#what the FUCK do you mean you're TWENTY THREE????' and then you have to put your head between your knees and never recover

[hussyknee]

Never want to read another gay historical romance set in a world war because Ninety One Whiskey left me in absolute shambles and I don't know whether I'm afraid the experience won't ever be replicated or that it will.

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited) captain price nsfw alphabet with p-links, 𝒶⸺𝓏

𝒜 = aftercare (what they’re like after sex) : john, as i've stated before, is very touchy. he likes having his hands on you in any way that he can. so he'll pull you to his chest as the two of you catch your breath and run his hands along your body, pressing kisses to the crown of your hairline. you usually end up dozing off before john does and so he takes the initiative to grab a warm, damp cloth and clean up the mess of cum between your thighs. after he's done, he'll hop right back into bed and pull you flush to his body, sliding his hands along the expanse of your thighs and counting each beauty mark and mole along your body in the dim lighting of the room until he eventually falls asleep. [connected to this post and this one as well!]

𝐵 = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) : john's favorite body part of his would have to be his hands. they're big and calloused from work and he enjoys gently grasping your hips with them when he pulls you in for a slow kiss. he also adores how much you love them as well, his hands swamping yours whenever the two of you interlock fingers with each other. now john has an obsession with your lips, for him, they convey your emotions much better than words ever could. he can tell when you're annoyed with him by the purse of your lips. can tell when you're feeling shy by the slight upturn of the corner of your mouth. can tell when you're being sassy and sarcastic with the cute smirk that'll grace your lips and also when you're feeling sad by the way your lips curl in on themselves to form a line, and perhaps that's not a body part but it's his absolute favorite.

𝒞 = cum (anything to do with cum basically... i’m a disgusting person) : john's cum is pearl white in color and it's sticky and thick and there's always so much of it when he cums for the first time. the taste of his cum is slightly salty but it's not overbearing, you love the taste of him. price prefers to cum inside of you rather than anywhere else, this only started after john saw you holding your friend's newborn baby in your arms, it's been john's mission to impregnate you since then. [connected to this post!]

𝒟 = dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) : it's no secret that john is older than you, there's an obvious age gap and some people may sneer at your relationship (as you're in your mid to late twenties and john is thirty-seven.) during playful banters between you and john, your go-to "insult" is always, "old man", "yes, daddy." or something along those lines. and despite himself, price always finds that he's thick and hard in his pants. he won't ever tell you that though.

𝐸 = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) : okay, price isn't the type to sleep around, he's had some occasional flings here and there, but that's about it. that doesn't mean he's inexperienced though, john puts in work. he studies your reactions and what you like. a delicious roll of his hips has him hitting that spongey little spot inside of you. licking his thumb before planting it on your clit to rub quick figure eights, has your thighs shaking and his name falling off your tongue like a prayer, and whispering lewd things in your ear and kissing you all sloppily in his pussy drunk state? has your cunt leaking all over the place. john price knows how to fuck and make love, he's perfect.

𝐹 = favorite position (this goes without saying. will probably include a visual) : hm, john's favorite position is called the 'g-whiz' it's a stupid name lowkey but it gives him the perfect view to watch your face as you fall apart over and over on his cock. it also gives him access to your g-spot and your clit as well. three birds with one stone (he loves watching your tits bounce too.)

𝒢 = goofy (are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc) : it's a mix. there are times when the two of you are going at it like bunnies and perhaps bump heads a bit too hard. or maybe one of you trips while pulling off a piece of clothing-- there's going to be obvious laughter. during softer sex, where john's thrusts are deep and rolling, slow and intimate--- his gaze is always so full of his adoration for you and it leaves you breathless at times. he kisses gently, whispering words of love to you and smiling at the tears that sting your eyes. so yeah, he's a mix.

𝐻 = hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) : john, before he met you, wasn't really sexually active, and so he didn't keep up with grooming himself, there was no need for him to. he was out in the field for weeks on end at a time and when he was off the field all he wanted to do was relax and sleep as much as he could before he had to go back out for another mission. after he met you, however, he wanted to groom himself. not that you seemed to care, nor had you ever complained. but he did it anyways. so, price's hair is brown, nicely trimmed, with no scraggly hairs in sight.

𝐼 = intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect…) : please, john is madly in love with you and he himself knows it and he loves to make it known to you often, even outside of sex. price loves keeping eye contact with you, whether it's through a mirror, while you're riding him, or in any other position that allows the two of you to be face to face. he loves watching the small ticks in your expression as he grinds his hips into yours, cock sinking into you at the most excruciatingly slow pace he's ever gone. loves the way your cheeks flush and your cunt squeezes him when he calls you his, "pretty girl." this man also says 'i love you' often, and it's always so genuine, you never grow tired of hearing him say it. (he definitely doesn't kiss your chin when you give him an annoyed pouty look at his slow pace, he definitely doesn't apologize and speed up either.)

𝒥 = jack off (masturbation headcanon) : i find it hard to picture price masturbating, but i believe he does so when he's away from home for weeks on end, but it's not mindless masturbation like most men are prone to doing. john, when he's away from you for long periods of time, gets almost…needy?? in a way. this man misses you like no other, he misses the smell of you, your loving touches, your smile, your cooking, you pulling him to the living room floor to dance, your horrible singing when the two of you shower together and god he misses the sound of your voice. and this feeling is all so new to him and it's almost overwhelming. 

so when price has the downtime, he calls you, it's a spur-of-the-moment call and when you pick up, he can hear the thickness of sleep in your voice; he feels selfish and a bit foolish, he was acting like a horny teenager. however, after hearing the excitement in your voice and the surprise, he can only smile and ask how everything has been at home. who would've thought that the sound of your voice, all sleepy and soft would get him hard and thick within his cargos? who also would've thought that john price would unzip himself to pull out his rigid cock, tip leaking with pearlescent pre-cum and pulsing in his large hand. yes, john ends up fucking his fist to the sound of your voice, humming and grunting softly to signify that he's listening to you, thighs tensing and heart hammering in his ribcage. i mean, what you don't know won't hurt you.

𝒦 = kink (one or more of their kinks) : hear me out, roleplay, please! wait, think about it, perhaps it's not full-on roleplay but it's something of the sort, john gets a raging boner when you call him 'captain price' mockingly or 'sir'. another would have to be breeding, john wants to knock you up so bad it's almost an obsession, would love to see you swollen with his child, most definitely says something along the lines of. "good girl, wan' t'get you pregnant so bad. you'd like that, hm?" during sex. a mild voice kink? loves the sound of your voice and almost always cums instantly when you beg him to fill you up.

𝐿 = location (favorite places to do the do) : don't really see john being too much of an exhibitionist but the two of you have had sex outside at a park, while on a picnic. you had crawled into his lap and kissed him softly, pleadingly, blinking your pretty little lashes at him and i mean; who is he to say no to your greedy little cunt? however, he prefers to do it in the comfort of your shared home. ♡

𝑀 = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) : your teasing. whether it be playful or sexual it always riles price up. it's one of the many things that he loves about you, your sense of humor. and you express it well, not just through your actions or your words but also through your eyes, they're always so expressive and glittering with light mischief that he can't help but sweep you off your feet, throw you over his shoulder, and carry you into the bedroom.

𝒩 = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs) : hurting you in any way, there are some things he's a bit lenient on if you like it; like choking and light slapping but other than that, it's a no for price. man loves you too much to do anything of the sort.

𝒪 = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc) : as much as john loves having his cock buried down your throat, watching as you stare up at him with tear-stained cheeks, your mouth and chin covered in spit and his cum— he enjoys eating you out. he loves the taste of you on his tongue, loves to overstimulate you, loves to control your orgasms, loves to hear you beg and roll your hips on his tongue. if john could he'd spend the rest of his life buried between your thighs, large hands gripping the fat of your hips to keep you still as your thighs quiver and your pussy pulses from being too sensitive, he would. well shit, i guess that should be one of john's kinks too then, huh?

𝒫 = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) : price is usually slow and sensual, with fervent deep strokes, tender kisses, and whispered murmurs of love. what can he say? he loves showing that he loves you in all that he does. however, on the days when he comes home after a mission gone awry or being away for a long time in general, he's gonna be fast and rough; using your body any way he pleases. on days like this, he prefers you in 'doggy style' or even the 'mating press', and immediately gives you cuddles afterward though, telling you briefly of his mission as you run your hands through his hair. ♡

𝒬 = quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) : hm, john isn't one for quickies, i mean he doesn't mind a quickie, the park sex that the two of you had was a quickie after all. but i believe he much prefers proper sex, that way he can pull orgasm after orgasm from you and take his time as well. 

𝑅 = risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) : john is down to try something at least once, especially if it's something that you want to try. not too long ago, you handcuffed price to the bed and edged him until he had literally begged you to let him cum, it was quite the sight and he's down to do it again. 

𝒮 = stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…) : give this man two good rounds, and then he's tuckered out. however he doesn't mind if you're still reeling to go, he'll pull you onto his lap and let you ride him until you're sated. or even make you ride his face, he could never deny you anything after all. 

𝒯 = toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) : y'all hear me out once more....vibrating panties. rahhhh, hold on hold on. you guys use it when you're out on walks, at restaurants and sometimes even at dinners with your friends. man gets bricked up at the sight of you squeezing your thighs together, breathless and completely out of it. however, in the bedroom, price is all you need, the man is much better than any toy.

 �� = unfair (how much they like to tease) : teases you often, whether it be with overstimulation, ruining your orgasms, or even having you beg him to let you cum. the man, believe it or not, likes to see your eyes water and your lips pout. loves that he can get his sassy, fiery wife all squirmy and pleading with just a few strokes of his tongue. 

𝒱 = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make) : john is not shy, he'll tell you how good you're making him feel, not with just his deep, guttural groans, but also with words. price is the king of dirty talk and he does it unknowingly, he most definitely curses when he's moaning as well, drawn out 'fucks' and at when your pussy squeezes him tight, he'll say. "shit, sweetheart y'r pussy s'made for me." calls you the lewdest names known to man, but says it so lovingly that you can't help but be turned on even more than you already are.

𝒲 = wild card (get a random headcanon for the character of your choice) : has definitely had you suck him off while underneath his desk while on a computer call with laswell. poor baby, his face was pink from holding in his moans, especially after you buried him to the hilt down your throat. totally didn't get caught or anything.

𝒳= x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words) : the picture speaks for itself. ♡

𝒴 = yearning (how high is their sex drive?) : you guys, price is 37, atp? he's 40, it may not be as it used to be when he was younger but! he puts in the work and most times tires you out before he tires out.

𝒵 = zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward) : it takes awhile for price to succumb to sleep, no matter how tired he is. so it's usually you falling asleep first. he lays there, holding you close and running his hands along your back and then further. he'll drift off to the sound of your slow breathing and the steady rhythm of your heart.  ♡

૮ ˙Ⱉ˙ ა ʳᵃʷʳ ⁿᵒᵗᵉˢ : the full alphabet! ahem, i enjoyed doing this

[octoberautumnbox]

Consider: Yubin who's your seatmate and is very professional in school but every night at 10pm you get the raciest, sauciest, spiciest nudes from her with no warning

Hell Week

tripleS Gong Yubin & Male Reader

Categories/warnings: smut, that's p much all anyone needs to know i think

Word count: 5.5k holy shit

a/n: jeez howd it get this long :nolookk: oh btw i took some liberties with the prompt not that u care heres the fuckin yubin fic :DDDD

~~~

A hand lays itself on your shoulder, the sudden contact nearly making you jump. You turn around and find Yubin clutching a book to her chest with a gentle look on her features. Gesture over to the chair across from you, all the while trying to get your heart rate back under control. 

“My bad, didn't see you were locked in.” She gets into the chair left of you anyway and turns her book to the same page as yours. “How's it going?”

You stretch and groan to let out as much of your tiredness as you can, paying just a bit of mind to everyone else in the library doing pretty much the same. “Dunno. Around twenty minutes ago I accepted I'm retaking this class. What's up with you?”

She giggles while her eyes scan across the paragraphs talking about desert flora and types of precipitation. She rests her cheek on her palm, “I still have a bit of fight in me, but I'm losing hope. I was hoping I could borrow some from you.”

“Sorry, Yubin,” you whisper with every ounce of sympathy you had, “fresh out.” You return to your own book, yet all you do is run your eyes over the same page over and over without much staying in your head. 

A cursory look over to your left shows you scholar-mode Gong Yubin: focused, sharp, and serious. Not that it ever got in the way of you two being friends, but when she gets like this, you know better than to underestimate her–she's capable of plotting the downfall of kingdoms if she set her mind to it. 

However, at the same time, you notice her distress, then immediately notice how well she hides it. It's the same slight crease of her eyebrows in freshman orientation, after midterms in Linguistics 103, and when she finally stopped putting off Geology 102. The realization dawns on you: the situation is dire now that she asks for your help while she's like this, so how could you let her down now?

“Bet you I can score higher,” you challenge her. You have no good reason to issue such a proposition, but if it means giving her support how it matters, whatever embarrassing thing she'll make you do is more than worth it.

It piques her interest and a smile pulls up the corners of her lips. She side-eyes you with an excitement she didn't have just two minutes prior, and you know it worked. “If I win,” she announces as loud as she's allowed to, “make me thick tofu stew. The right way.” 

“Really? That's it?” Then you rebut with just as much fervor, “If I win, you do three of my essays in comparative lit next semester.”

“Now hold the fuck on,” she stumbles, her eyes grown wide and her smile grown toothy, “if you're gonna raise the stakes like that, I need to think of something else!”

Your phone and hers vibrate at the same time, and your screen reads “Get your ass over to Geog.” You both pack your bags and head off to your last Geology class before finals together, and as your book takes its place in the darkness of your backpack, “Fine, but I get to change mine too when I hear yours,” and the spring in her step as you walk tells you it's mission accomplished. 

~~~

In hindsight, it really wasn’t all that bad. The class review session your professor held that day helped you nail down just enough of whatever the fuck sleet might be, and while you're certain it isn't flying colors, your grade at least wouldn't be red. 

Coming out of the exam room, you spot Yubin just seconds before she finds you, and your good deed pays for itself as she skips to approach. 

“Got a good feeling?” There was no point in asking other than that you had to hear it from her, though the wide grin on her face was proof enough. 

“Yeah, I think barely,” she sways cutely from side to side, “and don't think you're off the hook!” She hits you light on the arm, and the most shining feature you can’t ignore is her eyebrows without any sign or symptom of the crease. 

“Not over ‘til the fat lady sings, Gong Yubin,” though you know she's already won. “Three whole essays against… Haven't you decided yet?”

“No, not yet, but the bet is still on!”

You relent, “Fine, fine. Anyway, Nakyoung’s treating the gang to drinks tonight. Wanna come?”

“Nah, busy. Laundry and stuff.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot, and you can tell she’s giddy about what her grade is going to turn out to be. It’s a sight for sore eyes, especially ones that have seen too many grainy tectonic plates and water cycle diagrams. “And why do you insist on full-naming her?”

“I know someone whose name sounds the exact same. As far as I’m concerned, our Nakyoung’s the other Naky.” You place your hand on the small of her back and lead her away from the doorway, and she walks with you without a second thought.

“Mean. You’ll have to introduce me to this first Naky, then.” You slide into rhythm with her gait, and it hits you just how relieved you are for Yubin’s worries to be over. 

It seems such a waste, you think, that laundry is the only thing keeping her away from celebrating, so as you walk out of the Social Sciences building, you bargain one more time: “We’ll be there all night, so just come by when you’re done. I speak for everyone when I say we want you to come, please?”

She giggles again, “I’ll see what I can do. It’s not like I don’t wanna be there, either. Plus,” she admits defeatedly, “we’re getting the results later, and God knows I’d rather not be alone when it comes.” 

~~~

“Hey, where's Yubin?” Nakyoung slings an arm around your shoulder and shoves another mug of beer into your hand. It's a welcome gesture, and it takes all of two and a half seconds for you to down half of it. 

“She has laundry,” you nearly shout back your reply above the music. “Said she'll drop by if she has time.”

Nakyoung makes to yell another reply right into your ear, but decides to pull you away into one of the quieter booths in the bar. “She's a goody-two-shoes, no? Laundry, oh please. Kaede hasn't done laundry in two years.” She takes a gulp of her own beer and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Hey. She studied her ass off for that test. I made a bet with her and it looks like she has high spirits, but I honestly dunno what I'd do if she fails.”

Your friend takes your chin up with her finger and you realize how pensive an expression was sitting on your face. “This is Gong Yubin. You know she'll kill it.” Nakyoung flashes a confident smile, and it reassures you almost more than your own trust in Yubin herself. “You drunk yet?”

“Nah, not getting shitfaced without Yubin.”

“Cute. You know she likes you too?” 

“Go fuck yourself, Nakyoung. Go steal Seoyeon's boyfriend while you're at it.”

“I wish; she has him under lock and key. But I wouldn't really mind both of them,” she muses, eyeing Seoyeon in the middle of the dancefloor. 

Just then, the devil strolls in through the front door. “Hi! You weren't kidding, it's really loud in here,” Yubin exclaims with her hands shielding her ears as she adjusts to the noise.

She takes Nakyoung's seat–you whip your head around and find Nakyoung at the dancefloor, with Seoyeon grinding against her–and picks up Nakyoung's old mug. She takes a careful sip and ends it with a relieved ahhhh, before setting it back down and getting to business. She leans in like keeping a secret, though she can't hide her toothy grin. “Have you seen your grade yet?”

“It's out?!” You fumble for your phone, and the second it lights up, cold runs through your veins–the email notification is the first thing at the top of the screen. Meanwhile, Yubin calmly slides her phone across the table to you. She asks “I read yours, you read mine?” with the sweetest smile on her face, again with the slight crease on her eyebrows.

Calm your nerves, silence the alarms blaring in your head. You know she did well, absolutely certain. However, it still doesn't soothe you enough; not until you see the grades for yourself. So, as your thumb hovers over her email, your heart nearly beats out of your chest, only to see–

“You got 87 percent,” Yubin states in the blandest, matter-of-fact tone you've ever heard. Her eyes move left and right over the same spot on your phone, making ultimate certain that she's reading it right. Once she is, her tone softens just enough, “Yeah, 87 percent. Wow, that's good,” she sighs with relief, “... Hard to beat.”

Now her turn, you peek at her score. doing the same making sure, and then some. When you read it for the fifth time, you kick yourself mentally for being so worried and having such little trust in the genius that is Gong Yubin. “Goddamn, 95 percent.”

Her eyes widen like sinkholes as her hand flies to cover her mouth. It almost doesn't matter that you hand her back her phone; she snatches it back anyway. Her disbelief chips away at itself with every run through of the email she reads for herself, and when she's finally done, returns her shocked gaze back to you.

“You were that scared of three essays?” you joke. The beer tastes sweeter now that your worries have gone, and as if all six septillion kilograms of the world is off your shoulders. 

“No, three essays is easy,” she taunts, but immediately her voice takes on a gentler tone, “so I win, right?”

You scoff at her haughtiness, but your relief triumphs over all. “Yeah, whatever. What do you want?”

“... I wanna go home. This is enough excitement for one day.”

“Alright, let me take you. Tell me in the cab what you want for winning, though?”

“Sure,” she says with a tiny smile.

~~~

“So,” she declares. She catches her breath, and her face is overcome with a subtle red flush, “about the bet.”

“Yeah, about the bet.”

“I want…” and she hesitates. The cab runs over a mild speed bump, and the resulting sway seemingly knocks her completely out of focus. She gathers her resolve once more, as if every time she tries to speak she drops it and has to pick it up again. 

“You want…?”

It's a good couple minutes of her breathing heavily, and your concern shows itself for her and whatever she has planned for you.

“Is it illegal? What could possibly be so bad that you're hesitating this much?”

“No, no, shut up. I'm working on it.” She takes one last deep breath, even placing a hand on her heart to steady it. “I want… a cum tribute.”

“... A cum tribute.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to…?”

“I'll send you a photo. And do it on that.”

“You want a photo of–”

“Video.”

“You–video?”

“I want a video. Of you. Cumming on a photo. My photo. I'll send it to you.”

There's no way the cab driver doesn't think this is weird. Then again, he has an earphone in, so he might not be listening in at all. You get the feeling Yubin doesn't care either way, completely focused on you. 

“... Alright. You want it this bad, fine.”

“Good. Um,” she follows, “sorry in advance. It's gonna be my first time… taking a photo like this.” She refocuses her attention to the buildings whizzing by outside as she says it, the telltale sign the conversation is over. Still, it lingers in your head for a little while: Yubin's first time. 

~~~

“Look, I'm sorry,” she sighs, “just come up with me? Please?”

You're standing with her outside her dorm, all the while the meter ticks away in the cab. The driver waits expectantly inside for you to get back, but Yubin's fingers wrapped around your sleeve make for a very difficult decision. 

“Okay, okay, just let me pay the cab driver,” you concede, but as soon as you sum up the fare, Yubin snatches it from you and brings it over herself. She and the driver exchange a few words, ending with her waving him off and him leaving her in the dust. She waddles back with her signature grin: the one that tries and fails to hide her excitement. 

“Can I just ask why you want it so bad?”

She shakes her head, “Nope. Now shush,” as you both make the now-silent trek up the four flights of stairs to her floor and room. 

Upon entering, you immediately notice it's nicer than most dorm rooms: huge space, carpet floors, a big window, and two double-size beds, not to mention its own bathroom. It makes you stop and wonder if you ever glossed over any signs that Yubin or her family might come from old money.

“Uhh, give me a few minutes to get ready. The bed on the right is mine, make yourself at home. WiFi password by the light switch. Kaede doesn't like her stuff messed with, so steer clear.” Yubin then disappears into the bathroom, and you lay yourself down on her bed. You're made aware of how you sink comfortably into the memory foam, and of the disarming fragrance that wafts from her bedsheets and pillowcases. She's always smelled like this, you recall, but it's rather nice, you finally admit. 

“Hey,” Yubin attempts. She sits on the edge of her bed next to you, wearing a set of pajamas and no makeup at all. You always knew Yubin was a pretty girl, God knows how many times she's been asked out, but seeing her like this is new; her allure draws you in with a smile and an embrace. Shit, was Nakyoung right? Do you like her? 

“So… How do you want me?” She avoids your eyes and touches her fingertips together, a blush forming on her cheeks. 

“Do you… Do you have a tie?”

Her ears perk up, “Yeah, hold on,” and she retrieves a thin, striped necktie from her dresser. She places it around her neck, her fingers delicately maneuvering the fabric into an intricate-looking knot, and when she's done, she presents herself to you. 

“Take off your top, Yubin,” you tell her, and she hands you her phone with the camera already on. Point it at her, making sure the flash is off, and start taking pictures one by one. 

She pushes aside the tie and fiddles with the top button. It's effortless how she undoes it, and she pulls the collar apart to show you more of her. She unbuttons the next, then the next, all the while showing you her smooth skin. With half the buttons undone, she shows off her chest, showing nothing but skin underneath her top.

You take a moment to catch your breath, swallow your spit. “Are you sure about this, Yubin?” 

“Yeah… Just keep going, please.” She undoes her fifth button at the very bottom, revealing her midriff and making you salivate. Must be heaven to kiss her there, when she snaps you out of it, “Are you still taking pictures?” Am I that distracting?” Look up to her, find her with the same sweet smile on her face but with a new blush decorating her cheeks.

Her last button is her fourth, and it's undone before you know it. She keeps her pajama top on a little bit longer, covering her chest a little bit more, and finally she shrugs it off one shoulder. It's nothing but everything all at once, and the split second your self-control wavers is the exact moment you leap in.

You drop her phone somewhere on the mattress; both your hands grip her shoulders as your lips capture hers. She leans into the kiss, wrapping her fingers on the back of your neck, and tiny moans escape her amidst smooches that get louder the hungrier she gets. 

Pull the top off her other shoulder, and she finally strips it all off. However, you can't even enjoy the sight, not yet, as you draft down from her lips to her slender neck, leaving a trail of kisses on your way. She runs her fingers through your hair before holding you in place, all the while leading your free hand to her chest. 

She sucks air in through her teeth, “That's really good, just like that…” she moans as her head tilts to allow more access to her neck. The scent of her shampoo fills your nostrils and you feel yourself getting addicted, but not as much as to the softness of her skin. 

She pulls you down onto the bed, and you find yourself leaning over her. Yubin lies under you, watching you intently and waiting for what you'll do next. Her tie sits right in the valley of her tits, and it drives you wild. Take a nipple in between your teeth while you fondle her other breast. She breathes heavy in pleasure, wordlessly asking for more and more of your attention and love. Her fist closes on your hair as she pushes you further onto her chest, her other hand hopelessly tugging on your pants.

It's all the message you need from her: your pants go, then your underwear, then everything else. Your cock stands hard in her sights, and the way her fingers wrap around your length is nothing short of heaven. 

“Do… do you wanna do it with me?” Her question is purely innocent, without a single hint of malice in her voice. She rubs your shaft slowly, sending waves of tantalizing pleasure throughout your whole body.

“Do you have condoms?”

“... Kaede will forgive me.” She crawls down the ladder, picks out a square plastic wrapper from her roommate's dresser, and hurries to get back to you. The smile on her face as she comes up the ladder again is one of, if not the most beautiful things you've ever seen. 

You guide her as she puts the condom on you, and the sensation of her fingers gently unrolling the rubber along your length only makes you more impatient. Finally, you hook your fingers on the garter of her pajama bottoms, and she lifts her hips to accommodate you. The fabric slides off her so easily, revealing her long, smooth legs that she seems desperate to have you in between of. 

“Go easy, okay? I told you…” 

“Yeah, your first time. I'll take care of you,” you reassure her. Line up your throbbing cock against her slick heat, feel her palm on your cheek, watch her flash that killer smile again. She bites her lip, and while you know it isn't on purpose, it makes her look sexier all the same. 

Slide your cock into her, making sure to go slow. She shuts her eyes harder with every inch she takes of you, and when she moves her hands to your forearms and grips tight, it reminds you like a looping cycle: “Go easy, go easy.”

So you go slow and steady, staving off your lust for the woman giving herself to you. Each thrust into her sex is careful and calculated, though by the second you feel your calculations going awry. She pants at every good spot in her cavern you happen to drag across, earning her little admissions of newly found pleasure in the form of mewls and moans like a song you’d never tire of. 

“Faster, please…? You’re so–ugh, fuck…” And the way she pleads flips a switch in you; plant your elbows into the memory foam on either side of her head while she takes your face in her hands. Yubin pulls you in for a kiss and it means the world to her when you grow careless with your lovemaking.

“Fuck, fuck, not too fast, just right, mmm,” each time you push into her cunt. The way she mumbles sweet nothings into your ear, the way she holds on for dear life and leaves scratches all the way down your back, she takes up every single thought going through your head: Yubin, Yubin, Yubin…

You scarcely notice how she's scratching your harder, gripping you tighter, grinding against you faster–it’s much too late to finally hear her warning, “I'm close, I'm close, oh fuck, fuck, aaahhhh!” as she explodes with you still inside her. Her pussy clenches around your cock in all the best ways, and you savor the feeling as she rides out her orgasm. Her knuckles turn white as she grips you by the shoulders, though all you can see is how her tits bounce with every jerk that runs through her body. Yubin's eyes roll to the back of her head and her mouth hangs open, a prolonged, deep moan gracing your ears as she ambles closer and closer to spent. 

Take a moment, let her breathe. Every gasp of air in her lungs is like a blessing, and each one steadily brings her from beyond heaven back to you. Her hands fall to her sides as she pants out her delirium and replaces it with tiredness, and once she's stable she flashes you that killer smile again. It pulls on the corners of her mouth, showing the tiniest amount of teeth, though her eyes are nowhere near open. Plant a kiss on her cheek, then her neck, then receive her giggles once you stay and rest right on her pulse. 

“You good? Still alive?”

All she can do is nod, having had every last ounce of her strength sapped. She lays motionless under you, save for her chest rising and falling with her breathing, and you know she looks to you for comfort and security. You take another moment to bask in her afterglow; she's never looked more gorgeous. 

“Hey,” she whispers, and you swear it's the most tired you've ever heard her, or anyone for that matter. “You good?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. Are you sure you're good?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” She pulls you back down and plants a kiss on your cheek. Her lips linger for a second, as if she's taking in your scent made hers. You stay like this for a good while, just enjoying each other's presence, relishing in the warmth of a body that gave itself up for the other. You don't even notice when you slumped over onto the mattress beside her, but her head on your chest felt like the rightest thing in the world.

“We're not done, by the way,” she prods.

“What? Why not? Aren't you tired?”

“‘Tired’ isn't part of the bet. I still want that tribute.”

And you remember, you have a job to do, a debt to pay. It’s between your common sense and your lust for the hottest girl in the world right now, and there is a clear winner. 

Pull back from her, off of the bed, and plant your feet on the floor. Firm and resolute, tell her: “Fine, on your knees.” The flush on her face deepens to an igneous red, and she scrambles to the floor in front of you.

“You're so pretty, Yubin,” you muse as you point her camera back to her face. Make sure the flash is off, and once you push the big red button to record, your other hand immediately takes her cheek and guides her to your tip. 

Yubin's eyes flutter shut as she inches her lips closer and closer to your cock. The first contact is heavenly; just gentle kisses and licks from a complete novice pretending to be an expert at this sort of stuff. The way her tongue glides over your shaft, the way she plants kisses all over your cock with the tiniest sucks, the way she does all of this with her eyes gracefully shut makes for a killer video for her to get off to later. A blowjob from a girl like this comes once in a lifetime, so you resolve to give her everything she'd ever want from a tribute like this. 

A moan escapes you, and she picks up that she's doing it right. With your subconscious approval, the hand on her cheek pulling further her in, she takes your tip in her mouth. Her tongue works overtime in running all over the head, paying special attention to your slit, making absolutely sure her spit coats wherever she can reach. She takes in more and more of your shaft, pressing her tongue on the underside of your cock as she does, all the while her cheeks hollow out like her life depends on it. 

Tiny vibrations from her throat only add to the pleasure, sending shivers up your spine and your hand to the back of her head. For the first time, she opens her eyes, and the sight is something to behold: she looks up at you with the biggest, roundest, most pleading eyes, the epitome of cuteness if not for your cock she oh-so-diligently services to get what she wants. 

Yubin takes you in just a bit deeper, slightly turning her head and savoring the way your length fills her mouth, when you hit the back of her throat, causing her to gag. She pulls back abruptly as a tear forms in the corner of her eye, and you have half a mind to pull out entirely to make sure she's okay. Instead, she never lets you–she takes your cock again, shooting you another pleading look before she shuts her eyes and bobs her head onto your cock again and again. 

Luckily, you pick up on her message; Snake your fingers through her hair, grab a fistful, make her yours. A moan rises from her throat once again, and she steadies herself with her hands on your thighs in preparation. She's ready. 

Pull her in as far as she can take, and it's a good most of your shaft before she gags again. Offer her no breathing room, bob her head onto your cock over and over, all the while more of her slobber coats your length, some of it falling off her lips and onto her chest and lap. She never fights, only takes–soon the gagging is replaced by an obedient, rhythmic gluck-gluck-gluck than you're sure even she'd find hot if she could think straight. Instead, her phone picks up every sight and sound for her to enjoy later, while you both enjoy each other now. 

It's everything all at once: the sight of Gong Yubin's plump, sexy lips around your shaft, the feeling of her tongue relentlessly dragging over every inch of your cock, the sound of your tip meeting her throat again and again while her groans fight their way out. “Yubin… I'm close,” you confess, but with her eyes still shut and her tongue still going crazy all over you, you don't think she heard. So make the decision yourself: yank her hard off your cock, rub your shaft right against her delicious lips. Once she exits her daze, she takes your dick in her hand and rubs all across the length. Tears fall from the corner of her eyes and her lips give off the slightest tremble, but she's resolute in what she wants to earn from you. 

It takes no time at all until you reach your limit. It's the best handjob anyone has ever probably given, but it's that one last kiss from her, right on your tip, that sends you over the edge. One last groan, one last jerk, one last tug of her hair, and your orgasm hits. Your cum shoots out in ropes, all landing on her face and tits. She's determined to receive everything from you, so it's only right to give her exactly what she wants. She shuts her eyes again, but her mouth stays wide open to catch whatever she can of it–she never stops jerking you off even as your cum falls onto her eyelids, her nose bridge, her forehead, her chin. Yubin savors every moment and every drop, burning the memory of bliss into her mind as you coat her face with your love. 

Your orgasm finally dies down, and you realize just how much she squeezed out of you. You're sure no one has ever looked lewder, your cum smeared all over her face, yet she proves you wrong when she picks up a fingerful of it to take into her mouth. She licks her lips, apparently loving the taste, while you love the sight of her acting so sultry for you. 

Stumble back onto the bed, take Yubin with you. Both of you are out of strength, breathing heavy, and in the middle of processing that you just painted her face with cum–that she asked you to paint her face with cum. You barely notice the stars swirling in your eyes, but your sense of the situation comes back just quick enough to avoid things getting awkward. 

“I think I wanna shower, so you should wash up first,” you mumble, still staring at her beige ceiling, and you can feel she's panting and doing the same without even seeing her. 

Wordlessly she gets up and her carpet-muffled footsteps grow quieter as she heads to the bathroom. A door shuts, a handle creaks, a shower gushes to life. Your brain sits idle, making no attempts to form thoughts other than acknowledging the shower turning off and on while she bathes. It's calming in its own way, you suppose–taking a bath is one of the normalest things in the world–as if what you just did with her was a close runner-up. 

An unknowable amount of time passes, and a fresh, citrus-scented Yubin emerges from the bathroom again. She dries her hair with her towel as she makes her way to her hair blower, but not before shooting you a gorgeous smile and a head tilt to the bathroom to let you know it's your turn. 

~~~

Leaving the bathroom yourself, you find a dark bedroom, save only for a yellow lamp shining against a nearby wall. Yubin is sitting up in her bed and scrolling on her phone, and once she spots you, she beckons you over.

“Look, funny,” she whispers with a giggle, and she shows you a clip of a guy much too excited about a truck looking like Optimus Prime. 

“Yeah. Hey, listen, I'm pretty tired,” you attempt. In no way is this a lie, and you're sure she's tired too. You bet she wants nothing more than to finally go to sleep and end what should be a perfect night on a high note. 

“Totally,” she agrees, “come on in. It's cold.” She lifts up the covers and looks over to you expectantly. Not that it dumbfounds you, but it throws you for a slight loop; she literally just said it was cold. 

“Wh– I'm heading out, is what I mean. You should get your rest, too.”

Yubin's eyes take on a softer expression, “Oh, you're not staying over?”

“... Did you want me to?”

“Yeah…?”

Your eyes lock with hers for what seems like half a second and a million hours at the same time. You're stuck in place, still in a stalemate of a staring contest with her, and you're not sure even she knows what the two of you want out of the situation. Her expression turns into one of concern, and her arm holding up the covers falters just a bit. Fuck, you think, window's closing.

Make your choice, have no regrets. Get in the covers with her, and she lets them drop to snuggle up to you. Once the both of you settle, her head on your chest and yours on one of the fluffiest pillows in the world, she blurts out quietly: “You fucked up, you know.”

She navigates to her gallery and finds your video of her, and skips to a part near the end. “Your dumb ass stopped recording just as you were about to cum.” And the video did show that: Yubin rubbing your cock, eyes shut, tongue out and ready for your load, and the video stops. 

“Shit, sorry–” 

“This wasn't the bet. I wanted a cum tribute, not a facial. You need to send me a proper one,” she muses, “or take a proper video.”

Now that stuns you. You wonder how interesting her ceiling is for you to stare at it so much, but she snaps you out of it partway through by snaking a hand up your shirt and settling it right above your heart. Reciprocate–it only feels right–wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her even closer. An exhale from both of you, and one last exchange of words: 

“Okay. Tomorrow?”

“Can you go again that soon?”

“If it's you, of course.”

“Don't guys need to recharge?”

“... I'll handle it.”

~~~

[holdinggrudges]

what's my flavor?

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball.

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store. 

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine. 

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it. 

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy. 

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance. 

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score. 

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where. 

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?” 

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.” 

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.” 

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?” 

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over. 

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.” 

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.” 

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’ 

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’ 

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow. 

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you. 

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless. 

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month. 

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant. 

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.” 

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.” 

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.” 

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious. 

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library. 

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.” 

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.” 

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time. 

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too. 

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up.  He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?” 

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense. 

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly. 

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.” 

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.” 

“I’ll text you,” he agrees. 

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life. 

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags. 

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut. 

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before. 

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response. 

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway. 

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing. 

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’ 

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too. 

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised. 

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car. 

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers. 

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is. 

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’ 

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage. 

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door. 

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?” 

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?” 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?” 

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out. 

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.” 

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further. 

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that. 

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?” 

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help. 

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.” 

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?” 

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?” 

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before. 

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again. 

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?” 

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.” 

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?” 

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.” 

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?” 

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.” 

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.” 

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.” 

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.” 

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?” 

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.” 

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.” 

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door. 

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit. 

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?” 

  You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general. 

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight. 

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately. 

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him. 

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.” 

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.” 

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw. 

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.” 

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.” 

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that. 

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?” 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.” 

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.” 

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.” 

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.” 

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss. 

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing. 

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.” 

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?” 

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.” 

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that. 

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are. 

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.” 

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry. 

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. !You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.  

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up. 

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips. 

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.” 

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you. 

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.” 

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?” 

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.” 

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?” 

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.” 

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t. 

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond. 

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed. 

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw. 

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.” 

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought. 

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now. 

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his. 

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease. 

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there. 

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that. 

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?” 

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated. 

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down. 

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.” 

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen. 

 “Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again. 

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?” 

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.” 

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss. 

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go. 

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.” 

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.” 

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory. 

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.” 

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm. 

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?” 

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already. 

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?” 

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…” 

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said. 

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?” 

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”  

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.” 

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

[luveline]

Hello Jade! I have a request for hotch if that’s okay, I was thinking something like he’s dating sunshine!reader who goes to a police precinct with the team and the sheriff/deputy insults Hotch in front of her (maybe she’s not part of the BAU so he doesn’t realise she knows Hotch?) and she snaps and punches him/pushes him to the ground and afterwards she’s really quiet and refusing to tell anyone what happened cause she doesn’t want Hotch to hear that people were bad mouthing him. Everyone is confused cause she’s usually so bubbly and it’s disconcerting to see her so stern but she has to protect her man damnit 😤

(Ps I’m the anon who got confused about rules n you’re right I was looking under guidelines not requests 🤦🏼‍♀️ sorry!)

hi babe, thank you for your request! (and no worries at all, no sorry necessary!!)

—hotch is dumbfounded when you slap a deputy sheriff, but you have your heartfelt reasons. fem, 2k

You're not specifically BAU, but when Hotch calls, you answer. You don't look BAU either in your skirt with your blue laptop carry case; twice you're asked what you're doing in the precinct and if you need assistance, but eventually you get to the centre of the action upstairs, meandering through the detective's desks toward a conference room with a sticky-taped sign that says to knock before entering. 

"Hey, Spencer," you say, shouldering open the door. "They leave you behind?" 

Spencer turns away from his white board. "I'm more useful here right now. Did you bring the ethernet cable for Garcia?"

You put your laptop case on the table and pull out her desired cable. "Where is she?" It's hard-pressed for Penelope to be found anywhere away from her computer during case times. You must get twenty or more rejection emails a month from your fellow tech analysist. Sorry, working a case :'( 

"Bathroom. There's a kitchen if you need coffee. You have a badge?" 

You flash your visitor's badge at him. "Get you one?" 

"Four sugars. Thanks, L/N." 

You flash him a smile. The kitchen is back the way you came and to the right. It's nowhere near big enough for the workforce, three tables and one microwave next to a sink full of mugs. You smile at anyone who looks at you and beeline for a coffee pot. No one questions you. They must be used to outsiders invading their space this week. 

"Mean fucking guy." 

You tilt your head to the side, hand paused in their cup cabinet above the sink. You shouldn't be nosy, but they're not being very quiet, either.

"He has to be mean, I guess. That's a tight ship to run," says a second voice.

"I'd understand it if I thought they were getting somewhere. It's been four days, and between the string bean and his pushpin map and that tech girl who won't shut up? They're doomed. The boss is either too stubborn or too damn stupid to realise." 

You close the cabinet and turn around. 

"I fucking hate this shit. Ties in their suit jackets coming into our investigation and chasing the wrong leads. We could've had Miller in cuffs two days ago if Hotchner hadn't shut us down, two days ago! And now another kid is dead, and there's not a drop of remorse on him. He doesn't care about doing his job, he–" 

"He what?" you ask. Your heart is beating hard before you've so much as parted your lips, your hands trembling. You screw them into tight balls. 

"Excuse me?" 

Your opposition is a rough hewn man in a deputies badge, a cup of coffee held between two paws. He narrows thick salt and pepper brows at your question, his mouth screwed into a telling snarl. 

"You think Agent Hotchner doesn't care about his job? So why is he here? Why did he agree to take the case?" 

"Who the fuck are you?" 

You shake your head in annoyance and take the FBI badge from your little cross body bag. You toss it on the table, your beaming face looking up at him a juxtaposition to the glare you wear now. 

He stands up from his table. The lunch room hushes but the riot of precinct cacophony stays strong just outside of the door, a thrum that battles your roaring heart. You're so angry you can barely speak, and it'll only get worse. 

"I'm sorry you have to hear it from me, darling, I am, but your boss out there? Agent Hotchner?" The deputy scoffs. "He's a fool running blind. He turned away from the real issue here. He's a prideful, narcissistic idiot who's let the power of his paycheck get to his head, and as far as I'm concerned? So long as he stops us from arresting Jaden Miller? He's a murderer, too. The blood is on his hands." 

You know you're going to slap him from the moment he says 'murderer', but the knee to his crotch straight after is a surprise even to yourself. All you're thinking for one horrible white-hot moment is How can I hurt him? It's shameful, and you slam your knee up a second time anyhow. 

—

"You can tell me what happened now or later, but it's going to be much easier on you if you tell me now." 

Hotch hates this part. What he wouldn't give to have someone else here to reprimand you. He understands why Gideon left and he wouldn't want him back unwillingly, but Hotch thinks your nightly phone call may go over smoother tonight if it were Gideon standing in his place. Half the time Hotch finds he's uninterested in scolding you. It's why you stay firmly in your department and away from his bias in the BAU. He can't be optimal at his job while you're around. 

It's not limited to telling you off, of course. When you're near, he wants to act like it. He wants to take your hand, hold your arm, rub a palm between your shoulders. He wants to pull you into his lap, or pinch the soft lobe of your ear between his fingers to watch you shiver, blow warm air at the back of your neck to hear your laugh. This cold silence is his worst nightmare, but he can't cross the line. 

Well, he can't cross the line too much. 

In the privacy of a cordoned, borrowed office, Hotch can sit beside you. The blinds are closed, and his intimidation act wasn't getting him anywhere anyways. More flies with honey than vinegar. 

"I can't show favouritism here, do you understand? Especially when you're being physically violent against the deputy sheriff." Hotch watches the soft pillow of your bottom lip tremble in a private terror. "I know you wouldn't do this for no reason. I know. Give me a reason to take your side and I will." 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

"Did he say something inappropriate?" 

You don't answer.

"Did he?" Hotch can feel the anger he's been pushing down start to rise. When a woman like you, happy-go-lucky, pretty, and always smiling, turns to violence, it's not hard to picture why. He knows full well the horrible things a man can say to a woman. "Please, trust me to take care of this." 

"Hotch, I really don't want to talk about this. You can reprimand me, send me home." 

"No. Tell me what he said." 

You glare at him. Hotch finds with a heart-skipping hurt that it's the first time he's been on the receiving end of your disdain. "No. I don't want to." 

"And I don't want to send you home." He knows how he looks, stony-eyed and furrowed brow. He has to try hard to relax into a more neutral expression. "I won't. Not when I know you'd never hurt someone." 

"Well, I did." 

"We all do things we don't mean to in anger." 

In the quiet, he can hear Emily asking loud questions about what happened, and her almost comedic gasp as someone informs her of the situation. Morgan couldn't find the words to tell Hotch over the phone what happened, just told him to hurry back, and it was doubly difficult to get the story out of Spencer, who'd been the one responsible for standing in your way. 

"He called her a bitch," Spencer told him. "I didn't want to hold her back after that." 

The sheriff deputy has a good hundred pounds on you, so no matter what he called you, Hotch is glad you were pulled away. 

Hearing that you'd been called a bitch set his nerves aflame. When Spencer explained that this was said by a man on his knees after a swift jab to the crotch, Hotch was more confused. 

He follows a whim. He's biassed for sure, but he knows you're the most beautiful woman in any room that you walk into. It doesn't shock him that a high-ranking authority figure would take advantage of his position to make a pass at you. 

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he says softly. "Whatever he said to you, I– I'm not supposed to support violence, but I understand if it got too much. Sexual harassment is unjustifiable, and I'll stand with you and your actions completely." 

"He didn't harass me, Aaron," you say, looking down at your knees. You're wearing dark stockings, pinching at the fabric distractedly. 

"Did he touch you?" 

"No, Aaron–" You sigh frustratedly. "I don't want to tell you what he said because it's not true." 

"He insulted you?" 

"He insulted you." You glance at him and then away. "I couldn't stand it." 

If there weren't cameras in the room he'd bundle you into his arms and kiss the slope of your cheek, because how is he supposed to handle this? You're hitting people when they talk bad about him now? 

Hotch doesn't need to ask to know it was bad. You're a well-meaning, well-adjusted person. You'd hardly hit somebody for calling Hotch a jerk. Something severe would've been said to have pushed you over the edge, but, to his detriment, Hotch has heard a thousand awful things about himself from a thousand different mouths, and he doesn't worry about what it was. 

"Alright. Listen to me carefully." Your shoulders stiffen. "I don't want you hurting people over me. I don't need you to defend me. I don't want you to fight my battles for me, and I certainly don't want you assaulting people on my behalf." 

Your lip again begins to tremble. "I'm sorry." 

"No. Don't be sorry." He covers your knee in his hand gently, ducking his head to meet your glassy eyes. He's gone about this the wrong way, upsetting you unnecessarily. He rushes to correct it. "I love that you want to defend me, I love that you did, and it isn't lost on me how much it means to have you at my side, but… You could have been seriously injured. Honey, picking on someone your own size is a double-sided coin. What if the deputy hit you back?" 

"I'm not afraid of getting hurt." 

He leans down more, imploring, desperate to be heard. "I'm afraid of you getting hurt. Me. I'm worried someone's going to hurt you when I'm not around." 

"He was saying all this stuff about you and it wasn't true–" 

"It's okay," he says, shaking his head slowly from one side to another. "It doesn't matter. I know what people like him think of me, and he's not in an easy position." He drops his voice to a murmur for your ears alone. "I'm not saying you should agree with him, I can't tell you that I like him much." 

You laugh weakly, the sound quickly melding to a sniffle. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I shouldn't have hit him. I don't know what came over me." 

"We get angry for the people we care about." 

He can't kiss you, really, not at work, but he can show you some heavy affection. It's a boundary crossed. Luckily, Hotch knows you won't report him. 

"Thank you for defending me. You can stay on the case if you promise not to do it again," he says, squeezing your smaller hand in his, drawing a lopsided heart with his thumb into the back of it. 

"I'll promise not to do it again if he promises to keep his stupid mouth closed," you mutter. 

"Is it wrong of me to like this version of you?" he says. 

You look him straight in the eye, your usual lightness restored, if dimmed just a touch. "I like all your versions, Agent Hotchner." 

"Good. Remind the version that's your boyfriend to treat you accordingly tonight. Okay?" 

You nod emphatically, both relieved and chastened. "Okay. Thanks, handsome." 

You look tired. Tonight, he'll kiss you like he means it, maybe a touch too rough but apparently you're a hard ass now who can handle it, and he'll hold you close even if he can't give you the attention you deserve until the case is done. He'll make sure you know how much he appreciates your protection, rub your back for hours just the way you like it while sleep fails. 

"You're welcome," he says. He has more to say but there's no more time to waste. There's still work to be done. 

It'll come easier with you at his side, he's sure. 

[lostfracturess]

masterlist

series.

symptoms & causes — professor gojo x med student reader

series | ongoing | wc 193 k | angst & more angst

↳ he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

remedies & reasons — professor geto x law student reader

series | ongoing | wc 47 k | fluff, slice-of-life & angst

↳ this wasn’t supposed to happen. not that miserable internship at the law firm you hated, not him becoming your doctor, and definitely not that drunken night at the bar. but he helped, and god, you needed a friend. and he did too. except it's never just friendship with him, is it? it could be perfect—messy, complicated, but perfect. if only his heart wasn’t already taken (spin-off of symptoms and causes).

games & matches — satoru gojo x suguru's daughter reader

series | completed | wc 37 k | smut, fun & little angst

↳ after a night of partying and drinking, you run into none other than satoru gojo — your dad's infuriatingly hot best friend who you haven't seen in years. blame it on the alcohol, but you start flirting with him. and he flirts back. so, can it really be that wrong to want to fuck your dad's best friend? after all, what happens in the kitchen at 3AM stays in the kitchen, right?

one-shots.

backseat mistakes — gojo x fem!reader

one-shot | wc 6.3 k | porn without plot

↳ satoru gojo and you have been driving each other crazy all night with your constant teasing. just your luck, the only seat left in the car heading back home is right on his lap. with every bump and turn on the road home, you can't help grinding against him and with his moans in your ear, it's only a matter of time before something more happens right?

three little words — gojo x gn!reader

one-shot | wc 7.4 k | childhood friends to lovers

↳ for twenty-four years, satoru gojo has carried three little words on the tip of his tongue, never daring to speak them aloud. growing up as the strongest sorcerer comes with its burdens, and loving someone means putting them at risk. but when you're about to marry someone else, satoru finally realizes that sometimes the biggest risk is never taking one at all.

last december morning — gojo x sorcerer!reader

one-shot | wc 5.4 k | angst, hurt/no comfort

↳ on a frost-bitten december morning, you watch satoru gojo prepare for his fated battle with sukuna with infuriating calm, like he isn't planning to sacrifice himself for the greater good. you've spent years being his secret, clearing battlefields for him and stealing kisses between missions, but now you're faced with the most brutal truth. that sometimes the cruelest curse isn't the one that kills you — it's loving someone who belongs to the world before they belong to you.

how to fake date a doctor — doctor!gojo x fem!reader

one-shot | wc 9 k | fake dating, friends to lovers

↳ for six months, you've watched dr. satoru gojo order the sweetest coffee on your menu every morning at exactly 7:15 AM. for six months, you've convinced yourself his intense stares must mean he's spotted something medically concerning about you—maybe a suspicious mole or concerning symptom. but when a desperate white lie about a fake boyfriend results in him volunteering to play the part at your family's christmas dinner, what begins as a simple pretend relationship might just turn into something real.

thoughts of you — professor geto x med student reader

one-shot | wc 1.2 k | porn without plot

↳ alone at night, suguru finds his thoughts wandering to the one person he can't have — his best friend's girlfriend. he knew he shouldn't do it, but still, he can't help himself as his hand drifts down to palm himself (based on symptoms and causes).

not so haunted house — professor gojo x fem!reader

one-shot | wc 4.6 k | porn with little plot

↳ satoru's on a mission to get you into the halloween spirit, and he won't take no for an answer. he's taken you to the town's spooky festival, and plying you with every sugary treat and pumpkin spiced sugary drink he can find. but you draw the line with the haunted house. but knowing satoru, he'll find a way to make it happen (based on symptoms and causes).

wanna join me in the shower? — gojo x reader

one-shot | wc 1.9 k | porn without plot

↳ satoru gojo craves nothing more than to unwind with you in a hot, steamy shower after a long, stressful day. that's it. no more plot found.

drabbles.

be my prom date — gojo x fem!reader

↳ what happens when the notorious playboy satoru gojo is determined to win your heart and asks you to got to prom with him?

bad ideas and other drinks — gojo x fem!reader

↳ satoru gojo's reputation precedes him, so like any girl with half a brain, you steer clear. but what if he has other plans?

love at first bite — vampire!gojo x fem!reader

↳ satoru gojo was an old vampire. like, really old. he's seen it all in his centuries of unlife. but then you walk into the club, suddenly he's like a newborn vamp all over again, ready to risk it all for a sip of that sweet, sweet blood.

confessions in the rain — gojo x fem!reader

↳ it was all so perfect and you looked so breathtaking in white that he forgot how to breathe as you walked down the aisle towards him. but what happens when the illusion is shattered?

seven minutes of misunderstanding — gojo x fem!reader

↳ of all the ridiculous situations you've found yourself in, being trapped in a closet with satoru gojo has to top the list. especially when you're convinced he's dating his best friend.

words you couldn't hear — gojo x gn!reader

↳ satoru's been hopelessly in love with you for years, but can only confess when you can't hear him. but someday—maybe someday soon—he'll tell you for real.

say it again — gojo x fem!reader

↳ you've been married to satoru gojo for so long, but you've kept it quiet, so you can imagine his satisfaction at finally hearing you call him "husband" in public.

traces of yesterday's scars — gojo x fem!reader

↳ they say the strongest sorcerer can't be broken. but as your fingers trace the scar that once split him in two, you find that even satoru gojo has his sensitive spots.

beneath the mistletoe — gojo x gn!reader

↳ having a crush on your brother's best friend is bad enough. having that best friend look better at every family dinner is just cruel. but worst of all? he's noticed your not-so-subtle staring.

a neighborly concern — gojo x gn!reader

↳ when a snowstorm knocks out your power, your insufferably attractive neighbor shows up at your door to "check on you." if only he wasn't so distracting in that damn checkered shirt.

headcanons.

#satoru . #suguru // halloween writing . #jjk halloween

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[karlachismylife]

Yeah, but what if you're a character in a game they like to play? A pre-existing townie in a life simulator that helps them reconnect with normal life outside deployment? The one they somehow always tend to romance in every savefile, courting you through the clumsy mechanics?

Soap would absolutely spam interactions, interrupting any of the tasks you are trying to do. What do you mean your relatonship progress starts going down after he chose "tell a flirty joke" twenty times in a row? Why are you falling out of the conversation and going to water your plants or play on the computer? Does he have to delete it out of the game for you to stop getting distracted? Hmph. If you were a real person, you would be already swooning at his jokes, that he knows for sure. C'mon, bonnie, don't leave the lot for work! If you accept his proposition to move in, you'll never need to work a day in your pixel life! He also has a fuckton of savefiles, because he wants to try every single thing the game has to offer, but turns out mastering all 158 skills and 73 careers isn't that easy in one go. He still goes after you in each and every savefile. What can he say? You're just the prettiest of them all.

Gaz has the strategy nailed down. He knows your pre-set preferences and makes sure his character caters to them (good thing you seem to be generally into him, all he needs to do is add your favourite colour to his outfit, and it suits hm too!), he can calculate the shortest route to have a romantic meter above your head in one conversation. Juggling the interactions with ease, never making the mistake to bore or upset you. He knows you'll have the best family tree in that game, and he'll make it happen. Also has quite a few savefiles, but only because he enjoys the storytelling aspect and always prepares some elaborate plot, filled with drama. Takes inspiration from the hundreds of episodes of different TV shows he manages to watch, also plays with mods to add as much flavour to the game as possible.

Price tries to court you like he would a real person. Inviting your character out, putting a lot of thought into which conversation theme choose out of what game offers, bringing you gifts. Unfortunately for him, the game isn't registering his actions as actually trying to woo you... so he just takes the gloves off and fucking cheats your relationship status. His in-game self needs a pretty partner to look after the pack of three dogs, named Ghost, Gaz and Soap respectively. He's not above cheating your babies (whether your character carries them or it's the science baby option) to be triplets. Only starts new savefiles when you both grow old and pass away in the previous one, maybe because he can't bring himself to live out your kids' lives (they should be their own little virtual people and decide for themselves), or maybe because he doesn't understand that he actually can keep playing even if his character's dead.

Ghost starts with adding himself to your family and setting your relationship status as spouses. Oh, you have some in-game pathetic weird looking prick as your pre-set partner/husband? Too bad, evicted, deleted from the game, forgotten. If he is in the mood, he won't straight up delete that poor bloke, but will set up a pool with no ladder and drown him in it or lock him in a separate room to starve. Nothing you should see, though, you'll be plenty busy drowning yourself, not in a pool, but in his affection. Doesn't spam interactions, but really enjoys just watching you go about your day and making it so that his character takes care of your needs - if you start to get hungry, he's already slamming the "call to meal" button on the giant ribs plate his in-game self just roasted. Probably has one savefile where he keeps cheating any death back.

Or are you a cute tamagochi pocket friend/pet they enjoy taking care of, because having a real pet is impossible with their lifestyle? An NPC with an everyday quest of collecting produce in a chill farm simulator? A weekly boss they lose fight to as much times as they can afford to, just to see your opening cutscene replay over and over? A companion whose personal quest they have memorized line by line, but never skip dialogue to hear your voice and look at every expression you make?

Whoever you are, what if one day something in your code changes and you suddenly start recognizing them?

[fillinforlater]

The Pull

Randoms x Ning Yizhou (NingNing) & Kang Hyewon

Length: 1165 words

Tags: gangbang, hair pulling kink, rough, a lot of positions, sex, being a willing toy for men and women

TW: gangbang, the hair pulling is kinda rough, QUICKIE

Inspiration: the two pictures below

(A/N: just a short quickie I had in mind for forever now. Sorry if it's just bullshit, but I hope y'all enjoy it lol)

"Okay, what is this?"

Ningning is perplexed. She let her imagination run wild when Hyewon invited her over weeks ago, the premise: fun with multiple people. Now, multiple can mean a lot, like sharing a couple, something Ningning is already familiar with or maybe two guys for each of them. That's about as many as she can handle simultaneously. Come to think of it, Ningning remembers Hyewon telling her about having three guys and two girls on her at the same time, though—

"Don't tell me you expected more?" Hyewon laughs as she pushes herself through the tall and small and buff and slender frames of horny people around her towards her Chinese friend.

"Less," Ningning quietly hisses when she sees the twinkle in Hyewon's starry eyes. This woman is truly like the night sky: thrilling, even if you can't see it, drop dead gorgeous when uncovered and always happy to surprise her with a shooting star—or in this case, almost twenty willing people. 

"Oh, can my small Ning-ning-ie not handle a dozen men and half a dozen women?" Hyewon's laugh is loud and echoes amongst the crowd whose eyes are all focused on the two. Ningning can feel herself getting undressed, hell, she might as well be bare in their eyes, clothes already on the floor and Hyewon is the same. 

"You're crazy." She puts her arms on Hyewon's shoulders and looks past her. A wave of blankness washes over her head. Now she is the one undressing all those strangers before her, the men whipping out their hard cocks, small, large, thick; the girls with their hairy or shaved pussies, tiny tits or gigantic melons—she is equally scared and excited, so she needs this final push to get her into it.

"And you are crazy hot, Ning-ning-ie~ and your hair…"

Unwillingly, Ningning throws her head back in a guttural, deep moan that has the entire room in goosebumps of thrill and blind lust. Hyewon has both hands in Ningning's endlessly long hair, the blonde fittingly forming tails to tug. There are a million reasons Ningning loves Hyewon, but it's the way she pulls her hair that made her addicted to the older girl.

"Don't keep them waiting any longer, Ningningie~ they can and will pull it and fuck you good.

"Trust me."

The two women are swarmed, torn from each other's grasp and covered in hands. A palm on her back, barely worth the mention, another on her chest, too bad that there's fabric in the way, a long, manicured pointer on her thighs, Ningning holds her breath—she shrieks when someone combs her hair and tugs at whatever they can grab. The doubts and fears she had about this are all gone when more and more people try to get a stronger reaction out of her and pull at her hair.

"Those tails—fuck—were a great idea," Hyewon half moans, half laughs from the other side of the crowded room, amidst a crowd, her frame the toy of the crowd. Her dress is easily removed, unsurprisingly, she likes easy access. Ningning then sees her friend drop to her knees, mouth on a cock, fingers on other shafts and pussies, while a large, burly man roughly pulls her hair back.

"Do the same to me," Ningning begs to the first person she can see, a bald guy, twice her age easily. He nods and pushes her to the ground while the pointy, manicured nails from before are shredding themselves through her top. "My hair, oh God, fuck, yes!"

Though unable to see it—a girl has buried the Chinese woman's face in her hairy cunt—Ningning can feel strong pulling from all sides, relentless, reckless how some are rubbing their cocks on it as well. She searches for the hard clit, her tongue twirling it, like Hyewon has teached her in a private session, way before gangbangs even came into the picture. Some greasy guy forces her to stroke his tiny cock, she can feel him cumming, hear him groaning, imagine the pearly white all over her arm. Not a good spot to finish. 

"In my mouth, ahh." Ningning opens wide and the guy finishes on her lips until two other men decide to suddenly pick her up. The rest of his load lands on her tits, but Ningning has already forgotten about it, too big is the thrill of a stranger uncovering her ass and showing it off to everyone. 

"Fuck me standing," she screams in euphoria. "As long as you pull my fucking hair, I don't care!"

Today is Christmas for Ningning, because as the guy carrying her aligns his cock with her soaking pussy, another woman has her ponytail in hand and starts to play tug of war against herself. In Ningning's brain, the pleasure and pain clash shortly, but soon find a rhythm—the same rhythm in which her pussy is getting pounded. Each thrust rocks her world and now the tug can send her into bliss.

"Oh my God, I'm cumming, don't stop!"

Hyewon meanwhile gets spitroasted in a quite unusual way: two men try to get their semi-hard cocks into her mouth while a young lady shoves a large strap-on in her ass over and over again—she literally pushes it all the way in, just to pull it back out again. The sight of Hyewon's gaping asshole has a guy close. He jerks himself to completion and his spunk lands in Hyewon’s messed up and torn locks.

"I want to cum again, please!"

Ningning gets dropped, but this is nowhere near the end of her wish fulfillment. There is always someone else to fondle her assets, be it tits or ass, and of course, her golden strands. In another team effort, her ass cheeks get spread wide to reveal a twitching hole, always clean, relaxed and ready, especially after the height of an all time orgasm. A cockhead eases itself inside her. 

"Oh fuck!"

"Get her hair!" a strong willed woman shouts at two men who were somewhat awkwardly jerking themselves off at the ever switching sight. "You pull here, you pull over here, on the other side.  Fuck her hair for all I care, ruin her somehow."

The same woman is not only successful with her instructions, she also puts her foot on Ningning's cheek and has her head trapped on the floor, unable to escape the cock that is destroying her ass faster and faster. Ningning can feel her knees give up slowly, they tremble with the force of an earthquake followed by a volcanic eruption, because a final tug puts her over the edge again. This time her orgasm is messy, clear squirt lunges out of her cunt while incoherent profanities leave her mouth.

"Fucking, th-thank you, shit, oh Hyewon, ahhh, fill my dumb ass, c-c-cum in my hair, ahh!"

"You're welcome," Hyewon moans back, small body upright, a cock in her pussy, hickeys on her collarbone, a tongue in her ass, her hair pulled.

Of course it's pulled.

[abyssal-author-and-artist]

If this gets twenty notes by tomorrow (9:40 mst i believe) I'll make cake Hit by SIX AM my timezone. What.

If it gets thirty I'll make cookies Hit by six am again.

If it gets fourty by 6 mst I'll go to bed on time and not doomscroll Also hit when I woke up

And with no specified time limit

If it gets fifty I'll clean my room again

If it gets sixty I'll pick up a sonic game again and not put it down until I beat at least three levels

Seventy and I'll finally get venmo up and running and commissions open

Eighty I'll sew myself some clothes I want Everything fifty to eighty was hit by 9 my timezone.

Ninety I'll pirate Slay the Princess (it's dev approved pirating bc I'm broke) This goal was going to be cancelled but we hit ninety by ten in the crabbing morning. So I'm waiting until I can buy it because I'm riding out my ISaT obsession first.

And one hundred I'll go for a walk every day for a week straight even if i hurt Hit by like 11 my timezone. Sure. I guess I'm doing walks now. Also note 101 was me and doesn't count but fuck it! More goalposts I guess! Reblog this version

120 I'll do a digital painting of a fuckable concept of space for my mutual @onelonelyghost0 like I've been threatening Oh No I have to paint/silly (I'm actually looking forward to it lol)

150 I'll revamp and release a Soul Eater oc I made when I was ten

170 I'll finally write my Warrior Cats essay on "why Power of Three/Omen of the Stars arc is my favorite and handles the story it wants to tell the best but the Prophecies Begin has the best story" like I've wanted to for forever

200 I'll take at least one walk a week for a month no matter the weather (it's snowy in winter where I am)

250 I'll uh fuck ig I'll write an oc i've been working on into a proper story and publish it? It'll be hard bc digital painting but whatever

300 Ha you think we're getting here? 100 was a fluke. If we somehow hit here I'm going to eat three meals a day including breakfast, even on college days, no excuses. If I'm going to abuse Tumblr notes forcing me to do stuff I want to but never would, I'm going to force myself to eat

400 Okay guys this is absurd and we're not getting here. If we do I'm going to come out as trans to my best irl friend (she's not transphobic but one of her closest friends (her ex boyfriend) is. Luckily he's not scary-transphobic, he's just "you're not valid" transphobic and his opinion means nothing to me so I lose nothing by him knowing I'm trans)

Probably won't need more than that and I know this will get buried so @animnightmare Leslie get over here

Also no more than ten reblogs per person

[corroded-hellfire]

Prompt Day 13: Sex, Drugs & Rock n Roll

Word Count: 1000

Rating: T

Pairing: (All in relationships that are talked about) Eddie x Reader, Jeff x Barb

CW: Language, talk of sex

Summary: The guys make a bet to see who can go the longest without sex

This is for my girls @munson-blurbs @the-unforgivenn @rip-quizilla and @word-wytch. The idea for this fic came from an extremely entertaining conversation about the CC guys’ sex lives 😂

@corrodedcoffinfest

“I could so be high and not have chips.”

Eddie, Jeff, and Frank chuckle, knowing Gareth’s claim is wholly false. 

“I don’t think you could even give up chips sober,” Frank says. 

The four friends are at Jeff’s apartment, getting high while watching Weekend at Bernie’s. 

“What?” Gareth asks, brushing his hands together to get rid of chip dust. “You think I don’t have any willpower?”

“Out of the four of us? You definitely have the least,” Eddie says before taking another drag. 

“That’s bullshit.” 

“Wanna bet?” Jeff asks.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gareth declares. 

“On who can go the longest without chips?” Jeff laughs. “Dude, you’re the only one who would go into withdrawal. We’d kick your ass.”

“Fine,” Gareth says as he gets off the burgundy couch. He stumbles over to the television and switches it off.

“Hey!”

“What the hell?”

“Dude!”

Gareth’s doing his best to stare them down and Eddie doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s not working.

“What’s something we all like, huh? Be a real test of willpower?” Gareth asks.

“Music?” Frank suggests.

“Nah, that’s unavoidable. Grocery store? Music. Elevator? Music,” Eddie points out. 

“Oh.” The way Gareth’s eyes light up after he says it makes the guys worried. “I know exactly how we can test who has the best willpower.”

“And what’s that?” Jeff asks.

“I’ll even lay down twenty—no, fifty dollars on this bet,” Gareth says.

“Just tell us,” Eddie whines.

“I wager I can go the longest without having sex,” Gareth says with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Dude, really?” Eddie asks. “You want us to give up sex?”

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Gareth taunts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t think you could do it? Don’t have the willpower?”

“No, I just like fucking my girlfriend,” Eddie says with a laugh. 

“I’ll take that action—er, bet,” Jeff says, surprising Eddie.

“What?” Eddie practically shouts.

“I mean,” Jeff starts with a shrug, “it does seem like a fair test. We all live with our girlfriends.”

“I’m in,” Frank says. “Fifty down for me, too.”

“Means it’s just you who’s out, Eddie,” Gareth taunts. “I’m starting to think you're wussing out on us.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and takes another hit. 

“Jesus, fine, I’ll do it. What’re the rules gonna be?”

“Everyone puts fifty in,” Gareth starts.

“And no one tell their girl,” Jeff adds. “This is about our willpower.” 

“Yeah, that’ll be fun.” Frank’s voice drips in sarcasm. “Ally wants to have sex and I reject her.”

“Just pretend to fall asleep on the couch,” Gareth suggests with a shrug.

“You really think you can keep your hands off Annie?” Eddie asks Gareth, an amused smirk on his face.

“No rule about my hands not being on her.”

“Okay, yeah, that should be clarified,” Jeff says. “When we say, ‘no sex,’ what exactly does that entail?” 

Gareth tilts his head from side to side as he thinks about it.

“No vaginal, oral, or anal,” he decides. “No hand jobs. Basically, your girlfriend can’t get you off in any way and you can’t get her off.”

“We’re idiots for doing this,” Eddie complains.

“Feel free to forfeit and be the loser,” Gareth taunts.

“I could use that extra $150 bucks,” Jeff says. “Weren’t you looking for a new guitar, Ed? This would help.”

“Fuck,” Eddie sighs. 

“So, we’re all agreed?” Gareth asks. “Fifty bucks in for each of us. Starting today, we see who can go the longest without sex.”

The three others confirm their assent—and just in time.

The front door to the apartment opens and Barb steps in. 

“Hi, guys,” she greets as she sets a few grocery bags down.

“Hey, Barb,” they hum in unison. 

“What’re you up to?” she asks.

“Watched Weekend at Bernie’s,” Jeff says, pushing himself off the couch to go kiss his girlfriend. 

“Still going to that bar where the manager wants you guys to play? To finalize things?” Barb asks. 

“Yep,” Eddie replies as he stands up.

Gareth looks down at his watch, then says, “If we leave now, we can get pizza first.”

“Yeah, go get pizza,” Barb says, giving Jeff’s arm a loving squeeze. “I’ve got plenty here I can have for dinner. Just have to unpack it first.”

“Let’s get Surfer Boy,” Gareth suggests as he heads for the door.

The guys mumble their agreement and Barb gives them a wave as they head out.

“Have fun, boys.”

A chorus of “bye Barb” echoes before they’re all out and Jeff closes the door behind him. 

Barb unpacks her bags, keeping an ear out for cars leaving the parking lot. This is the second time the slightly open window has been used to Barb’s advantage in the last ten minutes. 

Once all the food is put away and Barb has checked that the guys have left, she shuffles over to the phone on the wall. She dials your number and impatiently waits for you to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Barb,” she says.

“Oh, hey! What’s up?” you ask.

“I heard our men having an interesting conversation when I got home. I don’t think they realize how loud they talk—or that they had a window open.”

“Oh, God,” you say with a laugh. “What’re they up to now?”

“They’ve made a bet with one another to see who can go the longest without sex,” she says. “And they’re not going to tell us girls about it.”

A giddy gasp comes from the other end of the phone as you think of all the possible ways you could have fun messing with Eddie on this. 

“Oh, Barb,” you croon. “I think we need to call up Ally and Annie and do some lingerie shopping.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Barb confirms. “So happy we’re on the same page of making this bet as hard as possible for them.”

You chuckle.

“I know four women who are suddenly going to become the biggest teases these guys have ever seen.”

[should-be-sleeping]

Tough day today... and friendly reminder that being human is easier when we help each other.

I saw one of our neighbors, an older woman we sometimes talk to in passing, sitting outside of her house. I don't know what exactly made me look twice, but on second glance as we drove by I realized her walker was in the grass. She was otherwise just sitting there, like she had a thousand times before, so it would have been easy to assume she was fine and go on with my life as normal but something told me to go check in on her anyway.

She was not fine. She was the polar opposite of fine. Just diagnosed with terminal cancer not fine. No next of kin not fine. A veteran facing eviction from her house for missing rent while in the hospital not fine. In constant debilitating pain not fine. Only semi-lucid not fine. She was extremely alone not fine.

I thought, at most, she might be bored while unable to pick up her walker not fine. A five minute detour from my day not fine. A help her back into her house and say "see you later!" not fine. Instead I spent the last three hours with her because she was so scared and alone and no one should be alone.

We talked a lot while I was there. She's actually two years younger than my mom (who also has cancer but slightly better luck, I guess). I helped her into her house and got her a drink and we talked about what all is going on with her. None of it was good. I was as reassuring as I could be, but there's only so much of this I can actually help her with.

"Why did you come?" she asked through tears.

"Because you looked like you might need some help."

She called me an angel. I told her I was just doing my best. I told her that kindness should never be rare. That we should all try to make the world just a little bit better than it was.

She offered to pay me but I told her I was just there as a friend. Before today we were basically strangers. No need to repay me with anything other than her company, I assured her. She cried, a lot. I managed not to somehow. Something tells me she had needed to cry long before this but in being Strong she never had the chance to.

She needed to get her mail, which is a long walk when you're disabled because it is not at all handicap accessible (across a parking lot, over a bridge, across a small field). So I helped her get her mail. We stopped every three feet because her pain was so bad, but she was determined to be able to go do this with me and not just send me on an errand. I patiently stayed with her and reminded her, through her apologies, it was fine to take our time: there was a nice breeze and birds were singing. She appreciated this. She loves nature.

Halfway back she said she wanted to go to the pool. To put her feet in the water. She loves water, and has not been able to even see the pool in a month. Neither of us were dressed for swimming, but I took her to the pool anyway. There is a stair leading down to it, meaning she couldn't bring her walker, so I offered her my arm.

We went to the pool. She put her feet in the water and then, with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd seen the whole time, she jumped in. In her fancy dress! She was instantly ten years younger at least, clear and happy, floating in the sun. Dress and all. She grew up with a pool and had been on a swim team.

I sat by the edge of the pool while she swam, keeping her company and also making sure she was okay. When she got tired I took her back home and then had to help her get undressed and redressed. I made sure she felt no shame. Getting out of wet clothes is hard for anyone, let alone someone with like twenty pounds of tumors racking them with constant pain.

She was so fucking happy to have gone swimming.

She is trying to "make everything right" before she goes. Trying to repay her debt to society and her debts in general. She couldn't understand why the corporation that owns our houses wouldn't take her money. She was genuinely distressed -- not to be homeless on her deathbed but to not leave this world with a clean slate. I told her intent matters. She can only do her best.

This company not letting her repay her debt was their fault, not hers.

When I finally needed to go, I told her to let me know any time she needed a hand or just wanted company. She told me she was going to die tonight. I told her I hoped not, so I could see her tomorrow. I offered her a hug, we hugged and she sobbed for a solid ten minutes into my shoulder. I told her she was okay. That it was okay.

When I got home I cried myself, because I could not believe she was going through all of that alone. I cannot even imagine how isolated she must have felt. Once I pulled myself back together I sent her a text reminding her to reach out any time and I'd do my best to come over. Like, any time at all.

I hope she is here tomorrow.

[lovelytsunoda]

the day you kissed a writer in the dark // han lue (tokyo drift)

summary: she's stood by his side for years. his loyal mechanic, the brains behind his brawn. but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't hurt to watch him flirt with those other women in his club, when he came home to her every night in secret.

bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark, now she's gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart. i am my mother's child, i'll love you 'till my breathing stops.

pairing: han lue x mechanic! reader

warnings: smut, inappropriate use of a drifting car, insecurity and self-doubt, secret relationships, unplanned pregnancy.

author's note: here's something a little different today, lovelies! it's a departure from the usual realm of f1 content i usually bless you all with, but i felt like i needed to do something different to avoid burning myself out, and rewatching tokyo drift gave me the inspiration that i needed :)

she hated the club.

in the back end of her mind, she always resented the mere existence of that secret room leading to han's garage. the fact that he chose to surround himself with women in tight dresses with long legs and perky boobs like he was some kind of yakuza punk.

well, this wasn't crows fucking zero. this was real life.

she couldn't help but draw comparisons between these beautiful girls and herself. as she curled in on herself to duck through the crowd, she frowned at her reflection in the window: her torn up jeans, the grease stain on the cuff of her army-green sweater, the zip barely done up enough to cover up her double-d's, a small nut from her very first car hanging limply from a chain around her neck.

some days, she wondered why han had chosen her of all people.

"sean?" she asked quietly, poking the young american boy in the arm, practically shouting to be heard. "have you seen han?"

sean shook his head. "no, sorry. have you checked the garage?"

"i'm heading back there now. thanks, sean." she sighed, backing out the way that she came, trying not to think about all of the places that her boyfriend could be right now.

the anxiety ate away at her. was he with one of the other girls? one of the prettier, taller, thinner ones? was that why he wanted to keep the relationship under wraps?

was han ashamed of her?

she hurried down the rickety metal staircase, dropping her purse on the workbench as she went, subconsciously placing a hand over her stomach as she thought about the white plastic stick inside the fake leather bag.

they'd been sneaking around for a year, but they'd known each other far longer. she had come to tokyo when she was twenty-one, with a pocketful of cash and a monkey wrench. she had a high school diploma, but that didn't mean much to the rally teams she had applied to work on the pit crews for.

and that's when han swooped her up. when she became the bonnie to his clyde, the mechanic for his little street racing gambit.

that was three years ago. now she was almost twenty-five, he was twenty-seven, and he was in far too deep for them to keep going like this.

she knew why he had to keep it a secret. telling the world that she was his lover would put a target on her back. because that's what happens when you get in deep with someone like dk.

she pulled her hair back with the green rubber band on her wrist, pushing up her sleeves as she reached for a ratchet and approached han's car, the hood already open and ready for her.

working on the cars had always been her safe haven. her distraction from the outside world. fixing something that was broken gave her a satisfaction like no other.

"babe?" han's voice echoed through the garage, and she hated herself for the way that she froze up, fingers tightening around the ratchet. "sean said you were asking around for me? is everything okay?"

she withdrew from the car, slamming the hood down. "you're pushing the car too far. the engine is wearing down, you have to get something stronger. the serpentine belt is at it's brink."

"and that's why you're the brains of this operation and i'm just the pretty boy who drifts." han said playfully, wrapping his arms around her midsection as resting his chin on her shoulder.

"be more careful out there, seoul-oh." she said softly, placing a cold hand on top of his warm one before turning her head and kissing him softly. "i don't know what i'd do if anything ever happened to you."

han spun her body around gently, his hands on her waist as she jumped to perch her body on the edge of the hood, her fingers tangling in his dark, silky hair.

"you don't need to worry about me, sweetheart. i'm going to be okay."

she sighed, lacing her fingers together behind his neck. "where were you, han? wandering around your club with a girl on each arm? a girl that's three times prettier than i am, maybe one who's clothes are a little more revealing-"

"y/n, stop." han said firmly. "baby, you're the only one. my only one." he kissed her on the forehead softly. "i love you. i love you so much that it hurts. i wish i could shout it from the rooftops, but i can't put you in danger like that. i don't want dk to know, because that's a target on your back that i don't want there."

he pulled her as close as he could, arms wrapped securely around her as he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "i couldn't live with myself if anything ever happened to you."

the sincerity in the older man's voice was reassuring. but some days, it wasn't enough. she loved him more than words could say, but she was getting tired of being his little secret.

but at the end of the day, it was her bed that he always came home to. his arms she woke up in. his terrible singing in the kitchen while he made coffee with breakfast.

han lue was hers.

she kissed him again, still sitting on the edge of the toyota's hood. this kiss was stronger, harder. with more feeling as she bunched han's sweater up in her fingers, trying to wrestle it off his broad shoulders, his hands gripping her thighs tight enough to make her moan against his lips.

"seoul-oh." she mumbled as han broke away from her, pulling his sweater off the rest of the way before tugging his everlast t-shirt over his head.

they fit together like well-worn puzzle pieces, his lips finding that place on her neck that made her crumble, turned her legs to jelly as he slipped a hand up the front of her sweater, thumb tracing comforting shapes against her stomach as he nipped at her neck, biting down gently. there would be a hickey there in a mere matter of hours.

trailing kisses back up her neck, he gently bit her earlobe before placing one hand on the side of her face to guide her lips back to his, the other hand braced against the hood of the car to hold himself up. she bit down on his bottom lip, wrenching a growl from the back of han's throat.

he pulled away, dropping to his knees in front of the car as his large hands dipped under the waistband of her jeans. after reaching down to untie and kick off her beat up vans, she reached above her to grab the exposed beam in the garage ceiling, pulling her body up and allowing han to pull her jeans and panties down her legs in one fell swoop.

"oh, not on the car, baby. you'll stain the bodywork."

"don't care." han hummed, kissing the soft skin of her thigh. "i can't think of anything prettier than you. on the hood of my car, legs spread wide for me." he mumbled in between kisses, inching ever closer to where y/n needed him most, her arousal dripping onto the cool metal hood of the drift car.

and when his lips touched her throbbing clit, she could have sworn she turned electric, using one hand to brace herself against the car and burying the other in han's hair as she threw her head back in a throaty moan.

"han." she panted, grinding against his face as his tongue licked and sucked at her core. "oh, baby, yes."

han smiled to himself, kissing her clit gently as he held her thighs open with his hands. "still think that i don't find you attractive any more?"

"shut up, please. i need you so bad." she'd barely finished speaking when another low, seductive moan left her mouth. the arm that was holding her body up threatened to buckle underneath her as she tugged on han's hair, urging him to keep going.

han chuckled, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her body as her arm buckled, and she found herself lying against the hood, her head on the windscreen as she bucked her hips, searching for more as her lover tongue-fucked her, her legs thrown over his shoulders with reckless abandon.

"seoul-oh." she whined, clenching her thighs around han's head

"i know, baby." he mumbled softly, kissing her thigh. "you're doing so well darling. come for me."

and that's exactly what she did. with a moan so loud that she was shocked that the patrons of the club couldn't hear it echoing through the garage, she let go, her juices coating the lower half of han's face as he licked her clean before wiping off the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand.

"fuck." he mumbled, standing between her legs and leaning over the car to kiss her. "i can't get enough of you, baby. i think i'm gonna need more."

"oh yeah?" she smiled sitting up slightly, resting her weight on her elbows and raising an eyebrow when she saw the obvious hard-on struggling to break free from the confines of han lue's jeans. "and what do you think we should do about it?"

"back. room. now." he said, softly but firmly, kissing her in between each word as she wrapped her bare legs around his body, allowing han to pick her up and carry her over to the back room, where a double bed was piled high with blankets for the nights where they worked late, or drift races lasted until the mere hours of the morning.

or, nights where neither of them wanted to go home. han was sure that they had fucked on almost every available surface of the garage.

she undid her sweater slowly, revealing the lacy white bra underneath, the makeshift pendant on her necklace hanging delicately just above the hollow of her breasts as she cast the fabric aside, reaching up to snap the elastic band in her hair, letting it cascade in waves down her shoulders.

"you're beautiful, you know that?" he said softly, kneeling on the mattress as he rested one hand gently against her cheek.

she leaned into his touch, reaching up to wrap her slender fingers around his wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the heel of his hand.

she knew she should tell him. han needed to know.

but now was definitely not the time.

not that she could find the words while he kissed her neck, her chest, her stomach, his fingers dancing across her back as he fumbled with the clasp of her bra, erection straining against his jeans.

"han, babe." she mumbled, reaching behind her. "it's been a year now, you should know how to undo a bra, mr. womanizer." she joked, pushing his hands away as she pulled the bra off by herself.

"why would i need to know how to do it when you just take it off by yourself most of the time?" he grinned, standing up to unbuckle his belt.

he started to undo his jeans, pausing halfway as if he had forgotten something before he darted over to the rolling toolbox in the back of the room, pulling a small foil packet out of the top drawer.

fat lot of good a condom would do them now.

not when she was already carrying his baby inside of her.

her body trembled with anticipation as she watched han rid himself of his jeans, the echo of his belt buckle hitting the floor echoing around the room before he rolled the latex sheath onto his thick, hard cock.

god, she was a fool in love. han seoul-oh made her feel every range of emotions all at once.

"seoul-oh." she mumbled, lips against his as he clambered onto the bed, covering her body with his broad one.

"hm?" han mumbled, pressing kisses all over her face.

"i love you, han lue." she said firmly, gently pushing his face away so she could look him in the eyes. "i mean it, babe. you've ruined me for anybody else. you're it for me."

"good, because i don't think i could love anybody else if i tried." han breathed out, kissing her again, the tip of his cock teasing her entrance.

she squirmed under him, a small gasp escaping her lips before she bit down on her bottom lip.

she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg. that wasn't what tonight was for.

han knew this as well, gently pushing himself inside her. tonight was about more than just chasing a high. for both of them. it was about love, and reassurance, and intimacy.

she threaded her fingers through his hair, whining as han moved ever so slightly, the sensations they both felt sending shockwaves through their bodies.

"seoul-oh." she moaned softly. "please. god, you feel incredible."

"yeah?" han crooned, thrusting softly and barely holding back a moan of his own. "you look so pretty with my cock inside you, my sweet sweet girl."

"just like that." she whined as he thrusted again, bucking her hips into him, trying to take his length deeper. "keep doing that, fuck."

when han's nimble fingers came up grip and massage her right breast, she knew she was a goner, arching her back to drive her body into him with a moan as he kissed her chest.

"you like that, baby? yeah, you love having my hands all over you. and i love touching your beautiful body." han murmured, sucking a hickey onto her collarbone. he could feel himself unravelling, knew that the end was nigh as he moaned against her skin, blindly reaching for her hand.

there were no more slow thrusts as the driver began to pick up the pace, his lover's legs wrapped tightly around him as she moaned his name.

"oh god, han, baby. fuck, keep going." she panted, one hand trailing down her body to play with her clit. anything to get her closer to that release she craved as she whined and squirmed under han's touch.

she'd seen this film before, and she already knew the ending. and the start if the sequel.

"come for me, baby. i know you can take it, just give me one more, okay?"

"han, han, holy shit." she moaned, feeling the coil in her stomach finally snap, her high crashing over her like a wave.

her lover groaned above her, a guttural sound ripped straight from his throat before han gently pulled out of her sensitive body, the evidence of his own peak contained within the clear latex that he slid off his member, tying the condom off in a knot before punting it into the trash can next to his desk.

she pulled the blankets up as han settled in the bed next to her, his warm fingers dancing in gentle circles against her sweaty skin as they laid together in the afterglow, a content look on his face as he kissed her on the forehead.

"seoul-oh." she said quietly, twirling his long, dark locks of hair around her fingertip. "i have to tell you something."

"what's on your mind, pretty girl?" worry creased han seoul-oh's face, a pit forming in his stomach.

he hated seeing her like this.

"i'm pregnant."

han's eyes widened. "what? babe, why didn't you tell me?"

"i've been trying all day. but you've had your hands full with dk and sean and drifting." she said sadly. "but i can't raise this baby with dk breathing down our necks. you need to get out of this life, seoul-oh."

han frowned thoughtfully, one hand resting against the side of her face. "i'm going to be a father. fucking hell, babe this is incredible. i promise you, i'm going to make a plan, and i'm going to get us out of tokyo."

"you know we can't keep this a secret any longer, right? i'm already eight weeks along, once the first trimester ends, i won't be able to hide it."

"you're right, you're right. we'll test the waters. i'll tell sean and twinkie in the morning, see how the news of our relationship goes over with them. i want to keep it from dk until i can find a way to get us out of here."

y/n nodded, lacing her fingers with han's and placing his hand on her stomach. "okay. let's do this thing." she broke out into a smile. "we're going to be parents, han. can't you picture it? sitting behind the wheel of your toyota, with our little gremlin on your lap, teaching them how to drive before they can even walk."

han laughed. "they'll be born with a monkey wrench in one hand and a bag of lays in the other."

"i love you, seoul-oh." she said softly, kissing him gently. "i'm so glad i found you three years ago.

"i love you more, y/n. and i can't wait to raise this kid with you."

Tags (though im not sure if any of you are interested loll):

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh

[youunravelme]

to all the girls you've loved before part 5

author's note: this might be the softest part out of all of them? sorry for the wait, i hope the fluff makes up for it. :)

pairing: single dad!mat barzal x reader

summary: being a nanny for rich people was probably the worst thing that ever happened to you, until you started working for mat.

warnings: children, rich people, very volatile/toxic relationship

day forty-four

"does this look okay?" mat popped his head in your room where you were sitting on your bed with a book in your lap.

"you look like you normally do."

he ran a hand down his face. "i mean, is it appropriate to wear to a doctor's appointment?"

oh shit.

you forgot.

you jumped off the bed and ran into the walk in closet.

"did you forget?" mat teased. any sign of insecurity at his outfit choice disappeared when you sprinted into the closet.

"would you believe me if i said no?"

he laughed. "not a chance." he cleared his throat. "let me go wake ella up and get her ready."

you pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater as well as thick socks and shoes. you walked out, nearly running into mat and ella in the hallway.

ella immediately perked up at seeing you and reached for you while mat rolled his eyes.

"can't believe she loves you more."

"i'm with her all day," you quipped. but the second the words left your mouth, you were backpedaling. "not to say that you're an absent father!" you amended. "i just mean that i live here and i take care of her when you're not here, so she sees me more and--"

mat's laughter cut you off. he placed a strong hand on your shoulder and squeezed. "i didn't take it that way, relax." and like nothing happened, he continued down the hall to the living room.

a sigh escaped your lips the second his touch was gone.

it was another ten minutes before the three of you left. originally, you were stunned that he asked you to join him in the first place, but when mat explained how confused he and tito were for that the first doctor's appointment, it made more sense.

everyone needed an emotional support friend.

you had a whole crew of them help move you out of your old apartment.

even the thought of that day made you want to tear up again. you'd never been one for having a large group of friends, usually just a close few. but after graduating college, after your school friends moved away from the city, somewhere along the way, you stopped picking up your phone to text them.

which was how you landed in your former apartment with natalie. she was a friend of a friend, and easy enough to live with.

until she fucked your boyfriend.

so when mat, tito, sydney, and marty all helped you move out? even after only knowing the latter two for less than twenty-four hours?

they put your old friends to shame.

"what's going on in that mind of yours?" mat asked. "you got quiet." you shrugged. "oh come on, you're thinking about something! i can see the wheels turning in your head."

"you sound like my mother."

mat guffawed and laughed at the same time in a sound that you wanted to commit to memory. "your mother? should i be offended?"

you smiled despite yourself. "she's alright."

"she must be if she raised you."

you crossed your arms. "you're such a flatterer."

"only for you."

you ignored the weird fluttering sensation in your gut and rolled your eyes. "wait till i tell tito that you like me more."

mat groaned and ran a hand over his mouth. "please don't, i get enough shit from him as it is."

interesting.

you turned in your seat to face him a little more. "and what shit would he be giving the great mathew barzal? spending too long on your hair? being too talented? having too many female fans?"

as you came to a stoplight, mat rubbed the back of his neck, looking increasingly more uncomfortable with your line of questioning. "not necessarily..." he trailed off.

but you ignored his signs of hesitancy and kept pressing on. "i bet it's about you being a dilf."

if the car was moving, you'd bet money that mat would've slammed on the brakes. but you were currently still sitting at the stoplight, so he just looked at you with an expression that boarded on shocked and horrified.

"a what?"

"surely, you know what a dilf is, mat."

he sputtered. "i mean i uh know what it is--"

"then why are you so flustered?" you asked, leaning on the center console.

"just wasn't expecting you to say that is all."

"i'm sure you and your teammates have said worse in the locker room."

"yeah but that's them and you're you and--" he cut himself off and chose to wave his hands in the air like that action alone would fill in the blanks.

"and what?"

mat accelerated as the light turned green. "i just didn't know you saw me that way."

you shrugged and sat back in your seat, ignoring the way your heart raced at the way the conversation took a turn. "don't tell me i'm the first person to say you're attractive, mat."

"well, no, but--"

"so what's the big deal? it's just me."

mat shrugged. "exactly. it's you."

you froze momentarily, but tried to brush his comment off like it didn't send a shiver down your spine.

the both of you were silent for the rest of the ride.

when you got to the doctor's office, both you and mat got out, with mat offering to carry ella into the building. though, the three of you made it twenty feet before ella was whining for you.

"my own child likes you more," he grumbled.

you just laughed.

the waiting room was semi full when the three of you walked in, but mat was the only dad in sight.

he leaned down towards you with a hand on the small of your back. "i'll go check us in if you'll find us a seat."

you did as he asked and ignored the way you could feel his touch long after he walked away. you and ella found a seat in a corner away from most of the women and children there. did you look antisocial? maybe just a little, but you weren't taking chances of ella or yourself getting sick, and you sure as hell weren't taking a chance on mat's health with the season in full swing.

"didn't want to sit with the other families?" mat asked as he took the seat next to you.

"i don't know those people, why would i sit next to them? they could be sick."

mat nodded along. "fair enough."

the three of you only waited a few minutes before ella's name was called. you stood up but it was mat who gestured for you to lead, again, with his hand on your back guiding you.

the nurse took a few vitals before taking the three of you back to the room. "the doctor will be with you shortly," she said before leaving you, mat, and ella alone.

it wasn't long before you heard another knock on the door and the doctor came in. she greeted the three of you before getting right down to business, directing you to place ella on the table.

doctor stevenson took ella's vitals while she wriggled around and reached for you and mat. "vitals look good," she said. "now she does need to have a few vaccines today..." the doctor kept talking but you were focused on mat.

specifically how all the color drained from his face.

you placed your hand on his back and directed him to one of the open chairs in the room, scared he might pass out if he stayed standing.

"is everything alright?" the doctor asked.

mat sat down and exhaled. "are you sure she has to get shots today?"

doctor stevenson's face looked grim. "do you not like needles or...?"

"i don't like seeing my daughter cry," he admitted.

"that's completely normal for parents," the doctor assured him. "if you'd like, you can stay out in the hall and we'll let you know when we're done. should only take a few minutes, if that."

you weren't listening to the doctor though, your eyes were focused on mat's face. a deep set frown worked its way onto his lips and you hated it. you reached out and touched his shoulder. "i can stay with her, if you don't wanna be in the room," you said.

his eyes met yours; for a man as confident as he was, you'd never seen him so hesitant. "last time she got shots, it about broke me."

"that's okay," you said. "i'll be here if you wanna step outside. i'll still be here if you wanna stay."

he nodded and stood up. for a second, you thought he'd make his way to the door, but he stood by the table and kissed the top of ella's head. "it's gonna be okay, ella bean," he mumbled.

doctor stevenson looked at you before pulling out the needles. you saw how mat kept eyeing them in the corner of his eye, but kept his focus on ella who was babbling like nothing was going on.

it took a few seconds after the first injection before the water works started. ella's cry sounded throughout the room but instead of looking at her, your eyes were focused on mat.

he was completely enraptured by ella, whispering soft things to her in an attempt to soothe her.

"it's okay, ella. dada's here," he whispered. "it's okay."

she kept crying despite the calm voice mat was using. she was twisting towards him and away from the doctor.

"just one more," doctor stevenson said. and in a minute, she was finished.

but ella wasn't.

the second the needle was pulled out and the band aids were placed, mat was picking ella up and cradling her to his chest. she wailed and wailed, only calming down when mat was bouncing her and speaking softly in her ear.

you halfway listened to doctor stevenson talk about what percentile of weight and height ella was in, half of your attention was focused on the gentle way mat was holding his daughter and how his arms, as strong as they were, protected his child from the big, bad, scary needles.

you were free to follow the nurse out the door to checkout. mat refused to let go of ella, so you were the one scheduling the next appointment and entering it into your shared google calendar.

ella was still hiccuping from the crying by the time the three of you got to the car. mat strapped her in while you got in the front seat and looked through the paperwork they gave you.

"everything look alright?" mat asked as he got in his seat and locked the doors.

"yeah, she's right as rain. i added the next appointment to our calendar."

mat hummed.

"what?" you asked.

"our calendar?"

"we share a calendar, mat. that was your idea, if you recall." you weren't about to be embarrassed about something he initiated. why would you? it's just a calendar, not something with an underlying meaning.

"i know," he smiled. "i just like the sound of it, is all." he put the car in reverse and placed his hand on your headrest.

"weirdo," you mumbled to compensate for the fact that you also liked referring to something as mundane as a calendar as ours.

mat scoffed. "i'm not the weirdo. you're the weirdo."

"oh please, i have an entire roster of your teammates that would say otherwise."

"you would trust their word over mine?"

you shrugged. "majority rules."

you didn't think someone could roll their eyes as hard as mat did in that moment.

the three of you got home a few minutes later. mat was in charge of getting ella while you grabbed his keys. you both waved to the doorman and headed up to your shared apartment.

god, you loved saying that more than you probably should.

"are you still going out with syd later?" mat called after you when you got into the apartment. you were headed back to your room while he was putting ella in the play pin.

you stripped out of your clothes and changed into something more comfortable. "yeah!" you called back, walking back down the hallway to the living room. "why?"

"tito and anders invited me out for drinks, so i'll need to find a babysitter."

"i can ask grace if she knows anyone--"

"don't. i'm the one who needs the sitter, it's my responsibility, not yours."

ella babbled in what you assumed was agreement.

later that day, you heard mat getting ready in his room while you got dressed in yours with ella playing on the floor with her toys. you weren't dressed in anything too fancy, just a nice black dress that had been sitting in the back of your old closet because your roommate said it was "too slutty for someone who has a boyfriend."

then she went and fucked your boyfriend, so you couldn't really say you gave a shit about her opinion anymore.

you strapped some heels on and gave yourself a once over in the mirror, fluffing your hair when it looked too flat. you scooped ella up and made a mental note to bring her toys out to her play pin later when you got back.

if you could even walk straight.

you weren't planning on getting shitfaced, but does anyone over the age of 23 ever plan on it?

you carried ella down the hallway and into the living room where mat sat on the couch on his phone with espn playing on the tv.

"i thought you'd eventually get tired of all the sports talk," you commented.

mat didn't even look up, he just liked a random person's photo. "it's nice background noise. besides, they're talking about sports other than just hockey."

"right." you walked in front of him to put ella in her play pin, your heels clicking on the hardwood. it wasn't until you turned around that you saw him staring. "what?"

mat cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. "nothing! you just look...nice."

you smiled. "thank you! syd should be here any minute now. where did i put my phone..." your voice trailed off as you looked around for your cell phone.

"it's on the coffee table," mat said. and low and behold, it was. "do you have a coat? it's supposed to get cold tonight."

you nodded and headed to the coat closet beside the front door. you grabbed the black peacoat you had since college and tried to put it on before a pair of hands stopped you.

"let me help," was all mat said as he held the coat open for you. it took you a second to register what he was saying, he had to clear his throat to get you to snap back to reality.

"thanks," you said as you put your arms in the sleeves. your phone started ringing a second later, sydney's contact photo taking over your screen. "are you sure you don't want me to wait until she gets here?" you asked, talking about the babysitter. "i can help explain ella's routine!"

but mat rolled his eyes and herded you closer to the door. ""i'll be fine, go have fun!"

"if you need me, text me."

he gave you an award winning smile. "if you need me, call me."

you nodded and walked out, picking up the phone as mat locked the door behind you. "hey, i'm on my way down."

"great! i have an uber waiting for us."

you walked a little faster to the elevator, determined to not let the uber run up more money than was necessary, despite the fact that sydney was not strapped for cash.

you made it down quickly and without busting your ass on the polished floor.

sydney was waiting in a black suv like she was some government official in a marvel movie. she popped the back door open when she saw you and smiled. "you look fantastic!" she said once you got inside the vehicle.

you looked over her outfit which wasn't too dissimilar to yours, just not as revealing. "grace is joining us, hope that's okay!"

you nodded, vaguely recalling meeting anders' wife when jason had that meltdown in front of everyone.

not the best first impression, you hoped tonight would make her forget about that first night.

grace met you and sydney at a bar about twenty minutes away from yours and mat's apartment. she smiled as the two of you got out of the car, hugging you instead of shaking your proffered hand.

"it's great to see you again," she said. "you look fantastic."

"so do you!" you replied.

the three of you walked into the bar and were immediately greeted by loud music and an enormous crowd. you pushed your way through the people and ended up in front of the bar.

"get what you want!" sydney yelled over the music. "it's on me, tonight."

it didn't seem like a lot, but when you thought back to how jason and natalie both would conveniently go out with you on nights when they were broke, and then proceed to ask you to fund their near alcohol addiction? you were immensely grateful. if you were a pettier woman, you would've venmoed natalie and jason for the money they owe you in drinks alone.

but you were moving on, making peace with your new situation, your job, your new friends.

and mat.

you weren't sure what category to put him in yet.

"boss" seemed too professional. "friend" didn't seem heavy enough.

"what're you having?" the bartender's question snapped you out of your reflective moment. you gave him the order and watched as he started to make it.

your drink was in front of you after you waited for a few minutes. you sipped at it while walking to the table grace had picked out.

"so how's it going, living with mat?" grace asked as soon as you walked up.

you shrugged lightly. "not as bad as i thought it would be. i was expecting it to be awkward, but it's just been nice not to have to wake up as early to go to work."

sydney nodded. "matt told me barzy looks happier since you moved in."

"anders too," grace added. "my husband said he needs to 'meet this girl who has barzy smiling like a fool.'"

you flushed at their statements. "he's a good guy," was all you said.

sydney and grace were talking amongst themselves while you bopped your head to the music playing. you supped on your drink when a familiar head of hair caught you eye. it was followed by another familiar head of hair. you were squinting, trying to remember where you'd seen them before when they turned around your heart stopped.

jason and natalie.

you choked on your drink which caught sydney and grace's attention.

"are you okay?" sydney asked. she only grew more concerned when you threw your drink back, the alcohol barely burning your throat in comparison to the pain in your chest.

"i'm gonna get some shots," you said before stumbling to the bar. you ordered four shots of vodka and downed them all in succession at the bar top, and then doing your best to get back to the table afterwards.

your heart was pounding as you saw them cozied up in a booth. you wanted to vomit. you wanted to cry. you wanted to go over there and pour their drinks on their heads.

but mostly, you just wanted to go home.

but you couldn't. not when the night was still young. not when you were still feeling sober. you'd stupidly thought that the four shots would get you drunk quickly because you forgot that metabolisms exist.

you did your best to keep up with the conversation grace and sydney were having, and it was clear they were trying to include you. but your gaze kept drifting to how happy jason and natalie looked. and wondering how long they'd gone on dates when you were busy working, how many times did the sleep together before you caught them? you wondered if they were in love? or if it was just lust.

you wondered what made you so unloveable that he'd cheat on you. you wondered how despicable of a person you were that your roommate would agree to it.

you weren't drunk enough for this.

you excused yourself from the table again to get another drink. as you waited, you tapped your fingers on the bar, humming to the top 40s playlist playing over the speakers.

"can i get a jack and coke?" that voice sent a shiver down your spine in the worst way. you hesitantly turned your head and saw jason standing next to you, thankfully with natalie nowhere in sight. you didn't know what you'd do if they were both there with you in that moment.

he must've felt your stare because he turned his head and made eye contact. his jaw clenched a little before his lips curved into a sly smirk. "well look what the cat dragged out," he said. "where is he?"

you blinked.

"c'mon. like you don't know who i'm talking about?" when you didn't say anything, he rolled his eyes. "barzal. where is he?" jason glanced around the bar. "because i don't see him anywhere."

"why would he be here? mat's not my boyfriend."

"right, he's just letting you stay with him for free because he's such a good person," he teased.

maybe it was the shot placed in front of you. maybe it was the other four shots kicking in. but you downed the drink, wiped your mouth and shot back at him. "he's a better person than you could ever hope to be."

"he'll get bored of you eventually. people always do," jason scoffed. "you're his nanny, for fuck's sake. if you're not fucking him, he'll realize he could get better pussy and a better looking face from literally any other girl in new york. and once he realizes that, you'll be homeless and jobless."

you shook your head, willing the stinging in your eyes to go away. "he's not like you, jason."

"he's not gonna fall in love with you. you're a no good bitch who didn't know what she had when she had it. and i'm glad we're done, natalie is a thousand times more interesting than you could ever hope to be." with that, he turned on his heel with his shitty drink and walked back to his booth.

you walked back to your table but before you could even register the water running down your face, sydney was pulling you into her arms as you sobbed.

"sweetheart what's wrong?"

you could barely get the words out to tell her, but as soon as you did, she was pulling you back and looking you in the eyes. "i'm gonna call mat, is that okay?"

"please call him," you said. sydney brought you back into her chest with one arm while her other hand dialed mat.

"mat! hey!" she said with an overly cheery voice. "are you busy?"

just the sound of his voice, even if it was sounded like a small whisper, made you feel a little safer. she continued to talk to him through the phone until she hung up and hugged you tighter.

"he'll be here soon and take you home, okay?"

you nodded into her shoulder and cried a little more. "i'm sorry for ruining your night."

sydney squeezed you a little closer. "it's not your fault. your ex is a piece of shit."

mat must've texted syd a few minutes later because she was ushering you out of the bar to stand on the sidewalk.

it was a matter of seconds before mat pulled up and hopped out of his car looking like a man on a mission. in a blink of an eye you were being pulled out of sydney's arms (or maybe she was pushing you) and into his.

you could've sworn your life made a little more sense right then and there.

"mat--" you sobbed. "i--i can't--" and to be honest, you weren't quite sure what you meant to say, words weren't stringing themselves together like they usually do. maybe you were trying to say you couldn't keep doing this, or that you couldn't understand why he still kept you around.

it could be a million things.

but he kissed the top of your head and your brain was silenced. "let's get you home, okay?"

mat put you in the car and held your hand the entire way home, stroking his thumb on the back of your hand in a way jason never did.

jason.

you wanted to vomit but the interior of mat's car was too nice and he already ditched his friends for you, the least you could do was keep it together.

"do you wanna talk about it?" he asked.

you shook your head no, so he squeezed your hand.

when you finally got back to the apartment, you stood in the living room in a catatonic state while mat paid the babysitter and ushered her out. the second the front door closed, he was by your side, taking your hand, and leading you to the bathroom where he turned on the shower. when he made a move to leave, you grabbed his hand.

"i'm just gonna grab you some clothes, i'll be right back."

he was back in thirty seconds with one of his shirts and a pair of sweats. you were brought back to the first night you slept over after your relationship blew up. you should've smiled and said thank you, you should've said you appreciated all mat had done.

but you just burst into more tears.

mat knelt in front of you, wiping the tears as fast as they came. "hey, what's wrong?"

before you could even stop and think, you were launching yourself into his arms and wrapping your own around his shoulders. he didn't even hesitate to hold you back as tightly as he could.

"you're okay," he said. "i'll be right outside when you're done, alright?"

you nodded against his shoulder and hesitantly pulled away. mat seemed just as reluctant to let you go, but the steam fogging the mirror reminded you both that there was a line you hadn't (and maybe shouldn't) cross.

mat shut the bathroom door behind him and you stripped out of your clothes.

it was the fastest shower you'd ever taken in your life.

true to his word, mat was outside the bathroom door when you were finished in a set of sweats he wasn't wearing before. he looked up from his phone and held his arms out, and for what felt like the fiftieth time (though that still did not feel like enough), you were in his arms again.

"let's get you to bed," he mumbled into your hair before placing another kiss there.

before you could stop yourself, you mumbled back. "can i sleep with you tonight?"

mat froze.

hell, you froze.

neither of you knew what to do.

but a minute later he was pulling away. you felt the tears well up in your eyes at the thought of him rejecting you, but what did you honestly expect? him to say yes? you moved to go down the hall to your room, but his grip on your hand stopped you.

"c'mon," was all he said.

up until this moment, you'd never been in mat's room. it was about what you expected, king bed in the middle of the room, a dresser, a few clothes strewn about. it looked lived in.

mat got in the bed first and extended his arms to you. it was like he was the center of the earth, pulling you in with such a strong gravitational pull, you stood no chance to resist it.

you were curled up against his chest a beat later.

"thank you," you said.

"anytime," he said against your hair.

your head was placed right over his chest where his heart beat loudly. the sound of it began lulling you to sleep.

it should've been a picturesque moment, but it was tainted by the lingering anxiety in the back of your mind.

was jason right? was this a bad decision? would mat kick you out if you never have sex with him? would he kick you out if you did?

but then mat started running a hand over your hair and down your back repeatedly, and all your worries disappeared.

you'd have more time to think about that tomorrow.

taglist:

@nicoleloveshockey @thg02 @fallinallincurls @bbbbruins @random-readers-world @sydsxoxo @jhughesy @whenmypartysover @sunflowerhood @spencereidbasis @icanfsplel @avareadsthings @zegraswrites @matthewkniesys @heyitsmeimdead @kashee-h @bordelhoe @diary-of-jj @literatureluster @dani746

[zarnzarn]

t4t nsft odypen silliness to make up for yesterday, here u go <3

_

"Lady Athena," Penelope says, as Odysseus finishes his prayers and they all rise to disperse. He looks over at her, inquisitive and amused, as she contemplates for a few moments, hands clasped. Then she bows her head and begs, rushed like it's bursting out of her, "Please let me fuck my husband today."

"PENELOPE!" Odysseus- well, shrieks. The other priestesses abruptly turn and file out of the room, led by Telemachus, at very high speeds. Odysseus is torn between making note of asking them to go compete in the races next year and putting his hands over the ears of the statue of Athena.

"Please," Penelope begs, eyes closed and ignoring him. "I never took the oath of celibacy, Lady Athena, why must I suffer this drought? This lack of my husband's beautiful thighs-"

Odysseus reaches over and shakes her, scandalised. "What are you doing, woman? In Athena's temple, have you gone mad-?"

"Athena," Penelope practically whines, letting herself be shaken. She looks crazy around the eyes, like she'll actually cry. "Please, please, if I don't get inside him I will die-"

"Did they not teach you about blasphemy in Sparta?" Odysseus yells, cheeks crimson.

"I unlearned it all when I spent twenty years without your cunt," Penelope moans pitifully. Odysseus wheezes ungracefully, mortified, tripping over his sandals as he gets to his feet to slap a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders are shaking, mischief in her eyes and lips twitching as he approaches, still pleading, "Please, Lady, suspend his vow for one day so that I may sheathe myself within his warm wetness and make him see stars in daylight for pleasure, I'll treat him well, please-"

"Hush!" Odysseus shouts at her, burning alive for the mortification. "Athena, I am so sorry-"

He closes his eyes in dread as the sound of loud cackling fades into existence. Athena stumbles out of the shadows, grin wide in a way that means she was drinking ambrosia, possibly at a party, cheeks bright with laughter. "What is-" She giggles. "What is this I hear about permission?"

"Nothing, Athena, extremely sorry for disturbing you, we- OW!"

"Please let me fuck him," Penelope begs, like she hadn't sunk her teeth into his flesh three seconds ago. "Let me have sex with my husband, I beg of you."

"She is not going to let you-"

"Sure."

"Athena!"

"What, she's asking so nicely." Athena shoots him a shit-eating grin, revenge in her eyes. "If you are alright with it, who am I to come in the way of a married couple?"

"Oh, so now you- what happened to celibacy is the highest form of clearing your mind-"

"Wait," Penelope cuts in, frowning. Athena's eyes slide to him slowly, glittering with laughter, before focusing back on Penelope with furrowed brows- she is drunk, definitely. "Wait, so you're- you are not the one who makes Odysseus not want to sleep with me?"

"What?" Odysseus demands, flabbergasted, as Athena bursts into loud peals of laughter overhead. "No, our agreement was the same as any of the other priestesses. That- that is just my own preference, some days."

"To be fair, we thought we were going to have to marry Odysseus off to some man back then," Athena grimaces, scratching at her feathers and squinting. "Ugh. But yes, you can do whatever you want, Queen of Ithaka. If Odysseus wants it, of course."

"You do want it, right?" Penelope says urgently, grabbing at his hands, eyes blazing and chest heaving. "Most of the time? Right now?"

"I-" Odysseus stutters, flustered in the face of her intensity and closeness. He feels unattractive still, even with the hair cut and change of clothes."I- Yes? Do you?"

Penelope's face spasms with rage. "ODYSSEUS!" She stamps a foot. "It's been an entire two days since you've returned! I'm burning alive with lust over here! How could you possibly not see, everyone in the palace can tell!"

"Okay- okay, hey, calm down-"

"-keep shifting about so people do not see me hard in my dresses, with every tantalizing move you make, every grin and giggle-"

"Wow," Athena takes a swig of a bottle. "Intense."

Odysseus exhales and shoots her a look, holding his hands out to placate a cursing Penelope. "Are- You're sure it's alright?"

"Yes!" She laughs, waving him off. "Your war is over, your glory is secure- go, have all the sex you want!"

"But-" Odysseus' next words are lost to a yelp as Penelope grabs him and manhandles him down to the ground. Athena whistles. He valiantly holds back the urge to snap at her that she needs to stop drinking if all it ever does is give her the personality of a teenage boy.

"I'll only fuck him in the temple," Penelope says, staring up at Athena determinedly and ignoring Odysseus' loud shout of distress at the scandal of it under her. "So that you may see that we are only trying for an heir, like the condition provides. Will that satisfy the oath?"

"That would," Athena agrees, almost leering as she lilts alarmingly to one side. "If that is all?"

"You-" Odysseus cuts himself off with a strangled scream as Penelope bites into his throat like a dog, sliding into him so abruptly it makes his vision go white. He's drenched still from her words earlier, but both the cocks at once, so suddenly inside-

Athena chuckles, and he feels a breeze across his face as she leans down to clumsily press a kiss to Penelope's forehead, then his. Penelope eagerly goes back for another kiss from Athena, thrusting sharply at the same time, making him moan so loud it echoes around the temple.

Athena snorts, and gathers her garments as she gets up to her feet and stumbles away. "Have fun!"

[silentscrying]

🏀 buzzer beater | chapter NINE.

nba!gojo x manager!reader

summary: you thought you'd gotten rid of arrogant NBA star satoru gojo when he left the curses after your first year in basketball management. but when your contract is up three years later, you find yourself working with him once again as the manager for the sorcerers. as you navigate playoff season alongside long-time friend ieiri shoko and the sorcerers' insufferable star player, you start to realize his sudden departure from the curses may not have been what it seemed, and maybe gojo isn't exactly the person (or player) you thought he was, either.

warnings: language, mentions of neglectful parenting/abandonment, TENSION, steamyyy, self-worth issues, implied sexual content. || mildly nsfw. 5k words.

YOU'RE NOT SURE you’ve ever seen Satoru Gojo play a bad game of basketball.

Until now.

The Samurai are kicking ass, and it’s not even funny. Gojo playing so—so off means the entire chemistry of the team is unbalanced. Something about his sudden lack of obnoxious confidence is throwing even Kento, even Ino. Megumi storms up to him halfway through the quarter and says something low and sharp that you can’t hear, and Gojo throws his arms up like what the hell do you want from me?

The Samurai are playing subs you’ve never seen on the court before. Miguel is a valid threat, yes, and Larue plays for almost a whole half, but then Gakuganji puts on Rin Amai. He’s like the equivalent of Junpei to the Samurai—a fresh draft, a young player who hasn’t had much time on the court this season. Eventually, Gakuganji’s just sitting there letting the assistant coach, Ijichi, call the shots.

It’s not malicious, not like they’re trying to mock you, but it feels like that game against the Phantoms, where you were so far ahead you didn’t even have to try.

It’s not like Gojo isn’t scoring. Even at his worst, he’s a good player—but he’s not playing well by his standards and the whole team can feel it. Even Nobara’s stopped being optimistic by the third. It’s a twenty-point deficit, and while it wouldn’t be unheard of for a comeback, nothing about the expressions on the guys’ faces says they’re winning today.

It’s horrible.

Yuji’s making a valiant effort to rile the team back up, and it works a little—he’s scoring like crazy, and Megumi is making a real effort to pick up Gojo’s slack. Kento is steady as ever, at least on the surface, but it’s not enough.

It’s not a hard-fought kind of loss, like the first game in the series was. Nitta gives you a strange look across the court—even she can see that something is blatantly wrong. You’re thinking of Geto, of Gojo, of the convoluted feelings roiling around in your gut.

You feel sick.

When it’s over, the team files out of the gym in near-silence, and you make a beeline for your office without speaking to anyone, even Ieiri. You need to fix this, you need to do something, you need to—you don’t fucking know.

You need to be alone.

The door practically slams behind you, and you whip out your laptop so aggressively you’re surprised it doesn’t break. You’re going to drown yourself in work and stop thinking or worrying or feeling anything at all.

It doesn’t last long.

It’s maybe been a half hour before Megumi steps into your office without prelude, not bothering to knock, and kicks the door shut behind him.

“Uh. Hey?”

He doesn’t sit down, instead pacing back and forth in front of your desk, pensive.

“Fushiguro. What?”

He stops, turns to face you. “You and Gojo,” he says. “Whatever this fucking issue is, you need to figure it out before it costs us the series.”

You stare at him, at a loss for words. Because this is Megumi Fushiguro, the last person you’d ever expect to confront you. The last person to chew you out, the last person to walk into conflict if he doesn’t absolutely have to.

You remember his sharp words to Gojo on the court, inaudible but aggressive. Wonder what they were.

“So what is it?” he prompts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is he keeping something from you? Is that it? Is he shutting you out? Are you shutting him out?” He plants his hands on the desk, leaning over you—not threatening, but weirdly earnest in a way you’ve never really seen him before.

“Listen. I owe Gojo my life. I don’t know how much you know, but I know you’re at least aware that he pulled me and Tsumiki out of a really shitty situation. So I know you know he’s not a selfish piece of shit, even if he wants everyone to believe it. I also know that he cares about you, okay? And he doesn’t do that. Not outwardly, at least. Not in the way he cares about you. So whatever it is he did, or whatever it is you did, can you go do something about it? Because we are not going to beat the Curses if you and Gojo can’t figure this out.”

There’s no this, you want to say. Even as the thought half-forms in the back of your mind, you know it’s a lie.

This is maybe the most words you’ve ever heard Megumi speak at once, and you’re pretty sure every single one of them was true.

It’s like he took all the words in the room, all the ones the air had space for. There are none left for you, and you’re just staring at him over your laptop screen, grasping at straws.

Finally, after a too-long silence, you nod.

“He’s a good person,” Megumi says quietly.

“I know,” you whisper, looking down, wringing your hands in your lap. “I know.”

—

You work late.

At least, you stay in the office late, well after everyone else has gone home. You brushed off Ieiri’s concerns, dodged Nobara’s questions. You finished everything you had to do ages ago. Now you’re just sitting and staring at your keyboard, wondering how the hell to work this thing out with Satoru.

It should be straightforward. It should be easy. You’re not going back to the Curses. He needs to trust you more.

Except it’s not easy, it’s not straightforward. Because he makes your heart beat backwards. He turns all the words on your tongue into ash. He makes you feel things you haven’t felt in a long, long time, maybe ever, and that terrifies you. And you can’t explain why you won’t leave, why it matters so much that he trusts you, if you can’t tell him how you feel.

But you don’t know the first thing about how to start.

You’ve only just buried your head in your hands when the door opens again. No knock, no voice. You can tell just by his presence that it’s Yaga, and you wonder if you’re about to lose your job.

“I talked to Gojo,” he says, and you make yourself look up at him, hoping he can’t tell how near you are to tears.

“Oh.” You don’t have anything else to say. You thought he left hours ago.

“Look.” He doesn’t sit down, but somehow even when he’s towering over you his presence isn’t daunting. You respect him. He respects you, you know that—so why do you feel like he’s about to tear your world apart? “I need to know if they’ve extended you a serious offer, or if this one of Geto’s mind games.”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, it’s—it’s not an official offer. Even if it was I wouldn’t go back. I don’t know what Geto wants from me.”

“I don’t think it’s what he wants from you, champ.” You blink, and Yaga sighs heavily. “I know they didn’t treat you right over there, don’t lie to me. You’re a great asset and you deserve better than Geto and his band of asshats. Satoru knew that. That’s why he pointed me your way in the first place.”

“What?” You sink back in your seat. “What do you mean pointed—wait. Okay. How’d you…?”

Yaga blinks, drags his palm down his face. “Oh, damn. I thought you knew.”

“I—what? What did I know?”

“Gojo—he requested we recruit you. Talked about you so highly from your time with the Curses we couldn’t say no. Don’t get me wrong: I’d have hired you regardless. You’re damn good at your job. I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m over here doing Gojo favors or some shit. He just gave me your name, and you did the rest damn well on your own.”

You can’t think, can’t speak. Gojo, who you couldn’t stand when you worked for the Curses, couldn’t stand when you arrived here, either. He wanted you to come?

The implication here, if you’re reading Yaga’s words right, is that Geto knows that Gojo wanted you here. That it would bother Gojo if the Curses got you back. That he’s going after Gojo with one of his stupid little mind games, not you.

That Gojo cares about you to an extent that could potentially hinder his playing ability? No. That’s insane. But… you just saw it happen.

“Gojo,” you echo, a little numb. “I—Gojo recommended me. Satoru Gojo.”

Yaga nods, and you cuss under your breath. Because Satoru, it turns out, has maybe never been the man you thought he was, when you made a snap judgement all those years ago. Not even when he was with the Curses. Not even when you… when you hated him.

“Listen. I’m not saying this is entirely his fault, but Geto knows Gojo. My guess? Mei Mei’s exploiting that.”

“Mei Mei?” You gape. She’s the manager who took your place. She’s a mogul; you can’t imagine why the Curses would ever want to replace her.

But if she sent Geto here to lie to you, to gamble, to ask you to come back so that Gojo got so into his own head that the Sorcerers lost…

“Oh,” you breathe. “God. That’s… messed up.”

Yaga only nods. “Look,” he says eventually. “If we’re going to beat Suguru Geto? We need you and Gojo on the same page.”

He’s right. God. Of course he’s right. Geto plays mind games. You and Gojo—Satoru—need to be a united front against those games if you’re going to win this one.

You need to find him.

—

Jujutsu Arena is a whole different beast at night.

You’re used to squeaking shoes and cheers and blaring buzzers, whistles and cameras and fans and action.

Tonight, it’s quiet. Open. Hollow, maybe.

In regular season, the team doesn’t always practice here. You’re no stranger to nighttime gymnasiums, but this one in particular feels so wide open it could be haunted, or it could be blessed.

It’s the only place you could think of where he’d be hiding out, not answering his texts. The only reason he’d have his cell shoved in a bag somewhere rather than tucked in a jacket pocket. He could have just been ignoring you, but you know Satoru, and you know he’s petty enough to leave you on read, to make you know when he’s ignoring you. So here you are.

He knows you’re here. You make no effort to silence your footsteps as you slip through the open doors. He’s got that headband on, hair pushed out of his face, and he’s only wearing gray sweats and a T-shirt. For some reason, you feel like this might be the most unmasked you’ve ever seen him.

You know he’s registered your presence because he dunks in a stupid, showoffy flourish, but he doesn’t look at you. Ball’s in your court, apparently.

“Satoru,” you say. He turns to face you and it’s like the words are just falling out of your mouth. “Why are you—what are you doing here so late?”

“Practicing,” he says. “I—every night. Most nights.”

You think you might know why. A lot of things are starting to make sense about this man, and a lot of them make you angry, and a lot of them make you—you don’t know. Not angry, but a different kind of heated. “I think we need to talk.”

When he doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t object, you cross the court to him. “I think there are things about each other we don’t know,” you say. “And I think we can’t beat the Curses with this—with this wall between us. And I want to fix it.” Your voice is soft, and it seems to have him easing up a little on whatever this show of indifference is. He sighs.

He passes you the ball.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

The ball feels good in your hands, like an old friend. You really haven’t had the chance to just shoot baskets in a while, what with the insanely busy job taking up most of your free time. For all that you’re around basketball, you don’t really get to play a lot of basketball.

You bounce it a few times, trying to figure out where Gojo’s mind is at. His eyes are following the trajectory of the ball, not you.

“You’re upset,” you say, just to say something. And then you make a shot from where you’re standing. Gojo’s hand shoots up and tips the ball, and you run for the rebound and make a lay-up. “Tell me why.”

“Geto,” he says, diving for the ball before you can get it back. “He’s playing with you. To play with me.”

You’re honestly kind of surprised by the straightforward answer.

“I see,” you say. “I get a shot and you answer a question, is that it?”

“Yes,” he says, smirking. Then he scores on you. “My turn.”

“You didn’t—”

“That was a question, was it not?”

You can turn it back on him. “Yes,” you repeat. “It was, and that was my answer.”

You forget sometimes how much you love this sport. And so you figure you can do this, have your long discussion as you dart and block and shoot, because that’s when Gojo’s mind is at its best, and he can dodge your questions like your attacks. Or not.

Faking right and then diving past Gojo’s left side, you score on him again.

“Okay, so Geto,” you say, catching the rebound. “Why does he still bother you so much?”

“Because he knows me.” Gojo steals the ball right out of your hands. He’s fast. “We were best friends. In college, in San Diego. We knew everything about each other. So he’s using what he knows about me against me, instead of playing the goddamn game on a fair court. And that pisses me off.”

You. It goes unsaid. Geto is using you against Satoru.

He shoots long, his shirt riding up as his arm rises above his head, revealing his stupidly toned abs. You shake your head as the ball swooshes through the far net without even hitting the backboard. You might’ve played D1, but you’re no NBA star.

So now this game of yours, it goes both ways. He looks at you for a long moment before he starts down the court, and then you’re running to get to the ball before him. His legs are so stupidly long. “If you got a job offer right now, a better one, would you leave?” he calls as you sprint.

When you grab the ball before he does, you know he’s letting you.

“Define better,” you say, holding the ball hostage. He frowns.

“Higher paying. Better hours. I don’t know, NBA admin? WNBA?”

You consider, tapping your fingers on the uneven surface of the ball. “For another team, no,” you say truthfully. “Even with a pay raise. I like it here.” His relief is palpable, and you know he’s letting you see it—he could hide it, if he wanted to. “Maybe for a higher-level management position, something with the league. But not for the Curses.” You make sure he’s looking right into your eyes when you say it. “I wouldn’t leave this for them.”

I wouldn’t leave you for Geto.

Taking advantage of his distraction, you shoot while he isn’t standing between you and the basket. He chuckles.

“I don’t understand, though,” you insist. “If you were friends, why—I mean, I know what he did to Megumi. With the draft. But he’s—it’s Megumi. How can someone hate him? Why? He never did anything to Geto.”

Satoru sighs as you go to retrieve the ball. “It wasn’t Megumi.” He closes his eyes like he’s weighing whether he should say something. “It… was his dad.”

“What?”

“Toji… wasn’t a good guy.” You don’t miss the past tense, the forced evenness of his tone. “He, uh. He was a coach, actually. For a bit. When Geto and I were in school.” He shakes his head. “Not head coach or anything, but he was around. And god, he was a shit dad. I mean, left Megumi and Tsumiki to fend for themselves the second she turned 18. Even when she was…”

“I know,” you say, and he looks up in surprise. “Not about their dad. But Tsumiki… told me what you did for her. For Megumi. About the bills.” His eyes go wide, and you clear your throat, for some reason feeling like you’ve confessed something. Thinking about Tsumiki, so sweet and so young, about Megumi, trying to help her on his own… it makes your blood boil, knowing their father could have supported them and just—chose not to. “So what did their dad—Toji, what did he do to Geto?”

Gojo’s laugh is short and humorless. “Left.”

You pass the ball to him. A peace offering, maybe.

“Suguru and I always had very different views on the sport,” he says, dribbling idly. The use of the first name is jarring. Thinking about Geto and Gojo being that close. “How it operated in our lives, I mean. For me, it was—I mean, it’s my livelihood, but it’s not my life. It can’t come before—before people. It can’t take over.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing the headband and pulling it off, then shoving it into his pocket. His hair falls wildly into his face.

“You know, it’s funny. It used to be the other way around. I was all for the game, nobody mattered. It was different for him.”

“Different,” you echo. And your echo travels—the sheer size of this place is overwhelming when it’s empty like this, like it’s a whole planet and the two of you are the only people on it.

“In college it was more of an escape, I think—he had kind of a fucked up life, before. But he just got so obsessive. And Toji encouraged it,” Satoru explains. “It became his whole life, he was training with him all the time, and Geto didn’t even like him. Hated him, actually.”

He passes it back. You dribble the ball between your legs, relishing the sound of the quick bounces on the waxed floors.

“Toji was awful. Relentless. Refused to recruit his own kid, even when he found out what a good player Megumi is. Didn’t do jack even when he knew Tsumiki was sick. I hated him. Hated him. And I was mad at Suguru for even tolerating the guy.”

Gojo makes a run past you, and you dive to keep the ball but miss, and he steals it. “But Suguru just kept training with him, day after day after day. And it started interfering with his relationships, his friendships. And he was becoming this different person. I couldn’t handle it, he wouldn’t listen to me, and then Toji just up and left.”

He bounces the ball off a wall. “What he does best, I guess,” he says bitterly. “No explanation, no resignation, just gone. Turned up in a prison in Asia a few months later, and that was the last we ever heard of him.” He shrugs. “Except when he kicked the bucket.”

“Shit,” you murmur.

“Suguru wasn’t the same once he started training with Toji, but he got a little better after he was gone for a while. I mean, it wasn’t good, but he was starting to come back to himself. And I thought I’d gotten through to him, maybe. Thought I’d gotten him to understand that Megumi wasn’t his father. But he just wanted nothing to do with them. No Fushiguros, he said. Blacklisting Megumi was the last straw. Sometimes… sometimes I think he did that more to get back at me than anything.”

“And this,” you say quietly, taking a step toward him. “Me. Trying to get me to leave. That’s to get back at you, too?”

Satoru doesn’t respond, but that’s all the confirmation you need. You leap to block as he shoots from a few feet to the right of the hoop, but you’re not tall enough—not enough to block 6’3”.

“Do you hate me?” he asks.

You stop, hands slapping your thighs as you let them fall to your sides. “What?”

But he just looks at you, doesn’t repeat himself. And the expression on his face—it’s almost nervous.

“I don’t hate you, Satoru.” The ball rolls toward you and you let it come to a stop between your sneakers. “I—do you think I would be here if I hated you?”

“Did you used to? Before?”

You want to ask, before what? But you think you know.

“That’s two questions,” you whisper. He throws the ball into the net without looking. Asshole.

“I… I don’t think so,” you say as he catches the rebound. “I thought I did. I thought… a lot of things about you. I didn’t like you. But I also didn’t give you a chance. It was a snap judgement based on a lot of assumptions, Satoru.”

He smiles faintly, dribbling the ball idly, spinning it on a finger. “I like it when you call me that.”

You dart forward and slap the ball from his hands, turning beneath his arm to dribble to the other end of the court. You catch him so off-guard he barely makes it in time to block you, but the ball goes just over his fingertips and swishes through the basket regardless.

“Why did you think that?” you ask. “That I hated you.”

“Because you should’ve,” he says. “You had—you have every reason to. I made it that way.”

“What?”

“You, uh,” he starts quietly. “You should know that—I mess things up. I mess people up. I push people away and I say mean things and I argue and I make things hard for people. I always have.”

He retrieves the ball, still talking. “I get cocky and I act like I know everything and I pretend I don’t need anyone else. It never ends well. When I do. It was different with Megumi and Tsumiki. It just… he reminded me of me, a little. And I just tried to help, and then it all just happened. But everyone else—god, every team I’ve ever been on, the Curses, Suguru…”

He swallows once, hard. “I don’t have a reason, either. I grew up in a good home. I had a family. I don’t have excuses. I just—I got really good at one thing, really young. And everyone always treated me like I was more of an asset than a person. And at some point it just got easier to be like that, to exist as some caricature, some—some basketball icon, I don’t fucking know. It’s just—I don’t make it easy to like me. Or know me. Or be around me. I make it easy to hate me. And I wouldn’t blame you if you did, still.”

He scores again.

“I want you to be sure,” he murmurs. “Do you—”

“No,” you say fiercely. “No, Satoru. You know what? You know how you just said you push people away? You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it right now, and it’s not going to fucking work this time. Because guess what? I do know you. I know you’re here every night practicing by yourself because you don’t think you’re good enough, even though you’ve been the best player in the fucking NBA for years. I know you don’t tell anyone when you’re struggling. I know you didn’t leave the Curses for some petty fucking reason, you left because Megumi—because he needed—Satoru, you took Megumi and Tsumiki under your wing and never even told anyone, you endured all that bullshit from Geto and never even ratted him out, you got me this goddamn job—”

“What—did Yaga tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter!” you cry, hands coming up to grip Satoru’s forearms. “Because you do care, Satoru. Because you’re a good person. And I’m sorry,” you say, softer now, “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”

You aren’t sure when his face got so close to yours. His breath is warm, ruffling the loose strands of hair that have escaped from your loose ponytail. “And it surprised me, too,” you murmur, refusing to break eye contact, still holding him by the arms. “But yeah, Satoru. I see you, and I know you. And I like you.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at you and drawls, “Aw, Alley, do you like-like me?”

“Satoru,” you warn flatly. He chuckles, but then his expression melts back into that serious, searching gaze. He pulls one of his arms away, takes the ball from you, moves back just a little. He shoots it right over your head. You don’t move.

He smirks as the ball drops into the basket with a faint swoosh. Neither of you move to grab it as it bounces across the floor, the rubbery THUNKthunkthunk echoing in the empty arena.

“Your turn, then,” you say, and it sounds a little strangled, a little thready. You don’t know when your heart start moving faster than your mind.

You blink and he’s in centimeters away from you, and he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, I got one,” he whispers, voice gruff. He takes a step forward and you take one back. Not away from him, just—he’s so close, he’s…

“Can I kiss you?”

There is no stadium.

There are no empty seats, no baskets, no hoops. The moonlight streaming in from the skylights is secondary, the feel of the court beneath your feet irrelevant. There is only you, and Satoru, and the very, very thin space between your faces.

You have no words, not for this.

Your hand drifts up to the back of his neck, and you pull him toward you, and his lips slot into yours like they were made just for this, just for you, and you’re warm everywhere, from your gut to your fingertips to your toes to everywhere his hands on your body, moving, shifting, holding, and you feel like you’ve lost the knowledge of where you end and Satoru begins.

“I liked seeing you in that shirt,” he breathes, hands slipping beneath the fabric of the one you’re wearing now, his warmth on your back. “But I’d like seeing you in one of mine more.”

Whatever the game is, you lose.

It’s the fact that he wants you, maybe, that this isn’t a one-time thing, that he wants his clothes on your body. The implication that it’s more than just now, than tonight. That whatever this jumble of knotted feelings in your gut has been all this time, he’s got it too, you’re not crazy. You don’t realize you’ve stumbled back, that he’s moving with you, that you haven’t broken eye contact since he spoke.

“Satoru.” His name comes out in a gasp, and you feel your shoulder blades hit the cool-to-the-touch mats that guard the gymnasium walls, your knees nearly buckling as he moves his lips down to your neck, your collarbone. You’re not cold, you’re so far from cold, but goosebumps scatter themselves across your skin. You can’t stay still. You want his skin on yours, everywhere.

“Say that again,” he says against your skin, lips warm. “My name.”

Oh, he doesn’t get to have all the fun.

“Gojo,” you tease, and he grabs you by the chin, breathing into your mouth.

“No.”

“Six,” you whisper.

“No.” His voice is guttural.

You grab him by the forearm and shift your weight. In a blink, he’s the one against the wall, and you know he’s yours.

“Baby,” he whispers. It sounds like a plea, or a confession.

“Satoru.”

He kisses you again, desperately, his tongue slipping into your mouth, and you practically sink into his touch. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he breathes, kissing a trail down your jaw, “for so fucking long.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your composure is long gone, gone with the reality of the empty stadium around you, maybe you never even had it— “How long?”

He grabs your face in his hands, his long fingers reaching into your hair. “Since the second day you worked for San Diego,” he confesses. “You yelled at me.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips through your lips, remembering your second day of work. Satoru had not shut up, even as you tried to get to know each of the players, get your footing in this new position. You turned around and snapped at him, told him to go take a lap if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut or something.

“You’re into that?” you tease. And the the gravity of what he’s saying hits you. That he’s wanted you for that long. For years. “Since…”

“I’m into anything when you do it,” he whispers in the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your back as he reverses your positions again, your back pressed to the wall. He grabs you by the hips, his hands moving over your skin, and before you know it your legs are wrapped around him and he’s holding you against the wall, kissing the daylights out of you, like he’s been starving for five years and you have every answer he’s ever wanted.

“Satoru,” you get out through gasps as he kisses a line down your collarbone before capturing your lips in his again. He hums against your mouth, acknowledging you, and you pull away just for a second, and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done, maybe. “We can’t—do this here.”

“This?” he teases. His finger slips into your waistband, taunting.

“Toru—” You don’t mean to say it like that, but you’re short on the breath and the first part of his name gets lost in the air.

“Oh, well, when you ask so nicely,” he murmurs, setting you down, but not letting go of you, like he’ll die if his hands aren’t touching you.

“Hey, sweetheart?” You look at him through lidded eyes, every cell in your body on fire. You’ve been struck by lightning. You might be dying. If this is what dying feels like, you’re ready. “I’m not gonna make it back to my place,” he says lowly. “Or yours.”

Your grin is wide and slow, and genuine.

“Good thing,” you say, pulling him back toward you, “I’ve got an office down the hall.”

directory. || prev. || next.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro

a/n: okay, team: this is a PSA that this is not really a cliffhanger as much as a fade to black. the sexual content is very much implied and you can do with that what you will, but i do not write smut! only a few more chapters left ahhh

[eddiesghxst]

cigarettes, coffee, and club-hopping

alrighty, she's here and i hope she lives up to the expectations! this is part one of...idk how many yet, but enjoy!

based on this idea I had 80 years ago

————

part one | part two | part three | part four

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: ex-bf!rockstar!eddie x lawyer!reader

summary: you're a divorce attorney in Los Angeles and your newest client is filing against famous rockstar, Eddie Munson, who is also your ex-boyfriend

contains: exes to lovers trope, mention of a past relationship, slutty banter, smoking, mentions of alcohol, a hint of mean!eddie, public sex (restroom), a sprinkle of degradation, eddie likes to kiss your neck, fingering, eddie licking your c*m off his fingers (bye), and eddie being hot <3

word count: 5.8k

-masterlist-

Eddie hates waking up early. 

He’s never been a morning person— in all his twenty-eight years of living, Eddie has never seen the letters ‘AM’ and smiled. This is partially why Eddie failed his first-period class in high school for two — almost three — consecutive years in a row. This is also partly why Eddie was fired from nearly every job he landed after graduating. You would imagine that Eddie has learned his lesson after all this time. Not quite.

Eddie is nearly an hour late to his first divorce settlement conference. One would think that Eddie would, for once in his life, wake up at a reasonable time to take a shower, grab his usual morning energy drink, beat LA traffic, and get to his appointment on time— as a mature grown man would do. Still, Eddie failed even to set an alarm to wake him up.

“You’re forty minutes late already— traffic is gonna make it even worse, and you don’t have another day to reschedule this for the next two months, so I suggest you get up, Munson!”

Eddie watches through sleep-fogged eyes as Kelly, his assistant, throws his window curtains aside to let the morning sun seep into his room. There’s a pounding kick drum beating behind Eddie’s eyes, a result of Eddie falling into Jeff’s sinister persuasion to go out. He should stop listening to that asshole— he’s part of why Eddie married his soon-to-be ex-wife.

Eddie’s bones click and crack as he stretches, sits up, and lazily swings his legs over the side of his bed with a sleepy groan. He can hear the rustling sound of Kelly picking up laundry from his floor— something he’s told her multiple times not to do, but she does it anyway, so he’s given up on fighting her. He runs a hand over his face, a yawn wracking through his entire body before reaching over to his nightstand, feeling around for the box of cigarettes he knows he left the night before. 

“I tossed them out,” Eddie glances up at Kelly, who is now grabbing the last of his laundry on the floor and leaving his room. “Go freshen up and get dressed; we need to leave now.”

Eddie’s doctor advised him to start weaning himself off the cancer sticks; something about it fucking with his gums, and that’s on top of the risks he’s running with the vocal strain it’s put on his voice. Eddie knows he should take it seriously, but he needs a lick of nic before spending the next three to four hours bickering with his wife about what’s his and hers.

Eddie drags himself out of bed, shuffling across the cool tile of his bedroom floor. He sleepily rubs his bare stomach, flipping the light switch and groaning, annoyed at the sudden brightness. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face before walking into his closet and sifting through the random pants and jackets strewn across the floor. There’s gotta be some smokes in here somewhere. 

He finds a nearly empty pack of Marlboro reds and wastes no time sticking it between his lips, lighting it up with the lighter on his nightstand before getting dressed.

By the time Eddie steps into the law firm, his headache has intensified by about 80 beats per second, and he’s gone through the old pack of smokes. It feels as if the back of Eddie’s eyes have a heartbeat of their own, throbbing with every direction they turn. Eddie can hear his attorney giving him pointers for the conference, but if Eddie’s honest, he doesn’t plan on talking much, so he doesn’t pay close attention to what the man is saying.

When they enter the conference room, Eddie is seated across the table from his wife and offered a cup of coffee, to which Eddie gladly accepts to nurse his hangover. “You could at least take the glasses off.” A sweet voice that’s grown to grate every one of Eddie’s nerves whenever he hears it. He glares at his wife from across the table, and though nobody could see his eyes behind his glasses, everyone could sense the distaste behind his words, “Fuck off, Nezza.”

A strong hand is placed on Eddie’s shoulder, his attorney’s, stiffly squeezing the thick leather jacket. “How about we get started then? Before things get… rowdy.”

“Great idea.” 

Now that voice—- that voice, Eddie could hear at any second of the day, any time of the year, and know exactly who was conducting that sweet song. 

Eddie likes to believe that the universe works in mysterious ways and that things really do happen for a reason, but sometimes he swears whatever god is up there behind the clouds just likes to fuck with him for fun. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could’ve prepared Eddie for the sight he sees when he flits his gaze from Nezza to the woman sitting next to her.

For a moment, Eddie is taken back to a time he remembers in golden dream-like clouds of smoke—- the spring of ‘83 when he fell headfirst in love with the woman sitting next to his wife. And for that moment—- for that split fraction of a second, Eddie is happy to see you. 

It’s surprising; after all this time he spent resenting you and spitting out the sour taste you'd left in his mouth, Eddie imagined he would never be able even to see a picture of you and not want to slam his head against the nearest surface he could get his hands on.

However, that feeling only lasts about .012 milliseconds before Eddie’s entire being is filled with every emotion he’d suppressed towards you over the last nine years. Eddie looks at you and sees the girl he loved and the girl that broke his heart. His last memory of you is so vivid that it almost outshines all the good from your past relationship. Almost. Like a python wrapped around his neck, Eddie chokes on adoration and hatred all in one breath.

If Eddie said it didn’t piss him off to an ungodly level that he has a sliver of excitement to see you, he would be lying. You had always known the best ways to wriggle under his skin. 

This one takes the cake for the cruelest way so far.

————

Eddie looks the same.

Not much has changed on him throughout the years apart from expensive clothing, healthier-looking hair, and a little more muscle on his arms to fill out the black leather jacket clinging to his frame. He still has a knack for jewelry, you note from the priceless rings hugging nearly every slender finger of his and the chain resting against his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. He carries himself the same way, confidently with a smear of carefree and chaos. You couldn’t get a read on him when settled down in his seat across from Nezza, and the black sunglasses shielding his eyes didn’t help you decipher him any further. 

He smells like Marlboro reds and a sharp cologne; dark scented and intense, easy to tell he’s the one wearing the scent. It’s a different scent than you remember from him. He’s swapped the cheap four-cent bottle of Brut for a more decadent scent— a mix of tonka bean, musk, and patchouli with a dash of something feminine you can’t quite put your finger on. The scent matches him better than Brut could ever amount to, but you find yourself reminiscent of the past.

Eddie doesn’t look your way until you speak, and either Eddie has mastered his poker face over the years, or he doesn’t remember you.

Not even briefly does Eddie’s expression falter from the bored look plastered on his face. The sunglasses do no justice either, and you wish the universe would strike them off his face at this very moment. You had forgotten what his eyes looked like in real-time and desperately wanted to remember— take a mental picture and shove it in the corner of your brain filled with essential memories, all things that make you smile, cry, and scream.

There’s a moment where you feel pained by Eddie’s unwavering reaction to seeing you. That feeling is quickly replaced with relief, relief that Eddie has matured just as much as you’d hoped he had. When you found out your client would be filing against Eddie, your high school boyfriend, you had initially panicked and paced the living room floor of your tiny studio apartment, thinking of ways to back out of the case. However, after a hefty glass of wine, you managed to persuade yourself that Eddie most likely isn’t still hung up on something as silly as a high school relationship. It happened nearly a decade ago; surely, you’ve both moved on, right?

With this indication, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease a little, hopeful that this process will be seamless, seeing as both parties want nothing to do with each other and Eddie holds no hard feelings against you.

Once the conference begins, you don’t look away in time to avoid Eddie’s gaze as he removes the glasses, your eyes landing on those dark pools of brown that you used to dip into each night. Vibrant and so full of life, full of untold stories and sights you’d missed out on in the last decade, a story unfolds beneath the glimmer of his eyes under the lights. They feel like home at first, but as you continue holding his gaze, your home becomes clouded by lightning and wind, dark storm clouds with a promise of a downpour.

As you gaze into Eddie’s eyes, you see nothing but the boy you left behind in the summer of ‘85.

————

Stomach growling and frustrated sighs indicate the need for a break at around 12:40 PM.

The conference had started on a good note, with seamless agreements between you, your client, and Eddie’s team. That was until your client decided to become rather difficult and demanding.

“We’ll pick up where we left off in ten minutes.”

The atmosphere in the room has become stuffy and tight over the hours, so you get up to stretch your legs on a short walk to the coffee cart in the hallway.

Your mind feels muddled, pushed to exhaustion from hours of reading documents and going back and forth with Eddie’s attorney. Nezza wants more than Eddie is willing to give, money-wise, property-wise, and everything else under the sun. You’re determined to get your client as much as possible, but it’s proving to be more of a struggle than expected; Eddie’s team is headstrong and unwilling to bend to your substantial advances. Oh, and Eddie’s been practically throwing daggers at you from across the table with each chance he can get.

As you stir in a sugar packet, you watch the dark brown liquid swirl in the foam cup. You fall into a short trance as you watch the tiny bubbles dance within your drink, but the sound of a throat clearing shatters the spell. You glance to your side where the person is standing and are surprised to be met with a leather-covered shoulder and dark brown curly hair. 

“Are you done with the sugar?” Eddie points towards your hand, and you blink, stuck as you stare at him for a moment. You know you should be professional, you’re an established attorney, and you’re in the middle of doing your job, but you’re also 100% fucking human, so— “I don’t know, are you done sending me death glares from across the table or do you wanna keep being an asshole?”

Eddie grabs the jar of sugar packets from your hand, “You wouldn’t have to put up with it if you just… quit the case.” Eddie shrugs as if his advice is a task as easy as folding towels. You take offense to his response, eyebrows pinching together as you watch him rip open a packet and sprinkle sugar into his cup, “I can’t just drop a case, Eddie.”

Eddie mockingly laughs, “Really? That’s weird; I mean, considering how you kind of just dropped everything and fled the fucking state, I’m sure you can drop a case just as easily, sweetheart.” 

His words hurt. As much as you wish he didn’t have that effect on you, it’s evident that he still does, considering how your neck heats up in anger. You don’t miss the pet name he slipped in; you hate that it makes your neck even warmer. “I didn’t flee the state; I went to fucking college— and how is that even my fault? I gave you the number to my dorm, and you never called.”

And Eddie remembers that letter you left him. He remembers it like the back of his hand. He memorized every sentence, including that stupid number you left for him. “Yes, I did. I called you after every show for months, and you never picked up!” 

You spent eight years in New York, and out of those eight years, you spent four of them staring at an ugly green phone on the wall of your dorm hallway, waiting for it to ring so you could pick it up and hear his voice again. You asked your roommate to listen for a call if she was up studying late or if you went out and she stayed in. Now, you wonder if she failed you on her part because you would’ve never, in a hundred years, missed Eddie’s call. Never.

Before you can respond to the information, you are being called back into the room to resume the conference—  you’d almost forgotten that’s what you were here for.

You and Eddie let the man know you’ll be right there and watch as he walks back into the room. When you turn to Eddie, his gaze is no longer on you as he tosses the small wooden stirring stick in the trash.

Eddie is silent for a moment before he looks at you and gives a forced, close-lipped smile, “It’s nice to know you’re still full of shit.”

And then he’s gone. Eddie leaves you there, stunned and offended by his words. Eddie Munson thinks you’re full of shit— as if you were the only one to blame for your falling out. You feel stupid for believing in a better-evolved version of the Eddie you’d known. You wish his words didn’t affect you, but the conversation has left a bitter taste on your tongue. You glance down at the cup of coffee in your hands, and your stomach churns. You no longer have an appetite for the drink.

————

Late-night club hopping has never been your preferred way of spending a Saturday night. There’s a different type of energy in LA’s club scene than there is in New York. It was easy to have a good time in New York; the clubs are all close to one another and stay open nearly all night. In Los Angeles, it’s been a slow rise to liking the nightlife— clubs are more scattered, and on top of that, you learned the hard way that it’s difficult to even get into clubs when you’re not Madonna-level status. That last problem isn’t so much an issue now that you’ve settled in and made a few connections around the city. 

Tonight you’re celebrating a friend from work's birthday. Penny was the first person you talked to at the law firm; she instantly made you feel at home and offered to buy you lunch at a cafe next door. The two of you have been joined at the hip ever since. 

You’re happy to celebrate Penny’s birthday and glad to be tagging along with her in this new chapter of her life, but what you’re bothered about is the fact that you chose to wear the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. You were under the impression that you would be eating dinner with Penny and a few of her friends, but somehow, dinner turned into a night-long clubbing adventure. 

Logically, you have no one to blame but yourself for wearing Steve Madden pumps, but if Penny had told you the night would be long, you definitely wouldn’t have worn these god-awful shoes.

You’re sitting on a bar stool waiting for your drink and thinking about what excuse you’ll give Penny to go home when suddenly, you feel someone walk up beside you, waving over the bartender. You glance at the person and immediately look away, preparing to run for it before they notice. 

Sadly, you’re not fast enough to escape his line of sight, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re stalking me.”

You turn to the man and take in the sight of him as you tilt your head. “Wouldn’t it be the other way around since I was… you know, minding my business until you came here.” You motion to where Eddie is standing, and he smirks, silently taking his drink when the bartender passes it to him.

“How’d you get in here anyways?” He asks. It’s not a bad question; sure, you’re a damn good attorney, but you’re of no celebrity status, and this club is one of the more difficult joints to get into. However, you still take offense to Eddie’s question.

Your eyes narrow slightly, debating whether you should continue entertaining Eddie or leave and find your friends. “If you’re going to continue to be an asshole, then I’m leaving.”

“Fine by me; I want nothing to do with you.” Eddie scoffs into the rim of his drink before taking a short sip. You roll your eyes, feeling like kids in elementary getting into petty fights. “What makes you think I want something to do with you?”

Eddie snickers over the rim of his glass, “The fact that you’re still sitting here says enough.” 

You scoff, looking away from him as you shift in your seat, attempting to make it seem like you want to get away from him, but it only scoots you closer to him, your arm brushing his elbow. You panic at the touch but act as if it was nothing. “If my feet didn’t feel like they were about to fall off, I would be miles away from you by now.” You grumble as you distract yourself by tugging down the hem of your dress. 

“I don't believe that.” 

You let out an exasperated breath, looking over at Eddie with an annoyed expression as you speak, “Not everyone is head over heels dying to be around you.” 

It might be the alcohol or Eddie’s sinister pheromones you’re breathing in paired with the sound of his ridiculously annoying laugh—- you’re not sure which it is, but you find yourself enjoying this back-and-forth banter. A big part of you is frustrated by Eddie’s insistent prodding at your nerves, but your other part is intrigued. Too stuck to grab your things, bid him goodnight, and leave.

You almost think you heard him wrong when he responds, “We’ll see if you’re saying the same thing once I get you in the back.”

You blink, momentarily silent, as you glance at him to watch him calmly sip his drink. Not a single hint of regret or shock flashes across his face, and you almost think you imagined it until you see a ghost of a smirk brush the corner of his lips. “Excuse me?” And like a child, Eddie’s response is quick and irritating, “You’re excused.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m willingly going anywhere with you that’s not a fucking law firm or courtroom.” 

Eddie laughs, glancing at you and nodding once, “Sure.” You hate how smug he is, and you hate that he’s so fucking right, but you swear you won’t fold for whatever stupid game he’s playing. “Sure?”

You watch Eddie tip back his drink and finish what’s left, placing the empty glass on the bar countertop before lazily nudging it forward. You shift back with an annoyed grimace when he turns to you and leans an elbow against the bar. He points over your shoulder, and you catch yourself before you follow his lead, gaze stuck on his face as you prepare for whatever bullshit is about to leave his mouth.

“I’m gonna head to the restroom to take a piss. You can sit here and bitch about everything under the sun, or you can quit being a pussy and meet me there.”

And without further explanation or interaction, Eddie gets up and leaves. You turn and watch in shock as he walks off, watching his back until it’s washed away by the sea of people on the dance floor. You turn back to the bar and gaze at your drink. For a moment, you think this might be some elaborate scheme Eddie has to fuck you over. Complying with this proposition, Eddie has now opened, could very well lead to you losing your job, something you’re not very keen on doing.

You glance towards the direction Eddie had walked off in and groan, briefly shutting your eyes as temptation washes over you. There’s no way this is real. There’s no way you’re actually thinking about going into that restroom with Eddie.

You take a deep breath, clenching your teeth in thought before muttering a curse. You’re fucking yourself over with this one, but you do it anyways. You toss back the rest of your drink, wincing at the bitterness, before hopping off the barstool.

Your adrenaline is so high that you don’t even feel the ache in your feet as you cross the dance floor, maneuvering through sweaty bodies and spilled drinks toward the bright neon RESTROOMS sign.

From the corner of your eye, you see Penny standing at her rented-out section as she tosses back a shot with the girls you’d arrived with. You should turn around and join them, return to celebrating Penny’s birthday, and forget all about your interaction with Eddie. That’s what you should do, but you don’t. You continue walking towards the restrooms, mentally going back and forth with yourself until you reach the door and wrap your hand around the handle.

However, the door opens before you can fully prepare to open it, and the scent of hand soap and Eddie hits you in the face. Your wide eyes meet Eddie’s glinting gaze. A smirk spreads across his lips, and he snickers, “I’d say I’m surprised, but that’d be a lie.”

Your gaze is hot and heavy as you stare up at him. The sounds of the club you're in seem muffled as you spend your last seconds considering what you’re about to do. You should really turn around.

You tilt your head up, silently sizing Eddie and daring him, a tipping point where you both know there’s no going back now—- especially not when you mesh your lips against his and stumble into the restroom. You plan to blame this on the alcohol.

Eddie makes quick work of turning to press your back against the door, fumbling to lock the door as you grumble a breathless ‘Fuck you’ against his lips.

“I intend to, sweetheart.” 

You hate how stupid and witty the response is, but it makes your stomach twist in need, nonetheless. Eddie’s hands are roaming and squeezing you wherever he can reach, hiking up your dress enough to slink a few digits into the hand of your skimpy panties, snapping them against your waist and smirking when you push up against him. Eddie manages to speak in between haste kisses, “I’m gonna be honest; I didn’t think you’d give in this easily.”

Eddie is now ushering you towards the sink, softly snickering at the gasp that escapes you when the cold marble digs into your lower back. “Are you trying to say I’m easy?” 

You can’t hold back the moan that slips from you when Eddie’s hand slithers between your thighs to press a thumb against your clit. “Maybe… also just pointing out that you clearly missed me.”

You don’t answer him, leaning forward to capture his lips in a heated kiss as your hips rock back and forth against his touch. You smooth your hand down his chest and over his belt to grasp the heavy bulge between his thighs, humming when he moans, “Looks like you missed me more, Munson.”

You giggle when he grunts in annoyance, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties before shucking them down your legs and lifting the flimsy garment for you to see with a smirk, “Won’t be needing these anymore, will you?” 

You grimace in faux disgust as you watch him stuff the soaked material in his back pocket. “Gross,” you comment, although Eddie doesn’t answer, busying himself with pulling you off the counter, flipping you around to face the sink, and eyeing you through the neon-lighted mirror. “You’re a perv; you know that?” You add as Eddie wraps an arm around your front and hikes your dress to sink his hand between your thighs.

Your shaky fingers grasp Eddie’s wrist, hips squirming as he begins to rub your clit, dipping a finger lower to spread your sticky arousal. “If I were you, I would start being very nice to me.” His voice is low and gravely against your ear as you smile, gazing back into his darkened gaze through the glass reflection. You push back against him, and you both sigh in pleasure. “Just fuck me, Eddie.”

You gasp when he sinks a thick digit into your weeping cunt, slowly pushing it in and out of you to create a sinful twist in your tummy. You shake your head in protest, although your hips rock against his thrusts. “No, no, I don’t need it. I don’t need that. Just fuck me, please?” You repeat, voice teetering on the edge of a whine.

“God, you’re still a fucking brat. So used to getting what you want, hm?” Despite his comment, he doesn’t give you what you’d asked for. Instead, he slips in another finger, greedily squeezing at your chest with his other hand. Your thighs tremble as his fingertips delicately massage that sweet spot hidden between your wet walls, a shaky hand reaching up to grasp his hand as he fondles your breasts over your dress. “Not anymore, princess,” His voice is low and foggy with sex, purring against your ear with ease as he plays with you. “This time, you’ll earn it like a good slut. You’re going to have to ask me very nicely if you want it that bad.” “A-ah…Fuck you.”

Eddie laughs at your response, digging his face into your neck when you throw your head back, inhaling the intoxicating scent of your perfume. He presses a kiss to the base of your neck, and you hate how it makes your stomach twist, thighs clenching around his hand, causing him to pause. “Keep them open.” He warns, ignoring your pathetic attempts at rutting against his hand.

When you don’t obey his instruction, Eddie brings his foot in between your pump-clad feet, knocking the toe of his shoe against both heels, causing your legs to part, shaky limbs failing you as you stumble in his hold. Eddie chuckles, nipping your jaw as he sinks another finger into your soaking heat. Your moan is loud and pitiful as you reach forward to grasp the sink counter for stability. “Oh my god—” “Jesus, you’re fucking tight. Barely taking three fingers.” Your moans are high-pitched as you rock your hips against Eddie, nails digging into the skin of his flexing wrist as he fucks you with his fingers. 

The sloshing sounds from between your legs are just loud enough to hear over the booming music of the club barely, and if Eddie’s fingers weren’t fucking you so well, you would’ve felt ashamed. You hardly notice Eddie’s free hand traveling to the low neck of your dress, tugging the material down to expose your chest. He groans at the sight, palming one of your tits as his mouth latches to the side of your neck. His fingers pinch and roll your nipples, his tongue warm and wet as he licks up your neck, humming at the taste of you and smiling when he feels you tremble against his body. “I can feel you squeezing me, princess; you gonna cum for me?” He whispers against your ear, humming when you hastily nod. “I don’t think so.” 

He slows the draw of his fingers, softly petting at your walls to give enough sensation to have your eyes rolling but not enough to tip over the edge. You frustratedly huff, “Eddie—” “Good sluts ask to come, you know that.”

Your stomach twists at his words, hips squirming in search of more, more, more. You have a lot of pride; you’ve been told it’s your strongest and worst quality before— but here in this dingy club restroom, with Eddie’s overwhelming presence surrounding you and the incessant need to cum gnawing at every cell in your body, you find your pride quickly dwindling like a flame under water. The time when you need your pride the most, it’s nowhere to be found. 

“Please, Eddie.” You whisper so quietly Eddie almost misses it. He smiles, “Since I know how hard that was for you, I’ll take it— but I won't be so kind next time, princess.” He pulls his fingers out of you and urges you to turn around and face him. 

He nudges you back to sit on the edge of the sink, stepping between your thighs and opening them wide enough to see your glistening cunt, sticky arousal winking up at him beneath the dim neon lighting. “N-next time?” You take in a sharp breath as he hitches your leg around his waist

He chuckles, glancing at your swollen lips as you gaze up at him trying to fight through the hazy fog of arousal. Eddie runs three fingers over your clit before sinking back into you, a low hum rattling from his chest when your shaky hands grasp his shirt, fingers curling and wrinkling the material, “Next time.”

Your words get lost on you when he begins fucking you again, eyes fluttering shut as your legs subconsciously tighten around his waist. You can feel his breath against your top lip, and you fight the urge to seek out his lips with yours. You push up into him, mumbling incoherent pleas into the air. You lick your lips, pussy clenching when the tip of your tongue catches Eddie’s bottom lip. Eddie doesn’t wait for you to make a move this time, his free hand reaching up to grip your jaw, fingertips digging into your cheek as he pushes his lips against yours. You both moan into the kiss, your hips grinding into the thrusts of his fingers.

You keep kissing Eddie until you can’t, too overwhelmed by the pending promise of an orgasm. You slide away from Eddie’s lips and nuzzle into his neck, finding solace in the soft brush of his hair against your face, the distant but familiar scent of his shampoo invading your senses. “I’m gonna come.” You whisper, nails digging into his biceps as your thighs quiver.

Eddie keeps his hand working between your thighs, thanking the many hours he’s spent playing guitar for training his wrist to maintain endurance. His other hand dances up your heaving back, dipping beneath the curtain of your hair to grip the back of your neck, softly squeezing in encouragement. “Let go, baby. Let me feel it.”

You nearly sob when you finally tip over, body tensing before melting against Eddie’s body in shambles of incoherent words and shaking limbs. You can hear the sticky wet substance of your release squelching around his fingers; you can feel it smearing against your thighs and dripping onto the cool tiles of the floor, and you almost feel ashamed when Eddie points it out, “Fuckkk, you’ve been saving this for me, haven’t you?” You hardly register his words, but you nod, mewling as you nuzzle deeper against him, thighs twitching when you teeter on the edge of sensitivity.

“I… Enough, Eddie, please fuck me.” You’re practically begging, pulling away from his neck to blink up at him blearily, sex-drunk hands fumbling to reach out for him. Eddie kisses you and chuckles against your lips, fingers finally slowing down. He pulls away with a lewd hum, leaning back to watch as he removes his fingers from your cunt, dragging the drenched digits up to smear your arousal around your clit, grinning when your thighs twitch.

You try to catch your breath as you silently watch him bring his fingers up to his lips, sinking them into his mouth to sinfully lick your cum from his fingers. He glances at you with a smirk around his fingers, and you squirm in your spot. “You’re being a tease.”

He releases his fingers with a pop before stepping away, “Sorry to cut this short, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta run, and I’m sure your friends are worried about where you went.” You watch in disbelief as he glances in the mirror and fixes a few unruly hair pieces. He looks your way and drops his eye in a wink, “I’ll see you later, princess.”

You silently gape in shock, watching him turn around and stride toward the door. Eddie can feel your eyes throwing darts at him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his smile as he opens the door and steps out. 

You have to take a moment to wrap your head around it, but once you do, you wind up more annoyed with yourself for falling so quickly into Eddie’s trap. You clean yourself up and make yourself look presentable again before leaving the restroom to find your friends. 

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Penny exclaims once she sees you. She gasps when you get closer, and she sees your neck, leaning in to get a better look, causing you to slap a hand over the sore spot. “Oh, my god. Who?” “What?” “You were definitely screwing someone in the back! Who?”

You wince at her volume, quickly shushing her, “Nobody, Penny, this is old.” 

Penny rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to say something, but you quickly cut her off, “I have an early meeting tomorrow, Pen; I have to get going.” Penny frowns but understands either way, giving you a quick hug and bidding you goodbye for the night. You leave her with a final Happy Birthday and make your way out of the club, already yearning for the comfort of your bed.

Before getting a taxi, you find yourself walking into a nearby store and purchasing a CD of Corroded Coffin’s first album, letting the CD burn a hole through your hands on the ride home. When you get home, you fall asleep atop your sheets before you can listen to the record. 

You spend the rest of your night dreaming of hazy summers in Hawkins with a young curly-headed boy you knew once upon a time.

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a/n: aH, i hope this was good, next part will be a bit more angsty so this part was for the sluts <3

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teeny taglist: @eviethetheatrefreak , @sidthedollface2, @peachysink, @hereforshmut, @duncanhillscoffeecups