#(It opens with a hiss and rush of steam.)

[mercvry-glow]

Back again

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. an unexpected visitor breaks into your house after having spent years locked away. unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome.

warnings. age gap (pope 39, reader late 20s), breaking and entering, gun mentioned but not used, reader and pope have a son together, cody family mention, pope is awkward af but literally when is he not, reader does not stand on business and misses pope, pope in general, let me know if there's anything else.

notes. I genuinely struggled so hard with this, but it's finally out. I love the show though and am so glad shawn is getting his flowers with how popular the pitt became. if this flops, idk how much i'll regularly write for pope but if something pops into my head or if i get more requests i'll see what i can do! as always thank you so much and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2800+

It was past midnight.

The waves outside crashed gently against the cliffs, the ocean reflecting slivers of moonlight. Your bathroom—marble floors, soft golden lighting, wide windows overlooking the water—was quiet except for the hum of your favorite playlist and the low hiss of the shower shutting off.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, tucking it at your chest as you padded across the warm floors. Steam clung to the mirrors, fogged your reflection. You barely glanced at it. Just another night, just another routine. Lip balm, face serum, silk robe. Everything in its place. Controlled. Safe.

Until the lights flickered.

You froze. Turned slowly. Then the hallway sensor triggered—that soft click you weren’t supposed to hear from this side of the house.

Your stomach dropped.

This was a gated home. Security on every window and door. Patrols after dark. You lived here because no one was supposed to get in.

But someone had.

You grabbed the drawer under the sink. Your fingers skimmed the handle of the pistol you never thought you’d need to use again. Heart racing, you crept to the open door of the bathroom, back pressed to the wall, breath locked in your chest.

Then you heard it. Slow, steady footsteps on the hardwood. Not rushing. Not clumsy.

Deliberate.

And then he appeared.

You nearly dropped the gun.

“Jesus—”

“Hey,” Pope said quietly, stepping into the golden glow of the bathroom like he belonged there. Like this was his house. His ocean view. His night.

You stared at him—dripping water, towel barely hanging on, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t think. He looked the same and not the same. Bigger. Leaner. That same raw, unreadable face. Eyes locked on you like they hadn’t looked at anything else in three damn years.

“How—how the fuck did you get in?” you finally breathed, voice shaky but sharp.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around. The bathroom. The house behind you. You.

“Security’s good,” he murmured. “But I’m better.”

Your fingers tightened on the handle of the pistol.

“Put it down,” he said softly. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

You hesitated. Then set it on the counter with a hard clack.

“You broke into my house.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

He took a step closer. You didn’t move, but your breath caught. Everything about him still made your skin burn—fear, fury, and something dangerously close to longing.

“I got out,” he said. “And you weren’t at our old house. Smurf told me you moved. Gave me pictures. Told me you were doing good.”

“Pictures?” Your voice broke. “She gave you pictures?”

“Of him too.”

Your heart clenched.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t come to take anything. I just… I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out here, and I didn’t know if you were okay.”

You stared at him, the towel still wrapped tight around you, pulse thrumming through every inch of your body. The man who once held you like the world might end. The father of your child. The ghost that haunted every night you told yourself you were over him.

“I should call the cops.”

He nodded. “You should.”

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And the silence between you burned.

You still didn’t move.

Pope stood just inside your bathroom, jaw tight, chest rising slow like every breath burned. His eyes swept over the space—over you—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like maybe he’d dreamed this place a hundred times in a concrete cell and wasn’t sure yet if this was another one.

“Where is he?”

Your chest tightened. “He’s here, in his room.”

His brow twitched. “Here?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “Down the hall. Asleep.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t see the point in running. Not when I already knew you would find us.” That landed. He looked away, jaw flexing, like he hated how easily he could’ve shown up if he’d tried.

“I figured you’d leave,” he said after a moment. “Take Danny. Disappear.”

You held his stare. “I thought about it. But… he’s got your last name. And I wasn’t gonna lie about that.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward the hallway—like he could see through the walls. Like the kid he hadn’t seen in three years was just around the corner, breathing softly in his bed.

“Is he okay?” His voice cracked just a little. “I mean… is he good?”

You nodded slowly. “He’s wild. Sweet. Always asking questions. He’s obsessed with dinosaurs. He thinks mac and cheese is gourmet.”

A ghost of a smile touched Pope’s mouth, then faded fast.

“He’s four now?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Does he… does he know about me?”

You swallowed hard. “Only what I told him. That his dad had to go away for a while. But that he loves him.”

Pope stared at the ground for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought about him every damn day.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust yourself to.

“Can I see him?” he asked, voice rough. “Just for a second. I won’t wake him, I swear.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve thrown him out right then and there.

But you couldn’t.

“Be quiet,” you whispered.

He followed you out of the bathroom. Every step down the hall felt heavy, soaked in everything unsaid. You stopped at the second door on the right—blue paint chipped from tiny hands slamming it too hard, a crooked dinosaur sticker stuck near the bottom.

You eased it open.

There he was—Danny. Small and soft and curled up in a tangle of blankets, one hand clutching a stuffed T-Rex, the other flopped above his head like he’d passed out mid-adventure. A dim night light lit up the corner, casting shadows over his round cheeks and dark lashes.

You felt Pope stop behind you.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel what was radiating off him like heat.

Grief. Wonder. Love. Guilt.

He stepped just close enough to see better—just close enough that his hand brushed the doorframe.

“I missed all of it,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah. You did.”

He stared a little longer, eyes full of something thick and breaking. Then he backed away, slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, voice shaking.

You didn’t reply. Just quietly shut the door behind you.

And for a long, fragile moment, neither of you said anything.

Eventually you had taken him downstairs, after getting dressed. You moved around your kitchen slowly, barefoot on cold tile, the silence stretching between you as the fridge door hummed and the rain ticked against the windows. You grabbed two glasses just… needing something to do with your hands.

Andrew stood near the counter, watching you with that unreadable look he always had—like he was half in the room, half stuck in his own head. 

Staring. Always Staring. 

“I drove by our old place the other day,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It was gone. Sold, actually.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah. Smurf sold it while I was inside, probably after you moved.”

You blinked. “She really sold it? That was your house.”

He shrugged, something bitter flashing in his eyes. “Technically it was Smurf’s. Always was. She held the deed. Didn’t want to ‘waste’ it on me rotting in prison after you left too.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jesus…”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, like it didn’t matter. “Wasn’t much to come back to anyway.”

You leaned against the island, glass in hand. “I thought you’d still be staying there. Honestly, I figured I’d see you lurking in the backyard one day.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you wanted me anywhere near you.”

You gave a small, tired smirk. “Depends on the day.”

He didn’t laugh, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. Still, he wouldn’t sit. Wouldn’t touch the water. Like he didn’t trust himself to get comfortable.

You let the silence hang a beat longer, then asked gently, “You been staying with your family?”

“Yes and no, mainly staying at a motel,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “They don’t want you in the house?

“Pretty much.”

“And Smurf?”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the window. “She called it. Gave me some cash, some kid’s been staying in my room. You remember J?”

You swallowed. “Barely, but that sounds like your mom.”

He glanced at you. “You still see her?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. Holidays, mostly. She sends gifts. Makes a show of being ‘Grandma Smurf.’” You exhaled, slow and careful. “It’s… complicated.”

“I bet,” he murmured.

You met his eyes. “I don’t hate her. For his sake, or yours, I let her in. But I don’t trust her.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Another pause. Then softly, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“In Oceanside?”

He nodded once.

You let your fingers trail the edge of the counter. “Thought about leaving. But this is where he was born. Where we held him for the first time. I didn’t want to erase that just because it hurt.”

Pope looked at you like you’d cracked something in him wide open.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your name,” he said.

“I didn’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to remember where he came from. Even if he didn’t know all the details.”

Pope swallowed hard, his voice a low rasp. “I don’t deserve that.”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t about you.”

He looked down at the floor, then back at you, and for a second, it felt like time folded in on itself. Like you were young again, still stupid in love with the broken, furious man no one else could understand.

But you weren’t that girl anymore.

And he wasn’t that guy.

Still… your voice came soft, like it always did with him.

“You should stay. I’ll set out some blankets for the guest room.”

Pope didn’t move. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You gave a tired smile. “Then don’t, Andrew.”

It didn’t take long for you to set him up, and go back to your own room. Sleep didn’t come easy after that conversation, and knowing that Andrew was in the house at your own volition didn’t do anything to ease the worry building in your chest. You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up—just that the light leaking through your curtains was soft and gray-blue, the kind that came before sunrise on cloudy mornings. Your pillow was warm. Your body was tired. But something pulled you from sleep. Some shift in the air.

Something was different.

You blinked your eyes open and sat up slowly, the ache in your chest blooming before your thoughts caught up. You glanced at the empty space in your bed. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—faintly—voices.

You slipped out of bed barefoot once again, heart ticking fast for reasons you didn’t want to name. The air in the hallway was cool against your skin. You padded toward the stairs, one hand on the railing, every step measured like your body remembered how to be careful in moments like this.

The TV was on.

You crept down, slow and quiet, and paused just before the last step.

And there they were.

Danny curled up on the couch, wrapped in his blue fluffy blanket, head resting against a pillow like he’d done it a hundred times before. And next to him, hunched with his elbows on his knees, was Pope. Quiet, still, eyes trained on the screen—but not really watching.

He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours.

The TV played some old cartoon—one of those early-morning classics with soft colors and slower dialogue. Danny was focused, small smile tugging at his lips. Pope looked like he couldn’t breathe without permission.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until Danny mumbled something—“That guy’s mean,”—and Pope gave a little grunt of agreement.

Then his eyes lifted, soft hazel meeting yours.

His whole body tensed like he was about to explain himself, apologize, vanish into the walls. But you didn’t say anything. You just stood there, hand on the railing, heart breaking in slow motion.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Pope said softly. “Said he had a bad dream.”

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “He gets those sometimes.”

“I was coming down to make coffee. He was already up.”

“And you turned on cartoons?” you asked, almost smiling.

Pope looked down, a little sheepish. “Figured it was better than silence.”

You stepped off the last stair, legs slow, body unsure.

Danny caught sight of you and beamed. “He knows all of my shows!.”

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s impressive.”

“He doesn’t know the guy with the stick though.”

Pope gave a small, amused grunt. “I got nothing.”

Danny nodded. “It’s okay.”

You stood behind the couch for a second, arms crossed gently over your chest, watching the two of them. The way Danny had unconsciously scooted closer. The way Pope hadn’t moved a muscle, like shifting might shatter the moment.

You circled around and sat on the arm of the couch, your eyes on your son.

“You okay, baby?”

Danny nodded, rubbing his eye. “I’m not tired.”

“You want breakfast?”

“Not yet,” He leaned against the pillow. “I wanna finish this!”

“Okay bossy pants,” You glanced over at Pope. He was looking at Danny like he was still trying to believe he was real. That this whole thing wasn’t some dream he’d conjured behind a motel curtain.

You lowered your voice.

“How long’ve you been sitting here?”

“A while,” Pope admitted. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You watched him a second, heart twisting in your chest. He looked more human now. Less like a ghost from your past, but still haunted.

He flicked his eyes toward you, voice quieter. “He’s good. You did good.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then you nodded. “Thanks.”

The cartoon kept playing. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—Like the past three years had never happened. 

The cartoon kept playing in the background. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—like the past three years had never happened.

You sat in the quiet for a while, watching Danny’s eyelids droop again, little body finally giving in to sleep. His fingers still clutched the edge of his blanket, leaning into Pope, knowing nothing about personal space. 

Andrew hadn’t moved, barely even breathed, like one wrong shift might wake him or make you change your mind.

You turned your eyes to him, quiet. “So… are you planning on coming back?”

He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes tired and soft and full of something that made your chest ache.

“Only if you want me to.”

Your fingers tightened where they rested on the couch cushion. You wanted to say yes. God, part of you wanted to say it too quickly. But the rest—the part that remembered the weight of his family, the danger they lived in, the years you spent trying to keep Danny far away from it all—held you back.

“I don’t know if I can let you back into his life like nothing happened,” you said quietly. “Not after everything. Not if there’s even a chance they’ll pull you under again.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Pope said. No hesitation. Just that low, steady conviction that used to scare you when it was aimed at other people, one you didn’t know if you could believe. “They don’t get to have that power anymore. Not over me, not over you, and not over him.”

You looked at him for a long moment. And whatever was in his face—grit, sorrow, a promise he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud—felt real.

“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “But I need more than words this time.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll give you more.”

Your eyes fell to Danny, his lashes long against his cheeks, chest rising and falling in soft little breaths.

“You scared me last night,” you said. “But not because I thought you’d hurt us, just… well—I’m sure you get it”

“I do,” Pope murmured. “I get it.”

Another long, aching silence stretched between you. Then he shifted slightly, brushing Danny’s blanket up over his shoulder with a gentleness that shattered something inside you.

“I don’t want to blow this,” he said, eyes still on his son. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

You breathed in slow. Let it out slower.

“Okay,” you said. “Then stay for breakfast.”

Pope looked at you, the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Just… don’t make a habit of breaking into my house.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “No promises.”

But the tension had cracked. The ice was melting, slowly. And somewhere in the quiet, cautious hope started to grow. The cartoon shifted to the next episode. The sun crept higher, lighting up the kitchen in soft gold.

And this time, it felt like maybe you wouldn’t be facing the morning alone.

mercvry-glow 2025

[sixeyesonathiel]

02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[aethercoreheart]

xavier | 11:53 PM

"Xavier, is that you?"

"Yeah."

You hear the front door close gently, and it's immediately followed by the shuffle of heavy footsteps heading towards you. You look up from your phone, which you had been scrolling mindlessly on for the last hour, to see Xavier, still in his uniform, standing at the end of the sofa.

Before you can greet him, you see his knees buckle, and he falls face first onto the sofa, his face just landing next to your thigh, his long legs dangling from the arm rest.

You gingerly place your hand on his head, your fingers finding their way into his light hair.

"Xavier," you whisper his name, trying to stop him from falling asleep.

He grunts, the few syllables he tries to say muffled by the leather of the sofa. Then, you start to hear him snore.

"Xavier," you say, a little louder, giving the hair in between your fingers a soft tug.

He rolls his head to the side. "Tired," he mumbles, his eyes closed. "Sleep now."

"I know," you say, starting to get up from the sofa. "But you're still in uniform. Can you at least take a quick shower, get into some comfortable clothes and then go to bed?"

He gives you no answer. Instead, another soft snore escapes his lips, and you roll your eyes to yourself, before walking off.

---

"Xavier! Xavier, help!"

There's a beat of silence before you hear his rushed, heavy footsteps.

The door to the bathroom swings open, and you see Xavier, one hand gripping the handle, and the other the doorframe.

"What-"

Before he can say anything else, you rise from the side of the bathtub, and reach for his arm, pulling him into the bathroom. You close the door, and lock it behind you, preventing him from attempting escape.

Xavier stares at you, then his eyes flicker towards the bathtub, then back to you. You motion with your head towards the tub, which is covered in bubbles, with small tendrils of steam rising from it.

Xavier, having sensed your plan, sighs. "Are you serious?"

You press your back against the bathroom door. "Deadly. Get in the tub."

He shakes his head. It's dim in the bathroom, with only a few candles lighting the room, but you see a shy grin tug at the corners of his lips.

Wordlessly, he starts undressing, and you realize that you're still in the room with him. You inhale sharply, hoping that he doesn't notice, but his eyes meet yours, and he smirks.

"Are you going to watch me get naked?"

You immediately spin around, nose pressed against the door, hoping that he didn't see the flush spreading across your cheeks. You hear him chuckle as the last of his clothes fall to the ground. He lets out a soft hiss as he steps into the tub, and you hear the water splash at the sides of it.

"Oh... oh my..."

There are another few splashes as he submerges himself, and you turn again to see Xavier's head just slightly peaking out from the bubbles. He dunks his head into the water, then rises out of it again, his hair plastered to his forehead. He glances at you and gives you a drowsy grin.

"Thank you. This is heavenly"

You nod, and you turn to head out of the bathroom, but Xavier's arm shoots out of the tub and his soapy fingers wrap around your wrist. They're slippery, but his grip is tight.

"Can you... can you stay with me a little bit?"

You take a deep breath in before you give him a smile. "Of course."

You kneel at the edge of the tub, watch as his eyes start to flutter shut again. You reach for the shampoo bottle on the bathroom counter, pop it open, and squeeze some of it into your palm. You then shuffle around to the end of the tub where Xavier's head is, and you rub your hands together, producing some foam. You reach for his head, your fingers finding his hair once again. Xavier lets out a drawn out groan, which causes heat to spread across your cheeks, but you say nothing, and you continue massaging the shampoo into his hair.

You hear him start to snore again, and this time, you can't bring yourself to wake him up. You admire the small droplets of water that have formed on his eyelashes, the warm feeling going from your face to the pit of your stomach. His forehead is covered in suds, but you can't resist - you press your lips lightly against it, murmuring into his damp skin.

"Good night, Xavier."

[satorupi]

new to posting on tumblr, but currently thinking ab innocentgf!reader asking experiencedbf!satoru how to give him a handjob?? hear me out hear me out

you're still not quite sure what on earth brought on the urge to ask the question.

scratch that, you actually are sure -- you'd been dating satoru for over a year and some at this point (almost two) and the furthest you'd gone were heavy make out sessions and nothing more.

it's not like you don't want to do stuff with him, because of course you do. he's your boyfriend. he's kind, great on the eyes, so sweet to you. of course you want to do more than just kiss him.

you've been dating long enough and the trust is mutual...but the idea of being that intimate just feels so unreasonably embarrassing. it's so hard to get out your own head.

steam billows out the shower satoru currently occupies, swirling near your feet, a thin fog that leaves surfaces damp in the lightest bit of condensation. the words feel lodged in your throat, already flushing at the faintest outline of his naked body through the partially frosted glass.

if you're already embarrassed at the prospect of seeing him naked, how would you even ask the question?

it takes everything in you not to retreat, really. your pacing outside the bathroom for 5 minutes before you'd worked up the courage to come inside couldn't be taken for granted.

why chicken out now when you're already in here?? you'd practiced this, it wasn't a big deal.

"satoru?"

"baby?" he responds over the sound of the water, glancing backwards like he'd be able to see you through the glass. "something wrong?"

"no. no, I just uh..." your fingers toy at the edges of your shorts, rocking on your heels, "I wanted to ask you something."

"oh?" you can see his hands slow in his hair before starting back up, "well, i'll be out in a minute so-

"no!" the words come out in a rush, high enough to embarrass you. your hands squeeze at your sides, working up the needed courage to keep from retreating, "I mean, I should probably ask you now. kind of important."

there's a pause, only the steady hiss of the shower filling the damp air.

"...alright then," he said, a little slower this time. "what's up?"

the words come out one big breathless, a too loud tumble before you can regret it. the way they always did when you got nervous. "how do you...how do I, you know, give you a handjob?"

your body flares hot with panic with the clearly startled noise that leaves him, molten hot in the cheeks, already spinning on your heel to bolt. "never mind!" "wait-- babe! don't run-- shit, ow!" you're already slamming the door behind you and making a beeline to the bedroom. then a beat and a half, muffled from the distance,

"wait! i've got soap in my eyes!!"

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

the bedroom door slams behind you with a solid thud, throwing yourself into the bed and yanking the covers over your head like it would stave off the mortification. great, just great. you should've chickened out like you wanted to. dating the most effortlessly perfect man alive and you'd just propositioned...whatever that was. sex 101?

the bathroom door flying open and hitting the wall is noisy even with all the distance. "babe! where'd you go?"

maybe if you stay really, really still he might think you'd left. maybe you could just play dead, actually.

it's mostly silent, sound of your heart throbbing in your ears louder than anything else.

...then the bedroom door flies open, frame rattling on its hinges. "did I hear you wrong?" and he sounds so bewildered that part of you feels bad. "are you seriously hiding?" that part at least sounds humor filled. oh, so he thinks this is funny? there's the wet slap of his feet against the hardwood, getting closer and closer to you till the part of the mattress near your head dips with his weight. "..you embarrassed? is that it?"

you bury your face deeper in the sheets, teary with just how hot your face was getting, a pathetic little whimper being your answer. of course you were embarrassed, who wouldn't be?

"you're okay." satoru wonders if you know how cute he finds this all. his hand finds your head over the sheet keeping you hidden, smoothing his hand up and down just to soothe you. you drop a bomb like that then run away from him while he's incapacitated? how evil. how cute. "you were asking how to make me feel good, right? you can talk to me."

your nod is weak under the covers, mortification easing up with all his reassurance.

"come on out, sweetheart." he murmured, tugging lightly at the blanket. "c'mere. lemme see you."

maybe if he wasn't being the absolutely sweetest you'd put up more of a fight...but since he is, your head pushes free from under the cover, peeking out just enough to see him. your eyes find his face before anything else. crystal blues turned stormy, hair still partially sudsy w/ shampoo, a mess of strands sticking up in different directions.

and then?

then your eyes drop, you're not sure how you hadn't locked on that first because his towel is all low on his hips like he'd haphazardly wrapped it around himself, a very clear, thick imprint straining against the white cotton.

oh.

"didn't get to wash my hair out properly.." the words break you out your momentary stupor, now glossy gaze lifting to eye him again, blinking slowly. as if you care about his half washed hair right now.

"you wanted to learn right?" his hand still strokes the back of your head gently and you nod, fighting the innate urge to glance down again. to get your first proper look. you'd felt it when your kissing got too heated sometimes but never...not this. "i'll show you then."

and that's how you end up on your knees between your boyfriend's parted thighs. the pillow under the pair had been his idea to keep your knees from rubbing against the carpet, hands on your lap idly picking at nonexistent lint.

and satoru...well, satoru's still on the bed, of course. on the bed with his dick in his hand.

minor detail.

the towel's parted and resting on either side of him, cock hard and heavy in his hand as he grips the base, pearly droplet leaking from the tip.

from 'just kissing' to seeing him stroking himself while you watch -- what a jump.

you can count how many times you'd had to look away since you two had gotten in this predicament and it'd only been 2 minutes at best.

"no looking away." he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. wrecked already just from the heat of your gaze. "you wanted to learn, baby. so you need to watch."

his free hand lifts to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing along the bone before it's sliding down to cup your jaw. he tilts your face just enough so that you're watching, eyes instinctively dropping to his dick again.

the rush of wetness in your panties makes you twitch, unable to look away now that you seemingly had no choice. "good fuckin' girl. eyes on me." you barely register the little rush of air that leaves your lungs with his first upwards pump, stuck on his only shaky sigh, hand squeezing your jaw gently.

"feels good," he says, breath hitching when he strokes down and back up again, thumb swiping lazily over the slit. "s'much better with you watching. you're so pretty down there." satoru strokes himself from base to tip, letting his cock slip heavy through his fist. his head tips back just a little, exhale shaky with the effort of keeping his pace slow to demonstrate this properly for you. in all honestly, he felt embarrassingly close. didn't peg himself as some sort of exhibitionist, but, the more you know.

"not...not too tight, and then you can twist jus' like this.." and he does exactly that, breathing out a curse as he works himself lazily. his thumb smears precum over the sensitive tip, aching to be touched properly -- by you instead of himself. his gaze drops back down to you, watching you as you watch him. all curious, thighs squeezed a little tight, lip caught between your teeth. "you can touch it too."

you're not even embarrassed at how eager your nod comes, letting him lead your hand up to wrap around his cock where he's thickest in a tentative hold. it's silky and warm against your skin, heat pulsing between your thighs. your stomach curls at his groan at your curious squeeze, swallowing lightly.

"easy now.." he doesn't let you know that it'd been slightly too tight, he just wraps his hand around yours to ease your hold, stroking your hand with his own. once, twice. very carefully. "doing so good, baby. just like that."

okay, you could do this. it's just a dick. a dick wouldn't bite you. not his at least.

a little emboldened by his praise, you shift a little higher to get closer to him, hand lifting from your lap to ease his off yours, now doing the job all on your own. firm even strokes, slow enough to feel the throb of his veins and his dick jumping in your hand. it's a slick slide with all the messy precum he'd smeared, hand doing the twists he'd done on his own, eyes up on him.

if his head being tipped back meant anything, you'd say you were doing a fine job. "is it good, 'toru?" the brush of your thumb over his tip is a little clumsy compared to how he did it, but his hips buck anyway, moan warming your body. your stare is full of fascination at the deeper flush of the head, how another hot little spurt drools out just from your touch to coat your thumb.

"y-yeah. oh god, yes. it's so good." his breath punches out his throat in a gasp, jaw falling open. "keep doing that."

you're almost desperate to keep it feeling good for him, to make him feel even better. your hand pulls along his cock in perfect little pumps, riding the high of all the previous praise, drinking in all his sounds. the twitch of his hips, the silent calls of your names, him asking for more. you're properly getting drunk on it, riffling through your thoughts to find more ways to drive him crazy.

your mind mostly draws a blank save for one idea, not second guessing as you shift closer to lean in. the side of his shaft is far softer against the wetness of your tongue as you drag the appendage along the rosy pink flesh.

the reaction is almost instant, tongue not even making it all the way up. his jerk in answer makes you rear back completely, eyes wide as your hand quickly releases him.

you freeze, horrified at the look on his face. his panting. oh god, he'd hated it. surely. "sorry! sorry, did I do it wrong?! I thought it-" "no! fuck no, it wasn't wrong. holy shit--" he rasps, lips twitching up into a grin, laugh bursting out of him. wrong? how could it be wrong if his orgasm near raced up on him with the simple press of your tongue? "where the hell did you learn that?"

you blink up at him, all sweet and pretty, rubbing your lips together to savor the taste of him. "a video! the lady did the same thing."

he laughs again, all amused and carefree like your hand hadn't just been wrapped around his cock, like you hadn't just embarrassed yourself. "a video. you watched a video on this?"

you nod like it's the most obvious thing, "I wanted t'learn how to do it."

he can't fathom that you'd seek out porn to figure out how to touch him well. "fuck, you're so perfect."

his hand eases yours back upward, kissing your knuckles to assure you that no, you licking his dick had not at all turned him off or anything remotely similar. that has you more than willing to start back up again, more confident in your strokes this time. still a little clumsy, it's inevitable with your inexperience.

you know what he likes now, at least partially -- so you're in his space again, mouthing the side of his cock, tongue dragging along wet, hot flesh just as you'd seen. trying to remember parts of the video you'd been to embarrassed to even finish.

the pump of your smaller hand on him sticks to near the tip, lost in his noises as you kiss and lick near the base, nosing at his flesh. he always smelt so good but that freshly showered scent mixed with that of his flesh this close has your mind all foggy. your thighs squeeze together tighter to ease the building ache, panting warmly against the side of his cock, stroking a little firmer.

"god, you're a natural. please keep doing that." if the twitching in your hand was a clue, it'd lead you right to the conclusion that he was close. about to cum for you. your head lifts to look at him, lashes fluttering lips parted as you eyes him in awe. "so pretty--haah--love you, please."

you make proper use of both your hands, stacked one on the other to stroke and twist. it's that same pattern again and again, fingers coated in slick that smears down his cock over and over. "I-I know. I know it feels good." his sounds rise, hips bucking into the touch of your hands, one hand cupping the back of your head. "love you too. are you close?" "yeah, gonna cum...gonna--oh fuck." you barely know what the fuck you're doing but instinct had yet to fail you, his reaction proof enough. head tipped back, his helpless groans. all because of you -- you can't get enough of it. the shaft is occupied by eager hands with your stroking, head left too neglected for your comfort so you at least attempt to use your mouth there like before. no different than how you'd been kissing him and licking earlier. you barely get to wrap your lips around him really. it's nothing more than a wet kiss, a little lick at the tip. hands squeezing between firm strokes, mouthing where he's weeping for you. "babe- baby," he shakes his head, eyes rolling, delirious, "wait, don't. i'm gonna--" he'd tried to warn you, really, but he falls apart just like that. snaps like a livewire, pulsing in your hand as his hips buck, wrecked sound tearing out of him. the hand at the back of your head tangles in your hair, you barely have time to lean back as he falls apart. cum streaks all hot and messy ropes across your lower face and your hands, enough to make you choke on a gasp. on your cheek, the corner of your mouth. a little catches on your jaw.

you freeze up, hands slowing their stroking to a stop, quivering at how filthy it is. how hot it is. god. and you can't look away from him, not for a second. his stomach flexes, cock twitching with the remnants of cum emptying from his balls, dribbling down the length of him.

"woah."

the prospect of making him cum has arousal washing you so intensely that you have to close your eyes for a bit to get a hold on yourself, whimpering before you can hold it in.

your panties are properly soaked, clinging to you with how turned on you are, thighs squeezing together instinctively. doesn't help at all, unfortunately.

"holy shit." he finally gets out, still breathing heavily from his orgasm and the fog it left behind, hand loosening in your hair and sliding to cup your cheek.

the dampness against his fingers has him glancing down at you, matching the bewildered look on your face. "oh shit--" and it comes out like two octaves higher, it's almost laughable. all he gets is a surprised huff in your daze.

his hand flies out to clean the mess he'd left on your face, only smearing it on your face a little more. he hates the traitorous way his cock throbs again like he isn't panicking a little internally. this was out your comfort zone already now he'd gone and came on your face? "i'm sorry, pretty. thought i'd have time to warn you-"

your hands still hold his softening cock, too stunned to even give him a proper reply. "didn't mean to-- i'll clean it up, you don't even need'ta touch it."

maybe it's the surprise that has you not flustered from this? you're not sure, all his finishing on your face had done was gotten you wet.

you don't really think about what you're doing, looking at him through your lashes from down below, curious tongue poking to the side to taste some of what had landed.

sweeter than you'd expected, a salty tang on your tastebuds. maybe you should've just let him do it in your mouth? "tastes good though.." you murmur, rubbing your lips together, shifting on your knees. his rambling stops after that one comment, gaping down at you, red rising up his face, tips of his airs flushing with color too. mouth opening, then closing again uselessly. looking like he's 2 seconds from cumming again.

then he whines, whines like you'd struck him, flopping backward onto the bed as you blink up at him in confusion.

"babe?" your hands pull off from where they're holding him, placing your damp palms on your thighs as your mind races. "did I say something bad?"

bad? if bad meant perfect, maybe. if bad meant...meant absolutely soul crushing, spirit healing, spectacular--

"no." he croaks, shaking his head, cock already stirring. how do you not get what you're doing to him here. "no, you're perfect. nothing's wrong."

satoru sits up so he can look at you again, heart throbbing at your confusion. the little crease between your brow, the slick remnants of him glistening on your skin. god, he's so in love with you that it hurts.

large hands grab at you without warning, tugging you up into his very naked lap to straddle him, frantic kisses pressed to your cheeks. fully uncaring of the mess on your skin. "nothing wrong. you did everything right. fuckin--'" he smacks a kiss to your mouth, hands cradling your face, "soo perfect. perfect, pretty baby."

the laugh that leaves you is breathless, letting him dote on your for whatever reason, arms banding around the back of his neck as soon as you get a chance, knees on either side of him. gentle fingers take their time to wipe your face clean, transferring the mess collected on his thumb to his towel, kissing you here and there. "so messy."

it all makes you feel ridiculously shy more than ever, slapping at his chest, own fingers fixing the mess on his head. "need to get you back in the shower to wash this out properly." you still can't believe he'd been in such a hurry to follow you that he'd left his hair half washed.

his laugh has him shifting under you a little and it's a pain trying not to move. an even bigger pain trying to not acknowledge the heat low and building in your belly. if it was bad when you were knelt on the floor being handsy with his cock, this is 100 times worse.

the air between you two is unsettled as is even if you'd been joking since he'd gotten you in his lap. you swallow gently, smiling down at him. dipping to give him another kiss. "I should probably go wash my face...or something. I think"

you're trying, you really are -- but it's so hard not to move. so you do, a tiny forward tilt of your hips that makes your core heat, toes curling in your socks. subtle but he notices, mouth tipping at one side. "not too much shifting. I'll probably get worked up again."

your nose scrunches up, leaning into him to hide your face in his neck like that would help in playing it off. "just getting comfy." satoru hums, hands lowering to your waist to ease you properly on his lap. no expectations of anything at all, just making sure you're steady, pressing a kiss to your temple.

he doesn't mind all your shifting, not really -- but they aren't doing him much favors. he figures you're just restless after earlier, still shy about the intimacy of it all. "you're fine. we can stay like this as long as you want."

it would be great if it was just that but the throb is almost uncomfortable, only moving on his lap seeming to help. you can’t help the way you tuck your face tighter against his neck, breathing him in--clean, soapy, warm. even his scent has your cunt throbbing hard. "sorry. just...trying'ta.."

satoru isn't dense, he knows you're turned on by now. shifting to seat yourself better didn't feel the same as deliberately rubbing yourself on his cock through your shorts. he knows. but he stays where he is, lets you snuggle up into him, careful not to push too fast. even when you roll forward more deliberately this time as though testing how it feels he's careful not to react, just squeezing your hips lightly. "you're good, go ahead."

you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just so sweet and worked up, trying so hard to stay still that it has his mind reeling.

you swallow hard, fingers pressing into his skin, whimpering softly as you rock forward.

yeah, he can't exactly leave you to your own devices when you clearly need something. "what's wrong, hm?"

he pulls back to look at you, heart near stopping at the glossiness of your eyes, the clear strain in your expression. still rocking your hips like you can't help yourself. "satoru," you whimper softly, eyes closing, shaking your head, "'nothing, but.." you're hot all over and your cunt refuses to stop pulsing even as you're grinding on him -- so turned on that you could cry. "it's not working." your hips rock forward again, the hardened line of him creating perfect fiction against your clit that only leaves you more desperate, drawing a low groan out of him. "I know, I know. you're okay--" his hands squeeze at your hips, drawing soothing circles over the fabric of your shorts. focused on keeping you settled and staying calm himself even as his cock stirs back to life under your clothed cunt. "just worked yourself up a little, 's all."

you duck your head again, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “i dunno,” you whisper. “just…feels good. wanna keep--" your voice cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut. "just want you to help me."

you swear his breathing stops too with how quiet it goes, keeping your face in his neck to hide your embarrassment. afraid you'd said something wrong.

"or..or not. I can just get--"

"--are...shit--are you sure?" he interjects, voice a little strained, hand coming up to cup the back of your head. you're already worked up as is, the last thing he wants to do is overwhelm you when you two had never gone this far before. "we totally don't have to--"

"--I want to." your head lifts out his neck, hips still rutting gently, lips parted. the sensations have you focused just on how thick and hard he is under you, how much your cunt is throbbing. "I want you to help me. please."

he doesn't think any other words are as devastating as those. "yeah. yeah, of course." he whispers, hands sliding up your hips, then higher to squeeze your waist. getting high enough to cup your face to kiss you again, keeping a slow pace. "gonna make you feel so good."

well, a second lesson wouldn't hurt.

sena's note: slept on it and it sounded okay on a fresh mind so here we are 🤧

desktop optimized, did it in dark mode but MIGHT look better in light mode bc of the red hues ‹𝟹

>> pt 2

[godslino]

HARD LAUNCH | minho drabble. established relationship.

“Do you guys have french fries?”

“Minho.” you hiss, nudging his shin beneath the table.

He cocks an eyebrow before turning back to the waitress. She smiles softly, laughing at the two of you. 

“We do, yes.” 

“Wonderful,” Minho grins, “We’ll have a side order of those too.”

“Perfect. I’ll put that in for you guys and check back soon.” The waitress says happily, collecting the menus and scurrying off to tend to another table.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you groan, covering your face with your hands. 

“Why would you do that?” 

Minho chuckles, shakes his head probably. You wouldn’t know since you can’t see him.

“Do what?”

Still using one hand to cover your eyes, you pull the other away, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. “I told you I’d be fine. Why’d you have to ask for french fries? That’s so embarrassing.”

Minho hums. Unbothered. “You know what’s worse?”

“Literally nothing.” you mumble, returning your other hand to your face. It only serves to muffle your voice more. “This is humiliating. We’re in a nice restaurant and you ordered french fries because of me. Oh God. I’m going to hide in the bathroom.”

A good choice, you think. Minho’s in god damn slacks for crying out loud. Every second that passes is another second that your pity order of french fries is probably spending in the deep fryer, right next to the lobster tail and shrimp tartar that everyone else has a mature enough palate to eat. 

Before you can move to get up and make a beeline for the toilet, you feel Minho’s fingers wrap around your wrists, pulling until your hands give way to your face. You crack one eye open and then the other, his amused expression coming into view.

“What’s worse than ordering french fries is me knowing you’ll be hungry if there isn’t something familiar for you on the table.” he says pointedly, like your reason for feeling embarrassed is unnecessary. “Besides, who said I didn’t want any?”

“Min, look around,” you say, turning your head to glance at the room, “The napkins are cloth. Cloth! Nicer than my bed sheets. We can’t be seen eating french fries in a place like this. I told you I’d be—”

“—fine. Because as long as you’re here I can do anything.” Minho recites, word for word, cutting you off. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately, spreads like wildfire when Minho smiles and leans on to his forearms. His button up tightens over his shoulders, hugs his arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“Just like how you’re doing this for me, let me do something for you.” 

You and Minho have been seeing each other for four months now, but even at that, you’re still not used to his straightforwardness. 

Seeing Minho has been nothing short of a dream. What started as just interacting at parties because of mutual friends eventually gave way to him asking for your number, and then hanging out separate from your friend group, until one day he plucked up the courage to ask you out. Since then, the two of you have been inseparable, always spending every free moment together. Laughing, talking, even sometimes just existing in the same space. It’s nice. So, so nice.

“Shouldn’t I be the one blushing right now?” Minho teases.

“Shut up.” you say, tearing your gaze away from him.

He laughs again before reaching out and placing a hand on top of yours. Soft. Minho is unbelievably soft.

It’s the thing you love the most about him. But more than that, more than the delicate skin of his fingers or the brush of his lips against yours, you love the softness of his eyes.

Minho is hard to crack, his emotions shrouded most of the time. Not that he wants to be, but because that’s just how he operates, or so you’ve learned. 

But despite all of that, his eyes are a dead giveaway. When he’s looking at pictures of his cats, or staring at you from across the room, or right now as steaming plates of some of the finest cuisine Seoul has to offer are being placed in front of him.

“Holy shit.” he whispers, staring in awe as the waitress walks away from the table.

“Is it rude for me to take a picture? Like, would anyone get offended?” 

Minho scoffs. “Babe, I would be offended if you didn’t document this right now.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pulling out your phone.

“Do I get to be in it this time?”

You look up to find Minho pouting across the table. Another thing about your relationship— nobody knows yet. 

You’ve been teasing about the possibility of a boyfriend for two months now, you and Minho only having made it official about a few weeks ago. The most anyone has been able to see are carefully positioned photos where only his hand or other inconspicuous parts of him are visible.

It’s not that you don’t want people to know. It’s just hard with his job and all. Privacy reasons.

"For someone who likes to claim that people won't give me a hard time because of your fame you sure do seem eager to test that theory."

Minho smiles mischievously. “Well, yes. But I’m also waiting because I want to show you off.”

You busy yourself with opening your camera app to stop the heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah, yeah. You big flirt.”

Minho laughs but obliges, scoots back to let you get a good few pictures of the food. 

Photos aren’t enough to do it justice, though. So you opt for a video, scanning the table with your camera, only the bottom half of his torso visible across the table. A silk white button up only three-fourths of the way buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Minho watches silently, his face unreadable. And then, at the last second, he dips his head down so fast you don’t even realize what’s happening until his face is fully in the shot, a shit-eating grin pushing his eyes into crescent moons.

“Min!” you laugh, ending the recording. 

He chuckles, straightening back out. “Post it.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, but I’m going to be if you don’t post it and then eat with me.” He nudges the plate of french fries towards you. “Come on.”

“You really want me to post it? You’re sure?”

Minho smiles. Soft. “Never been more sure about anything in my life.” he says, neither of you willing to address the weight of his words.

He grabs your hand, plants a kiss on the back of your knuckles. The resulting flip of your stomach is enough to give you the courage to hit post and tuck your phone away.

Whatever happens, you’ll deal with it later. Together.

[ tags: @102598s @skzstarnet @snowyquokka @jisunglyricist @itsgghowitsgg @alician87 @skzms @meloncremesoda @palindrome969 @ilychee08 @allaboutsan @legally-lixs @astronomicallyyy @doohnut @linocz @romancerry @djeniryuu @pinkpunkdynamite @pynchkilledme @stayceebs97 @candyquokka @liknws @beeracha @feelikecinderella @caitxx1 @lilac13 @sebastianswhore13 @classiclitandmemes @hyunverse @linosazuna @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @bubbly-moon @cookiesandcreammy ]

[simp-ly-writes]

Skyfall

─────── · · A 'Day of the Jackal' (TV series) FanFic

Pairing: Alexander "Jackal" Duggan x Fem!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: Doing everything in your power to get away from the small town you grew up in, you moved to the big city and studied to now become an overworked nurse. But there was always a small part of you that wondered whatever happened to your childhood friend (and crush) Alexander Duggan... so what happens one night when you discover a bloodied man inside your apartment?

─ · · TAGS: second person perspective used, female-pronouns used, depictions of blood and gore, mentions of guns and violence, usage of pet-names (ex. love, sweetheart, etc) swearing, fluff, light angst, hurt/comfort.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,814 | PART TWO

─ · · A/N: How are there not like a dozen fics on this show?!?! It's giving the Gentlemen (2024 - Series) all over again... so I must write something on it! Be sure to comment or reblog if you enjoy~

─────── · ·

You had just finished working a 48 hour shift at the hospital and after a two hour commute on delayed public transit due to the onslaught of never ending rain, you were finally at the door of your one bedroom apartment.

Eyes blurry as you fumbled for your keys, cursing under your breath as you dropped them your back-ached as you bent down and finally opened your front door. To make matters better, it appeared you had left the bathroom light on in your rush to get out of the house after waking up late. well, fuck, you said to yourself, kicking the door closed behind you.

Setting down your keys in the dish and locking the door and chain, you shuffled your coat off your shoulders and allowed it to dry before sitting down on the bench in the entrance ,shaking your boots off and changing into your slippers with a heavy sigh.

Picking yourself back up, knees feeling weak as you grip the doorway before heading into your kitchen, you feel around for the light switch, eyes hissing from the sudden change before placing the kettle on and choosing your favourite themed-mug. You open your fridge and peel open a pre-made salad, throwing the bamboo utensils aside as you grab your metal ones instead.

The kettle begins to bubble, steam rising, your ears start to ring as exhaustion clouds over your every thought and movement as you pour the blueberry's out onto the greens of your bowl and tear open a packet of sleepy-time tea.

The kettle clicks off as you breathe in the steam, closing your eyes as you lean against the counter and bring the mug up to your lips, a sudden hiss coming from the bathroom has your eyes rushing to open a moment afterwards.

That once ringing in your ears is now replaced for a rising heart rate, its beat drumming through your head. That once exhaustion you had felt now out the window as adrenaline pumps through your veins. It was too early in the morning for any of your elderly neighbours who all were retied to be up leaving only one explanation left, there was someone in my apartment- correction, there is someone in my apartment right now.

Gently setting your cup on the counter as softly as you can, you feel around the still-opened cutlery drawer for a knife and walk out of the kitchen and down into the hall. You make your breaths shallow, footsteps accounting for every squeaky floorboard you remember before pausing and pressing yourself against the wall near the door to the bathroom.

You rise the blade up from your side and for a split second, you see a tall silhouette in the warm light before the light flicks off, casting the apartment in an equal darkness and silence. All to be heard is the radiator humming in the window as your knuckles turn white around the handle of your blade.

You close your eyes, counting, one... two... but never quite making it to three as whoever the intruder was inside your apartment had suddenly turned out of the bathroom. Before you could scream, a large palm was being place over your mouth, your wrist twisted allowing the knife to hall and clatter against the floorboards.

You tried to twist, raising your leg up for a twist yet their open hand was already accounting for that, pushing your knee aside and using their bodyweight to press you flush against the wall.

You shake in place, feeling the intruders heartbeat on your chest as you both share ragged breaths. They release their hand from your mouth as you open and close it, debating of begging or not before feeling a sudden softness as your neck has you jumping as it shifts against your skin, tickling you- curly hair you can see highlighted by moonlight coming down the hall.

They rest their head against your shoulder, you can feel their shoulders move before hearing them chuckle, "Hello, love," they call out, their breath warm against your neck as your heart nearly jumping out of your chest as you more violently try and shake yourself away from their touch as their arms envelop you into a one-sided hug.

"Who... who are you?" you try and sound firm yet it comes out more shakily then you were intending. You push your hands against the strong chest, feeling the muscles underneath the thin sweater they wear, fingers extending- trying to shove them away with no avail as they stand firm in their spot.

"You know, I remember when you would shove and rough house with me on the play-equipment when we were younger. Thinking back..." the man laughs, you can feel his smile as he holds you, your fingers digging into his shirt, "...you really used to be so mean to me before changing that up so quickly the next year that I've always wondered why that was the case?"

You allow the question hang in the air, a name just on the cusp of your tongue as your hands move up from their chest to around their shoulders, you startle feeling a long metal object rather than more warm body heat. "I wouldn't touch that, love. I would have disassembled it before greeting you but I couldn't be too sure until you came home."

You nod, slowly, "Alex?" you whisper the name, unsure and nervous to get it wrong. The man grips you tighter, "yes, and... I need your help." You feel cold when he steps away, watching as reaching beside your head to turn the light switch back on before you can see his small smile... and bleeding side.

Your eyes go wide in horror as you look down to see your hand covered in a deep red liquid. "Fuck, you're bleeding!"

"It appears that I am," Alexander teases before wobbling in his stance, you rush over as he shrugs the large gun from over his shoulder, allowing it to settle on the floor before allowing you to help him over to the bathtub.

You stand there, looking down upon him for a sec, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head as you try and fathom how the man in front of you, currently bleeding out in your apartment and with what appeared to be a fucking sniper rifle was somehow also that little lanky boy who lived down the street and saved your life more than a few times before you threatened his own (with love, of course).

"I'm blushing under your attention, sweetheart. But I really must insist you put your education to use or else you'll be catching up with a corpse instead of a man," you nod again, unable to find words before running towards your kitchen in search of your workbag and first aid kit. Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, you rush around your apartment, knocking into doorframes before falling to your knees and lifting his shirt up.

Not allowing yourself to become distracted by only looking towards the gunshot wound you quickly feel along his side, the bullet did not go through, its still inside of him. You look up, through your lashes at Alexander, "this is going to hurt."

"It currently hurts," he says back, "but I rather be hurting than dead." In the next series of moments, your white bathroom tiles become dotted in red as blood drips down your elbows and scrubs. Alex is breathing heavily as you dig your pair of tweezers into his side, groaning, moaning and cursing, "could you please, shut up?" you smile sarcastically, eyebrows furrowed as you can see the slight glimmer of metal from your phones flashlight, bingo.

You could only imagine if one of your neighbours woke up now, your public imagine with them now potentially tainted the next time you rode in the elevator together. "A little difficult-" Alex begins to say, you throw one of your hand towels up, "mouth, now," you demand and receive a muffled, "yes, ma'am." Your hands shake, adrenaline wearing off finally as you squeeze the bullet as it slides and Alex wines, "sorry," you murmur before going in again and this time- you are successful.

The bullet is successfully dislodged as you hold it up to the light, impressed by how small it is, "hand-gun?" you make as an offhand comment before placing it on your vanity. And moving to disinfect and bandage the wound. Alex's veins appear sharp, running up his hand that grips his knees, his head tipping backwards as you stitch him up with precision, licking your lips as your cheeks flush. Get a grip, you scold yourself before standing.

Alex looks up at you, before removing the towel from his mouth, and standing, removing his shirt before pausing halfway as you curse him out, "Fucking hell, A! Don't go messing up my stitch work!" You shake your head, telling him to sit back down as you remove the article for him.

Your eyes move down from his face to his defined chest and abs that contract with his every breath he takes before examining your work- still intact, thankfully. "I do believe I have some explaining, after some much needed sleep though," Alexander says, watching as your blinks become extended as you open your hand up for him to take as just like old times you lead him yet instead of towards the swing sets you sit him down at the edge of your bed before feeling around in your closet for clothing from your ex.

Alex watches you with a tilted head, eyes narrowing once he sees the large shirt in your hand and sweatpants in the other. He grips the sheets as you look at him with concern, "would you like some pain relievers? I can only imagine how much that must-"

"I don't think your boyfriend would be quite too happy seeing another man sleeping in your bed, love," Alex says, taking the articles of clothing into his lap as you roll your eyes. "Ex-boyfriend," you clarify before helping Alexander into his clothes and throwing his old ones into your washing machine.

You tip your head back into the bedroom, "I'm gonna wash up, try and get some rest," you speak softly watching as Alex slowly lovers himself underneath your covers. "Mhmm and you will be joining me later?"

You blink, confused, "I am uh- going to go sleep on the couch-"

"Why? There's more than enough space here," Alex opens his eyes again, looking at you with a raised brow, arm flexing underneath his head.

"Well, uh, aren't you married?" you ask, looking at the ring on his left hand as it is now his time to clarify, "divorced, still keep the ring for appearances and all." You nod, a bit confused, "I'll be back in 10."

"I'll be counting on it."

─────── · ·

─ · · PART TWO

[belit0]

Hello love!

Can I request Madara and Itachi with a healer s/o that loves and babies their younger brothers the way they do. Like a big sister love and affection for them. Izuna always coming to her all kinds of hurt and she always fusses over him telling him he needs to be more careful and less impulsive, giving him a gentle “hit” on his arm when he says she doesn’t need to worry about him. She’s always asking Sasuke if he’s eaten yet, making him food when he says no and or he will later. Making sure they drink water and get enough rest. But not in an annoying way more a checking on them way.

I'm too tired to calculate age gaps xd

Madara

Madara found her in the kitchen, barefoot, humming softly as she crushed herbs in a porcelain bowl.

Steam curled from the kettle on the stove.

Outside, the wind howled like something ancient, but in here—it was warm.

Still.

She didn’t turn when he entered.

–Izuna pushed himself again.– she said softly. –Split the same scar open. Again.–

Madara sighed, tugging off his gloves.

–Let me guess. Said it’s “nothing.”

–He said it was “barely a scratch.” I had to pull his shirt off to check it. He hissed and said it tickled. Like I wouldn’t notice the bruising under the ribs.–

Her voice wasn’t angry. J

st quietly, deeply done.

She turned to face him now, bowl in hand, fingers still stained green at the tips.

There was a faint smudge of dried salve across her cheekbone.

Madara stared at her.

At the gentle frustration in her brow, at the way her jaw tightened—not because she was mad, but because she cared so much it made her clench her teeth to keep it from pouring out.

He reached out, brushed the salve from her face with his thumb.

–He’s lucky it’s you looking after him.

She tilted her head.

–That’s what older siblings do, right? Fuss and bandage and force soup down their throats until they stop being idiots.

Madara chuckled.

–What does that make me, then?–

–You?- she said, poking his chest. -The older brother who pretends not to worry but stands outside the door every time I patch him up.

He didn’t deny it.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Itachi

She let herself in with a gentle nudge of the door, holding a tray with rice, grilled vegetables, and warm miso soup.

–I know you’ll say you’re not hungry.– she said, setting it down on the low table. –But I’ve known you long enough to know when your hands are colder than they should be, and that only happens when you haven’t eaten.–

He said nothing at first.

His fingers paused over the half-closed mission file in his lap.

She didn’t rush him.

Eventually, he let out a quiet sigh.

–I was going to eat later.

–You always say that.

She moved to sit beside him, not touching him, not asking more.

Just there.

Steady. Present.

–Did Sasuke eat?– he asked softly.

(Y/N) nodded.

–He told me he did. I checked. He finished almost everything, even the greens.

His shoulders loosened slightly.

–Thank you.

She tilted her head toward him.

–You can only look after him properly if you look after yourself too, Itachi.

He stared at her then.

Really stared.

At the woman who’d taught Sasuke how to wrap his fingers when training bruised them, and Makoto was not around.

Who’d pulled splinters from his younger brother's hands like it was her responsibility.

The one who never lectured—but always noticed.

–You’re relentless.– he said softly.

She smiled.

–I care.

And for once, Itachi didn’t respond with silence.

He simply nodded—and picked up his chopsticks.

[evnseokz]

꒰ ☆ video call ~ p.sh ꒱

pairing: tease! sunghoon x f. reader

contents: fingering, slight exhibitionism, pet name baby, engaging in sexual activities while on video call with others, erm i think that’s it?? sunghoon is a massive tease

a.n: i literally whipped this up tn hopefully its decent… wc 1.1k

MINORS DNI

 ₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

the low hum of chatter and muffled laughter drifted from sunghoons laptop as he leaned back in his desk chair, his arms resting on the armrest. his friends faces filled the screen, teasing and bantering as usual, but sunghoon barely paid them any mind.

you shuffled past, glancing over at him while cradling a steaming mug of tea, and that's when it happened. without warning, his hand shot out, fingers curling gently around your wrist.

“come here, baby,” he said, his voice soft yet insistent.

before you could protest, sunghoon pulled you into his lap with practiced ease, his grip firm yet careful as he adjusted you to sit comfortably against him. heat rushed to your cheeks as his friends fell silent for a beat, their surprised faces flashing across the screen.

“hoon, really?” you hissed under your breath, but he only grinned, his arms looping around your waist as if you belonged there.

“dont mind us,” he said to the camera, completely unfazed. “shes just shy.”

the teasing from his friends began almost immediately.

“whoa look at sunghoon being all smooth,” jake snickered, leaning closer to his camera like he was trying to get a better look. “since when were you this bold?”

“right? he’s usually so quiet around us,” jay added, raising an eyebrow. “but now he’s acting like the main character or something.”

your face was already burning, but it only got worse when sunghoon tightened his arms around your waist, one of his hands resting against your clothed heat. he leaned forward slightly so his chin was almost resting on your shoulder. his breath was warm against your ear as you spoke, low enough that it felt like it was meant just for you but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“shy? don’t act like you don’t love the attention,” he teased, his voice husky as his lips quirked into a smirk you could feel without even seeing.

your head whipped around to glare at him, your wide-eyed expression giving away just how flustered you were. “sunghoon!” you hissed, but that only seemed to amuse him more.

you could hear laughter erupt from his friends, the conversation flowing back into its usual rhythm. conversing like normal as if you weren’t even there.

however, your world felt anything but normal.

sunghoon, clearly enjoying how flustered you were, didn't loosen his grip. if anything he seemed more relaxed, leaning back against his chair while keeping you firmly in the place on his lap. his hand that hovered over your heat had broken away from its stillness, traveling downwards and in between your legs to push them open slightly.

you sat stiffly, trying to focus on the conversation but failing miserably as his fingers danced against the soft skin of your inner thigh. his light touch being just enough to make you squirm.

he continued to throw out comments to his friends, his voice casual as if he wasn’t currently holding you hostage in the most shameless way possible. his fingers trailing back upwards and dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. you do your best to keep quiet, but as soon as his fingers come into contact with your cunt, a squeak escapes your lips before you can stop it.

your face burns red as you slap a hand over your mouth, praying that the boys on the screen in front of you were too engrossed in their conversation to notice the noise that just erupted from your throat.

“you okay, y/n?” heeseung asks, the call has gone quiet now, the boys analyzing your movements. you don’t answer right away, letting your hand fall from your face.

“yeah baby, you okay?” sunghoon asks, voice laced with faux concern, his fingers beginning to circle your clit. you fight the urge to throw your head back, instead plastering a small smile on your face and nodding. the boys go back to their conversation, paying you no mind once again.

you turn your head to your boyfriend, who’s continuing to rub your already dripping cunt. “h-hoon, stop.” you whisper. “they’re going to—,” you hold back a whine as his fingers trail down your slit and dip into your hole. your head can't help but fall against his shoulder as he presses his fingers further into you.

your lips purse together, trying to hold back your sounds, though quiet whimpers break through. “shh baby, we don’t want to get caught,” sunghoon whispers, that fifth smirk still plastered on his face.

you don't have the willpower to roll your eyes at him, the feeling of his fingers knuckle-deep inside you distracting you from anything else.

your muscles are tensed, and you think you have yourself under control until sunghoon begins scissoring open your cunt with his fingers. chuckling to himself at the way you almost fall over in his arms. your thighs clamp around his hand, temporarily halting his movements as you shake your head. if he keeps going, you’re going to cum in front of his friends.

sunghoon picks up on your hint, though his hand doesn’t leave your heat. instead, he uses his other hand to reach towards the computer in front of him, his finger hovering over the leave call button. you grip his arm tightly. “please,” you choke out, his fingers still sitting idly inside you.

sunghoon laughs lowly before putting his attention back onto his friends. “hey guys, we're gonna log off; y/n isn’t feeling well,” he lies. the boys all said they hoped you felt better, and with that, sunghoon left the call and turned off the device.

“now, where were we?” his lips curl up into a mischievous smile as he uses his free hand to spread your legs back open for him. he wastes no time picking up where he left off, plunging his fingers in and out of your cunt while occasionally spreading them apart inside you to stretch you to your limit.

this time you aren’t shy to let out your sounds, filthy-sounding moans and whimpers leaving your lips with every thrust of his fingers. you were gripping the armrests of the chair at this point, knuckles turning white as your head was thrown back in pleasure.

sunghoon loved seeing you like this, such a mess for him. all for him.

you could feel your orgasm approaching, the pleasure suddenly overwhelming. “f-fuck fuck fuck,” you cursed as his fingers sped up their ministrations, fucking you until you were sent over the edge. legs shaking, and hips bucking into his hand as you moaned his name over and over again.

he continued to help you ride out your high, and once you had begun to calm down, he removed his fingers from your worn-out cunt. you clench around nothing, already missing the feeling of being full, but you make quick work of your movements, swiftly climbing off his lap and onto your knees in between his legs.

you looked up at him with big doe eyes, lashes fluttering seductively.

“your turn.”

…

..

.

[riddlesrizzler]

Fate in a Coffee Cup

pt.2, pt.3

summary: Fate intervenes when a ruthless CEO's coffee cup spills, leaving him captivated by a stranger and her unforgettable name. characters: ceo! mattheo. reader. warnings: none, just some background of ceo! matty word count: 1.2k

The smell of freshly brewed espresso and warm pastries drifted through the air as the glass door swung open, alerting the barista at the counter with a chime that sounded along the lines of a sleigh bell. The crisp morning breeze rushes in for a moment every time a customer walks in or out, causing the patrons who chose to sit by the door to shiver from the October air.

The coffee shop hums with the soft mummers of various conversations, punctuated by the occasional clatter of ceramic cups and the hiss of milk being steamed. Sunlight filters though the large glass windows, casting golden rays onto the old wooden floors. The barista moving with an elegance, a simple art form, as she arranges every drink.

Mattheo Riddle, stood off to the side where the counter ended. The station where his usual large black coffee was delivered, but with the influx of people, he was stuck waiting between a man who was listening to his EDM music too loud and a woman who wouldn't stop complaining about her mother in law to the other person on the end of her phone. Mattheo was growing impatient.

As CEO of Riddle and Co, Mattheo was not used to waiting. If he demanded something, he was sure to get said wish. He didn't care who he had to step on in order to make every desire, every want, he had fall into the rough palms of his hands.

He was cold and calculating. A man who dominated the business world with an iron fist. Carved from the shadows and steel, someone who's presence commands both the nauseating feeling of fear and the slow-burning spark of admiration. His sharp, calculating eyes-dark as the void, miss nothing, always scanning for weakness, and opportunity to get ahead.

He's ruthlessly ambitious, he moved through the corporate world like a storm, disarming obstacles with precision and leaving nothing to chance. His heart, though most claim that it was nonexistent, beats for one thing, power. Compassion is a liability, and trust is a currency that he keeps safe in a vault. In his dark world, success is not inherhited, it is taken.

He felt like he had been waiting for hours, but according to the sleek watch that he wore, it had only been ten minutes. He fidgets with the titanium cufflinks on his pressed suit when his coffee order had been called out. An agitated huff leaves his lips before he takes two steps towards the counter as he retrieved the hot beverage. He had turned towards the exit, already strategizing about his next meeting, his next move.

And then - impact.

A soft gasp, and then the warmth of the liquid that had been once contained in his white paper cup, was now all over his leather shoes. His jaw was tensed in rage as his gaze turned cold as it lowered to the idiot who had gotten in his way. Ready to yell at the person for not looking where they were going, but when his eyes finally reached the person's form, which was also covered in his beverage, he felt his mouth go dry.

A young woman stood before him, her eyes wide with alarm and guilt, her once colorful sweater had been damped by the brown coffee that now stained her clothes. she was flustered, her cheeks red with embarrassment as she scrambled to grab the paper thin napkins on the counter. Her lips start to part in order to let her apologies spill.

"I-I'm so sorry", she blurted out, her hands reaching towards him with the napkins clutched so tightly in her fist. She looked like she had committed the biggest crime in the world.

Mattheo didn't move at first. There was no sigh in annoyance or huff in irritation. He simply titled his head to the side, taking in every little detail of the beautiful creature in front of him. Finally, he had managed to find the voice that usually wields such power, but now it was nothing but a mutter.

"It's... it's fine", he manages to say as he hesitantly takes the napkins from her shaking hands and brushes it over the specks on coffee that had gotten onto his suit.

"Please let me buy you another one", the girl bit her bottom lip as her face seemed to hold such an immense amount of guilt, one that Mattheo was unfamiliar with.

"It's fine. Really", Mattheo said as he looked over her drenches figure once more. She had seemed to take the brunt of the spill as half of her was now wet and brown. He clears his throat before taking the unused napkins and holding them out towards her.

"You look like you need it more."

The girl smiled softly, something that conveyed that she was still embarrassed over the interaction but she was appreciative of his gesture. Taking the napkins back into her hand, their fingers brushing over one another during the transfer. Mattheo swears he feels something in his chest that borders the warmth of the coffee that now pooled in his socks.

"Thank you", she says, her voice warm and soft, was it silly that it reminded him of sunlight? He shook his head as he brings his attention back to the girl.

"I'm sorry about your sweater" he says gruffly. Mattheo Riddle never apologized, not even when he left half of his marketing team go right before the Christmas holidays. Mattheo showed no signs of remorse, and yet there was something about this simple coffee spill that seemed to make feel... sorry?

"It's okay", the girl laughed. Her hands pausing her movements on cleaning the sweater that was probably ruined.

"These things happen", she said with a shrug before moving towards the trash can next to them to throw away the sopping napkins. He nods his head at her response. These things did happen, so why did he feel so strange?

Mattheo looked back to the watch that sat on his wrist, he needed to go. He had a business to run after all. A sigh escapes his lips before he looks back up at the girl who still seems slightly flustered.

"I have to go, work", it was barely a sentence, but it was all that Mattheo could muster up at the moment. He wasn't sure what was going on with his brain but he was pretty sure that he had slipped into an alternate dimension.

The girl nods her head, saying something again about how sorry she was. Her lips pressing into a thin line as rambled about expressing her apologetic state, which Mattheo nodded along to before he had started towards the exit, making his way to the glass door with the tiny chime of a bell.

Only he seemed to pause, his hand lingered over the handle as he heard out the barista call out a name. A name that belonged to the girl who was wearing his beverage. A name that seemed to suck the breath from his lungs as his mind replayed the name over and over again.

"y/n"

[gyuzgrl]

Look at me ||kmg||

Summary- when your boyfriend surprises you with a new haircut, you can't help but want to jump his bones. You'd die before letting him know that though, ugh.

You were utterly fucked.

The moment Mingyu walked in, tired and sweaty from rehearsals, sporting a fresh haircut, you wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him into a kiss.

You were on the couch, as usual, reading some novel- now hastily discarded on the coffee table- when you heard your door open. It was Mingyu, obviously, and your face lit up at the realization. Like an eager puppy, you perked up at the sound of his keys jangling in the door frame.

"baby, I'm home" he called out, hanging up his coat as he walked in, eyes immediately finding your own. He donned a navy basketball cap, one you'd seen him wear very often.

You giggled, jogging over to him before burying your face in his chest- his arms came around to settle at your waist. "missed you"

"I know, I'm here now, hm?" His voice soothed its way into you, and suddenly the world was good. Nothing mattered except you and him, nothing mattered except home.

"whatcha readin' there," his eyes flickered briefly to the novel you'd flung onto the table in a rush, "same as last night?"

"hm, same one"

You pulled away from his embrace, arms settling around his neck now. Finally, you looked up at his face. Something was different.

"hold on-" your hand gently lifted the cap off his head when you noticed how his face stood out more than it did before, "oh my god"

"oh my god, good, or oh my god, bad?"

"good- so good" you mumble, staring at his now freshly cut hair. Mingyu had traded the long hair for a sleek French crop- a refreshing change. You loved his long hair but god did he look good with shorter hair. The faded sides brought out features that were previously hidden by his hair- his tan skin, his eyes, his jawline. You felt your skin heat up under his observing eyes. Had it always felt so intense when he looked at you?

"m'glad you like it" he grins.

You clear your throat. Your arms slip back down to your sides.

"yeah, uh- you should shower, I'll take care of dinner today, kay?"

"I thought I was sup-"

"you've had a long day gyu," you cut him off, ushering him to the bathroom to get him out of your sight.

"you're the best"

Nope. I'm a filthy, filthy woman who can't think past getting laid. If you knew what I wanted to do to you right this moment, you'd call the cops.

"pfft, damn right I am" you quipped, shoving your thoughts aside.

Alright, out of sight, out of mind. Mingyu had disappeared into the shower, and you made your way to the kitchen, grabbing a pot as you skillfully dumped a bunch of ingredients in. Nothing like a hot bowl of rice and stew to get your mind out of the gutter.

Or so you thought.

As you tossed the veggies around, spatula in one hand while the other rested at your hip, your mind drifted to Mingyu. Realization hit you like a truck and your eyes widened. He was naked right now. Naked and wet and probably soapy. His hair would be wet too. Fuck he probably looked sinful right now. You could practically see him standing in front of you- skin glistening, biceps flexing as he washed himself. The image had you weak, and an all too familiar heat spread between your legs.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

The hiss of kimchi- dangerously close to being burnt- caught your attention, snapping you out of your thoughts. You startled back to reality and added a dash of water to revive the spicy mixture. Diverting all your attention to cooking, you sped through the active parts of the recipe- chopping, stirring, frying- and sighed in content when all that was left was for the stew to come to a boil. As you carefully placed the lid over the now steaming pot, you felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around your waist.

"hi" Mingyu's voice was breathy and low. He dipped his head into your neck innocently, taking in your scent.

"hi" Your own breathlessness surprised you.

"thank you for making dinner," his hands squeeze tighter around you.

"c'mon you'd do it for me"

Trying to ignore the way his skin heated up your back, you made a lame effort to get him away.

"hey- uh, you should- you wanna put on some music?" you stumble over your words.

"sure, what do yo-"

"anything" you interrupt, too quickly for him to not get suspicious.

Mingyu raises a brow at you but decides to keep his mouth shut. Slowly, he walks over to the speaker lying on your table and connects it to his phone. You can hear his footsteps as he makes his way back to you- speaker in hand.

He sets the speaker on the kitchen counter with a soft thud, before tapping away at his phone. Soft r&b floods the kitchen and you wonder if you've done something to upset the universe. Mingyu's arms find their way back to your waist as he settles behind you.

You can't get upset. You can't. He asked you what to play. You said anything.

"anything I can do?" he asks, voice muffled by the skin of your neck.

"no I-" you let out a shaky breath, "I'm waiting for it to boil- it's almost done"

"so why're you staring at it like it'll burn if you look away for a second"

"I'm not sta-" Mingyu spins you around, caging you between his arms and the kitchen counter.

"c'monn, gimme some attention," he mumbles, eyes burning holes into you, "you haven't so much as looked at me properly today"

"I-" you start, feeling your throat close up at the sight of his freshly showered frame.

Grey sweatpants. No shirt. Wet hair. Smash.

"you?"

"I'm looking at you right now, aren't I?"

Your eyes dart between his face and the space between your bodies, unable to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. He scoffs, leaning closer,

"look at me"

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. You have no choice but to meet his gaze and boy does it burn.

"what's up with you today, hm?"

"nothing"

"puppy, c'mon you're so jittery, tell me why"

The name sends chills down your spine. A feather-soft touch ghosts over your cheek, the pads of Mingyu's fingers stroking free strands of hair behind your ears. His hand lingers around the shell of your ear for a while, before he sighs.

"I just," you whisper, "uh, the um- stew- oh fuck the stew's boiling"

He groans as you wriggle out of his touch, now turning back to the stove. Mingyu moves to scoop rice into two bowls while you bring the pot to the coffee table, settling on the warm rug below.

"thanks" he mumbles.

You eat in silence.

Every movement on his end has you jumping out of your skin. You're aware now, that he's caught on. He's been staring at you all this while. You've been too scared to meet his gaze. When he leans forward to nab the last spoon of stew, you jolt upright with a small squeak.

"I'll clear up-" you begin, desperate to cover up the sound you just made, but Mingyu was too quick for that. As you stood up to leave, Mingyu tugged you back down- right into his lap.

"stay"

"what are y-"

"stay here"

The scent of his body wash floods your senses and it's almost overwhelming how large his presence feels. He was everywhere. There was no escaping this, no escaping him.

"here's what I think is happening- you tell me if I'm on the right track, okay?" You nod, glancing down at the floor.

"I think you're a little flustered,"

You nod.

"and it's 'cause of me,"

You nod again.

"my haircut, specifically-"

Hesitantly, you nod once again.

"and," he traces his hand down to the crotch of your shorts between your crossed legs, "I think you need my help"

Your breath catches in your throat when his fingers tease your slit through the flimsy fabric of your shorts. Looking away, you can't seem to hide the red flush bubbling up your cheeks. It was embarrassing how easily he read you.

"am I wrong?"

You shake your head.

"so you do need my help"

You nod.

"how bad?" Suddenly his voice drops to a whisper and your eyes widen.

"wh-"

" how bad do you need me"

"I-" you feel your throat tighten. Words seem particularly difficult today, don't they?

You squirm in his lap, your back flush against his firm chest, but his hands hold you still. "this won't do, doll,"

"gotta use your words, yeah?"

He knew damn well how shy you got around him. He knew how you rarely initiated anything physical. He knew you couldn't bear the way he said such filthy, filthy things to you with a poker-straight face.

He knew, but still, here you are- sitting red-faced in his lap as he tries to coax pleas out of you. The bastard wanted to hear you beg.

"Mingyu please " Your voice is a whisper, meek and soft. It almost gets him to stop teasing. Almost.

"please?" he echoes, smirking against your skin. Mingyu presses gentle kisses along your shoulder, so soft you can barely feel them. The action leaves your skin tingling, goosebumps running across your arm.

"don't be mean gyu c'monn"

He grins, "just wanna hear you say it puppy," A hand slides its way down your body and into your shorts while his lips continue their assault. "you can do that for me, can't you?"

When his fingers find your clit and he toys around with it ever-so-softly, you can barely contain the whimper that threatens to spill from your lips.

"gonna be good for me, hm? gonna tell me how bad you need to cum?" he groans, "fuck you're dripping "

"Mingyu plea- oh" He slips a digit into you, pumping in and out so slowly you could cry, "fas-faster please" As the words leave your lips, embarrassment settles on you like a rain cloud. Mingyu, however, seems super satisfied.

"good girl, keep talking puppy, tell me what you need"

His finger picks up speed and your back arches away from him at the sudden change- "min- oh my god fuck you feel so good" His thumb rubs tight circles at your clit, and you feel your stomach tighten, an all too familiar knot threatening to snap with his movements.

The room feels hot. Hotter than it was a few minutes ago. Your shorts were still on, your shirt too. Clothed and writhing in Mingyu's lap, you wanted nothing more than to shed the suffocating fabric. He, however, still had his sweatpants on and didn't seem the least bit concerned. With his chest pressing into your back, you could feel the bare skin of his torso against yours, but it was a shame that you couldn't see his half-naked frame. His muscles tensed as his hands worked you up to your high, biceps flexing deliciously around you.

"please," You clawed at his hand- the one sitting snug in your shorts- nails digging into his forearm when he added a second digit into you. "keep- fuck keep doing that I'm gonna-"

"I know, puppy, I know, let go for me hm? can you do that? can you be a good girl and cum all over my fingers?"

His words sent you over the edge, and your head fell back in pleasure as you chanted his name like a prayer. You were a martyr for him- dying small deaths every time your bodies connected, every time he touched you, every time he lit you ablaze with his words. Mingyu always knew what you needed, what your body desired. It was eerie, almost, how well he read your mind.

"fuck-" a low groan on his end has you settling back to reality, and you realise his fingers are still moving. A cry leaves your parted lips at the overstimulation and your legs tremble when he holds them open. "you wanted to cum, didn't you? you can give me one more, doll, c'mon

"oh my god Mi- Mingyu"

"that's it puppy,"

His fingers slip out of you and trace their way up to your clit, coating it with your arousal. Two digits part you open, while his middle finger glides across the tender bundle of nerves, adding pressure when he hears your breathing grow shallow.

Your body spasms under his touch, cries bouncing off the walls of your living room, and he knows you're nearing another high. Mingyu flicks your clit, pulling a particularly loud moan from you, and quickens his pace.

"c'mon, sweetheart, cum for me, hm? I know you want to baby, just let go" And with that, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you, stronger than the first, mixed with a tinge of pain- you didn't mind at all, though, did you?

Mingyu can't resist slipping his fingers back into you to coat them with your juices, and you jerk up. A smirk graces his handsome features and he pumps into you a few times, teasing just a little. Your body goes limp atop him, shoulders slumping, thighs quivering into him. It's adorable, he thinks. All he'd done was fuck you on his fingers, yet here you are, spent like you'd been at it all night.

"still with me, puppy?"

You nod, dazed. Your mouth feels dry- throat hoarse from all the screaming you'd done minutes before- and your limbs feel like jelly, but god did you want more. No matter what time of day, no matter how tired or upset or distracted you are, if he was offering, you were game. Just like you are now.

"are you sure? you're- fuck you're shaking " A soothing hand smooths over your exposed thigh, tender like he didn't just rip two orgasms out of you in succession. It's almost ironic how he switches from being an overwhelming tease to a gentle little lamb. The same hands that labored to work you up, to break you, are now rubbing your skin softly to bring you down and settle your frenzied nerves.

The two of you sit in place for a minute, with him whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he calms you down. When he feels you relax completely Mingyu is quick to scoop you up in his arms and place you on the couch, settling himself between your thighs on his knees. He looks up at you in silent permission, eyes practically begging for you to say yes. To say something.

So you do.

"please- please touch me " It's embarrassing the way your voice comes out all soft and wobbly but neither of you mind. Fuck, Mingyu thinks it's the hottest thing he's heard you say. And of course, since you asked so nicely, who was he to disoblige?

Seconds after, you found yourself sobbing into your arm- draped over your face- at the way he lapped you up. The sheer wetness of you was intoxicating. He couldn't help but be a little selfish. He'd wanted a taste ever since he saw how hard you tried to control yourself all night.

"so good for me," you heard him mumble against you, "so fucking sweet". You could've sworn he was getting more out of this than you were, but with the way your voice gave way to the most lewd sounds you've ever made, it was anyone's game.

Mingyu licks a fat stripe up your folds before plunging his tongue into your hole, fucking you with the wet muscle. You cry out in pleasure, feeling the way he forces his way in. The wet squelches of your sex coupled with the borderline pornographic moans you made were enough to make a sailor blush. It was so raw, so carnal.

His hands pry your thighs apart when you start closing in around him, and he pins them open, merciless in his assault. "be good, baby" he warns.

And you want to be. You really do. But with the way his tongue works into you, you can't help yourself. It's too much. You feel your legs strain against his hands, flesh giving under the force of his grip. His brows crease with effort and he groans into you, shoving your thighs even further apart. The sudden force earns him a yelp on your end, and he smirks in satisfaction.

"you're gonna keep these open for me aren't you, puppy?" Mingyu withdraws his tongue and kisses his way up to your clit. He places a few wet pecks at your clit before stimulating it with his tongue, using your wetness to trace back and forth.

Your back arches against the couch, head falling back- "ye-fuck- anything you want". Mingyu seems satisfied with your response and within moments he brings you to your third orgasm of the evening. His name leaves your lips in a high-pitched cry as you cum, hands flying to grab at his hair and drag him away from your sensitive heat.

It makes him chuckle, your sensitivity. You were so fucking cute like this, ruined for him, by him. He did this. He did this and he knew no one else could.

"baby," he coos, now standing in front of you, "where'd my pretty girl go, hm? thought you wanted to cum on my cock but if yo-"

"n-no please daddy, please- want your cock so bad plea-" The urgency in your voice is evident as you scramble up on wobbly legs to keep him close, knees giving way so quickly you can barely process what happens when he rushes to support you.

"oh puppy," Mingyu feels something stir within him at your panicked desperation, "shh baby, I got you hm? whatever you want from me is yours, I'm yours- always will be"

That's how you end up in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom with his eyes locked onto yours; wordless and intense. He lowers you onto the plush surface of your bed, making sure your head rests comfortably on the pillows behind. In a swift motion, he sheds his sweatpants, leaving himself completely bare for you.

"please," you whimper, "daddy please-". It's painful how badly you need him. He seems to be able to tell as well, seeing how his limbs drag him back into bed, parting on either side of your hip. You feel the way his cock ghosts over where you need him most, and your eyes begin to well with tears. "please"

He complies, wordlessly.

The head of his cock- angry and red- slips between your folds, lubricating his length with your slick so he doesn't hurt you when he pushes in. It's a simple action, but it makes your back arch prettily under him, begging for more.

"colour?" he asks, looking into your eyes.

"green" you affirm.

Slowly, he pushes into you, hips meeting yours as he bottoms out. Mingyu groans at the tight fit, you sob at the stretch. Your walls stretch deliciously around him and he finds himself getting lost in your heat right away. The sounds you made, that blissful fucked-out look on your face, the way you tried so hard to keep your eyes open- failing almost always- he was weak for it all. Weak for you. He draws his hips back before thrusting in again and again, until tears stream down your cheeks and all you can think is 'mingyu mingyu mingyu'.

His eyes never left your face for a second and he drank in the sounds you made, muffling his own by biting down into your neck. The tender skin vibrated under his lips with every moan, every sob he drew out of you.

You were alive under him.

Feverish hands trailed around his shoulders up to the sides of his neck, pulling him closer, feeling his skin, his weight, his breathing against your body. The slow, sensual drag of his hips was intense. More than it usually was. Thus far, you'd always had a great time with him, always been fucked right, but now? Now with the way he cradled you in his arms, inhaling your scent as he rocked his body desperately into yours, you were certain this was more than just fucking. He was making love to you.

Perhaps it was the way you so earnestly needed him. Perhaps it was the desperation in your eyes. Something, something, had struck a chord within him because now, he looked at you and made you feel like you were made for him. Like you were the only two people in this world and nothing else mattered. Like he had maybe- just maybe- fallen in love with you.

"gonna c- daddy, fuck don't stop," you moaned, tugging at his hair, nails digging into his back.

He groans in response and you know he's cumming right with you. "so good for me- made just for me- fuck"

A few more thrusts before his movements lose precision, growing sloppy and strained. Mingyu rips his head from the crevice of your neck and looks at you. You're on the brink of coming undone, nearly there, and he could swear he's dreaming. You're so pretty, always are, but something about you now has him losing himself faster than usual. The pink tinge on your cheeks that glows when you drink yourself nearly to death pales in comparison to the burning hue now, your pupils are blown wider than he'd ever seen, and your lips- fuck your lips- they were swollen and bruised and glossy- he can't get enough.

He watches as you break under him, his name flowing from your mouth along a stream of sobs and whimpers, and follows suit, releasing his load into you.

Reality hits soon after, and his exhaustion catches up to him, as does yours. Mingyu crushes you under him, laying on top of you for a minute to catch his breath.

"that was-" he starts before breaking off into an airy scoff, "christ "

All you can offer in response is a weak laugh, and he kisses the skin under his lips in pity. "m'sorry puppy, I dunno what got int-"

"don't be. really. I uh, I liked tonight. a lot."

Mingyu pulls himself up to kiss you, softly, gently. It made your stomach churn. 'oh.' you realized, 'I'm in love'

What you don't realize, however, is that Mingyu feels the same.

For now, all you can do is lean into his touch as he picks you up and takes you to the bathroom to clean up. We'll save confessing for another day.

[lewiscarrolatemybrain]

Something something Luffy laughing through his teeth (shishishi!) as if it's spilling out of him, something too great for his body to contain rushing up and pushing its way out through the cracks in his teeth vs Joyboy's laugh being a traditional hahaha that demands an open mouth and throat and lungs, the kind of laugh that's all percussion and booming air, unrestrained and uncontained and free

Also something something Gear 2 (which is Luffy making his heart beat faster and louder as he circulates blood more quickly through his body) making his body heat to the point of steam rising from his skin, and Gear 5 using the Gear 2 pose and making his heart beat the Drums of Liberation and condensing that steam into clouds, and shishishi being a hissing sound like steam escaping through a vent, and the prevalent themes of fire and heat and the way steam only makes that kind of noise if it had been under extreme pressure and how that pressure is usually caused by high temperatures

Something something Luffy swallowed the sun as a child and it sits burning in his belly and he laughs like steam hissing its way out of a vent because his joy is that of a god's and his body is a very small vessel for such awesome power

And something something I don't really have anything coherent to say here this is just me wildly overthinking and drawing connections where there probably aren't any but like you get it. The themes.

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Even without an answer (perhaps the search will be enough)

carry me slowly, my sunlight (these colours, they fade for you only) - series masterlist here

pairing: damian wayne x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)

length: 2.2k

genre: angsty hurt/comfort

warnings: non-sexual nudity, they're in the shower the whole time, injury / chronic pain talk, hmm trauma lasts forever and you have to live with it ig

a/n: I hope this makes sense I hope it's gooood I hope y'all like it <33

The ache that sets further in as you stand in the steam of your shower, you think, should be more familiar by now. The pain that surges through your back and your shoulder should feel a bit more like home. 

But as you stand with your head bowed under the spray of the shower, hot water cascading over you and tingling your skin as it throbs, you find that you've never felt quite so far removed from yourself. 

It's only the sound of the bathroom door opening, the quiet click of the lock and the shuffle of clothes on the other side of the fogged-up glass that makes you blink. But it doesn't make you move, and you stand, upright and trembling, as Damian slips into the shower behind you, hissing at the temperature of the water but stepping closer nonetheless to press a gentle kiss to the back of your neck.

"He shouldn't have said that to you," he murmurs softly, and as he traces his knuckles up your spine, you squeeze your eyes shut.

"He didn't mean anything by it."

"He's a detective," Damian continues, and there's a razor-sharp edge to his voice that feels so familiar. "He should've known."

"He's your father… I hope you didn't fight with him because of me," you say dully, and your voice is strained in a way that makes Damian put his hand on your shoulders and try to turn you around to face him. When you resist, though, keeping your head bowed, he sighs and squeezes your shoulders ever so gently. 

"I'll close my eyes if you don't want me to see you cry." And he offers it up so easily, holds it out to you like it's a simple allowance that you deserve. It's enough to make your head snap up, and when you turn to face Damian in his arms, your eyes are red-rimmed and sensitive from your tears.

"You've seen me cry before, Dames," you say softly, smoothing your fingers over his soaked, dripping hair.

"That doesn't mean I have the right to see it every time," he responds patiently. "And I'd rather you cry whenever you need to than have the privilege of seeing it every time you do." You hum in understanding at that, looking down at your palms as you press them against Damian's chest, ignoring the ache in your shoulder as you watch streams of water splash down his skin and onto yours. 

"Bruce is… incredibly aware of the toll that this work can take on your life and your body," he continues quietly. "He's made mistakes and learned from them so that we don't have to. For the others who learned to fight under him, it's…"

"It's ok, Dames," you say softly, the rush of water in your shared space nearly drowning out your voice. "I know the difference between me and the rest of you. Bruce reminded me of that."

"He shouldn't have."

"He just said the truth." 

You'd known that in the moment, as well - of course you had. When you'd ventured back into the Cave after a long night of patrol, rolling your shoulders and fighting against the onslaught of an old injury, you'd known that his words came from a place of help - of healing.

"You need to be careful with that," he'd said, and his voice, through the cowl, had made your hair stand on end in a way that only the Batman could. "It's your rotator cuff, isn't it? Easy to wreck if you don't pay attention to taking care of yourself."

"It's… fine," you'd replied hollowly, frozen and shifting on your feet in the face of being caught. 

"There's no use pretending you're not in pain when you are - you'll just make it worse," he'd sighed. "Anyway, there's nothing you can do to fix it now, not when the damage is already done. And it's not your fault that you weren't taught properly. But you need to learn how to take care of yourself out there. You're no use to anyone in Gotham if you wear your body into the ground. You need -"

"That's enough, Father." Damian's voice had been clipped as he strode between the two of you, his eyes narrowed at Bruce. You're sure he had more to say than that - sure that you'd caused some kind of conflict between the two of them, but you'd been too concerned with slipping out of the Cave and away from it all to really care. And Damian, with worry-clouded eyes, had let you go - let you run away once more. 

"Where'd you go, beloved," Damian's voice brings you back, his forefinger tapping gently against your nose as you blink the memory away. 

"Hm?"

"Your mind went somewhere else," he says softly, understandingly in a way that makes you bristle. "I'd prefer if you take me with you, wherever you're wandering off to."

"Bruce was wrong," you say stubbornly, looking up at Damian as he smoothes a hand up and down your spine.

"I know he was. I told him -"

"It is my fault."

"Oh…" he frowns. "No… it's not, my love."

"It is," you continue, plowing over whatever reassurances were about to be offered. You're not sure you could handle it if they really were. "It's my body, it's my problem, it's - I should've…" But you're not sure, really, what you could've done - a child puppeteered by something bigger than you, a soldier fighting a war that should not have been your own. 

"Does that make it better?" Damian asks kindly. "If it's your own doing? Does it make it easier to think that it was self-inflicted?" Your mouth snaps shut at his words, your eyes wide as you stare up at him with an exposed sort of understanding.

Damian takes your hand in his, smoothing your palm over a scar on his abdomen. You remember the incident in which he'd gotten it, of course - it had been some slip-up while he was training, all those years ago with the League of Assassins. His mother had called it a lesson, had declared that the scar should be a reminder of what he'd done wrong. 

"Our scars may be different shapes, beloved," he continues, his voice too kind for someone who's bled so much. "But they come from the same war. It is not your crime that you were controlled as you were. It is not your burden that you were used in such a way."

Your shoulder throbs as Damian speaks and you find yourself crumpling, just a bit, leaning into him and pressing your forehead against his chest as you begin to weep again. He stands, through it all - just as he always has, and you feel a pang of guilt at having shoved him back in the way that you did. 

"Damian, I-"

"It's ok," he soothes, quieting your wavering voice. "I'm right here." And as you sob into his chest, one of his hands coming up to the back of your head to press you more firmly against him while his other hand rubs up and down your back, Bruce's words echo in your head over and over and over.

The damage has already been done. The pain has already been inflicted. The scars have already been carved.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it," you choke out, heaving in a shuddering breath against Damian's chest.

"With what?"

"With all the things that are wrong with me now," you say as you breathe deeply, closing your eyes and forcing calmer exhales past your lips. 

"There is nothing wrong with you, my love," he says, and he offers it up so willingly, voice hushed and earnest like a prayer. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"My body is broken," your voice wavers as you speak, fresh tears building in your eyes. "My -  it doesn't work the way it should, or… or the way it used to. And it's not my fault, I didn't  - I didn't want this and - it's not my fault, I swear -"

"I know it's not," Damian interrupts your rambling, shushing you gently and pulling you closer with an arm wrapped firmly around your waist, his skin warm against yours. You bring your hands up to dig the heels of your palms into your closed eyes as you lean into him, matching your breaths to the steady rhythm of his own as the heat of the shower continues to dull the pain in your back and shoulder ever so slightly. 

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now," you admit slowly. "I don't know… How are we supposed to just live with this? How are we supposed to go the rest of forever trying to, I don't know…" You sort of trail off at the end, but you've found that, at this point, there are few words that really need to be spoken between the two of you. You let your fingers trace over the scar on Damian's abdomen and he hums in understanding. 

How are you supposed to live like this? As relics of a war that never should've happened - as altars to something that you'd never wished to pray to?

"I don't… know," he says haltingly, and you feel a bit guilty for asking him such an impossible question. But as you begin to shrink back from it, Damian cups your jaw in one of his hands, his palm warm and calloused against your cheek, and when he dips down to press a kiss firmly to your lips, you find that it's all a bit easier to deal with.

"I don't know, my love, what we're supposed to do with this. But we'll do it together, won't we? Whatever it is, we'll find a way together?"

"You don't have to ask that, love," you reply with another kiss, quick and gentle and promising. "Of course, it'll be together. It always is, isn't it?"

Always," he assures. "Although, I am sorry."

"For what, Dames?" you ask, a frown tugging at your lips as you reach to wipe a trail of water off his brow before it makes its way into his eyes. You can't imagine, in moments like these, when he holds you and shushes you and curls around you in such a way, what he could possibly be sorry for. 

"For not having an answer," he says simply, like he should know what's written in the stars, like he should be able to pluck the impossible from the heavens and lower it down to the earth for you. 

"You don't have to have all the answers," you assure, but a frown pulls at his lips all the same.

"I hate that you're in pain. I hate that… Beloved, you don't deserve it." You hum at that, pressing your lips together as more tears prick at the back of your eyes. You hate it, too, he knows, the dull pain that lives in you inescapably. It wears on you, too, he sees, the way that some days every movement is an ache.

"It's not your job to have all the answers," you say soothingly, and he shoots you a look, like he's pleading with you, asking you to stop comforting him so that he can comfort you. One day, you think, he'll realize that it goes both ways.

"I wish I had just this one."

"Yea," you laugh, and something flutters in his chest at the sound. "I'm sure you do. But this is all I ever need from you, you know. I'm not…" you trail off, shifting your stance as you look away. Damian lets you - always, lets you hide in plain sight in whichever ways you need to. 

"I don't know how we're supposed to live, most of the time," you continue, the uncertainty of it all rocking your stance just a bit, and Damian's arm tightens around your waist as if he knows. And, really, you're sure he does, somehow. "But I - I have always only ever wanted it to be you that I figure it out with. Even if… even if we never really get there."

"We will," he assures, and when you shoot him a long-suffering look, he brings your hand away from the scar on his abdomen and up to his face instead, pressing kisses along your knuckles. "There's nothing else we haven't been able to figure out, my love. This, I'm sure… even if it takes our whole lives, we'll figure this out, too.

"But if we don't -"

"We will -"

"But if we don't -" you continue, "I'm… I'm happy, at least, just to be right here with you. Even with all the damage that's been done. Even…" But you don't have to say it aloud, don't have to speak any of it into existence. Damian knows, and the proof is in the tender way in which he holds you, smoothing a hand over your hair and anchoring you against him with that hand on your waist. He knows. Even without an answer, perhaps the search will be enough.

[hummingbird24220]

luffy x mythical zoan devil fruit eater reader that has some like tiger based devil fruit?💕 myb any other op character, law would probably be cute since he likes cute stuff and hed probably find it cute!

Hello, sorry this took so long. I had the draft but it took me forever to get to editing. It's short - i ended up cutting a lot of it cause i wasn't vibing with it. Hopefully you still like it!

Paws Off, Tra-Guy!

Luffy x Byakko!Reader

Sunlight poured across the deck of the Thousand Sunny as you lay sprawled across the lion head figurehead, tail flicking lazily. Your hybrid form—a sleek, striped blend of feline grace and human mischief—soaked in the warmth. Your ears twitched with each creak of the wood and every faint giggle from the crew.

“(Y/N)!” Your name came with a rush of sandals and wind.

You peeked one glowing eye open just in time to see Luffy barreling toward you. He skidded to a halt beside your lounging form, casting a long shadow.

“There you are!” he pouted. “I’ve been looking everywhere!”

You yawned like a smug kitten, flashing your fangs with a teasing smile. “You saw me two hours ago, captain.”

“That’s too long!” Luffy huffed, arms crossing. “You’re my sunshine. My warm fuzzy nap buddy. My soft stripey pillow. Don’t go disappearing on me.”

You blinked slowly. “I went to the galley.”

“Without me?”

Before you could answer, Luffy plopped down beside you and flopped across your lap like a lazy dog. You purred unconsciously, brushing his hat back to see his eyes.

“Mine,” he mumbled, half-sulking, half-napping.

You flicked his nose with your tail, amused. “Possessive much?”

“Nope,” Luffy said, clearly lying. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Later that week, the crew docked at a chilly, mist-covered island. Something about it felt strange, and even you were jumpy—ears twitching, tail stiff. You stayed closer to Luffy than usual.

Until Trafalgar Law showed up.

You’d met him once before. He was composed, too clever for his own good, and smelled like trouble (and antiseptic). When he approached the crew, you held your ground beside Luffy.

Law gave a polite nod to your captain. Then his gaze flicked to you. “You must be (Y/N)-ya.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you must be boring.”

To your surprise, he smirked. “I heard you have a mythical Zoan. Tiger-type?”

“Got a problem with cats?” you asked, leaning forward on all fours like the predator you were.

“Not at all,” he said, tilting his head. “You’re actually… kind of cute.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Oi!” Luffy barked, standing up so fast he nearly launched himself into orbit. “Find your own (Y/N)!”

Law raised an eyebrow. “Relax, Straw Hat. I was just making an observation.”

“No!” Luffy jabbed a finger toward Law. “This one’s mine! My crew! My nap buddy! My sunshine!”

“Sunshine?” you repeated, snorting.

“You’re warm and soft and you purr when I hug you!” Luffy added with zero shame. “And you don’t look at other captains! Right?!”

You blinked slowly, tail swishing.

Law looked vaguely amused. “Possessive much?”

You just leaned into Luffy’s side, arm brushing his, a smug grin on your lips.

“Maybe a little.”

That night, Luffy refused to let you out of his reach, pulling you into a pile of blankets on deck.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around you. “No wandering. No Tra-Guy.”

“No Tra-Guy,” you agreed, curling into him.

--

The enemy base erupted in smoke and chaos. Marines scattered like ants as you landed in the center of the battlefield, claws cracking the stone beneath your paws. Your body shimmered with spiritual light — fur like silver flames, stripes glowing faintly blue, eyes radiating celestial fury.

In your Byakko form, you were a force of myth — regal, terrifying, beautiful.

“YOOO!! You look AWESOME!!” Luffy shouted, grinning from atop the roof of a nearby warehouse. His hat fluttered in the wind, hands snapping to his sides as steam hissed out.

You growled, half-chuff, half-laugh. “Ready to go wild, captain?”

“Gear Second!” Luffy vanished in a blur, reappearing beside you as you lunged forward — a glowing blur of white-hot tiger fury — fangs and claws sweeping through enemy ranks as he tore through the air beside you with piston-powered punches.

You fought like you were made for each other.

He flattened a marine, and you pounced over him to knock out the ones behind.

You slashed at a swordsman’s blade, and Luffy punched him in the gut before he even blinked.

You roared — celestial power building as crackling stormlight gathered in your chest — and Luffy cheered. “THAT’S MY (Y/N)!!”

The ground caved under your lightning-charged roar, knocking back the entire platoon.

In the aftermath, panting, smoke rising, you shrank down into your half-beast hybrid form, fur still glowing at the tips.

Luffy landed beside you with a goofy grin, arms stretched lazily behind his head. “You’re the coolest. Ever.”

You flicked his hat with your tail. “Obviously.”

Back on the Sunny that night, the crew was all praises.

“Daaaamn, that was flashy,” Usopp whistled.

“I want a lightning roar,” Franky muttered, sketching something ridiculous on a napkin.

“Such elegant destruction,” Brook said, resting his chin on his violin.

Zoro grunted approvingly from where he sat sharpening his sword. “Tch. You held your own.”

Even Nami smirked. “I think you burned half the budget in lightshows alone.”

And then… Law arrived.

He’d watched the fight from afar, only joining when most of the heat was over. Typical.

“Impressive control,” he said, eyeing you with his usual clinical calm. “I didn’t expect such… divine manifestation from a feline-based Zoan.”

You tilted your head, cocky. “Jealous you didn’t get a fluffy mythic tiger?”

“Maybe a little.”

Before you could snark back—

“Traffyyyyyy.”

Luffy’s voice cut across the deck, drawn-out and dramatic.

You blinked.

Luffy marched over, flopping dramatically between you and Law like a kid guarding his last cookie.

“What’re you doing over here, Tra-guy? Huh? Don’t you have, like… hearts to steal or something?” Luffy squinted. “We don’t need your creepy compliments.”

“I was complimenting her power, not flirting,” Law said flatly.

Luffy squinted harder. “Well stop it! My sunshine doesn’t need weird sword doctors being impressed!”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re literally lying on my feet.”

“I live here now,” Luffy muttered, arms crossed as he leaned against your thigh.

You sighed. Law gave you the tiniest smirk before walking away — but not before tossing back a low: “If you ever want a captain who doesn’t throw tantrums, let me know.”

Luffy growled behind you. “TRA-GUY—!”

You nudged his face with your tail. “Luffy.”

He blinked up at you.

You smiled. “You’re my captain. Forever.”

His cheeks pinked. “…Really?”

You leaned down, kissing his scarred cheek. “Really.”

He lit up like the sun. “YOSH!! Let’s fight together forever, (Y/N)!!”

You laughed. “Only if I get to nap on you after.”

“DEAL!”

[isabelckl]

smoke and mirrors

messenger ellie williams x aristocrat fem!reader (victorian au)

set in the late 1800s, when paper was banned and all unsupervised communication was made illegal, memory couriers emerged in secret—risking arrest to carry spoken messages across divided cities and restricted borders. with your fiancé stationed in a province you can no longer reach, you're forced to rely on Ellie, a heavily tattooed courier working underground, to carry your words.

Part 2

You walked swiftly, head bowed, your boots scraping through the damp filth of the alleyway. The hem of your black muslin gown was already heavy with mud, and your cloak did little to guard against the chill creeping through the narrow streets. You hadn’t looked up once since slipping past the manor gates—just kept moving, heart tight in your chest, breath clouding in the cold.

You’d never done anything like this before.

No guards. No chaperone. No carriage waiting.

Just you, in plain clothes and a faded bonnet pulled low, hoping no one would look closely enough to recognize the face beneath. A lady of your station had no business in this district—especially not alone. But you had done it. You had escaped.

And all for a message. A foolish, reckless message.

But oh, what does one not risk for love?

Now you stood at the edge of a crooked cobblestone, staring up at the building before you. It was one of the few still upright on this side of the quarter—its brickwork scorched with soot, iron balconies sagging with rust, windows clouded by dust and ash. The guards of the Ministry had passed this way not long ago, their boots echoing like gunshots in the empty street—but even with them gone, you kept your head low.

This part of the city was no longer considered livable. Not by decree, but necessity.

Silence hung in the air like smoke, pierced only by the low groan of the wind through broken shutters and the faint hiss of steam pipes beneath the street.

They said the messenger could be found here.

You stepped inside. The front hall was dim and cold, lit only by a waning wall lamp and the pale gray wash of dusk that leaked through cracks in the boarded windows. The scent struck you first—smoke, damp timber, and something ink-sharp and stale, like forgotten parchment sealed too long.

As you moved deeper into the corridor, your gloved hand trailing lightly along the bannister, a woman came rushing down the stairs—her skirts disheveled, bonnet askew, a handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth. She nearly collided with you. Her shoulders were trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps as if she’d been holding them in for far too long.

You stepped aside, watching her disappear into the shadowed vestibule below. Whatever news she’d come for, it hadn’t been kind. A death. A denial. A letter that never arrived, perhaps.

Your stomach twisted.

On the second floor, you passed others descending in silence—coats drawn close, eyes downcast, hands clutching thin slips of paper too carefully to be legal. No one spoke. No one looked at you.

Outside the final door, a queue had formed, bodies pressed along the faded wall in a kind of reverent hush. You joined it without a word.

A man two places down cast you a glance. You caught it from the corner of your eye and turned your head slightly, pretending interest in the cracks along the floor. You kept your expression blank. The bonnet helped, but not enough.

Minutes passed. Longer.

When the door opened, a signal without words, you stepped forward and slipped inside.

The room smelled of paper and smoke.

Stacks of yellowed pages crowded every corner—some bundled with twine, some spilling from crates, others piled like unstable monuments along the floor. It looked less like an office and more like a reliquary of lost things.

Heavy curtains swallowed what little light the outside world offered. Dust hung thick in the air. And at the center of it all, an old desk, and the oil lamp that flickers weakly stops it, its glow no brighter than a dying ember.

Behind the desk sat a woman.

Tattoos crept up her arms and curled across the backs of her hands, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of a worn linen shirt and the fraying edges of a charcoal waistcoat. She looked like someone who had watched the city fall and found it unremarkable—so long as she had ink, ash, and something to write with. A half-burned cigarette smoldered between two fingers as she scribbled something into a thick ledger, her expression blank, unmoved.

On the other hand, she held a dip pen—its brass nib glinting faintly beneath the lamplight as it scratched across the page, tip freshly stained with ink from the bottle by her elbow.

She didn’t look up when you entered.

You lingered in the doorway, bonnet tilted low, doing your best not to grimace at the stale tang of tobacco hanging thick in the air. You hated that smell. Your fiancé didn’t smoke—never had. You’d grown soft on lavender-scented letters and soap-washed hands, not this.

“I’d like to deliver a message,” you said, voice steady though your pulse betrayed you.

Her pen paused mid-stroke.

She didn’t look up. Just sat there for a moment, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deeper than she expected. Like it reached somewhere memory had been buried but not erased.

She merely raised a hand, fingers flicking in a slow, indifferent gesture.

Permission.

“For my fiancé,” you added, softer this time.

She laid the pen aside with care, brass nib tapping against the rim of the ceramic inkwell. Then she took one last drag from the cigarette and pressed it into the ashtray. At last, her eyes lifted.

Green, sharp, deliberate.

They caught on you and held, and the weight of her stare made your breath stall. Not because she was unfamiliar—but because she wasn’t.

It had been years. Not since before the restrictions. Before permits and boundaries. Before your world had been divided into the watched and the waiting.

Back then, your family’s estate still ran like a clock. Breakfast at seven, guests by ten, servants unseen after dark. Her mother had worked in your home as a maid. Her father was a courier, often seen trudging up the rear garden path, boots caked in mud, hands roughened by winter and labor. And Ellie? Ellie had been the quiet child who came with them on rainy afternoons, holding a ledger too large for her arms, waiting by the back steps until the parcels were signed for.

You had watched her from the drawing-room window. Outside and damp. And always beneath you—figuratively and otherwise.

Your parents would never have remembered her face.

But you had.

And now she sat behind a desk no proper young woman ought to approach, ink on her fingers, smoke curling around her shoulders—as if she'd always belonged there.

Her gaze swept over you—once, twice—slow and deliberate, like she was measuring you. From the laces of your boots to the edges of your modest traveling gown. Something flickered at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile. Not quite a scoff either. Just a shadow of amusement she didn’t bother to name. She looked rougher now. Harder. Like the years had carved themselves into her skin and left no room for softness.

“How old are you?” she asked, voice low and rasped from smoke and disuse.

You frowned, lifting your chin instinctively. “Old enough,” you answered, finding the question oddly misplaced.

She raised a brow—unconvinced, unmoved. She didn’t argue, didn’t speak. Just watched you with a look that felt far too knowing, like she was waiting for something true to fall from your mouth instead.

The silence grated.

“Pardon me,” you said, a measured edge beneath your words, “but I fail to see what bearing that has. I am here to send a message to my fiancé.”

Ellie leaned back slightly, the movement casual but not careless, then set the dip pen down beside the inkwell with the same precision as before. “I’m aware. That’s why you’re here.”

The tone—flat, edged, knowing—made your jaw tense.

She sighed, gathered a stack of crumpled papers from her desk, and swept them neatly to the floor beside her. “I ask questions because I must,” she said curtly. “Every word I carry is a risk. I’d rather know the nature of those I serve.”

Her voice was measured, serious in a way that left little room for courtesy. The calm sharpness of it matched her expression—cool, unreadable, nothing like the girl you used to glimpse from the window of your room. That girl, trailing behind her mother or father in silence, sodden boots and wide eyes—she didn’t live in this room.

You met her gaze. “I’m old enough. Perhaps older than you.”

The words cut a little too hard, sharper than intended, and you felt it the moment they left your tongue. The irritation hadn’t left, but something smaller and more brittle cracked beneath it.

“And I just…” You inhaled. “I just need to deliver something to my fiancé.”

Ellie tilted her head slightly. Pen returned to her hand—but she didn’t write. Instead, she stared at you again. And again, that quiet, brazen stare made your posture straighten instinctively. It unsettled something in you. Not because she was harsh, but because she was utterly unbothered. Steady. Still.

You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Especially not by someone like her.

“You look young to be wed,” she said at last, words unhurried.

You lifted your chin, letting your gaze harden. “I didn’t come here for your opinion.”

Your eyes swept the room again. So many papers—how many of them were love letters? Pleas? Goodbyes? Secrets? How many were from people like you, hoping for an answer?

She nodded once, a slight tilt of her head toward the space between you. “Very well. Speak what you wish me to carry.”

You hesitated.

She didn’t wait. The pen resumed its motion, its nib whispering across the page.

You stepped forward, carefully. “Tell him… I hope he is well. That his family remains safe.” You paused, throat tight. “That I miss him. Terribly. And that I’m still waiting. I will wait—until all of this is over. And…”

The words tangled.

Saying it aloud felt strange. Saying it to her—stranger still.

“…Tell him I love him.”

Ellie’s pen stilled.

She did not look up. Merely reached for her cigarette and lit it with quiet precision, the flare of the match briefly catching the edge of her cheekbone in gold.

“That is all,” you murmured.

She gave a faint nod, finally lifting her gaze. “In a place like this,” she said, voice low, “it is often simpler to forget than to send things meant to be remembered.”

The weight of it landed harder than you expected.

What did she know of such things?

You slipped a small folded note from your coat—along with a worn banknote and the delivery address, scrawled hastily on creased paper—and placed them on the desk without a word.

You turned, before you could leave, you stopped.

Something twisted sharp behind your ribs. The words rose before you could stop them.

You glanced over your shoulder, voice colder than you meant it. “And what would you know of love, in any case?”

Ellie didn’t so much as blink. She exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling between you—thin, silent, unreadable.

You didn’t wait for her answer.

The door cracked shut behind you with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the narrow stairwell. Those waiting outside flinched and turned. You ignored them.

You yanked your bonnet lower, boots echoing in clipped defiance as you passed.

Who says something like that?

Was it truly so difficult—to do your job without stripping hope from those who still dared to hold it?

[darlingdaisyfarm]

⋆. a lesson in possession ★ ˚ jealous!Ford x fem!reader

little bonus to this, nsfw under the cut

so, uh, I didn’t plan this piece at all?? but somehow it still came out and well, here it is!! a little gift from me to all of you

The water rushes around you, steaming hot against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heavy press of Ford’s chest against your back. Every inch of him is flush with you, his hands are everywhere at once. It’s the first time you feel Ford being that greedy, rough and possessive. And you love it.

His hands never stop as they cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples. He didn't mean to, didn't want to lose himself like that. But he can’t help it, not when his twin had you first, not when he knows he got to feel and stretch you open before Ford could. He can’t stand it.

“You shouldn’t let me touch you like this,” his voice is hoarse, but thank god the water splattering against the tile drowns him out. His lips are at your ear as he breathes heavily. Yet his hands betray him, they slide up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before settling just beneath your breasts again.

“Then stop,” you whisper, but your words hold no weight, you just want to tease him a bit more.

“Don’t tempt me, darling. Holy multiverse, you’re perfect.”

“Ford,” you hiss, arching into his touch even as your hands press against the slick wall for balance. “S-Stan, he’ll wake up—”

“Okay, let him,” Ford says all confident, though his fingers tremble as they brush over your hardened nipples. He rolls one between his fingers, his other hand sliding back down to your thigh, holding you tight against him. “Let him see what he can’t give you, what only i can.”

His desperate hands roam because there's too many places at once. He can’t decide where to touch, where to hold, gripping your waist, cupping your soft breasts, smoothing up the curve of your arms before starting all over again. He drags his lips against the damp line of your wet neck, murmuring apologies that sounds less like regret and more like please “forgive me for wanting you this much”.

His hips shift forward and the hard, aching press of his cock against your ass makes you gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder. “Ford,” his fingers find your nipple again, tugging, rolling it between calloused fingertips.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes you, pressing soft, frantic kisses along your neck, his teeth nipping before his tongue smooths over the marks. “I'm sorry, so sorry, but i need you. I need you so bad.”

It’s fucking torture, Stan doesn’t love you the way Ford does. He can’t. Not like this.

Ford’s hand moves lower, dipping his long and thick fingers between your delicate folds, spreading you open as his needy cock nudges against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, not yet, but the teasing pressure alone has your thighs shaking.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Ford.”

“Just let me have you. Just for a little while. I’ll be gentle, i promise.” he mutters in disbelief because Ford knows he’s lying. Inside him rages a volcano of conflicting emotions, and this time, they eclipse reason. Of course, he’ll fuck you and not just once. He’ll have you as much as he needs, behind his brother’s back, while Stan remains oblivious, while he sleeps, or cooks, or swindles tourists.

Ford will make love to you as much as it takes, rough or gentle, fucking you with his cock or his fingers, worshipping you with his mouth or letting you ride his face until you can’t think straight. Right now, Ford couldn’t care less about anything else, he needs to be inside you.

And who knows, maybe he’ll even manage to fuck you right in front of his brother, just to show him how you deserve to be worshipped.

“Please, don’t te-tease me,” you sob when his fingers circle your clit and he catches the sound, cupping your jaw, tilting your head back so he can kiss his lovely girl. His tongue tangles with yours and when he pulls back, you whine loudly, arching your back into his chest as he rocks his hips forward, grinding the full weight of his cock between your thighs, feeling how soft you are.

Ford holds you by the hips, changing his pose to let his length rub through your folds now, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance, threatening to push inside. You bite your lip, oh sweet heavens, you just want him to take you, your poor pussy clenches around nothing as your chest rises and falls, your head tips back against his shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. His teeth nips there, sharper this time, and you gasp.

“Do you have any idea what it did to me? Watching him take you, knowing i couldn’t stop it? Knowing it should have been me filling you up first?”

“You’re, ah! you’re jealous.”

“Jealous doesn’t cover it. The thought of him putting his hands on you, of him spilling inside you—”

“He didn’t,” you interrupt softly. “he didn’t, Ford, you know that.”

“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, love, because now i’m the one filling you. Now i’m the one who’ll— never mind.” he takes a deep breath, trying to come back to his senses as he changes the intonation of his voice. “Open your mouth for me, love. Just like this, good girl.”

You do, parting your lips as his fingers slip into your mouth, pressing against your tongue. He growls at the beautiful sight, his lovely girl, so needy and pretty, begging to be used and filled, only by him. His eyes darken as he watches you suck on them, your lashes fluttering, saliva pooling at the corner of your lips.

“You’re still so wet,” and now, holy moses, all of this is just for him, only him. Fantastic. Ford presses his forehead against the damp curve of your shoulder. His hips stuttering as he eases inside, his girth stretching you. The angle has you gasping, your hands scrambling for purchase against the wet wall, but he’s there, holding you tight, enveloping your body with his. Your pussy feels so good and Ford is almost sorry for being jealous, for being this selfish, for wanting you so much it hurts. Almost. But he can’t stop, can’t let this go.

“Don’t stop, don’t want you to stop,” you confess, but the words sound unintelligible because of his fingers. Your hand find his and you thread your fingers together as he drives into you with a growing urgency. “i want—”

Ford knows that if he lets you continue, you will say such dirty things he's afraid he wont be able to stop himself from cumming inside. But he can’t risk, not right now. So he cuts you off with a messy kiss as his pace quickens, the sound of water, skin slapping and your muffled moans filling the small space. “Then take it,” he groans into your mouth. “take everything i have, sweetheart, because it’s all yours.”

His fingers press deeper in your mouth and you gag softly, drool slipping down your chin, but the sound only spurs him on. His other hand moves to your swollen clit again, rubbing in slow circles that have you whining, your knees nearly giving out.

“Gonna make you cum. Wanna feel you squeeze me, feel you fall apart on my cock.”

“Please, ple. . . please, please, more, more, fuuck mee,” you beg. Oh you sound so broken, poor girl, so overstimulated and desperate.

“I know, sweetheart, i know,” he coos, his fingers leaving your mouth to trail down your body, gripping your hips as he moves inside you. But he changes the rhythm, thrusting slowly this time, stretching your pussy as you drip down on his cock.

“So tight, my love,” he rests his forehead against the back of your head. Then he pauses for a moment and his hands slide to your stomach, pressing lightly. “right here. I’d fill you right here, honey. Fill you so full you’d carry my kids. . . our kids.”

Surprised, your breath catches and you twist to look at him, wide-eyed. “Ford, what—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts. “don’t worry, i know. Not tonight, not like this.” but the thought of you, round and glowing, carrying his child makes his cock throb inside of you, ready to paint your walls white. His hand splays across your stomach as if imagining what his smart girl would look like, round and full with his child. You’ll look so gorgeous, so damn beautiful and cute, carrying his baby.

Ford shudders at the thought, fucking you slow but deep, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through your body. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You’re mine right now, just mine. Let me love you.”

His tender pace didn’t last long though. The jealousy simmering beneath the surface bubbled over, and his thrusts turn sharper, meanier and needier. Ford drags his hot cock against your walls in a way that makes your knees buckle and you swear you're ready to pass out, because he's so deep, so deep you feel him in your tummy. He never stops worshipping you, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, anywhere he could reach.

“Mine, my darling, m-my love,” he can't stop touching you too, gripping your hip while the other six-fingered hand palms your breast, caressing the stiff peak with his thumb.

“That’s it,” but of course, of corse he wants to make you feel so good you'll forget your own name and hopefully Stan's too, so his fingers find your clit again, working you with a ferocity that leaves you choking on your own sobs and moans. ”that’s my good girl, so good for me.” oh, that praise does something to you, especially coming from someone so smart and cool like Stanford Pines so you just melt.

“Close, 'm close!” your body shakes against his, and he holds you close, feeling your pussy clench around him, trying to milk him dry and he tries to control himself, gritting his teeth. You cry out as you finish, while Ford kisses your shoulder, showing you he’s here for his lovely girl. Some seconds later, he pulls out and wraps his hand around his aching cock, groaning your name and spilling on your skin.

You both come down, the water still streaming around you. The only sound is your labored breathing. Ford slumps against you.

“I’m sorry, i— i don’t know what came over me.”

You turn your head, tangling your fingers with his again where they rest on your waist. “It’s okay. Just. . . let's not let Stan find out, okay?”

Ford chuckles weakly, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close despite the awkward angle. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

Not really.

[starryhyuck]

only one for me. (m) — PATREON EXCLUSIVE

pairing: gryffindor!mark x afab!gryffindor!reader

words: 3.9k+

summary: lee donghyuck triggers a possessive tick in your boyfriend that you’ve never seen before.

genre: smut

warnings: hyuck voyeurism dynamics, jealous!mark, library sex, degradation, possessiveness, cuckolding (kind of), daddy kink, throat fucking, pussy eating, squirting

this fic is exclusive to both tiers on my patreon, which you can access here! below is a tumblr preview

When you usually meet Donghyuck in the Potions room for your assignment, you expect him to stride in with a noisy entrance.

So it comes as no surprise to you when he slides into the room dressed in a leather jacket from a muggle store, sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. He angles them downwards, one hand on his hip as he says, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

You roll your eyes, flipping through your Potions book to search for ingredients. “Is that some muggle phrase that’s supposed to woo me, Hyuck?”

“It woos all the ladies, sweetheart, magical or muggle,” he says cockily, taking his seat at your shared desk and propping his feet up next to the cauldron.

“Why don’t you actually help me and start crushing the asphodel?”

“Sweetheart, don’t you get tired of being such a good girl? I swear, I would’ve assumed you were in Ravenclaw if it weren’t for you and your boyfriend bleeding Gryffindor red,” he scoffs before his smirk widens. “Say, where is that little boyfriend of yours?”

“At Quidditch practice,” you answer, re-reading the instructions printed on the page. “You have such an odd fascination with him.”

“He’s cute,” Donghyuck shrugs. “And Renjun’s parents switched him to Durmstrang, so our love can never be. Mark, however, gets particularly miffed whenever I bring you into the equation and it brings me a certain joy that I cannot describe.”

You shake your head in disapproval, pushing his feet off the desk. “Go fetch the asphodel and start working.”

“Yes, mom.”

You work in a peaceful silence for thirty minutes, besides the occasional hum from Donghyuck and a shimmy of his hips. It’s why you’re both startled when the door swings open and Mark rushes in, panting and glaring at the man beside you.

“M-Mark,” you stutter, ceasing your stirring of the cauldron. Donghyuck pauses mixing the ingredients next to you, chuckling when he spots your erratic partner. “I thought you had Quidditch practice.”

“We got out early,” he grumbles, walking over until he has an arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you close and sealing his lips over yours. He keeps his eyes locked on Donghyuck the entire time while the younger male simply smiles at him.

“Mark!” You squeak, pushing away from him and shyly glancing at Donghyuck’s reaction in discomfort. It seems to anger your boyfriend even further, lips curled in a sneer.

“Run off and make yourself useful somewhere else. I’ll take care of the rest of the potion with her.”

Donghyuck grins. “A night off and a free grade? You must really be intimidated by me,” he says, laughing to himself. He leans over to kiss your cheek and you roll your eyes and swat him off. Mark appears to be five seconds away from casting a dark curse over him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, honey. Don’t invite the sad little Eeyore to our private hangout next time.”

When Donghyuck leaves the room, Mark turns to you with steam practically coming out of his ears. “What is that? That muggle term he used, Eeyore? Was he making fun of me?”

“He was just trying to get under your skin,” you giggle, booping his nose and fawning over how cute he is. “Is that why you’ve been so worked up lately? Hyuck is just an annoying Slytherin nuisance. He was born that way.”

“He was born to irritate me,” he hisses, pouting as he begins mixing the ingredients like Donghyuck was. “You’ve been spending all your time with him lately. And I don’t like that you call him Hyuck.”

You laugh. “This project makes up half of our grade. Mark, you can’t seriously be jealous of him, can you? You didn’t even get jealous when Lee Jeno tried to ask me out last year.”

“That’s because Jeno is an innocent puppy who didn’t know we were dating,” he corrects, sprinkling the asphodel into the cauldron. “Donghyuck, on the other hand, knows we’re together and still flirts with you.”

You sigh, gripping Mark’s chin and pulling him to you to press your lips against his. He eagerly accepts your touch and you smile.

“Just remember you’re the one I love, my silly Gryffindor.”

want to read the rest? access both tiers on my patreon here!