#wanted to work up the nerve to fire these out

[determunition]

hey! just read through chapters 2 and 3 of “in my life, i love you more”. congrats on making me tear up in the dead of night Several times. this is actually so good

AGH it's been a hundred years (like two weeks), but i wanted to finally answer this lovely ask; hurt/comfort and emotional stuff isn't usually my wheelhouse so i'm so happy to hear in my life's touched you in that way, i've been putting a lot of myself into it :3

speaking of which...if it's feels you seek, i have been holding out on you guys in the way of that good good angst; unsurprisingly it's easy to get bashful about doodling hurt/comfort from your own gay lil self-indulgent fanfic lmao

[likeumeanit9497]

you jealous? pt. 2 | c.s. & m.s. |

chris sturniolo x fem!reader x matt sturniolo

read pt. 1 here <3

summary: y/n hasn't quite figured out how to share, but sure as hell wants matt to learn.

warnings: NO THREESOME; smut; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); fingering; dirty talk; all 3 of these mfs are toxic af tbh; choking; SEVERE lack of girl code (booooooo); 18+

notes: omg i have wanted to write a pt. 2 for SO LONG but genuinely could not figure out a way to write it without making it a threesome (not yucking anyone's yum here i just physically recoil any time i've tried writing that stuff) (i do eat it up when other ppl write it tbh). anyways i finally sat down and forced myself to come up with a plot bc this has been hands down my most requested pt 2 of any of my work and my sole purpose on this earth is to please. sooo i hope u all enjoy reading this absolute freak show love u alllllll <333

oh yeah btw this is 7,322 words dkm

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“Fuck Chris, keep going.” I whined, digging my nails into his bare shoulders and tightening my legs around his waist as he drove his cock into me relentlessly. His dimly lit room was hot and provocative, filled with the erotic sounds of our bodies slapping against each other. “Mmm baby, you f-feel so good.” Chris groaned, his curly brown hair feathering across my cheek as he buried his face in my shoulder; sinking his teeth into my delicate skin cruelly. I felt a bead of sweat drip down my temple as Chris’s rhythm began to grow sloppier. “You want my cum, pretty girl?” His crude words made my stomach tense as he breathed them against my skin. Wrapping my legs even tighter around his rolling hips, I nodded my head despairingly. “G-god, yes!” I cried out, running my hands through his damp hair.

I let out a sharp moan as Chris brought his thumb to my clit and began rubbing it in rhythmic circles. My body was set on fire, not far from my own orgasm as I felt his cock begin to swell inside of me. “I-I’m close.” I breathed, my jaw slack as I began to lose myself to the pleasure coursing through my veins. My senses began to fail me. Chris’s room suddenly became a black hole. I could no longer feel the soft mattress beneath me or hear the music playing from the tv. As I grew closer and closer to my orgasm, the only sensation that I was able to comprehend was the feeling of Chris’s heavy body pinning me down as his cock slid through my trembling walls. I released a sharp, desperate moan as I felt the rubber band in my stomach grow tense; so close to snapping. All I needed were just a few more sloppy thrusts from Chris, a few more circles against my bundle of nerves and I—

“Shut the fuck up sickos!” I gasped as Chris stilled above me, the sound of my best friend’s bellowing voice and a harsh knock on Chris’s bedroom door pulling us out of our trance. “Y’all need to hurry up, we’re leaving for dinner in 20 minutes!” Nick shouted through the door. Chewing on my bottom lip to stifle a laugh, I looked up at Chris in disappointment. His heaving chest was rising and falling as he smirked down at me, before leaning down and playfully biting my nose. I grabbed onto his forearms — each one confining me underneath him — and tried to gently push him off of me with a sigh.

“We should probably get ready, Chris.” I admitted, feeling the disappointment radiate through my unsatisfied body in ripples. As I attempted to adjust my body, I felt the remnants of my nearly-there orgasm in the pulse of my core around his thick shaft. Before I could make any real progress in climbing off of the bed, Chris paralyzed me with one sharp snap of his hips. I gasped, unable to deny my need to cum, as he snaked his hand to the back of my head and laced his fingers through my roots; keeping me in place. His eyes were still glossed over with desire, and he licked his smirking lips before he spoke. “We will, just as soon as we cum.”

𓆩☆𓆪

After hurriedly getting dressed and fixing my makeup, I climbed up the basement stairs on wobbly legs with Chris just behind me. Tugging down my short black dress, I walked into the kitchen and found Nick leaning against the counter with a knowing look in his eye. “You look a mess.” Nick deadpanned, rolling his eyes at me. I felt my cheeks grow red under his playful glare, avoiding eye contact as Chris chuckled behind me. “You’re weird as fuck for even walking downstairs to begin with kid.” Chris snarked back, draping his arm lazily across my shoulders. Nick scoffed. “Sue me for wanting to be on time for our reservation, dumbass.” I stifled a laugh listening to their flying insults. “Maybe if you figured out how to go five minutes without sticking your dick in my best friend you would have seen one of my many texts, and we could have avoided all of this.”

Although I had been trying to hide the fact that Chris and I had been sleeping together from Nick, I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t felt a flood of relief when he had ended up catching us on the couch together a few weeks ago; me with my face pressed into the cushions and Chris lining himself up behind me. Nick had been more than a little pissed at first — likely due to the crude imagery of us burned into his retinas — but after a long, honest conversation filled with more than a few vile insults thrown our way, he calmed down tremendously. Since then, he had seen enough of Chris and I slipping away to the basement that he really didn’t seem bothered by it anymore. I had felt guilty about keeping such a big secret from my best friend, but he seemed to understand why I had.

One thing I still hadn’t told him, however, was what had happened the night of their last party. What he didn’t know was that Chris wasn’t his only brother who had kissed me, touched me, slid himself in between my thighs. Wasn’t his only brother who ran his soft lips against my warm skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his path. Wasn’t his only brother who had whispered filthy words in my ear; who had made me cum so hard that I dissolved into a puddle. Chris wasn’t his only brother who had fucked me, and it was crazy, because I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about any of that since Matt slipped out of his dark room that night.

As if reading my mind, I was pulled from my dirty thoughts by the sound of Matt’s door creaking open. Looking up from my shoes, my eyes immediately locked onto his; twinkling in odd amusement as he seemed to examine my appearance. He walked into the kitchen casually, sliding into a seat at the table before pulling his phone from his pocket. Nick walked up behind him and fixed the back of his hair. “Did you hear how loud these fucking losers were?” He asked Matt. I watched as Matt’s shoulders seemed to tense up before he shook his head wordlessly. To this, Nick groaned. “Then I guess I’m just the lucky one.”

My eyes were glued to Matt’s profile as he seemed to aimlessly scroll on his phone, his body language seemed fairly relaxed but I could see the tense muscles in his flexed jaw. “Uh, anyways,” I began, pulling my attention back to the rest of the room, “We ready to head out?” I looked up at Chris and shot him a quick smile. “Soon,” Matt replied, looking up from his phone and directly at me; his eyes shining with provocation, “Sophie will be here any minute.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang and Matt hoisted himself from the chair and sauntered over to answer it. From where I stood frozen in shock, I heard Sophie’s familiar voice as she greeted Matt, and cringed when I heard the unmistakable sound of them kissing. After a moment, Sophie breezed up the stairs and into the kitchen where we were all still congregated, her sweet-smelling perfume preceding her as she air-kissed first Nick and then Chris. With a smirk, Matt walked up behind her. “Y/n, you remember Sophie, right?”

Even with my racing heart and heavy limbs I ignored his jeering tone, unwilling to give him the reaction that he so clearly desired. “Of course!” I replied, internally cringing at the high pitched faux-excitement in my own voice. “You’re coming to dinner!” I did my best to sound pleased, but by the look Matt gave me outside of Sophie’s view, I knew that I hadn’t convinced him.

Sophie had been an on-and-off again fuck buddy of Matt’s for a few months. She and I actually got along really well, and we spent a lot of time together at parties before the night that Matt and I fucked. When Chris and I began freely hooking up, I was always worried that she and I would cross paths on the nights that I slept over, but it had seemed that Matt and her hadn’t been spending any time together for weeks. Now that they seemed to be back on again, I couldn’t shove down the red hot jealously burning in my veins.

Sophie giggled, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. “They didn’t tell you, I presume. I should have just texted you myself, can’t trust these guys to relay information.” She sidled up to Matt as she spoke, wrapping her arm around his waist possessively. Nick scoffed. “I would have told her if she ever left her and Chris’s sex dungeon.” I blushed from Nick once again sharing my business with everyone in his general vicinity, and watched as Matt quickly grabbed Sophie’s arm, pulling it from his waist. “We’re gonna be late, let’s go.” He mumbled, holding onto Sophie’s hand haphazardly as he began leading us to the garage.

As we reached the car, I watched as Matt opened the passenger door for Sophie before getting into the driver’s seat. As Chris opened the door for me, I grabbed his arm and gave it a soft squeeze. “Sit in the back with me?” I asked, looking up at him with doe eyes and adding a whisper of seduction to my voice. He looked down at me with a smirk, arching his eyebrow before following me into the back seat of the car.

I settled into the seat beside him as Matt began pulling out of the garage. It was dark outside, so as I looked up at Chris, all I could see was the burred outline of his gorgeous features. “You okay pretty?” He asked, his voice low as he looked down at me with slight concern. I nodded reassuringly, realizing that I needed to get my act together because even Chris, the most oblivious of the triplets, was picking up on my sudden strange mood. “Just hungry.” I lied, shooting him a forced smile. The car filled with the sound of Nick and Sophie’s laughter as Matt drove. “Oh my god! Matt was telling me…”

I forced myself to tune out the conversation that was happening at the front of the car, willing the night to be over so that I could seethe with jealousy in private. As I tried to absolve my embarrassing bitterness, my eyes fluttered to the rearview mirror, where I caught Matt’s vision already burning into mine. My breath hitched under his intimidating gaze, and even in my growing anger with him I couldn’t ignore the pit of arousal that I felt growing in my core. I knew that he was trying to get some sort of reaction out of me — wanted me to feel the way I was feeling. He had been purposely trying to make me jealous, so I decided that I would do the same.

Keeping my eyes on his, I lifted my leg and draped it across Chris’s lap; causing my short black dress to hitch up to my hips. As if reacting on instinct, Chris immediately responded by bringing his hand to my bare skin, exploring it for a moment before finally leaving it to rest on my upper thigh; just inches from my exposed lace panties. I watched Matt’s gaze darken as his eyes followed his brother’s movements against my skin, and I shot him a menacing smirk before dropping my own hand onto the crotch of Chris’s jeans.

Matt’s eyes widened briefly as he watched my hand delicately run along Chris’s growing bulge, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Even in the dim light, I could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, doing his best to focus on the road despite all of the thoughts that I knew were racing through his head. My gaze was pulled from Matt as I felt Chris’s warm mouth against my ear. “Didn’t get enough earlier, baby?” He whispered, nibbling delicately against my soft earlobe. His hand moved even higher along my leg, until his fingers reached my barely-covered heat. Satisfied with the reaction that I was getting from Matt as well as the feeling of Chris’s fingers gently dancing against my core, I felt my anger begin to diminish and instead be replaced with burning desire.

Turning to face Chris, I placed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his sharp jawline, causing him to grab onto my hip and pull me so close to him that I was practically on his lap. His hand laced through my hair and he jerked my head up before attaching his lips to mine. I palmed him roughly through his jeans as his tongue slipped into my mouth, and even with my back turned I could still feel Matt’s fiery gaze burn my skin.

“Oh my GOD! Get off of each other!” Nick shrieked, turning to face Chris and I in the backseat. “I swear to fucking god I will punch you both in the mouth.” Chris pulled his lips from mine, a goofy smile taking over his face. “You’re such a fuckin’ spazz Nick.” He retorted as he tried to pull my dress down slightly. Nick replied by burying his face in his hands and screaming dramatically. “A SPAZZ? You were swallowing my best friend’s face in DIRECT EARSHOT from me! You’re lucky I didn’t just projectile vomit on you.” Nick retaliated, smacking the leather seat as he spoke.

“We’re here.” Matt deadpanned, stopping the argument between his two brothers as he parked his car. I looked up at him once more through the mirror, but this time his eyes refused to meet mine. Once parked, Matt turned off the ignition sharply, his jaw clenched, before immediately jumping out of the car as if it was on fire. I noticed the slightly concerned look on Sophie’s face before she tentatively followed him.

Feeling surprisingly giddy, I crawled out of the back seat and hopped out of the car; embracing the cool breeze against my burning hot cheeks. “Let’s eat!” I exclaimed as Chris climbed out after me and pulled me harshly against his front; bringing his lips to mine again. As he kissed me, I listened as the rest of our group began walking in the direction of the restaurant. His hands moved from my waist down to my ass, where he squeezed gently before pulling his mouth from mine just enough to speak. “I know what you’re doing, Y/n.” He whispered against my lips.

Feigning innocence, I looked up at him through my eyelashes as I waited for him to continue. “What, one night with Matt wasn’t enough for you?” He asked, his gentle voice laced with amusement as his hand snaked up my dress, finding my clit through my lace thong and rubbing soft circles against it. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I shook my head no. Chris smirked at my admission, and his eyes filled with an indecipherable look that made goosebumps raise on my skin. “It’s okay baby, you know I don’t mind.” He replied, his encouraging words and working fingers making my stomach tie itself into knots. Running his middle finger through my soaked folds, he shot me a charming smile. “I’ve already showed you how well I can share.”

With that, he gave my ass a sharp slap before placing one final kiss to my nose. Using his grip on my flesh, he guided me in the direction of the restaurant where everyone was waiting for us in front of the doors. My head spun from the notion that Chris was so willing to let me have exactly what I wanted, which coincidentally was both him and his brother. I practically floated in the direction of the restaurant, riding the high that his words gave me, until I noticed Matt pressed against Sophie, peppering her with kisses.

Matt’s eyes lifted as he heard Chris and I approach and, upon noticing Chris’s arm draped around my waist, appeared to deliberately deepen the kiss he was sharing with Sophie. I watched as she giggled against his lips, seeming to still be oblivious to the unspoken battle playing out before her. Doing my best to seem care-free, I let Chris guide me into the restaurant and to our table. I sat down with Chris to my left and Nick to my right, while Matt and Sophie sat across from us.

As the waiter set down menus in front of each of us, Matt’s eyes briefly locked with mine across the table. I watched as he seemed to be studying the dynamic between me and Chris. His eyes traveled from Chris’s long arm that was draped over the back of my chair to his fingers lazily drawing circles against my exposed shoulder. Sitting much closer and under a much brighter light, I suddenly felt deeply exposed in the restaurant with Matt’s eyes on me. I did my best to ignore him, keeping my sight on the menu in front of me as I listened to Chris, Nick, and Sophie’s chatter.

As I continued to study the menu, I could see Matt pull Sophie’s chair closer to him in my peripheral vision. Swallowing harshly, I used all of my strength to keep my eyes trained to the blurred words in front of me instead of focusing them on Matt’s hand grabbing onto Sophie’s upper thigh. Feeling overwhelmed with conflicting desires, I wanted nothing more than to sink into my chair and disappear from the restaurant. Every time I saw Matt move closer to Sophie or heard them speaking to one another in hushed tones I felt flushed with anger, yet my core flooded with arousal as it flexed around nothing.

The waiter came to begin taking our order. Once it was my turn and everyone’s attention was on me, I suddenly felt the all-consuming need to get away from the table; sure that if any one of them looked at me hard enough, they would be able to pick up on my unspeakable desire. Unable to take it anymore, I suddenly shot up from my seat. “Uh, I — Chris, just order me, uh, order me whatever. I’ve just gotta, um, run to the washroom!” I stammered, taking off in the direction of the restrooms before anyone had the chance to reply.

My head spun as I walked calmly towards the hallway leading to the washrooms, sure that once I took a few moments to collect myself that I would be okay to go back out there. I took deep breaths as I approached the women’s washroom, just a few short steps away. I just needed to be away from the group. Away from the bright lights. Away from Nick’s scolding tone. Away from Sophie. Away from—

Just as I placed my hand on the door knob, I gasped as I felt a strong hand grab my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Y/n.” That familiar voice was in my ear, barely above a whisper; his words hot against my skin. Snapping around to face him, I was immediately taken aback by our close proximity. Blaming it on my maddening arousal, I quickly recovered before crossing my arms over my chest defensively. “What’s going on?” Matt asked, his eyes filled with the same look of frustration that was surely mirrored in my own.

“Nothing’s ‘going on’,” I lied, doing my best to keep my voice steady and inconspicuous. “Go back to your fuck buddy over there,” I nudged by head in the direction of our table, out of sight from where we stood outside of the washrooms, “Don’t want her thinking she’s wasting her time tonight.” I cringed at the bitterness of my words, and mentally apologized to Sophie for them. Matt’s eyes narrowed. “She’s alright out there.” He replied, his words biting the air between us. “Come on Matt,” I scoffed, leaning against the wall, “If you want her to crawl into your bed tonight the least you could do is spend time with her over dinner.” My voice was filled with indignation, but I was no longer able to control it.

“She’s not crawling into my bed tonight.” He replied, his hushed tone somehow still sounding exasperated. I let my head fall back, releasing a sarcastic laugh. “Oh really? Then why the fuck did you invite her to dinner?” I replied, finding his lie humorous. “Maybe because I knew it would drive you crazy.” He growled, taking a single step forward to close the gap between us. My confidence wavered at his sudden change in personality; the Matt that I was so used to now long gone. I watched, silent and stunned, as his eyes flicked down to my lips for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “You don’t like seeing me touch her, do you?”

I tried to maintain my expressionless face and avoid reacting to his question, although my body had already begun to vibrate with desire. “Why would I? I’m fucking Chris, remember?” I smirked, satisfied by the reminder that he’s not the only one who can play this game. Taking one step closer to him, I leaned close — so close that I could smell his cologne and see his pulse hammering against his neck — before whispering. “His cum is still drying to my legs.”

Matt’s breath hitched at my words, and as I pulled back slightly I watched as his eyes darkened with lust. He took one final step towards me, his lips almost touching my ear as he seemed to struggle against whatever was running through his mind. Recognizing the shift of energy in the space between us, I decided to prod him even more. “What, now you’ve got nothing to say? You jealous or something?”

He stayed silent for a moment, the only sound being his heavy breathing against my ear. The feeling of him so close to me was suddenly heightening my senses, and I grew overwhelmed with heat. It wasn’t long before my breathing began to match his — ragged and desperate — as I waited impatiently for what he had to say. Suddenly, a sharp gasp fell from my lips as Matt’s hands ran up my bare thighs, snaking up to the sides of my skirt where he hungrily squeezed my fleshy hips; pulling me harshly against him so that I could feel his throbbing bulge against my radiating heat. As soon as my body made contact with his, a soft whine fell from his lips before he finally managed to whisper.

“My car.”

Unable to even attempt to think twice, I began following him back through the restaurant door and towards his car. As the cool air hit my skin, Matt grabbed me and began pulling me in the direction of the black car as though he couldn’t wait another second. Frantically, Matt opened the back door and hurried me inside, quickly following after me and closing the door shut behind him. Before I could even process what was happening, he pulled me onto his lap, his hands roaming everywhere at once as he claimed my mouth in a bruising kiss.

In an instant, all of the tension that had been simmering between us all night came to a boil, and I found myself at the mercy of his devouring lips. I whined against his greedy, open mouth as I straddled his lap, my dress riding up to my waist. His uncharacteristic aggression and desperation caught me off guard, but I embraced it with a submissive moan. One of his hands tangled in my hair while the other moved to grip my ass firmly, grinding me against his hard length. I gasped at the relief that the friction was giving me, and as I did he released a sharp hiss. “Fuck, Y/n.”

Responding to his powerful control over me, I rolled my hips against his bulge, relishing in the satisfaction of its rigidity against my clothed heat. “Matt.” I cooed, my lungs constricting from what could only be described as deep-rooted, insatiable need. Looking down to our writhing bodies, I recognized the small pool of arousal that I had already left on him; tainting his jeans a darker shade of blue. Following my gaze, he looked down and discovered the wet patch as well. Cursing under his breath, his eyes seemed to lock onto the spot as he continued to roll my hips against his lap shamelessly. “What got you this soaked?”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I bit down on my bottom lip as I ignored his question, caught up in the waves of pleasure surging through my body. In my silence, Matt groaned before his hips bucked up involuntarily to meet mine. “Answer me Y/n,” He said, his voice low and menacing, as he grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his wild stare, “Is all this for Chris?” My brows knit together in almost uncomfortable pleasure, and I writhed at his obvious jealousy. Looking down at him through hooded lids, I shook my head slowly.

Matt’s eyes searched mine intensely, his grip on my chin tightening slightly as he demanded an answer. “Then tell me who made you make this mess.” He rasped out, his free hand sliding up my thigh to press firmly against my clothed clit. Reacting immediately to his thumb’s pressure against my clit, I let out a desperate cry as I rolled my hips against it. I tugged at the base of his t-shirt before running my hands along his skin beneath it. “Y-you Matt.” I finally replied, growing wild with lust.

“Fuck,” Matt breathed out, his dilated pupils radiating desire. “Get these fucking panties off now.” He whispered, but without giving me the chance to slide them down my legs he grabbed onto the waistband; ripping them in half and leaving me exposed. I whimpered from the raw desperation of his actions just as he pulled down the top of my dress; letting my tits pop free before he slipped one hungrily into his mouth. Without wasting another moment, Matt grabbed onto my ass with both hands and used his grip to lift me up. Gasping, I leaned against the driver’s side door as Matt propped me up in the air; my legs spread and my glistening core just centimetres from his face.

My legs shook in anticipation as Matt seemed to take a moment to admire my cunt, his eyes glossy and unblinking. “The things you fucking do to me…” He muttered, more to himself than to me, before finally attaching his mouth to my throbbing clit. Immediately, my back arched off of the seat behind me as Matt’s tongue drew relentless circles against my bundle of nerves. His lips acted as the perfect suction, drawing guttural moans from the depths of my soul. My hands slipped into his hair, holding him in place as I fell into an erotic trance. “Oh god…oh god…” I shakily cried out like a mantra, unable to control any part of myself as his tongue set my soul on fire.

Matt released soft moans against my sensitive skin, his own satisfaction palpable as he devoured me into shambles. My clit responded to his movements like an obedient servant, sending jolting shockwaves through my body on each lick. “Fuck M-Matt.” I whined out, incapable of forming any cohesive thoughts besides the dizzying image of his blissed face contentedly pressed to my folds. I grew hyper aware of each movement of his tongue, and recognized the steady pattern that he stuck to; consistently drawing me closer and closer to an orgasm. My body began to contract, and I found myself writhing under his firm grasp on me as I nearly fell apart in his hands.

“G-gonna cum!” I cried out, my own squeaky voice unrecognizable as I was washed away by a full-body orgasm. My grip on Matt’s hair tightened as his tongue worked tirelessly against my pulsing clit, making sure to work me through the crashing waves of my orgasm. Moans spilled past my gasping lips as I trembled against the driver’s seat, so far gone that I could barely feel anything beyond the radiating pleasure surging through every nerve in my body.

Even after I had ridden through my high, Matt continued running his warm tongue through my folds, collecting all of my arousal on his tongue and moaning in satisfaction. My body jolted as I came down from my high, needy for more. As if he was reading my mind, Matt finally pulled himself away from my core, glancing up at me once before admiring my swollen folds once again. I watched as he sucked on his bottom lip, using his grip on me to spread me open even more and marvelling at the mess he had made.

Growing impatient, I squirmed under his gaze. “Matt,” I whined, watching him as he looked up at me with a smirk. “Somethin’ on your mind sweetheart?” He asked, his voice filled with amusement. Incapable of caring anymore, I nodded fiercely. “Say it.” He taunted, bringing his finger to my opening and sliding it in, before quickly pulling it back out and admiring my slippery wetness that was now dripping from it. “N-need your c-cock.” I admitted, earning a grateful smile from him.

After sucking his finger clean, he gently lowered me back onto his lap. “You’re drowning in your own juices thinking about my cock, huh?” He began unbuckling his belt with shaky hands. The needier I became, the farther my walls dropped, yet I was still shocked by the filthy words that spilled from his mouth. My eyes fell to his hands as they worked against his shiny belt, and I licked my lips hungrily. “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” I admitted, unable to pull my eyes away from his crotch as I waited for him to remove his jeans. “I need it so fucking bad Matt.” I confessed, my voice wavering.

The moment his belt came undone, he cursed under his breath, clearly turned on by my desperation. “Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, either.” He admitted, his soft words riddled with gruffness, before shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his rock-hard length. My eyes soaked in the sight of his swollen member, deep veins travelling up to his dark red tip where a bead of pre-cum was slowly dripping. After a moment, he grabbed my hips and yanked me back down onto his lap, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He groaned at the contact. “Fuck, so soaked.”

My core trembled in anticipation, the heat of his raw member pressing against me almost too much for me to bare. “S-sorry.” I replied, feeling my arousal begin to drip onto his thighs. “Don’t ever apologize for being this wet for me.” He breathed, the proximity of our bodies seeming to calm him slightly as one of his hands slid up my waist and up to my tits; where he toyed with my nipples gently. “Jesus.” He breathed, voice hitching as he adjusted me in his lap, his tip just barely entering me.

As he sunk me down his length, my jaw dropped as I felt my walls begin to stretch around his head as it crested my entrance. I was still raw from Chris earlier in the day, and I whined softly from the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. Noticing my sensitivity, Matt released a sharp hiss. “You okay?” He asked, holding me still for a moment. I nodded rapidly, desperate to be filled. “Y-yes.” I replied shakily. Matt let out a strained groan as I began pushing myself further down his shaft, rolling his hips upward to bury another inch inside me.

“You f-fill me so g-good.” I moaned as I slowly took more and more of him. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that sweetheart.” His nails dug into my hips as he pushed me down further, finally bottoming out deep inside me. A gruff moan escaped his lips once every inch of him was engulfed by my pussy, and he gave me a moment to adjust to the pressure. He must have felt my walls begin to relax, because after a moment be began lifting me up slowly, until just the tip remained inside of me; teasing. Then, with a powerful thrust, he slammed me back down burying himself to the hilt once more.

I gasped as all of the air left my lungs at the feeling of his cock filling my insides. My nails dug into his shoulders as I struggled to keep my composure while he slammed me up and down his powerful length. “Fuck, Y/n. F-feel so g-good.” His voice strained with lust, he kept one hand on my hip and the other moved to my throat, gently squeezing as he began to drive up into me. He began fucking me with brutal intensity, his movements so much angrier and desperate than the last time; all of his emotions on full display. “C’mon baby, n-need to see you l-lose your m-mind.” He groaned, his head falling back against the headrest.

“Fuck!” I cried out, completely engulfed in the pleasure of Matt taking out all of his pent-up frustration on me. “W-want your cock a-all to m-myself!” I moaned, so recklessly caught up in him that I didn’t care how greedy I sounded. In response, Matt grabbed onto my hips and flipped me so that I was the one in the seat. Leaning over me, he pulled the lever so that the seat moved back, making me lay down slightly. He only took a brief moment to adjust himself between my legs before plunging himself back into me, slamming his cock relentlessly through my spongey walls.

“Fuck, you’re so selfish,” He hissed, slamming into me harder with each thrust, “I have to hear you moaning my brother’s n-name almost every goddamn night but you d-don’t want me to fuck anyone else?” Recognizing the despair in his tone, I grabbed onto his fluffy brown hair, tugging at the roots gently as I smirked at him through hooded lids. “Does anyone else f-feel as g-good as me?” I asked, my voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “You’ve got t-to be fucking k-kidding me.” Matt growled, his pace turning almost punishing if it weren’t for the anguish of his voice. Growing even more aroused by his state, I bit my bottom lip flirtatiously. “D-does Sophie f-feel this good?” I asked again, knowing his answer just by the look across his face.

“N-no.” He huffed out, snapping his hips into me harshly as though this fact was distressing. “N-not this g-good.” He added. His hand slid from my throat to grasp my chin roughly; forcing eye contact. His harsh grip along with his words drove me crazy, and I felt animalistic as I stuck my tongue out; running it along his salty skin. “You’re making me lose my fuckin’ mind.” He groaned, his eyes locked on mine intensely.

I greedily pulled his thumb into my mouth, wrapping my lips around it before sucking on it fervently. Obsessed with the new-found power I had over him, I locked my arms around his waist as he continued pumping into me. I moaned, my lips vibrating around his thumb before I let it drop from my mouth. I watched through my eyelashes as his eyes glazed over, completely lost in the pleasure he was feeling as he seemed to rapidly approach his orgasm.

“N-need you t-to learn how t-to share m-me.” I whined, my body growing burning hot as I fought against my own impending orgasm. “Jesus Chris.” Matt’s grip on me tightened painfully as he slammed into me again and again, his body tense in my hands. “The—the f-fact that you…” He struggled to speak, his cock twitching inside of me, “D-don’t say shit…like that.” He grunted, his rhythm growing sloppier. I dropped my mouth to his neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along his clammy skin. “P-please,” I cried, urgency laced in my words as I balanced on the edge of my orgasm, “N-need both of y-you.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ k-kill me.” Matt choked out, his movements so sloppy now that I tightened my legs around his waist to hold him steady. His head dropped to my chest for a moment, seeming to contemplate what I was begging him for, before he suddenly grabbed a fistful of my hair; pulling my head up to look at him. My eyes dropped to his swollen red lips as I let him hold me in place. “Please,” I mouthed, “Please f-fuck me w-whenever you w-want. W-whenever Chris isn’t u-using m-me.”

His eyes stayed locked onto mine, burning with possessiveness and desire and telling me that he had moved past his deliberations. He brought his lips to mine and engulfed them in a heated kiss. Pulling away, he kept his forehead pressed to mine as he spoke in a gravelly tone. “When you’re not in Chris’s room, you’re mine.” I bit my bottom lip at his words, their intensity shooting straight to my core. Nodding my head, I felt myself begin to lose the battle. “F-fuck. I’m…I’m s-so close Matt.” I whined.

“Say it,” He begged, his fingers digging into my scalp, “Say you’re m-mine.” I moaned at the feeling of his cock as it began to pulse against my walls, his orgasm so close I could practically feel him falling apart. “I’m y-yours.” I squeaked out, and as soon as the words left my mouth I was consumed by my orgasm. As he continued to pound into me, seemingly re-charged by my words, my legs began to shake and a plethora of moans fell from my lips. “Oh fuck.” Matt choked out as my convulsing walls milked his cock, and as my back arched off of the seat and my nails dug into his skin, I felt his warm seed shoot deep inside my trembling cunt. His hips continued snapping into me as he came undone, guiding both of us through our highs until we simultaneously fell into a peaceful trance.

Matt collapsed forward and I leaned against his sweaty frame; my body heavy with exhaustion. My arms wrapped around his neck, where I brushed the wavy tips of his hair gently as we both came back down to earth. His breath slowly steadied against my neck, his lips brushing feather-light kisses against it as he calmed down. After a moment, I felt his lips turn up into a smile against my skin. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” He chuckled. Straightening myself up, he pulled himself off of me and I locked eyes with him. “Do you have a problem with that?” I asked, my voice still breathless. His gaze lingered on mine for a moment, a soft smile still plastered to his face. “I wish I did, but I don’t.” He replied, pressing a gentle kiss to my eyelid before pulling himself slowly out of me.

Finally able to recognize the kind Matt that I was so used to seeing, I smiled in relief. “Well, we should probably get back to the table. I’m sure they’re all wondering where we’ve been.” I sighed before adjusting my dress, wincing as I did from how raw I felt. Matt and I quickly fixed ourselves so that we didn’t look freshly fucked, and before long we were out of the car and walking back towards the restaurant on shaky legs. As we reached the front doors, I whispered to him, “I’ll go sit down first, and you come join us after a couple of minutes.” Matt nodded, shooting me a soft smile before I slipped through the doors and headed back towards our table.

Thankfully Chris, Nick, and Sophie were all laughing; deep in conversation as I arrived at the table meaning they likely didn’t see my limp as I walked towards them. “Hey, you okay? You were gone for so long.” Nick asked with concern once he noticed me. Doing my best to seem casual, I chuckled softly. “Yeah, I’m all good. Just bumped into an old friend in the washroom.” I lied, surprising myself by how quickly I came up with a rather believable cover-up. Seeming to accept my response as the truth, Nick began chattering again to Sophie. Satisfied, I gingerly slid back into my seat beside Chris, shooting him a quick smile. I noticed a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he peered at me with curiosity.

Just as we had agreed on, a few minutes later Matt appeared at the table. “There he is!” Sophie cheered happily as he sat down beside her. “I thought you got lost!” She attempted to joke, though behind that veil I could see the concern in her features as she examined him closely. I pulled my bottom lip in between my teeth, filled with nerves, as I waited to see what excuse he had come up with. “Sorry, I got an important phone call I had to take.” He replied, the lie slipping off of his tongue effortlessly. That seemed to be enough to satisfy Sophie, as she visibly relaxed before leaning against him cheerfully.

Matt’s lie didn’t seem to work on Chris, however, because in my peripheral vision I noticed him glance between Matt and I; staying completely silent. My breath hitched as I felt him suddenly pull my chair closer to him, and my heart began to race as he gently pushed my legs apart; hidden from everyone else by the table cloth draped over my lap. I felt my cheeks begin to grow warm as I slowly understood that he hadn’t been fooled by Matt and my lies, and I trembled in wait.

Suddenly, I had to stifle a cry as I felt Chris’s finger press against my sore — and completely bare — heat; and I heard his throaty chuckle as his finger ran along the small pool of cum still leaking from my opening. Casually, he swung his arm over my shoulders and pulled me into him. I felt his lips curl into a smile against my burning ears before he whispered in a low tone, “That’s my girl.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 26: Do You Love Me

Summary: Things escalate to the point of complete and utter disaster.

Word Count: 5,593

Warnings: MAJOR angst, a suicide attempt, insecurity, depression, suicidal thoughts, self harm, and blood.

Notes: Please prepare yourselves before reading this one, guys. I'm not joking around with the warnings here (not that I ever am, but you know what I mean). Also I apologize profusely in advance for what's about to happen.

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Chapter 16: Battered & Mangled

Lucy twisted her hands together, feeling vaguely sick with nerves. Silence stretched on between her and Tommy, each of them waiting for the other to speak first.

“I called you,” he said, finally. “Earlier.”

“You did?” Fingers ran through her red hair, tugging on the locks anxiously. “Sorry. I was out with Asher. Did something happen?”

He stood from the chair he was collapsed in, grabbing more kindling to feed into the fire. “Polly resigned.”

That startled her a bit. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He looked so…lost. Blue eyes staring pointedly out into the dark of the night.

“Was it because of Michael?” she pressed.

“I’m not here to talk about Polly,” Tommy said, voice suddenly stern. She looked down at her feet.

“Right.”

No more avoiding things. They both needed to have their heads clear for the events that were about to unfold. And it had become clear that just attempting to ignore their current situation to deal with later wasn’t going to achieve that.

And…she had promised him that they would talk about things. 

She’d have suggested they go inside, into the living quarters that Charlie had been letting her stay in. But she didn’t really want anyone eavesdropping in on their conversation. 

More silence stretched out between them, long and dark and endless. She jumped when Tommy’s hand touched her cheek, tilting her head up to look at him where he was now standing in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him move. 

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she said softly, eyes staring up into his. 

“So come home.”

Her face crumpled. “I can’t.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“Why?”

“You know why, Tom.”

“No; no I don’t think that I do.” His voice was low and soft like honey. Tempting. “So tell me. Please. Help me understand. We can figure something out. If we just sit down and talk about it–”

“Talk about what, Tommy? About what days you and I are allowed to spend the night together? I don’t want to live like that. To be…the dirty little secret that you keep around to fuck you when your wife isn’t available.”

His brow furrowed, almost in confusion. Like the thought had never even occurred to him. “You would never be that. You’re not some whore I keep around for when I get bored, Lucy. And besides, I told you, I fixed that. She’s fine with us being together whenever–”

“You expect me to believe that’ll last? With her pattern of behavior? This is how it’s always worked with her, Tommy. She’s all nice and smiles and sweetness until something sets her off, and then I’m suddenly the big bad monster who’s stealing her husband. What happens the next time she has one of her fits? Hm? When she comes back asking for even more? Now that you’ve given her this, what’s going to stop her from asking for even more restrictions on what you can and can’t do with me? How long before you can’t even touch me at all without it breaking some rule that she’s come up with?”

“I won’t let that happen–”

“Yeah, well you already let this fucking happen,” she snapped back. Tommy’s eyes widened. She drew in a trembling breath, turning away, fighting back every urge to just shout at him. A lump formed in her throat. She forced herself to swallow it down.

“You chose to leave,” Tommy said sternly. “That wasn’t part of Lizzie’s rules. That wasn’t something that I wanted. You decided to do that, Lucy.”

“And I’ve told you over and over again why I had to do that. Lizzie and I can’t live in such close quarters with each other all the time. She can barely even stand to see you touch me, Tommy.”

“That’s her fucking problem.”

“No, it’s not! Not when her reaction to it affects all of us! This,” she gestured widely, “was the only solution.”

“A solution where everyone ends up miserable?”

“Oh, please,” she snapped, voice beginning to rise. “Don’t act like Lizzie isn’t fucking thrilled now that I’m gone and she gets to finally play out the happy fucking family fantasy that she’s always wanted. I’m not blind, I’ve seen how much happier you’ve been lately. Don’t act like it isn’t better now that I’m gone.”

“It’s not. It’s fucking awful there, Lucy. I’m not happier. I don’t know what I did to make you think that I am, but I’m not. I’m so…I’m so fucking lonely without you.” His voice started to rise as well, but he drew in a deep breath when she looked away, eyes focusing on the dark waters of the cut. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “And what about you, eh? Are you happier, now that you’ve moved out?” He took a cautious step towards her. “Michael said that you’re miserable.”

“You shouldn’t listen to anything that Michael says.”

“He’s right, though. Isn’t he?” 

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I don’t want you to be unhappy, love.” Another step, so that he was close enough for her to smell the scent of cigarette smoke and his cologne. Tommy rubbed a hand over his face, looking at her with scrutinizing eyes. “Why did you really leave, Lucy? Because I don’t believe it was just about Lizzie’s rules. There’s something else going on. I can see it in your eyes.” There was a desperation in his gaze that she wasn’t used to seeing. “Just tell me.” She looked away again, hands wringing together frantically. Tommy’s face twitched with frustration. “If I have to live the rest of my life without you then I think that I at least deserve to know why.” She pressed her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut tight. It was unclear whether she wanted to cry or shout at him. Tommy seemed to soften a little, reigning in his frustration to gently touch her hand, stilling her relentless fidgeting.

“Please. I know I fucked up. Just…help me understand. If I understand why you left, then I can find some way to fix this…”

“Maybe there is no fixing this,” she said defeatedly with a shrug. The frustration in Tommy’s face returned, face twisting as he struggled to reign in his temper.  

“So…what? You’re just going to give up, is that what’s happening here? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m the only one who’s actually still fighting for us.”

“What?” Her anger was cold in her veins, rushing and bubbling just beneath her skin. Huh. It seemed that Polly had been right. She was angry at him.

“I’m the one who’s been renegotiating with Lizzie. I’m the one trying to find an actual fucking solution to this mess. You keep saying that everything is fine, promising that we will work things out. And yet I’ve been practically begging you to talk to me about this since it happened, and all you’ve done is avoid and ignore me. I’ve been trying, Lucy. Trying to talk to you, to still be with you, and you’ve done nothing but push me away.”

“Don’t you talk about fighting for us when you all but rolled over for Lizzie when she asked you to throw a grenade in the middle of our relationship to make her happy. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Tommy, but we are in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy to assassinate an MP, not to mention plugging up leaks, and dodging all of our other enemies that have been coming at us from every possible angle. So excuse me for trying to put the good of the company and the family over our personal issues.”

“No, don’t you fucking do that! Don’t act like you couldn’t have spared one lunch, one goddamn hour, to talk about this with me!”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Why? So I get to hear again about how you chose her over me?”

Never before had she really considered herself to be a jealous person. But perhaps it was because she hadn’t ever felt like her place in Tommy’s heart was being threatened. He had shared all of his other lovers with her. And she had always known, without a single bit of doubt in her mind, that she was and always would be Tommy’s favorite. That he loved her. Because she was the only one that he let into his head. That he told his darkest, most closely kept secrets to. The only one allowed to actually touch his heart.  

Grace had been different. Because the three of them had all loved each other. Grace had simply become an addition to their pairing. And she had always ensured that Lucy had felt included. Not once did she try to usurp Lucy or steal Tommy away from her. Like Lizzie had. 

Difficult as things had been with Lizzie, Lucy had managed to make peace with the arrangement. At least outside of the relentless guilt she felt every time she so much as looked into Lizzie’s heartbroken eyes. And maybe there was a particularly awful part of her that almost enjoyed the knowledge that while Tommy may spend his nights with Lizzie out of duty, he spent the ones he did with her out of love.

But now that she knew Tommy did not love her anymore, everything had been thrown into disarray. She had begun to wonder if perhaps that was why, despite his previous words about fighting for them, he had not really fought for her at all when he’d struck that new deal with Lizzie. Even if he didn’t love Lizzie, did it really matter? He had still chosen her. To throw Lucy and their relationship into uncertainty all in the name of making Lizzie happy.

She didn’t want to be angry with him, but now that she had cracked open that little box she had stuffed all of her fury towards him in, it seemed incapable of anything other than spilling out. 

“What? No, no, no, that’s not what happened. You know I don’t love her. You know that.” Tommy’s voice was shocked, near panicked in response to her words.

“Then why did you do this to us, Tommy!?”

“I was drunk! Alright!? I was drunk off my ass. I wasn’t thinking. I was trying to get the information out of her of where Linda was for Arthur. And…Lizzie’s useful. I saw an opportunity to keep her around and I took it.” 

She shook her head, pulling away from him, still too angry and hurt. “Oh, yes. That makes me feel so much better! Good to know that my place in your life is worth trading for a morsel of information.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I meant.” He reached out to touch her face, but she pulled away.

“Isn’t it?” she spat out bitterly.

He reached out, grasping her cheeks in his hands. “Love, no. I made a mistake. I fucked up, but I was not choosing her over you.”  

“Stop it.” She pulled her face back, leaving his hands grasping at air.

“Stop what?” The genuine confusion in his voice just made her angrier. 

“Stop acting like you care so damn much! You want so badly to know why I left? I left because I couldn’t stand to live in a house where I was clearly so unwanted!” 

Tommy reared back like she had slapped him. “Unwan–Lucy, what are you talking about?”  

“God, Tommy!” she pushed away from him, pacing back and forth across the small space protected from the rain. “You made that deal with Lizzie. Either you knew what it would mean for you and me, or you didn’t even think of me at all.” She wasn’t sure which was worse. “Neither of you even thought to talk to me about it. Do you realize how…how…that feels!? To have your lover strike an arrangement that directly affects you without even including you in the discussion about it at all!? And–on top of all that–with someone who has done nothing but bully you and do everything in her power to make you miserable for years!?” 

“That’s-that’s not fair–” Tommy protested.

“Not fair? Not fair!? I’ll tell you what isn’t fucking fair, Thomas. What’s not fair is that I’m the one person who’s always been there for you and yet I’m the one that gets thrown out like garbage while she gets you for the rest of your lives!” She had to ball her hands up into fists to keep them from shaking. “I am so…fucking angry with you! You make this deal with Lizzie without even thinking of me, then you blindside me about it when we’re about to go into a fucking work meeting. You try to make it better by treating me more like your mistress or your personal whore than your lover–” 

“Now, hang on just a fucking minute–”

“Shut up!” she practically screamed at him. Tommy gaped at her. In all their years together, she had never spoken to him like that.

“You leave me to greet guests at your own fucking dinner party and to deal with Mosley alone while you’re too busy off fucking your wife, and then to top it all off, you replace me at my job with a man who hasn’t even held a rifle in years!” 

“We talked about that! I told you, it’s just for this one job, and that’s it!” Now Tommy was shouting too.

“That isn’t the point, Tommy! I’m replaceable! You’ve proven that with Lizzie, and again with Barney!” Her voice cracked a bit, the tears beginning to well in her eyes faster than she could force them down. The feelings of worthlessness and rejection nearly choked her. Tommy stared at her for a moment, mouth open slightly, brow furrowed, eyes blazing with a combination of hurt and fury.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said finally. His voice was level, no longer shouting, but she knew him well enough to recognize the wrath and frustration beneath his tone. “Love, I don’t know how else to tell you this, you are not being replaced.” Head shaking, he stalked back and forth before turning to her, finger raised. “You keep talking like you think that this is what I wanted. You think I ever wanted to hurt you? Do you really think that I wanted,” he gestured vaguely, “any of this!?” He must have seen something in her face, because he took a step forward, face twisting with conviction. “You think that I wanted Lizzie to get pregnant!? You think that I wanted to have to marry her? You think that I would have done any of it, if I had known that it would cost me you!?” His voice was loud enough to echo a little in the space around them. Lucy forced herself to not break eye contact with him, even as her body trembled with the sobs she was fighting hard to stifle. “You said…you said that you were okay with it,” he added weakly. “I asked you, before I proposed to Lizzie.”

“I know. I know, I did, Tom. And I was. But that was before…” she trailed off, tears running down her face. Tommy reached out a hand to try to touch her cheek, to wipe them away, but she pulled back, away from him.

“Before what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She looked away, still unable to bring herself to actually say it.  

“Yes, it does.” He waited for her to say more, sighing defeatedly when she didn’t. He was searching her eyes for something. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it, sighing and dropping to sit down in the chair by the fire, head in his hands.

“You promised,” he croaked, after finally raising his face, “when you left that we would still be together. That we weren’t splitting up. But that hasn’t seemed to be true at all, Lucy.”

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, tears still leaking from her eyes. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Please. Did you mean it, when you said that? Or were you just telling me what you thought I wanted to hear?” Something frighteningly resigned filtered into those ice blue eyes. He sighed very deeply, gazing out into the rain. “If you really want to leave, I won’t stop you. You know that.”

“You think that I really wanted to leave? I love you, Tommy.” He looked up at her words, eyes suddenly full of hope. “I meant it. When I said that we could still be together. But…”

“But what?” He stood. “But what, Lucy?”

She shook her head, unable to get the words out, her chest spasming with hiccups. Those sobs that she had been keeping at bay finally making themselves known, taking such violent hold over her body that she almost feared that she would collapse with them. Tommy stood, going to her and laying a hand on her arm that she weakly pushed away. 

“Love…love, please. Please,” he tried to reason. “Come home. Don’t worry about anything else. I want you back. I want you with me. Lucy,” he was trying to get in closer to her, to force her to meet his eyes. “Lucy, I love you–”     

“I don’t believe you!” It came out as an agonizing wail, shrill and with enough conviction to shake the entire earth. The words seemed to rip apart her vocal cords on their way out. Her heart shredded in her chest like paper. What little will for life she had remaining blew out like a candle. 

There it was. Bared and out for all to see. The truth. What she had known deep down for a while. Longer than she probably even realized. Because she’d been in denial about all of it. Because she wanted to hold onto him. Because she was a selfish, disgusting, horrid monster who hadn’t wanted to let him go even though she had to. Their relationship was dead. Had started to die slowly and painfully the second Lizzie got pregnant. Whatever love he’d ever had for her was long gone. Buried deep under the ground, never to be felt again. All that was left was residual guilt and a sense of duty towards her. That was all this was. 

And he still knew her well enough to know that the admittance of the death of his love for her would destroy her, so he would not say it. He’d carry on pretending, or at least trying to, for her sake. But she needed to stop being so selfish with him; stop trying to hold onto him for a little longer. She had to set him free.    

Tommy’s entire face changed. All anger and earnestness fell right off of it, eyes widening, jerking back as if she’d slapped him. The color drained out of his face, freckles standing out starkly against his paper-white skin, a look of horror quickly overtaking the frustration that had been there but a moment prior. 

Unable to face the mounting pain in his eyes, she buried her face in her hands. Great, she’d gone and hurt his feelings. But why? Because she’d called him on his bluff? Because he didn’t want to hurt her? At this point, she wished that he would just stop pretending and be honest. He didn’t love her anymore. They couldn’t keep dancing around it forever. 

“Lucy…” he made a sound of physical pain and rushed towards her, saying her name in agony, reaching out to her, trying to hold her. 

“Get away from me!” She braced both hands on his chest and shoved, hard enough to send him staggering back a few steps, eyes wide.

“Love…”

She shook her head furiously, still sobbing, taking a step away from him. “We’re done here.” There was more that they needed to discuss. What was going to happen to her position as his assistant, for one, but she couldn’t. Not now. “We’re done for tonight.” Another step back. “I’m sorry. We can talk more later…”

“No, Lucy, wait–!”

But she stepped back into the downpour surrounding them, and the rush of the rain pelting upon her drowned out his voice. With one final hitching sob, she rounded on her heel and ran, nearly slipping and tripping in the mud, to the door of the living quarters. She burst through it into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her. A hand clapped over her mouth to try to contain her heartbroken cries. 

Tommy did not follow her. That only made her sob more. 

Asher, laying by the door, raised his head, whining and going to nudge at her legs with his nose. 

Absentmindedly, she stroked his nose before staggering to the stairs, trembling fingers closing around the rail to balance herself. She was shivering, both from the chill that the rain had left her with, and the emotions still pumping through her veins. Asher’s nails clicked against the floorboards as he followed behind her. 

Her room was the furthest door down on the left, but that was not where she went. Instead, she made a beeline for the red door at the end of the hall. The one that led into the washroom. 

“No, Ash. Stay out here,” she commanded gently to the dog when he tried to squeeze past her legs to follow her inside. He whined again, watching her with concerned brown eyes, his head tilting to try to keep her in his line of sight as she closed the door. 

Peeling off her drenched coat, she let it fall into a heap of soggy material on the tiled floor. Her skin had erupted into gooseflesh, shaking so badly her teeth rattled in her skull. 

It’s over. It’s done.

I’m all alone again.

Both hands landed on the rim of the sink, barely managing to catch herself as she fell forward with an agonized sob. Her lungs and throat ached from crying, her eyes burning from shedding so many tears.  

There was so much pain inside her, it felt like she was about to burst unless she found some way to release it. 

She needed to get cleaned up. Yes; that’s what she needed to do. Maybe she would feel better after…

Oh, who was she kidding? She would never feel better again. Not after this. 

But she went to the tub on the far end of the washroom anyway, turning the faucet on it and fitting the plug in place.

As the tub filled, she ridded herself of her upper layers until she was only in her undershirt and trousers. Opening up the cabinet, she riffled through it in search of the soap she’d stored there earlier, fingers freezing when they passed over not the soap, but something silver and gleaming. 

“Pick it up,” a low, Irish accented voice said, arms suddenly wrapping around Lucy’s waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Pick it up, get in the tub, and come away with me.”

Lucy remained frozen, trembling fingers hovering in place. 

No one wants me here anyway. 

It would be what’s best for everyone. 

I won’t be a burden anymore.

They’ll be free of me. 

Each thought came one right after the other rapidly, knocking her down and then striking her with the next before she had a chance to recover. Grace’s eyes gleamed at her from over her shoulder in the mirror. 

No one loves me.

Her fingers closed around the razor. 

∗ ∗ ∗ 

I don’t believe you.

He stared at the place where Lucy had been standing just seconds prior, mouth half open, his cries of her name lost in the roar of the wind and the splattering of rain. 

I don’t believe you.

He moved to race after her, to grab her tight in his arms and never, ever let her go again. To tell her over and over that he loved her, until she finally believed him again. 

I don’t believe you.

“Is everything alright, Tommy?” Curly asked, and Tommy paused, head snapping around to find the man standing just at the edge of the covering, barely out of the rain, his hands wringing together. “I heard shouting…”

No. Nothing is alright at all.

“Everything is fine, Curly,” he lied, managing a weak smile. “Everything is fine. Go on back to bed, eh? I’m sorry if we woke you up.”

“I was in the stables.”

Tommy nodded. As was often the case. Curly preferred to sleep with the horses than in a bed. “Well, best get back before they miss you in there, then, eh?”

Curly brightened, smiling and nodding. “Good night, then, Tom.”

“Good night, Curly.” He waited until he’d hurried back to the stables before he doused the fire, making sure there weren’t any lingering sparks or flames, then stepped away, picking his way carefully through the slippery mud towards the building Lucy had disappeared into. 

Swiping off his cap, he shook it out a few times to try to dispel some of the water that had soaked into it. The door into the living quarters opened up into a kitchen, a small sitting room just off to the right, and the stairs that led to the bedrooms in the back. The kitchen was vacant, but there were muddy footprints leading from the door to the stairs.

Tommy glanced around the kitchen, taking a second to gather himself. He would need to be the calm one. The rational one. Lucy was clearly even more upset than he had originally thought. If he wanted to help pull her out of the dark pit of despair she’d fallen into, he would have to keep his head about him. Not let himself get frustrated. 

After all, it wasn’t her fault. He was the jackass who had so thoroughly fucked up that the love of his life didn’t even believe he loved her anymore. 

It had been a while since he’d been in there. The kitchen was minimalistic and tidy as ever, but he noticed little symptoms of Lucy’s presence scattered throughout: the angle at which the kettle was settled on the stove, the tin of cinnamon vanilla tea on the counter, the way that the towels were folded. He smiled a little to himself fondly at the reminders of her presence. 

How could she ever think that he didn’t love her? The very idea of it was absolutely absurd to him.  

He hadn’t much of an actual plan for what he was going to do or say outside of going upstairs. Finding Lucy in her room. Taking her into his arms. Telling her over and over that he loved her. That he was so sorry. That he’d do anything, anything to fix what he had done. 

And then he’d take her to bed, and make love to her until the sun came up, and any doubts that he loved her with every ounce of his being were banished from her mind.

A bark shattered through the air and Tommy jumped, head turning to find Asher standing at the top of the stairs, practically bouncing from foot to foot anxiously.  

“Asher, no,” he frowned. Usually Asher was very good about not barking. Not unless he was alerting them to approaching dangers. Asher barked again, darting away from the stairs to further down the hallway that they led up to, then back to the top of the stairs, staring down at him imploringly. “Asher–oi!” Tommy jumped back in surprise when Asher suddenly darted down the stairs, took a mouthful of his trouser leg in his jaws, and tried to tug him up the stairs with him. “What the hell?” 

Asher yanked, and it was either he took a step forward or let the dog rip his trousers. 

“Asher, mate, I can’t play with you right now…”

Dropping the mouthful of fabric, Asher barked, then whined, darting up the stairs. 

“For fuck’s sake…” Tommy muttered. Now was not the time. Still, he huffed, following the dog up the stairs and down the hall. “What? What is so important?”

Asher came to a stop at the red door at the very far end of the hallway, whining and lifting a paw to scratch at the door. He was panting, tail dropped low. His ears kept twitching, as if trying to listen for something. Tommy’s blood chilled. 

“Asher?” he asked, making his way down the hallway. The dog whined loudly, scratching more insistently at the door. When Tommy got closer, he could see marks already left on the base of the wall and door frame where the dog had been pawing at it. “Move, boy,” he gently nudged the dog out of the way, leaning his head against the door, trying to hear what was on the other side of it as he raised his fist to knock. 

“Lucy?” he called softly. “Love, are you in there?”

No answer. He tried again.

“Lucy? Are you okay?”

Still nothing. Asher whined again, distraught. Tommy swallowed hard, his heart rate spiking in his ears. Fear locked pale hands around his throat. 

“Sweetheart? I’m coming in.” 

When he tried the knob it was to find the door surprisingly unlocked, but that was where his relief ended. 

Later, they would tell him that he screamed. And he supposed that he must have, though he had no recollection of it. 

The pieces of the scene before him were processed only in fragments. As if his mind knew that anything more would cause him to become incapacitated by hysterics. 

The bloody bathwater. The body with her head lolled back against the rim. The soaked clothes sticking to her like a second skin. The hand draped over the edge of the tub, blood dripping from it onto the white tiles. The bloody razor on the floor. The deep cuts slashed into her wrists. 

He was hurling himself towards the bathtub before his mind had fully finished processing what he was seeing, plunging his hands into the lukewarm water. Not caring that it was stained red–red, with her blood–as he scooped her up out of the tub. And she was a dead weight in his arms, and the thought of that word in association with Lucy had his knees buckling, sinking to the floor with her cradled to his chest. 

She was still dressed in her white undershirt and dark trousers. Her head fell back limply against his shoulder, those big brown eyes he’d fallen so deeply in love with closed. Damp hair clung to her forehead, a shade darker red than usual from the moisture. 

“No,” he choked out, hands hovering over her, frantic. “No, no, no, no, no, no…” he found her arms, gripping them tight, examining the blood flowing heavily from her wrists to pool around them. 

Have to stop the bleeding.

Shifting Lucy to lay across his lap, he yanked his tie free from around his neck with shaking hands, wrapping it around one of her arms and pulling it taunt in an improvised tourniquet. 

“Please, please,” he begged. He needed something else for the other arm…

“Tommy, what’s–oh my God,” Charlie gasped, coming to a stop in the doorway. 

Tommy looked up at him, and when he spoke, his voice was shockingly childlike. 

“Help me.”

“I’ll call an ambulance!” Charlie shouted, already racing down the hall. Tommy turned his attention back to Lucy, grabbing onto her shirt sleeves and ripping them apart to set to work fashioning a second tourniquet around the other arm. 

Right. What next? What more could he do to help her? It was taking everything he had to fight back the cycle of memories his brain was attempting to bombard him with: Greta’s hand in his, her final breaths rattling in her lungs while he lingered at her side, unable to do anything. Grace, in his arms, bleeding out while he was helpless to save her.. 

Here’s another one, Tommy. Another woman you loved, dead in your arms. Another one that’s all your fault. 

He shook his head. He needed to find something to make bandages out of for her wrists. Reaching into his pocket, he yanked out his handkerchief, ripping it in two and folding it, using one hand each to press the two pieces of fabric to the deep wounds on her wrists. The fabric was soaked crimson within seconds, and he was suddenly massively aware of the size of the scarlet puddle growing around him. 

He did not really even know if she was still alive. There was no time to check. He was pretty sure he saw her chest rising and falling shallowly, but that could always have been his mind seeing what it wanted to see. 

Despite the makeshift bandages steadily soaking through, he continued to maintain pressure, even as hope slipped away with every passing second. He could taste salt from his tears against his lips, aware that he was sobbing distraughtly, but not caring to do anything about it. 

“Please,” he curled around her, face bent in close to hers. “Please, Lucy, don’t leave me alone. Hang on. Just hang on. I’m sorry.” He started crying even harder. “I’m so, so sorry. I love you. I love you more than anything. Just please, please hang on. Stay with me. Please, please, please, please…”

He was still there, holding her on the floor of the washroom in a pool of her blood, crying and speaking to her softly, when the paramedics came charging through the door.

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[lovelyjj]

Just Doing My Job

Stuntman!JJ Maybank x Director!reader

requested by @thornyrose463

Being a movie director had its perks. You loved your job, you really did. You had all the power. You always had to make sure all the actors were good and all the technical aspects of the scene were good.

JJ was smitten. He had a massive crush on you. He was way to nervous to act on it though. JJ was a stuntman on the set you worked on. JJ was great at his job. He excelled at it. He was excited because he got to work with you everyday.

JJ was doing a particularly hard stunt. He had to fall from a tall height. JJ was a professional he had this in the bag. “Alright action,” you yelled. JJ fell and landed on an air mattress. “And cut.” “Very nicely done JJ,” you complimented.

“Thank you,” JJ replied. JJ’s next stunt was a car crash. The car was also going to explode. JJ knew it was going to be a little difficult but he knew he was going to nail it. You called out action and JJ preformed his stunt beautifully.

“Hey JJ, come here we’re gonna talk about the scene,” you called out to him.

JJ always got so flustered around you. He just got really nervous because you were so pretty and he thought so highly of you. “Okay.”

“So how do you think you did?”

“Oh um I-i i think i did okay, what did you think?” JJ asked.

“Well there’s some points I have to discuss with you but overall i think it went well.”

JJ was trying to get the nerve to ask you out. He just was so scared you would judge him. He also didn’t want to ruin the work relationship he had with you. He was already awkward enough he couldn’t imagine if things got even more awkward.

“Thank you,” JJ responded.

“Hey JJ, great job today. Get some rest for a good day tomorrow,” you ordered.

“Yes m’am.”

——————

The next work day went well. JJ wasn’t doing as many stunts as yesterday but he still had to be there because he was doing some stunts. You arrived early to get a jump start on the day. JJ watched you as you worked, not in a creepy way in an endearing way.

The work day trudged on. You did your job as director. Being the boss and directing the actors. After a while you told them to take 5. This is where JJ came up to you.

“Hey uh how are you?” JJ bit his lip nervously.

“I’m hanging in there,” you responded.

“Anything I can do to help?” JJ asked fiddling with his fingers.

“Oh no i’m good just working hard,” you smiled. JJ thought it was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

JJ was trying to get the courage to talk to you more he was just so nervous. He was determined to ask you out the next time he saw you.

—————

JJ was back doing his stunts. It was the next work day and he was on fire. Literally. It was a new stunt for the movie and he was killing it. He was very good at his job and you were impressed. With his adrenaline from the stunt he found himself walking towards you.

After his scene he went up to you and nervously asked if he can have a word. Of course you said sure like it was the most easy thing to say.

Now JJ was scared because of the chance of possible rejection but also what would happen to your work relationship. He ultimately decided that it was worth it to even get the chance to ask you out.

“Um i was just wondering if you wanted to go out with me sometime. Maybe we can go grab some coffee, i i don’t know only if you want to.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you grinned.

“Rrreally? you’d like too? you want to?”

“Yes of course.”

When you agreed on a day the two of you went out. JJ charmed you. He was a gentleman the whole time. And it was safe to say there will be a second date.

[neshamama]

journaling health and going insane but trying to let it out as part of the process of connecting with it and the world realities beyond the inward overwhelm

im without job and health insurance but i have 90 days of my MS medications and even though i am due for a neuro follow up and an echocardiogram i will wait until the state agents finish my applications.. i have mental health issues that haven't been treated in months besides telehealth therapy but i have prn anxiety medication.

the force of depression in multiple sclerosis looks like this: my legs especially hurt to the soles of my feet, rn the brain interprets wearing socks as rough and burning sensation because the brain and spine are damaged,.so there are sensory and spastic arguments, bilaterally, all day every day. the temp is 0⁰F so i can't go without wearing clothes or blankets that trigger symptoms. i also cant have anything too hot or it will cause a reversible exacerbation (even being on your period or getting overwhelmed emotionally can upset nerve conduction in demyelinated cells due to temperature change alone. i moved climate zones after tropical weather was too much. very real and strange phenomenon that i blame myself for not controlling - like the frustration of my arms going numb because my coffee is too hot)

this is all so lonely and when i get up my legs want to give up so soon. i plan breaks and place chairs around the house and of course i have to use a cane all the time. i leave interesting footprints in the snow by the way omg. basic things like taking out trash i cannot do and i wished to be dependent on no one growing up and it disappoints and scares me to adapt to a radically different outcome. i have to trust others and engage with them enough to meet my needs and even if it ends up ok, i feel so guilty for taking help. i will need financial support from my family and i feel so guilty.

meanwhile my brain has been locked on trauma because im not managing emotions very well and my thoughts are rogue and unregulated by stability and routine like of work. applying for jobs i do think of who was omnipresent in my life during my education and career in art and it's a pain held in my body. those years death was the most comforting thought, including the death of the primary abuser and i still think of it daily. i really wish i could move on because wanting to kill is disturbing. i got this way before all of this from deadly physical and sexual abuse from like 2 decades ago again obviously i survived and i really thought that was enough. i swear predators recognize who has survived already, they vet their vulnerabilities and then exploit and silence them again. still i struggle feeling safe anywhere. i need to do more emdr and in office therapy. Also see psychiatrist and update meds.

so im in and out of recognizing life let alone appreciating it which is dangerous cuz it makes it all easier to get out of living. i am afraid to reach out to my mother who is my local support because i don't want to worry and bother her

what i wish is to feel myself again and connect with others and the world again but that seems so far away. my heart is tarred and my brain - an electrical fire my legs prickly weights. very challenging to overcome how this feels and maintain positive beliefs.

first though i want to rest and recover physically and emotionally, see neuro and psych, upgrade level of therapeutic care, hold off on the shame of these struggles and simply try to get through them. right now without income or insurance i am in another tough situation.

im going to apply for a job today with the scarce descriptions of my experience cuz i think in this case details are less important and i can discuss work i did outside that triggering time so..see what happens

stay alive

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Meet Me At My Window

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Meet Me At My Window

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Mature (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Stiles accidentally falls in love with Derek. Derek begrudgingly falls in love with Stiles. Derek has trust issues and an aversion to romantic entanglements. Stiles lacks tact and would very much like to avoid a painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death. Stiles and Derek end up spending the better part of a year in each other's company, pretending to despise every minute of it. In short: Stiles and Derek are awkward, stubborn, angst-ridden, life-ruining idiots who can't seem to work up the nerve to admit that they're in love.

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose. "Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr:

The first time Stiles Stilinski meets Derek Hale, he's rendered with a peculiar combination of all-consuming fear, respect, and sympathy (and, admittedly, arousal…but hey, let's just shove that embarrassing fact to the side and stick a pin in it, shall we?) And of course, because Stiles wants absolutely nothing to do with the sociopathic sourwolf with the burned and broken past, and because his life is just a big pile of nonsensical bullshit, that's the exact opposite of what he gets.

After a while, Stiles starts to lose track of the number of times he ends up saving Derek's life, whether it's reluctantly agreeing (under the threat of a brutal mauling involving the removal of his head from the rest of his body) to cut off Derek's arm so that the poison from a Wolfsbane laced bullet won't spread to his heart…or harboring Derek in his bedroom to keep him hidden from the authorities while on the run for false murder charges…or holding onto a temporarily paralyzed two-hundred-and-something-pound werewolf in the middle of the Beacon Hills swimming pool for hours on end to keep him from drowning while, oh yeah, fighting off a homicidal were-lizard…

He isn't exactly sure which one of those times had officially sealed the deal, but somewhere along the line, Stiles actually starts to give a damn about whether Derek Hale lives or dies.

• • •

After his brief romantic entanglement with Kate Argent (read: the horrific incident that had lead to the death of his entire family and the destruction of his home in an inferno) Derek Hale is, understandably, a little reserved, a little distrusting, and generally, all-around unpleasant company. 

For years following the incident, Derek had mostly just kept to himself, locked away from the rest of the world, skulking in the shadows in the ruins of his old home, fraught with all-consuming guilt and regret, only poking his head out when his older sister had all but dragged him into the Camaro to take them on destination-less road trips across the countryside, whenever the memories of their old life became too much for them to bear. 

They were all each had anymore; all throughout those long and lonely years, Laura had been Derek's alpha, his anchor, the only thing that kept him tethered to his sanity, the one and only person that Derek swore he would ever trust…that is, until she'd been taken from him, too. 

Nearly six years after the fire, mere hours after he'd buried the last remaining member of his family (not counting, of course, the power-hungry uncle responsible for her death) a boy called Stiles Stilinski had come along and utterly demolished that carefully crafted facade that Derek had worked so hard to build. 

Mind you, not all at once. After all, Derek's first impression of Stiles hadn't exactly been all that positive. Even now, after everything they've been through together, how in the fuck a loudmouthed, loquacious, opinionated, irritating whirlwind of a person could have possibly woven his way so deeply under Derek's skin is still beyond him. 

Although, admittedly, the fact that Stiles had saved Derek's life more times than he can count could possibly have something to do with it.

No matter how hard he tries, Derek can't seem to escape the memory of one of those nights in particular, his mind reeling on repeat, piecing together every infinitesimal detail with perfect clarity.

Blood red satin and dark blue denim hugging saturated skin. Beads of water rippling down his pale, freckled face, neck, and shoulders, caught on the edge of his reddened lips. The rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat thrumming against Derek's back, reverberating through the hollow of his chest as he'd held him close, head tipping forward to rest against Derek's shoulder, warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, sending shivers down the length of his spine. 

The sound of their ragged breathing echoing across the hall of the swimming pool as they fought to stay afloat. As Stiles fought with every last ounce of his strength to keep them both alive. Stiles clinging to Derek for dear life, arms coiled tight around his torso, like he's afraid to let him go. And then—

Paralysis. Submersion. That all-consuming fear of abandonment he'd come to know so well, at war with the blissful desire to welcome the darkness that threatened to envelop him as he'd sunk to the depths of the pool. And how poetic, really, that he should die in a way that's almost polar opposite of the fiery death he'd so narrowly escaped last time. 

And then, just moments before he'd lost consciousness — the terrifying realization that someone actually cares enough about him to keep him from drowning. 

Because Stiles had come back for him. 

Because Stiles had plunged to the bottom of the pool and pulled Derek back to the surface. 

Because Stiles had saved Derek's life. 

Again. 

He could have run, could've heeded Derek's warning and gotten himself to safety, could've just let go and left Derek to die, could've saved himself instead of exhausting all of his strength just to make sure that Derek didn't drown. But he hadn't. Unlike everyone else in Derek's life, Stiles had stayed.

Initially, Derek writes it off as the intrinsic, primal, entirely human need for self-preservation, because Stiles is smart enough to know that Derek is integral to his survival. After all, a werewolf with supernatural strength and agility stands a far better chance of protecting itself against a murderous reptilian hybrid of a monster with the ability to incite full-body paralysis with a single swipe of its claws than a skinny, defenseless human does. For Stiles, keeping Derek alive means keeping himself alive. 

It's survival instinct, plain and simple. 

At least, that's how Derek keeps choosing to rationalize it.

Can't you just trust me, just this once?

No!

Hey, I'm the one keeping you alive, okay? Have you noticed that?

And when the paralysis wears off, who's going to be able to fight that thing? You or me?

What, so that's the only reason I've been holding you up for the past two hours?

You don't trust me, and I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you aren't letting me go.

But then, Derek can't help but wonder why Stiles had saved his life countless other times before that night, well before the kanima had ever become a threat. In spite of a seemingly endless running commentary of sarcasm and unconvincing threats to leave him for dead, Stiles had looked after Derek when he'd been shot with a Wolfsbane bullet, had given Derek sanctuary when he'd been on the run for a false murder conviction (thanks, Scott.) He didn't have to do any of that, but he still did it.

And the strangest thing of all is that it keeps happening. Stiles keeps saving Derek's life, over and over again in a multitude of different ways, often risking his own life in the process, and never expects anything but Derek's trust in return. 

Stranger still is the fact that Derek keeps inexplicably seeking out Stiles, of all people, whenever he's in trouble, despite his insistence that he doesn't trust him. He'll talk a big game with intimidation tactics and threats of bodily harm, yet his first instinct is always to protect Stiles, to make sure he's safe, to push him out of harm's way at the first sign of danger, even from his own pack, his own family.

It's only after that night that Derek begrudgingly comes to accept the fact that he not only doesn't mind having Stiles around, but might actually even like him, his stupid, traitorous brain keeping tallies of every positive quality Stiles possesses.

Like the fact that he's brave, and loyal, and compassionate, and clever, mind racing at lightning speed, a hundred different ideas, plans, and theories bouncing around inside his head at any given moment.

Stiles is a challenge, a constant battle of wit and fury to rival his own. Unlike everyone else, Stiles doesn't give Derek the chance to intimidate him, always at the ready to prove that he isn't afraid of him, seeing right through Derek's bullshit tough guy facade to the fragile ego underneath, throwing his own weak threats right back in his face, and giving just as good as he gets.

Stiles is comfort in the form of foolishly optimistic reassurance, shaky laughter, and self-deprecating humor, staving off the never-ending waves of fear and desperation that threaten to consume them both in every seemingly hopeless predicament they find themselves in.

After a while, scenario after mad, perilous, life-or-death scenario, time spent in each other's company becomes almost addictive, exhilarating, rather than vexing and obligatory. Melodramatic death threats carelessly thrown without cause start to lack conviction. Playful banter and lighthearted shoving all but replace heated bickering and power moves. After a while, thrusting Stiles up against hard surfaces becomes so much more than a necessity for garnering respect and gaining favor; it becomes a game.

• • •

They're outside of a club one night, tracking down the kanima's latest potential target, and Derek has got Stiles pressed up against the jagged brick wall of the building, black leather jacket and tight-fitted jeans crushed against worn plaid flannel and dark blue denim. His hands are fisted in the front of Stiles's shirt, canines grazing his ear as he growls out weak threats detailing all the things he's going to do to Stiles if tonight's plan goes awry. 

It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Derek hasn't already done before, (most effectively, he muses, against Stiles's own bedroom wall) except that, this time, something feels different. Something about Stiles smells different. Without thinking, Derek presses in closer, buries his nose into the curve of Stiles's neck, and breathes him in, catching notes of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and black currant wine, twisting into an intoxicating helix and radiating throughout his entire body, swimming in his veins, inexplicably evident with every pulse of Stiles's heartbeat as it thunders against his ribcage.

Derek would be lying if he said that he hadn't caught a hint of that scent before; a subtle, lingering aroma, hidden just beneath the surface of Stiles's skin, every time Derek had gotten too close for comfort. Before now, he had never quite been able to place it, had never concentrated hard enough to bother with riddling it out, always too preoccupied dealing with the monster of the week. 

Never before had it been this potent, this intense, this…

Oh. 

With a sharp twist, the cogs inside Derek's head finally start to turn, and he realizes that he is a complete fucking moron, because in that moment, Stiles smells like pure arousal, like all-encompassing desire, and really, how had it taken him this long to figure it out? After all, it's not like Stiles has ever responded to any of Derek's threats like a normal person.

"If you say one word," Derek warns as he shoves Stiles against his bedroom door, hands fisting into the front of Stiles's shirt.

"Oh what, you mean like, 'Hey dad, Derek Hale is in my room, bring your gun'?" Stiles says cooly, and just like that, the threat dies in the back of Derek's throat, fear and vulnerability slipping through the cracks just long enough for Stiles to take notice; invisible to anyone else, but glaringly obvious to the detail-oriented observer standing right in front of him.

"Yeah, that's right," Stiles asserts, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips like Derek's the one pinned to the wall, caught in a compromising position. "If I'm harboring your fugitive ass, it's my house, my rules, buddy."

He swats Derek's shoulder with the back of his hand, and Derek just stares down at it, dumbfounded. When he looks back up, Stiles's eyes are trained on his lips, and Derek finds himself momentarily frozen by the sight of Stiles's tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, struck speechless by the way his pupils scatter to the edge of his irises as he locks eyes with Derek, the faint uptick of Stiles's heartbeat threatening to jumpstart his own. He swallows thickly, unable to give anything more than a curt nod, before releasing his grip on Stiles's shirt.

But he can't just concede, can't just let Stiles win. He gets one last petty jab in, straightening Stiles's jacket with a harder tug than he knows is strictly necessary. But Stiles, it seems, is just as determined to not let Derek have the upper hand, reaching forward to grasp the collar of his leather jacket, and tugging down just as hard. Derek has to fight the foreign burst of laughter bubbling up inside his chest at the soft "oh my god" that escapes Stiles's mouth as he dodges Derek's glare and nearly topples over his desk chair.

Or—

"Start the car, or I'm gonna rip your throat out…with my teeth," Derek growls, emphasizing the threat with a flash of his teeth that he hopes come across as intimidating, rather than the wincing grimace it actually is.

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, fixing him with narrowed eyes and a glare that nearly calls his bluff, silently screaming 'do it, I dare you,' before heaving a long-suffering sigh and swiftly turning away to expose the long, pale canvas of his neck as he gives in to Derek's demands. 

And even though he is literally dying, and should probably be more concerned about the fact that he's bleeding out all over Stiles's passenger seat, Derek spends far more time than he cares to admit wondering if that wasn't an invitation.

It hits him with all the force of a tidal wave, sweeping him under the current. In that moment, Derek finds himself inexplicably drawn toward Stiles, like he's sunlight dancing across the surface of the water, a fresh breath of salty sea air in the lungs of a drowning man. As the seconds tick past, Derek finds it increasingly more difficult to let Stiles go, driven wild by the desire to press himself further into Stiles's personal space and drink in that warm, inviting scent, to nuzzle against the curves of his neck and collarbones and mark Stiles with his own scent. And it's that fact that sends a jolt of absolute terror spiking through Derek's chest, because he's never wanted to do that with anyone before.

He reigns himself in just long enough to shove Stiles away from him, tearing his gaze away from Stiles's retreating form as he makes his way back into the nightclub in a flustered huff. Once he's certain that Stiles is safely tucked away inside, Derek makes a run for it, bolting back to his hideaway and locking himself in his makeshift bedroom. He slides down the doorframe to the cold concrete floor and buries his face in the palms of his hands, shoulders shaking with the stirrings of a breakdown.

• • •

The next morning, Derek wakes with a cold, calculating satisfaction, convinced that feelings are stupid, that opening yourself up to that kind of vulnerability only leads to self-destruction, and that his interest in Stiles Stilinski is merely that; an interest, an infatuation, a distraction; hoping like hell that these foreign feelings will falter and disappear on their own. 

Because Derek simply refuses to allow himself to even entertain the idea of ever falling in love again, far too broken and haunted by the ever-present guilt of losing his family, of loving and trusting someone so much and so blindly that it had cost him everything and everyone he had ever loved. After Kate, after…the incident, Derek had written off romance for the rest of his foreseeable future, promising himself that he would never again make the mistake of falling for someone as hard as he had fallen for her.

It's in shameless illogicality and childish avoidance that Derek places the blame (at least, partially) on Stiles. Convinces himself that he hates Stiles for making him feel this way. Hates himself for having fallen victim to Stiles's maddeningly adorable charm, for having foolishly let him weave his way under Derek's skin in a way that even Kate never could. Finds his fear of the thought of what inevitable heartbreak Stiles could cause him if he were to give in to his feelings as perfectly justifiable grounds for taking out all of his aggression and unresolved tension on Stiles.

Repeatedly shoving him up against walls at random. 

Shouting at him for no apparent reason other than because he can. 

Using any excuse he can think of to get closer to Stiles, to pull him deeper into pointless, repetitive arguments, just so he can spend more time in his company. 

Delighting in the way Stiles's heartbeat thunders against his ribcage, the way the rush of emotion paints his pulse points and the hollows of his cheekbones. 

Relishing the fact that he is the cause, that he has the power to elicit such an impassioned response in this infuriating, silver-tongued little shit. 

Reveling in the way Stiles's clever, zealous words rip through Derek's skin, latching onto every fiber of his being and lighting up his nerves like a live wire.

It's easier this way, pretending that this innate connection between them, this weird brand of accidental flirting that straddles the line between intimidation and sexual tension, doesn't exist. That it's merely a figment of his imagination gone rogue, a looming nightmare hell-bent on capturing him and swallowing him whole, just as viciously as it had the last time. Only this time, he's not going to give in. He won't allow himself to fall victim to his own vulnerability. He's determined not to.

Besides, even if Derek could entertain the idea that he's even capable of having romantic feelings for someone else, let alone Stiles, of all people, there's still the complication of it being—

Unrequited.

Because Derek knows full well that Stiles is, and always has been, madly in love with Lydia Martin. And how does Derek know that? Because Stiles never shuts up about it. So even if he wanted to, there's no way in hell that Derek could ever convince Stiles to change his mind, to choose him instead, because, as Derek finally comes to realize one quiet afternoon spent in the company of his pack, loving someone isn't a choice. It's not something you can just will away through sheer spite, either, burying it deep down and pretending it doesn't exist. Love takes a hold of you whether you want it to or not, and Stiles, Derek realizes with a resigned sigh, has dug his claws in deep.

Not that it matters.

Although, sometimes—

Sometimes, he'll get foolishly hopeful. He'll catch a hint of that familiar, intoxicating scent, paired with the quickening pace of Stiles's heartbeat every time they accidentally touch, a simple brush of skin against skin that sends an electric spark through Derek's chest…but, because Derek is stubbornly self-deprecating, he simply writes those moments off as coincidence, as Stiles's inherent nervousness and awkwardness, chalking it up to sheer curiosity and raging teenage hormones. 

And even if, by some miracle, the near-constant aroma of Stiles's arousal is because of Derek, well…that alone isn't enough. There's no affection or deeper meaning to be found in lust, after all. And one night with Stiles isn't what Derek is after. If Stiles ever chooses to be with him, what Derek wants is a long-term connection…life-long, if he's being honest…if he should ever be so lucky. 

Still, the nagging notion that he'll never be good enough, that he isn't whole enough, that he hasn't healed enough, to be the kind of companion that someone like Stiles truly needs, eats away at him, stops him from wishing and wanting, from trying. Despite Stiles's infectious optimism that could change the hearts and minds of even the most stubborn, foolish, and broken of people, Derek isn't certain if he'll ever be capable. So he resolves to keep his affections hidden, waiting in vain for someone who will likely never want him as he is.

• • •

Time wears on, and in the summer that follows Scott and Stiles's sophomore year, after the events surrounding Gerard Argent's death and Jackson's transformation from kanima to werewolf, permanently binding Lydia and Jackson as soulmates, Stiles finds himself rapidly losing interest in his pursuit of Lydia Martin, convinced that he never had a chance with her to begin with, and is honestly just content with the fact that she finally seems happy, even if it isn't with him. 

The imposing threat of the alpha pack ends up being much less dramatic than they had originally anticipated. Apparently, the alpha pack is comprised of a makeshift council, containing alphas from each pack in the surrounding area. According to Peter Hale, there have been several werewolf packs living in secrecy across the west coast for quite some time now. 

They'd primarily kept to themselves…that is, until the kanima threatened to expose the existence of their kind. The council traveled to Beacon Hills with the sole intent of putting an end to the problem in the only way that they saw fit: by putting down the abomination, ending the reign of the alpha responsible, acquiring the remaining members of their pack, and dividing them amongst the alphas of the council and their respective packs.

In a rare moment of bravery (or perhaps stupidity) Peter takes it upon himself to negotiate a compromise, and travels to the hidden location of the council. Consequently, the alpha pack is never heard from again, nor is Peter Hale. It can only be assumed that one of three things happened: either the council mistook Peter for the alpha of the Beacon Hills werewolf pack and killed him on the spot, living up to their legend; Peter somehow escaped their conviction and is currently on the run; or, more likely, sassy, silver-tongued Peter Hale talked his way into joining a new pack, and he now runs with an entirely different class of werewolves. Whatever the case, Derek is relieved to finally have his creepy, murderous, meddlesome uncle gone.

In the beginning of the summer, Derek forges a peace treaty with Chris Argent, agreeing to work together in the event of future catastrophes, and the group of reckless, misfit adolescent werewolves and humans becomes a hybrid pack. Derek, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd spend the summer lounging around in the ruins of the old Hale house, regarding Derek's rules, regulations, and attempts at training them with reluctance and rebellion. 

On the edge of summer's end, Derek finally gives in to Stiles's relentless insistence that Derek might actually require Stiles's help reigning in his newly formed pack. And so, much to Derek's indignation, Stiles becomes the official designated researcher of all things supernatural, and, annoyingly enough, Derek's go-to guide for advice and assistance.

• • •

Over the course of his junior year, Stiles and Derek are wrought even closer, collaborating over ideas for pack activities and training exercises. And, staying true to his new role in the group, in nearly no time at all, Stiles becomes incredibly well-versed in pack dynamics and werewolf lore, presenting Derek with detailed sketches of his plans for strengthening their senses to full peak, exercises in anchor grounding and emotional control, agility and strength training, physical defensive and combative strategies, and, most importantly, pack bonding activities. 

Slowly, gradually, the tension between the two of them shifts, builds, ever so subtly with each passing day, and before Stiles can even register what's happening, his attention veers, rather aggressively, toward Derek Hale. 

And, okay, just so we're clear, it's not like Stiles has never noticed how attractive the guy is. He's not one to dismiss physical beauty worthy of a statuesque god so willingly, even if its owner happens to be a snarky, sassy, surly sourwolf with a penchant (or perhaps a kink? no, shut up) for shoving him up against hard surfaces like his own goddamn bedroom wall as a means of intimidation. 

(And seriously, his traitorous body needs to stop reacting to that kind of shit in all the wrong ways, because one of these days, Derek is going to notice and then he'll die of embarrassment before Derek even has the chance to rip his throat out.)

So yeah. Obviously, it's not lost on Stiles that Derek Hale is hot. He gets it. He's well fucking aware of the fact that Derek is…ugh, really fucking gorgeous, actually, in an almost sinful how the hell are you not Photoshopped kind of way, with his perfectly sculpted body, his dark tousled hair, devil-may-care five o'clock shadow skating across his chiseled jawline, not to mention the fact that his eyes are this indescribable combination of blue, green, and hazel that Stiles can't even put a proper name to, but sometimes he kind of wants to paint it…

So.

Yeah.

He's always known Derek was attractive. It's just…it's getting a little harder to ignore lately, that's all.

Okay, so maybe it goes a little beyond simply finding Derek attractive. Maybe he'd imagined that night at the club more than a few times while he was in the shower, and maybe he'd called out Derek's name in a low, throaty moan as he'd climaxed. But it's totally not his fault, okay? It's just, you know, hormones and shit. Just because Stiles sometimes thinks about Derek in a non-platonic way doesn't mean that he's like, in love with him, or anything.

And even if, hypothetically speaking, he was starting to develop actual real feelings for Derek during all the time he'd been spending with him lately…it's not like it matters. It's not like he could actually do anything about it. It's not like he has a shot in hell of ever making that fantasy a reality.

First of all, there's the obvious attraction factor. Stiles, in comparison to Derek, with his short brown hair that's slowly growing out at awkward angles, his gangly physique, and his constant flailing, fidgeting, and anxiety-induced word vomit, isn't exactly the most alluring romantic prospect. (Or so he keeps telling himself.)

Second, there's the somewhat complicated matter of their age difference. Derek is basically a whole college and master's degree older than Stiles, and though he would argue that Derek is every bit the immature, sarcastic little shit that Stiles prides himself in being, Stiles knows for a fact that his dad would never approve. In fact, Stiles is fairly certain his father would rather shit in his own hands and clap than let his son date an older man. A convicted felon, no less. (Granted, it was a false accusation and the charges were dropped, but still.)

Third of all, Derek is…complicated. Mercurial. Cynical. Reclusive. Reticent. And Stiles gets it, completely. Because he knows what Derek has been through. He'd snuck into his dad's office and read the Hale house fire case so many times he's practically got every detail memorized. He knows full well why Derek is this broken shell of a man, drowning in undeserved survivor's guilt, haunted by his past mistakes and regrets. He's skeptical and distrusting for good reason, and probably only tolerates Stiles's company because Stiles is useful to him. 

Which brings him to fourth of all: Stiles isn't entirely certain of the exact nature of their relationship. Derek doesn't really do feelings…or even friendship, probably, for that matter. At least, not with a guy like Stiles. And certainly not willingly. They aren't enemies, exactly (never were, really, more like reluctant partners in crime) nor are they anywhere near the same level of friendship and trust that Stiles shares with Scott. 

So he's not about to test their constant-state-of-flux boundaries and budding friendship by confessing that he is possibly sort of completely in love with him. It would be awkward and embarrassing to the point of torture, and Derek would probably definitely rip his throat out…with his teeth (and ugh, Stiles really wishes that he could stop finding that particular interaction so goddamned hot, because he really shouldn't, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him.) 

Worst of all, it would mean no more Stiles and Derek bonding time, which Stiles has grown rather fond of. So, despite the fact that Derek has become a near-constant presence in his life and Stiles really, really wants to act on his stupid, dumb feelings every time Derek so much as looks in his direction, Stiles promises himself that he won't breathe a word to Derek, that he'll keep his mouth shut and keep his feelings a secret, even if it kills him. 

Stiles can manage to not talk about something, right? 

It's fine. It'll be fine.

• • •

Over time, as hard as he tries to pretend otherwise, Derek begrudgingly comes to terms with the fact that Stiles has become something of a permanent fixture in his life, and, terrifyingly enough, the one person he's come to trust most in this world. Which would explain why, over the course of the year that follows, Stiles also becomes the one person Derek comes to whenever he's wounded. 

Unfortunately, that tends to happen quite a lot, given the number of times Derek crosses paths with rogue werewolf hunters, or accidentally strays into another pack's territory. The majority of Derek's injuries are the direct result of involvement in foreign pack drama, which is difficult to avoid, given how reckless and impulsive Erica and Jackson can sometimes act.

But, despite the constant string of curses and complaints, Stiles always takes care of him. In fact, Stiles becomes so accustomed to playing werewolf doctor that he starts keeping a makeshift first aid kit hidden under his bed for just such occasions, courtesy of Dr. Deaton, local veterinarian and supernatural specialist. The kit is filled with all manner of cure-alls, from Spiderman Band-Aids, to gauze, to dissolvable stitches, as well as twenty-seven different poison antidotes, a dozen lighters, and spare Wolfsbane bullets. Sometimes, if Derek is on his best behavior, Stiles will even share a pint of Ben and Jerry's with him as he tucks Derek into his bed, because, obviously, ice cream is the cure to everything.

After a while, Stiles stops freaking out about Derek's Black Widow level skills of agility and finesse, stops flailing and whisper-screaming holy shit, wear a fucking bell every time he turns a corner in his house and Derek is suddenly just there, slinking out from the shadows with a self-satisfied smirk on his stupid handsome face, and stops reprimanding Derek for his inability to use the front door like a normal person, as opposed to climbing through Stiles's bedroom window at all hours of the goddamn night. 

Sometimes, Derek will drop by with special research projects for Stiles, deciphering strange symbols or concocting antidotes. Sometimes, it's to ask for his help in planning sessions for pack training activities and exercises. But then sometimes, more often than not, Derek will just show up on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window without rhyme or reason, claiming that he's bored and would rather spend time in Stiles's company than stay at home by himself. 

The first time it happens, Stiles just stares at him for a few seconds before choking out a disbelieving Really? And Derek just rolls his eyes like it's not a huge fucking deal that a hot alpha werewolf doesn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night, shrugs his perfectly sculpted shoulders, and asks if Stiles is any good at making grilled cheese. 

He is. Stiles makes a mean grilled cheese, he'll have you know, despite what a certain sourwolf might claim otherwise. And no, they totally don't spend an entire hour making a huge stack of them, bickering over the merits of cheddar vs. mozzarella. Which definitely doesn't lead to an argument about which is better: cookies vs. brownies. How Stiles ends up with a kitchen countertop filled with all manner of baking supplies, insisting that they bake a batch of each from scratch (and one batch of cookie-brownie hybrids, you know, for science) so they can settle the debate once and for all, remains the greatest goddamned mystery of our time.

Derek's patience lasts all of five minutes as he watches Stiles struggle to open a bag of flour, before he's reaching for the bag so he can just do it himself. But Stiles won't let him have it, insisting that he's got it handled, that he'd just be loosening the pickle jar for Derek at this point, even though it's a flimsy paper bag, Stiles, not a pickle jar, but Stiles stubbornly refuses, playing keep-away with the bag of flour. They end up in a sort of vertical wrestling match over it, literally slapping each other's hands out of the way. 

And then the bag of flour bursts open and explodes in both of their faces, scattering the kitchen countertops, the sink, the fridge, the floor, in a blanket of white powder. Stiles blinks it out of his eyes and chances a glance over at Derek, who looks utterly ridiculous with a thick layer of flour coating his facial hair and embedded in his big surly eyebrows, and Stiles presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh, but ends up inhaling a mouthful of flour and a cloud of it puffs out of his mouth as he exhales. And Derek is just staring at him, not saying a word, and uh oh, he thinks, there I go pissing off the alpha again, never thought I'd die covered in baking ingredients, but here we are. 

But then something incredible happens. Without warning, Derek doubles over and bursts out laughing, just full belly laughing, eyes crinkling around the corners, and it's the most surreal experience because Stiles is not used to seeing this side of Derek, this lighter, happier, unencumbered version, and the sight of it sends a pang through his heart, making him ache for the person Derek probably was before the fire, for the person he probably could have been if his life hadn't been turned upside down. In that moment, Stiles vows to make it his personal mission to try to make Derek smile and laugh like that as much as he possibly can.

By the time they take the last batch out of the oven, the kitchen is an absolute war zone, mostly because, after the flour incident, they'd basically devolved into a low-key food fight, flinging chocolate chips at each other and swiping icing across each other's faces. And then Stiles realizes that it's nearly four in the morning and his dad will be home within the hour and will totally kill him if he sees the mess they've made, so he starts begrudgingly taking out the cleaning supplies and setting to work mopping the floor, while Derek tends to the giant tower of mixing bowls stacked in the sink. The kitchen gleams when they're finished, the Sheriff is none the wiser.

Stiles keeps expecting it to just be a one time thing, some weird twilight zone alternate universe where Derek is nice and they actually get along and like each other. But for some reason, it keeps happening. Derek keeps showing up outside his bedroom window, asking to come in. And no matter the time of night, or how much it kind of freaks Stiles out (because, really, Derek Hale wants to come over to his house and just…what, hang out? Like two normal people? Like they're friends? Or— no, oh my god, calm down, it's not a date) Stiles always obliges, immediately dropping whatever he'd been doing and leading Derek down to the kitchen for another round of experimental baking.

Or sometimes, they'll set up camp in the living room, and spend the evening curled around opposite ends of the couch with a bowl of popcorn between them. Hesitantly, like he's afraid one wrong move will send Derek running, Stiles turns toward him, manages a shaky, so, have you ever watched Doctor Who? and gets this impish little gleam in his eyes when Derek shakes his head. (Derek can't help but laugh and roll his eyes whenever Stiles insists on singing along, very loudly and off key, to the lyric-less theme song.)

Derek never really cared too much for television, but he likes watching Stiles binge his way through his favorite shows and movies, likes the way Stiles will look over at him every few minutes with a bright smile on his face to see if Derek's enjoying the content just as much as he is, the way Stiles gets so worked up over seemingly insignificant details, his entire body flailing as he delves into twenty-minute monologues about all the plot twists and character growth in BBC Sherlock, Supernatural, and the MCU.

And then there are those rare, magnificent moments in between. Nights when they don't watch anything at all. Instead, Stiles talks about his mother, about the illness that took her life, about all of the different destructive and detrimental ways in which his father had dealt with his grief, about how Scott had been there for him, every step of the way…and sometimes, Derek shares tiny little fragments about his family, too; brief glimpses into the life he'd led before the fire, before Kate Argent had stolen it all away from him. 

It's those moments that are the most difficult for Derek to admit he covets, and maybe that's what makes them so precious. Because Stiles is the only one who seems to understand the constant, all-consuming pain and self-inflicted guilt that Derek has been going through for over seven years now. 

Because Stiles is incredibly easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to. Because Stiles doesn't force Derek to open up about his past, doesn't expect him to continue, even if he'd stopped speaking mid-sentence, eyes glazing over as he disassociates. 

Because Stiles fills the silence where Derek had trailed off with his own words and memories, gently tugging Derek back to the present. Because Stiles is the first and only person with whom Derek feels comfortable enough to talk to about his family. 

On more than one occasion, Derek has to stop himself from wandering into the dangerous territory of time rewritten, imagining what life would have been like if Stiles could have met them, if Derek could have met Stiles's mother, if neither of them had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the hollow heartbreak that death often brings.

Because, it's like Stiles always says, "Death doesn't just happen to you. It happens to everyone around you. To all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it." 

And he's right, because it does. The loss of a loved one latches onto you, eats at you until you're just an empty shell. And Stiles is the first person he's come across who truly understands what that feels like.

In those moments, Derek can't help but admire how brilliant Stiles is, how well he keeps his own brokenness hidden from the rest of the world. Can't help but find solace in the fact that maybe, he doesn't have to anymore, that neither of them do, now that they've got each other to confide in. And that's…Derek doesn't want to call it hope, exactly…but it's definitely something.

• • •

As the months stack up and fall semester bleeds into spring, Stiles grows accustomed to finding himself in Derek's company more often than he spends the night alone, slipping into a cozy routine, night-owl movie marathons and kitchen adventures a tradition in the making. It should feel weird, shouldn't make sense, but somehow, it does. It feels…oddly natural, comfortable. 

So comfortable, in fact, that sometimes, Derek will fall asleep on Stiles's shoulder mid-marathon, his heavy, sprawled-out form sinking into the couch cushions as he coils his arms around Stiles's waist, his grip like a vice, all but pinning Stiles to his seat. And then Stiles is left with the impossible task of trying to coax a sleepy, surly werewolf upstairs before his dad comes home, threatening Derek with the task of having to explain to the Sheriff why Derek is practically lying on top of his son at such an ungodly hour of the morning. (Because, let's face it, there's no way they're going to be able to talk themselves out of that one.)

It's to no avail, though, because once Stiles finally does manage to drag Derek back up to his bedroom, Derek proceeds to fall asleep in Stiles's bed, leaving Stiles to curl up along the very edge of the mattress, because Derek apparently likes to sprawl. And the worst part about it is that, after Derek leaves in the morning, Stiles's bed always smells like sourwolf, his blankets, pillows, and sheets embedded with Derek's scent. Never mind the fact that it's actually an oddly comforting, earthy fragrance…like petrichor, like rain-soaked grass and autumn leaves, like an early morning run through the woods…not that Stiles would ever admit to that. Instead, he just pretends that it annoys him, especially when his best friend starts to take notice.

One afternoon, Scott comes over after school to study for an upcoming history exam. Scott is doing slightly better this semester than he had been all last year, but he still needs Stiles's help, or he is definitely going to fail the majority of his classes. Scott barrels into Stiles's bedroom and stretches out on his bed, burying his face into the comforter and pretending to cry over the mountain of notes and textbooks that Stiles has laid out in front of him. 

And then, mid-groan, Scott suddenly freezes, all traces of playful banter traded for alarm as he bounds up and glares at Stiles's comforter, head cocked to the side.

"Dude," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Why does your bed smell like Derek Hale? Has he…has he been sleeping here…with you?"

Of course, Stiles's initial reaction is to lie through his goddamn teeth, because how the hell is he supposed to explain their little domestic routine to Scott? But then he remembers that Scott is his best friend, and that, oh yeah, he also happens to possess supernatural werewolf senses, and could catch him in a lie just by listening for the subtle shift in his blood pressure. Plus, there's no way that he can deny the fact that his bed smells like their alpha. Scott would recognize Derek's scent anywhere. So Stiles puts on his best scowling face and starts rambling, hoping his racing heart and flushed skin are mistaken for irritation rather than nerves.

"Ugh, I know, dude, it's totally weird. So, you know how Derek is like, always getting himself into trouble, right? Well, the bastard always ends up coming to me, with like, no regard to the time of night. And I always fix him up, because, you know, the whole not wanting to get mauled to death by a werewolf thing. And, because he's always out all night playing werewolf Batman, the guy never gets any sleep, so he decides my bed is the perfect fucking place to crash, I guess, so that's why it always smells like him…no, don't look at me like that, it's not like he sleeps with me, okay, I just…I mean, it's my own fault, really, because I should probably just lock my window. Of course, Derek would probably just break it and come in anyway…"

No, hang on. That makes it sound like Derek would resort to vandalism just to get close to Stiles, and that's…no, that's not how Derek works. (Probably. He doesn't actually know. It's not like he's had ample opportunity to test that theory. He's just always left his window open for Derek to climb through without a second thought.) 

But then…come to think of it, Stiles isn't entirely certain why Derek always chooses to come to him, of all people, anyway. It's not like Stiles is the only person who's capable of fixing Derek up after a fight…there's Deaton, and Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd…people who've studied werewolves for far longer than Stiles has even been alive…people who actually are werewolves…

Stiles interrupts his own internal word vomit and glances over at Scott, hoping like hell that his short attention span has already moved on to other, more distracting topics (Allison…Lacrosse…Allison) and has already forgotten the fact that Derek's scent is not only all over Stiles's bedroom, but also all over Stiles himself, which, yeah, okay, he knows what that probably looks like to Scott, but Scott's got nothing to worry about, because that is so not ever going to happen because, well…Stiles just isn't that lucky. 

But Scott's got this look on his face like he's genuinely concerned and a little bit uncomfortable and definitely grossed out to the point where he might actually start crying for real, and he's fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and averting his eyes and then, horror of all horrors, he asks, "Are you and Derek dating, or something?"

Stiles splutters, issuing a series of choking noises that have got Scott legitimately worried now.

"I…what? No, of course not! That's…gross, Scott. Why would you even say that?" Stiles chokes out, the discordant crack in his voice completely giving him away. And now he's screaming internally, all-consuming mortification and relief at having finally been caught in the biggest lie of his life (because, hey, pretending not to have feelings for someone is exhausting) waging war for control inside his head. 

Scott raises his hands in surrender, offering Stiles his most convincing innocent puppy dog eyes (there's a joke in there somewhere, but Stiles doesn't have the patience to make it right now.)

"Okay, fine. So you're not dating Derek. I get it. But then…" Scott trails off, reaching underneath his ass to pull out a slightly lopsided stuffed wolf that he apparently hadn't realized he'd been sitting on.

"Why do you have this?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. Without thinking, Stiles launches onto his bed and rips the little plush toy out of Scott's hands, stroking the top of its head and pressing its little black nose into his cheek.

"Dude, don't sit on Sourwolf," he scolds, and seriously, he's going to murder Scott for the ridiculous grin that spreads across his face at the mention of the wolf's name.

"…isn't that what you call Derek?" he asks, biting back laughter.

"No…maybe…whatever, fuck you," Stiles says, shoving Sourwolf under his pillow and pacing the length of his bedroom, striped socks slipping across the hardwood floor. And then he pauses, realization dawning on him as he catches the wide, shit-eating grin unfurling across Scott's face.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps. "You're fucking with me, aren't you? You know."

"What do I know, Stiles?" Scott asks, his voice dripping with mock innocence.

"Okay," Stiles sighs in defeat, dropping down onto the bed to sit beside Scott. "So, exactly how long have you known that I've got a crush on Derek?"

Scott merely chuckles and tilts his head to the side, studying his best friend with a look of pure amusement.

"Probably a lot longer than you have, buddy," Scott laughs, fixing Stiles with one of his signature heart-melting crooked smiles.

Stiles lets out a little sigh of relief, anxiety uncoiling ever so slightly in the pit of his stomach at the notion that his best friend not only knows, but approves.

It's a nice moment.

And then Scott opens his mouth and ruins it.

"I mean, it's kind of obvious, you know? You just get really stupid around him. Like your whole brain just stops functioning whenever Derek's around. It's like someone took your brain, threw it into a jar, and shook it really hard."

Stiles maintains that Scott more than deserved getting punched in the arm.

• • •

One evening in late April, during a thunderstorm dredged up from the deepest depths of hell, Derek catches Stiles walking home in the pouring rain…or rather, Derek rescues Stiles from the potential threat of pneumonia. 

Stiles's Jeep is in the shop again, his dad is working late at the station, and he's just missed the last bus, so he's resorted to walking home from lacrosse practice, in the middle of what can only be described as a soft-core hurricane…without an umbrella, or a raincoat, or even proper footwear…just a pair of muddied-up sneakers and a bright red, rain-soaked hoodie.

Derek heaves a dramatic sigh as he pulls up along the sidewalk, rolls down the windows of his Camaro, and shouts, "Get the fuck in the car, Stiles." 

Stiles jerks up at the sudden noise, his eyes lingering on Derek's darkened features through the sliver of the window, before a huge, ridiculous grin spreads across his face and he immediately jumps into the passenger seat of Derek's car, shrugging out of his sweatshirt and splashing water all over the pristine leather. Derek winces, on the verge of telling Stiles off, but stops dead at the sight of him—

Rainwater dripping down the length of his neck, connecting the smattering of freckles and moles between pale patches of skin like constellations in the night sky.

White shirt clinging to every curve of his torso, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination (but that doesn't stop Derek's from running wild.) 

His tongue darts out from the corner of his mouth to lick a stray drop of water from his lips, and Derek nearly whimpers. 

And then he's arching his back into the heated leather seats, moaning his appreciation in a way that sends a jolt like a shot of whiskey through Derek's chest, and Derek grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white and he thinks, this is it, this is how I die. 

Somehow, miraculously, Derek doesn't crash the car, keeping his eyes averted as he drives Stiles home, berating and lecturing him the entire time about how stupid he is, and how he'll probably catch a fever, and when he does, he can drag his own sorry ass out of bed to get himself hot tea and a bowl of soup, because Derek sure as hell isn't going to be the one to do it. Stiles bites back a laugh, taking it for the bullshit lie it so clearly is. 

Finally, they pull up in front of his house, and while Stiles's eyes are averted, Derek allows himself a moment to really take him in…rain-soaked clothes clinging to his lightly toned muscles, trickles of water streaming down the surface of his skin, lips stained red, blushing from the tangled mix of hot and cold air, steam clouding up the windshield as Stiles breathes out spirals of heat against it. It's intensely beautiful. Stiles is intensely beautiful, and it makes Derek want to lean in and smother him in kisses until the day he dies, to cover every inch of his pale, gorgeous skin with his tongue and his teeth. 

Stiles turns back around, fixing Derek with a curious expression as his fingertips toy with the handle of the door.

"Derek, I—" he begins, sounding just as breathless as Derek feels.

"Don't—" Derek interrupts him, clearing his throat and cursing his voice for having gone so weak. "Don't ever let me catch you doing that again, got it?"

"Oh my god," Stiles says slowly, a brilliant smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You actually do care about me, don't you?"

Derek freezes, breaking his transfixion and rapidly readjusting the hinges of his mask…he can't lose control…can't let it show…not after he'd worked so hard to keep his feelings hidden. He's got to stay calm. Nonchalant. Casual.

"Of course I do," he says, with as much composure as he can manage. "You're pack."

Stiles bites his lower lip to keep his smug little smile in check, and it's so fucking adorable that Derek just can't help himself. Before Stiles can open the door, Derek fists one of his hands into the front of Stiles's shirt and pulls him close.

"If you die from pneumonia, or whatever the fuck you might've caught out there walking around in the freezing rain like a dumbass, I will kill you, and that's a promise," Derek growls, the ghost of a smile skating across his lips.

Stiles merely rolls his eyes, fighting back the urge to laugh, and climbs out of the car, stumbling onto the pavement like his limbs are at war with gravity. He reaches the front door and turns his key in the lock, looking back with a hopeful grin, and gives Derek a little wave before he steps into his house. Derek drives off in a make-believe huff, while Stiles sinks down the length of the door once he gets inside, slumping to the floor with a ridiculous smile on his face, hardly caring that he's freezing and soaked to the bone. Nope, none of that matters, because Derek had just admitted out loud that he cares about Stiles. And that's definitely something.

• • •

One thing that Derek absolutely hates about Stiles is his taste in music. Stiles blasts the shit out of his Jeep's speakers, singing along with a truly horrible excuse for music at the top of his lungs. After one too many dubstep remixes, Derek has no choice but to insist that they take the Camaro out on their pack training sessions instead. The alternative is smashing Stiles's iPod to bits, which Derek would normally have no qualms about doing, it's just…well…Stiles had worked really hard to be able to afford that iPod, and Derek would feel terrible if he broke it. He did try hiding it once, but Stiles found it almost immediately, nearly tearing off the pockets of Derek's leather jacket in the process.

The summer before senior year, Derek decides he wants to take the pack on a road trip up to the mountains for a couple of weeks of private, intensive training sessions. The entire trip had been planned several months in advance, a collaborative effort developed by Stiles and Derek to make the pack stronger, more alert, and more tightly-knit via training exercises that Stiles had charmingly christened packtivities (Derek has developed a bad habit of smacking Stiles across the back of the head every time he uses that word. And he's definitely going to detach a retina if Stiles makes the Camping! It's gonna be in-tents! joke one more fucking time.)

Unfortunately for Derek, since Stiles's Jeep is far roomier than Derek's Camaro, Derek, Stiles, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all pile into the powder blue death-mobile for one agonizingly long drive up the mountainside, with far too much exposure to Stiles's terrible taste in music. (Erica is an evil little instigator; she sings just as loudly and off-key as Stiles does.)

Meanwhile, in the disgustingly adorable couples' carpool, sits Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson. When all of them finally arrive, they set up camp at the edge of the mountain, in a secluded little clearing surrounded by pine trees and berry bushes. The tent-sharing set up goes as follows: Scott and Allison to the first tent, Lydia and Jackson to the second, Erica and Boyd to the third…leaving Derek, Stiles, and Isaac to share the last tent (at least they'd all thought to bring their own sleeping bags.)

Once everyone has unpacked and settled in, Lydia and Allison light up a campfire, while Stiles and Derek drive five blindfolded betas to the very top of the mountain for their first trial in tracking scent. Stiles gives Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson two items of clothing: one with Stiles's scent, and one with Derek's. Their instructions are to wait at the top of the mountain for a full hour, taking time to get acclimated to their surroundings, and giving Stiles and Derek plenty of time to trek their way back to the campsite. Then, after their sixty-minute period is up, they can take off their blindfolds, and find their way back to the campsite, using only their sense of smell to track Stiles and Derek down.

As they turn to leave, Stiles puts on his best Capitol accent, and says, "May the odds be ever in your favor," earning a sarcastic eye roll from Derek.

"This isn't the Hunger Games, Stiles. It's not like they're fighting to the death."

"Dude," Stiles says, shamelessly gaping at Derek. "You actually got that reference? I don't even remember watching that with you."

Derek responds with a simple shrug, sliding into the passenger's seat of the Jeep.

"So," Stiles muses as he climbs into the driver's side. "How come you didn't tell me you were a closet fanboy? I'd always thought you were just humoring me, you know? Watching all that sci-fi and action hero stuff with me. But it would appear that I have converted you."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek sighs, a small smile creeping its way across his lips.

"You know, I've got the trilogy in hardcover, if you ever want to borrow—"

"Shut up and drive, Stiles."

Stiles does as he's told, but his smile is as smug as ever.

As they drive back down the mountains through verdant woods, golden rays of the sun bleeding into the citrine skyline as the rolling hills of the mountainside swallow it whole, the two of them sink into a comfortable silence, neither of them feeling the need to fill the void with idle chatter. Stiles has, thankfully, turned the volume of his iPod down to a soft lull, and is no longer trying to balance driving with conducting the score to The Avengers. 

Stiles stares straight ahead, his fingertips drumming along the edge of the steering wheel in a steady rhythm, a small, contented smile on his lips. Derek focuses his attention on the patches of dirt embedded in the carpet of the passenger's seat, most likely his own doing over the past two years, and absentmindedly scrapes his black leather boots over the tears in the fabric, somehow managing to make them even worse. He keeps his head down, resting his chin against his palm, and slowly, ever so slightly, lifts his eyes to peer over at Stiles from underneath his lashes. If Stiles takes notice, he never lets on.

When they park the Jeep in the clearing at the edge of the mountain, they notice that the campfire has recently been put out, its remaining embers a dull orange, melting into the charcoaled ash of the burning tree bark. Lydia and Allison have, by the looks of it, retreated to one of their tents for the night, waiting for their boys to come back to the campsite. 

Stiles gets an inkling that Derek has no desire to go anywhere near the campfire until it's died out completely, so he perches atop the hood of his Jeep, lies back against the windshield, and pats the spot right next to him, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Derek gives him an exasperated glare, rolling his eyes and shuffling over to the car, before vaulting onto the hood in one smooth, graceful motion, and easing into the space beside Stiles.

Neither of them say a word as they lay there, staring up at the star-strewn sky through a tangled web of tree branches, shoulders and thighs pressed against one another's. By the time the betas return to the campsite, Derek and Stiles have already fallen asleep, and the image of Stiles's head draped over Derek's chest, Derek's arm wrapped tight around Stiles's waist, both of them softly snoring on the hood of Stiles's Jeep, is enough to send the five of them into hysterics, Erica hissing loudly at them all to shut up so she can get to her phone and snap a photo before they wake up.

Even Derek's signature death glares aren't enough to quell all the giggling he has to endure for the entirety of their two-week trip.

• • •

One morning in mid-summer, a few days after they'd returned from their camping trip, Stiles arrives at Derek's house with a determined look in his eyes, arms overflowing with home makeover catalogues, DIY brochures, and stacks of paint samples. As expected, Derek slams the door in Stiles's face. 

It takes all of two days and an endless barrage of okay but what ifs for Stiles to convince Derek to reconsider, pointing out that renovating the Hale house will serve as a fantastic pack bonding activity, that fixing the broken remnants of his home won't chase away the memories that Derek has of his family and of his old life…instead, it'll make way for new memories, for Derek's second family, his new pack, to weave their way into his life. It would become a place for all of them to assemble, to come and go as they please, and maybe then, Derek wouldn't feel so lonely. (The detailed visual of Jackson scowling and covered in paint might have been the determining factor that tipped Derek over the edge.)

The moment Derek finally agrees, Stiles sets the plan into motion, and the pack spends the rest of the summer tirelessly working together to rebuild the Hale house, sanding hardwood flooring and plastering scuffs and scrapes and holes, reinstalling plumbing and electric, choosing furniture and carpeting and repainting the walls. Each week, they devote their mornings and afternoons to working on a different section of the house, celebrating their hard day's work with pizza and takeaway, and piling onto Derek's recently purchased leather couches for movie marathons and Mario Kart tournaments in the evenings.

When it's all finally finished, Derek and the rest of the pack decide to throw a surprise party to celebrate Stiles's 18th birthday, complete with flameless candles stacked onto a massive three-tiered chocolate hazelnut cake. As a sort of thank you, Derek decides to bake Stiles's birthday cake entirely from scratch, whipping up the ingredients from muscle memory. 

It's a recipe they'd found together on Pinterest ages ago, always joking that if they ever ended up on a tag-team baking competition together, that would be their finale-winning show-stopper. It takes him hours, and he's fairly certain that if he didn't have werewolf healing, he'd have developed carpal tunnel just from the piping alone, but the look on Stiles's face when Derek carries it out, the way his eyes flutter closed when he takes his first bite, the way Stiles leans against him and whispers, dude, this is amazing, thank you so much, is totally worth it.

• • •

It's the last day of summer, the last day of freedom before classes kick back up and the majority of the pack is pulled back into the dismal routine of high school, homework, and after-school activities, and of course, Stiles can't sleep. Sure, the dangerous mix of Adderall and Red Bull he'd had the night before were probably the culprits, but mostly, Stiles reasons, it's nerves. Because, here's the thing: once classes resume and everyone's lives go back to being ridiculously busy, now with the added worry of college applications to potentially stir up pack drama, the lot of them won't be able to spend nearly as much time together as they had been all summer. Worst of all, Derek will be left all alone again, and Stiles can't help but worry what that's going to do to him.

Dragging his fingers through his ruffled mess of hair and deciding that there's far too much daylight pouring through his bedroom window for him to even consider trying to go back to sleep, Stiles springs up from his mattress and makes his way downstairs, hoping for something, anything to distract him from stressing out about Derek Hale's hypothetical emotional state. What Stiles gets instead is an eyeful of his father kissing Scott's mom. From the looks of it, she'd stayed the night…and from the casual comfortability of their embrace, it would appear that this has been going on for quite some time.

Stiles should be shocked, really, but given the Sheriff's odd behavior as of late, the way he drifts off mid-conversation with a goofy smile on his face, the hint of really familiar perfume clinging to his clothes, and the occasional smudge of a lipstick stain on his cheek, Stiles is honestly just relieved to have finally figured out his dad's secret.

After a few seconds, Stiles composes himself and quietly clears his throat, and the two of them immediately break apart, Melissa wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, the Sheriff attacking a phantom itch on the back of his head. Stiles presses his lips together, biting back a nervous laugh.

"So…this is new," he says, shoving his fists into the pockets of his pajama pants and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"I'll just…get your coat, then," the Sheriff mumbles, averting his eyes from Stiles's expectant gaze.

"It's summer. I didn't bring a coat," Melissa reminds him, lips curving into a small smile. "Morning, Stiles."

She waves an awkward goodbye in Stiles's general direction and quickly slips out the door, Sheriff Stilinski close on her heels.

"We're gonna have a nice, long chat about all of this after I've dropped Melissa off at work, alright? Promise," he says, closing the door behind him with an audible click.

Stiles sighs and retreats to the couch with a big bowl of fruit loops balanced in his lap, lounging around the living room while he waits, lazily flipping through the channels until he lands on BBC America, which only serves to remind him of his all-nighter sci-fi movie marathons with Derek. 

Since the beginning of summer, they'd been spending all of their free time with the rest of the pack, which had left little time nor reason for Derek to come by Stiles's house…a fact that shouldn't bother Stiles as much as it does. Sure, Derek still came over from time to time to get Stiles's pre-approval of certain video games and movies for pack bonding nights, still crashed on his bed whenever he'd stayed too late and didn't feel like venturing back home…but not nearly as much as he used to.

Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Stilinski strolls through the door, setting down his keys and flopping down onto the opposite end of the couch, sighing and rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"So, when's the wedding?" Stiles asks, smirking.

"Stiles, that's not—" he starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

"I mean, it's not like it would make much of a difference, really. Scott and I are basically already brothers, anyway. You marrying Melissa would just make it, you know…official."

"Stiles," he sighs, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Look, I'm sorry you had to find out about it like this. It's not like we were trying to keep it a secret from you and Scott, it's just…we didn't know if we could actually make this work, you know? We've been friends for so long, we've both got our baggage. We wanted to test the waters a little bit, keep it under wraps until we knew for sure that what we have is a good thing, for the both of us, and, most especially, for the both of you. And I didn't want to upset you, Stiles, because ever since your moth—"

"Dad, it's fine, really," Stiles sighs, cutting him off before he can make any more absurd apologies simply for having found love with someone other than Stiles's mom.

"Look, I know what you're going to say, and yeah, it's still a little weird because of…because of mom, okay, but no matter how long you wait and no matter who you end up with, it's always going to be weird, because I know that you'll never love anyone else the same way you love mom…but if I had to choose someone for you, not that I ever would because that would just be, like, super awkward and weird, but if I had to…I'd choose Melissa, because honestly, it kind of makes sense, you know? And, what it comes down to is…well…I haven't seen you this happy in years, and…and you deserve to be happy, dad."

Sheriff Stilinski stares at his son in astonishment, studying his expression intently, searching for the fault line…but in all honesty, there isn't one. Because there is nothing that Stiles wants more than to see his father happy.

"Thanks, kid," he says, pulling Stiles into a bone-crushing bear hug.

"Suffocating me, dad," Stiles laughs, squeezing his dad back even harder. When they finally pull away, Stiles mock-punches his dad in the arm and says, "Hey, you didn't have to keep it a secret from me and Scott, you know. We would've been fine with it."

Sheriff Stilinski rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles right back.

"Right," he says. "Like you've never kept any secrets from me."

"I know, I know," Stiles sighs dramatically. "I shouldn't have kept the whole werewolves are real and my best friend is one of them thing a secret from you for as long as I did, but hey, it's all out in the open now, right? You know about werewolves, I know about you and Melissa. So, we're good now. No more secrets."

"Huh," Sheriff Stilinski huffs thoughtfully. And then—

"You left out the part where your boyfriend's a werewolf, too."

Stiles gags on his cereal.

"Ew, Scott's not my boyfriend."

"Not Scott," his dad dismisses with a grimace. "I'm talking about Derek Hale."

Wait.

What.

"Look, son, I'm not mad," he says, pretending not to notice the fact that Stiles is literally sinking into the couch cushions in a vain attempt to disappear. "Granted, I'm not too thrilled about the age difference, but he seems like a nice enough guy, and you're an adult now. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions. I'd just like to know that you're happy with him, that he treats you right, that you're using protect—"

This isn't happening. Thisisnthappening. This conversation is so not happening.

Stiles's entire body is on fire.

"Oh my fucking god," he splutters before he can stop himself. "Derek is not my boyfriend. Why does everyone keep saying that about us?"

"Probably because that's exactly what it looks like," the Sheriff says, barking out a laugh.

"Okay, fine, whatever. If me helping Derek plan pack training exercises is the equivalent of me dating Derek, then, yeah, I guess we're dating. But don't tell him that, unless you want your only son to die a very painful, embarrassing, werewolf-related death."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I'll believe that when the werewolf in question stops climbing through your bedroom window at all hours of the night, or staring at you like a lovesick puppy-dog when he thinks I'm not watching. And don't give me that look, Stiles. I know perfectly well what goes on when you boys think I'm not home. I can't even begin to count the number of times I've caught you two asleep on this couch together…god only knows what you've been up to."

At that last line, Sheriff Stilinski crinkles his nose, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushions like he's worried he'll find something unseemly hiding underneath them. Stiles, now properly shocked and more than a little paranoid, mouths wordlessly at his father, arms at the ready for another bout of flailing. 

Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head, sighing heavily as he hoists himself up off the couch and reaches for his keys. He's nearly out the door and on his way to work when he doubles back suddenly, fixing Stiles with an affectionate smile, and says, "You know, Stiles…you deserve to be happy, too."

• • •

Later that evening, after Stiles has calmed down from his incredibly awkward (and emotionally scarring) conversation with his father, the pack meets over at Derek's house to celebrate their last night of freedom with a cheesy, romantic comedy movie marathon. 

Scott takes the news of their parents dating just as Stiles had thought he would, with a surprised, "Really? That's awesome!" and gives Stiles a high-five, musing over their potential speeches as groomsmen (the more embarrassing, the better, obviously) and getting far too worked up over a wedding that hasn't even been announced, let alone discussed between the couple in question.

At around 11PM, everyone starts to clear out and head home, complaining in low, grumbling voices about their inevitable workload for the upcoming semester, comparing each other's schedules with excited squees and exhaustive groans. Stiles stays behind to help clean up, just like he always does, collecting plates covered in pizza sauce and glasses half-filled with soda and bringing them into the kitchen, where he does the washing up and leaves the clean dishes in the rack beside the sink to dry, while Derek lurks in the living room, pretending that he doesn't know how to work the dishwasher. 

As Stiles makes his way to the front door, he finds that his path has been blocked by the alpha. He tries to skate around him, but Derek just darts in front of him like the weirdest game of keep-away Stiles has ever had to play.

"Dude, come on, I don't have time for this right now. I have to get home," Stiles says, arching his eyebrows for emphasis, but Derek just continues to stand there, blocking Stiles's only exit like a giant, stupidly handsome wall of muscle. 

Several seconds pass before either of them say anything, and then finally, Derek speaks, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands like he's…like he's nervous. How is that even possible?

"I just," Derek starts, clearing his throat with a brusque sigh. "I never got the chance to thank you for convincing me to fix up the house," he says, his eyes darting around the finished walkway, from the polished, cherry oak hardwood floors to the scarlet runner carpet dancing up the stairwell, to the freshly-plastered walls concealing old scuffs, scrapes, and holes, covered in coats of warm, comforting, sunset hues. 

In reality, it isn't the finished house itself that Derek appreciates, or even the effort that Stiles had put into making the house a more livable place. It was because Stiles had helped give Derek a family again, a home.

"So…thank you," he says softly, locking his eyes onto Stiles's and fixing him with an intense stare, hoping that it's enough to convey everything he hadn't said aloud. They're only a few inches apart now, and Stiles can almost taste the warm, inviting scent of Derek's breath against his lips, urging him closer. 

Stiles worries his lower lip, drags a hand to the back of his head to attack a phantom itch, and says, "Yeah, of course, man…I mean, it's no big deal, really…I just…I care about you, too, you know? You deserve to be happy."

It happens in a matter of seconds, in a whirlwind of nerves and tension that had been plaguing the two of them for the better part of the last year, in a rush of adrenaline grounded in misguided confidence and the optimistic possibility that maybe, just this once, something could actually work in his favor. 

The sight of Derek's lips curving into a hopeful, heart-clenching smile is what draws Stiles in, pushing him over the breaking point until he's lost all semblance of common sense, giving in to his villainous hormones and clandestine desires as he presses his lips against Derek's, fisting his hands into the neckline of Derek's shirt and pulling him closer, pouring every last drop of affection, passion, and frustration into that kiss, delighting in the delicate moan that he conjures out of Derek's mouth as his teeth graze the alpha's lower lip. 

In an instant, the mood shifts from euphoric to tempestuous, and Stiles can feel the muscles of Derek's body tense against his own, the realization of how vulnerable and submissive Derek had just made himself sound rapidly sinking in. Derek pulls back abruptly and pushes at Stiles's shoulders, nearly knocking him to the ground as he fights his way to the bottom of the stairwell.

"We can't do this," he says, almost too quiet for Stiles to catch. "I'm sorry, but I think you should go."

Without so much as a backward glance, Derek races up the stairs and rounds the corner, disappearing down a distant corridor. There's the telltale slam of his bedroom door, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. 

Stiles shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at the empty stairwell, lost for words. A small, disbelieving sob rips its way through his chest and crawls up the length of his throat, and Stiles scrunches up his face as the searing pain of having to hold it all back winds its way through the bridge of his nose. The muscles of his legs start to tremble, giving out as he stumbles to the hardwood floor. 

With a grimace, he grasps the brass doorknob and indelicately wrenches it open, practically throwing himself out onto the front porch and into his Jeep. He turns the radio dial to full blast, drowning out the rest of the world in mottled beats and bass lines, and runs three red lights on his way home, traffic laws be damned. The moment he's safely concealed inside his room, Stiles collapses face-first onto his bed, which, seriously, fuck his life, because his sheets and pillows and blankets all smell exactly like Derek, and right now, that scent is pure torture.

In a fit of frustration, Stiles grabs Sourwolf and throws him across the room, where he collides into the wall with a pathetic little thump. And, of course, because Stiles is a fucking bleeding heart, he actually feels bad about having hurt the little plush toy, and quickly rushes over pick it back up and gently place it on his bedside table. Because really, it's not the inanimate bag of fluff's fault that Derek is a gorgeous, convoluted, life-ruining asshole.

Stiles glances at his phone, his brain churning out a thousand different clever one-liners that he could send to Derek, but instead, he simply lets it fall to the floor, into a rumpled pile of clothing that he's pretty damn sure contains one or more of Derek's shirts. There's nothing he could say that could possibly fix this. Because Stiles has fucked up. He's fucked up big time. And there's no coming back from this.

Stiles doesn't sleep well that night. He gets maybe a good twenty minutes in before his alarm clock starts screaming at him to wake up. He's about as surly and sour as Derek himself that first day back at school, biting back bitter comments when people tell him how exhausted he looks (which, quite frankly, is just rude, because telling someone they look tired is just a polite way of saying they look like shit.)

So instead, he plasters on a fake smile, trudges through the hallways, comes home, and collapses onto his bed, falling into an uneasy sleep and trying his damnedest to ignore the way his phone distinctly doesn't light up with one of Derek's texts, or the way Derek's scent still clings to his bedsheets. The rest of his week follows in a similar pattern, and dust collects on the ledge of Stiles's bedroom window.

• • •

It's Friday, less than a week after Stiles's humiliating encounter with Derek, which, miraculously, no one else in the pack seems to have found out about. He's parked his tray at a table in the corner of the school cafeteria, waiting for the rest of the group to show up. 

At the moment, his only company is Danny Mahealani, which is a little awkward, because Stiles has never actually had a proper conversation with the guy before. But Stiles suspects that that's all going to change soon…after all, Danny is well-versed in werewolf lore by now, due to the fact that Jackson had clued him in the night he'd turned…which makes it so much easier, honestly, not having to hide a secret that isn't even his from yet another person. 

But at the moment, Stiles is too damned exhausted and irritable to scrounge up good conversation material, so he just sits there in uncharacteristic silence…which apparently bothers the shit out of Danny, enough that he's actually willing to talk to Stiles for once.

"So, about the alpha," Danny prompts, because of fucking course Danny would want to talk to Stiles about werewolves right now. After all, being the only two humans in a human-werewolf hybrid clique that aren't romantically linked with any of said werewolves finally gives them something to talk about, something that they have in common.

"It's um…it's Miguel, right?" Danny asks, but his cheeky smile would suggest that he already knows otherwise.

"Oh, right. Um…yeah, sorry about that," Stiles says, sighing heavily. "I lied. He's not my cousin…and, um…his name is Derek."

"Derek Hale? Lone survivor of the Hale house fire? Tall, brooding…gorgeous. Yeah, I kind of figured the alpha wasn't actually your cousin…but then…he did spend an awful lot of time in your bedroom…" Danny trails off, and oh my god, is he really going to go there after what had happened between him and Derek last week? Does Stiles really have to deal with this shit right now?

Yes, as it happens, he does.

"So, humor me, Stilinski. Are you and him…you know…" Danny asks, arching his eyebrows suggestively. Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands.

"No, Danny. Derek and I are not dating," he sighs in a dejected deadpan voice.

"So, he's available, then?"

Stiles full on spasms, his head snapping back up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, and fixes Danny with a wide-eyed glare.

"Oh my god, Danny, no, you can't have him," Stiles blurts without even thinking. Because, unfortunately, Scott is absolutely right. Derek does make him stupid.

"That's what I thought," Danny says, a smug little smile edging its way onto his lips, like he's the fucking all-knowing love guru of Beacon Hills…which, admittedly, he might as well be. 

Luckily, to save Stiles from further embarrassment, Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson finally show up, followed closely by Boyd, Isaac, and Erica. The eight of them immediately launch into a discussion about their classes and the mountain of homework they all have to do, which serves as a nice distraction…for a little while, at least, until they all start raving about some house party that's apparently going on this weekend. 

Scott, all smiles and sunshine and fucking rainbows, throws an arm around Stiles's shoulders and says, "You're coming, too, right?"

Stiles scrunches up his nose in disinterest, earning a disapproving look from the rest of the group.

"Aww, come on, dude," Scott whines. "You've been acting miserable all week. Might be good for you to get out for a little bit."

"Yeah, come out with us tonight, Batman," Erica jests, flashing him her best smile. "Maybe a drink or two will wipe that sad little frown off your face."

"We've all been pretty worried about you," Allison chimes in, and Stiles nearly dies at the look of absolute pity she gives him, well-intentioned though it may be.

"Everything okay, man? You smell like…I don't even know. It's kind of hard to make out," Isaac says.

"A little bit like hopelessness. Yeah, I've been getting that, too," Boyd agrees.

"Me? No, I'm fine. I am completely one hundred and three percent fine…it's not like anything happened to make me, you know, not fine. So…yeah. Everything's…great," Stiles says, placing special emphasis on the t, like he's mocking it just for existing. The pack falls silent, glancing around at each other awkwardly.

"O…kay. Well, good. So…everything's fine, and you're definitely coming with us tonight, right?" Scott asks. 

Stiles groans and buries his face in his palms, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and reluctantly nodding his assent. Scott whoops and punches the air in triumph. Oh joy, Scott managed to talk Stiles into being dragged to yet another horrible social event. Another affair of couple-focused bullshit, serving as a cruel reminder of the fact that Stiles is still painfully single, and that less than a week ago, all because of his stupid, rash decision-making, he'd been rejected and had lost a really great sort-of friend all in one go. 

But Scott thinks he's done right by Stiles, thinks that, somehow, a lame high school party will solve all of his problems, and he absolutely hates making Scott sad, so Stiles will just have to suck it up and pretend like he's having a good time, no matter how much he knows he'll end up despising this evening.

• • •

Derek Hale is freaking the fuck out. 

Okay, so maybe storming off in a terrified huff wasn't exactly the best way he could've handled that situation…but then again, he hadn't ever expected Stiles to kiss him like that, much less…well, ever. No matter how many times he'd imagined that exact scene playing out in his head, over and over in a multitude of different ways until he'd all but perfected the fantasy, he had never expected that Stiles would be the one to make the first move. 

He'd been so caught off guard by Stiles's bold, forward, fervent willingness, that for a moment, he actually thought he'd been dreaming. Stiles had taken complete control of the situation, of Derek himself, to the point where, if he truly wanted to, Stiles could irrevocably destroy him, could tear down the walls he'd worked so hard to build, brick by brick, before Derek could so much as blink. And he couldn't…no, he wouldn't…let that happen. Not again.

Because Derek had spent the past year convincing himself that he could never have this, that nothing could ever happen between the two of them. Because Derek knows that he would never be good enough for a guy like Stiles. Because Derek is reckless and stupid, especially when it comes to his emotions, and he's bound to fuck this up, and he can't risk wrecking the first real, deep connection he's had with someone aside from his own family since the fire.

And the worst part of all of this is that that exact commentary had been running through his head as he'd kissed Stiles back that night, seeking solace in the comfort of Stiles's embrace, weaving his fingers up the length of Stiles's neck, lightly tugging on the strands of his tousled dark brown hair, longer now than the buzzcut he'd worn when they'd first met, swallowing back Stiles's groans of pleasure like he was starved for them. And like the selfish, needy bastard that he is, he hadn't even tried to stop it. 

And then Stiles had done something amazing with his tongue and his teeth that had fractured all logic and reason, unraveling Derek in a way he'd never experienced simply from kissing someone. In that moment, Derek had felt himself surrendering everything to Stiles, reveling in the stomach-flipping euphoria of feeling wanted by someone he loves, and the very notion of sinking to that level of vulnerability all over again had scared the ever-loving shit out of him.

Over the course of the week that follows, Derek vows to stay away from Stiles, to give him the space he tells himself they both need, allowing himself plenty of time to recover, to think everything through. After five days of critical self-analysis, involving heavy bouts of conscience-bashing and repeatedly slamming his fists into his suspended punching bag, Derek arrives at the first sensible realization he's had about himself in nearly seven years: he's being fucking stupid. 

Because Stiles isn't some ticking time-bomb with a secret ruse rooted in vengeance and bloodlust. Stiles isn't going to use him and his vulnerability to destroy him and everything he holds dear. By now, Stiles has more than proven his worth, more than earned Derek's trust and respect and affection, and Derek is a fucking idiot for turning him down, for denying both of them the one thing he's spent years desperately craving. 

Confirming that Stiles's slightly dented, powder blue Jeep is still parked in the driveway, Derek scales the side of the Stilinski house in one swift, fluid movement, just as he'd done hundreds of times before, and perches atop the little ledge outside of Stiles's bedroom window. He holds back laughter at the thought of what Stiles would say about his super sleuth secret agent sneak attack skills, at the image of Stiles's startled expression when he opens the window and casually climbs into his bedroom, just like old times. 

But, much to Derek's disappointment, Stiles's room is empty, door closed, all lights extinguished, crescent moon casting eerie shadows on the walls as it slips in and out of the view of the curtains, bathing the room in darker shades of its usual grays and blues. The only light in the room is the soft glow of the little white apple adorning Stiles's laptop, the only sound the gentle whirring of the motor as it sleeps, waiting for its owner to return from…well, wherever he is. Derek quietly slips into the room and paces the hardwood floor, searching for signs that might clue him in as to where Stiles has gone tonight.

He runs his fingertips along the battle scarred edges of the wooden desk and dressers, across the soft fabric of Stiles's blankets and sheets that have long since lost Derek's scent. He frowns, realizing just how long it's been since he'd last stopped by, and makes a mental note to scent-mark the hell out of Stiles's bed, reclaiming it, and consequently, Stiles, as his. Derek strolls to the edge of the bed and takes up his usual spot, sinking into the mattress like his shape belongs there. He collapses backward onto the soft, plush pillows, inhaling the lingering remnants of Stiles's scent. 

He catches hints of worry, restlessness, and anxiety, and he can't help but grimace, hoping he'll soon be able to fix that. To fix Stiles. Derek had been purposely avoiding him all this past week, and it's going to take a hell of a lot to convince Stiles to forgive him, but he's willing to wait. After all, in a way, he'd been waiting for Stiles all this past year, waiting for something that he thought would likely never happen. He would wait all night if he had to.

• • •

At around three o'clock in the morning, Stiles bursts through his bedroom door, staggers toward the nearest piece of furniture, and clings to it for dear life. Derek startles awake, watching as Stiles kicks off one shoe, and then the other, laughing like an idiot as they collide with his bedside table. He stumbles in the semi-darkness, collapsing onto his bed and snuggling into the comforter, accidentally smacking Derek across the face in the process. Derek swears loudly, rousing a muffled scream from Stiles as he leaps off of the bed and crashes to the floor.

"Holy fucking shitballs," Stiles shouts, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. Derek rushes to his side, grips him by the collar of his shirt, and snakes an arm around his waist, hoisting him upright so his head doesn't hit the floor. Stiles's eyes grow wide as he takes in the sight of Derek's scowl, a mixture of frustration and concern contorting his features in the muted moonlight. 

Derek can hear the erratic thrum of Stiles's heart pounding in his chest, can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Having lost all control of his limbs, Stiles just lies there on his bedroom floor, staring up at Derek with an odd combination of adoration, embarrassment, and shock. He clears his throat once, twice, three times, shifting his weight so that the back of his head is pressed right up against Derek's chest.

"Heeeey, Derek," Stiles says in what he probably imagines is a casual tone, raising his hands in a vain attempt to tame his tousled mess of hair. In his current state, however, his hands miss his head by several inches, and he ends up flailing and high-fiving the air instead. Derek rolls his eyes and tries not to smirk. Then he catches another scent, a sharp, sickly sweet scent that's so strong it makes him wince, rolling off of Stiles's breath in waves.

"You smell like a fucking brewery," Derek growls. "How much have you had to drink?"

Stiles starts counting on his fingers, holds seven of them up to Derek's face, and says, "Couple of shots of vodka, I think…I lost count after the fourth. Oh, and then I had sex…on the beach…which was awesome…oh, wait, no, not like that, I didn't mean…the drink, obviously…I meant the drink," he slurs, hiccoughing and giggling to himself.

"Where were you?" Derek asks, eyebrows knit in confusion, trying to ignore the prickle of a blush that had burst across his face at the sound of Stiles's voice wrapped around the word sex, or the swell of relief that Stiles hadn't spent the night with someone else.

"Party. Biiiiig party. Laaaaaame party. Everyone was paired off by the end of the night, making out in various corners of the room…everyone but me," Stiles sighs dramatically.

"Right.Okay. You need sleep, like, right now," Derek decides, dragging Stiles up by his underarms and carrying him back toward the bed. He lays Stiles down gently, cradling the back of his head in the palms of his hands.

"Wait, what are you even doing here?" Stiles asks around a stifled yawn. "I thought you hated me."

Derek winces, a suffocating ball of guilt manifesting in the back of his throat.

"Don't be stupid, Stiles. Of course I don't hate you," he says, fixing Stiles with a wounded glare.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, like he doesn't quite believe it. "Well, how come you're here, then? Pack meeting's not 'til tomorrow."

"I'm not here because of pack stuff. I'm here to talk about us, Stiles. But that doesn't matter right now. We can talk about it when you're sober," Derek says, pulling back several layers of blankets and sheets and coaxing them around Stiles's stubborn legs.

"Hah…nope, I don't buy it…because I'm here to talk about us is totally not something the real Derek would ever say to me. See, Derek doesn't do feelings…he's about as emotionally constipated as Dean Winchester…which I guess makes me Cas…but anyway, yeah, I'm just going to assume that none of this is actually happening and that my brain is just playing another cruel trick on me…okay, Dream Derek?"

Derek sighs audibly, rolling his eyes and shrugging off the blatant insult.

"Whatever gets you into bed," he says, and then instantly regrets it.

"Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, Dream Derek?" Stiles growls, shrugging out of his t-shirt and throwing it across the room, where it lands in a heap with the rest of his laundry. Stiles is now drunk and shirtless, and he's being incredibly cheeky and flirty, and Derek is hovering just mere inches above him…this can't end well. Stiles's fingertips move to unbutton his jeans, but Derek stops him before he manages to slide them all the way down, hands ghosting over his hips. Stiles closes his eyes and groans miserably, quickly covering his mouth with the palm of his hand as another wave of nausea hits him full-force.

"Yeah, that's so not going to happen right now. Even if you weren't seconds away from throwing up, you're still drunk. Come on, Stiles, get up. You need to put pajamas on. I know you how much you hate sleeping in jeans," he urges, but Stiles doesn't budge, lying flat on his back with his hands fisted into the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck no," Stiles groans. "Seriously, dude, I'm so goddamn dizzy right now, if I open my eyes for even a second, I'm gonna hurl. Feels like I'm on a ship, and not in the fun way."

"Alright, fine," Derek grumbles. "Just lay still and let me tuck you in before you flail out of control and give yourself a concussion."

"That's mean," Stiles whines, rubbing his fingertips against his aching temples.

"Where's the lie though?" Derek quips back, pulling the comforter up to Stiles's neck and tucking in the sides.

"Touché," Stiles mumbles. "But still…rude."  

Stiles rolls over, an appreciative groan escaping his lips as he snuggles in and curls an arm around a little black and gray stuffed wolf that Derek hadn't ever noticed before. With a heavy sigh, Derek lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, appointing himself as Stiles's official nighttime guardian, and studies the steady rise and fall of his chest as he drifts off to sleep, arms wrapped tightly around the little wolf as he nuzzles into its fur.

"Stiles, you ridiculous, adorable little moron…what am I going to do with you?" Derek says, a bit louder than he'd meant to, causing Stiles to startle awake, snorting and mumbling something unintelligible.

"Didn't catch that, sorry," Derek says, at which point Stiles huffs and sighs theatrically.

"I said, you sound just like Derek…all rugged, and sexy, and Alpha Sourwolf," Stiles mumbles, baring his teeth and biting at the corner of his pillow for dramatic effect.

"What did you just say?" Derek barks out a laugh, a furious blush creeping across his cheekbones.

Stiles wrinkles his nose and shakes his head back and forth against the pillow.

"Nothing. I said nothing. I am definitely not talking about Derek Hale anymore. Oh, and, before you ask, for the last time, no, we are definitely not dating."

His eyes are closed, so Derek can only assume that he's still half drunk and half asleep, completely unaware of where he is and who he's speaking to.

"Who thinks we're dating?" Derek asks, making sure to speak a little quieter this time, lest he wake the entire household.

"Well…everyone, really," Stiles replies. "Even my dad."

Derek blinks a couple of times, struck speechless.

"And your dad, he's…okay with that?" Derek asks, hopeful. He takes it as a good sign that the Sheriff hasn't rolled up to his house and cuffed him yet, anyway.

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. He said he just wants me to be happy, and if that's with Derek, then, you know…cool."

"Huh," is all Derek can manage, until another nagging question pops into his head. "So, why does everyone think we're dating, exactly?"

"Ha…well…if you mean why as in why would Derek ever be interested in an awkward, gangly, ridiculously-unattractive-in-every-definition-of-the-word guy like me, then the answer is pretty obvious, my friend…he wouldn't."

Derek simply stares at Stiles, flummoxed and a little bit crestfallen. His words come out strangled, a muddled mess of hope and doubt.

"That's ridiculous, Stiles. Why do you think Derek wouldn't be interested in you?" he asks, swallowing thickly. "Seems like you're placing this guy on a pedestal, and…well, he doesn't sound all that appealing."

Stiles barks out a laugh and slowly shakes his head.

"No, dude, seriously, you don't understand. Derek is…" Stiles sighs, licking his lips and letting out a positively sinful moan in lieu of a response. Derek's heart beats wildly beneath his chest, clinging to Stiles's every word.

"Wait, what? What's Derek? What were you going to say?" Derek demands, shifting closer to Stiles.

"Nope, nonononono, I can't. Real Derek might find out, and there's no way in hell that he can ever know that I'm…nope. Not gonna say it."

Stiles covers his face with his hands.

"Stiles…Stiles, you can tell me, it's fine," Derek urges. "What about Derek?"

"Okaaaaaay, fine, but you have to promise me you won't tell Derek. Cause he'll totally freak out if he ever finds out that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with him."

Derek's eyes grow wide as he falls into a contemplative silence, biting back a ridiculous smile that threatens to fracture his evenly tempered veneer.

"Okay? Promise?" Stiles asks, snapping Derek out of his reverie.

"I…" he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "I promise, Stiles."

"Good," he says, playfully poking Derek through the blanket with his toes.

"Now cuddle me."

"I…what?" Derek laughs.

"Pleaaaaaase? I'm coooooold," Stiles whines.

"O…okay," Derek concedes, quickly kicking off his boots and crawling up the length of the bed. He slides under the covers right behind Stiles, curving an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against his torso, that same old feeling of euphoria blossoming across his chest.

"So, I'm going to tell you another secret," Stiles says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, his voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah?" Derek prompts.

"Last week, I sort of totally kissed Derek," Stiles confesses with a self-satisfied little smile.

"Oh really? How was it?" Derek asks, playing along, his smile so wide he thinks it might actually split his face in two.

"It was amazing. Seriously. I even got him to moan a little bit, which, oh my god, was so fucking hot, but…um…it didn't exactly end very well. Guess he finally realized what he was doing and who he was kissing and decided to book it the hell out of there. Can't blame him, really," Stiles says sadly.

"Stiles," Derek whispers, nuzzling into the back of Stiles's neck and pressing his lips to the soft little patch of skin behind his ear. "I'm so sorry."

"S'okay, dude. Totally my fault," Stiles yawns.

"No it wasn't," Derek mumbles, barely audible. 

The two of them lay like that for a few more minutes, Derek's guilt consuming him whole, until Stiles breaks the silence.

"Hey, so, I know this is going to sound weird and all, but…mind if I pretend you're Derek? Like, actual, in-real-life Derek? I know you're just a terrifyingly real-feeling hallucinatory figment of my imagination, but I thought, hey, might as well be polite and ask. I mean, I don't know if you've got some other place to be, or…" Stiles trails off, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Not at all," Derek chuckles, curling his arms tighter around Stiles's waist.

"Mmmm….you smell really nice…and you're really warm…fuck, you're so comfortable. How are you even doing that? You know what, don't answer that. I'm just gonna chalk it up to the fact that my mind is awesome. Totally loving this lucid dream sequence upgrade."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles," Derek whispers affectionately, rolling his eyes and pressing soft little kisses against the back of Stiles's neck as the two of them drift off to sleep, perfectly content for the first time in years.

• • •

Derek wakes in a tangled mess of bedsheets, torso curled into the arch of Stiles's back. He's careful not to stir, lest he wake Stiles up, arms wrapped around the slumbering man's lanky figure, fingertips absentmindedly tracing a constellation of freckles and moles from the curvature of his collarbones to the dip of his hipbones. He buries his nose into the nape of Stiles's neck and places a soft, sweet kiss along the edge of his hairline. Startled by the sudden sensation of rough stubble brushing against his bare skin, Stiles opens his eyes, blinking rapidly and wincing like the sun has lit his retinas on fire, before rolling over and turning to face Derek.

"Fuck, oh my god," Stiles nearly shouts, flailing uncontrollably as Derek struggles to keep a hold of him. Eventually, Stiles's breathing stills, eyes tracing Derek's shadowed features, lingering for just a moment longer than is truly necessary on the curve of Derek's pouted, pink lips. He swallows thickly, vaguely aware of the relentless drumming inside his head.

"So, um…care to explain why we're half-naked and cuddling in my bed?"

Derek actually has the audacity to look down, lower lip jutted out and eyebrows arching up in confusion, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself shirtless.

"You were really drunk last night," Derek sighs sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of Stiles's shoulder.

"Um…did we…we didn't, did we? I mean, for your sake, because dude, that's some bad judgment right there," Stiles blurts out, his brain having apparently severed its ties to his mouth.

"Of course not," Derek snaps, wounded. "Do you really think I'd take advantage of you like that?"

"No! No, of course I don't. I didn't mean it like that," Stiles amends, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. "So if we didn't…you know…what did happen last night?"

"Oh, the usual…you got wasted at some party and I ended up having to take care of you. I didn't think it was possible for you to be any more mouthy and annoying than you normally are, but apparently, drunk Stiles is quite the talker. I've got to say, though, I learned some pretty interesting things last night," Derek laughs, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Stiles's eyes grow wide in horror.

"Oh dear god. Please tell me I didn't—"

"Yup," Derek quips, popping the p.

"How much of—"

"Everything, I'm afraid."

Stiles shoves his face into his pillow and groans, loudly and miserably. Up until now, he genuinely thought (or perhaps, hoped) that he'd dreamt most of their conversation from the night before.

"So all of that…really happened," Stiles swallows thickly. "Including the part where I confessed that I'm kind of sort of completely in love with you?"

"Yup."

"Any chance you'd be willing to forget everything I said last night?"

"None at all."

"Fuck."

There's a small little pocket of silence, during which Stiles prepares for the onslaught of rejection. Again.

"Stiles."

"Yeah, Derek?" Stiles asks, wincing.

"You do realize that you're an idiot, don't you?"

Well, that's nothing new, but still…ouch.

"Excuse me?" Stiles scoffs indignantly.

"What part of me constantly coming over just to spend time with you, and me spending the night cuddling you and taking care of your stupid drunken ass, and telling you how sorry I am for stopping one of the best goddamn kisses of my life because I was too afraid to admit my own stupid feelings, do you not understand?"

"Well, that's not…oh. Oh. Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"You…do you?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but I still want to hear you say it."

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and nudging Stiles's cheek with the tip of his nose.

"Stiles, you annoying little shit, I love you. Against my will and better judgment, I do. And I was stupid and wrong and all sorts of fucked up for having pushed you away like that, and I hope you can forgive me, because I'm really, really sorry. Okay?"

"Okay," Stiles says softly, a brilliant smile spreading across his lips. Derek kisses the corner of Stiles's mouth, drawing him closer as Stiles snuggles into his chest. The two of them slowly drift back to sleep, content to spend the rest of their Saturday morning wrapped in each other's arms.

[sarahsoba]

Faking Fate Chapter 3

Big shout out to @separatist-apologist for letting me use her Day Court city name. Her fics are canon to me, it didn't feel right to use any other name!

HUGE shoutout to @lovingelucien for being my beta reader/editor. She's my guardian angel fr.

@tele86 @foxyfairydream @the-hidey-hole

If Nesta wasn’t hurling into a toilet, she spent most of her time taking advantage of Day’s extensive libraries. She read her typical romances of course, she occasionally picked up a history book, wanting to learn about this new fae world that she found herself living in. She also read a couple pregnancy/parenting books, to ease her nerves about her situation. 

Helion said her scent started to change about a week ago. That was surreal. Despite Helion’s insistence that he’d be there to help her, she couldn’t help but feel very alone. Her mind wandered to Cassian. What kind of father would he have been? Thoughts of him with their baby did things to her. The guilt of keeping the pregnancy from him sat uneasily in her stomach, right next to the morning sickness.

There she was, reading in the light of her silver flames. Helion taught her how to create her own flames and how to silence fireplaces after learning of her aversion to fire. Helion had promised to teach her how to use her magic in a safe, controlled environment, and the idea of it didn't make her want to retch. She had a feeling that Helion would make for a much kinder teacher than Amren. And with a baby on the way, Nesta didn’t want the danger of her uncontrolled magic at large.

Nesta glanced at the window. Helion said he would be back that afternoon, though he didn’t say exactly when. When Helion left, Nesta felt like there was nothing keeping the Night Court from coming in and  her, despite knowing they weren’t looking for her.  Helion was  keeping something from her. Though what it was exactly, she couldn’t tell.

When Helion opened the door late that evening, Nesta nearly jumped out of her skin. “You’re back.” She said, searching for him for any sign of what he was keeping from her.

“I am. And I brought surprises!” Helion grinned, opening the door further, revealing Gwyn and Emerie, each carrying duffle bags, with tears in their eyes as they looked past Helion to Nesta. 

Nesta gasped, standing to greet her friends as they both dropped their bags and lunged for her, crying as they held her. 

“Cassian told us you died!” Gwyn cried, “Don’t ever do something like that to us again!” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I- I didn’t have many other choices.” Nesta giggled through the tears, happy beyond belief to have her chosen sisters with her.

Emerie sniffed and pulled away to look at her, brows furrowed, “Are you pregnant?” 

“They didn’t tell you? I’m about a month along.” Nesta smiled, unable to contain the joy of being able to celebrate with someone other than the High Lord.

Her sisters squealed and hugged her tighter, “We’re going to be aunties! No, fuck Cassian, I’m their dad now.” Emerie said with a sense of determination she often saw in her winged friend.

“How do you know Cassian is the father?” Nesta asked, eyes narrowed, as the girls finally pulled away to wipe their eyes free of tears.

“Timelines?” Gwyn shrugged, “You didn’t have to tell us the details, you were always practically glowing after a night with him.”

Nesta’s face flushed red, “I was not!”

“You absolutely were.” Emerie smirked.

“How long are you guys here for?” Nesta asked, wanting to change the subject.

“As long as you are.” Gwyn grinned, “Helion offered us positions in his library!” 

Nesta thought back to her first time seeing priestesses in Helion’s library. Helion told her that it was originally the Day court that had the concept of healing women working in the library. 

“You’ll like it a lot. The library is much larger here than in Night.” Nesta said. 

“So we’ve been told. I might even open up a bookstore in Rhodes, if I can raise the money.” Emerie revealed, “Helion offered to sponsor me, but I don’t want to take too much of his kindness.”

“Are you sure you guys are okay with leaving the Night court behind like this?” Nesta asked, the worry creeping up on her

“After what they did to you? Absolutely.” Gwyn said resolutely.

“I didn’t want to stay in the Night Court after Cassian told us you died.” Emery added, “We didn’t have the means to leave until Helion approached us.” 

Nesta looked past her friends to Helion, who was casually leaning against the wall, watching the exchange with a smile on his face. Nesta ran over to him and embraced him tightly, “Thank you for bringing them. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I would do much more for you, Nesta Archeron.” ______________________________________________________________

Lucien never received many visitors. He got the usual door-to-door salesman about once a month, despite being in the city for a few years now, he had yet to make many connections with the townspeople of Velaris. The fact that he was often away, in the human lands, didn’t help with much either.

So when Lucien received a knock on his door one afternoon, he was surprised. He was  downright shocked to see that it was Elain, carrying a large bag. Mostly books, he noted. She seemed out of breath, like had she run there. It took him a moment to still his heart as he opened his mouth to speak before he was interrupted.

“Can I come in?” she asked, panting.

He nodded and shifted to let her in. Elain hurried in, setting the bag on the nearby couch. He shut the door behind her looking over, “What’s going on?” eyeing her warily.

“You and I need to go to the Day Court.” she said quickly. 

“The Day Court? Why?” 

“I had a vision. Nesta is alive. In the vision you were with me. So you need to come too.” She said simply, as if it was obvious.

“Do you know why I need to join you?” Lucien asked, still wary, but growing more hopeful by the moment. She hadn’t said this many words to him since they had met at the cauldron. He was waiting for a catch. A trip to the Day Court with his mate sounded exactly like something he needed. The inner circle off his back and time with his mate unaccompanied.

“Something about missing family.” she waved off, going through the bag to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

“What’s all that?” he asked, gesturing to the bag with his head.

“Nesta’s things. I stole them from Feyre. If Nesta truly is alive she’ll want these back.”

“I thought you had a proper burial for her. How would she still be alive?” he asked, pulling up a chair and sitting in it backwards. 

“I don’t know. I’m hoping she’ll tell me when I see her.” she said and slung the bag over her shoulder. “C’mon, get your things!  We have to leave before they realize I took everything.”

He sighed. This wasn't the craziest thing he’d do for his mate, but it was up there. He trusted her and her visions. He stood, packing a bag of necessities. He was rarely in his apartment so there wasn’t much. “Alright, I’ll winnow us there. Do you know exactly where she is?” he asked. Shaking her head, “I think the palace? We should talk to Helion first.”

______________________________________________________________

It was late evening as Nesta, Gwyn and Emery sat in a circle, going through baby name books, picking out their favorites. They were all in their pajamas as they bounced name ideas between each other. Helion told her that fae don’t typically prepare for the baby before it’s born. Bad luck or something like that. But Nesta couldn’t help but be excited now that her friends were there.

There was a knock on the door as Helion popped his head in, “Nes, can I talk to you?”  

Nesta got up from the circle and left the room, she stood just outside the door with Helion, “What's going on?”

“Elain and Lucien are here.” Helion said, getting straight to business, “I have a feeling Elain had a vision of you. What should I do?” 

Nesta cursed internally. She should have known Elain might have a vision about her. That she might be led to her. The more she thought about it, the more she didn't have an issue with Elain knowing about her, though she didn't want her running back to Feyre and Rhysand about her.

She thought about this carefully, “I’ll be nearby. I’ll listen in on the conversation.” 

He nodded, “Ok, let me shield your scent.” he said with a small hand gesture.

Rolling his shoulders, Helion walked to where Elain and Lucien waited.

“Lucien Vancerra. Elain Archeron. How can I help you both?” He asked kindly, keeping his eyes on Elain.

“I’m here to see Nesta. I know she’s alive.” Elain said firmly. 

“Elain, you saw her body. You buried it.” Helion said sympathetically, “She’s not here. She’s buried in the Night Court.”

“I had a vision of her, alive and pregnant, here in Day.” She asserted, her brows furrowed.

Helion sighed, “Even if she was here, which she is not, I wouldn’t discuss her situation. Not when you could run back to Feyre and Rhysand.”

“I won't.” She promised, “I don’t wish to speak to them. They’re dead to me. They promised Nesta would be happy and healthy in the house and look where that got her. I’m prepared to stay here indefinitely. If she were here, of course.”

Helion eyed her warily, arms crossed over his chest.

“How about a bargain? An oath to secrecy?” Lucien offered. “I, Lucien Vancerra, swear to secrecy on Nesta Archerons whereabouts, on my life no one will hear about her from me without her permission.”

Elain’s mouth lay agape at the sheer confidence he had in her and her visions. She’d given him scant details about the vision, and yet he was staking his life on it. 

Elain gave a similar vow, offering her life if she revealed Nesta’s whereabouts without her permission. She felt a familiar ping of magic whenever a bargain was struck.

Helion watched protectively, once all was said, he sighed and looked to the doorway where Nesta hid. 

Nesta entered, timidly, embarrassed now that her ruse was up. Elain set down her bag and ran to her sister, enveloping her in a tight hug, “Oh my god, Nesta!” she cried.

Nesta sighed and hugged her back, “I’m sorry Elain, I had to.” she said, trying to think of how to explain this all to her. 

“How did you even do it?” She asked, pulling away, Elain’s hands cupping her face.

“The body was fake.” She explained, “But the scene wasn’t. Helion got to me in time. I’m sorry-”

“I get it, Nesta. Seeing your… fake body like that was traumatic but I understand why you did it. I saw how they treated you at dinners. How they spoke of you behind your back. They even used you for your magic. You weren’t safe there.” Elain said.

Nesta felt tears come to her eyes, “Then why didn’t you do anything?”

“They promised me that sending you to the house was the right thing to do. That you’d be safe there. I’ve seen your death a million different ways and I was so desperate to try to prevent it.” She explained, “I finally just wanted to see a future where you’re happy, Nesta. And I think you achieved that.”

She nodded, “ I think I just needed someone. Anyone. Not to judge me. To be there and tell me it was going to be okay. I cant use bathtubs anymore and I can’t be around fires. I just… wanted things to go back to normal.” 

Elain took Nesta’s hands in hers, “No more ignoring you because others tell me to. They will have to pry you from my cold dead hands for me to leave you again.”

That made Nesta smile.

“There’s another reason we came.” Elain began, “Lucien has some missing family here in the Day Court.”

“Missing family? Who?” Nesta said, looking up. She regarded the two males now, standing side by side. Then it clicked. The resemblance was uncanny. 

“Can we do a paternity test?” Nesta asked, looking at Helion.

“Between who?” he asked

“You and Lucien.”

His eyes widened as he looked to Lucien, searching his face for something. It seemed Lucien was doing the same. The room came to a stand still as the two males regarded each other. Helion shifted closer as his hand came up and held Lucien's face, “How could I not see it before?”

“Are you…really my father?” Lucien asked, voice quiet as he held back his emotion.

“How old are you?” Helion asked

“Four hundred and fifty three.” Lucien said, “That might be off by a couple of years but- oof!”

Lucien was quickly interrupted as Helion pulled him into a bear hug, tears streaming down his face, “I have a son…”

Lucien chuckled and hugged the male back, his eye wet with his own tears. He let out a breath, “Yeah, you do.”

Previous Chapter

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

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[steviescrystals]

guys things are happening

[adelliet]

Wolverine x f!reader

HOLY SHOWER

Summary: After an exhausting day, you finally wanted to take a shower, but the water stopped running in your apartment, so you decided to go to your neighbor for help. But you got more than help.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, age gap, strong language, overstimulation, unprotected sex (piv), shower sex, more rounds

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You came home from work, exhausted and tired. Today was probably the worst day at work, the boss yelled at you, you almost got fired and you destroyed your clothes by spilling your coffee all over it, great. The only thing you wanted right now was a warm shower that would help you release all this negative chakras and relax.

On the way to the shower, you were already planning in your head how you're going to spend the rest of the evening, making popcorn and watching your favorite series while the vanilla-flavored candles were lit around. You'll only be wearing an oversized t-shirt and rabbit slippers that your moronic neighbor Wade Wilson bought you, after he almost set your flat on fire as part of his fight with some villian.

Wade is not a normal neighbor who occasionally throws parties and fucks with whores. He does this too, but he's really special. If you had to describe him in three words it would be a jerk, a narcissist and a wretch, but sometimes he's also nice, you have to admit that.

After you finally get out of your coffee-stained clothes, you threw them in the washing machine and went directly to the bathroom, naked. Opening the shower door, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. Now, only well-being and relaxation begin, you may even practice yoga and meditate if you'll be sufficiently relaxed and full of energy. Just the thought encouraged you further and when you closed the shower door behind you, nothing and no one could stop you.

You turned on the hot water switch and took the citrus scented shower gel in your hand, you were about to squirt some on your palm when you realized the water didn't start running.

,,That's…weird” you said to yourself and reached for the cold water switch. Nothing. Not a drop came out and you were slowly starting to get furious inside. You reached for both switches at once and turned them to full power, but still nothing. You really held on, every nerve in your body was ticking not to explode but it happened anyway.

"Fuck!" you scream across the whole apartment and drop your head in your hands. This was something you had been looking forward to all day, you dreamed about it at work and the idea of ​​warm water running down your naked body was discouraging you from having a mental breakdown in the bathroom. The shower was your reason to get through the day and they're going to take it away from you like that? Fuck no.

You weren't going to just give up, the feeling of lukewarm water cleansing your body and your darkest thoughts, right now you need it more than anything in the world.

A light bulb went on in your head and you were out of the bathroom in no time. You quickly threw on an oversized white shirt, didn't even care that you’re not wearing anything under it, and went forward. Your face was focused on only one goal, Wade.

He's a devious bastard who's tried it on you countless times, but right now you're at the stage where you're even able to sleep with him just so you can indulge in that holy shower.

You knocked on the door right next to your apartment and waited for an answer. You started to be a little suspicious, because the apartment was truly gravely silent, but the creaking of the door interrupted your assumptions about what it might be. You took a deep breath and were ready to blurt out everything that had happened and convince Wade to let you take a shower at his place, but your words got stuck in your throat when Wade wasn't standing in the doorway.

Instead, there was standing a tall, old muscular man with a brown beard and sideburns, his hair was in the shape of beast ears and he had a stern expression on his face that immediately caught your attention. Wearing a white tank top that beautifully highlighted his body underneath and most importantly, showed off his shoulders which were way more massive than your thighs. You swallowed loudly in fear and blinked a few times to bring yourself back.

"Um hi! Is Wade here?"you asked and no matter how hard you tried, your voice was quiet and shaky, the guy definitely had to sense that you were so fucking nervous.

"Who's asking?" a deep grainy voice answered you with a question and leaned against the doorframe, as he crossed his hands on his chest, making his biceps pop out. He was really manipulating you with them, you had an incredible urge to stare at them and your brain was already automatically creating a million scenarios of what you wanted him to do to you with those hands. Luckily you were still somewhat conscious and didn't let your dirty toughts take over you.

"I am his neighbor...right next door" you pointed your head to your apartment, trying to keep your smile on your face. That man slowly looks at the direction you pointed, then looked back at you. "Wade's not home right now” his stern voice made you flinch every time you heard it, because it sounded like you just killed his parents and now you're going to pay hell for it.

You raised your eyebrows and nodded a few times. "Oh...okay well, when he comes back tell him I was there" you smiled again, hoping your smile would soften him up a bit, but you're too naive for even thinking this would work.

He was just looking at you, no response, not even a tiny movement of his face, nothing. You probably understood that you should finally get the fuck out of his face, and that was what you had planned. You turned on your tiptoes and walked back to your apartment, but he stopped you in your way there.

"Hey!" You immediately turned to face him.

"What do you want from him?" his biceps still hypnotizing you.

"My water stopped flowing and I really really need to take a shower" you put on a cute-innocent expression and your tone sounded so convincing that even a kidnapper, who was going to cut your throat, would let you take a shower.

He looked like he thought whether or not to let you in, even though he already knew his verdict long ago. "Come in" he nodded and disappeared in the apartment, thinking you were following him and you really did.

You were so grateful and happy that you would blow this man right here right now, not just because he was ridiculously handsome, but also as a thank you gift.

You closed the door behind you and the man made himself comfortable on the couch, a loud groan came out of him as he dropped himself there, making you feel that weird burning feeling in your lower stomach.

Although you knew Wade’s apartment layout even with your eyes closed, you still found it a bit inhospitable that man didn't even tell you where the bathroom is, but you didn't worry about it for too long. After all, you're not here to teach that grandpa good manners, you're only here for the shower.

You were almost headed to the bathroom, but something stopped you in your tracks. Thirst. Your apartment has no water and god knows how long it won't work and since it's quite late at night, all the shops here will be probably already closed.

You had to take your chance, that's why you backed into the kitchen and looked at him subtly. "Um, could I have a glass of water?" you asked politely. You only got an annoyed look and a stiff nod as response. You rolled your eyes and went to the kitchen.

You swallowed the water as if you had just been in the desert for few days, even that bastard noticed it too, but he didn't say anything.

"And um...you're Wade's partner?" "Fuck no" you wanted to start a conversation, get to know the stranger a bit, but this was probably not a good start. He looked disgusted, just thinking about it. "I'm his roomate, Logan" you finally got to know something about him and it wasn't just one thing, but even two. Wow, you're moving somewhere.

"Ah, nice to meet you" you said with a smile and poured yourself another glass of water which you drink like an animal. Logan just stared at you, scanning you and sensing that you were only wearing a light white fabric and literally nothing underneath it. Quite risky, he thought.

"And you're name?" he finally continued the conversation and you couldn't help but smile even more. Maybe you softened the grump a bit after all.

,,Y/N...” you fizz looking at Logan who just nodded and looked away. You felt it was time to finally indulge in what you were here for. Without another word you therefore went to bathroom, ripped off your shirt in one graceful motion and stomped into the shower, but you couldn't ignore the smell that clearly screamed Wade was touching himself here. Whatever.

Trying to ignore the smell, you reached for the hot water switch. The water finally touched your naked skin and you threw your head back, nearly blinding yourself with the hot water. After a while it started burning, so you reached for the cold switch, but it got stuck.

You tried to turn it with all your strenght, but nothing. So you quickly turned off the hot water and decided to ask Logan for help. After all, he has much bigger muscles than you, he will definitely be able to turn it on.

You didn't even bother drying off, you just threw your white shirt back on and went straight to Logan. When you stood next to the couch and waited for him to look at you, he wasn't just looking at you, he was admiring you.

You didn't realize that you were all wet and the white shirt was wet too, stuck to your body and practically transparent, revealing everything. Logan surprisingly cleared his throat and stopped breathing for a moment but still with the stern expression.

"Would you please help me with the shower? The switch is stuck and I can't turn it on" you beg, having no idea that your shirt is pointless to even wear at this moment.

Logan didn't take in a word you just said, he looked away from your body to your face and just stared. So you repeated your request to him and he instantly nodded in agreement. You were a little surprised that he was suddenly so active, but you didn't complain.

Logan quickly got up and went to the bathroom without giving any sign of being annoyed by your request. You walked right behind him, his whiskey scent tickled your olfactory cells.

When you entered the bathroom, you ran ahead of Logan to show him exactly where the problem was. "Here...s-see?" you struggle as you tried to turn on the cold water, but again, no avail. Logan just quietly took over the switch and effortlessly turned on the cold water, like it was nothing.

You laugh from the excitement of finally being able to enjoy a shower. But the thing was that the cold water was not only flowing on you, but also on Logan. His previously dry white tank top that covered his divine body was no longer dry and is definitely no longer covering anything. You looked at each other, your smile fade away in a second.

Your gaze locked on his body. His hairy body, developed and veined, his abs looked so eatable, so does his arms and boobs. His hair was damp, he looked irresistible and you fought your demons not to jump on him like an animal.

You, on the other hand, were practically naked in front of Logan and he hadn't seen such a beautiful woman with a beautiful body in a long time. The way the water drops ran down your neck, under your wet t-shirt, around your chest to your stomach, this was the end for Logan.

Without any warning, he pounced on you like a beast, cupping your cheeks with his big hands, almost surrounding your entire face. You automatically joined in and cooperated, wrapping your arms around his veiny neck and just gently digging into him with your fingernails.

Deep passionate kisses were making you vibrate more and more from excitement. Your tongues fight with each other for dominance, sure thing that Logan won. You were so hungry each time your lips touched, so desperate for him, for his body and what it can do to you.

Logan couldn't wait any longer, he grabbed your shirt and took it off pretty briskly, even though it was practically useless. But he didn't leave you alone and took off his tank top too. You broke the kiss just to see the treasure he offers. Naturally, you reached for him and gently ran your fingers around his abs, which caught your breath.

,,You like it?” he asked hurriedly and smiled as he saw your shocked face. For someone who is really truly old, he's not bad at all. You looked up at him and smiled, giving him a chance to start kissing you again, more likely, guzzle your face. He was rough and wild but at the same time tender and loving. This combination makes a total waterfall between your legs.

He was holding you by your weist, really digging his strong fingers into your flesh, making you moan into the hungry kisses. That itself make his erection begging to finally free him from those thigh boxers, what really keeps him trapped.

He didn't wait for another sound of yours and quickly started unbuckling his pants, his clumsy hands tried to take them off as quickly as possible and you tried to help him. Your hands touched, but there was no time for romance, his growls and your sighs said it all.

When you finally managed to unzip Logan's pants as part of your cooperation, they were on the floor next to the shower in no time, along with his black boxers. His dick sprang free, making a slappy sound as it hits his belly. You needed a moment to adore his little friend, and your eyes widened from his length. How can he even walk around with this thing?

He chuckled as he watched your surprised face once more, and got your attention by grabbing your chin and lifting your head up. "My face's right here, sweatheart" you melt at his words, his tone not as stern as it used to be just moments ago and his eyes...fuck his eyes were full of lust and desire just for you.

The rules have changed a bit, the shower is no longer what you longed for and can't live for, now it's Logan. You need him badly, like breathing or eating, you need him so badly that your knees almost start to buckle in desperation and Logan knew it and sensed it.

After all, he needed you just as much as you needed him. So he decided not to delay any longer and pinned you to the wall, the shower still continued with a flow of cold water that smoothed you at least a little, but still, you were burning with arousal and passion.

He glued his lips to yours again, his body was just as glued and his cock was poking you in your inner tight, unintentionally provoked your wet folds by moving his hips to feel at least a little friction. Of course, this movement made your neck make noises you didn't even know existed.

"I won't last long with you bub" Logan mumbled between kisses but he continued with both his movements and his uncontrollable kissing and biting of your numb lips. His wolfish voice excited you whenever you heard it and your legs were already shaking with anticipation.

Logan's tip started leaking with precum and this was a clear sign for him that he should finally fuck you like you deserved.

Before you could blink, he grabbed you by the neck, but not too hard to hurt you, but not too loose to not have control over you. He found the perfect center that suited both you and him and at that moment, he began to slide it into you.

Your jaw dropped and your eyes shut tightly as you felt his tip stretching your throbbing core. Logan growled, his face pinched but his eyes open to see your pleasing face. Oh he will remember this face for the rest of his life.

He was already fully in, fitting in perfectly as if you two were just meant for each other. Logan waited a while for you to get used to him and you had the opportunity to open your eyes for a moment and admire his wet head. How the drops slowly ran down his face, down his whole body, it was so fucking hot.

After a while, when you started getting impatient and get used to his length, you started moving your hips, just a tiny moves, but Logan knew damn well you were ready for more. That's why he helped you a little by pulling out and pushing back his member into you, making you whine his name out loud.

It was peaceful steady movements, he played with you like a toy and you marveled at it. Your eyes were opened and you were holding eye contact with Logan the whole time. Every time he pushes into you, he squishes his nose and hisses and he does that again anytime he pulls out of you.

It was pain but also a thrill for him going so incredibly slow, but both of you enjoyed it like nothing else. The thing was that you were insatiable barbarians who kept wanting more and more. Logan decided to indulge both of you.

He let go of your neck, leaving big red marks and fingerprints there and moved his strong hands to your hips. He needed to keep you in a place, because what was going to happen wasn't for some weaklings.

You looked at him with hope and curiosity of what was going to happen, and you found out really soon. Without any warning or hesitation, Logan started thrusting into you with no mercy. Now this was exactly what you needed.

His animal awoke in him, his teeth clenched as his balls was slapping against your ass. It all makes easier the running water, which served as a natural lubricant, keeping you both still wet, even though you didn't really need it.

He kept muttering something under his breath as he aggressively rammed his cock headlong into you. You just let yourself be led, he had full control over you and you fucking loved it. Your hands were tightly glued to his back, your nails digging deep into his flesh but it was just a tiny, hardly felt pinch for him.

Soon you started to feel that strange feeling in your lower abdomen, that need to go to the bathroom, that burning flame, that twirling writhing feeling, all together clearly proved that you were on the edge and you won't hold it in for long.

Logan was stretching you really hard, but you were still full of his dick inside you. From time to time, his base was touching your sensitive clit, making it even harder to keep you quiet. The moment you knew you loose it completely, was when he grabbed you by your ass and lifted you up so that your legs were wrapped around his waist and you weren't touching the ground. In this position, he easily found your g-spot and he was hitting it with rage and passion, sending you straight to your orgasm.

But Logan wasn't much better off. You were so incredibly tight around him, your pussy was literally just perfect. His veins were pulsating and his dick was twitching inside you, his heartbeat accelerated and he already lost control over his movements. He was so consumed by his climax that he had no idea what his hips were doing and how hard or fast he was thrusting into you.

He snarled like a beast, watching the part where your bodies connected, being so desperate to cum inside you, filling you up so that his sperm would drop out of you. You were already losing your senses, your eyes rolled back and you make a really long and deep bloody lines on Logan's back by your sharp nails, as you were really close.

,,Logan I-" you wanted to warn him, to inform him but it was useless, because before you could finish your sentence, you clench tightly around his member, your lower body started vibrating and the pleasant feeling of relief finally flooded you all over.

Your juice started dropping on the floor and you tried to catch your breath and gain your senses back, but Logan was still going in his full speed and strength. He was really frantic trying to catch up his orgasm, which he succeeded in after a few strong and wild thrusts.

The last one was the strongest and loudest one, he screamed really loudly, not caring if Wade was already home or not, the most juiciest and the most deepest.

The only sounds in the bathroom now were your heavy breathing and the steady flow of water that didn't stop. You felt dizzy, overstimulated, but the feeling of pleasure and relief was irreplaceable. Logan felt the same as you, although he didn't see twice unlike you, but this was an unforgettable experience for him. But he didn't want to stop yet.

"You ready for round two?" he asked, keep trying to catch his breath. This question woke you up like a slap in the morning and you looked at him with wide eyes. He was serious, he meant it and you were speechless. Although you were tired, you knew that the moment Logan will let you on your feet you wouldn't keep your balance, but of course you wanted a second round.

Logan waited impatiently for your answer and when you nodded your head, it warmed your heart to see a sparkle in his eyes. Immediately, his lips were on yours again, his dick that never leave your insideness started moving again, heating you up and creating another arousal.

The overstimulation was insane, you knew you would cum soon again and it made you feel a little embarassing, but Logan was on the same boat as you. His balls were so full that he could explode at any time, he needed to empty himself inside you.

He was starting to pick up his pace and speed again and before long you were in the same situation as few minutes ago, his hips thrusting into you with no limit, you mercilessly destroying Logan's back and praying your pelvis won't crack.

If he could, he would have turned you around and fucked you from behind like a brute, but he could feel your legs being weak and practically non-functional, so he held you tightly around his waist and continued in a position that soon brought you both to your second orgasm.

You both whimpered and wailed as you struggled to fill your lungs with oxygen. Logan was still full of energy but you're only human and when a beast like Wolverine jumps at you, there's no way you'll end up in better condition than him.

After you finally breathe normally and calmly, Logan started laughing out the two powerful orgasms and dropped his forehead to yours. You joined him and you both laughed like idiots while you were still inside each other and the freezing water was pouring over you.

Wade is going to be really surprised when his water bill comes.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.

[monstersholygrail]

oh to be a mouse hybrid toyed with by a cat hybrid who just wants to see you squirm in every way

Ooh when the Cat Hybrid’s owners told him they were getting him a new little friend, you, a Mouse Hybrid were by far the last thing he was expecting.

He wanted another cat to mess with, to play with… to mate with. But he couldn’t stop himself from noticing your plump round form scurrying about the house or the constant skittish look in your eye as you surveyed your new home. Perhaps you would do.

From that day on he would terrorize you mercilessly. Chasing you around the around the house when your owners were gone, saying he was gonna devour you when he finally got his claws into you. Backing you into corners just to see the delicious terror in your eyes. Plopping his large form right on top of you so that you couldn’t escape him even as you scrambled desperately to get away.

It was never ending and as much as you wanted to say you hated it, it felt far too good. The Cat hybrid severely underestimated you, forgetting you too were a hybrid with all the same perks. You could smell his desire in the air every time he chased you. And you had grown addicted to the scent. To feel so wanted and yearned for, especially during the chase, nothing else could compare.

He would only ever mess with you when he felt like it so you figured you might need to give him a little push. Using yourself as bait you use your owners creaky stairs to your advantage. As soon as the first step creaks, the Cat hybrid’s head snaps up from where he’s perched. His eyes meet your wide ones for only a moment before you’re bolting down the stairs.

As soon as you hear the pounding of paws behind you, you smirk wickedly knowing your plan had worked. Cute little squeaks leave your mouth as you run throughout the house, narrowly trying to avoid being caught. He should’ve realized how much you like this. You’re much faster than him after all.

After rounding the next corner you wait a moment for him to catch up. Seeing a flash of fur and then you’re off. The Cat Hybrid pauses for a moment as he realizes what you had just done. What you’ve actually been doing this entire time.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he chases you at lightning speed. He’s catching up to you in no time and by the look of genuine alarm in your eye he knows this wasn’t a trick. Instead of his usual antics he pounces on you, sending you both tumbling to the floor.

“You messin’ with me, little mouse?” He growls in your ear, his body pinning you to the hard wood floor. You don’t even bother to squirm, your heart beating out of your chest as you stare up at him.

Before you can even blink he’s shoving his hand down your pants and swiping his fingers through your folds, your slick drenching them with how aroused you are. He chuckles lowly, rumbling purrs vibrating into your chest and straight to your core.

“So this has been a game to you, huh? A bit of foreplay before I inevitably snap and fuck you dumb.”

You find you can’t even answer, panting breaths escaping you as you rock with his hand that’s slowly rubbing against all the right places. He devilishly smiles and pushes two fingers deep inside you, causing your hips to jolt as you cry out.

“Well, sweetheart, you’ve done it. I’ve snapped,” he says with a menacing snarl as he pumps his fingers roughly against your walls, his claws just barely scraping them and setting your nerves on fire.

You try and be as good as you can, staying perfectly still for him as he fucks you with his fingers, but your small reaction only seems to infuriate him further. He picks up pace, licking and nipping at your throat until you too break and your moans echo throughout the empty house. A secret smirk plays on lips.

That is until the Cat Hybrid plays a trick of his own. Pumping his fingers inside you, drawing you closer and closer till you’re just about to fall off that edge when he suddenly stops and withdraws. You whine, squirming now as you begin to beg for more.

“I see through you now, sweet prey. You won’t be winning this one.”

You only start to realize your mistake as he starts fucking you with his cock, the large length stretching you so good. The natural curve hitting the soft spot inside you perfectly. Then he starts doing to you exactly what he did with his fingers. Bringing you up to the edge and then pulling you right back.

He’s as merciless as he is when terrorizing you and in a way he’s doing just that but in a whole new way that drives you more insane than the chasing ever did. Eventually you’re a sobbing mess, your tears and your arousal forming two separate puddles on the floor with how in need you are right now as he starts up again.

You jump as the sudden sensation of his wet nose nuzzling into your neck, his purrs even louder now. You immediately cling to him, meeting his thrusts and trying to chase your growing orgasm before it’s taken away again.

“Do you think you’ve earned the right to cum for me now?” The Cat Hybrid asks and you whine, nodding rapidly.

You feel his grin against your skin before he pulls out and starts slamming his cock deep inside your cunt. His intent clear before he even says a word. But when he does it’s like music to your ears.

“I agree. Cum for me, mate.”

This time as you get closer and closer to the finish, he doesn’t stop. Instead, his hands slips down and rubs tight circles into your clit. Your orgasm breaks through almost instantly and you scream as you milk his cock for all it’s worth, sending him right into ecstasy with you.

But the sound of the car door doesn’t leave either of you much time to bask in pleasure coursing through you. Luckily the Cat hybrid takes the lead, maneuvering you both as he curls around you, keeping you stuffed full of his cock but hiding any of the evidence. You’re too weak to do anything but shift into how he molds you. Making it appear as if you two are asleep and cuddling in the hall.

“Aw, look at them. Finally getting along,” you hear your owners say who are none the wiser to what’s really going on.

Cat Hybrid bf rocks his hips, snapping them back inside you quietly and forcing a squeak from your throat. He chuckles under his breath and nuzzles into you, not planning on moving away from you for hours. Wondering how many more orgasms he can rip from your tight pussy.

[f0ofishies]

FL*SHING THEM AFTER AN ARGUEMENT

tsukishima kei, ushijima wakatoshi, oikawa tōru

Tsukishima Kei, your beloved fiance. You loved the man to death, you swear.. it's just that he's always been like this. All of the damn time. There was one time when you argued over dinner because someone didn't want to eat Italian. Seriously? How'd you even date this guy and later on accept a ring from him.

Just kidding, he has his cute moments. The man had prioritized you a lot during his college days. He must've fallen hard for you, huh? When he did get on one knee, you thought it was a prank. Nonetheless, you said yes— already being engaged for 4 months, too!

Back on topic, he's always been a cranky mother fucker and even more when he lose that volleyball match. You looked at him— in astonishment. This man had the audacity to even be too confident in a little fun of chess?

You couldn't even believe the audacity of him. He'd been laughing at your move on your black horse.. "Gee, just get one with it, babe..!" Another ridiculing sentence from him could've sparked a fire inside you. "Hah? Seriously, why'd you even do this rematch— when you clearly don't know chess."

Your eye must've twitched at that, you love him, and you swear to that on your life. But, seriously, he's getting on your last nerve. As he quickly moved his queen, grabbing your knight in the process. You moved another piece as he smiled. "Thank god, we don't do rematches in volleyball."

Your joke immediately made his smirk turn sour. As you chuckled to your own statement, your eyes glanced up to his. He immediately gave a disgusted face at you. "What, Tsuki?—" You tease, almost pinching his face as he has moved away from your hand.

"What is your problem..?" Now that made you raise an eyebrow. "My problem—?" He can't be serious right now. And that's how he ended up giving you the silent treatment, ending the chess match when it just started. You were utterly confused... even bewildered by his actions

Knowing your fiance won't crumble to a piece of you, you just quickly called out. "Kei?" He didn't even look at you.. oh, so that's how he was going to play. "Tsuki?" No budge, huh? The man had some nerves for ignoring his future wife. "Tsukishima Kei." Last call, he finally whipped his head to you.

Rolling your shirt up— his golden brown eyes dilated at the sight of your perky, wait, wait, this was cheating. "That's right, doofus.. I know you can't ignore them." You could totally hear the clogs in his brain working. Even bouncing them a bit— He quickly pulled your shirt down. "Hey—! what was that for??"

"You're in one hell of a ride, do that shit again. I dare you, baby."

How much aura did you gain after marrying the Ushijima Wakatoshi? You, the lovely wife, as ever.. had always been the cheeky one in the marriage. During one of his games, you'd literally chant his name out so loud. Maybe the whole stadium could hear you.

He'd be there happily, holding the ring chained around his neck. Giving you a small smile— You couldn't help but beam as you show off your ring finger too! Now that was months ago, your husband came home in a sour face after meeting his parents.

"Baby, how were your parents?" You asked him, quickly smiling as you cooked your signature curry. "Fine like usual." His deep voice caught you off guard as you felt a hand crept behind you. "Oh, so what did they—" "Can we not." You tilted your head.. "Sure.. okay." You compiled because who were you to say anything about that?

You looked at him as he ate, he felt your stare. "Yes, love?" The way your hand had been tapping on to counter.. like crazy. Lost in thought, you look up at him. "Toshi.. you know you can tell me anything?" Of course he knew that so he raised an eyebrow. "I know."

You were itching to know why he's so persistent on not telling you why.. he would usually just tell you at this point. But he seriously didn't want to talk about it, so he dismissed your concerns once again. "But babe.." You whined.. something in him just snapped.

"No, can you stop trying?" You huffed at his tone of language.. it was kind of your fault for being this nosy. So now here you were having a full blow argument. Were you petty? Definitely, a hundred percent. So when your husband had genuinely left you in the kitchen. You huffed—

Clearly, he needed a lot of space, huh? Shutting the bedroom door very tight— you wanted to go sleep there, but how? He had locked it from the inside. "Toshi..?" You called out. No answer. "Ushijima Wakatoshi!" You yelled out and finally the familiar 'click!' You finally let out a sigh and practically go in fast.

He's still on the bed, clearly trying to sleep. "Toshi..~" Your sweet velvety voice intoxicating him then sliding onto the bed— even straddling onto him. Still, the man laid bare, not even checking you out. You intentionally grind, trying to find the best friction. His hands finally with all of its glory wrapped around your hips.

"Look up." Your command might've sent a shudder on your poor husband. The blood pumping down to his familiar friend down there— oh how a vixen you were.. Seriously, he saw the way you held your shirt up. Those breasts out in the air just for him. "Mmm? Want it bad?"

"I swear, wife— you're always all talk and no action.."

That Argentinan volleyball player was taken by you! Who knew he had the hots for you. Tōru Oikawa, he had recently left Japan for Argentina.. then he met you. Somehow, you two clicked. Clearly, you only thought he was just getting into your pants but nope!

The infamous girlfriend of the volleyball player never really visited his games. Probably because your work always consumed your time. Tōru was beyond okay with that— of course he was. But after such a long tiring game, all he wanted to do was a date night with you. Sadly, you were still out at work.. in overtime. How could you not remember it at all? When you came home, his first response was immediate silence. Seriously nothing!!

"Tōru?" You called out in the shared apartment, finally slipping off your shoes. Stretching your arms wide as no response. "...Babe?" You called out once more. Absolutely nothing— you panicked, of course. Already running around to find him.That's when you spotted your sulky boyfriend, buried deep into the bed among all the plushies you have.

"Shit, babe.. did something happen at practice?" You asked him as he finally noticed your presence. An immediate huffed was heard, thanks to him. "Babe..? Baby..!!" You whined the petname, trying to uncover the blankets.

There he was, your lovely boyfriend. Tōru glared at you, those dark brown hues of his. "What's made you so sour..?" You asked him once more, trying to coerce him out of his moodiness. "I wonder why." He interrupted you, that made you raise an eyebrow. "Babe..."

You were utterly clueless, even when he avoided your touches. It suddenly clicked to you, a promise to him on for a date. You internally groan at that, "Shit, Tōru you know I didn't mean to forget.." Your hand itching to grasp his— yet he pulled away once again. "You always forget about me.." He whined into your shared pillows. "No I don't.. baby.. I'll make it up to you!!" You try to reason with him.

That's what got him to lash out at you. You did kind of deserve it— so here you are on the bed trying to get a sulky Tōru out of your shared bedroom once more. An idea popped into your head! "Tōru.. I have something to show you.." You found the man finally walk out of the bedroom. His disheveled appearance still looked way too good for your own eyes.

Your fingers found their way to your blouse— giving him a sweet smile. Only halfway through, you were damn thankful for picking a good bra for today. "Baby, I'm really sorry.." You whispered. And finally— your breasts were in full view of his sight. Nothing could have prepared you for the feral Tōru ravishing you!

The man was full on groping your breasts, even fiddling with those buds.. was he really that turned on? You couldn't believe you've let him play with you like this. On the tips of your heels— you needed more friction down there, too. So you whined at him, how your cunt needed his fingers too! And that's what he did, dipped them into your soaked panties.

"Fffuck— that's not fair, babe.. yknow your boobs and pussy are my weakness..!"

[hyukascampfire]

GIFT WRAPPING ﹒ ､､ c.sb

it’s a shame that soobin has to work on christmas eve, but coming home to a fire-toasted home and his little family is enough to make up for it. ˒´-

꣑ ࣪˒ 〈 🌰 〉 ･ 3.4k

ρairings ˒ husband!soobin x reader

ɠ ; smut ˒ fluff

ωarnings ˒ breeding kink, soobin rlly wants to get reader pregnant, lactation kink, general smut, traditional roles, tradwife reader, whiny soobin, breast fondling, mentions of balls cause i know how some people feel abt that, they’re both whiny for each other, soobin’s big, and lmk if i missed anything!

✎୭ ashlynn's note this one’s at the request of my lovely @biteyoubiteme! i love you baby, and could not thank u more for giving me this gift. this was the best gift i could’ve gotten for christmas >.<‘ but yes, since we are always giggling over dad!txt, this one i dedicate to u!!!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

The best thing you’ve heard today is the jingling of keys at the front door.  

Soobin comes through the door with heavy, tired eyes. When the kids come tumbling down the hallway for him, they soften into something warm. Lifting one to pepper kisses over her face, and listening to the other tattle about something that’d happened earlier, his mouth tugs into a gentle smile. 

Dusting powdered sugar off your hands, you wait your turn. The scene falls over you like a dryer-warmed blanket. All you three had done today was wait for him to come home. When finally it’s you that he turns to, your heart flickers. 

The Christmas tree is up and in a stand, but it’s bare. You didn’t want to decorate it without him, as much as he told you he wouldn’t mind if you and the kids did. It’s not every Christmas eve that he works, but he’d been scheduled this year. You’d spent the whole day rolling out dough and slipping the kids some, even though you knew the sugar would wind them up, just to make the house feel less empty. 

And, wind them up it did. You took them outside, bundled up in thick cashmeres and puffy jackets, at one point, hoping they might work some of it out in the fluffy snow that’d fallen fresh on yesterday. It hadn’t worked, but watching them with pink cheeks and giggling was worth the while. Then, the three of you drug snow-wetted feet indoors to defrost, tugging off layers to accept the tingle of warm air against your numb skin. 

You wish he was there, too, though. 

Soobin reaches up to pull his tie loose from his neck as he comes to give you your greetings. He just manages to get it loose before taking your lips against his. 

With his hands steadying you by the hips and the counter at your back, you sigh out a soft breath. Your lips speak of your longing—the both of you. Slow and intimate tugging of lips and soothing, your lashes dust against your cheeks. He tastes like some peppermint candy he’d probably picked up on the way out of the office. Fingers still a bit cold from outside, he brings one hand up and cups your cheek, brushing a thumb up and down the flushed skin there.  

He smiles against your mouth and parts from you only to sprinkle sugary kisses over your face. They fall everywhere: a few over your cheeks, one just beside your mouth, and the last to your forehead. He cups your cheeks through each. When he pulls back and you think he’s done, he steals a quick peck for good measure. His hot-chocolate eyes catch yours once he’s done for real, nose crinkling. 

“Hi, baby,” he says. Your heart sings listening to his smooth timbre. It resonates through you and brushes down every last frayed nerve. “How did home treat you?” 

You reach behind yourself to tug your apron off. It’s a mess of flour and stray buttercream icing. “It’s Christmas eve,” you tell him. That’s answer enough. “How was work? Did you have a good day?” you say, smoothing your hands over the knitted sweater you’d swiped from his drawer. “We missed you.” 

His chest is like home against your back as he wraps you up in his frame. “Doesn’t matter; I’m home now. It’s a good day.” He murmurs his words into your hair. “Mmm. You smell good. Are all these cookies for me?” 

“You know who they’re for,” you say. The smile on your mouth is light and fluffy, like whipped cream. Sweet. You’d waited all day for this—for him. 

His arms encompass you, wrapped across your front like ribbons over a present. You can hear the lazy smile in his words.  “Were you baking all day waiting for me, beautiful?” 

With the weight and warmth of him against you, you let your head fall back on his chest. You hum. “I missed you so bad,” you say. 

“I know,” he says. Pressing a toasty kiss right into your neck where it’s bared to him, he adds, “I missed you too. Wish I was able to spend the whole day with you guys, not paperwork. But, it’s okay. I had my pretty wife here waiting for me.” Toward the tail-end, he hangs sweet suggestion over his words. 

Your cheeks go pink. Maybe you’ve got the heater up too high. It’s not usually this hard waiting for him to get home from work. You’ll usually be busy with your own stuff, so that time passes you by fast enough. And then, he’ll come home all tired, and you’ll finally get the kids to sleep and he’ll make slow, sweet love to you, and then the whole household goes quiet as you all knock out. But today... you found yourself missing him more. On Christmas eve, you’re all supposed to be together; spending the day sprawled over the couch with intertwined limbs and running through Christmas classics with bellies full of hot chocolate and candy canes.  

But, he’s here now. That’s all you can ask for. A full, content home. 

“The kids want to do the tree,” you say, curling your fingers over the warm skin of his forearm where he’s bunched the cuffs of his button-up to his elbows. “They waited very patiently all day.” You drag the word all out, because really... it’d felt just as long to you. Usually, you’d have had your tree up and laced with twinkling lights and ornaments two weeks ago, but you really wanted to wait until you could do it all together. 

“Well,” he says, leaving you with one last nip to the column of your neck before dragging himself off you. You miss the security of his arms almost pathetically quick. “Let’s get it decorated, then. Wouldn’t want to make you guys wait any longer.” 

Soobin departs to find the tubs of Christmas stuff, and you go to pull the kids from their playing. 

You can hardly help the excited little smile that finds its way to your mouth as you do. 

❅

The lights on the tree wink at you, a cozy warm white like ice crystals among green pine needles. Its branches dip under the weight of heavier bulbs. Starry silver and Santa red, and even those assorted ornaments that you’d let the kids pick out, shimmer in the low light. It’s serene and familiar, like the Christmases that you can only relive through orange, flickering memories of better times. Your chest aches in the good way, looking at it. 

All of you had put your touch to it, but mostly, you’d sat back and watched them all work, committing it to memory so that it might never go spotty—so that you can remember it years down the road, and use it like a dose of soothing balm when you no longer have this.

Now, you and Soobin just sit and admire it. In true Christmas fashion, you two had to wrangle the kids to bed. You raised your brows at them and warned them with the same old things you’d heard on Christmas night: Santa doesn’t stop by the houses of kids who don’t sleep, and he especially doesn’t stop for kids that don’t listen to their parents. That got them, warm in their jammies, dragging their feet to bed. Reluctantly, yes. But it did the job, and now it’s just you two.  

Your stomach does an excited flip as, in between his mindless smoothing over your skin, Soobin toys with the waistband of your plaid pajamas. Lifting your head from his chest, you look up at him. 

“Baby,” he says, taking that hand up and under your shirt. Running the warm, calloused tips of his fingers up the plane of your belly and then just under your breast, he says, “I missed you...” 

Sweet and slow, a familiar hunger kindles between your thighs just at the way he says it. You know when your doting husband needs you. Your heart tugs toward him—you need him just the same. Surrounded by the home you’ve made together, made lovely by the scent of Christmas, and in his safe arms, all you want is him. 

You tug yourself up from him and the cushions, sliding yourself over his lap so that your two thighs part around his waist and your heat meets his bulge. He’s hardened there already, strained against the fabric and hard against your clothed cunt even through the layers. Sucking in a breath, he supports the small of your back with two sturdy arms. 

“Missed you too, Binnie,” you mumble into his neck. You’d said it a few times already, but you think it still isn’t enough to convey what you feel. His hands come down to cup your ass, digging divots into it and pressing you into soft grinds down onto him a few times. Your skin prickles wherever he goes. 

When his hands find their way back to the elastic band of your bottoms, you lift your hips and let him tug them off you. It’s an awkward position, and you have to lend him a little help with those and your panties with a snort. He presses his forehead into your shoulder, laughing too. 

At a brush of your bare cunt against his cock as he frees it, stood proud between the space of you and against your belly, your smile gives way to soft gasp. The tip of him weeps with pearly beads from the slit. He takes it into his hand taps it against your bud a few times, his free hand at your back, and relishes in the twitching of your hips above him.  

With the warmth of his cock lined up with you, he pushes some of your hair out of your face and says, “Hate having to wait all day to see my pretty girl...” His chocolate eyes dart up and down between the sight of you just about to join bodies and your face. 

Sinking down on him, letting yourself feel every inch of him anew, you hum agreement. You nestle him all the way down until the tip of him brushes just before the end of your depth, and then you give your hips a few rolls to let your insides adjust to his cock. Soobin’s big—no matter how many times you take him, it’s still a stretch. He doesn’t mind the wait; he sits patiently for you to adjust each time, running his hands up and down your hips just to touch you. 

You dig your knees into the cushions and lift yourself off his cock. You let him slip all the way up until the flared tip of him threatens to pop out, letting the moment linger there for a moment before dropping back down on him. His shoulders take the blunt of your weight as you fuck yourself up and down him. “I...wish you didn’t have to work that stupid job...” Your voice permeates the air, above the crackle of the fireplace and the soft smacks of your skin against his.  

His fingers dig into the soft curve of your waist where your shirt bunches. Each time you push yourself up, he helps, the corded muscles of his forearms twisting. It’s an intimate dance that the two of you have practiced and mastered, knowing when to give and to take without even the need for words. “I know,” he says, his voice taut. “But... I’m here now, baby. I’m here now. I’ll give you anything you want.” 

Your chest feels full at that. You know he means it; he works so hard for you all. The couch cushions are abrasive against your knees, and your thighs burn with a terrible ache, but all that matters in this moment is how he sucks his lips into his mouth and lets his head fall back into the cushion at his back. He rocks his hips up to try and meet you. Each time you bring yourself down on him in a way that has his brow twitching or eyes screwing shut, you aim to find it again—in all of it, you hope he feels you thanking him. 

Lifting his head, he tugs your shirt up to watch your tits bounce along with you. Taking his palm over one, he says, “Fuck—miss when these were all full of milk. All heavy for me...” His thumb rolls a pert nipple. Shuddering around a chill, your chest jumps against his hand.  

Rather than controlled drags up and down his cock, you devolve into frantic rutting hips and whines. Each roll—back, forth, and in messy circles—nudges his twitching cock right up against that weak spot. Flame rolls in your belly and your thighs.  

When you’d been pregnant, your tits had swollen up to produce milk, and they’d never gone back down. Maybe a bit, but never back to what they’d been before pregnancy. Soobin loved it. Not that he hadn’t been content with your breasts before, but you think it was more that he was fascinated that it was him who did that to you. That he had filled you with his cum, and got you round and pregnant. When you’d first started leaking, it wasn’t even you who’d realized. You had been stood in the kitchen with a flimsy grey shirt tugged over your body. When you looked up to see what your husband was up to, his eyes were all glazed over and heavy on your chest, where your shirt had gone dark and wet around your nipples. Before you could hurry off with reddened cheeks to change, he’d pinned you against the counter by the hips to suckle the mess up himself. 

“Baby,” he says, voice coming from his throat a hoarse plead, “Beautiful, please, can you give me something for Christmas? Just one thing?” 

Hair on your neck damp, you nod frantically. Around his waist, your thighs twitch with exertion and each blazing brush of his cockhead against your gummy walls. You’d give him anything; you’d already grown two children for him. 

“You—gonna let me put another in you? Can I please get you all pregnant again?” he grits out, his hair falling out from its styling and over his rose-dusted cheeks. He looks at you heavy-lidded.  

Your cunt squeezes him, an answer before you can even form the words. It does a number on you, the way he says it. Because really, you do think that to Soobin, the greatest gift you could give him is to carry his children and to just continue to love him. It’s no different for you; you want nothing more. “Yes, please... I’ll give you as many as...you want, please, just...” 

The entirety of your pleading is not even out of your mouth before he’s pressing a strong arm across your back and laying you under him. The cushions accept your back lovingly. 

Soobin takes a moment to situate you two. He drags you down by the hips, closer to him, tugs your shirt fully off to let it flutter to the floor elsewhere, tugging his own off in the same fashion, and he pushes your mess of hair out of your face so that he can better see you. And then, melding the bare, warmed skin of your soft chest to his own hard one, he rolls his cock up into you. 

It’s slow and tender, like promises of love baked into each grind. He makes love to you in the form of open-mouthed kisses and puffs of breath fanning out over your skin when a deeper thrust has both of you shaken-limbed. In your ears, hot, he whispers filthy nothings. 

“Gonna knock my pretty girl up again,” he pants. “Want—you to go around wearing me, big and round. My wife. You look so pretty pregnant... Fuck..” The skin of his chest brushes up against your hardened nipple each time he fucks himself up to you, his hands everywhere as he can’t find where he wants to hold you most. Eventually, he settles on linking his fingers with yours above your head with one hand, and the other splayed over your belly. Right where your belly might be swollen, were you pregnant once more. “Right here... can’t wait—h-oh, shit. Do you want that, baby? Want to give me another?” 

Chest and belly tight, you can only manage a squeak and a nod. Through bleary eyes, you take in his face. The soft and masculine angles of his cheeks and jaw, his sweet brown eyes, his pinched brows... and all you feel is safe. Safe in his arms, safe in his love. His body cages you against the cushion, slung over you and delivering languid strokes, but you don’t feel trapped. Not one bit. In his arms, you feel untouchable. Secure beyond a doubt. 

Nowhere else, with nobody else, would you rather build a family. 

“Soobin, please,” you whine, welcome tears prickling at the corners of your eyes like snowmelt. “Want it so bad... I want it so bad....” Wrapping your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his lower spine, you urge him deeper.  

“Okay,” he says. The smacking of your skin punctures the serene air as he picks up the pace. He lets his head fall into your shoulder, stunted breaths falling out as his belly tenses. “Okay, love. Gonna fuck you full of my cum, n’ keep it in there so I know it takes... shit, gonna give you my cum now, okay?” 

Face screwed up, you try and roll yourself to meet him, to chase the tightness in your own belly, but he’s got you. With a few more hot stripes of his tongue over your tits and over your neck, and a few frantic nudges right into that spot he’s so familiar with, you go still and then break into full-body shakes. You press your mouth into his shoulder to obscure the sharp, sweet cry that comes rushing out along with your orgasm, worried about waking your sleeping kids. Your thighs twitch and shudder around him, some deep and innate part of your brain taking over through the fog to make sure he cums well and right into you. Fingers and toes curling and splaying through it, you allow yourself to fully feel the sweetness his cock gifts you with.  

You don’t doubt that he’ll get you pregnant, cumming in you. Soobin’s seed is heavy and potent. He could knock you up whenever he pleased; the last two times he’d done it, you were surprised how easily it took. Your insides twist up around him harder. 

“Fuck,” he half growls, half whines. “Fuck, fuck... Love you, baby... Love you so much...” 

He holds you to the couch, fucking you into it as his heavy balls smack against your bottom. And then, spewing murmured expletives and taking your face into a big hand of his to press frantic kisses to your cheek, his hips stutter. 

As promised, he spills his cum right into you, right where he knows it’ll reach your womb and give you just what you want. It’s hot and thick against your gummy walls. He holds you through it, taking your hips in kneading hands to hold you still. When you think he’s done rolling his hips up into you to shoot more ribbons, he grinds harder.  

Soobin slumps over you, finally stilling. He does not pull out, nor unplug you, though. He wants to make sure his cum stays right where he wants it. His heart thunders a lovely song against your chest, and yours his. He runs long fingers through your hair mindlessly, the both of you basking in the slow fire as it burns through your veins and leaves you lazy. 

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he mumbles. 

Heart fuller, you hold him closer. “We have so much wrapping to do...” you mumble, trying to blink away your content sleepiness.  

He pushes himself off you just to say, “Don’t remind me.” His weight cradles you once more, running appreciative fingertips over your thighs as he says, “Just a little more.” 

Who are you to deny him that? You cherish the lines of his face, all soft in the yellowish glow of the tree’s light. Here, in his arms, you let yourself forget about that and anything else but the simple love buzzing in the air. 

“Just a little more,” you agree.  

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note ZOOWEE MAMA!! soobin come over here, let’s recreate this for christmas! pls!

﹙📋﹚ @hmusunoo , @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @joycelyjjj , @sunoolver , @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @apeachty , @fandomtrashsblog , @bewitchless , @yezzns2 , @hhoneyhan , @ethystclove , @darkdayelixer , @calumcxke , @biteyoubiteme , @bamgeutsz , @soobabby , @little-shiny-starr , @bambammtori , @bunniebun-posted , @heeambi , @bunnisoobin , @hwanghyunjinismybae , @bakugosbottombitch , if your tag isn't working, check the mentions part of your settings!

[dearieshima]

ONE, TWO, THREE...

✦SUMMARY

╰┈➤ your boyfriend choso gets the worst possible case of cuteness aggression at the wrong time...

✦C.W

╰┈➤ overstimulation, vaginal penetration, switch?choso, virgin!choso, established relationship, unprotected sex, creampie, size kink idk, crying, this is pure smut enjoy, chubby reader appreciation, praise, 652 words, corruption kink prolly, reposted

"Hug-uhhh, hu-gh... ha-agh.. agh..."

Choso's chest heaved as he gulped in the thick, humid air, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, mingling with the tears of overwhelming pleasure that streamed freely. He felt drunk on sensation, intoxicated by the exquisite tightness engulfing his aching cock.

This was madness, this insatiable hunger consuming him. This was his first time, no, second, (third?) time inside you. It didn't matter. All he knew is that he wanted, needed, his fourth. Sixth?

He gazed down at you, his vision blurred with adoration and lust. He must've have had the cutest girlfriend ever.

You was a vision, a goddess, sprawled out beneath him in utter submission. Your body was marked by his passion - teeth marks blooming on the soft skin, on the rolls of your doughy hips produced by the position he kneaded you in. He had you curled in on yourself, knees tucked under your chin, your watery gaze hidden beneath your arms.

Choso's gaze was drawn downward, captivated by the erotic sight of his thick cock that disappeared into your tight, cum-filled pussy. The delicate folds stretched obscenely around his girth, still puffy and glistening from the intense preparation it had taken to work him inside you. Each clench of your velvety walls sent ripples along his shaft, coaxing out more of his seed to ooze out around him.

Oh fuck... fuck, you were so adorable. What was that human saying? You were so adorable...

"...I could eat you up," he whimpered out loud, his head cloudy, raining his pleasure. "I wanna... Please..."

Choso's body pressed against yours, his skin slick with sweat, his muscles taut with exertion. He drove his cock deeper into you, filling you completely, stretching you to your limits. You gasped, a cry of pleasure and pain escaping your lips as he hit a spot deep inside that sent shockwaves of ecstasy through your body.

He rocked his hips as he nibbled pathetically at your neck, grinding against your cervix. The wet squelch of his cock churning through the copious fluids inside you was positively obscene. "Please... I wanna... Hum-gh! I can't..."

His body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming with sensation. His cock throbbed and pulsed within you, begging for release, for the sweet relief of orgasm. He couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. It felt like his very existence depended on this moment, on this connection between you two. He needed his fifth. Or his Seventh.

Choso's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of searing kisses in their wake. He nibbled and bit at your collarbone, savoring the taste of your skin, the saltiness of your sweat. His hands found your breasts, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipples until they were hard enough for him to suck on them.

The sensation sent jolts of electricity straight to your core, causing your inner walls to clench and flutter around his throbbing length.

"Choso!" you cried out, your voice high and breathy with pleasure. The sound of his name on your lips seemed to drive him wild, and he let out a low, almost pained groan against your skin.

He couldn't take it anymore, the overwhelming sensations threatening to consume him entirely. Your body was like a drug, and he was hopelessly addicted. With a growl of desperation, he began to move again, his hips snapping forward in a frenzied rhythm that bordered on animalistic.

The bed creaked and groaned beneath you as he pounded into you with reckless abandon, his thrusts lifting your hips off the mattress with each powerful stroke. It was almost too much, the pleasure bordering on pain, but you couldn't bring yourself to ask him to stop.

Instead, you met his movements with your own, rolling your hips.

You could've sworn it was night. So why was the sun peeking through your curtains, highlighting your debauchery?

[brokenmenswhore]

can we get a part 2 to proposition? 🥺😩

i have NEVER gotten so many comments or inbox requests for something IN MY LIFE. here you go you horny fuckers i love you lots

a proposition: accepted | poly!marauders

#2

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, and sirius, featuring alecto, dorcas, evan, lily, and mary)

warnings: exhibitionism/voyeurism (MDNI 18+), smut, virginity loss

a/n: there will be a part 3 IF y’all want it :)

a proposition: masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

“How exactly does this work?” you asked, looking around the table in search of an answer from anyone present. You were excited, and you accepted the offer immediately, but now craved more detail.

“The only people we have sex with are the people at this table,” James began to explain, “so it’s relationship-y in that sense, but none of us are coupled off or anything.”

“You guys don’t get worried about favorites?”

Dorcas and Lily smiled and let out a small ‘aweh’ at your innocence.

“Everyone brings something different to the table,” Dorcas began to explain, “for instance, I’m not getting the same head from Mary that I’m getting from James.”

Your cheeks reddened and your eyes widened at her crude statement. If you were going to do this, sex had to be something you were comfortable talking about, so you pushed your nerves down with a swallow, but the whole table could already sense your innocence.

“Do we, like, all do it, like, at the same time? Or-“

Sirius smiled. You were fucking perfect for this if that’s the idea you had in your head.

“We can,” Sirius took over, “or sometimes it’s just two of us, three of us, or whatever. As long as you’re only sexually active with the people at this table.”

“Are you sexually active with anyone else?” Alecto asked.

You swallowed hard. “N-no.”

“Ok, and what are your limits?”

You looked at Remus in confusion.

“We gotta ask a couple questions to know what you’re comfortable with,” he explained, but your confusion maintained.

“My limits?”

“Well, when you’ve had sex before, was there anything you didn’t like? Anything you would want any of us doing with you?”

You stared at Remus, hoping someone would ask another question and change the subject. Your silence was more telling than a verbal answer would have been.

“You have had sex, yeah?”

You dropped your head, your eyesight on your thighs where Sirius’s hand rested. You began to fidget with your fingers in nervousness.

Sirius shifted in his chair to adjust the uncomfortability of his growing hardness. He knew you were innocent, but he didn’t know you were that innocent.

“Is it really a good idea for us to bring a virgin into this?” Lily asked, immediately turning to you, “not that we don’t want you, love, but are you okay with this? Like really okay with it?”

“Yeah,” you responded, “but if you guys aren’t okay with-“

A chorus of “no no no we are!” and “it’s okay!” erupted from nearly everyone trying to assure you they were not having doubts of their own, but concerns for you.

“We’ll take it easy at first, and you just tell whoever you’re with if you aren’t comfortable with something, how about that?” James proposed, “we’ll work our way up to other things. No rush.”

You nodded your head, smiling at his understanding. “Yeah, yeah I like that.”

“Good,” Sirius said, “so you just stop me if you want to.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion as you looked at Sirius, who looked back at you as if he was doing nothing, but the hand on your thigh began to move.

You gasped lightly as Sirius moved higher and higher up your thigh, the only thing between his hand and your core being your underwear. He ran a finger over the cloth, a wet spot forming quickly as he rubbed between your folds.

Your cheeks were on fire as you looked around the table, and everyone was looking at you.

You suddenly became very self conscious, and leaned into the crook of Sirius’s neck, whispering, “they’re all just gonna watch?”

“Mhm,” Sirius hummed in your hair, tracing the band of your underwear, “that okay?”

He then dipped a finger beneath your underwear, finding your clit and slowly circling around the bud. No one but you had ever done this before, and it was exhilarating and embarrassing all at once.

“Can’t people see?” you whispered.

Sirius chuckled. He was so amused and having so much fun with you, as was everyone. “We gotcha covered, doll.”

The pet name drove you crazy, and you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter as Sirius began to feel you.

You hid your face in the crook of his neck, but he advised you against it. “Let ‘em see your pretty face,” he said, “you’re here because we all wanna see this.”

Your heart was pounding, and barely anything had started, but you could feel everyone’s eyes on you.

You adjusted so that you were resting your head against Sirius’s shoulder, but could still see everyone, and they could still see you.

Sirius took the opportunity of your movement to move his fingers lower and insert one into you, causing your hips to jolt and you to moan in surprise.

“Sh,” Sirius warned, placing a kiss on top of your head, “we’re still in a restaurant, remember?”

You did not remember. Your thoughts were clouded by the pleasure and embarrassment you were experiencing.

Remus looked around the vicinity of the table to ensure no one else was in earshot, and he leaned over the wood, lowly saying, “you wanna show us all how you come?”

You had never experienced dirty talk, and didn’t comprehend that it was rhetorical.

Your voice was strained and low as you did your best to say, “sure.”

Both Evan and Lily giggled to each other. “You didn’t have to answer, honey, just relax. Sirius is a master at this stuff.”

Sirius pumped his finger in and out of you, your spongy walls convulsing around the digit as his thumb rubbed your clit, intensifying the pleasure.

You felt a drop in the pit of your stomach, and you knew what it meant. You tapped Mary’s shoulder next to you. It was the nearest thing, and you hoped she would catch on.

“What’s up?” she asked, playing dumb.

You only tapped her more fervently.

“Gotta use your words, angel,” James chimes in, “we all wanna hear you say it.”

You took a deep breath, nearly whispering, “I think I’m gonna come, Sirius, I-“

Sirius moved his hand faster and faster, and he was nearly growling as you leaned your body against his, finding comfort in him as you came around his fingers, your legs shaking from the intensity.

Everyone at the table began to cheer as a tease. Sirius removed his hand from you, looking you directly in the eyes as he licked your juices off of his fingers.

You gazed up at him through hooded eyes, attempting to catch your breath as your body adjusted to the absence of pleasure again.

“Is it okay if I stay here for a while?” you asked, referring to your head resting on Sirius’s shoulder.

“Of course,” he answered, looking to everyone else, “good pick on my part, I’d say.”

────── ☾ ──────

“What’s up?” you asked James the next day as he sat across from you at your usual table in the library.

“They sent me to ask you because they think I’m the nicest,” James said.

“Ask me what?” you asked.

“Well,” James started, “you know, you’re a part of this thing now, and they just- we just- oh my god. Do you have a preference on who you lose your virginity to?”

Your eyes widened. “Do I have a preference?”

“This is all consent based, we aren’t just gonna decide something like that for you.”

“Are you asking me to pick one of you to give it up to?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Doesn’t it make me an asshole if I don’t say you?”

“Why would it?” James questioned.

“Because you’re the one asking me.”

“I have Lily and Dorcas’s, I’m set,” James said, “taking Lily’s was a win.”

“You’re such a guy,” you joked.

“You’re avoiding the question,” James retorted. “Sirius is the one who wanted to bring you into this in the first place, you know.”

You began to blush. “I’m scared of Sirius.”

“Scared? What do you mean?”

“Yesterday was fun, but for my first time, I’m scared he’d be too rough.”

“Sirius is a big ol’ softie,” James said, leaning back in his chair, “but fair enough. No pressure, angel, just let me know whenever you’re ready.”

You assumed that meant you had time, but James didn’t move.

“You really want an answer now, huh?”

“I kinda really do,” James smiled.

You contemplated your options, sifting through all the members of the group that you could choose from. You would be okay with a few of them, but one felt especially right.

“Remus,” you said.

James nodded. “Remus it is.”

“This feels weird.”

“You could just tell him yourself,” James said, standing up, leaving you with the idea to do so.

After classes has ended, you stood outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for anyone you knew to walk by and let you in.

“Fuckin’ hell, you guys take forever,” you said as Lily approached, “can you let me in? I need to talk to Remus.”

Lily smiled. “Yeah you do,” she giggled.

She let you into the common room and directed you to the boys dormitories. You crept up the staircase, unsure of who would be there and not wanting to intrude or see something you shouldn’t.

Up the stairs, you found Remus, James, and Evan.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Evan responded, “you need something?”

“Would you guys mind if I spoke to Remus real quick?”

James and Evan didn’t answer, but instead just stood up and began to leave. When James was next to you, he leaned in and whispered, “hope it’s not real quick,” before departing.

You blushed and turned to Remus, who was kind enough to act like he didn’t know why you were there.

“What’s up?” Remus asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I know James told everyone about our conversation, you don’t have to play dumb, though I do appreciate it.”

“Not playin’ dumb, baby, just wanna hear you ask for what you came here for.”

You took a deep breath and sat down next to Remus, the mattress sinking beneath you. “As you know, I’m a virgin.”

Remus chuckled. “I know.”

“I’d kinda like to not be.”

Remus smiled. “So ask me.”

“What?”

“Ask me,” he repeated, “can’t give you what you want if you don’t explicitly ask for it.”

You sighed. “I want you to please take my virginity, Remus.”

“Atta girl,” Remus said, leaning over and placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You reciprocated instantly, shifting your body closer to his as you deepened the kiss. You were not entirely confident in what you were doing, but you listened to your body, which had never been needier.

Remus guided your body down against the mattress, and pulled away when you were laying down.

“You can move back,” he said, and you used your arms to push yourself backward, allowing your entire body to rest against the bed.

“I’m gonna take it easy on you, just tell me if anything is too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

Remus kissed you again, and simultaneously pulled your skirt and underwear off of your legs in one action.

“You want this off?” he said, tugging at the bottom of your top.

“Can we maybe just leave it on? Baby steps, right?”

Remus gave you a sweet smile. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, baby.”

“Are you allowed to call me that?”

Remus was slightly taken aback. “What, baby? Yeah, why not?”

“It sounds relationship-y.”

“Sex is relationship-y.”

“But I thought we weren’t supposed to be relationship-y.”

“You’re about to lose your virginity, and you’re worried about if it’s ethically alright for me to call you baby?”

You blushed.

“I can call you whatever I want, and right now, you’re my baby, okay?”

“Okay,” you responded.

“Unless you don’t like it.”

“No, no, I do.”

Remus laughed. “Okay then, baby.”

You smiled as you pulled his lips back to yours. You were already soaking wet, but Remus still took the time for foreplay to ensure you were wet enough for it to be comfortable.

He softly rubbed circles on your clit, and you instinctively threw your head back against the mattress, sighing in pleasure.

He only stayed for a few moments before moving his hand lower and inserting one, then two, fingers into you. You didn’t really need the foreplay, but he felt bad fucking you without it. He needed to make sure you were ready, especially if you didn’t know how to tell yourself.

He pumped his fingers in and out a few times before removing them completely and unbuttoning his trousers, pushing them down, and crawling back on top of you.

“Are you ready?” he checked in.

“Yes,” you said, deciding explicit verbal consent was important.

Remus pumped his cock a few times before lining it up with your entrance. He pushed the very tip of his head in, getting his bearings before he drifted his gaze to your face, desperate to watch your reaction to feeling him for the first time.

He pushed in slowly, pausing for brief moments anytime your face contorted a little more than usual, and he took his time. He was in no rush, and he was focused on your comfort, which you appreciated.

When he finally bottomed out inside of you, he stilled, waiting for you to adjust to his size.

“You alright?” he checked in when you hadn’t opened your eyes or made a noise for a solid 30 seconds.

“I’m alright,” you assured him, “you can move.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

Remus slowly pulled partially out of you before pushing back in. He was moving excruciatingly slow, and was fighting with all his strength not to ruthlessly fuck you into oblivion.

He began to pull out a little more with each thrust, studying your face to gage your comfort levels. By the time he was pulling almost all the way out he could physically see your muscles relax.

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m okay,” you whined, “hurts a little, but it’s going away now.”

“You wanna stop?”

“No, please keep moving,” you moaned.

Remus growled lowly and began to fuck into you again, moving slightly faster, but it wasn’t enough for you.

The burning pain had dissipated, and now all you wanted was more.

“Remus, please, faster,” you whimpered, and Remus’s body instantly responded.

He began to move faster and faster, setting a steady, relatively fast pace as he fucked in and out of you.

You ran your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss as he fucked you, allowing him to swallow your moans and whines.

“Shit, you feel so good,” Remus praised, “I forgot how tight virgins are.”

His words added to your arousal, and you began to squeeze Remus’s cock, adding to his pleasure.

“Fuck,” he moaned, “I won’t last if you do that.”

“Can’t help it,” you moaned out.

Remus began to fuck you even faster, and your back arched up off of the bed at the new intensity. Remus took the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist and hold you closer to him.

You were squirmy and whiny. “Relax, baby,” Remus cooed, “just let it feel good.”

You took a deep breath and tried to relax, relishing in the feeling of Remus’s cock pumping in and out of you.

“Feel good?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you hummed in response, “can’t- gonna-“

“You wanna come?” Remus taunted, “you wanna come on my cock?”

You nodded your head frantically, grabbing at the arms propped up directly next to your head for any support you could find.

“Wanna feel you, baby,” Remus whispered in your ear, and his words did you in.

You squeezed Remus tight as you came. Your back would have arched more if Remus wasn’t holding it in place. Your thighs were shaking violently as you continued to squeeze around him.

He forced himself to slow down as you came down from your high. When your breathing had reset, he pulled out of you, giving his cock a few pumps with his hand before he released onto the sheets next to your waist.

You wiped sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. “You could have done that on me.”

Remus grinned, “I could have, huh?” He leaned in and kissed you before standing up to retrieve you a towel.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, thank you, Rem.”

Remus’s heart swelled at the small nickname. “Fuckin wait until I tell everyone about this.”

────── ☾ ──────

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