly thrust into you. shit, you're pretty sure you just felt something inside of you snap.

you're officially no longer a virgin.

"yeahhh." toji grunts above you, his lips spreading into a pussydrunk grin as he moves he moves his hips leisurely but expertly. you're starting to understand why his hookups always cry his name so loud through the thin walls separating your rooms.

the initial pain slowly starts to fade, being replaced by an overwhelming sense of pleasure and fullness. you bring your shaky legs up to wrap around his beefy back, your ankles locking against his skin.

"jesus, girl," he groans, his hips subtly stuttering in their pace in response to your actions. "y'er pullin' me in even deeper."

you open your mouth to apologize, or retort, or something, but it comes out as a slurred garble when you feel toji's fat cockhead brush against your cervix.

"uh huhh." he grins smugly, his hand that was interlaced with yours moving down to grip your hip and keep you in place as he quickens his pace slightly. he's being a little gentler than he usually would be just for you, but this is still toji here.

"t-too much!" you cry out, reaching up to grasp onto his bicep above you for some sort of support. your entire body is jolting against the covers in response to his increasingly hard thrusts, your mouth hanging open dumbly.

"nah, dollface," he grunts in protest, his fingers digging into the skin of your hip as if to ground you. "i know y'can take it. doing so damn well f'me."

toji brings his palm up from your hip to slide under your previously bunched up shirt, fondling your breasts and rolling one of your hardened nipples between his fingers.

this makes a loud mewl escape from your throat, your cunt clenching around him in response to the dual sensations. if you thought his tongue made you reach new heights of pleasure, his cock is a completely different beast.

you can already feel something strange stirring in the depths of your stomach. it's not like your previous orgasm, it's unfamiliar — it almost feels like you're about to pee.

"t-toji, feels weird," you slur out, squirming against the covers as you try to hold the rising sensation at bay. "like i'm gonna pee or something. m-maybe y'should pull out."

he barks out a laugh at this, as if he knows something you don't. his hand moves down to pat your stomach, right where the prominent bulge of his cock is moving in and out.

"that means you're gonna squirt, baby." he utters simply, making your eyes widen in surprise. now that's something you've definitely never managed to make yourself do before.

looks like you're gonna be ticking off more than one first from the list today.

"makin' ya squirt for y'er first time," he proclaims cockily, smirking to himself as he effortlessly keeps up the languid rolls of his hips. "i'm damn good, ain't i?"

"i haven't even squirted yet." you grumble, heat flooding to your cheeks in response to his teasing. he's still your annoyingly smug roommate, even when he's fucking you into his mattress.

"key word — yet." toji shrugs in response, his lethal thrusts quickening in pace. his rough palm pushes down right above your bulging tummy, causing you to let out a strangled gasp.

your cunt clenches impossibly tighter around him, your ankles digging into the skin of his back as you feel your second orgasm of the night start to wash over you. "fuck. g-gonna..."

"yeah? c'mon, baby, make a mess all on me." he grunts gruffly, his hand moving down to rub lazy, sloppy circles against your puffy clit, the nub pulsing under his touch.

"tojiiii!" you practically sob, the added stimulation sending you hurling over the edge before you can process it. your vision goes completely white with the intensity of your high, your breaths coming in heavy gasps.

"oh, thattt's it," he hums in satisfaction, lightly patting your pussy as he watches the gushes of clear liquid squirt out, lewdly coating the base of his cock and balls in your essence. "fuckin' good girl."

it only takes him a couple more strokes for toji to know he's close too, and he quickly pulls out, slapping his thick cock against the flushed skin of your tummy and giving it a few final jerks.

as much as he'd love to fill you up, he figures that since you're a virgin, you probably wouldn't be on birth control.

and he's not about take that risk.

toji lets out a low, raspy grunt as he spills his creamy, pearlescent cum all over your stomach, tainting the supple skin with his sticky, oozy mess.

he lazily tugs his boxers and sweatpants back up, wiping some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand before leaning down and giving your cheek a quick, wet kiss.

then he saunters out of the room, leaving you panting and limp on his bed while he rifles through your purse on the living room table.

"i would've done that for free, by the way." toji mutters amusedly as he pulls out your credit card, waving it tauntingly in front of his face with the smuggest grin yet stretching at his lips. "see ya in thirty six hours, dollface."

i’d like to dedicate my first proper fic to @screampied because her works inspired me to begin writing my own! <3

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

#★sugoroo #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #toji zenin #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #anime smut #smut #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader smut

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awxcoffeexno · 11 months ago

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ain't gon' ever deserve you

mutant!loganhowlett x human!reader one shot

fic masterlist | nsfw claw worship

summary: logan has a nightmare and hurts you by accident - or - the one where you worship his claws the way they deserve.

content: mostly family-friendly claw worship. logan believes in the animal accusations but reader fixes it. reader is human, logan and reader have an established and v loving relationship, lots of reassurance and comforting for logan.

warnings: logan has nightmares, mentions of blood, logan self-hate, family-friendly knife play??????.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: listen, claw worship has been on my mind for a looooooong time. I'm too chicken to put up any of my nsfw writing yet so here's an sfw version with affirmations for poor baby lo-lo. also this is super inspired by logan and kayla's relationship and even uses some quotes from them.

you're deep asleep, dreaming of everything and nothing when you feel the sudden sharp sting in your arm.

eyes flying open, you open your mouth to hiss in pain but logan's lips are at your ear, snarling and grunting in his sleep again.

you look down to find his claws out, the metal tips digging into your arm. you exhale sharply, watching the warm blood seep down your arm and onto the new white sheets.

"no! n– no!" he growls, and you're forced to bite your lip as you try to pull away from his vice grip. when that doesn't work, you sink your nails into his arm.

"logan–"

"victor, NO!" he screams and sits up, yanking his claws from your arm and stabbing at the air in front of him.

victor creed. logan's brother and the bane of his existence. victor who haunts his dreams every single night, victor whose name you can never forget, victor who is now the reason logan's hurt you.

you sit up with him, aching for him, wrapping your arms around his torso. the burning pain in your arm an afterthought, you hear him swallow and gently let out a breath. he's sticky with sweat and the dry radiator air in the room isn't helping, the moon glowing through your glass walls, creating a halo around his head.

"nightmare." you state, letting him catch his breath and take in his surroundings.

he nods even though what you said wasn't a question but a statement. he twists around and pulls you into his lap, hugging you like he does near every night – chin tucked into your shoulder, arms wrapped all the way around your torso. he smells of soap and cigar smoke and the faintest hint of your shampoo. you smile to yourself and press a kiss to his hair.

"you're so cute." you mutter and a small smile spreads across his lips.

"cute?" he repeats, amused. "that's new." he pulls you closer, further down his lap and you can feel his heartbeat start to steady again.

"you used my shampoo again, and don't you deny it this time."

he scowls at you but lets you kiss him anyway. "reminds me of you," he sighs when he realises you won't stop until he admits it.

"but i'm right here," you giggle, running your thumb over the shell of his ear.

he opens his mouth to explain further but that's when he smells it. the blood he's drawn from your arm in his nightmare-fuelled anger at victor. his jaw tightens as he looks for the source of blood, finding three uniform slices on the outside of your forearm.

"no," he gasps, a thousand emotions crossing his eyes.

you try to wiggle your arm out of his grip, the blood running down your arm now. "hey... i'm okay."

"like fuck you are," he snarls, angry at himself.

how could he have possibly hurt you?! was this a thing now?? was he a danger to you even in his sleep?! god, he'll have to put you to sleep and then figure out a way to declaw himself. maybe if he just slices the back of his palms open–

"james..." you break him out of his thoughts, hand on his cheek. "baby, i'm okay. really. it looks worse than it feels."

"i'm going to rip these out." he whispers, holding his fists up, the back of his palms facing you. his words are as much a promise to you as a command to himself.

you grab his fists and glare at him. he blinks at your expression, looking at you over his hands.

"don't you dare say anything of the sort. these are a gift."

"a gift," he scoffs, "you can return a gift."

"these are a gift," you repeat sternly. "and i will not let you do anything to them."

he opens his mouth to protest but you aren't done. how dare he even think of hurting himself, of declawing himself when you love his claws as much as you love every last part of him.

you run your fingers over the back of his palms and whisper, "take them out."

"sweetheart..."

"take them out, my love" you repeat, kissing his knuckles because you know it hurts every time he does.

he carefully and very very slowly bares them and you look at him from between the blades.

not breaking eye contact, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the base of the middle claw on his right hand. you catch him shuddering and your eyes widen in surprise.

"you felt that?"

you can see him redden even in the dark. "'course i did," he grunts.

"what does it feel like?" you ask, fascinated. everyday you learn something new about him and it never fails to delight you.

you kiss the base of another claw on the other hand and see him inhale sharply.

he groans deeply, humming to come up with the right words. "like... you're stroking every nerve in me to life."

that makes you sit up on your haunches and wrap your fingers around his wrists. he freezes, bracing himself to yank the claws back in the second he thinks you might hurt yourself on the sharp ends. you carefully lick along the length of the claw between his pinky and ring finger on his right hand, making him exhale shakily.

"tryna kill me, sugar?" he says through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body tense.

"trying to show you how much i love your claws, lo. even if they hurt sometimes."

you loop your right hand between both of his, gently pressing the tip of your thumb against the sharp end of a claw. you run your finger up the blade, making him whine in protest as you draw blood.

his eyes implore you, pleading, but you simply take your hand up to his mouth, pressing your bleeding thumb against his lips. he relents, sucking it into his warm mouth and licking it clean.

"logan?" you whisper and he hums around your thumb.

despite the heat in your core, pooling between your legs, you need him to hear this. you'll have time to fulfil that need later.

"every part of you means everything to me. but your claws, especially your claws, have the most special place in my heart. they protect me. they make you feel good. and most of all, they're fucking cool."

and that finally makes him crack a smile again.

"y'think so?"

"mhmm."

"c'mere." he says finally, pulling his claws back in and tugging you back into his lap.

he makes you straddle him and kisses you warmly. he looks into your eyes with such fondness, it squeezes your heart. carefully he pulls his first claw out on his right hand and uses it to gently push your hair out of your eyes. your eyes flutter shut in response, leaning into his metal touch.

he brushes the back of the claw across your cheek and your lips part prettily for him. the air doesn't feel so thick anymore, the quiet humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen not overwhelming him the way it was when he snapped awake.

ever so carefully, pushing his own boundaries, he turns his wrist and pushes the flat of his claw onto your tongue. it's warm and tastes of him, salty and musky and like metal.

"that okay for you, pretty girl?" he mumbles and you can hear the strain in his voice. he's terrified but he so badly wants to be brave for you.

you wrap your lips around the claws and suck softly in response, drawing a groan of pleasure from him.

he shudders beneath you, every inch of him tense and trembling with restraint. you slide your tongue along the metal, tracing the edge of his claw with reverence, savoring the taste of him.

logan’s breath catches in his throat, and you feel the warmth of his exhale ghost across your face. his other hand, free of the adamantium blades, finds its way to your waist, gripping you tightly.

"god," he breathes out, voice rough and filled with a raw vulnerability you hear only at night. "you have no idea what you do to me."

you slowly release his claw from your mouth, letting it slide out with a deliberate slowness that has him biting back another groan. his eyes are locked on you, dark with need.

you reach up, cupping his face with your now clean thumb, and brush your lips against his in a featherlight kiss. "i think i do," you whisper against his mouth. "i want you to feel how much i love every part of you, logan. even the parts that scare you."

his claws retract with a soft snikt, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

"you're something else, darlin'," he murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. you can feel the smile playing on his lips. "you make me feel... whole."

you nestle into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. "and you make me feel safe," you reply, closing your eyes and letting the furnace heart of his presence envelop you. "always."

you feel his grip tighten, his hand trembling slightly against your waist. he's always been the warrior, the weapon, the animal, but here in your arms, he's just logan, just a man who’s been through more pain than anyone should endure.

"people see the claws and think i’m nothing but a beast," he murmurs, his voice thick with self-doubt. "like i’m more metal than man. they look at me and all they see is the damage i can do."

you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, your hands framing his face. he tries to look away, but you won’t let him. you press a soft kiss to his brow, then his cheek, and finally, to the corner of his mouth.

"they don’t make you an animal," you whisper, your voice even and filled with conviction. "they make you strong. they’re not just weapons, they’re part of what makes you you."

his breath hitches at your words, and you feel him struggle against the years of conditioning, the years of being told that he’s nothing more than a killing machine. but you won’t let those words hold power over him anymore.

you reach down, gently taking his right hand in yours. with care, you press a kiss to each knuckle, feeling the warmth of his skin under your lips. then, you look up at him and slowly, deliberately, coax his claws out again.

you run your fingers lightly over the metal, tracing the curves and edges with the same care you’d give to a delicate piece of art.

logan watches you, his expression shifting from uncertainty to something deeper, something like awe. "you don’t see me like everyone else does," he says, almost to himself.

"no," you agree, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of one of his claws. "i see you, logan. the real you. and what i see is a man who’s fought for so long to protect the people he loves, even when it’s cost him everything. your claws, they’re not just about hurting or fighting. they’re about protecting. they’re about survival. and they’re about who you have been for so long."

his chest rises and falls with each breath, the tension slowly easing from his body as your words sink in. for once, he doesn’t feel like an animal. he feels like a man, just a man. and it's nice.

"besides," you say, tone lightening. "so you really think I'm such a baby i can't handle three little cuts?"

you both know you're underplaying it and though he would never admit it in the day, the moonlight across his face betrays his grateful expression. it's easier to believe that he hasn't hurt you too much when you're saying it yourself.

you lower his hand, resting it against your chest, over your heart.

he swallows hard, holding you as if he’s afraid to let go. "ain't gon' ever deserve you," he whispers, his voice thick.

"you deserve everything," you murmur back, holding him just as tightly. "and i’m going to keep reminding you of that, every day."

for a moment, he’s silent, just holding you close. then, in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper, he says, "you almost make me feel human, darlin’."

you pull back just enough to kiss him again, only because you know he'd much rather feel than hear. your kiss is slow and tender, letting him feel the truth in your touch.

he doesn’t say anything more, but the way he kisses you back, the way he holds you, tells you everything you need to know.

he'll be okay. you'll make him okay. you gently push him to lie down and rest your head on his chest.

you love him, you love how he wants so badly to believe you, and most of all, you fucking love his claws.

this stemmed from a very nsfw thought™ but here we are, all warm and fuzzy. a mostly non-angsty fic is new for me!!

hope you liked this x

love, d <3

edit: i wrote an nsfw claw worship fic too 🤠🤝🏽 >> unholy

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine angst #logan howlett angst #logan howlett xmen #xmen #xmen fanfiction

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salem-s · 12 days ago

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EVER SINCE ROCKY DUNE (18+) — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you and rafe notoriously flirted all-throughout high school, seeing who could rile the other up the most. after not seeing each other for four years, you run into him at a bar and slip into a familiar rhythm of banter. you're surprised to see that he’s not the same frat-prick he was in high school. and rafe realizes that you're exactly the same… except way hotter than the last time he saw you.

WARNINGS fluff, angst, suggestive content but no actual smut. lowkey wrote this off two glasses of wine. i’ll edit in the morning. enjoy. 18+ MDNI.

WORD COUNT 7.7k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER devil's advocate by the neighborhood

Rafe's been on cloud nine lately.

Work has been going spectacular (as a job really can get), the girl he's been trying to brush off gently has finally gotten the hint that he's just not that into her, the city life has been treating him relatively fairly (as in, he's no longer tied to the confinements of his father's meticulous expectations ever since he moved out and started working onsite in the city, so now he can finally breathe), all of his friends are in one place and he has a great work-play balance that people could only dream of.

He isn't sure if it gets better or worse when he sees you from across the bar.

It's jarring. Especially when he triple takes to make sure it's actually you and not some trick that the tequila is enticing him into, because his vision isn't that great to begin with so it's not a completely foreign concept for him to mistake someone for a different person. He's done that way too many times which called for an astronomical amount of awkward encounters to try and make up for his fuck up.

But no. It's you. Clear as day.

And hotter than he can handle.

Shamelessly, through the crowds of people coming in and out of his focus, all his eyes can do is stay on you.

Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.

It's funny, because all throughout high school, all he could think about was how he couldn't fucking stand you. But not in the way one would expect.

No. In the way he couldn't stand not having you.

Rafe couldn't stand the way you batted your lashes at him every time you (somehow) lured him into another one of your traps, as in getting him to do your homework with a simple squeeze of his bicep or allowing him one slow dance at prom in exchange for some of the shitty weed he used to deal to Kooks (a discounted rate for you, always). You knew all of his nooks and crannies, knew how to play the cards he dealt you, and, boy, you won the game every single time.

Yet now?

He can't look away.

In fact, he's craving the confrontation, almost jittered at the thought of being close to you again after going so long without it. His hands twitch in your direction, a subconscious pull to you that he can't explain. It's as if you're casting a spell on him without even knowing it. Every time you laugh, his heart skips. Every time you take a sip of your drink and he focuses on your lips, his breath hitches. Every time you almost meet his gaze, his knees nearly buckle.

Rafe's been nursing a half-drank tequila soda for the past thirty minutes, since he laid his eyes on you the first time, shamefully staring at you while — maybe — taking three sips in the same time frame.

And — of course — when you happen to look over your shoulder and nonchalantly scan the crowd, your eyes find his as he's downing the rest of his drink.

The shudder that waves over his body is indescribable, and an automatic smirk etches his lips when you fully realize who you're looking at, proud that you finally found him after not being subtle in the slightest. It's his trademark pick up: send a crooked smile to a pretty girl across the bar in hopes it'll get her blushing, get her enticed enough to mosey her way over to him and spark up a conversation, or vice versa where he's practically stalking up to her and preparing his whole entourage.

But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.

The act stuns him, blinking stupidly and animatedly to make sure he saw that correct. Did you just...brush him off? Acknowledge the guy you flirted with for four years straight with a simple up-down glance? And follow up with nothing? Not even a wave, or nod, or smile?

Topper, who accidentally witnesses the brutal rejection, claps Rafe on the shoulder a little too audaciously to be considered compassionate.

"Damn, bro," he murmurs loud enough for Rafe to hear. "Looks like that move's done. You're buying our next round again, right?"

The words piss Rafe off for a multitude of reasons, the first being that he's never inviting Topper and his other high school friends to stay with him for a weekend ever again, because it's been one day of them visiting and Rafe's already done with their bullshit, the same bullshit they'd pull all those ages ago and the same bullshit that he could never fucking stand. It was a courtesy invite, something to get Topper off his back because he asked to see the city one too many times.

The second reason being the fact that — no — he's not done. Never with you.

(You're the only person he's thought about in years. Even when he had a relatively long-term girlfriend. Even throughout all the hook-ups he's endured only to picture it's you underneath him. It's sinful the amount of times he's imagined you saying his name, clawing his back, imprinting your mark on his skin. No one else's. Only him. Solely him.)

Pathetically, he recounts all the missed opportunities he's had with you. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in honors chemistry and pawning notes off each other. When'd he go home to study for an exam, he'd see your tiny hand-drawn hearts in the corner of his paper that he traced over gently like it was engraved. Purposefully approaching you in the halls or in the courtyard to rile you up just so he could talk to you. Kissing you once and fucking it up all in the same breath. Slow dancing with you at prom as an excuse to hold you, even when he made you think it was in exchange for some free weed.

Christ, he would've given you the weed for free if you simply asked nicely.

Two more shots, thanks to Topper, and Rafe's pushing through the crowd to you.

When your friend sees him approaching with a stone cold expression, she frowns and darts her gaze between the you and him, yet the cautiously growing smile on her face gives away the fact that something interesting is about to happen, so either that's why she doesn't say anything to you — who are talking animatedly about something random — or she simply doesn't care.

His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"

You already know the scent of his cologne, the cadence of his voice, without having to turn around. You've known it for years, dreamt about it for years, so sue a girl for thinking it's all a dream when you're actually hearing it after so long.

Your friend, though, is reacting real time. "Baby?" She darts her gaze between you and Rafe, looming behind you like a shadow. "Got a secret boyfriend I don't know about?"

Your finger taps your chin in mock contemplation. "Hm, a few. Hang on, let me guess."

When the pads of his fingertips skin against the small of your back, you stifle a grin.

"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."

At the nickname, his hand fully presses onto your skin, somehow finding its way under your tank top to seer against your bare skin, burning hot and inviting just for him.

"Easy," he murmurs low and baritone in the shell of your ear. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Your friend, simply third wheeling for the whole occasion, says her parting words. "Some rep." She turns to you. "I'll be at the bar."

With a ferociously beating heart, your eyes follow your friend as she sifts through the crowd, making her eventual way to the bar after pushing through several friend groups who do their best to accommodate her.

Though his palm is branding your skin, ice against your fire, settling under your tank top so shamelessly that you'd think it was meant to stay there. His audaciousness certainly surprises you, as you've only had a few physical instances with him that kept you up at night: his palm somehow finding its way to your jaw during your prom-night slow dance, arms bear-wrapped around you pulling you away from a cat-fight at the Boneyard one summer night before graduation, climbing over his shoulders and settling there for a game of chicken against your friends in the ocean.

The night always ended the same, with a lingering touch and his piercing blue eyes that seemed to stay too long on you, as if he was itching for more.

But now, older and wiser and hotter, he doesn't pull away.

Instead, he holds you firmer.

It makes you hum. "Cameron, you're scaring away my roster."

He's still behind you, a ghost of a man, almost building up the anticipation of actually being face to face with you.

"No need for them anymore," is all he says before moving in front of you.

And — god — if the close proximity isn't fogging your brain.

You always knew he was tall. Hell, you've been closer to him than this before, but the reaffirmation nearly startles you. His shoulders are a bit broader then you remember, biceps more defined and almost begging to burst through the seams of his t-shirt. The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same. It makes him look more relaxed, more sure of himself, as if he's venturing out from the cookie-cutter image he's been molded to fit and finding his own style, finding the own beat to his drum.

It's intoxicating. You're addicted.

And Rafe? He looks fucking hypnotized.

You nearly snort when his blue eyes scale your figure up and down slowly, taking you in shamelessly as if he has all the time in the world to do so. All while his hands settle on your waist, and his palms only press harder when you don't push him away and instead invite the contact. Eventually, his blue eyes find yours and a lazy smile etches his lips.

"You're awfully bolder than I remember," you say slowly, drawing out every syllable to fully ingest his attention.

"You're awfully hotter than I remember," he responds quietly, more to himself as he looks at you in awe. "Since when have you been here?"

You frown in faux offense.

"Are you telling me you haven't been keeping tabs on me, Cameron?"

He snorts.

Yet you continue. "I've posted so many Insta stories, and I know you've seen every single one," you add sweetly, a honey-laced cadence to your voice that nearly lures him into a trap.

"Always kept tabs on you, baby," Rafe murmurs methodically, almost in a trance as he tugs on the ends of your tank. "I like this."

"You like it?"

"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."

"I didn't wear it for you."

Rafe's lips twitch. "Who'd you wear it for?"

Your smile widens. "Me. And all the guys in my phone," you muse.

But that only makes Rafe furrow his brows and tilt his head in mock seriousness, hands pressing a little tighter against your bare skin (not that you mind in the slightest) as if he's staking a claim on you, branding you with the marks of his palms and the pattern of his finger prints. You never knew how nice his touch could feel, never knew what you were missing out on all those years spent bickering back and forth, never knew that kind of form he could mold to the sculpture of your figure.

It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play? Especially when he looks so pathetically cute trying to look serious with a pinched brow and puffy parted lips. He’s not threatening to you in the slightest. Never has been.

"What?" You ask with faux confusion, going as far as jutting out your bottom lip in a pout that he can't help but stare at. "Why are you frowning, baby?"

"Delete their numbers,” he murmurs, looking solely at your mouth that’s growing into a crooked smile. “Just keep mine.”

“Rafe, we haven’t talked in four years, what makes you think you’re mine?”

“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”

You falter.

Only slightly, as you involuntarily suck in a breath at the ferocity of his confession. Whether it's actually true or not, whether he's just saying these sweet nothings to hopefully get in your pants, whether it's the influence of whatever he's drinking and the excitement of getting laid tonight, it still makes your heart flutter.

Because you think back to all that time ago: fourteen with brightly aligned smiles thanks to the braces that came off a year earlier, refusing to coward under his pretty blue eyes like all the other girls and stand your ground, show your indifference, prove that it's gonna take more than a few slick one liners and a charming smile to lock you down. Not to mention he's tried more than once to score with you, when you were fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

One liners tossed over his shoulder as if its second nature, and you flirting back but never giving him an actual chance, not unless he could change for the better. Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.

Opposite of what he's doing now, which is cautiously smoothing his palms on the skin under your tank top, fingertips digging gently into your flesh.

And, oh, he sees you falter, even though you hoped it was subtle enough. But nothing gets past him, ever.

Rafe's grin is so fucking pretty it makes you scowl. "C'mon. Don't act like you didn't know."

Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

"I don't," you deadpan back, though in your attempt to remain stone-cold, your voice is quieter than you intend. "You're full of shit."

"Am I?" He's so fucking close to you. "Here I am, pouring my heart out to you, and you think I'm bluffing?"

You manage to quirk a brow. “I wouldn’t consider the insinuation you want to sleep with me the same as pouring your heart out.”

Rafe’s lips twitch. “No?”

“Nope.”

“Even if I asked nicely?”

“Even if you bought me a car.”

Rafe laughs boisterously, head tipped back at your usual venom cadence that he never takes to heart. It’s almost as if he craves it, loves that you give him a hard time, keep him on his toes and make sure his ego is in check, because lord knows the rest of the female population that he encounters probably don’t have the gall to keep him in line. You never did. Sure, you flirted with him (if your definition of flirting was incessantly insulting him and pissing him off) and had your fun, but there was never the insinuation that he was serious.

The thought of him being serious about you settles a kettlebell in your gut.

“Baby,” he says with a giant grin, and you hate the way your heart skips at the name. “You could slap me and I’d buy you a small country.”

“Oh?” You hum, still aware of his hands on you. “So it’s that easy? Let you fondle me a little, slap you, and walk away with a sovereign nation?”

“Why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”

His once-charming smirk now morphs into something you can’t describe, perhaps a hint of it left on his lips as his eyes soften with such speed that you nearly have to blink to make sure you’re talking to the same person. All he does is stare at you for a moment, giving you more than enough time to take back what you said and turn it into something he approves of, something that’s true.

But you don’t. You hold your ground and let your words linger in the air. It’s obvious, no? His motive has always been to get what he doesn’t have, which is nearly impossible since he already has what money can buy him. The riches, the trust fund, the dozens of yachts he has all can’t buy what he really wants: you.

“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”

You open your mouth to retort, probably something witty and bitchy and out of tune with the mood of the conversation, but just past Rafe, back at the bar, you notice Topper and two other boneheads from high school you know he used to bum with, staring at the two of you and laughing at the entire interaction. Topper ducks his head to whisper something to his friend, snickering and darting his gaze between you and Rafe as he says something, probably something crude and fucking ridiculous.

It makes your spine straighten.

You're brought back to earth, remembering why you never gave into Rafe's flirting and complex for all these years. He's a cookie-cutter mold of what home is: rich frat assholes who think they can sweet talk their way into getting anything they want. You zoom out, and remind yourself that you only know Rafe on the surface. You don't know what he's like behind closed doors, you don't know how he treats his sisters and any motherly figures in his life. You don't know how he'll treat you after you give him what he wants, which is simply getting his dick wet.

You've only seen this side of him, thinking back on all the times he's openly hit on you and you've hit on him back with those bitter insults you love to throw at him. But whereas he's treating this as a game, to get another token under your belt, you've been treating it as a shield, a mechanism to remind him of what he could have if he wasn't so fucking pretentious.

"Look," you start firmly, flirtatious edge gone as you reach down and peel his wandering hands off your waist. "I'm not sure what kind of caveman-dominance-act you're doing for your friends, but we're grown enough to stop running in circles with this little bit."

Rafe frowns as you place his arms at his side.

“If you want to get your dick wet, there’s plenty of girls here to suffice,” is all you conclude with, offering him a smile that isn't very nice and doesn't reach your eyes before disappearing into the crowd.

Leaving him speechless, hurt, and hard.

You really thought that'd be the end of it.

You said your piece, let him down firm enough so that he won't try the same shit again the next time he sees you. Because, as fun as it is to rile him up and flirt with no consequence, it's getting pretty old putting up with his audacious behavior, especially now that you haven't seen him in how many years, and he's feeling you up as if he ever had any right?

Please.

Rafe’s never been one for commitment. He had one long term (six months, at that) girlfriend in high school, but after an abrupt breakup that he refused to elaborate on with anyone, nothing was stable for him since. A new girl every weekend tucked under his arm, bringing a girl by the hand up to his room only to repeat his same actions with a different girl an hour later. It wasn’t something you ever wanted to involve yourself with, no matter how hard you flirted or how hot he looked on certain days, nothing would actually make you fold.

But tonight?

It’s proving difficult to stick to your word.

Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.

You didn’t even see Seth enter the bar, nor did you see the three vodka shots he downed back to back to back, nor did you see him spot your best friend so that, conveniently, means you’re somewhere nearby too. After slithering away from Rafe, you beelined towards your friend and got another drink, moseying out to the outdoor patio to get some fresh air and to decidedly try and ignore whatever the fuck just happened.

It’s when you’re halfway through telling your friend the summarized version of your and Rafe’s lore when your ex decides to approach.

The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.

Although, when ten minutes go by and he’s still not leaving you alone is when you start to get antsy.

You really wish you hadn’t given your friend the it’s okay nod because now she’s nowhere in sight, and you’re on your ninth damn that’s crazy. You only have so many of those left in the chamber, and Seth’s breath reeks of vodka and with every word, despite your constant step back, he’s getting closer. He keeps trying to grab at you, to hold your hand like old times and get you back like he’s been trying to do for a few weeks now.

It’s getting ridiculous. He’s got you caged in a corner and every time you try to duck under his arm and escape, he’s blocking you in, continuing his rambling with more fervor each time. Your eyes scan the patio and the small glass door leading back into the bar for someone, anything, any light at the end of the tunnel to help you get you out of this mess.

When he asks who you keep looking for, the lie rolls easily off your tongue. “My boyfriend.”

You’re not even looking at your ex when his shoulders stiffen. You’re looking past him to search for a viable candidate to try and read your mind, get the hint, and come over here and play the part.

Of course, your ego dies when Rafe enters the patio.

He doesn’t see you immediately, eyes trained on the barely drank beer in his hand and huffing out a low breath. But he’s alone: not surrounded by his degenerate friends and finally having a moment to himself to collect his thoughts, debrief your interaction earlier without Topper chirping in his ear at how funny the whole thing was. For a moment, you slightly pity him and his dejected expression. His pretty blues resemble that of a kicked puppy, and your heart does a weird flutter when you consider the fact that you actually might’ve hurt his feelings.

But when Rafe meet your gaze, it’s a silent exchange.

Your eyes are slightly widened, a wordless help that he seems to understand immediately, wiping the pitiful expression off his face and instantly turning stone cold. The drink in his hand is set down on a table full of random people, getting a few confused looks. But he doesn’t stop to address it, instead eyes staying solely on yours as he approaches the dim corner your ex has you backed into.

Christ. Your dignity is dwindling by the minute.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”

Not by the minute. By the second.

Before you can open your mouth and humiliate yourself further, Seth scoffs in disbelief as he turns his head between you and your supposed-boyfriend, eyes wide and mouth agape. It takes him one, two moments to fully register what’s going on and react.

“Th—this is your boyfriend?” He splutters with a slur.

The sound makes Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You mind?” He asks coolly, taking an audacious step towards you.

It makes Seth step aside immediately. The cold blue stare plus the added height definitely frightens your ex, as he’s never been the one for confrontation and scoured away anytime there was any inclination for a fight.

But Rafe? No. He craves it.

Fragmented memories scatter your brain. Writing his chemistry notes for him when his knuckles were too busted to hold a pen. Witnessing the Great Boneyard Squabble in real time when he broke Connor Carlone’s jaw yet suffered two broken ribs. Remembering how easy it was for him to throw hands instead of using his words and almost always used fighting as a cop out, because he knew he’d win.

You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.

And your ex certainly wants no part of it.

“No. Not at all.” He turns to you and swallows thickly when he watches Rafe slither an arm around your waist. “Uh, I’ll, um, see you?”

Before you can retort something smart, the breath is momentarily sucked out of you when you feel Rafe’s palm tug you taut to his side, still indulging in his little pretend part before it’ll get swept away from him. You can’t say that you blame him, as he’ll take any excuse to get his hands on a girl even if it’s for a glorious sixty seconds. And with you — the girl who never let him get too close — he’s certainly going to extend the short-lived time he has with you as long as he can.

“You won’t,” is all Rafe responds with, and your ex is staggering back, slipping back into the crowd and disappearing before you know it.

You manage to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but mask the relief with an eye roll and a gentle shove at his rib cage.

“You didn’t need to do all that,” you murmur, still holding onto the smallest grudge you have with him on his boisterous behavior earlier.

(Despite how fucking nice it feels to have his hands on you).

You hear Rafe snort beside you.

“I got him to fuck off, didn’t I?”

You bite your tongue when a bratty response rises in your throat, only holding back because he’s right. Of course all it took was one glare to get your ex to tuck tail and bolt, whereas your attempts to brush him off and leave proved fruitless. As much as you want to roll your eyes again, say something snotty that’ll either rile him up or piss him off, you hate to acknowledge that Rafe did exactly what you wanted him to do without explicitly having to say anything.

“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, almost frustrated. “Thanks for that.”

Being the prick that he is, Rafe isn’t letting you get away with a half-assed apology muttered under your breath, because suddenly he’s right in front of you, a hint of a grin ghosting his lips as he ducks down to your eye level, making it that much more person than it needs to be.

“What was that?”

You narrow your eyes. “You heard me fine.”

“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”

That abhorrently incriminating nickname turns your heart into a stampede every time, no matter how hard you try to push down the feeling or deny it. Curse Rafe Cameron and his sultry cadence and stupid pretty eyes that are twinkling with delight.

So you do what he asks, and you don’t get flustered (or at least show it). You look him deadpan in the eye, face him square, and put on your sweetest voice.

“Thank you, Rafey.”

But it has the opposite effect. Instead of flustering him, making his breath hitch, throwing him off his game, it only spurs him on further.

He breaks out in a giant fucking grin.

“That so hard, hm?”

Oh, poor choice of words, you think.

Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.

A flicker of surprise coats his features, but you have to admit he masks it quickly with his signature expression, a charming smile and low lidded eyes.

One of his hands cautiously ghosts of your waist, and when you don’t pull back or slap him away, he lets his palm press further into your figure, fingertips slipping under your tank and smoothing over the soft skin of your waist.

Slowly, your other hand skims over his belt loop, just barely dipping your fingertips between the waist band of his pants and his hot skin on his lower abdomen. The unfamiliar contact (from you, especially) makes Rafe suck in a breath in shock, gripping your waist tight and possessive that it makes your heart skip. It only augments when you allow yourself to move forward, fully letting him feel the soft flesh of your breasts press up against his chest.

And that’s when you feel it: the outline of his cock pressing hard against your front.

You peer up at him all pretty and composed, whereas his lips are parted and his blue eyes are nearly blown back with lust, and the sight of him almost makes you fold. Almost. But you zoom out, remember who you’re dealing with, remember all the times he’s left you hot and bothered and aggravated. No matter how big his dick actually feels.

“No,” you murmur softly, responding to his earlier question. “But I know something else that is.”

Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but you’re quicker, taking advantage of his discombobulated state to twist out of his grip and completely remove your hands from his body, stepping out of his grasp and slithering into the crowd.

“Hey—!”

He tries to snatch you, but you’re faster, weaving in and out of friend groups like a snake and not even bothering to check if he’s following you, to see if he’s waiting to press you against a wall and take you in front of all these strangers. You figure that or he’s stuck in the same spot, dumbfounded and hard and annoyed.

You know you’re in trouble when you throw a spare glance over your shoulder before you head back into the bar, suppressing a grin when you spot him through the crowd, eyes solely trained on you with a jaw clenched so tight you’d think it would break.

To elongate his misery, you blow him a kiss before disappearing inside.

Although, it only takes thirty seconds for him to find you again.

You stifle a grin when you feel a calloused hand snatch your hand, fingers lacing through yours without a second thought and tugging you backwards, sending you stumbling back and bumping into his chest hard. Hard enough to turn a few heads.

The music is so loud. Everyone is laughing and singing and talking. The bass is vibrating the floor. But the only thing you can feel is his hot body pressed against your back and the rapid thumping of his heart. All you can hear is his baritone voice ghosting the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, especially when one of his hands snakes around your body to press against your hip bone, pulling you even closer than you were before so you can feel him against your back, harder than he was before.

“You think you’re funny?” He snaps in your ear, all flirting edge gone and replaced with something else, perhaps frustration.

It only makes you prouder. “A bit.”

He scoffs and it’s nothing nice. “A bit,” he mocks under his breath. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“Yeah,” you muse, wholeheartedly agreeing. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away, Cameron.”

When you tilt your head away from him to give him access to your neck, Rafe takes the leap of faith, ducking his head to the soft skin and attaching his lips to your vocal cord. And — god — if this is how his mouth feels now, you can only imagine what it’ll feel like against your lips, your chest, your—

“Can’t,” he admits immediately and so certain of himself, especially when he copies your previous action and his fingers dance along the waistband of your skirt almost daringly. “Won’t.”

The sensation makes your heart skip and spine straighten, sucking in a breath when you feel his teeth gently graze the muscle of your vocal chord with the added feeling of his warm fingers meeting the skin of your lower abdomen, and you pray that the act is subtle enough to not alert him that your body is very much reacting to his body.

Of course, he notices.

“This what you needed, baby?” The baritone of his voice against your neck reverberates your nerves. “Some attention?”

All you do is hum, because, yup. Right on the nose. At least you can admit it to yourself.

When he sucks a particularly sweet spot, you let out a quiet noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, quiet enough so no one else at the bar hears it. Well, everyone except for him, who hears it loud and clear and wants to hear it for the rest of his fucking life.

Rafe exhales deeply through his nose, tickling your skin. “I knew you’d sound so pretty.”

“I always sound pretty.”

A chuckle. Not necessarily a nice one. “Can’t believe you never knew.”

You frown even though he can’t see it. “Knew what?”

“How bad I fucking wanted you.”

The confession makes your stomach do a weird flip. “But you—“

It’s as if he knows your thought process, knows the way your brain works, because he answers your question before you can even get it out.

“Always wanted you.” He kisses your neck with surprising chastity. “Want you to drive me nuts for the rest of my fucking life.”

You blink stupidly, praising whatever higher being that he can’t see your face right now. “That’s excessive.”

“It’s what I want,” he albeit murmurs with candor. “And I always get what I want.”

The rational part of you wants to spin around and slap him silly for such an out of touch comment. He’s on top of the world, getting more money than he knows what to do with and only knowing the lifestyle that comes with a silver spoon. Rafe Cameron gets all the material objects he wants. Watches. Boats. Cars. Designer anything. That’s something money can buy, and money he’ll happily spend if it’s something he has his eye on.

But you? You’re the outlier.

You’re the girl he reached for but could never grasp. You gave him glimpses of what he could have if he stopped being such a prick and straightened himself out. You’ve told him time and time again (after he’s asked you out time and time again) that you’ll only ever go for him if he gets his shit together, stops acting like a frat asshole and ditches his degenerate friends who share the same brain cell and only mooch off of him for his money. He’s refused to see it, not wanting to lose the only “friends” he’s ever had, so every time he let you walk away with your ultimatum, hoping the next time he asks you that your stance has changed.

But it never has.

Not even now.

“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”

“I know,” he answers immediately. “I can be that person.”

You quirk a brow.

He sees your apprehension, your deflection, the same look you always gave him. But it’s different know, especially when you’re in his arms and not dreaming of pulling away, especially when he looks so damn sure of himself in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I’m…trying to be,” he says after a moment. “Ever since Rocky Dune.”

Your spine straightens at the mention, a memory so deep in your brain’s archives that you nearly forgot its entire existence.

It was the summer after senior year, where your graduated class would congregate on a sector of dunes so secluded from civilization it became your uncharted territory, the spot only your class knew about. Everyone would drink and smoke and carry on as usual, just…less chaotic. The music was never too loud. The lights were never too bright. No one shouted and drunkenly sang obnoxiously. People would chat with other people they didn’t really know. It was…nice. Different. Almost nostalgic. Your class’ secret.

You block the memory away because there was one night that you were so fucking nasty to him that it makes your heart lurch.

You were both relatively drunk, not stumbling but tipsy enough to say things from the locked vault of your mind that never should’ve met the light of day. Secluded from the party, you and Rafe sat shoulder to shoulder in the dunes and watched the gently waves lap against the shore, met with the sound of the water and silence.

Where you kissed him.

You were lonely, fresh off a breakup and he was right there. Saying the right things. Being uncharacteristically nice to you after he saw you crying alone. Finally leaning into the real version of himself, the guy you’ve seen glimpses of. He’s softer, dedicated, serious and devoted. You saw him, not the front he always put up. Just Rafe. And for that one kiss, you thought he’d straighten up, finally understand why you’ve never given him the actual time of day beforehand, why you flirted back but never give him a chance. You thought it would click, he’d keep being himself and stop the frat-prick-asshole act to impress his friends.

Yet he had to ruin it.

Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

And you wished you hadn’t seen a glimpse of the real Rafe at all, because in that moment, you knew you’d never see it again, never see him again, only the persona he’s created to seem cool, nonchalant, like a prince. It broke your heart, humiliated you while you were already so fucking embarrassed when he caught you alone, and it was where you put your foot down.

By this point, you’d already shoved him away and stood up, creating distance. “How stupid of me to think you could ever change.”

You still remember the way his face fell in the moonlight.

And you just had to continue. “If you think acting like this is going to get people to like you, you’re not surviving anything outside this fucking bubble of an island. Stop waving around a wad of cash and let’s see how many people still hang out with you. Grow the fuck up, Cameron.”

The words still haunt you, the expression on his face still haunts you, and the fact that that was the last time you saw him up until this very night haunts you right now. Those were the last words you said to him, your last memory with him, and it’s you saying the worst things he’s probably already thought about himself.

“I never apologized,” you say when you’re brought back to earth. “What I said was—“

“It was what I needed to hear,” Rafe interrupts gently yet firmly, making your apology die in your throat. “It woke me up. When I left for the semester, I straightened out. Focused in school, got good grades, got clean, made friends who actually give a shit about me. You… I should thank you.”

You’re flabbergasted.

Despite it, he continues.

“I want to earn you,” he says softly, as if he’s been itching to say it forever. “I meant what I said. I know I…” His gaze flickers down momentarily. “…seem impatient, but I wanna do this right. With you. If you’ll let me.”

You search his expression for any shroud of doubt, any flickers of playfulness or teasing regard, but you come up short. Instead, you’re met with bright blue eyes that shimmer with certainty, that look at you with such seriousness that it throws your brain for a loop and sets a kettlebell in your stomach.

But the excitement outweighs the uncertainty.

You cave. “One chance.”

Rafe nods immediately.

“One,” you reiterate seriously.

He nods again, emulating the pure embodiment of obedience at the thought of being irrevocably yours.

“If I catch you being a prick,” you continue pointedly, “you’re done.”

“Copy,” he responds earnestly.

“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I mean it.”

“Baby, I’m about to be on my best behavior, just you wait.”

You quirk a brow as you let a thick silence elongate between the two of you.

The gesture makes Rafe blink, lips twitching. “I can call you baby, right?”

All you can do is give him a pointed look, trying really fucking hard to remain stoic but it’s proving difficult when a smile threatens to creep up, because you have to admit being called such a name, especially with the way it rolls off his tongue with such eased nonchalance that you’d think he was born to say it, makes your heart flutter uncontrollably. Of course he can call you baby. He can call you whatever he wants as long as he never says it to anyone else.

“Yeah,” you find yourself saying. “As long as you say it right.”

And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Rafe responds immediately, mmrphing low into your mouth as his hand comes up to hold the column of your neck, keeping you in place and squeezing just a fraction. The act makes you gasp gently, lips parting at the feeling, but it only allows him more access, slipping his tongue audaciously into your mouth to taste your sweetness in all its glory.

Your hands brace on his chest as some sort of pathetic mechanism to ground yourself, because your heart is leaping out of its chest and the skin that he’s touching of yours is on fire, and you pointedly decide in this moment that you’ve never been kissed like this, so passionately, ardently, gingerly. Frankly, it throws your brain for a loop, especially when he emits a satisfied hum the reverberates in your throat.

You almost forget you’re in the middle of a bad. There’s people all around you, singing and dancing and laughing and completely ignorant to your little moment. The atmosphere is loud and boisterous and unforgiving with its collected heat, but it envelopes you in a blanket, tucked into the warmth that is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe. It’s intoxicating, knowing anyone could be seeing your exchange right now and dismissive to the fact that this is one of the most exhilarating moments of your life.

When you pull away, Rafe’s leaning in for more.

You grin. “Easy, Rafey.”

He mirrors your smile. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

“Your place or mine?”

The words aren’t what he expects, because his brows fly up in surprise as he peers at you with bright blue eyes nearly blown black. He’s trying, he’s trying so fucking hard to do this right, to take his time with you and earn you the way he’s supposed to. The last thing he wants to do is jump the gun and ruin his one chance he has with you, a chance he’s been shooting for since he was fourteen, and if he somehow fucks it up (and knowing him, it’s not unheard of) he’ll probably lose his mind.

“You— But I—“

You interrupt his babbling. “Whatever I want, right?”

Rafe sucks in a breath. “Yeah, fuck, anything.”

Your hands smooth up his chest to rest and you lightly graze your nails along his neck, your fingers moving to the nape and pinching the ends of his overgrown hair delicately. It feels nice to hold him like this, to see what gestures make him fold and see what he positively reacts to. And, so far, any place you’ve been touching him has been fair game. He’s given you the green light without his words, simply showing his affirmation through his actions.

“Okay,” you pointedly decide. “Mine then.”

When you snake your hands down to lace your fingers with his, Rafe doesn’t object. As you weave through the crowd with him in tow towards the exit, he makes no argument. When you slide into his lap in the taxi and cling to him as if your life depends on it, he invites the contact. And when you lead him up to your apartment and shut the door behind him, the feeling he’s had for you for years tenfolds.

And, for once, you’re not pushing him away.

notes yup hey here’s another one shot literally nobody asked for. hope you enjoyed!

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe x female reader #rafe cameron x female reader #outer banks #rafe cameron outerbanks #outerbanks rafe

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narcjsistx · 5 months ago

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— 𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐀, 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐀 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐕? ; micheal kaiser

i honestly don't know, it's all quite random!! it could be a spinoff of this one but with the little girl's name i used for this. i felt creative, but it disgusts me this shit </3

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

"mama"

"what, baby?"

"is that dada on TV?"

You look up from your magazine, looking towards the flat screen television: the image of your husband, while he is flanked by his faithful teammate Ness, is shown while the program commentator gives a brief introduction of the match just played, but Anneliese is still too young to understand what the man is saying. A small smile appears on your lips as you look at your daughter, so enchanted to see his father on TV

"It's dada. That's why he can't stay with us for these days, he's near Munich" you say stroking her blonde hair, yet another trait she picked up from Kaiser "Do you remember that town we visited a few months ago? He's there" you say, and Anneliese nods "Ness Ness is here too!" the little girl says, as an image of Alexis is projected onto the screen. You nod, amused "Yes, he's with dad. They're playing an important match"

Anneliese knows what her father does for a living, more or less. She knows that he travels often and kicks a ball, and unexpectedly he also gets paid quite handsomely. She remember your work better, but maybe it's just a matter of habit

But actually, it is the first time she has seen Kaiser on television, or rather, the first time dhe has seen him and can remember him; it already happened when she was younger, but she was only a few months old, it's impossible for her to remember it

Kaiser has been out of town for a few days but he should return tomorrow morning, and the television is only broadcasting the replay of the game he played this morning, but which Anneliese didn't see, perhaps that's why she's so surprised. The commentator speaks quickly while the passes between the feet of Micheal and Alexis become faster, and closer and closer towards the net. The crowd cheers for the Bastard Munchen prodigy, while the ball, with a powerful Kaiser Impact, ends up in the net with a sharp hit

Anneliese jumps from the couch, coming to the front of the television as the screen shows Kaiser bowing to the crowd, proudly showing off his tattoo and smirking, the one you've known for practically your whole life. Your little girl's smile, the one you've loved since her first breath 5 years ago, makes you smile almost spontaneously as you hear her clap her hands "Dada, dada scored!"

The shot now shows a reporter inches from your husband, sweaty but tremendously handsome: Micheal runs a hand through his blond hair, while the man clears his throat "Spectacular match today! Excellent result for Bastard Munchen, but no one expected less from the team's number 10"

"Yeah? You have to keep expectations high, whether they're from your fans or your family. But I think everyone knows what my preference is"

"No doubt, after all you often dedicate goals to your daughter or wife. Thoughts on them?"

"What else is there to say, other than that I love them? Every goal is for them, only them"

You smile, placing the magazine now located in your lap. Anneliese opens her mouth in shock, running around the couch "He dedicates it to us, he dedicates it to us! Dada is fantastic, isn't he?"

"He is. He really is"

They are sincere words, because you could never want anything else other than this: your perfection, your husband, your daughter

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syoddeye · 6 months ago

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sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane.

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally.

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

#price x reader #john price x reader #sy writes

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ckret2 · 1 year ago

Text

So a while ago some friends were talking about fans who claim the Same Coin theory is canon. And I made the mistake of saying:

Do you know who also has tons in common with Bill? Mabel. Yet nobody claims Bill reincarnated as Mabel. …wait now I want a "same coin but it's Mabel" AU. Funniest Bill reincarnation option. The all-seeing arsonist is making macaroni glitter art. The omnipotent tyrant is crying because a unicorn called her a bad person.

And then I overthought it for two months.

So—AU where after death, Bill's soul shoots 13 years into the past and reincarnates as Mabel. I'll call it ✨ Sparkly Coin AU ✨

Don't leave yet. Lemme show you why it works. Behold the eerie amount of parallels in their personalities, dialogue, behavior, mannerisms, tastes...

I could have kept going but my attention span ran out. All right, we all on board now? Convinced we could segue from one personality into the other? Great. Now here's why you should be interested: the juicy post-Weirdmageddon angst potential.

As long as a small fringe of the fandom still thinks Weirdmageddon is Mabel's fault, why not amp that up x100 and have some fun with it?

Is everyone sold now? Great. Let's get into the details. I've got 8 more pieces of art under the read more.

So the AU starts the instant Bill dies. Thanks to invoking his deal with the Axolotl—one way to absolve his crime, a different form, a different time—the Axolotl gives him a new shape and shoots him thirteen years into the past. Apparently, the Axolotl thought it would be very funny to stick Bill in the family that defeated him.

Which probably made for a jarring transition.

(It's fine, she's like 10 minutes old, she probably can't even tell who she's looking at. Not being able to tell who she was looking at is what got her into this situation ayyyy)

When Dipper & Mabel come back from Gravity Falls complaining about this triangular jerk Bill, their parents mention that Dipper's name was nearly Bill. See, after they knew they were going to have a boy, one night their mom dreamed about a visitor—some kind of magic pink salamander??—calling her child "BILL." Then at the next sonogram they found out they were having twins, the girl must've been hidden at a weird angle the first time, and they wanted matching names, so they thought, Bill and Bell. But they didn't really like Bell; but eventually they stumbled on Mabel, so to keep the names matching they switched from Bill to Mason. Isn't that the darnedest thing?

(Of course, Mabel and Dipper assume Bill harassed their parents to try to trick them into naming a kid after him. To be a jerk.)

When Bill meets Mabel, he's unaware that she's his future self—Bill's notably bad at doing things like, say, double-checking to see whether he's going to die anytime soon—but like... he can tell something's up.

Naturally, before visiting Gravity Falls, there were echoes of who Mabel used to be—but nothing anyone would be able to identify without context. All her Bill-ish quirks either smoothed out with time (see: how between second grade and fourth grade Mabel went from being the "freak" to the popular girl in class), or else they were accepted by her family as Mabel-ish quirks.

After they meet (and kill) Bill, they have the context to understand some of Mabel's behaviors... and unfortunately, some of Mabel's latent Bill-ness starts surfacing after she's been directly exposed to her prior incarnation.

The part of the Pines family familiar with Bill thinks the worst case scenario is that maybe Bill's survived and is slowly possessing Mabel; but far more likely, they think this is just some weird way of trying to subconsciously process last summer. Mabel doesn't think she's being weird, you guys are being weird, stop giving her weird looks. They get attacked by one triangle and now she can't wear yellow or pick up macrame as a hobby??

(It's not all red flags and uncomfortable triangle imagery, though. When Stan asks her what she'd like as a gift for some important event, she shyly admits that she thinks she's starting to outgrow her plastic gem jewelry and maybe she's old enough to get her first piece of real gold jewelry, if that's not too expensive? And Stan's never been so proud of her. Thirteen years old and already thinking about buying gold!)

But of course, the real fun starts when Mabel finds out.

That's the face of a girl who's just discovered that she tortured her great uncle. Now imagine running into the brother she possessed.

But I've already spent a million words and thirteen images on this post. If enough folks are interested in the AU maybe I'll expand on it later. Let me know what y'all think.

#mabel pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls au #gravity falls fanart #sparkly coin au #my art #my writing #(here's that AU I've been taunting y'all with)

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snail-day · 7 months ago

Text

This is Love, Right?

Part two of Can My Friend Join?

Next part: It's all your fault, isn't it?

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

Sum: You're starting to grow used to Suguru, maybe evening learning to accept his love.

TW: Yandere Behaviors (Cameras, Obsession, Manipulation, trapping), Really toxic relationship, dubcon, oral (F and M receiving), Brief smut, Reader is going through it. SatoSugu (Just a warning in itself), Angst

WC: 4.7k

A/n: Listened to a random Mitski playlist and it lowkey made me depressed while writing this, expect some fluff after this one.

This is love.

You keep telling yourself that, don’t you?

Even as silent tears streak down your cheeks in the furthest bathroom—the one tucked away from the master bedroom, the one even Satoru’s Six Eyes can’t reach.

This is love.

The way Satoru leans down, his snowy white hair falling across his forehead in that effortlessly tousled way, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips before heading out on a mission. His crystalline blue eyes, so striking they feel otherworldly, linger on you for a moment too long before he straightens up, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips. Suguru follows, his dark hair tied neatly back, though loose strands frame his sharp, beautiful face. He gives you a casual wave, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, teasing smile as he murmurs, “I love you.”

You’ve never seen Satoru happier than he’s been since Suguru joined your relationship. Happier than back when it was just the two of you, curled up on the couch, his long legs stretched across the cushions while you laughed at some cheesy anime. Back then, his laugh was unrestrained, carefree. The way his shoulders would shake, his hand coming up to push his blindfold up and wipe away a tear—it felt real.

You miss those days.

You didn’t cry as much back then.

But they love you, don’t they?

They still pay your tuition, still ensure your life is cushioned and cared for. Suguru, always measured and composed, suggested once, “Maybe you should switch to online classes.” His voice was soft, his tone coaxing. It made sense, didn’t it? His reasoning was sound: “There was a special grade curse at the school the other day. We just worry about you, baby.”

Suguru always seems so calm, his velvety voice soothing and warm yet guarded dark eyes giving him an air of quiet authority. You begin to find comfort in that. However, the weight of his presence feels heavy, suffocating even some days.

Satoru, on the other hand, radiates energy. His presence fills the room like sunlight—blinding, inescapable. His tall, lanky frame always seems so relaxed, but you know better. Behind the teasing lilt of his voice and his constant grin lies a man who rarely lets his guard down. The way he looms, leaning just a little too close, reminds you of the distance he refuses to let exist between the two of you.

They worry about you so much. Yet whenever you voice concern for them, they hush you. Suguru’s deep voice reassures you, as if he’s talking to a child, while Satoru’s lips curl into a too-bright smile, his hand patting your head like you’re something fragile.

They love you. They take care of you. It would be selfish to leave them, wouldn’t it?

And Satoru—he’s never been this happy.

He’s working less, smiling more. Suguru’s return has lifted a weight off his shoulders. He’s not carrying the burden of being the strongest alone anymore. You can see it in the way his smile softens when Suguru speaks, in the way his gaze lingers on him longer than it ever lingers on you.

And yet, you tell yourself:

This is love.

Still, you wonder… wasn’t Suguru supposed to be going to therapy? You think back to his promises—vague, half-hearted reassurances—but did he ever actually leave for a session? Ever join a voice call?

You don’t recall.

You try to push the thought away, like so many others. Ignore the red flags. Focus on the green.

The relationship has its moments. You’re growing used to Suguru.

Especially your drunk self—the one that gravitates toward him, curling up on his lap like a loyal dog, seeking out his touch and the warmth of his arms. He always accepts you, his large hands stroking your back or brushing through your hair with a tenderness that feels almost too loving, almost cruel. You wonder what side of yourself that is, the part that craves his affection so desperately, the part that lets the lines blur between love and dependency.

You might even say you’re learning to love him—or at least the version of him that exists in the quiet of the night. The version that pulls you close under the weight of darkness, his voice low and unguarded as he whispers, “I love you.”

It’s in those moments that he feels human, almost fragile. A man with calloused hands and a broken heart trying to mend himself through you.

And it’s hard not to wonder—are you really learning to love him, or are you simply surrendering to the inevitability of it all?

Satoru, though… he never used to cuddle at night. Even before Suguru entered the picture, he always sprawled out in his ridiculously expensive sheets, claiming restlessness from the constant hum of his cursed energy. He needed the space, he said, and you told yourself he deserved it.

Suguru, however—Suguru surprised you.

At first glance, he didn’t seem the type for soft affections, but you quickly learned otherwise. Every night, his arms would find their way around you, wrapping you in a firm but gentle embrace. His warmth seeped into you, grounding and comforting, as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips would brush your skin with soft kisses, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from him.

Sometimes, his deep voice would murmur, “Sorry we came home so late,” heavy with sincerity. Other times, his words were more vulnerable, whispered just above a breath: “I love you,” spoken in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

It’s hard not to love him in those moments. Hard not to feel your resolve slip as his presence surrounds you. His breath fans against your neck, steady and warm. His rhythmic breathing eventually syncs with yours, as if his body is learning the cadence of your every inhale and exhale.

For those fleeting moments, you almost forget the cracks beneath the surface.

Other good moments were the intimate ones, the kind that left no room for doubt about how thoroughly they possessed you.

Suguru’s lips would meet yours in slow, deliberate kisses, his touch soft and coaxing, as Satoru’s tongue worked between your legs. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, clouding your vision and overwhelming your senses. Satoru’s tongue moved with precision, his mouth relentless as he lapped at your cunt, delving deep until your mind felt as hazy as your breathless moans.

Suguru’s fingers never faltered, rubbing tight circles around your clit in perfect rhythm with Satoru’s ministrations. Their combined efforts dragged you over the edge again and again, your body trembling and giving in to the relentless waves of pleasure.

It became impossible to think of anything else—impossible to care about anything other than the bliss they brought you. Their hardened cocks stretched you beyond your limits, filling you completely, their stamina nearly too much for your quivering form.

Suguru would cradle your face in his hands, his dark eyes soft yet intense as he cooed sweet nothings. He’d murmur praises, soothing and possessive, as Satoru pressed the tip of his cock into your overstimulated, leaking cunt. The stretch made you gasp—a sound Suguru captured with his lips, his kiss slow, methodical, leaving you no room to shy away.

Satoru’s hands gripped your hips harshly, his long fingers digging into your flesh, ensuring you stayed exactly where he wanted you. You could already tell the marks would bloom into bruises by morning, a physical reminder of their claim. Suguru, ever attentive, would turn your face gently toward the camera, his voice a low murmur against your lips. “You’re such a good girl,” he’d praise, his thumb brushing your cheek before pulling you into another kiss.

When they were finally spent, when your body gave out completely, Suguru always carried you to the bath. His embrace was steady, grounding, as the warm water soothed your trembling form. You’d lean against his chest, your body limp, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

Sometimes, Satoru would join, his tall frame slipping into the water beside you. Their voices would soften as they spoke over you, discussing mundane things or recounting their mission. Occasionally, a kiss would press against your temple—a fleeting gesture, tender and claiming all at once—as you drifted in and out of sleep.

For a little while, it felt like you belonged.

And then, when he thinks you’re asleep, Satoru murmurs, “I knew you’d come around.”

You’re never sure who he’s talking to—Suguru, the man who swore to eradicate non-sorcerers? Or you, the girl who’s finally learning to love the monster who holds her at night?

It’s in these moments that you find yourself slipping out of bed, mumbling an excuse to use the bathroom. Suguru always lets you go with a teasing “Come back fast, or I’ll come get you.” You never linger long enough to see if he’s joking.

Once inside the furthest bathroom, the one that feels like your only sanctuary, you clutch the edge of the sink and sob. Quietly, so no one hears. Until your knees give out and you’re on the floor, shaking and clutching yourself.

This is love. Right?

They loved you. So why were you crying in the bathroom?

Why did each love bite feel like a brand, etched into your skin with every lingering gaze in the mirror? Why did their cum, warm as it seeped down your thighs, burn like it was searing itself into you, a mark you couldn’t erase? Why did the blank, soulless stare of the camera lens feel like an accusation, making you flinch away from any piece of technology?

Before too long, you would wipe your tears, force a smile to your lips—steadying it just enough so it wouldn’t wobble—and return to Suguru’s waiting arms. His hum would vibrate against your back as his dark hair tickled your neck. He’d cradle you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Goodnight, baby,” he’d murmur, and you’d close your eyes, pretending his embrace felt like comfort instead of confinement.

But mornings brought their own discomforts.

You found yourself rifling through the master bathroom, searching the countertop with rising panic. Where is it? The nagging thought ate at you.

Satoru, brushing his teeth beside you, glanced over with those striking blue eyes. His tone was soft, almost too casual. “What’s up, baby?”

“I can’t find my birth control,” you admitted, the words trembling as much as your hands.

“Did you misplace it? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” He walked over, his long arms wrapping around your waist. A kiss brushed the top of your head, his voice gentle but firm. “Go ask Sugu. He’s the one who organizes everything.”

So you did. Suguru was at the desk in the living room, working through a report. From over his shoulder, you could see the numbers—charge rates, payments for missions—enough to know your schooling costs barely amounted to a fraction of what they earned in a single week.

“Your birth control?” he repeated absentmindedly, his tone light, almost dismissive. “You’ve been misplacing that a lot, haven’t you, baby?”

His words felt condescending, like you were a child searching for a lost toy.

“Where is it?” you asked, voice still soft but with a growing edge of desperation. You were five minutes late—exactly.

“Ah-ah, no need for that tone, baby,” he chided, his eyes still glued to his paperwork. “Check the kitchen counter. Your purse? Maybe your school bag.”

It took thirty agonizing minutes of searching, panic simmering under your skin, before you found it—perched on top of the fridge.

You stared at it for a moment, unmoving. You would have never put it there.

Suguru’s behavior had become harder to ignore. There were moments when his touch lingered, his eyes softened, and his voice carried a wistful tone. He had baby fever—you could tell. Maybe it was tied to the twins he lost.

You’d asked him about them once. His face shuttered, dark and unreadable, and he didn’t respond.

You tried asking Satoru, but he had simply glanced away, his usual bravado vanishing for a moment too long.

You decided not to ask again.

Some questions weren’t meant to be answered. You had a sinking feeling the truth lay buried somewhere with the higher-ups, in a place you weren’t allowed to tread.

Suguru’s baby fever didn’t fade, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

When the three of you went to the store, you’d catch that soft smile tugging at his lips whenever he saw a child. It wasn’t the type of smile he gave just anyone—it was warm, tender, hopeful. And it was always followed by a kiss pressed to your temple. A gesture you used to pull away from, but now, you found yourself smiling through.

Sometimes, he’d suggest wandering into the baby section, his tone casual, almost playful. “Just in case. Want to see what’s out there.”

The words always made your skin crawl.

Because no matter how innocuous they sounded, your mind couldn’t help but spiral. It always went back to the hidden birth control, the misplaced pills, and the monthly pregnancy tests he insisted on. He’d stand there, watching you pee on the stick, his arms crossed but his expression almost serene—waiting, anticipating. He wanted to know right away.

You tried to shove those thoughts into the furthest corner of your mind. Tried to convince yourself it was all harmless.

Satoru, by contrast, didn’t seem to care much for babies. He never lingered in the baby aisle and rarely commented on Suguru’s behavior. But he’d hum softly, his hand clasping yours, and flash you a loving smile.

You liked to think that as long as everyone else was happy, Satoru was happy.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Occasionally, when they left for long missions, the apartment felt suffocating in its emptiness. You’d pad softly through the vast, cold space, the silence amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.

Your eyes darted around, searching for the hidden cameras you knew were there. You weren’t sure where they all were, or when they liked to check the footage, but you’d found one blind spot: the hallway closet.

You moved slowly, deliberately, ensuring you didn’t do anything that might raise suspicion. Even though you were alone, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

All because they loved you.

Slipping into the closet, you nestled yourself on the floor, silky yukatas hanging above like a shroud. Your laptop glowed faintly in the darkness as you opened it and began your quiet rebellion.

You searched for apartments—something small, something within your budget. Each listing felt like a whisper of hope. You lingered on them, imagining the freedom they promised, before methodically deleting your browser history. Clearing the cache. Erasing every trace.

It was a silly idea. A foolish one, really.

But for a few stolen moments, it was yours.

It didn’t seem so silly after the heated argument with Satoru when he got home.

He was already overstimulated, frustrated, and teetering on the edge of losing his patience. Those moments were the worst—when the teasing lilt in his voice faded, replaced by something sharp and mean. His cerulean eyes, usually playful and glinting with mischief, turned cold and calculating, the glow of his Six Eyes adding an eerie sharpness to his gaze.

All he wanted was release. That was all.

“It shouldn’t be a big deal,” he said, his tone flat but brimming with expectation.

Except you weren’t in the mood.

“I’m sorry, Toru, I just—”

“I do everything for you, and you can’t even provide me with a little comfort?” His words came out harsh, the grin curling his lips into something too sharp to be soft. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. His presence always felt overwhelming—broad shoulders, perfectly sculpted face framed by stark white hair, and a lean body that seemed to hum with restrained power. You swallowed hard. Did he get taller?

“I just got off my period, so it’s—”

“It’s what?” His voice cut through your hesitation, his hands flexing as if he were trying to leash himself. “Come on, baby. Just a quickie. Or let me use your mouth.”

The fight drained out of you before you even realized it.

You ended up on your knees, the cold tile biting into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your flushed face. His long fingers twisted tightly into your hair, guiding your head as if you were nothing more than a puppet for his pleasure. His pale chest rose and fell steadily, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light, glinting like cruel punctuation to his earlier frustration.

The tip of his cock pushed past your lips, the stretch almost unbearable as he moved with slow, deliberate thrusts. His head tilted back, exposing the sharp lines of his jaw, tightening with every wet sound that filled the room. A low groan rumbled deep in his throat, vibrating in the space between you like a growl of satisfaction.

Your throat burned, gagging and gasping as you struggled to adjust. Your hands clutched at his thighs for balance, fingers digging into the hard, taut muscles beneath his impossibly smooth skin. His hips began to move with more force, his breaths growing heavier, the faintest smirk curling on his lips as he reveled in your struggle.

His moans grew louder, rougher, until with a sharp tug of your hair, he pulled out. Hot ropes of cum painted your face, the heat of it stark against your flushed skin. You blinked through the haze, barely catching your breath, the sting of humiliation bubbling up in your chest.

Before you could even reach for something to wipe yourself clean, the sharp click of a camera shutter echoed through the room.

You didn’t need to look up to know what he was doing. You could already imagine him grinning at the screen, tapping a few buttons with casual ease. You could picture the caption as clearly as if he’d whispered it into your ear:

"Our girl is so beautiful, isn’t she? <3"

The thought sat heavy in your chest, a mix of shame, anger, and something else you didn’t want to name.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Satoru turned sweet again.

He brought you a towel, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he wiped your face. “Come on,” he coaxed, his voice softening. He guided you to the bathroom, his fingers lacing with yours, and drew you into the shower.

Under the warm water, he washed your hair, his hands threading through your strands with care. His crystalline eyes softened as he began to tell you about his mission, his lips quirking into a small smile. From the counter, he produced a small box of mochi, your favorite snack.

“You’re everything to me, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His arms wrapped around you, his broad chest pressing against your back. “I’m going to marry you one day. You know that, right?”

And just like that, the storm passed, leaving behind only his affection..

Your heart sank at the mention of marriage. With them, you knew they’d find a way to make it happen—the three of you, bound together, no matter how impossible it seemed.

After the shower, you slipped into bed, craving the comforting warmth of the sheets. It was a small solace, a fleeting moment where you could envelop yourself in something soft and familiar.

Satoru liked to cuddle during naps, and true to form, his lanky arms found their way around you. He pulled you close, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into you. His kisses came next, peppered across your lips with deliberate exaggeration, loud and obnoxious.

You used to giggle when he did that. You used to squirm and laugh, batting him away as he grinned and pulled you closer.

But now, you stayed still, letting him press his kisses and settle into a nap with you.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d giggled like that. Or the last time you’d laughed at all.

On their next mission, you had exactly six hours.

Exactly six hours for a stupid idea. A fleeting thought.

You’d planned this carefully, down to the second. When they asked where you’d be, you made some excuse about a doctor’s appointment. It was believable enough—Suguru always asked to see the summary of your visits when you got back, a habit you knew was less about care and more about control.

But this time, you lied.

There was no appointment.

Instead, you booked a one-way trip. Far, far away from Tokyo. Far enough that they wouldn’t be able to find you, at least not right away.

The States. It was the only place you could afford with the small stash of cash you’d scraped together over the years—birthday cards, Christmas cards, anything you’d managed to squirrel away without raising suspicion. You even bought a prepaid flight gift card, ensuring it couldn’t be traced back to you.

No suitcases, no sentimental keepsakes, nothing but the clothes on your back.

Before you left, you scrawled a simple note, placing it where you knew they’d find it. Just three words:

"I love you."

Ironic, isn’t it?

As you sat at your terminal, the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. You told yourself a 14-hour flight wouldn’t be so bad. It was freedom, wasn’t it? The first real breath you’d taken in months.

But then, a familiar figure caught your eye.

Megumi.

He wasn’t alone—the other first-years trailed beside him—but it was Megumi’s gaze that stopped your heart. His dark eyes widened when they locked onto yours, a flash of recognition that made your stomach churn.

Your anxiety hit you like a freight train, crawling under your skin, seeping into your every bone as they walked past. Megumi glanced back at you one more time, his lips parting just enough to mouth the words: “I’m sorry.”

And then you saw it—his hand reaching for his phone, his fingers already dialing.

You didn’t have to guess who he was calling.

Your heart sank, but you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. You knew Megumi had his reasons—his own happiness to protect, his own precarious balance to maintain. He was trying to survive too, wasn’t he?

You understood. You really did.

But understanding didn’t make the fear any less suffocating.

You cried the entire car ride home, your sobs tearing from your throat, raw and uncontrollable.

Satoru didn’t even glance your way. His icy, dull gaze stayed fixed on the window, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. The silence between you was deafening, broken only by your muffled cries and the hum of the car engine.

In the passenger seat, Suguru sat quietly, his expression unreadable. His hands rested on his knees, fingers drumming absently, as if the tension in the car didn’t weigh as heavily on him.

Poor Ijichi-san gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, clearly caught in a situation he didn’t want to be in. He glanced at you through the rearview mirror—sympathy flashing briefly in his eyes—before he quickly looked away, the moment shattered by Satoru’s cold, piercing glare.

The car felt suffocating, like the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of your despair and the oppressive silence of the two men who claimed to love you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched the familiar sight of your apartment complex slip past the window. Panic prickled at the edge of your already frayed nerves, your grip tightening on the fabric of your clothes. A small sniffle left your nose, your voice coming out hoarse and broken.

“Where are we going, Toru?”

You turned your gaze to Satoru, hoping for an answer, for anything—but he didn’t look at you. He didn’t respond. His profile was cold, distant, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Your stomach twisted, guilt clawing at your insides. You must have hurt him. He always clung to your love like it was his lifeline. You must have broken that lifeline, snapped it in two with your attempt to run.

You shifted your gaze to Suguru, hoping for some clarity, but his face gave nothing away. His dark eyes flickered toward you for the briefest of moments before returning to the road ahead, his expression as still and unreadable as ever.

The car veered away from familiar streets, the urban sprawl giving way to the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Your chest tightened.

Every nerve in your body screamed as the car crept deeper into the forest, the tall trees looming like silent sentinels. Your mind raced with grim possibilities. Were they planning to leave you here? Like an unwanted dog, cast into the cold for daring to run away?

But then, just as the panic began to claw at you, your gaze caught the sight of something familiar—something that made your heart sink even further.

The tall, imposing torii gates emerged through the mist, their vibrant red striking against the muted greens and grays of the forest.

Oh.

The Gojo Estate.

“I don’t think I can trust you enough not to leave again,” Satoru said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically calm, almost detached.

He wasn’t usually the one to chide you—that was Suguru’s role. Suguru, who would dole out punishments with a sharp tongue or a chilling, parental tone, as though you were a misbehaving child. But now, Satoru’s words held a gravity that made your chest tighten.

“So,” he continued, his crystalline eyes fixed ahead, “I figured here, you could have a few more eyes on you. Maybe even enjoy it more. Who knows? You might even come around to the idea of being Mrs. Gojo or Mrs. Geto. Your pick.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“We already filled out the documentation. You’re married.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, the weight of them crashing into your chest. Your mind spun, unable to comprehend the sheer audacity of it, the sheer finality.

You felt chained.

Like a dog, tethered to their will, stripped of freedom, and locked away under the pretense of love.

They didn’t say anything as they walked you through the grand, silent halls of the Gojo Estate, and for that, you were almost thankful. The air was heavy with whispers and disdainful glances from the servants. A non-sorcerer? Their murmurs carried through the air, sharp and cutting, as though your very presence was an affront to their world.

When you reached the bedroom, Satoru’s hand guided you forward with surprising gentleness, his fingers brushing yours as though nothing had changed. He led you to the edge of the plush, sprawling bed, and you forced a small, trembling smile to your lips—a weak attempt at peace, at hope.

His bright eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought maybe, just maybe, you could reason with him.

But then his hands caught your wrists.

A light kiss brushed your lips, so soft you barely registered it over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. The faint click of the cuffs was almost lost in the quiet, but the cold metal digging into your skin was impossible to ignore.

He stepped back, his expression unreadable.

It was Suguru’s voice that filled the air next, low and calm, like a lullaby that promised nightmares.

“You’re going to provide us an heir,” he said, his smile almost serene, even as your eyes widened in horror. “It was Satoru’s idea, actually.”

His smile deepened, almost teasing, as though he enjoyed the shock and betrayal etched across your face. “And you’re not leaving this room until you’re safe and pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating you.

Suguru’s tone carried a quiet, unmistakable happiness, as though this was something he’d always wanted. Maybe it was—he’d always longed for a child, hadn’t he? You turned your gaze to Satoru, searching for something, anything.

But all you found was the lovesick smile he gave Suguru.

Not you.

Your chest tightened as tears pricked your eyes, the overwhelming urge to scream, to sob, to lash out building inside you.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you sat there, the cold metal biting into your wrists, the weight of their love crushing the last sliver of hope you’d held onto.

You had grown numb.

Must be from all the love, right?

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #yandere #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere satoru gojo #yandere suguru geto #yandere satosugu #Yandere Satoru x Suguru x Reader #Yandere Satosugu x reader #Yandere suguru x reader #yandere satoru x reader

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chaoticwriting · 6 months ago

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YOU'RE MARRIED!!? 2

Part 1

Cass: Ellie! What are you doing here, honey? Aren't you supposed to be with papa?

Ellie: Papa is busy with Uncle Dan. They asked me to go play with Mama for a little bit.

Cass: Uncle Dan? I thought papa and Uncle Dan don't get along well together?

Ellie: Yup. They always fight whenever Aunt Jazz invites them to dinner. But papa says there is some very important very secret job that they need to do. So they ask me to go play with you.

Cass: Do you know what they are doing, honey? Maybe I can help papa with his job. You know I am very good at fighting.

Ellie: But...

Ellie says as she looks at the people around her. Cujo has shrunk himself back into a small puppy and is currently standing guard behind Ellie. She trusts mama but she doesn't know these people.

Cass looking at her daughter's signal, understands her worry.

Cass: Don't worry, honey. They are my family. Over there are your other aunts and uncles.

Ellie gives a nod of understanding to Cass and puts the brightest smile she has on her face.

Ellie: Hello, everyone. I am Ellie Fenton. Nice to meet you.

All of them awaken from their shock, greet Ellie properly. Some of them restrain themselves from throwing themselves to Ellie to pick her up and dote on her. If not for Bruce still recovering from almost having a heart attack, he would have ignored everything and just doted on her while his children solved whatever problem there is.

Cass: Ellie.

Ellie: Yes, mama?

Cass: Can you tell us what happens now?

Ellie: Ummm, I actually don't really know myself. But I hear Uncle Dan cursing Plasmius and papa saying something about the timeline being messed with.

Everyone is immediately concerned about whatever Ellie is saying. The timeline being messed with usually is a league level threat. And yet here there is one and the only reason they get any news is because their newest family member is somehow related to it.

Tim: Ellie, who is Plasmius?

Hearing the question, Ellie looks at Cass to ascertain the trustworthiness of Tim. Getting a nod from Cass, Ellie then answers.

Ellie: Plasmius is my creator. He clones papa using papa's and his DNA because he wants papa to be his son. Papa saves me but because I am a girl, born from two male donors, I am unstable.

Tim: I don't think that is how clone works?

Ellie: That is what Doctor Frosty says. Oh yeah, mama. I have a gift from papa. Papa is afraid that he might not be free on your anniversary date.

Ellie pulls out a small box out of her pocket and gives it to Cass. Cass happily takes it while observing the box. From roughly looking at it, the box isn't anything special. Except a very beautiful carving of her name on it. Cass opens the box to reveal a beautiful black pearl necklace that has 2 miniature swans in the middle. One black and one white. Their heads form a heart shape while around them are stars shining brilliantly.

Cass puts on the necklace and sees there is a note inside of it.

I'm sorry that I can't join you, Cass. I have some important matters to handle, so I hope you can take care of Ellie while I am away. I will compensate our missed date with a better one later.

Have a good time with Ellie. I love you <3

Your husband,

Danny

Cass smiles as she reads the note. Keeping it inside her pocket, she returns her attention back to Ellie.

Cass: Ellie, papa says that you will stay with me for a while. Do you bring everything you need for a sleepover?

Ellie: A sleepover? With mama? Yaaayy. But I don't bring any clothes with me.

Suddenly, a green portal opens up and spits out a purple bag right onto Ellie. Ellie catches it and giggles happily.

Ellie: Thanks grandpa Clocky.

A sticky note with a thumbs up appears in front of Ellie and disappears in an instant.

Cass: Errmm, Ellie. Who is that?

Ellie: That's grandpa Clocky. He sometimes babysit me when he sends papa to do some work for him.

Steph: How did he do that?

Ellie: Grandpa Clocky can control time. He always knows when we need his help.

Jason: Well that certainly is entering his file.

Ellie then pulls out a box of apple juice from her bag and starts drinking it. Cass picks her up and as she holds her, Ellie leans her head towards Cass's shoulder.

Tim: They really do look like a mother-daughter duo.

Steph: Of course they are, idiot. They are literally mother and daughter.

Suddenly, Dick steps forward wearing the most friendly smile he has.

Dick: Hey, Ellie. My name is Richard. You can call me Uncle Dick.

Ellie: Hihihihi. Your name is a bad word.

Dick: Well, I guess it is a bad word. But I am Romani.

Ellie: Yes, Uncle Dick. Hihihi. You are funny.

Everyone's alarm blares at the same time when they hear the statement. They finally realized Dick's plan. How dare he try to get a headstart in securing the best uncle/aunt position.

Dick can feel the glare from everyone but as they say, early birds catch the worms.

Part 3

#danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #batfam #danny x cass #dead silent #justice league #cassandra cain #dc x dp #cass x danny

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whimsicalscribblr · 10 days ago

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Hey guys. Guess who caved and bought the Bass.EXE kotobukiya model kit.

Me.

IT'S OK I PROMISE IN AM IN A FINANCIALLY STABLE POSITION TO BE SPENDING MONEY My old man said he'd defend my honor (aka back me up on ny impulsive purchasing decision) as long as I put 20% of every paycheck I get into my savings account so I've been doing that. Pretty good financial advice if you have the luxury of getting to save good chunks of your paychecks. I'm very fortunate to be able to do so, and I'm trying my best to save as much money as I can... even if me buying this kit doesn't look like it LMAO. I am impulsive but I'm very conscious of that, and every purchase I make has a lot of deliberation involved in it (30 minutes minimum, usually, of internal debate), so when I do make big purchases like this, it's the result of days of thinking and extensive use of a calculator. So even though he is a bit pricey (and to be honest, I did NOT buy him from Kotobukiya's site itself, instead from a rather trusted distributor where I ended up paying less than I would have on the official site), I feel rather comfortable in my decision knowing that I calculated my spending and everything to be accomodating of the purchase and know where my finances stand for the next month or so. Let me be a showcase that you can spend impulsively... responsibly LMAO.

ANYWAY it is officially being shipped to me (YAY) and once I get it I'm actually going to live update yall on the building process like I originally said I was gonna do with nightmare zero. Maybe I can get up a recording to show the building in a timelapse? Idk. I know he's gonna take me some time to build tho because... my boy looks complicated as HELL. But hes cool soooooo WORTH IT!!

Ok yap session over I gotta go walk a dog BYE FOR NOW NETTO.EXE OUT-

i just found out that kotobukiya is releasing a Bass.EXE model kit LITERALLY NEXT MONTH HOW DID I NOT KNOW- he looks sooo good but on kotobukiya and US selling sites he is $96.99 and, while i do currently have a job and make money, i dont make THAT much money.... but he looks so coool..... fdgjdasfgha

eternally cursed to be sad i guess LOLLLL im not letting myself make any drastic financial decisions right now because it's late but man if i had more expendable cash god knows I'd be preordering his ass right this damn second. I'm having a bit too much fun with model kits right now and that dude has a poseable cloak. I need him but I also need to save money.

anyway IF ANY OF YALL WANT HIM NOWS THE TIME TO PREORDER HIM I GUESS. IT'S A KOTOBUKIYA MODEL JUST LOOK IT UP ONLINE HE WILL SHOW UP AND HE'S BEAUTIFUL since I can't get him one of you all has to. Bring that boy to life.

Anyway it's late so-

Netto.EXE signing off for the night!

#netto.exe yaps #omg a netto.exe yapping post during daylight hours? UNHEARD OF!#anyway ignore my financial rant if its boring I just always have a lot of thoughts on things lol #but yeah. that boy is MINE MWEHEHEHEHEHE #i am going to have so much fun building him when he gets here #hes designed to be able to be put in the air through one of kotobukiyas flying stands so I think i might buy it too #that'd be a later purchase though. spreading out my spending #i really am so excited for him to get here AHDISNKSNS even tho im not sure where to put him yet #i need to deep clean my room AGAIN and get rid of stuff AGAIN to make more room for megaman stuff.#my room is a decent size but a lot of potental display space (like on my old wall shelves) are currently taken by old things #so i have to see if my parents want to store any of those things first #and move my glass mythical animals collection to one of the newer cleaned shelves so i can move stuff onto that shelf...#i have a LOT of old things. I don't need them. i need to get rid of stuff omgggg #one day I'll move out and the whole place I live in will be full of megaman. its an inevitability #regardless. mmm model kits #theres this hobby store ive been to since I was little that had gundam kits and stuff #and i always thought i wouldn't like putting them together because theyre tedious and time consuming #but i actually find them rather soothing and fun? its like a math equation #all the pieces fit together perfectly when you're using the right formula (putting them in the right places)#and i always loved math in school bc it was percisely that. plug and chug. put them in the right places and everything fits together nicely #so I found my new creative outlet that isn't drawing LOL my art professor would be proud #pro tip for people wanting to do art professionally- you need an artistic medium that isn't whatever you're doing for work that you enjoy #so that your creativity has a healthy outlet outside of work. keeps your brain flowing and your creativity fresh #model kits and singing are mine it seems lol #expect me to be overdramatic when his kit finally arrives. Bass.EXE's design is genuinely one of my favourites in all of megaman #idk why i love his design so much but its so perfect. i think maybe because every element of it fits together perfectly?#like design wise hes got one of the most cohesive designs in megaman. every aspect of it perfectly compliments every other aspect #idk i could probably go into specifics but it might come down to dynamicism and animatability LMAO im a nerd...#ANYWAY i gotta go be a person now and go walk a dog. FAREWELL MY FRIENDS!#megaman

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wordsofyore · 23 days ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader

You know this isn't really normal.

It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.

And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.

But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.

Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.

It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.

And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.

Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.

Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).

This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.

You know what? Yeah.

Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.

And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.

The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.

Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.

It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.

So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.

You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.

Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.

Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.

"Fucking hell..."

Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.

Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.

"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.

"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."

"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."

You balk at the matter of fact statement.

"Watching... me?" you grimace.

Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"

All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.

"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."

"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.

"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"

This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.

"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.

"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.

Of course you like him.

You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.

"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."

By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.

"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."

#mutual stalking mwah #barely edited btw #caffeine induced insomnia at it again #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #cod #cod mw ghost #cod mw2 #cod mw3

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batsybat91 · 1 month ago

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You don't know how you ended up here. You try to run through the events in your head, but the math doesn't add up. You moved in with Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley. Johnny was always chatty, but he's been away from home for a couple of days. That leaves you with Simon. Now, you're sitting at the kitchen table - coloring with Crayola, no less - and filling in a Scooby Doo coloring book with Ghost.

It strikes you just how strange this is. Men are scared of Simon. He's a practical Grim Reaper, and you know he's a living legend. That big boy in the skull face mask? You can't escape him if you see him because you're dead already. What would those same men, who are so afraid of him, think if they saw him coloring Daphne right now?

When did you start thinking of him as Simon instead of Ghost?

"You said you wanted to talk." You clear your throat after an awkward silence. The pencil in his hand stops working on the orange of Daphne's hair. "What did you want to talk about?"

"You," he says simply.

"Well, there's lots of things about me to know," you murmur, your own pencil stopping on Shaggy's shirt.

"Why did you tell me those... those dad jokes that night?" he whispers. Simon's accent wraps around each word like a warm blanket, comforting like it has never been before. You wonder if he made his voice softer on purpose, or if it was just your imagination.

"I was just trying to break the ice," you admit with a shrug.

"Why? You could've just stayed in your room." His gaze meets yours, eyes impossibly brown. Simon doesn't have his mask on today, which is a miracle by your standards. It reveals his shaggy blonde hair, his strong Roman nose, his stubbled jaw, and all the other traits of a handsome man.

"I don't like being alone." You force yourself to keep your eyes on his. "And you are kind to me when it matters."

"Are people often unkind, love?" The way he says "love" - like a word meant for you and you only - makes your heart stumble. You don't think he's ever called you that before.

"No." You shake your head. "But they are louder about it. Kind because it gets them affection or attention. You are kind because it is what's right."

Simon leans forward in his seat, his nose mere centimeters from yours. You can feel his breath fan across your lips, uneven yet quiet. You close the distance, resting your forehead against his own. One of his hands comes up to cup your face, surprisingly gentle for a man who has used those same hands to crack skulls and break knees. You lean into his touch instinctually, allowing his warmth to comfort you.

"I am also kind to you," he begins, swallowing hard. You see his Adam's apple bob with the force of it. "Because I think you're... gorgeous. Ravishing, really."

Your jaw drops straight to the floor. He, Ghost the big, bad sniper, finds you, the roommate, attractive? That can't be right. Your first instinct is that this is a prank, but Simon wouldn't prank you. Maybe Johnny, but certainly not Simon.

"You're not so bad yourself," you whisper finally.

"May I kiss you, darlin'?" he asks, his voice so quiet that you think he's nervous. Nervous to even say the words aloud.

"Yes, Simon," you breathe.

Simon wastes no time pressing his lips against yours. His lips aren't chapped, like you thought they might be. They're surprisingly soft against your own. You slide your hands into his short blonde hair, tugging just enough to elicit a quiet groan from him.

His kiss isn't hungry or fervent. He takes his time kissing you, ensuring you can feel everything he's feeling. You are hesitant to call it love, but he certainly kisses you like he's in love. When his tongue runs across the seam of your lips, you obediently open your mouth and allow him to explore.

He is deft with his tongue, tangling it with yours and finding spots that make your heart race. His hands move from your face to your waist, pulling you ever closer to him. The world narrows to just you and him. Nothing else matters to you, save for this brilliant, steamy kiss.

You think that's the moment you realized... you're in big trouble.

Part I

Part II

#🦇 batsy tag #drabble #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #call of duty drabble #i might make this into a full fledged fic on ao3 #more fleshed out

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witchywithwhiskey · 3 months ago

Text

the luckiest bastard in pittsburgh

pairing: dr. jack abbot x coffee shop night shift worker!female reader

this is mostly fluff but there's some allusions to smut/18+ content toward the end so minors do not interact!!!

a/n: i finished the pitt the other night and have been consumed with dr. jack abbot as a character and thinking about what he'd be like in a relationship. because he's such a capable doctor, but he seems like he's kind of a mess in every other aspect of his life, and i love the idea of him being a bit of a bumbling mess while falling in love. so here are some thoughts about all that.

if y'all enjoy this, i'm thinking of rewriting it as a proper series, potentially showing both points of view, and diving deeper into the smutty bits that would come later. so if you're interested in that, do let me know!

Dr. Jack Abbot doesn't even like coffee that much, even if it helps him get through the night shift. Jack finds comfort in the darkness, but on the rough nights, when the horror seems endless, it's your pretty smile that really gets him through till dawn...

it isn't long after he first sees you at the small café next to the hospital that Jack starts getting coffee every night, either stopping in before his shift or ducking out from the ER for a cup of black coffee in the early hours of the morning—if he can pull himself away.

he finds himself making excuses to linger in the coffee shop, asking you whether you enjoy the night shift, his mouth twisting in a hint of a smile when you admit that you do. it's quiet, and you like the quiet.

it takes a while before Jack works up the nerve to ask you for your name, and his knees nearly sag with relief when you give it to him freely.

there's another of your pretty smiles on your face when you tell Jack your name—and this time, it's all for him.

a flicker of warmth trembles to life in his chest, a spark of something he hasn't felt in a long, long time. he feels the need to protect it from the yawning darkness in his chest.

Jack introduces himself to you as, "Dr. Jack Abbot, but you can call me Jack." and you look at him from under your lashes, a teasing glimmer in your eyes as you murmur, "it's nice to meet you, Dr. Jack."

hearing you call him that, in your sweet voice, does something to Jack's chest and he's not quite sure what to do about it. he has half a mind to check himself out for a heart event as he trudges blindly back to the hospital, black coffee in hand.

but then he's plunged back into the chaos of the ER and he doesn't have time to think about the strange fluttering behind his sternum whenever he remembers your smile or your voice or the way you called him Dr. Jack.

he decides it's nice, actually, and that maybe he could learn to live with it.

one late night/early morning—all Jack knows is that it's past 3am but the sun hasn't started to rise yet—he's in the coffee shop, doing his best to chat with you when a car backfires outside on the street. you jump, spilling scalding hot coffee over your hand. the paper cup and coffeepot tumble to the floor, the latter shattering and sending glass flying across the tile.

before Jack knows what he's doing, he's catapulted himself over the counter. glass crunches beneath the soft soles of his shoes as he makes his way to you, moving faster than he has in years to get to you.

you're biting your lip against the pain, tears shimmering in your wide eyes—but there's no fear in your gaze, only a desperate pleading for help. Jack's heart surges in a way it never does in the ER, beating harder and faster, his nerves buzzing to life after so many years spent dormant.

thankfully, all Jack's years of training kick in and he's able to take control of the situation on muscle memory alone.

gently, he takes your arm and leads you to the sink behind the counter, kicking glass out of his way to clear a path for you. he flicks on the tap and checks that the water is cool, but not too cold, before he guides your quivering hand beneath the stream.

with his other hand, Jack tips your chin up to look at him and his chest squeezes with a concerning force when he sees that tears have spilled down your cheeks.

right then, Jack knows he'd tear out his own heart with a pair of forceps if it meant never seeing you cry again.

with fingers shaking in a way they never do when he's working in the ER, Jack brushes your tears from your cheeks. his throat is tight with a panic that feels foreign and overwhelming, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that it's you who's hurt. through it all, he manages to murmur words of comfort.

"you're alright, i've got you. just keep your hand under the water, sweetheart. you're doing so well, just stay right there. you're gonna be ok, i'm gonna take care of you, i promise."

when the tears have stopped, Jack asks where he can find the café's first aid kit, which he fetches quickly before returning to your side.

he knows he's standing too close, crowding into your space, but he can't help himself. he needs the physical reminder that you're there, that you're going to be ok, and he's going to make sure of it.

when he flips open the first aid kit and quickly takes stock of what supplies are inside, he can't help but grumble roughly. he doesn't even know he's muttering under his breath about everything the kit is missing until a little puff of laughter escapes you and he looks up in surprise.

your eyes are still wide, a tightness around them that tells Jack you're still in pain and are being brave about it, but there's something else shimmering in the depth of your gaze. something like fondness, something warm that reaches straight into Jack's chest and wraps around his heart, squeezing in a way that's both painful and pleasant, torture and comfort.

"i'm sorry about your coffee."

your words pull jack from his scattered thoughts, and before he can think better of it, he says, "fuck the coffee." his voice is low and rough, but that doesn't seem to scare you.

his blunt words draw another giggle from you, and Jack feels practically high from the relief and rapture the sound inspires in him. distantly, he considers booking himself in for a head scan when he gets back to the hospital, but he knows the sudden off-kilter feeling has nothing to do with a potential brain injury and everything to do with the way you make him feel.

your laughter trails off too soon, but you're still smiling, looking at him from under your lashes, almost like you're suddenly shy. "if you have time, Dr. Jack, i'll brew another pot."

"i've got time," Jack says, the 'for you' left unsaid. but Jack thinks you know what he means, because your face softens, your eyes looking at him like he hung the moon, and your lips curving into the prettiest smile he's seen yet.

the two of you linger in that moment as long as possible, like neither of you want it to pass. but, inevitably, it does.

Jack looks away first, coughing to clear his suddenly dry throat. his movements are jerky and awkward at first, as he starts pulling supplies from the first aid kit's meager offerings, but his hands steady as his training takes over, and he's never been more thankful for it.

in no time at all, Jack has your hand bandaged and you tell him you're feeling a lot better. before you can thank him, he's writing down his personal phone number on the back of one of the café's loyalty punch cards and telling you to call or text him if you have any questions about treating or re-bandaging the burn.

you take the card with a gentle smile, your eyes roving over his face in a way that makes him shift his weight from foot to foot. he has to bite back a wince when he feels a twinge of discomfort from his leg rubbing against his prosthetic, but he won't stop you from looking.

you thank him for his help, and seem to hesitate before stepping close to him—so close, his heart riots in his chest and his breath catches in his throat. his entire body is lit up, his nerves feeling like live wires, even as he stands perfectly still, as if any sudden movement could spook you.

your lips brush against Jack's grizzled cheek and it's embarrassing how his body reacts to such a chaste kiss, blood flowing to places he thought were half-dead from disuse. his heart is pumping in his chest and his fingers twitch with the need to reach for you, while another part of him, below the waistband of his scrubs, also strains for you.

he wants to wrap you up in his arms and haul you against his chest. he wants to kiss you, to learn how you taste and how you'd sound coming apart on his tongue, and how you'd smile when you're wrapped up in the sheets of his bed.

he wants to map every curve of your body with his calloused hands. he wants to take you home and cook you breakfast. he wants to protect you from ever being hurt again.

Jack knows none of that is possible, that there's no way a sweet, pretty thing like you would want an old, haggard doctor like him. but he'd settle for another kiss on his cheek...

the first time you text Dr. Jack Abbot, it’s only a few hours later. the sun is high in the sky and Jack wakes from a dead sleep at the vibration of his phone on the nightstand.

he doesn’t sleep well. his body never quite unlearned the training it got overseas when he had to be awake and alert at a moment’s notice—or risk his life or those of his fellow soldiers.

but when Jack sees your name and your innocent question asking him whether it’s ok to put aloe on the burn before freshening the bandage, he calms and smiles to himself. it's a smart idea, and he tells you as much.

after he answers your message, he drops back to sleep as easily as breathing, the ghost of a smile still on his lips and the memory of your eyes in his mind.

as the burn on your hand heals, you keep texting Jack questions even though he’s pretty sure you already know the answers—but he won’t do or say anything to discourage you from texting him.

not when you indulge him by sending photos of your hand during the day. and not when you're patient with him when he checks how you’re healing every night when he comes into the coffee shop for his daily fix (though he hasn't told you yet that your smiles do much more for him than the caffeine ever could).

he praises you for taking care of your injury well, his chest warm with pride, his heart surging at the pretty little smile and soft "thank you" you give him.

eventually, the burn on your hand heals, but you keep texting Jack.

at first it’s superficial questions like whether he’s coming in that night—even though Jack is pretty sure you’ve noticed he comes in every night—or telling him about a strange order or funny customer you had.

but soon you start asking him how his night is going and what he does when he’s not at the hospital.

Jack has to scramble to come up with hobbies that aren’t sleeping and listening to the police scanner, the night shift nurses sharing a judgemental look and biting back laughter when he asks them what normal people do for fun.

when he tells you he reads and watches movies, though, you seem pleased.

everyone in the ER knows something’s going on with Dr. Jack Abbot. he’s going on coffee runs every night when they were only rare occurrences in the past, checking his phone so much it’s practically glued to his hand, and he’s smiling more—real smiles, not just the twist of his lips into the approximation of one.

Dr. Robby has even stopped finding him on the roof. or, at least, not as close to the edge.

the security guards and some of the nurses have a betting pool going for who the new person in Dr. Abbot’s life is. Jack pretends to ignore it, but he can’t keep the smile off his face when he sees the board because it reminds him of you.

it’s a few weeks later when Jack finally blurts out the question he’s been wanting to ask you since the first time you smiled at him.

“you wanna go out sometime? with me?”

your grin is wide and beaming, that teasing gleam in your eye when you respond, “took you long enough, Dr. Jack.”

on Jack’s next night off—which happens to be your night off as well—he takes you out. it’s nothing fancy, just dinner at place where you can get a good beer and burger, then you walk through a park, hands brushing tentatively a few times before he finally laces his fingers through yours. your hand is soft in his calloused one and Jack thinks he’s never felt anything quite so perfect.

he walks you home and you hesitate at your door. you don’t invite him in, but you sway into his chest, your face tilted toward his.

bathed in the golden light of the lampposts, you look like an angel to Jack, all soft eyes and a pretty smile.

the two of you linger in that moment, the hum of tension and desire thrumming in the space between your bodies. Jack is so busy marveling at your beauty and wondering why such a pretty thing has any interest in him that he nearly forgets what it means that your eyes keep drifting to his mouth, your pupils blowing wider in the low light.

but finally, he remembers.

Jack kisses you, his hands cupping your jaw and his mouth brushing against yours in the most teasing of caresses. you exhale a soft puff of air, chasing his mouth as he retreats and Jack smiles briefly before he’s giving you what you want. his lips press more firmly to yours, a groan rumbling deep in his chest.

Jack is surprised when your tongue flicks teasingly against his upper lip and he opens for you reflexively. in the next second, you’re licking into his mouth like you’re hungry for him, a gentle sound in your throat like you'll never be able to get enough of him.

the heat of you is nearly overwhelming and Jack's arms wrap around your back, hauling you tight against his chest while he kisses you back just as greedily. he prays you don’t notice how embarrassingly hard he is against your belly, a testament to how much and how long he's wanted you.

but then you moan into his mouth, your fingers carding through his silver-streaked hair, and Jack's mind goes entirely blank.

the kiss lasts forever and not long enough.

when Jack finally pulls away, he’s met with the wondrous sight of your dazed, slow-blinking eyes and kiss-swollen lips. he thinks that if he can’t keep kissing you, at least he can still look at you, your beauty leaving him just as empty-headed as your lips and tongue.

with a giggle at his slow-moving brain, you gently shove Jack away from your door and wish him a goodnight. he waits until you’ve gone inside and locked the door behind you before he retreats.

he walks home with his hands shoved in his pockets to stop himself from texting you to come back outside so he can keep kissing you, maybe even convince you he’s worth a damn—though a part of him suspects you already think he is. for whatever reason.

the next day, you text him that you had a good time on your date and are looking forward to seeing him again. it's accompanied by a selfie of you smiling, your lips still a little swollen from his kiss, and Jack nearly loses himself in his boxers at that simple sight.

his response to you is immediate, telling you he'll see you at the café that evening and he's looking forward to your next date. then he lays back in his bed, and thinks about your eyes, your smile, the pretty sounds you made when he kissed you. he imagines waking up next to you, curling his arms around your soft body and inhaling your sweet scent.

not for the first time—nor the last—Dr. Jack Abbot thinks he must be the luckiest bastard in Pittsburgh, all because of you.

hope y'all enjoyed!! again, let me know if you want to see a longer version of this story—probably broken up into chapters to be a full series. ♡ comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

#jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x you #jack abbot fanfiction #the pitt fanfiction #shawn hatosy #shawn hatosy fanfiction #shawn hatosy characters #witchywithwhiskeywork #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x you #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot fanfic

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myokk · 9 months ago

Text

clumsy

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 9,1k

summary: sebastian is clumsy

cw: fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, two really stubborn idiots in love to be exact, sir cadogan guest appearance, anne and imelda are the gremlin best friends every girl needs, smut (18+ ONLY), oral (f. recieving)

a/n: or: two stubborn brats make things more difficult than they have to be. I've been working on this for a MONTH more or less, ever since I drew the sketch that inspired it🫶 (I'm the world's slowest writer)

The first time Sebastian Sallow interacted with her after the fateful events of their fifth year, he fell for her.

Quite literally.

Maybe fell on her is more aptly put - Sebastian Sallow is not one to mince his words or say what he doesn't mean, after all. But, in the years to come, he always insists that he fell in love in that moment.

It was inexplicable. One moment, he was walking around, perfectly content with his loveless, boring life, and the next, his every waking moment was painful. Nobody had ever told Sebastian that being in love would physically pain or consume him so.

It all started like this: one moment, he's walking (well, striding) to Crossed Wands. Fine, he's running. Running late already, for the first meet-up of his last year. But - he isn't to blame for being late. He needed to check on something in the library - during his Transfiguration lesson, he had a hunch about something Professor Weasley had said in passing, and of course he had to go and check to see if he was right before he could even think about besting Leander in the inaugural duel of the Crossed Wands season but now, with how late he is - how many minutes ago had it started? - oh, Merlin, it's already been ten whole minutes and what if they've started without him (not that he can blame them) and -

Sebastian is abruptly pulled out of his thoughts when he collides with a strange obstruction in his way. He was just checking his father's old pocket watch, had only looked away for a split second and he could have sworn that, unless he was mistaken (which he never is), there wasn't a statue in the middle of the suspension bridge. And yet, he has run headfirst into something or someone, and now they are both flying through the air, books whirling around them in a flurry of pages and Sebastian unconsciously puts his arms out to grab her before they hit the ground and now he's holding her tight against him and they land with a loud, ungraceful thud, but at least she's not hurt.

Sebastian shakes his head to clear it after the impact that - miraculously - doesn't seem to have been as bad as it could have been, all things considered, and -

He freezes.

What has he done?

He's pressed up against the most impossibly lovely person he has ever seen quite possibly in his life, holding her tightly in his arms as she glares up at him in indignation, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks, making her face glow. Is this what the muggles mean when they say that they were struck by Cupid's arrow? Her hands scrabble uselessly at his chest as she tries to extricate herself from his grip. It's useless. Sebastian is completely frozen in place as he stares down at her, and he can feel his own face heating up at his inability to get off her. What's wrong with him?

"Sebastian," she repeats, and this time her voice registers in his brain. He realizes she has been talking to him this whole time, and as he stares at her face without comprehending - he couldn't have a coherent thought right now even if he wanted to - he sees her eyes dart quickly down, looking at where their bodies meet before she brings them back to his face, a deeper blush coming over her. "You -"

Oh, Merlin. It's her. He blinks and it's like the fog has cleared from his mind - almost, but-not-quite - and he realizes who he has unceremoniously crashed to the ground with him. The spines of the textbooks they are lying on top of dig into the arm that's pinned under her body and his other hand...he realizes (to his almost-horror) that to any students or professors walking by, it would seem as if they were caught up in quite the scandalous extra-curricular activity because his other hand is actively caressing her breast. Well, that's how it would look to any passerby, anyways.

Because there is no way he would be caught dead in such a compromising position with her.

The two of them haven't spoken since the events of their fifth year - the Year-That-Shall-Not-Be-Remembered-or-Acknowledged - and he had been perfectly content with his plan to continue this strange sort of ignoring that they had played all last year. Both of them pretending that they hadn't become impossibly close after only knowing each other for a few months - a closeness that he had gone and ruined by not knowing when to quit. All he had known to do back then was push push push because why couldn't she see things the way he had? The betrayal he had felt when she had gone behind his back to find her own way to cure his sister, and that one stupid word uttered in the heat of the moment, had caused an irreparable rift in their relationship and he would not allow himself to think about how much he missed her. Still misses her.

Just like he will not think about the fact that she is pressed beneath him in a compromising position, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she glares up at him in indignation. He continues to stare at her. Maybe his mouth is agape. She's stopped trying to get out of his grip and is resting her hands on his chest, seemingly waiting for an opportunity to push him off of her.

"Sebastian. Your hand," she repeats. "You're -"

Finally his idiot brain decides to wake up and Sebastian realizes with horror just how aroused he is at the moment and how did he never see her like this before? He gets up in a flash, pushing her back against the pile of books they're lying on top of, wondering if he can subtly adjust his robes without her realizing and then he makes the very grave mistake of looking down at her and she's still very much red-faced, propping herself up by her elbows and she looks so disheveled and lovely lying on top of the pile of books.

His idiot brain has now woken up completely, and how is it possible for one hormonal, eighteen-year-old wizard to be so embarrassed? He knocked her to the ground, pushed her further back in the books in his desperate attempt to get away from her, and now all he can think about is how to hide his arousal. Shameful, really. Sebastian quickly crouches down to help her pick up all of the books but she shoves him away and glares at him with an annoyance that he's never seen before.

"I can do it myself, thank you very much," she says with a huff, gathering everything they spilled up into her arms. She grabs the book Sebastian is holding out of his hands and he inhales sharply at the touch of her fingers grazing his.

Did someone - Garreth, maybe - spike his pumpkin juice with Amortentia during lunch? It's the only explanation he can think of as he stares blankly down at her. How else would he find her so beautiful, so breathtaking, when the last time they had interacted, Ominis and Anne had had to act as intermediaries for the two of them?

"Well," she says finally, slinging her school bag over her shoulder once all of her books have been unceremoniously shoved inside of it, "it's been...nice seeing you again, Sallow. I hope you had a good summer holiday."

And with that, she quickly turns and walks away in the direction she had been coming from, leaving a very confused Sebastian behind. He watches her as she walks away and her long, swishing braid is the last thing he sees before the door closes behind her at the far end of the bridge.

Eventually, he gathers his wits and wanders away.

He does not go to the first Crossed Wands meeting that afternoon after all.

She has not had a full-night's sleep since he somehow cursed her mind and her thoughts a week ago, and she can feel herself slowly slipping into insanity. A curse is the only answer that makes sense, the only thing that gives a conceivable answer to all the wicked dreams she has been having since that moment, dreams that cause her to wake up sweaty and breathless and needing him in the middle of the night in a way she has never felt before. She has been an absolute mess, a disastrous version of her normally quite put-together self, and she is not happy about it.

He's sitting next to her now - they were partnered up by the evil Professor Onai in their first NEWT Divination class of the year - and she's holding herself rigidly, arms tight across her chest, in an attempt to not accidentally touch him. Lately, every single time they make fleeting eye contact across the table during breakfast, or when they pass each other in the hallways, a shiver runs down her spine at the unfamiliar look in his eyes and she has to avert her eyes before it's too much.

Divination has never been a favorite subject of hers - too impermeable for her tastes. She is only taking it at the NEWT level because, during her career counseling with Professor Ronen at the end of her fifth year, he had said that if she wanted to be an Unspeakable she couldn't just work with logic (a preposterous thought, but as a sixteen-year-old she hadn't seen any recourse in arguing with the Ministry's requirements). She supposedly needs to get comfortable with the intangible as well. It doesn't mean she has to enjoy it, though: she doesn't, and never will. The Divination classroom is dark and stuffy, tucked away in one of the highest towers of the castle, and the nauseating smell of incense always coats her nasal cavities long after the class has finished. She finds her thoughts getting muddled in the haze of candle smoke and swirling orbs on the shelves around her - magic somehow always feels thicker up here - and the presence of a certain someone whose knees keep brushing hers under the tiny table they're sharing, a certain someone who has - improbably, inconceivably, impossibly - hit a growth spurt that summer and now towers over her and had encompassed her completely when he knocked her to the ground, isn't helping her concentration at -

"This week, we are going to review everything we learned together last year," Professor Onai says, after the class had rearranged itself based on her instructions. Sebastian shoots a look at her as she shakes her head in an attempt to clear it and sits up straighter. She hopes that Onai's lecture will help her concentrate and clear her mind a bit. If she has something to focus on, to try and think of and remember, it will be better than him. Anything would be better than Sebastian. Onai gives an appraising look to each table before continuing her speech. "As your NEWTs are at the end of the year, we need to make sure you are as prepared as possible. Open your books to page two-hundred and thirty. Today we're going to review the art of palmistry. I should hope that you do not need the aid of your textbook to help interpret the lines in your partner's palm but in the case that you do -"

She chances a glance at Sebastian before getting out her copy of Divining the Undivinable from her bag and wishes she hadn't. He looks uncomfortably big sitting on the tiny tea chair across from her, barely any hints of the boy who had completely swept her away two years ago visible on the sharper planes of his face. When had he - had they - grown up?

Sebastian Sallow was - is - charming, and that had been her downfall. She had successfully avoided his charms the year before, and she wasn't going to let that happen this year, no matter how much her body rebelled against her mind and resolve. Because, as she reminds herself, Sebastian Sallow is also manipulative, and cold-hearted, and selfish.

"Well," she says archly, opening her book. She will not look at him. "I suppose I am still quite ignorant of the practice of Divination, so do forgive me if I have to double-check my readings in the textbook."

He says her name as she opens the book, and she ignores him. He says her name again. She continues to ignore him. He grabs the book from her hands and puts it the correct way for her. She was looking at it upside-down. Her cheeks heat up and she continues flipping through the pages, as if nothing has happened. She finds page two-hundred and thirty. She pretends to be interested in what she sees.

(Divination is unfortunately not interesting.)

Oh, fine.

"Do you want to start, or should I?"

These are the first words she has voluntarily spoken to him - not including the events of last week, which do not count as they were most decidedly not voluntary - since he called her ignorant a year and a half ago. He somehow looks surprised to see that she has addressed him, and for some reason this fills her with rage and a strange sort of confidence. Why shouldn't she be able to talk to him?

"Here," she says, putting her hand out towards him, palm up, ignoring the strange fluttering feeling in her chest when he gently grabs it with one of his. Sebastian looks up at her, waiting for her to continue speaking, and were she not looking at him so intently she would have easily missed the bob of his throat as he swallows nervously. "Show me how it's done."

Her breath catches in her throat at the small, mischievous smirk he shoots to her before he bends over her hand and gently starts tracing the lines on her palm with the fingers of the hand that's not holding hers in place. His touch is feather-light and somehow soft, despite the roughness of his fingers as they drag over her palm. Every nerve in her body seems to have moved to wherever he touches and all of the bravado and anger she had just felt is quickly melting away. When she finally finds her voice, she hates how soft and breathy it sounds. She can't look away from the sight of his larger hands caressing hers.

"Well? What do you see? Do you remember the different lines? Because I -"

She falters. The murmurs of their classmates blend together in the background and the dim lights of the candles...the hazy, thick atmosphere and his proximity and the barely there touches of his rough fingertips on her sensitive palm are altogether too overwhelming and she needs to get out of there. She's supposed to be angry with him. Furious, even. Holding this grudge has been the only way she has been able to have any sort of power over him this past year, and yet...all she can think about at the moment are the sinful dreams she's been having lately where he presses her against a wall, desperately kissing her lips, her neck - even she knows that there has to be more to it - but what?

Sebastian blinks as she snatches her hand away like it's been burned and - oh, Merlin - she shoves the textbook back into her schoolbag and almost knocks the candle on the table over and wouldn't it be awful if she had started a fire? But she can't think about any of that now in her haste to just get out of the claustrophobic Divination tower.

Vaguely, she can hear Professor Onai asking her if everything is fine and she's not sure but she thinks she mumbles something about needing to go to the Hospital Wing - that's a good enough excuse to leave, isn't it? - but then she hears his voice, deep and cutting through the fog in her mind -

"Don't worry, I'll take her and make sure she gets there fine." A muffled response from their professor and then his voice, just as clear as before. "No, I don't know what happened..."

She hears him calling her name as she flees down the spiral staircase, almost tripping over her feet in her rush to get away from him, but he catches up quickly, reaching out to grab her arm in an attempt to slow her down. She stops running immediately - she supposes her traitorous body wants to see what he has to say, or maybe it just wants to bask in his intoxicating proximity. He crowds her space, and she sees that unfamiliar look in his eyes again. So very different from the cold disdain she had seen the last time she had been this close to him, during the argument that had ended their friendship.

"Let go of me," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice as she gazes into his deep, brown eyes. He can tell she doesn't mean it and doesn't make any move to listen to her. Why can't she hold on to the rage? A muggle quote about anger floats through her mind: Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. What a sweet poison her anger at Sebastian had been, while it lasted. She tries telling herself that he must still feel the same as the evening he had called her ignorant (ignoring the small voice in her head that reminded her of the letters of apology he had sent (that she had burned without reading), the times he had tried to get Anne or Ominis involved and apologize for him) - because why couldn't he just tell her himself? Maybe she had shut down any and all attempts he had made to repair the rift that he had caused in the first place, but she had been right to be so angry with him.

But oh, Merlin, he's getting closer to her, and she can now clearly see the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose and forehead and then before she knows it, his hand is sliding up her arm, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches and then he's caressing her jaw with his rough thumb and he pauses. Her eyelids flutter closed as her head tilts towards him - she couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to (what does she want?). She can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips and she has the improbable, ridiculous thought - how is he remembering to breathe? - before he speaks. His lips brush against hers with every soft word and a deep shiver runs through her body.

"I," she hears him say, his voice so, so low, "haven't been able to think since last week."

That's all she needs to hear, the brush of his bottom lip against hers all she needs to feel, to push her into closing what minuscule distance there is between them and then his lips are on hers and it's better than anything she's been imagining. His mouth is soft against hers, insistent, and her hands go up to grip the collar of his plaid jacket to make sure he doesn't go away or disappear on her.

She knows she's behaving wantonly, snogging Sebastian Sallow in the middle of the hallway where anyone could come across them, but third period has only just started and besides, she has had a week of restless nights being tortured by thoughts of him. A week of a few hours of sleep found here and there. Just one kiss should be enough to help her get over these strange feelings, right? She only feels like this because having him lie on top of her after he crashed into her - that satisfying weight of him - the friction of his thumb brushing against her nipple - had made her realize just how stupid she had been, holding this grudge against him for -

She whimpers in protest but it quickly turns into a moan as his mouth moves away from hers and down to her neck. He pulls at her tight collar desperately - she hears some seams ripping - to give him better access to it, and she finds herself arching her back and pushing her body closer to his as he nuzzles her neck with his nose before giving it open, sloppy kisses. When he hears her, he moves back to kissing her, greedily capturing every breathy moan that comes out of her mouth, but the noises coming from him are matching hers, and at the sound she feels an unfamiliar clenching deep in her stomach. Her fingers come up to his hair, going through the silky curls over and over - how are they as soft as his lips? - and he slowly pushes her back until she's sandwiched between his warm body and the cold stone of the wall behind her.

He lets out a low, frantic growl as a hand goes to grip the back of her head, holding her in place as he slants his mouth over hers. He tastes like cinnamon and...like something forbidden. What has gotten into her? She hates him, and yet...

They have abandoned any pretense of propriety - had they ever even been trying? - by this point. His tongue swipes across her lips and then she is completely lost to him, to every sensation of his mouth, and tongue, on hers. His large hands - the wicked hands that had been caressing her palm and had caused this whole mess in the first place - have moved to her waist and are pulling her even closer to him. When he pulls away briefly, she whines in protest, opening her eyes to glare at him. The sight of him, flushed and breathless, his eyes wide and pupils dilated - must match her own appearance because she sees the same hunger she feels in his eyes. She has never seen Sebastian Sallow so disheveled, but she finds she quite likes it and tugs on his curls with a whine. He obliges eagerly, bringing his mouth back to hers.

She's pressed as tightly against him as she can possibly be, and yet it still isn't enough. Her back arches once again, trying to find something, and then he slots one of his knees between her legs. She moans at the friction caused by his movements, can feel an unfamiliar slickness forming at the juncture between her legs, and this seems to spur him on further as his kisses get more desperate and sloppy. She moves against his leg, trying to relieve some of her discomfort, gasping into his mouth, when -

They freeze. Even if they are fully, completely, absorbed by...whatever this is, they can't ignore the strange, metallic clanking sound coming from their left. Sebastian pulls his head back from her slowly, reluctantly, breathing heavily, and looks over to see what the noise is. She wants to, but all of a sudden the horrifying reality of what they've been doing sinks in and oh god what if the noise is a person? Someone who has now seen her in what might possibly be the most mortifying moment of her life - desperately snogging Sebastian Sallow - and she finds she can't look over. She tucks her head into his neck to hide her face as she listens.

"I demand that you get away from her at once, you knave! Cease your attack!"

The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but she's certain that it doesn't belong to any of her classmates. He almost sounds...medieval, but -

"I made haste when I heard sounds of distress coming from down the hallway," the voice continues, "and it appears I have arrived not a moment too soon!"

She brings her head away from Sebastian's shoulder but still refuses to look over at whoever is speaking, instead choosing to stare at Sebastian's face. He's still deliciously flushed from their snogging, still breathing heavily, but now he looks terribly confused. His brows are furrowed, mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with a response to the outrage currently being directed at him.

The unknown man is continuing his diatribe, almost not even stopping to breathe as he gets more and more worked up, and she hears some more clanking as he reaches a particularly exciting moment in his rant. Sebastian looks increasingly confused, but still shields her with his body, not moving away from her at all despite the accusations.

Her curiosity gets the better of her and she peeks over to see who it is.

The man who has been reprimanding Sebastian so boldly is none other than Sir Cadogan. Although she's never interacted with him directly, she often hears him yelling at his pony as she passes his portrait on her way to Divination. The knight is standing between two witches having tea, who are glaring at him quite angrily as he gesticulates wildly - every movement of his sword comes dangerously close to their display of cakes and sandwiches and it looks like he has already broken some plates. His armor is ill-fitting and loose on him, which explains the terrible noise.

"You rascally knave! I assure you that you do not want to find out what will happen to you if you do not unhand the fair maiden."

He brandishes his sword again, and the woman closest to him quickly snatches her tea cup away to save it from being broken as well. "Come now, Sir Cadogan," she says, exasperated. "Can't you see that these two are in love?"

The other woman joins her protests, nodding vigorously. "Yes, exactly that. Leave them be!"

"Nonsense," he exclaims. "I too have succumbed to my baser instincts on occasion and I can assure you that this is decidedly not what is occurring."

As Sir Cadogan continues to alternate between lecturing her and Sebastian, and directing his two attention to the ladies who are defending them, she looks back to the boy in question. Sebastian is looking down at her, a bemused smile on his lips and she feels a twinge in her chest. His face is still so close to hers that if she wants to, they could be snogging again with barely any effort and her eyes briefly flicker down to his tempting mouth before going back to his eyes, but...

What had gotten into her? What is she doing?

He had somehow managed to manipulate her again, because there is no way that this situation could have happened otherwise. All of a sudden, the anger she's been feeling for the past year and a half - that had left for a brief, blissful moment - surges again, and she pushes Sebastian away from her with as much force as she can muster. She almost feels bad as the happiness in his face turns to confusion, then frustration as he realizes she's getting away from him.

"Stay away from me," she hisses, picking up her discarded schoolbag from its spot on the ground. As she stalks down the hall, she can hear Sir Cadogan cheering on her bravery over the ringing in her ears.

She has a lot of thinking to do.

Sebastian Sallow's List of Priorities (in no particular order):

Figure out what the hell I'm going to do when I graduate;

Figure out how the hell I'm going to finish this bloody Charms essay before tomorrow; and

Figure out what the hell is going on between us

Sebastian sits in an undisturbed corner of the library - nobody ever comes to this table because it's tucked away between shelves of incredibly dense magical theory books - and is twirling his quill in his fingers, watching the ink splatter on the list he spent his precious time writing instead of the Charms essay he should be working on. He's far away from the first-years who like to congregate by the windows and watch the leaves fall softly to the ground rather than study for their classes. He's made especially sure that he is far, far away from her.

It's not his choice, mind you, but he needs to be a gentleman about these things. If she needs some time and space to figure out that she's as crazy for him as he is her, fine. But even Sebastian Sallow's patience runs thin, and he's not sure how much longer he can give her to come to her senses before he snaps and takes matters into his own hands. If things were up to him, the two of them would be sitting far too close together now in this secluded corner, and maybe he would need to put a hand over her mouth to ensure her complete silence as he runs a hand up her thigh.

Now that he knows what delicious sounds can come out of her mouth - sounds that he caused - he's been having a hard time concentrating on, well, anything. Sebastian surreptitiously glances across the library to where she's sitting and studying with his sister and Imelda. Ever since the events after their Divination class, Sir Cadogan has taken it upon himself to follow Sebastian around the halls of the castle, tripping through frames and disrupting their inhabitants as he lectures Sebastian on love. The tea party women had managed to convince the knight that he had disrupted an amorous exchange, and Sebastian fervently wishes they hadn't.

The whole school is abuzz with rumors about who it could be. Nobody has even come close so far with their guesses, but Anne and Imelda are having too much fun teasing him about it. Somehow, she has managed to avoid suspicion - he wonders how this is even possible, since she's never been able to hide what she's thinking. He makes eye contact with her - has she been staring at him this whole time? - and she flushes before looking over to Imelda, who's laughing too loudly at something Anne's just said. Sebastian can't tear his eyes away from her profile, his eyes following the curve of her eyebrow, the slight upturn of her lips as she smiles at her friends, her eyes as they dart back to him, her cheeks as she turns an even darker shade of red as she realizes he's still watching her. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and rests her chin on her hand as she tries to look absorbed in what Anne is saying to her.

Sebastian wonders if she's thought about him as much as he's thought about her. Judging by how she had snogged him back, he's positive that she feels the same way, but then he remembers how she had looked at him before she fled, and he's not so sure. He sighs as he looks back to his list, bringing his quill back to the third item and ripping the paper as he crosses it out again. His mind has been going in circles since that moment and he doesn't know what to think. He slowly puts everything into his schoolbag before heading out of the library for yet another freezing cold shower that hopefully tempers his now-permanent state of arousal whenever she's around.

He doesn't notice her eyes following him as he walks out of the library.

He doesn't hear her hurried excuse to Anne and Imelda as she shoves her things into her bag and rushes to follow him.

He doesn't hear her light footsteps as she gets closer to him.

When she puts a hand out to touch his arm as he waits for the moving staircase to stop, with a soft, "Sebastian" accompanying it, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He was so absorbed with thoughts of her, that to see her standing at his side, closer than she had been since they kissed was almost his snapping point.

"Can we talk?" she asks, looking almost embarrassed as she avoids his eyes. She instead looks determinedly at his collar. He thinks she probably notices that he swallows nervously before acquiescing, but she says nothing as she turns and starts hurrying away from him without waiting to see if he follows her.

She must know that he would follow her anywhere at this point.

They weave through hallways - Sebastian vaguely wonders where exactly they're going - before reaching a little alcove, hidden by a suit of armor. She looks around before pulling him into it. It's almost curfew and the halls are never that busy when the weather is as beautiful as it has been these days - the end of September seems to be clinging on to the summer for as long as possible.

Her lips are on his before he can even ask her what she needed to talk with him about, hungry and desperate. Sebastian is too stunned to pull away - not that he would actually want to. Her arms wrap around his neck, keeping Sebastian close, slender fingers sliding through his hair.

"What," she says breathlessly between kisses - almost not even moving her mouth away from his enough to be able to enunciate properly, "are you doing to me? I haven't been able to think for the last month."

Sebastian smiles into her mouth, wondering if she knows that she's repeating the very thing he told her two weeks ago. Maybe she has been thinking of him all this time - he almost hopes that she's been suffering as much as he has. Instead of responding, he moves a hand to cup her jaw, deepening the kiss. His other hand moves to her waist, gripping it tightly, pulling her flush against his body and she gasps into his mouth. He slowly moves her closer to the window alcove behind them, snogging her senseless the whole time. She moans into his mouth which just spurs him on further - her skirt rides up to her hips as Sebastian trails a hand up her stockinged thigh and they both gasp when his hand reaches skin. Her skin is so, so soft and her breathing gets faster as he continues to caress her inner thigh, closer to the bend between her thigh and her center. Sebastian wonders if she's ever been touched there before by someone else and jealousy flares up inside of him at the thought.

In one swift move, he scoops her up and places her so that she's sitting on the window-ledge, the dusky light of the sunset illuminating her from behind and making her wispy flyaway hairs a golden halo around her. Sebastian's breath catches in his throat - has he ever seen anything so beautiful as her in that moment? - she's staring up at him, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, her breathing shallow and anticipation in her eyes. "You're," he starts saying and his throat goes dry. He brings a hand up to tuck the errant lock of hair - the one she had tucked earlier in the library - behind her ear and she leans her head into his touch, closing her eyes briefly before looking up at him again with wide eyes. "You're perfect."

She smiles faintly and pulls his head back down towards hers and now she's brushing her lips against his, teasing him, before it's too much and he grips the back of her head, holding her in place as he crushes his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. Her knees are on either side of his waist, and she desperately grinds her core against his throbbing erection and they both groan at the friction. Sebastian moves his hands down to her thighs again as he kisses her, slowly caressing his way up and pushing her skirt up further until it's completely bunched around her waist. She gasps into his mouth at his first tentative touch after he pushes aside her undergarments. Sebastian swipes a finger up her slit, through the slick that coats it, and then he starts circling her clit with slow, even strokes. She shivers against him - at his touch - clinging tightly to his shoulders and gasping into his mouth as he continues.

Every little noise coming out of her mouth, feeling how wet she is, how the slickness keeps growing growing growing makes Sebastian hungry for more - it isn't enough -

Slowly - so slowly - he wants to savor this moment - he lowers himself until he's kneeling between her legs and he looks up at her. Her face is deliciously flushed, all swollen lips and hair in a wild cloud around her face and all she can do is stare down at him. Her chest is heaving and she tries to close her legs - hide what is exposed to him - but he holds her thighs firmly in place on either side of his head. He turns his head and kisses her inner thigh, maintaining eye contact as he swipes his tongue across where he's just kissed, moving closer towards her slick center.

"Oh," she breathes, not-quite-a-word, not-quite-a-gasp, when his mouth reaches her center and hovers over it, lips slowly teasing her the way she had just teased him. Sebastian tentatively runs his tongue up her slit; the loud moan she lets out when he reaches her clit makes him stay there, applying light and not-so-light pressure in equal measure.

Her hands are scrabbling at his hair, digging into his scalp, ruining his earlier attempts to make it look presentable, hopefully attractive, for her these days. She's pushing his head deeper into the space between her legs, starting to rock herself slightly on his mouth, and Sebastian is happy to oblige. He eagerly laps up her slit, and the obscene wet noises as he continues combined with her whimpers and barely-spoken profanities "oh-yes-fuck-yes-there-please-" are making him hard beyond belief. He's straining against his trousers, begging to be let free. Without moving his face from her, he unbuttons his trousers and starts palming himself, using the slickness weeping out of the tip as lubrication.

She's abandoned all control at this point, grinding herself into his face as he laps her up, and it's driving him wild - knowing that he's doing this to her - causing her to be so undone. Normally she's so poised and aloof, never letting any real emotion flicker across her face, so to see her so desperate and needy and wanting him so -

Sebastian's gasping into her, tongue deep inside of her, "ohmygod" he hears her whisper, her hips driving into his face when she shudders and goes still, pulsing around the tongue that's deep inside of it. He slows down, smiling as he continues to run his tongue up her slit until she's responsive again. He kisses her inner thigh and hears her moan before getting up, caressing a finger down her love-struck face and leaning his head down to kiss her deeply. With his other hand he's still touching himself - the thought that she can taste herself on his tongue driving him crazy - and he starts rubbing its blunt head against her swollen clit. She takes it out of his hand- he groans at the feeling of her soft hands (the hands he had held a week ago in Divination and pictured doing this exact thing) tentatively caressing his length before she begins to slide it up and down her slit, coating it in her wetness.

Sebastian has surrendered all control to her - resting his hands on either side of her hips on the windowsill, tucking his head into the crook of her neck and thrusting with her movements as he loses himself in the sensation of sliding through her slick folds. He can feel his release building building building, and when he finally comes, all over her perfect, pink center, it feels like a finally.

Sebastian feels so, so heavy as he pulls his head away from her shoulder, as if he could fall into a blissful sleep right there, in the little window alcove where they've hidden themselves away. The sun has now set completely and they're in shadow as they stare at each other, the sound of their ragged breathing filling the tiny space.

"Sebastian, I..."

She's staring at him with an unfathomable expression on her face, still holding him in her hand, her other hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. They look down and he feels his face heat up even more at the mess he's made - he quickly pulls out his wand and cleans her up, before looking back at her, giving her a wry smile as he buttons up his pants and helps her off the ledge. "What did you want to talk to me about, again?"

She gives a slight shake of her head and looks away, but she can't hide the small smile that's growing on her face just like she can't help her eyes that keep wandering over to his. He knows the growing smile on his face matches hers - did that really just happen? She reaches over to lace her fingers through his as they walk around the suit of armor. "I - it's not important."

"Come on," he says, not being able to resist the opportunity to tease her - he's somehow managed to break through the barriers she's set up around her, and he's not about to let the opportunity slide. "Surely that's not what you had in mind when you..."

Sebastian trails off as he sees the expression in her face turn to one of horror - he didn't think his teasing was that bad, was it? - but she's also pulling her hand out of his like she's been burned and -

He follows her gaze, to where it's fixed at the end of the hallway and he knows that once again his face mimics hers. He will never live this down.

Standing at the end of the hallway and looking like two cats who've just found a huge dish of milk, are his sister and Imelda.

Misery.

Complete and utter misery are what she's feeling, if she has to put it into words, which she does. Writing things down always helps her out, helps her organize her thoughts into some sort of order. Except...this time around, it's not really helping. She can't seem to make any sense of her feelings for Sebastian.

She looks over the muddled mess of words she's written down - stream of consciousness, incomprehensible babble - and sighs. She's been dreaming of falling in love since she was a young girl - Jane Austen will do that to you - and can't believe that now that she's had her opportunity, it has to go and be with Sebastian Sallow. Because it has to be love, hasn't it?

There can be no other explanation for the painful way her stomach twists itself up whenever she catches a glimpse of him these days, the way he's consuming her every thought - even when she's dreaming she can't escape him. She can't get the sight of his tousled curls between her legs, his mischievous, warm brown eyes looking up at her as she had the most mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasm of her life - none of the times she's touched herself have ever come close to the sensations he managed to evoke.

Every time she's walking through the hallways between classes and hears his loud voice as he jokes with Garreth, or Ominis, about quidditch or Merlin-knows-what her eyes snap to his face as if he were the sun, and she a sunflower searching for its warmth. And he is most decidedly not the sun. He has the tendency to snort when he laughs, and he laughs too much, especially at his own jokes. Sometimes he talks while he eats. He always twirls his quill between his long fingers in the most annoying way, splattering ink onto any parchment unfortunate to be caught underneath. But he also...

He also always goes out of his way to prepare Ominis's Potions ingredients (why Ominis decided to take and was accepted into NEWT level is a mystery to everyone), occasionally stops to play a round of gobstones with Zenobia when he has the time. Sebastian can often be found in his favorite armchair in the Slytherin common room, resting his face on his hand as he idly flips through the pages of some book, looking altogether too handsome as he does so. And when he stretches and yawns at the end of every Arithmancy lesson - like he is now - his shirt lifts up a bit and she can see a tan sliver of his stomach and -

Snapping in front of her: she blinks and looks over: when she sees it's Imelda her face immediately turns beet red and she grabs the paper she's been doodling on and rips it to shreds as fast as she can.

"Are you fantasizing about a certain annoying someone?" Imelda asks with a wicked grin, dramatically looking over her shoulder at the certain someone in question. He's still stretching, blinking sleepily; when he notices the two girls watching him he flushes deeply. Her stomach twinges again at the sight of him noticing her - has he thought about her since that moment as much as she has? What would she do if he had? Or...if he hadn't? - and she focuses instead on the paper she is currently destroying.

"Imelda," she hisses, glaring at her best friend, "stop."

Imelda does not stop.

Imelda doesn't stop during their walk to Herbology, and she does not stop as they set up their planting stations, and she most certainly does not stop as they mutter charms over their plants.

Ever since she experienced the most wonderful moment in her whole life, followed by the most mortifying, Anne and Imelda have not stopped pestering her about it. They've finally solved the 'Sir Cadogan Puzzle' - I knew it was you all along, claims Anne - but if they truly knew what had happened between her and Sebastian, she's afraid the two of them would simply combust. She loves them dearly, but they never know when to stop, and they've been pushing and poking and prodding her for more information the whole week. She has managed to remain tight-lipped and, she hopes, mysterious about the whole thing, but she's getting tired of the teasing.

"Really," Anne says, wiping her forehead and leaving a trail of dirt behind, "if you would only talk to him, I would stop bothering you. Promise."

"Yes," chimes in Imelda, on her other side, wrestling the leaves of her own plant into submission. "You know, after we saw the two of you holding hands and looking at each other with stars in your eyes, I'm really starting to doubt that you hate him as much as you claim."

"Were the two of you snogging in secret all of last year too? Because, I'm starting to get annoyed thinking of all the times I had to talk to my brother for you because of your stubborn pride."

Does she still hate him? She certainly thinks she should, but then her thoughts get terribly confusing as she continues to think about him, and she realizes all of her old hatred has long since faded. Anne has forgiven her brother, Ominis has forgiven him, and all that remains is her.

They should talk, but she doesn't know what to say.

She's afraid that maybe the man she's been inventing in her mind this past month is simply a figment of her imagination - a fictitious being created by an accumulation of stolen glances when he doesn't know she's watching, someone who all of their classmates seem to like, someone who is very different from the fifteen-year-old boy she had that terrible argument with all that time ago. Maybe he doesn't actually exist.

She would be crushed if he's hiding the fact that he still holds on to that desperate darkness that had driven him to save Anne by any means necessary.

And so she keeps her space. She watches him from afar, feeling the hatred slowly melt off of her, falling more in love every day, but too cowardly to make the next move.

Anne and Imelda continue bantering on either side of her, not noticing - or, more likely, not caring - that she isn't participating.

Sebastian's hands are sweating. He wipes them on the inside of his robes as he glances at the girl next to him. She's holding herself rigidly, but she did this to herself, sitting next to him at dinner as she had.

Well, sitting next to him hadn't been completely her idea if he's being honest. He'd been having dinner with Anne, and the two of them were dying of laughter as she recounted seeing Duncan Hobhouse get tormented by Peeves earlier that day. One moment, Anne had been demonstrating what she had seen using her potatoes and green beans as props, and the next, a particularly evil grin had lit up her face as she pushed her plate away with gusto and jumped to her feet, calling her over.

"It would be such a shame for these potatoes to go to waste, seeing as I have a very important meeting to attend," Anne had said, after pushing her friend into the very tight space at Sebastian's side. "Never mind the mess, I can assure you I didn't actually eat the food..."

And with that, Anne had flounced away, Imelda on her arm, the two girls cackling to each other as they snuck wicked glances over their shoulders at the couple.

A couple who is now steadfastly avoiding each other and trying their hardest not to even brush elbows. Sebastian is altogether too aware of her presence, has been for the better part of a month, and his patience is dangerously close to snapping. He keeps getting maddeningly close to finally getting her to open up to him - had actually achieved it for a few blissful moments - just to have it be taken away again. It's almost embarrassing how many times he's thought about their encounter. She had been everything he'd been dreaming about and more - soft, responsive, just as desperate as him - so why has she been avoiding him so thoroughly?

Yes, he's caught her staring at him more times than he can count, with that same unfathomable expression she had before, almost dreamy - wistful - could it be love? But he knows that it's preposterous, wishful thinking on his part. If it were love - if she felt the same crazy, tumultuous emotions that he was feeling constantly - she wouldn't be so cold towards him. Even if she was staring at him more than ever before.

He doesn't notice as she slips a folded paper into the book sitting next to his plate, but he does notice that she sits next to him for barely five minutes, not even touching the food that Anne has so graciously left her, before she gets up and slips away without so much as speaking a single word to him, or even looking in his direction at all.

Sebastian's sitting in a nearly empty common room after curfew, flipping through his book as he normally does this time of day, when she sees him pause.

Although she's been waiting for this moment, watching him from the corner she's tucked herself away in, she feels ready to pass out from nerves. Her heart's ready to burst out of her chest as she watches him curiously pick up the letter she slipped in his book earlier, brow furrowed. She wrings her hands nervously as she watches him read the letter and flip over the page to see if there's more, and then he goes back to read it again from the beginning.

She wasn't expecting him to read it a second time, let alone a third time, still with an inscrutable expression on his face. Maybe she should have positioned herself closer so she could see every emotion flickering through his face as he reads - she's too far away to see anything and she curses her lack of foresight. If she moves now, he'll see her, and she doesn't even know what she was thinking when she wrote the letter, when she managed to convince Anne to help her get close to Sebastian earlier that night during supper, when she moved herself to sit in this corner just so she could watch him find and read the -

"Hello."

She nearly jumps out of her skin with a muffled shriek at the sound of his voice so close to her. Why does she feel almost guilty when she looks up at him? She's so, so afraid.

Emotions have never come easily to her. Showing them is something she's not sure will ever come naturally - Anne and Imelda can laugh and shout without a care in the world, but she always holds herself back. Hides a small part of herself away, that only she knows about. Baring herself completely to Sebastian in the letter she feverishly wrote the day before was like ripping out a part of her soul and giving it to him to keep. Once the words were written down, there was no way to take them back, not that she wants to.

But what if he rejects her?

Her eyes get hot and tears cloud her vision as she stares up at him, still wringing her hands together over and over, feeling like she's positively going to burst with the force of the emotions roiling around inside of her. Why did she think this would be a good idea?

Now he's kneeling in front of her, holding her hands in his bigger, rougher ones - reminiscent of that fateful day so long ago in Divination when he had flustered her so - and a thumb is gently wiping away the big, fat tears she didn't even realize were rolling down her cheeks and she lifts her face from watching their intertwined hands and gazes tremulously into his eyes.

They are so, so gentle and warm and full of love, but the emotions are still too much for her and she can't stop crying for some unfathomable reason, so the kiss they share is wet and lovely and full of incredulous laughter.

"I love you too," he whispers between kisses, over and over again, until the words almost lose meaning - but these words could never lose their meaning when they come from him.

In the years to come, they always bicker about who was the first to say it. Sebastian says that writing doesn't count - that his words are the ones that decide who is the victor in this small argument - but she always just smiles at his insistence, knowing that he's kept her letter tucked inside whatever book he's reading since it first fell onto his lap.

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