#AND you set the front and back separately so Gift of Memories is just set automatically

[dravidious]

🐢

Killed my fursona again, now they're haunting me by giving me dead mice and birds

Also I had an idea for a combat trick and I decided to make it a monster hunter card

[rainrot4me]

A Little R & R (Rest and Relaxation, Raw and Rough)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────────────── leave - whirr

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: From breaking and entering, to scaring you half to death, the proxies have never been conventional lovers. So why would relaxing with you after a hard day at work be any different?

✦ . Characters: {Separate} Jeff the Killer x Female Reader, Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Masky x Female Reader, Hoodie x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Teasing, vaginal fingering, choking, dirty talk, overstimulation

✦ . Words: 16.2k (~4k per section)

✦ . Note: Is this a little self indulgent? Absolutely. But work has been kicking my ass and a good fingering down from the proxies would set me straight, so I come bearing gifts. Thank you again to my lovely lovely friend @z0l0fft for her beautiful art!!!! Words cannot describe my love.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You’re tired. 

Not just tired—drained. The kind of tired that settles into the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like even blinking is too much effort.

You stand on the front steps of your house for a second longer than necessary, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, and try to summon the energy to go inside. Your muscles ache. Your neck hurts. Every part of your body begs for the sweet mercy of a hot shower and soft clothes. It’s cold out here, the nighttime air unforgiving. It’s all you can do not to collapse on the stairs outside.

The keys rattle in your hand as you finally slide one into the lock, twisting it until the door unlatches with a muted click. You shove the door open with your shoulder, stepping into the dark. The familiar scent of home greets you—laundry detergent, the faint trace of that candle you lit last night, something faintly musky that’s just… you.

You sigh, shoulders slumping with relief as you kick your shoes off one at a time. Your bag hits the floor with a muted thud, but you could care less to remember if there was anything valuable inside. You shrug your jacket off, tossing it haphazardly onto the hook. It’s your sanctuary, your space to finally breathe, not having to perform for your dumbass coworkers any longer. 

Work sucks. Everyone knows that, especially you.

There’s just something about a 2pm to 12am job that makes you want to rip everyone’s throat out, including your own. The money is nice, but some days you wonder if it’s worth your sanity and the constant back pain.

You start walking toward the kitchen, already reaching to loosen the tension from your neck, mentally checking off what leftovers might be in the fridge. Are you even hungry? You round the corner,

And stop cold.

The back door is wide open.

The long glass pane stares back at you like an eye, wind pushing it gently so it sways on its hinges, creaking faintly. The night air curls around your ankles, carrying the sharp, damp scent of wet leaves and earth. It raises goosebumps on your arms.

You blink, stunned for a moment, almost unsure you’re really seeing what you’re seeing. You never forget to lock that door. Ever. It's a habit, muscle memory, you could lock that thing in your sleep. There’s one too many home invasion cases on the news for you to just be comfortable with an easily accessible back door.

“…No,” you whisper under your breath. “No, I didn’t leave that open.”

Your heart gives a small jolt in your chest.

Immediately your mind reaches for something rational, something safe. Him. Maybe he came by. Maybe he used his key. Maybe he forgot to shut the door all the way. But even as you grasp for the thought, it doesn’t settle. He doesn’t forget things like that. He’s careful—always has been, he has to be. 

“Hello?” you call out, voice already tense. “Anyone here?”

No answer. You mentally punch yourself, you’re no better than the stupid girls who you make fun of in horror movies. 

Your house is still. The silence feels unnatural, forced, like it’s trying to hide something from you.

A pinprick of unease worms its way into your spine. You move quickly to the opposite side of the kitchen, flipping on every light switch available and illuminating the entire dining/living area. It doesn’t ease the pit in your stomach, but at least nothing can sneak up on you. You rummage through your broom closet in the laundry room, grabbing the wooden broom leaning against the doorframe. It’s not much, but at least there’s something for you to protect yourself with. You will not be as dumb as those horror movie chicks.

Your voice rises, more firm this time. “Seriously, if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

Still no reply.

Your breath catches in your throat. You start moving from room to room, switching on lights as you go. The living room? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Guest room? Nothing. You scan every corner, every shadow, peek behind every door with broom gripped tightly in hand.

The tension grows with every room you clear. The open doors groan behind you, the breeze from outside trailing in like fingers sliding across your back. The feeling of being watched is as strong as ever, and now you feel like you could throw up.

Your bedroom is the last place left.

You step in and flick the light on. The room is empty. Neat. Undisturbed.

And yet… your heart won’t stop racing. The hairs on your arms are standing straight up, and there’s a pit forming in your gut again, deep and cold.

You take a step back into the hall, gripping the flashlight tighter, half-waiting for something, anything, to jump out.

“Okay,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking this. He probably—he probably just stopped by, right? Left in a hurry. Right?”

You want to believe it. God, you want to believe it.

But then, just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe it really is nothing—

Arms wrap around you from behind.

A strong grip, smooth and steady, sliding across your waist, locking tight before you can even scream. You freeze. Your body goes stiff, lungs seizing as hot breath ghosts over your neck, close, too close.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. The broomstick is rendered useless in your hands. 

Until you hear that all-too-familiar chuckle humming into your ear…

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER

“Miss me, baby?”

You shoved the blunt end of the broomstick back with everything you had. It didn’t land hard, but it startled him enough that he stepped back with a laugh.

You whipped around, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum, and there he was.

Jeffrey.

His grin was still spread wide across that pale face, lips too stretched, eyes too sharp, the darkness under them as deep as ever. His hoodie hung off his frame like always, smudged with god-knows-what, hair falling wild around his face. He looked like something from a nightmare.

But he was your nightmare. And right now, he was standing in your hallway with his hands up in mock surrender and a cocky smirk like he hadn’t just scared the absolute hell out of you.

“God—Jeff!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Too much to list, babe,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward you. “You looked so serious. I had to mess with you a little.”

“You left the door wide open.”

“I left it ajar.”

“Wide. Open.” You glared at him, storming past him toward the back door to slam it shut. “I thought someone broke in. I was about to call the cops.”

Jeff snorted, following you lazily. “Yeah? That would’ve gone well.”

You stopped and looked at him. “What if it wasn’t you?”

“It was,” he shrugged. “I got here first.”

“That’s not the point!”

Your voice cracked under the weight of the day. Between exhaustion, stress, and now this emotional whiplash, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You turned away, biting down on the frustration. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, not ever.

“…Hey,” Jeff said softly after a moment, voice losing that teasing edge. “C’mon. Don’t be mad.”

You didn’t respond, just walked toward the kitchen to start your evening routine, collecting your abandoned bag from the ground and dumping your keys and phone on the counter. You opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again.

Jeff padded in behind you, quieter now. The change in mood was subtle, but real. He watched you for a second, then leaned his weight against the counter beside you.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You shrugged. “Same shit. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he smirked. “My day involved a guy’s trachea and a folding knife.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course it did.”

“I brought you something,” he offered.

You looked over at him warily. “Is it a severed finger again?”

“…No.”

“Because last time you said you brought me something, it was in a ziplock bag and I still have nightmares.”

Jeff chuckled. “Okay, this time, it’s better.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single gas station chocolate bar, a little squished. He offered it to you like a peace treaty.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

You took it from him with a sigh and opened it. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m too tired to stay mad.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You always say that.” His lips were cold and he smelled like outside, meaning he had definitely walked here from the mansion. Also meaning he probably intended on staying the night. You didn’t mind, him being here made you feel safe.

You munched on the chocolate and walked toward the couch, flipping off all the lights you had turned on in your panic, and shedding your outer layer again as you sat with a deep exhale. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. You’re still on call, aren’t you?”

“I ditched early,” he said, dropping beside you like a cat, legs sprawled, arms resting behind his head. “Told Masky I had important business. And I do.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, kicking your feet up. “What business is that?”

He tilted his head toward you, eyes hooded. “You.”

You shook your head with a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“And you love it.”

His hand found your thigh, fingers tracing patterns there while you chewed the last bite of chocolate. The warmth of his palm soothed more than it should have.

“…Missed you,” you admitted finally, softer now. “Even if you’re the worst.”

Jeff turned his face toward you, smile a little smaller now, but more real.

“Missed you too.”

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. He didn’t leave your side. Just stayed there, content, his presence strange and comforting all at once.

Jeff’s hands were warm and steady, his touch deliberate as he pulled you closer onto his lap. The weight of your body against his felt grounding, like an anchor to the calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving all day. His fingers curled lightly around your waist, easing the tension that had curled tight inside you since morning.

His breath brushed softly against your ear, low and rough in a way that sent a comforting shiver down your spine. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with something softer than you expected. “You don’t gotta be so tense.”

His lips traced a lazy path down your neck, featherlight kisses that felt like a balm on skin that had been cold and raw for hours. You could feel the slow unwinding beginning deep inside your chest, the tight coil of exhaustion loosening with each gentle touch.

One hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting along your ribs, memorizing the curves and the way your breath hitched when he found the tender spots. You closed your eyes, letting his touch carry you away from the harsh buzz of the day—the deadlines, the weight of responsibilities, the pressure that never seemed to ease.

Jeff’s other hand traveled lower, trailing along your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate circles that sent warmth blooming through your skin. 

“My girl is so stressed,” he whispered against your skin, voice a soft promise. “We gotta fix that, right?”

You leaned into him, back to chest, letting yourself breathe him in—the faint scent of smoke and earth and something darker, something utterly Jeff. His hands moved with slow certainty, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, skin pressing against skin, grounding you in a way no words could. His fingertips were cold, but it wasn’t a terrible sensation.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, coaxing, teasing. The kiss was patient, undemanding, the kind that made your whole body still except for the slow burn growing inside your chest. His hands explored without hurry, mapping every line, every shiver, every breath you let slip.

They roamed down, fingers pushing past the waistband of your pants and slipping them down slowly, as if you wouldn’t be able to notice if he did it easy enough.

“Jeff,” you sighed, lying your head back onto his shoulder. 

The tightness in your jaw eased as he pressed his chin atop your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded with something raw and hungry. “Just relax,” Jeff breathed, his thumb tracing small, lazy patterns along your skin. “I’ve gotcha.”

You could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes—not from sadness, but relief. Relief that someone saw you, that someone wanted to take this burden away from you, even if only for a little while—even if that person used these same hands to end lives.

“You don’t have to fight it,” Jeff whispered, voice low and steady, coaxing you into surrender. “Let me help my baby out.”

He pushed the fabric of your pants down past your knees, the garment pooling onto your ankles as your thighs fell apart, kicking them off onto the carpet beneath.

The fabric of your panties was already damp, Jeff’s arm reaching around your hips to press his palm atop the fabric. He hummed in your ear, planting one wet kiss after another against the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe that he knew made chills run up your back.

You sighed, hands falling down beside you to grip the fabric of his jeans underneath, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you let your body relax into him.

“What so ever could they be doin’ to you at work to make you this tightly wound?”

“Jeffrey, do not talk to me about my job right now,” you huffed, gripping the side of his leg when he began to rub his thumb in tiny circles against your clothed clit. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, pressing his thumb down firmly. “That so?”

Jeff’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your neck before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.

You were close to nagging at him for teasing so bad, until he’s moving both hands away from your cunt and up under the fabric of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach and over your bra, letting it bunch up on your chest under your chin.

“Jesus, I love you,” he groaned, palming your tits through your bra, squeezing them enough to make you whine, then letting them go. You could feel his bulge hardening against your back, the length pressing against your tailbone as Jeff slid his hands back down your stomach to the hem of your panties.

You reached your hands behind you, blindly searching for Jeff’s belt, before his hand snatched your arms forward.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, moving both of your hands back to your front and readjusting the two of you so you weren’t sitting directly on his bulge. “I’m takin’ care of you, baby.”

“You’re telling me the Jeffrey Woods doesn’t want to get off? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“Enough,” he groans, slipping his fingers under the hem of your panties and dragging them down your thighs. You lift your hips, helping him get them down your knees and off your ankles. He cups his left hand under your knee, pulling your thighs apart as you place your right foot on the couch next to his leg. You gasp when the cold air hits your damp folds, but Jeff’s hand quickly comes to remedy that.

“Now shut up,” he grumbles, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around nothing.

You sigh, letting your head fall limp against his shoulder as you watch his face, his brows knotted and concentrated as he runs his fingers through your slick, easing you more.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit, swiping slowly back and forth, sending the nerves in your legs and stomach jerking, legs nearly closing if it weren’t for his hand tugging them back apart.

You tilted your hips up, trying to get his fingers to push down further to where your cunt was weeping and clamping around, sadly, nothing. You’re soaked, pussy lips practically glistening in the glow of your table-side lamp. Your whines were enough to make Jeff chuckle, the vibration of it against your back. “So impatient.”

“I don’t like to be teased, you kno—oh…”

You can’t even finish your sentence before his two middle fingers are pushing against your entrance, the first inches of them slotting in and out, loosening you up. You huff a gasp, stomach clenching as your walls immediately clamp tight around the thick digits, sucking them in greedily. Jeff watches over your shoulder with hungry amusement.

“This all for me? Shit, baby, I’m gonna have to ruin you.”

Jeff never has and never will be a patient man, no matter how breathy your moans are when his two middle fingers begin to pump deeper and deeper into your cunt with each jerk of his wrist. He doesn’t stop until he gets knuckle-deep, letting your filthy hole clamp and flutter around him, before massaging his fingertips against your walls.

“Ah, yeah—right there-” you groan, letting your knees fall limp apart as you reach behind your head to grip into the back of Jeff’s hair. The veins running up his forearm are bulging, muscles tensing as he begins to pump his fingers in and out, dragging the hilt of his palm against your clit with every jerk.

There’s no room to catch your breath, no time to readjust your body as it slips down his chest and further into his lap, only relying on Jeff’s hold on you to keep yourself upright. You grab and tug at his hair, searching for anything grounding as his knuckles bulge in and out of the first tight ring of muscle, cunt stretching across his fingers when he begins to scissor into you slowly.

You didn’t get to dwell in the feeling for too long before his fingers were slipping out of you, fingers soaked all the way to the knuckles as he dragged them back up to your clit and began massaging, faster this time. Harder.

“Oh shit—okay-” you whine, thighs instinctively trying to close back together, but Jeff’s grip holding tight as always. You tried to sit back up, to give your body some relief, but Jeff just pressed his fingers down harder.

“You’ve got it, babe. Don’t go runnin’ from it.” He growled, plunging them back into your cunt and starting to fuck them inside of you quickly. He gave you no time to adjust, curling and crooking his fingers to snag against every sensitive spot he knew all-too-well, his thumb rubbing circles into your clit.

“Jeff—hah—hold on-”

“No can do. Gotta finish what we started, right?”

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over. 

“Hngh- Jeff, more!” You grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers. 

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick digits, rhythmically curling upward. The noises are so lewd, wet squelching and skin slapping filling up the quiet noises of your house.

It’s halted when he’s dragging his fingers out again, moving to swipe against your twitching clit as he had before, but this time with a faster pace. More focused on making your lips fall open and whines of sensitivity slip from you. “Ah—hah, Jeff, c’mon-”

“Now now…not yet,” he tuts mockingly.

“Please, Jeff. Please let me cum.”

“Begging? Really?” He chides, pushing three fingers back into your sloppy with no resistance anymore, your cunt open and weeping around the stretch. “You really must be tired, huh?”

You feel his cock twitch against your back, jeans stretching over the bulge that reminds you he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. Well, you’d be enjoying this a lot more if you could fucking cum. Every time you get that familiar feeling, his fingers are slipping back and forth between hole and clit, ruining any build-up you had.

It took you jerking his hair and turning your face into the side of his neck with pitiful whines before he finally nestled his fingers deep inside again, sheathing them to the knuckle. Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Jeff knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close. 

His left hand moves from under your knee, letting it drop atop his leg and dangle with all the exhaustion you held. His now-free hand wanders the expanse of your body—groping your breasts, gripping your hips back, forcing your ass to grind back into his clothed length. All the while your soft mewls making him grin.

Jeff’s hand, blister riddled and fingers calloused from years of weaponry, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones, a smug grin as he rubs his thumb hard against your clit.

“Look at me when you cum,” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse. You couldn’t look away if you tried, his lips ghosting up your jaw and across your cheek until they planted firm on your puffed ones.

He tugs his fingers out, before slamming them just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Jeff’s fingers, hands clutching into his hair and eyes rolling just enough to make your head feel light. Jeff watches the entire time, wide eyes trained on the way your lips fall open.

“Fuck! Jeff- Jeffrey!” You whimper.

“Yeah, there you go. There you go.”

He keeps his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers clamped together by your constricting walls, letting you ride out every rippling wave of your orgasm. His hand is soaked, your juices dripping from your cunt and down the roundness of your ass, down onto his jeans. You’ve made a mess.

As your climax bates, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over your slowing pulse. “Did so good, baby. You did perfectly,” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin. You also still feel his cock pressing into your ass.

Lifting your head, you admire Jeff’s hardened features. Face flushed, lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you in admiration.

“You’re merciless. Ruthless, even.” You huff out a low laugh.

“No doubt about it.” He finally slips his fingers from inside you, your teeth gritting as your walls try their best to hold him in place.

His fingers are soaked, tips nearly pruning from the wetness. More juices pool from your cunt, sending a shudder down your skin, goosebumps rising on your legs from the cold. But even with all the uncomfortableness of it, you can’t help but notice your head has quit hurting, body isn’t as sore, overall attitude less fogged from the day you’ve had.

“I need a shower. And food. And to sleep for the rest of my life.”

“I’m pretty good at making people sleep for the rest of their lives.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, Jeff’s arms wrapping under your back and twisting you sideways, his one arm scooping up your legs and lifting you up as he stands off the couch. He carries you towards your bedroom, holding you close to his chest.

“You take a shower, I’ll make you food.”

“Your cooking sucks.”

“You’ll get over it.”

He set you down on the bathroom counter, the cold tile making you hiss as he sauntered over to start the water in the shower.

You couldn’t help but notice the obvious stain on his thighs, dark wetness soaking into the thick fabric. You smiled, glancing up just enough to see that he was still very-much sporting a boner.

“Are you still hard?” You smile, teasing him as the water begins to warm, steam rolling over the glass. Jeff doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks over to help you off the counter, pushing you towards the shower.

You think for a moment before stepping in, turning to run a hand down his chest, heart thudding against his ribs.

“If you make me a grilled cheese, I’ll suck your dick before we go to bed.”

Jeff doesn’t need to be convinced any further. With a kiss against your cheek and a helping hand to get the rest of your clothes off, he’s disappearing back toward the kitchen with a jittery laugh.

“Deal. But don’t get mad if it’s burnt, alright?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY

You froze.

A rush of cold spilled down your spine as two arms wrapped around your waist from behind, tight. But before panic could reach your throat or your hands could react with the broomstick, you heard a familiar breath—low, steady, a little tired.

“Hey,” came the voice, muffled against your shoulder. “It’s just me.”

Masky.

You let your tensed shoulders sag, releasing a sharp breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and nearly dropping the broom on the ground.

He pulled you back a step, chest against your back, hands smoothing over your sides like he was trying to melt the stress out of your skin. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly. “The door, I didn’t have time to close it before you were unlocking the front. My bad.”

You twisted in his arms enough to look up at him. Even with the mask still on, his body said everything—guilt in the way he ducked his head slightly, gentleness in the way he held you like something he didn’t want to break. Still, you glared with all the anger and fear burning in your body.

“You think?” you grit, voice shaky but slowly recovering. “I thought I was about to get murdered.”

“Evidently.” He eyed the broomstick squeezed in-between the two of you. You nudged him, and he gave a slow exhale, cupping your face like he was handling porcelain. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Really.”

And you believed him.

“I should have grabbed a knife. Maybe getting stabbed will teach you to not to sneak up on people.”

“I promise you, it wouldn’t.”

You leaned into his touch just a little. “You always sneak around like a damn ghost. You ever think of just knocking?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Wouldn’t be me if I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tension was already ebbing. You wanted to be upset with him, but the constant hardened look in Masky’s eyes always rolled unease off your shoulders. He kissed your forehead through the mask, then nodded toward the kitchen.

“Sit. You’re gonna tell me about your day, and I’m gonna make you something before you start melting into the floor. You look beat.”

You didn’t argue. You dragged your feet to the living room, switching off all the lights you had flipped in your panic, throwing the broom back into the closet, dropped into the couch, and watched him bustle around like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He made sure to shut the back door, too. Coffee brewed, a pastry from your cupboard was plated, and all the while, his eyes flicked back to you with that quiet protectiveness he wore like a second skin.

When he returned, he gently nudged your legs to drape over his lap as he sat next to you. You crossed your legs, calves lying atop his thighs, back pressed into the arm of the couch, as he handed over his gifts.

“Eat first,” he muttered. “Talk later.”

You sighed at the first touch of his hands kneading into your calves, thumbs pressing into the tight spots just right. It was maddening how good he was at this. The kind of man who knew the exact angle to dig into the muscle, the exact pressure to make it all unravel.

You ate what he had made you, sipping on the steaming coffee that Masky just always seemed to know how to brew just right no matter what brand you bought. When finished, you laid it on the table next to your couch.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice quieter now, slower. He ran a hand up to your knee, not asking for more than you were willing to give.

“The worst,” you murmured, letting your head fall back. “You ever feel like no matter how much you do, it’s never enough?”

“All the time,” he said simply.

He worked his way up your legs, then, shifting until your knees bent and he could pull you into his lap without resistance. You settled into him with a quiet sigh, your cheek against his shoulder, cradling you. He smelled like cold air and pine needles, something earthy that grounded you instantly.

He tilted your chin gently, mask still on, but his mouth pressed atop your head, chin resting there. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen if you do.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

And for a while, you just… talked. About the manager who wouldn’t leave you alone. About the customer who screamed over nothing. About how tired you were of pretending to be okay when really you just wanted the world to stop spinning for five minutes.

Masky didn’t say much—but his hands did. One arm around your waist, the other slowly brushing up and down your spine. Reassuring. Real. His mask shifted up his face while you spoke. First, above his mouth so you could see the dark facial hair across his jaw, then above his nose, then completely off, left on the table next to your dirty dishes. You tried not to make a show of seeing his face, but it always made you a little giddy when he removed his mask on his own.

And then—quietly, like he was asking permission—he lifted you just enough to shift you deeper into his lap. His other hand skimmed up your side, drawing idle circles as he began to press kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

“Forget the rest of it,” he murmured. “Right now, it’s just me and you.”

The heat of him, the slow way his fingers ghosted over your ribs, the softness in his voice—it was everything you needed and nothing you deserved.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Not with me.”

“Sam can be said about you, tough guy.”

He chuckled, but didn’t respond, so you continued.

“How was your day?”

He waited, thinking over his answer. “Had worse. But still not good. Left after everyone went to sleep ‘cause I decided I wanted to see you.” He paused for a second, glancing between you and the window outside. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Don’t. Stay as long as you want. Anything to get you out of that mansion for a bit, yeah?”

“If you insist,” he chuckled.

You melted then, entirely, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Letting him kiss your worries away, one soft press at a time. Every nerve in your body quieted. Every fear, every sharp edge the day left behind, dulled under the warmth of his touch.

You didn’t need anything else.

Until his hand dipped in-between your thighs. 

It wasn’t rushing or assuming, but just a flat palm slid between the warmth of your legs and resting against the apex of your body. The touch was lightening, tired body shifting to life when the hilt of his hand pressed firm against your center.

”Masky…” you breathed between kisses, half a question and half a sigh of want. He didn’t make any movement, but he didn’t pull away either, just continued kissing.

“Tell me to stop if you wish. Just want to help you relax a lil’.” He hummed against your temple, his facial hair tickling against your cheek.

“No— Uh, no.” You hesitated, evaluating your own body and tiredness, then accepting the fact that now you would be too stirred to relax anymore after the move he had just made. “Want you. Need you.”

“Easy now, don’t get worked up.”

“Hypocrite,” you shoved his shoulder, twisting off of his lap and planting your feet on the ground. You stood in front of him, facing away, and began to unbutton your pants. Your cheeks burned, no doubt Masky being able to see the deep red on the tips of your ears as you shimmied your pants down your thighs and off your legs.

You heard the unstrapping of laces behind you, boots being kicked off of feet and jacket being thrown to the other side of the couch before hands were planting on your hips and turning you around.

You placed your hands on Masky’s shoulders, his fingertips tracing the stitching of your panties as he leaned forward to place slow, breathy kisses against your stomach through your shirt. He hooked your panties around his thumbs, then slowly slid them down your thighs and off with your pants behind you. 

Masky lifted the hem of your shirt, placing another kiss just below your belly button before he was sitting back to look up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks a dark shade of red. You ran your fingers through the short hairs at the back of his head, but before you could make a move to remove any more clothes—his or yours—Masky was grabbing your arms, turning you, and pulling you down onto his lap.

He shuffled you both back, laying long-ways on the couch with his back sitting up against the armrest. He laid your back against his chest, planting his feet into the cushion so your legs hard to spread around them, cold air hitting your center with a chill.

“Wha- You’re not even taking your shirt off?” You question, readjusting and making yourself comfortable on top of him, entire body laying against his. Masky just chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting kiss after kiss against your neck.

“No need,” he hummed, running his hands down your waist and over the tops of your thighs, dipping under them to tug your legs back, pulling them apart. You planted your feet against each of his knees, socked feet slipping against the material of his jeans. “I scared you, so I have to make up for it somehow.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” you mumbled, hands tugging up the hem of your shirt as Masky’s rubbed further and further down. “I already forgave you.”

“Mhm. But I don’t see you stopping me.” You could feel his smirk against your jaw as he spoke, the deep baritone of his voice vibrating against your back. You would have given a retort back, but Masky was suddenly sitting up and hissing in pain.

“Wha-”

He reaches behind him, a click of something being unsnapped, and the rustling of metal. You’re jarred, until Masky pulls out his pistol that usually stays strapped to the holster on the back of his belt. He grimaced, setting the gun back on the nightstand next to the dishes.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Whoops,” he chuckled, lying back down and dragging you back with him.

It was a blur of hands and lips next—Masky’s arm came to wrap around your middle, while his free hand grabbed your jaw and turned your head to kiss him fully. You smiled into the kiss, but found yourself being cut of when two fingers pressed between you, fingertips pressing against your lips.

You happily obliged, parting your lips as Masky sunk his thick middle fingers into your mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist when he tried to push back further, slightly coughing on the digits.

“Nice and wet. There we go…” he hummed, feeling your tongue slip around his fingers and groan at the salty taste of them. Only when your drool began to coat your own lips and shine on his knuckles did he draw them out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

One arm still gripped around your middle, he let his spit-glistened fingers trail down between your legs. He found your clit immediately, wasting no time in pushing his fingers through your folds and spreading you open, fingertips pressed firm against your sensitive nub and drawing small circles.

“Ah, hah- Masky-” you huffed, planting your hands on his forearms and digging your nails into his sun-kissed skin. Thick veins ran up his arms, strong muscles from countless missions toning his body in all the right ways. It was mouthwatering, really. The only downfall? Every part of him was thick, fingers especially.

“Let it out, there you go.”

If there was one thing about Masky you knew for certain, he knew what he wanted and he always knew how to get it. Whether that be your noises, a specific body reaction, or just your pleasure all over his fingers—he was going to have it, and it was going to be now.

Another circle on your clit before Masky was pressing downwards, scissoring his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and hum at the glisten that shone in the lamp light. You were dripping, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

Your nails dug into the skin of his forearm when he began to prod his middle finger against your entrance, swiping up and down the slit but never fully pressing in. You whined, shifting your hips with each movement and praying that he would just finger-fuck you already.

“C’mon-”

“Shhh, don’t be whining,” he smiled, planting an open-mouth kiss against your neck, sucking the skin lightly and sending shock after shock through your body. “Need’a just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

He tightens his grip on your waist, and you release a spell of air, giving Masky the chance to slip the first knuckle of his middle finger into the warmth of your cunt. You mewl, head lying back on his shoulder, eyes blinking slowly as he works the digit slowly in and out. It’s thick, and Masky can’t help but groan to himself at the way your folds stretch around it.

His bulge pressed against your back, the subtle shift and grind of his hips against you making you reel.

“More…” You huff, pushing his arm down and angling your hips up, whining for the entirety of his finger, not just the first knuckle.

“Greedy, greedy girl…” He purrs, popping off of your neck and moving up to your jaw, continuing his abuse there. Your neck is shining with his spit, little flowering bruises slowly fading in with each minute.

Masky obliges, curling his middle finger and pressing it deeper, warming his finger in your wetness and feeling the fluttering of your walls just begging for more, more.

You grovel, tilting your hips back and forth in time with his wrist, his one finger pumping in and out of you quickly, stirring your stomach with shocks of pleasure. It’s still not enough, you decide, turning your face into the side of Masky’s neck and whining there.

“Oh, what? C’mon, tell me what you want,” he slows his finger, teasing it in and out, the digit soaked with your arousal. “Don’t get all shy.”

“Another…”

“Another what, sweet girl?”

You huff, digging your nails into his arm just to prove a point, “Your fucking finger, Masky. Please.”

“Atta girl.”

Masky free arm unwraps from your waist, hand snaking down to press finger pads against your clit, hard—enough to make you flinch. You feel a second finger begin to stretch against your entrance, the tight ring of muscle sucking in the thick digits like they belonged there.

“Yeah—yeah—yeah-” You chant against his neck, tilting your gaze down to watch as one knuckle after another dips inside of you, just to tug back out again. He begins to slowly pump his two middle fingers in, your hips jerking to meet every pass.

His other hand does wonders, swiping lewdly across your clit, sounds of wet skin and arousal overtaking the silence of your home. You brace your hands on his forearms still, fingers clenching in time with his.

“Tell me what you’re feelin’, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, biting at the carriage and sending goosebumps shooting across your skin. It’s accompanied with the repetitive massaging of that sweet spot deep inside that only he can reach, fingers pumping and knocking against every sensitive nerve on their way out. Masky knows your body like the back of his hand, and it’s proven here and now. “Let me hear that sweet voice.”

“Good—hah-” You gasp, gritting your teeth when he curls his fingers upwards, scissoring your cunt wider. “Jus-hngh-Just keep going.”

He gives a heavy circle onto your clit, fingers tugging at the nub, before his hand is retreating. You nearly whine, exasperated that he did exactly what you told him not to do, until his hand is wrapping around your wrist.

He maneuvers your hand down, pressing his fingers atop yours directly onto your clit, showing you how to rub yourself. When you slowly start doing the motion on your own, he lets your hand go.

You want to question, but he’s wrapping his hand around your jaw and tilting your face up, pressing a firm but wet kiss against your swollen lips. Then his fingers are slipping down, until his fist is wrapping around your throat and—

Oh.

The lightheaded sensation is instant, brain growing fuzzy with the little oxygen that you’re not getting to your head. He places the pressure on either side of your neck, right under your jaw, and squeezes until your lips are parting and you’re gasping.

Your fingers stall their movements on your clit, his two still pumping mercilessly into your sopping cunt, and a low rumble erupts from his chest.

Then his fingers inside of you come to a dead stop.

You whine, sucking in a rattled breath against the pressure constricting you, and try rocking your hips. Masky stays still.

“Move them fingers, sweetheart.”

You immediately light up, your hand getting to work at rubbing your cunt until tears prick the corners of your eyes, thighs jerking to close with every circle. Masky catches up immediately, the palm of his hand hitting against your fingertips every time he fucks his fingers into your wilting hole, his digits glistening.

His grip on your throat tightens, your eyes rolling back as your mouth creates an ‘oh’ shape, gasping for air. The air swimming in your brain makes your vision hazy, but it also heightens the sensations of every nerve lighting up in your cunt, every curl and jerk of fingers against yourself.

“You’re gettin’ close, pretty girl,” Masky hums, pressing his lips directly against your ear, gritting his teeth when your free hand comes up to wrap around his wrist. “Let it all out. Come all over me, sweetheart.”

His fist tightens one final time, your airway completely shuts out, and that’s what does you in. Your orgasm hits you like a train, hard and fast, and with barely any warning. Your nails are tearing into his arm, fingers rubbing your clit so hard you see stars, and his fingers—they’re slamming into your g-spot, legs shaking so hard they slip off his knees and fall wide. 

You cum into his palm, your arousal soaking his fingers and dripping down his wrist, absolutely covering your inner thighs and plush lips. Masky growls, deep and low, nipping at the corner of your ear while your cunt convulses and grips his fingers impossibly tighter.

He lets his grip off your throat, a crying gasp for air that has your stomach tightening and eyes shooting wide. He shushes you, rubbing methodical circles against your cheek as your head falls back limp against his shoulder. You’re shaking all over, body absolutely wrecked.

It took more effort than you care to admit for Masky to slowly tug his fingers out of you, muscles clamping down against the digits like they were begging him to stay.

The couch creaked softly beneath you both as you lay draped over him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat in his pulse.

Masky’s arms slung lazily around you, one hand tracing slow circles onto your chest, the wiping against his pant-leg. His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt his lips brush your temple.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-warm, like it had melted under the weight of contentment. “So damn good for me.”

Your tired body softened further at the praise, sinking against him with a faint sigh. He could feel your heartbeat syncing with his, slower now, soothed. There was no residual work-related emotion left in your body, no room when now all you could think about was how good you felt, how full.

His fingers ghosted along your jaw again, dragging a quiet shiver from you despite the warmth still lingering between your bodies. “You’re so pretty,” he added, quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud—but he said it anyway. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You nuzzled against him, and he chuckled — low and affectionate. Then, gently, he shifted beneath you.

“C’mon,” he whispered, sitting up with you still loosely wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You wanted to protest, say you were fine, but your legs felt like jelly and your brain wasn’t quite caught up to your body yet. He carried you effortlessly, strong arms cradling you to his chest, his jacket and your pants abandoned on the floor behind him.

He carried you to your bedroom, sitting you on the bed while he disappeared to the bathroom. You could’ve fallen asleep right there, if the chilly air was lighting your body with goosebumps.

The bathroom lights were low and the tub was already half-full, steam curling upward like fog in the amber light when he gathered you back up and guided you to the bathroom, helping you remove the rest of your clothes.

Masky sat on the edge of the tub with you still in his lap, his skin warm where it met yours, holding you like you were something fragile and precious. The water lapped gently at the porcelain.

He ran his hand along your arm, soothing, grounding. “I got you,” he said. “Always.”

Once he eased you into the water, you sank with a small moan, the heat cradling you like a second set of arms. You leaned back against the edge of the tub, head falling to the side where Masky sat on a folded towel beside it, one arm slung along the rim, fingers trailing in the water next to yours.

You blinked up at him through the haze. There was this softness in his eyes he never showed anyone else. Not even the others. Just you.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah…” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Just… floaty.”

He smiled, barely there. “That’s the idea.”

Silence stretched comfortably between you, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the sound of the water sloshing quietly as he washed your legs, gentle and unhurried.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he said suddenly, not looking at you. “Long mission coming up, some out of town stuff.”

You opened your eyes at that, meeting his gaze.

He reached forward to brush wet strands of hair from your face, thumb trailing down your cheek. “I promise not to sneak up on you when I get back. Keep yourself safe until then.”

Your hand found his, fingers curling around his wrist, and you smiled—soft, tired, but real.

“Will you wake me up?” you whispered. “Just so I can kiss you bye.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

“Of course.”

You knew he wouldn’t, knew that he would get too sentimental about letting you sleep, but that was for tomorrow.

Tonight, you just couldn’t wait to kiss his face and tell him your every thought before slipping off to sleep.

And maybe repaying the favor, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY

You heard the fast cadence of feet moving behind you before you ever saw who it was, so obviously, you swung around broom-handle first. 

You felt the CRACK of wood against something hard, then turned the rest of your body around to see—

Toby?

His shoulder slumped against the wall, hands up in defense, and a sheepish grin on his now-red face. You knew he didn’t feel the pain of the hit, but he definitely felt the way it shook his brain for a second.

“Toby—!” you snapped, whirling towards him and swatting at his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He was already grinning—goggles askew in his messy brown hair, hoodie half unzipped like he’d just walked in from a tornado. He ducked your halfhearted hits with an exaggerated lean, still giggling.

“You should’ve se-seen your face,” he said, wheezing through his grin. “I was gonna jump out from the closet but figured you might act-actually kill me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t just now,” you muttered, heart still racing.

Toby tilted his head. “Yeah, but then you’d be stuck all alone again. Didn’t y-you miss me?” He stepped closer, hands slipping around your waist.

Your lips pressed into a line, still too wound-up from the fear to melt into his teasing right away. “Maybe. A little. But not enough to forgive you sneaking in through the back door like a horror movie villain.”

He leaned in, rubbing his nose gently against the side of your face. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just… couldn’t help it. You’re so fun to surp-surprise.”

You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing down on your shoulders. He felt it too—because his smile dimmed, his hand reaching up to trace the curve of your spine over your shirt, slowly and carefully.

“Tough day?”

You nodded. “Always is.”

“Then let me fix that.”

Before you could argue, Toby grabbed your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch, taking the broom from your hands and throwing it back into the hall closet. “C’mon. Si-Sit down. You can yell at me later—right now you need to unwind.”

Toby’s hand was warm, his grip light as he tugged you toward the living room. You didn’t resist, not this time. After the day you’d had—and the scare he gave you—you didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts were foggy from pushing too hard for too long.

The two of you flipped off every light you had anxiously flipped on on the way back, and made sure to shut the back door tight.

He plopped onto the couch first, legs spreading carelessly as he sank into the cushions with a groan that sounded far too satisfied, kicking his boots off. Then, without waiting, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down with him—until your body was tucked into his side, your head resting against his hoodie-covered chest, the rhythm of his breathing loud in your ear.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so he could wrap both arms around you, folding you into his warmth like a blanket he’d been missing for days. “You always smell like… I dunno. Like so-soap. And work.”

You chuckled weakly, your body already starting to sink against him. “That’s probably accurate.”

He made a content little noise in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest under your cheek. Then one hand came up—calloused fingers brushing your hair back, again and again in soft, soothing strokes. He played with the strands absently, combing them through with care, sometimes curling a few around his finger and letting them slide loose.

You didn’t realize how much you needed this until you felt yourself beginning to melt.

No pressure. No noise. Just the low hum of his breathing, the sound of the wind against the house, and his fingertips skimming over your scalp like he was drawing patterns only he could see.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

Toby was always better at this than you expected. For someone who buzzed with chaos and laughter and unpredictable energy, he could be surprisingly… still. When it counted. And right now, he knew better than to fill the space with words.

You closed your eyes.

“Want me to get you anything?” he murmured after a while, quieter now. “Water? Snacks? I saw a bag of chi-chips in the pantry that looked lonely.”

You shook your head. “Just this.”

“That’s easy,” he whispered, a soft smile curling against your temple. “I can do this all night.”

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch with one arm, dragging it around both of you with a lazy flourish, then curled tighter around you. His chin rested gently on top of your head, and his thumb traced a lazy, slow circle on your side. Over and over. Repeating the motion like it meant something. Like maybe he was grounding himself too.

You didn’t have to talk. You didn’t have to think. He made sure of that—kissing your forehead now and then, humming softly under his breath, keeping his arms steady and his presence warm and close and real.

“You’re good now,” he said, so quiet you barely heard him. “I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

And for the first time that day—hell, maybe the first time that week—you believed it.

And in the lull of your stress fading and his fingers gently massaging behind your ear, it finally clicked: no matter how weird or chaotic or infuriating Toby could be, he always came back to you like this—like home.

But every home has its cracks, and every crack is a breach at the foundation. And sure as hell, you both had your cracks.

You tried and tried to get comfortable, but after a little bit, your body was just too sore, mind too hazy with work. But, like the adult you were, gritted your teeth and scrunched your brow. Toby, however, wasn’t going to let you get off so easy.

“‘Just this’ my ass,” he laughed, pulling your hips back against his when you turn off of his body and onto your side, back flush against his front. “You’re still sw-swimmin’ in stress.”

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve forced yourself to sleep through a muddy brain, and usually by yourself. If anything, Toby’s pestering is making it more of an impossible task.

And yet, here he is wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into your hair. His body shifts closer, the two of you laid out against the other, trying your best to play sleepy, knowing full well the other was wide awake.

You can’t help it.

You peel yourself from his body, sitting up and planting your feet off the ground. Toby groans, hands trying to grip at your shirt, but you’re already moving to the kitchen by the time he’s up.

“Whe-Where’re you going?

The kettle’s old, a little too loud when it clicks onto the burner. You reach for the tea tin, fingers trembling slightly from the built-up static in your bones. You didn’t even realize how deep the tension ran until you peeled yourself away from the couch. Every joint ached like your body was still clocked in.

Toby isn’t far behind, of course.

You hear the soft pad pad pad of his mismatched gait, socks barely making a sound on the floor. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans his shoulder against the doorway, watching. You feel his stare like a heat across your back.

“…You didn’t answer me,” he says after a beat, voice thick and scratchy, like it’s caught somewhere between sleep and screaming.

“I needed something warm,” you mumble. “Can’t settle.”

“Couldn’t se-settle with me,” he teases, pushing off the doorframe. “Ouch.”

“It’s not you,” you say with a soft huff, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. “It’s just work. Manager’s still refusing to hire more help.”

He hums, unconvinced, and steps closer. He doesn’t bother hiding the way his hands find your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch skin. The contact makes you shiver. Not cold—never with him around.

“I said you were st-still swimmin’ in stress.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his breath skimming the curve of your shoulder. “Bet your head’s still full’a ema-email chains and shit.”

“It is,” you admit, biting back a sigh, scooping loose tea leaves into the strainer with slow, practiced fingers. “And tomorrow’s gonna be worse. I should be in bed.”

“So let me help,” he murmurs, all faux-innocent as his hands start to travel. “Didn’t I alrea-already do such a good job loosening you up earlier?”

“Toby,” you say warningly, but there’s no bite in it.

He grins into your shoulder.

The kettle isn’t even halfway to boiling when you feel him really close the distance — chest to your back, hips pinning you lightly to the counter, the twitchy energy in him turning molten. His lips brush your neck, first a feather-light graze, then a drag, then a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the base of your throat.

Your breath catches in your lungs.

“Tobes…”

“You smell like me now,” he says into your skin, nose nuzzling behind your ear. “You got no idea how hard it is not to wanna crawl here after every day, just to see you, touch you, feel you.”

His hands spread wide across your stomach, palms flattening to keep you close. The gentle motion of his thumbs stroking absent patterns is a stark contrast to the heat coiling behind his kisses.

You let your head tip slightly, involuntarily—the smallest invitation.

“Still stressed?” He murmurs, one hand skimming undernesth your shirt and up to your ribs, not quite groping—just holding, grounding. “Or do I fi-finally feel you easin’ up?”

Your body is softening against him despite yourself. “You’re cheating.”

“You’re too uptight,” he counters, tone half-mockery, half-concern. “I’m just multitasking. Bein’ g-good for you and selfish at the same time.”

The kettle starts to whisper with pressure.

You could push him off. You should, maybe—wait for the tea, try to rest like an adult. But he feels safe against your back, fingers warm, breath warmer. Your thoughts slow a little under his touch, each kiss tugging you further from the work-stained haze you’d been drowning in.

“You’re not gonna let me drink that tea in peace, are you?”

Toby chuckles, the sound dark and fond and unmistakably turned on. His lips graze lower, teeth barely grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.

“…Nope.”

And then he bites, hard—enough to make you groan.

You grip the counter harder, bracing yourself as he presses fully into you from behind. You can feel him—hard, twitching, needy, through the thin fabric of both your clothes, and it makes your breath hitch again.

“I thought this was about helping me relax,” you say shakily, lips tugging into a grin despite the heat pooling between your legs.

He laughs, husky and low. “Oh, I am helpin’,” he mutters, biting gently at your earlobe. “You’ll be too tire-tired to think by the time I’m done.”

Toby watches over your shoulder as he unbuttons your pants, tugging them open as he dips his hand in and under the front of your panties, barely giving you time to gasp before his fingers are pushing through the growing wetness at your center.

Your hips buck against the counter as he drags two fingers over your folds, slow, testing. You’re already out of breath.

“Well fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice suddenly wrecked with want. “I haven’t even gotten st-started yet.”

“Your fault,” you whisper back, trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he teases his fingers through your folds, swiping slick against your puffy lips. “You started it.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he promises darkly, licking up your neck again. “Right here.”

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he crooks one evil finger through your folds, gathering your slick to aid the taunting circles he begins to draw over your clit. He doesn’t care to drag your pants down any further, perfectly content with shoving your front against the counter and pressing his bulge against the roundness of your ass.

“Aha—Toby-” You whine, his fingertips rubbing merciless circles against your clit, your knees resisting the urge to buckle and crash you into the floor. Toby, all the while, is littering your neck with bites and kisses, disregarding exactly how much whiplash this is giving you. “Slow, agh—slow down.”

He lets off your neck, his free hand coming up to grip your jaw with wincing force, twitchy fingers dragging your deeply flushed face to turn and look at him.

He bores wide eyes at you down the length of his nose. He looks gloriously smug as he eases his middle finger inside you, but his mouth curling upwards at the wanton moan that spills from your lips as you clench around him.

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, as he curls it just so. You nod fervidly and capture his lips in a desperate kiss, as though eager to prove his point. You whimper against his mouth when he repeats the movement, and he swallows the sound of your pleasure; opening up to you and delving in with his tongue.

His finger is quick, edgy jerks of his wrist lighting your cunt up with shock after sensitive shock as your thighs shake under you. His tongue explores your mouth, spit coating each other’s lips with each hungry kiss Toby plants upon you.

Pressure builds against the kettle's spout, air growing louder. 

“Think I can make my sweet girl cum before your pre-precious tea is ready?” He grits, popping off of your mouth with a satisfied grin and spit-glistened lips. You go to shake your head, go to tell him to take it easy, but he’s already bullying another finger into your sopping cunt, panties soaked nearly through your work pants.

“Jesus, Toby—yeah, yeah okay-” you spread your legs a little wider, leaning just a little further against the counter as Toby’s palm nudges ruthlessly against your sensitive clit.

He smiles wide, pressing his hips harder against your ass, grinding himself in time with his curling fingers as his free hand snakes up the front of your shirt, groping your tits. He’s becoming frantic, and you can only hope to keep up.

You bite down on your tongue to cut short your whiny moan as Toby presses the pad of his fingers into your g-spot. The depths of his eyes glitter dark with malevolent glee as you writhe between him and the counter—your body caught in a battle between wanting to chase what his fingers are doing and needing him to stop for two damn seconds so you can focus on not buckling under both his and your weight.

“Let it all out, c’mon sw-sweet girl, let me hear you,” he growls against your jaw, nipping against the skin there. Your hips jerk in time with his hand, body following the rub of his palm on your clit, feeling the ever-closer tightness in your gut.

He pulls out of you and begins to circle your clit once more.

Your frustration materialises in a noise that’s partway between a whine and a growl, and you throw your head back against his shoulder—dishevelled breathing nearly overshadowing the faint whistle building on the kettle.

There’s no controlling the way your hips roll to compliment his movements, even though you’re trapped against the counter thoroughly enough that your own movements are limited by Toby’s arm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?”

Your hips buck when he catches on a particularly sensitive spot, a desperate attempt to have his fingers press into your entrance again. But he moves with you, continuing only to draw stuttering patterns.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he repeats.

Your breaths have increased to a heavy pant, broken only by the small gasps and mewls at each movement he makes—all at once too much and not nearly enough. 

Maybe it’s the stance, or the overstimulation, or the fact that you’re about the cry if Toby doesn’t put his fucking fingers in your fucking pussy. But you’re slipping one hand off the counter and reaching back to tangle into his hair, dragging his gaze to meet yours.

“Please, Toby,” you pant. “I don’t care how fast you go, I do—hah—don’t care what you do. I just need to cum, right now. I need you to make me cum, Toby.”

Each word from your rambling mouth makes Toby’s eyes widen, grin growing wider and wider. He doesn’t need to be convinced any longer.

You mewl as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging against your walls as he begins a rapid, tear-jerking rhythm. He kisses and sucks at your ear, tugging on the lobe with a sharpness that has your eyes clamping shut and moans shrieking from your lips.

His free hand slithers from under your shirt to snag a bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to grind your hips down onto his hand, his own hips rutting against you like a dog.

“Yeah, Toby—Yeah.”

You moan as he scissors his fingers inside you. You’ve been so overwhelmed by sensations until now that you’re only just realising the kettle is nearly ready, faint whistle growing louder—as Toby’s fingers grew faster.

“C’mon, baby, almost there—al-almost there.”

He adds a third finger, and begins to pump into you with much more intention than before, the hilt of his palm purposefully rutting against your clit, cunt absolutely sloppy with your arousal in your panties.

“I’m close—Toby, ‘m so close, c’mon-”

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

His fingers hit a particularly sweet spot, and you gasp in approval as he begins to pick up speed, hitting that spot again and again, coaxing and curling and grinding his palm relentlessly against your clit.

Toby pays rapt attention to your face as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes dart between yours, and his lips curl upwards with every desperate sound that spills from you. He supports your weight while your legs tremble beneath you, and you cling to him for dear life as your stomach muscles shake, and coil ever tighter until everything inside you is pulled taut and—

The tension snaps. Your spine arches against him, his hips plowing against yours, and you cry out as the first relentless waves of your orgasm crash over you. Toby guides you through each pitiful swell with deep strokes that have you seeing stars. He doesn’t dare to let a single ripple of pleasure pass you by.

You’re still gasping for breath, knuckles white against the counter, thighs twitching where they press together, trying to regain some sense of control—but your body is spent, trembling, soaked through.

Toby’s palm is warm and steady where it rests between your legs, the heel of his hand applying just enough pressure to keep the mess contained while you come down from the high. His fingers slowly slip from you, careful not to overstimulate, though the ghost of them lingers, making you shudder in place.

Then—

The kettle screeches, high whistle filling the air.

Toby snorts through his nose, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a groan.

“Well, looks like I win,” he mutters, sounding slightly dazed himself.

You’re still catching your breath, legs barely cooperating. “I can’t move.”

He doesn’t hesitate—just guides you easily by the waist and back towards your bathroom, minding your still-sensitive body. He keeps one hand on your hip while grabbing a rag with the other, wetting it with warm tap water.

“Stay put,” he murmurs. “Lemme clean you up.”

You hum softly, dazed and grateful as he shimmies your pants and panties off of your hips and down your legs, this time not with lust, but with care. He eyes your soaked panties.

“Ruined ’em,” he comments, not unkindly. He gives you a cocky little smirk. “Might fra-frame ’em.”

“Gross,” you whisper, but there’s a sleepy smile on your face now.

His hands are gentle now—soft wipes between your thighs, slow dabs where the fabric is soaked. The wet heat of your panties clings uncomfortably, and without asking, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them down.

Once he’s done wiping you clean, he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek—reverent this time—and tugs your shirt down to cover you back up before standing. He moves with less twitch now, more grounded, like something has calmed the buzzing in his own nerves.

He wipes you gently, but when he shifts to toss the rag into the sink behind him, the movement presses his hoodie up just enough for you to see.

A dark, unmistakable patch soaks through the front of his jeans.

Your brows lift slowly, a smile creeping across your face. “Toby.”

He freezes, mid-reach. “…Yeah?”

You lean forward, tapping a finger against the wet spot on his pants. “Did you seriously come in your pants?”

He jerks slightly at the touch, groaning as if you’d just caught him doing something far worse. “Fu-Fuck, don’t say it like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears flush red through his messy hair. “You were… God, you were makin’ noises, s-squeezin’ my fingers, it felt so good grinding against you… I wasn’t exact-exactly in control.”

You snort, amused and charmed all at once. “Didn’t even get your dick touched, and you still—”

“Don’t,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh again, light and warm, and slide to stand in front of him. His hands instinctively land on your hips to steady you, but he avoids your eyes, embarrassed even though he’s the one who just made you come undone with his fingers alone.

“Hey,” you say gently, hands smoothing up under his hoodie, resting at his waist. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes open at that—cautious, a little wide. “You d-don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, smiling softly. “But I want to.”

He swallows hard as you pull him toward the sink where the rag lies, damp and forgotten. You grab a clean one instead and dampen it with warm water, testing the temperature before turning back to him. “Pants down, killer.”

He stares at you like you just said the most blasphemous thing imaginable. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you counter.

Toby groans in defeat, tugging open his jeans and boxers with minimal ceremony, wincing at the sticky mess inside them. You don’t laugh—not this time. Instead, you step between his legs, towel in hand, and meet his gaze with soft, adoring mischief.

“You really did make a mess,” you murmur, crouching slightly as you press the towel gently against him. You wipe him down with care, the same way he did for you—slow, soothing, careful not to tease too much, though it’s hard when you hear the little breathy sounds he makes.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, watching you like you’re some kind of religious experience. “Fuckin’ hell, watch your hands.”

“I just like seeing you flustered,” you tease, brushing the inside of his thigh lightly.

He hisses softly. “You’re mean.”

“I’m sweet,” you correct, finally finishing your gentle cleanup and tossing the towel into the sink behind you. “You’re just really easy to get riled.”

He grabs your waist again and pulls you up against him, nose brushing yours. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna make us both miss tea and bedtime.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, light as a feather. “Tempting. But I think I’ve earned my tea.”

You both fix your clothes, you slipping on a fresh pair of bottoms, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

The kettle is still whistling softly, having clicked off on its own. He moves to pour the water, and you slide to grab the mugs, still a little wobbly in the knees.

He steadies you with ease, eyes flicking down to check on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, curling into his side. “Yeah. Sleepy, now.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “My duty has been fulfi-fulfilled.”

He hands you your mug first—your favorite one, the one he always pretends not to use but definitely steals when you’re not home. He hands you a steaming cup of tea steeped to perfection, then takes his own and nudges you toward the couch.

You settle in against him, tucked under his arm, legs draped across his lap. He presses a palm to your thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you sip.

There’s still tension in your muscles, yes—but it’s softer now. Quiet. Manageable.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say quietly.

He hums, resting his head against yours. “Yeah, I did. You weren’t gon-gonna stop. You never do.”

“Hypocrite,” you snide, but he looks down at you with that rare, unfiltered softness.

“I want you tak-taken care of,” he says simply. “I beat too many randos up everyday. Sometimes I just wanna take care of somebody.”

Your heart swells. The tea in your hand warms your palms, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that fills your chest.

You lean into him, nose tucked into his hoodie, your body finally able to melt against something solid. He holds you there in silence, kissing the top of your head every so often.

The night is quiet now—no stress, no thoughts of work.

Just tea, Toby, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that’s completely and totally in sync with yours.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE

Arms wrap around you from behind. Firm. Familiar. Gloved hands press against your stomach, steadying you as you flinch and try to spin around, broom handle gripped tight.

“No need to scream,” his voice is low, calm, muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. “It’s just me.”

You tense. “Jesus, Hoodie!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You turn in his arms to face him—not able to see his expression beneath the worn fabric of his hood, but it doesn’t matter. The tension bleeding from his shoulders says enough. He’s tired, like you. But he’s here.

“You left the door wide open,” you mutter, pushing against his chest with a huff, his hand leaving your waist to remove the broom from your hands. “You know I’ve had the worst week. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought something happened.”

He nods, quiet, and doesn’t let you pull away too far. “I got the weekend off. I was going to surprise you. Thought I’d beat you home.”

You raise a brow. “So you decided to break in?”

“Technically, I have a key,” he mumbles under his breath.

You cross your arms, unimpressed.

“Okay,” he concedes with a sigh. “I messed up.”

Despite your irritation, a little huff of laughter escapes. He always does this—makes you want to stay mad just a little longer than you can actually hold it. Still, the adrenaline is slowly leaving your system now, and your body remembers how exhausted you are.

He watches you for a moment. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t press you. Instead, he steps out of your space and heads to the kitchen like he owns the place—and honestly, after all this time, maybe he kind of does. You hear the sounds of a mug being pulled down, the soft trickle of water filling the kettle. Cabinets opening. The scrape of a plate. It’s methodical. Gentle. Like he’s trying to undo the jolt he gave you.

You follow him, arms still crossed, trying not to let your annoyance outweigh your relief. On your way back, you flip off every light you had turned on in your frenzy, and make sure to shut the back door firmly.

Hoodie sets a steaming cup of tea in front of you a few minutes later and tugs the kitchen island chair back. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the one who scared you half to death. Let me make it up to you.”

You blink at him. That’s as close to a romantic apology as you’re probably going to get. So… you sigh, scoop up the tea, and scoot into the stool. 

The mug’s warmth sinks into your palms. You lift it to your lips, take a slow sip—earthy, floral, a little sweet—and let out a sigh. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it dulls a bit, enough to make you realize how tightly you’ve been holding everything inside.

Across the island, Hoodie leans against the counter, his own mug cradled loosely in one gloved hand. His head is tilted slightly, watching you in that quiet, patient way of his — like he’s giving you time to unwind, wordlessly encouraging you to talk without pushing. 

You glance up at him through tired lashes. “Long week,” you murmur.

He nods. “Figured.”

“You?”

A grunt of acknowledgement. “We were out on rotation. Recon, mostly.” He shifts a bit, pulling his hood down with one hand and sliding the mask up above his nose just enough to drink. “Nothing exciting, but… exhausting.”

You frown a little. “You’re back early. That usually means something went wrong.”

He shrugs. “Not wrong. Just… tense.” A pause. “Tim’s been on edge.”

“More than usual?”

“Mhm.”

You blow softly on your tea, letting the heat curl against your lips. “Work’s been hell. My boss is a micromanaging narcissist and I’ve had two people quit in the last ten days. One of them cried in the break room before they left.”

Hoodie hums, like he’s picturing that too vividly. “You quit yet?”

You let out a dry little laugh. “I fantasize about it. Daily.”

“Do it,” he says simply. “I’ll hide the body.”

You roll your eyes, but the grin sneaks in anyway. “Not every problem can be solved by murder.”

“That’s where we differ.”

Another beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward. Just shared weariness between two people who trust each other to hold the quiet without needing to fill it.

Then Hoodie lifts the front of his sweatshirt to his nose, sniffs himself, and grimaces.

You raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We really are disgusting.”

You smirk into your cup. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you do smell like old sweat and outside.”

He glares at you over the rim of his mug. “You smell like stress and three-day-old coffee.”

“Fair.”

He finishes the last of his drink, sets it down with a soft clink, then pushes away from the counter. “Come on. Shower.”

You blink, surprised. “Together?”

He pauses. His body language doesn’t change, but you can feel the way his attention snaps to you—heavy and focused like a shift in air pressure.

You weren’t trying to sound suggestive, not really. But the way his eyes darken just slightly beneath the mask, the subtle way he squares his shoulders—it hits you low in your stomach.

“…That an invitation?” he asks, voice lower now. Rougher.

You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Yeah. It is.”

The tension that follows is thick—not awkward, but heavy with something slow-burning, simmering beneath the exhaustion. Craving contact and comfort in the most stripped-down way.

He doesn’t move quickly. Just steps around the island and stops in front of you, gloved fingers brushing yours where they rest against the mug. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

Because when his hand slides into yours and you let him lead you down the hallway, it’s not about rushing or undoing the tension with heat—it’s about scrubbing off the week, the weight, the grime, together.

The bathroom is quiet, lit only by the small bulb over the mirror and the faint orange glow bleeding in from the hallway. You pad in behind him, feet soft against the tile, while Hoodie reaches for the knobs on the shower.

The pipes groan as hot water spills from the head, steam rising slowly. His gloves come off first, dropped beside the sink in a damp little thud. You reach out without a word, your hands brushing his as you move to help—first with his sweatshirt, tugging the hem up, his arms lifting in silent permission.

He watches you the entire time. You can’t see his eyes fully behind the fabric, but you feel them. Heavy. Focused. You pull the hoodie up over his head and it catches briefly on his mask—the cloth tight over his jaw—and you freeze. One hand lifts gently, thumb brushing the edge of the mask just above his cheekbone.

His body tenses.

“I don’t have to,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

So slowly, carefully, you slide the mask up and off—exposing his mouth, his knotted brows, the quiet twitch of nerves along his throat as he swallows. His blond hair is messy, but you don’t care to fix it. You don’t stare. You just fold the fabric and set it aside, stepping close enough to press a kiss just beneath his chin. He exhales—long and low—and his hands settle on your hips, grounding himself.

Then it’s your turn.

You tug your own shirt over your head, his hands slipping around your back as soon as it’s gone. You feel him press a kiss to your collarbone, soft and unhurried, while you make quick work of the rest—pants, socks, underwear. He follows suit, until the only thing between you is warmth and anticipation.

The shower is fogged by the time you step in.

The hot spray hits your shoulders first, drawing a sigh from you both. You lean back against him as he closes the curtain behind you, his body flush against yours, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist. The water beads down your skin, over your back, between your bodies.

Neither of you speak.

His hands start slow—washing, soothing, mapping the lines of your body like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You do the same, fingers sliding across the plane of his chest, up to his shoulders. You trace the curve of his neck, the muscles tense beneath your fingertips, and he lets out a low hum that vibrates against your back.

His hands wander lower, over your stomach, hips, the inside of your thighs. Not demanding—just feeling. Exploring without pressure.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Still feel gross?” you murmur.

His lips brush your ear. “Not even a little.”

You laugh, breathless, and twist in his arms so you’re facing him. The spray catches you both in the face, so he shifts slightly, shielding you with his body. One hand cups your jaw, the other smoothing over your lower back, pulling you closer.

Your chest presses to his, slick and warm under the water.

He doesn’t kiss you yet—just watches, eyes roaming your features like he’s trying to memorize every expression. One of your hands comes up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. He’s so much more real like this. Human. Not the shadow you’ve grown used to meeting in alleyways or at your back door.

You lean in. Your lips touch his.

It’s slow. Not rushed or hungry—just hot, steady, present. He kisses you like he means it, like it matters. Like being here, with you, is the only thing that’s made his week feel real.

His hand slides down again, fingers brushing the swell of your ass, pulling you in. Your thighs meet his hips. Your body melts against him.

And it’s not just comfort anymore. It’s hunger in disguise.

The spray from the shower rolls heat around you, hot and soothing—but the real heat is pressed against you. He turns you, Hoodie’s chest flush to your back, his hands skimming up your sides, palms calloused but purposeful. Every touch is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s tracing your nerves from memory.

One hand finds your jaw, turning your face slightly so he can kiss you again—slow, deep, his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to sink into you. The other dips lower, brushing your stomach, your hip, until he’s between your thighs.

You gasp, fingers gripping his wrist.

His palm flattens across your mound, his fingertips dipping between your thighs with featherlight pressure—teasing, exploring. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches your face tilt slightly toward his, breath quickening when his fingers stroke along your slit.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “Just relax for me.”

Your body leans into his, already giving in.

You’re already wet. Not just from the water—him.

A low, satisfied hum escapes his throat. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper as he drags his middle finger up slowly, parting you, brushing right over your clit. His fingers are big, his entire palm covering your cunt and making you squirm.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs against your temple.

“God—yes…”

You feel his smirk more than you see it. His lips graze your ear, breath hot, teasing.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

His hand moves with a firmer purpose now. His middle finger dips between your folds, gliding down to your entrance, and slowly—so fucking slowly—he pushes the first knuckle in. Your back arches against him as his finger sinks deep, curling slightly, testing the way your walls squeeze around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound husky, almost reverent. “So tight…”

You whine, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand comes up to brace your chest, sliding across your ribs, then down again—holding you still as he starts to move his finger, curling it gently with each pump. The water pours down over both of you, but all you feel is him—every slow press, every filthy grind of his palm against your clit.

You’ve barely had time to adjust when he’s pushing another finger.

Your legs nearly give out.

“Easy,” he murmurs, shifting his body behind yours to support your weight. “I’ve got you.”

The stretch of his fingers—thick, deep, perfect—has your mouth falling open in a gasp. He keeps them pumping in a steady rhythm, thumb circling your clit now with increasing pressure, drawing tight little spirals that make your stomach flutter.

“You feel that?” His voice is in your ear again, ragged and dark. “How wet you are for me? How fucking hard you’re squeezing?”

You nod helplessly, body tensing with every thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

“I—fuck—I’m so wet for you,” you breathe, barely able to form the words. “Feels so good, Brian—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice cracked with restraint. “Let me make you cum. Let me feel you lose it.”

His fingers drive deeper, faster now—fingers still curled, stroking that sweet spot inside you over and over, his thumb unrelenting on your clit. Your knees start to shake. One of your hands flies up to brace the slick tile while the other scrambles to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life.

Your body is falling apart under him.

Every drag of Hoodie’s fingers has you writhing—hips rocking, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling to grip the slick wall for leverage as your orgasm builds fast and hard. The water from the shower pelts your chest and stomach, but all you can feel is him—his broad chest flush to your back, his breath hot and steady in your ear, and those thick, relentless fingers stroking deeper inside you with every second.

But your body’s fighting it.

Too much pleasure. Too intense. Your hips twitch forward, your spine arches, your whole body bucks instinctively to escape the overwhelming stimulation—

He doesn’t let you go.

Suddenly his chest is pressing harder into your back, and both your wrists are yanked behind you, caught in his grip. His free hand locks around them tight, pulling your arms behind you in a rough, controlled hold that drags a breathless cry from your lips.

“Stay still,” he growls into your ear, voice low, commanding, not up for argument.

Your gasp is punched out of you as the new position throws your balance off—spine arched, chest pushed forward, legs shaking as you try not to collapse under the weight of your own pleasure. You’re pinned now. Arms locked behind your back, completely open to him, vulnerable, dripping wet, and aching.

The fingers inside you don’t slow down. If anything—they get rougher.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” you gasp, hips grinding into his hand, chasing the release that’s almost too much too fast.

“Not gonna,” he grits. “Wanna feel you break for me. Right here. Right now.”

He plunges deep with every stroke, knuckle-deep, curling his fingers in a punishing rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His palm grinds against your clit now, adding even more pressure—building you to a fever pitch, pushing you over that edge harder than you were ready for.

“F-Fuck, Brian—!” you cry out, voice shaking.

“You wanted to cum so bad,” he hisses into your hair. “Then cum for me. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body goes tense—knees buckling, thighs squeezing shut around his hand as your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your scream tears from your throat, raw and high and completely involuntary. 

“That’s it… good girl… fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so good for me.”

Your walls clench around his fingers like a vice, pulsing so violently it almost hurts. He groans low against your ear, gripping your wrists tighter behind you, holding you steady while you thrash against him, shaking and twitching through it.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice reverent. “Look at you…”

You’re panting, trembling, your body sagging against him as your orgasm crests and crashes. Your knees start to give, and Hoodie finally releases your wrists, catching you before you can drop. His arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to your front again to gently cup between your thighs, rubbing softly as the aftershocks leave you whimpering.

“Shhh… easy now,” he whispers. “I got you. It’s over. You did so good.”

His nose nuzzles against your temple. His other hand lifts to brush the hair back from your face as you catch your breath.

You melt back into him, boneless and flushed and soaking wet—in more ways than one.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You nod weakly, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Jesus.”

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you clean. Then I’ll carry you to bed.”

His fingers leave you slowly, the tight ring of muscle clamping as you gush around him, and you can feel your body flutter around the absence, still sensitive, still twitching. But now it’s gentle again—his touches soft, calming. And the steady weight of him holding you upright, even when you can’t stand.

The water runs warm over your skin, steam curling lazily around your shoulders as you lean your back into Hoodie’s chest, heart still hammering beneath your ribs. Your thighs twitch now and then with the aftershocks, but his arms are steady around you—one curled low around your waist, the other reaching for the washcloth.

You don’t even flinch when he starts cleaning you up.

He does it slowly, gently—as if he’s smoothing away every trembling breath you let out. Between your thighs, the soft cloth catches the slick remnants of your release, and he’s careful. Tender. Like it’s important to him you know you’re not just some frayed thing he unraveled for fun.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you once, slow and warm, then returns to washing you, rinsing off the sweat and tension like he can scrub away everything that made your week hard.

“You good?” he asks quietly after a while.

You nod, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I just melted a little.”

He chuckles low. “That was the goal.”

You roll your eyes, smile soft. “You’re smug.”

“Only when I earn it.”

You hum in response, watching the water swirl around your feet. It’s quiet for a few seconds. The kind of silence that feels like the weight has been lifted from your chest. You take a long breath in—and for the first time in days, your muscles don’t resist.

Your voice comes softer now. “I don’t feel as tense anymore.”

“Because I fucked the stress out of you?” he deadpans against your ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

You reach behind you and swat his hip.

“No,” you say, turning your head slightly. “Because you’re here.”

That gets him.

You can see his face, but Hoodie has always been more of a body language guy—the way his arms tighten around you, the way his chin dips slightly to rest on your shoulder—yeah, you got him.

“I missed you,” you add. “Even your dumb sarcasm.”

“I missed you more,” he says without hesitation. “And I hate everything, so that’s saying a lot.”

You huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Let’s rinse off so we don’t turn into raisins.”

He grumbles but helps you finish washing the rest of your body, then lets you return the favor—dragging the cloth over his chest, down his arms, across the curve of his hipbone. You take your time, watching the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch, the way he bites back little groans when your fingers wander too low for too long.

“Careful,” he warns under his breath as you rake your nails over his abdomen. “You’re gonna restart something you just recovered from.”

You give him a slow smirk. “I’m just learning the terrain, soldier.”

He stares at you for a long second, then turns off the water without a word—stepping out first, grabbing two towels and handing you one. You both dry off, sharing lazy touches and lingering glances in the soft bathroom light. 

You glance at him in the reflection.

Still bare, hair damp, mask long gone—Hoodie looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your spine, the way your expression softens when you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, toweling off your arms.

He just shrugs, eyes warm. “You look like you again.”

Your hands slow. “Was I looking like someone else?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Just… you look lighter.”

You smile, small and sincere.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to pad into the bedroom, bodies warm and lazy from the shower. You throw on one of his old black shirts, oversized and soft, and he tosses on some sweatpants he left here last time, towel-drying his hair half-heartedly before flopping onto the mattress.

You climb in beside him, crawling over his chest until you’re straddling his hips.

He raises a brow. “Starting round two?”

You grin and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not yet. Just getting in position for when I do.”

He groans, palm dragging over his face. “Jesus. You were just screaming five minutes ago.”

“And now I’m thriving.” You dip down and murmur against his ear, “Next time, I’m gonna make you squirm.”

His hands find your thighs, squeezing once. “Promises, promises.”

You settle in beside him, curling against his side, the both of you tangled under the covers, body to body and nothing between. It’s the kind of peace that only comes after wreckage—the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to let go.

And as you close your eyes, cheek pressed to his chest, you realize something.

You’re not thinking about work. You’re not thinking about deadlines. You’re not thinking about anything but the weight of his hand on your hip and the sound of his breathing. You’re not just less stressed.

You’re home, and falling asleep easily for the first time in days.

This was an anonymous request!

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[kurooh]

⊹₊˚. FALL BACK INTO PLACE — GOJO SATORU

warnings ☆ gn! reader, hurt/comfort, set 1 year after the shinjuku showdown, scarjo our KING, descriptions of injury, insecurity over weight & appearance.

it begins with pants that are tighter than they should be around his waist. with his shoulders squared and his spine as straight as it can be, satoru stands in front of the mirror in the anatomical position.

the tobi trousers no longer hang as low on his hips, and the areas which had once been baggy have now filled out. it’s unbelievable, really. he’s had these god damn pants since he was in high school—a gift from suguru, who got him a white pair so they could match in their own little way—and now they’re practically splitting at the seams. fabric is tighter in places where it shouldn’t be, and the pants don’t move as airily as they once did when he walks.

“‘toru?” you call from the shower, unsuspecting and sweet.

with a quiet hiss, satoru sheds his shirt and smiles when he replies, “i’ll join you in two more minutes!”

a jagged white scar, similar in shape to a lightning strike, stretches across his middle. it is the most impressive mutilation on his body, and is fairly identical to the smaller gashes littering the rest of his skin from head to toe. those are ugly papercuts in the grand scheme of things, but the gnarled slash distinctly separating his top half from the bottom grows sensitive just from looking at it too long.

satoru peels away the tobi trousers and boxers in one slow motion, letting the clothing pool at his feet. his visual odyssey begins at his face; very scarred and totally badass, with eyes like diamonds inlaid on each side of his nose. it pauses at his chest, where he contemplates its current form and compares it to what it used to look like.

as the strongest, satoru made sure to completely live up to his title. he got his body into shape and maintained every single line or ridge of muscle definition meticulously. but as he stares into the mirror, he wonders how a body like this could’ve belonged to someone crowned as the strongest. the planes of his chest look much softer now, with much of the muscle having dwindled away during his recovery. white cuts of uneven lengths are scattered all over his skin and in every single direction, with one or two stretching all the way from his shoulder to his hip, like a seatbelt.

it resumes at his midsection, where the most damage had been done. if it hadn’t been for shoko’s extensive care and treatment that had lasted two whole weeks, he wouldn’t even be alive right now. he still remembers fading in and out of consciousness for the first few minutes he’d gotten picked up, before he was promptly knocked into a comatose state by all of the drugs.

satoru blinks away the memory of your crying face as you stood over him, helping to push the gurney. apprehensively, as if afraid it’ll tear open again, he reaches a hand toward the huge scar and exhales through his nose once he gets his fingers on it. when he looks a half inch lower, his neutral expression morphs into one of disgust.

god, he’s really let himself go, hasn’t he?

an unsightly layer of fat envelops his abdomen, warping it into something unfamiliar. it’s been so long, he barely remembers what he used to look like before having defined musculature. even worse, his abs were absolutely his pride and joy—you definitely had a thing for them, too—and now they’re buried under that god damn mess.

satoru’s been the strongest for so long that he doesn’t know what else he can be if he no longer is.

it grinds to a halt once his eyes finally fall upon his thighs. they’re much wider now, the thickest they’ve ever been, and he wants to bust out a hundred squats right then and there. maybe he’s been eating too many carbs, drinking too much fruit juice—no, that’s not something to worry about. he could make better dietary decisions any day, but none of that could change the white scars streaking the tender skin of his inner thighs. it’s not just there, either; they’re like their own brand, marring his skin with memories.

my god, he’s ruined.

satoru begins pacing in the small bathroom, turning over solutions in his head like stones. it’s been a year since the showdown, yes, but should this have happened the way it did? if he hadn’t listened to you, shoko, or the exhaustion weighing his limbs down, maybe he could’ve started training, taken his recovery by the reins.

he thinks back to when he waited for you to leave the house so he could exercise in the living room. if you’d been there, you would’ve dragged him up and told him he better not attempt to do anything if he knew what was good for him. but playing along with your threats could only go on for so long; three months had passed since the showdown, and he got ready to do some pushups.

yes, he’d felt some strain when he was stretching, and yes, he paid it absolutely no mind, simply writing it off as inevitable soreness. so when he did a single pushup, it hurt, but he couldn’t stop there. if it only hurt a little doing one, he could manage that easily—he did another, and promptly curled up into the fetal position with tears burning in his eyes.

okay, it might’ve been too early to exercise his core. but still, why would he let that stop him from rebuilding himself?

“heyyy, c’mon. i need you to help me wash my back and—”

satoru tunes you out and clutches the edge of the sink, letting his head hang so he doesn’t make the mistake of looking in the mirror. he’s still trying to stomach seeing his entire body at once, and he doesn’t need to see the same horror movie again.

he’s never been like . . this before. not once has he encountered an injury he couldn’t heal with his reverse curse technique, and now he’s unable to lift a damn finger. no jujutsu, period, shoko had bluntly said. she went on to explain that using a reverse curse technique to heal just a surface level injury could cause his brain to hemorrhage, and that she healed him as much as she possibly could. in other words, his body would have to adjust to both scarring and chronic pain.

fuck.

fuck.

without thinking, he slams his fists down on the counter and feels the effects of it reverberate through his body, which makes its way back to his weakened core. sharp and smarting, pain lances through him like one of sukuna’s slashes.

it hits him so hard his jaw drops and he collapses to his knees, protectively wrapping his arms around himself. in a desperate attempt to soothe himself through it, he strokes his fingertips against his sides and tries to breathe, even though the slightest of movements agitates the injury again.

uncontrollable shudders rock his body, amplifying the excruciating pain and also reducing his breaths to shallow, ragged pants. the sound of the shower gradually fades into static, and as satoru holds himself, his vision grows hazy. it hurts, much more than anything he’s ever known, and the realization that something has actually dropped him to his knees doubles as a sucker punch.

you’re at his side in an instant, a bottle of prescribed medication in one hand and a small cup of water in the other. you don’t make the mistake of touching him, but he vaguely hears you say something, tone reassuring as you can make it. slowly, he drops his arms from his sides, and presses his palms into the floor, trying to control his breathing.

two white pills sit in your hand, ready for him to grab, but he opens his mouth instead. gently, as if the slightest touch could hurt him, you slip the medicine into his mouth and raise the cup of water to his lips. it looks like the cap on the mouthwash bottle, and tastes like it was hastily filled with warm shower water.

“you’re dripping wet,” satoru points out, breaking the silence.

you roll your eyes, without the usual sass. “wait, really?” water runs off of your skin, falling to the floor and puddling. for emphasis, you shake your wet hands away from him, voice lilting. “i hadn’t noticed, satoru.”

he laughs shortly, averting his eyes when he sees the concern wash over your face. satoru hates it when you worry over him, or treat him like he’ll shatter from the simplest physical contact. your hugs are looser, your kisses are a little lighter, and you’re careful not to get too close when he’s in the throes of an episode.

“i’m okay,” he assures you, lightly cupping your dewy cheek. his eyes meet yours, a little worn down at the corners, and a smile tugs at his lips once you lean into his palm. “thank you.”

“how come you didn’t get into the shower?” curiously, your eyes wander to his midsection, and he feels the urge to twist away like he’s just been probed. “i was waiting for you.”

“just got caught up admiring myself,” satoru noticeably shutters, and your eyes return to his face. “i was gonna get in. i didn’t mean to worry you, sweets.”

“i heard a thud,” you begin, distress flashing across your face as you recount what had happened, “i figured it was something like this. any idea what brought it on?”

all one hundred and ninety centimeters of him had been a slouched heap on the floor when you raced out of the shower, soap suds clinging to you and water cascading down every inch of your body. it hurt to see him like that, wrapped up in himself and frantically trying to self-soothe, too weak to reach the pill bottle on the counter.

you’ve seen him at his weakest, and yet, satoru still finds it in himself to tell a white lie. “i’m not very sure. see, i was getting undressed, but then i got caught in the clothes and fell right over.”

right when he thinks he’s convinced you, you pull away from him and let out a tired sigh, looking less than impressed. the thud you had heard sounded more intentional than that of a falling body. “uh huh. what really happened, satoru?”

after a drawn-out pause, he exhales through his nose and musters up some courage. you seeing his problems is one thing, but him talking about them is something entirely different. “i, uh, got a little stuck, i guess.”

satoru shifts closer, and the tension dissipates from his shoulders when your hand finds the center of his back. in careful, comforting motions, your palm smooths up and down his upper back.

“kinda hard adjusting to all of this, y’know?” he hears his voice, notices the hollowness in it, and feels like a spectator in the room. “for the first time, everything’s completely out of my hands. i’ll never . . be able to get myself back to the way i was.”

this is the first time he has actually said this aloud, and it stings. his cheeks flush with hot emotion and he grinds his teeth, clenching his fists. he’s thankful you’re so quiet, because it feels like he’s talking to himself, and that makes it easier to get the words out. “it’s so messed up. i mean, god, just look at me,” one sidelong glance to his midsection and then everything immediately below it sends him into an unexpected spiral. “can’t heal myself, can’t walk upright, can’t even do a fucking pushup. shoko, she—she put everything back together, reconstructed it just enough for survival, yeah, but that’s not—it isn’t living!”

satoru’s head falls into his hands and his spine curves forward, agitating his core muscles. with the double dose of medication in him, he doesn’t concern himself with the brief discomfort, knowing that it’ll fade away fairly soon. the first time he’d taken the pills, he wanted to suck down the whole bottle! the way just one or two could block the pain from going to his brain was absolutely euphoric; but the strain on his liver would get to him before anything else could.

“i don’t have my own agency anymore. i can’t work out, so i see whatever the hell i’m eating hanging off me the next time i look into the mirror. eating strictly doesn’t do a damn thing if i can’t exercise along with it.”

his back trembles under your hand, and he sighs frustratedly, trying to regain control over himself. “i couldn’t,” and his voice cracks ever so slightly, growing quieter, “i couldn’t reach up to get the pills. if you hadn’t . . i would’ve passed out.”

the admission is a weight lifted off of his chest and one dropped onto yours. it hangs in the air like steam after a shower, and silence settles over the small bathroom, blanketing everything.

“it’s not the same, satoru, i know it isn’t,” you have to fight to keep his name from trembling on your lips; you’re supposed to be comforting him, not the other way around. “it’s been a year, but you’ve made so much progress since all of this happened. your body’s still healing, and who knows how strong you’ll be by next year? you have to be patient, baby. give yourself more time and credit.”

he laughs bitterly, “credit? i let my guard down. this is my fault.”

“no, it’s not,” you insist, exhaling shakily. satoru’s breathing is heavy and his face is tucked away into his hands; he looks defeated, and you wish you knew what to say. “none of this is. i—you were up against a demon, who nearly killed you. if there’s anyone to blame, it’s him.”

he doesn’t reply, but after some time, satoru’s spine slackens, and you can hear his breathing shift. the medicine finally seems to be doing its job now, and he moves to rest his head against your chest, careful not to jostle his lower back.

“i’m here for you, satoru. every step of the way, okay?” your voice is barely above a whisper, but he nods, his eyes looking glossy. “i know it’s harder than you make it seem, but this isn’t the same as before. you’re not alone. you have me, shoko, your students . . we’re all in your corner. a few more months of physical therapy, and you’ll be able to do some of the things you’ve been talking about. it won’t be perfect, of course, but it’s progress, which is the most important part.”

although he’s buried in the drugs and surrendering to the drowsiness, satoru hears you—really hears you, in the kind of way he only could if he were slotted on your chest after just having told you everything. he isn’t the strongest anymore—he is no longer untouchable and on his own because of it.

when he was bleeding out and turning gray on that battlefield, he saw something flash before his eyes. it hadn’t been a rapid montage of memories, but rather something he’d never experienced. he saw a second chance, one that had taken place in a world without jujutsu or the weight of a title on his shoulders. perhaps him surviving his injuries was this life’s twisted way of keeping him here to live out the nightmare of recovery before he could make it to that daydream he’d been chasing since suguru left.

this is what safety feels like—the slide of skin against skin, warm and wet. satoru closes his eyes, and drifts off.

[cloudwisp]

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 · 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

contents: fluff. established relationship. found family. megumi takes up baking and it takes you back to your teenage years when a certain white-haired someone pined for you. 1.4k wc.

Nine year old Megumi has a crush on someone. You were pleasantly surprised when he asked you to take him to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients, and you inquired if there was a special occasion or a school cooking project as you both walked along the aisle and collected the items on his list that he prepared beforehand.

Your heart melts when you learn that he was planning to gift the pretty girl in his class something homemade, and he decided on butter cookies because she mentioned in passing that it was one of her favorite snacks. You think it’s incredibly sweet that Megumi came up with the idea himself, and even more so that he wanted to set aside a weekend to create something completely from scratch with his own two hands when purchasing a square tin would’ve been much easier.

It certainly reminds you of an insufferable yet equally lovable sorcerer that’s way too tall for his own good with too bright blue eyes that make you forget everything around you if you stare into them a little too long. When you both were just two young teenagers pining after each other and he showed up with a white pastry box hidden behind his back on a summer day, with the strawberries in season and nurtured and harvested to perfection. You smile at the pleasant memory before forcing yourself back to reality.

When you are getting ready to pay for the things you and Megumi placed on the conveyor belt, he stops you and pulls out his Digimon wallet (courtesy of Gojo’s taste in presents) and explains he wants to purchase it with his own savings and be able to say that this gift is entirely by him without receiving any help from others.

You almost had to hold back a tear because when did this boy become so sweet? You suppose he always was this sweet and thoughtful, it just took a bit of time and some trust for him to fully warm up to you and Gojo despite the circumstances with his family and almost being sold off like a pawn to the Zenin clan. And now he has a home where him and his sister could feel like they belong and be surrounded with people that he could depend on because at the end of the day Megumi is just a boy much too young to be growing up too fast.

You announce your return home to Gojo and Tsumiki with the soft thud of the grocery bags being placed on the kitchen counter, and Megumi scurries into his bedroom to fetch the printed recipe he tucked away in a drawer. You carefully take out each item from the bags to place on the surface for him to get started, and white tufts of hair come into your peripherals and Gojo greets you with a cheeky grin.

“Angel, you’re back.” His hand falls on your hip and he softly pecks your lips when you turn your head toward him. He does a quick scan of the contents in front of you, and he decides you must be some kind of mind reader or his telepathic messages have finally reached you after several days now. “Aw baby~ Don’t tell me you’re baking something for me? How did you know I was craving—”

“Not me.” You shake your head and cut him off promptly. “Megumi.” And at the mention of his name, the young raven-haired boy enters the kitchen with a loose paper in his grip. You offer him a polite smile before addressing that everything he needs is on the counter and point to where the baking equipment are, and if he has any questions or concerns then you’ll be in the next room with Gojo as you drag your boyfriend by the arm to give Megumi his privacy.

“You see, Satoru, our Megumi here has a crush on someone. And he’s taken it upon himself to bake her cookies!” You say just above a whisper, a proud smile lining your lips and Gojo arches a curious brow. You catch a peek between the threshold that separates the kitchen and sitting area with Gojo looming behind you and find Megumi checking off the ingredients and looking over the instructions. He’s being thorough, that’s a good start.

“Megumi, eh? You know, I’m a little surprised he’s crushing at all. He’s quite the serious kid.”

You huff at him softly. “Well, serious or not, I think everyone is allowed to have crushes. Besides, doesn’t this remind you of something? Like that time you baked me a strawberry shortcake because strawberries were my favorite?” You look back up at him, and in your gaze there was always a sort of sweet and dreamy expression that never fails to make his heart swell three times too big.

“Ah.” Gojo chuckles, and his mind drifts back to the fond memories of his own youth, when he too used to try his hand at baking sweets in the hopes of impressing you. He remembered how long it took and how many attempts he made since he had no prior experience. There was a lot of flour and eggshells, and maybe he did set the oven on fire… but the moment he saw your face light up with your beautiful smile it was worth all the trouble and the mess. “That was the cake that changed it all for us, huh?” His arms move to your waist and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

You nod and hum affectionately, your hands reaching up to wrap around his neck though with his height he had to bend down slightly. “That’s one way to put it. But as much as I appreciate the sweet gesture, I am so glad you left the baking to me since then.”

“You’re still teasing me about that to this day?” He playfully nips the sensitive spot on your neck causing you to giggle and lightly shove him away. “But hey, I never claimed to be a master chef. A little bird told me that maybe a homemade cake from me would be the thing to win your heart.”

“Well, I hope you know it was more than the cake that won my heart.”

“Yeah, I know it was my good looks and charm, you can’t get enough of me.” Gojo teases, peppering kisses over your shoulders and neck before pulling back just enough so his smirk comes into your view. “Enlighten me then. Since I still don’t have a clue why an Angel like you fell for a great catch such like myself.”

You playfully roll your eyes at his jokes, and you mull it over for a long moment to purposely keep him in anticipation. There are so many reasons that made you love Satoru Gojo back then, and every day you find new things to love about him. But for now the two qualities that come to mind should suffice for an answer. “Maybe it’s because I found you funny. And cute sometimes.”

“Sometimes? Cute most times, I think.” Gojo quips, and he gently pinches your cheeks. “And of course, my sense of humor is legendary. Who else can make you laugh like I do, hmm?”

“Alright, I think that’s enough flattery for you in one day. Any more and I’m afraid your enormous ego might burst.” There’s a teasing lilt in your voice, and suddenly the air around you feels sweeter as Gojo brings you closer to him and kisses your cheeks before resting his forehead against yours.

“But you know I love you, right?” He says in a much softer tone. “I might tease you a lot and act like an idiot sometimes, but I do appreciate you still being here with me through it all. Without you, I don’t want to imagine what my life would be like without you. You make me a better person, you know that?” He tenderly cradles the side of your face and gazes lovingly into your eyes before there’s a flash of his dimples and a boyish giggle. “And the fact you think I’m cute is icing on the cake. Pun intended.”

You groan softly but the laughter that came shortly after is one of genuine affection. “I'm gonna go check on Megumi.” Before you turn on your heel, you plant a big smooch on his cheek then you’re gone the next second. He stands there, grinning from ear to ear as he rubs the spot you kissed like he still was (and he still is) the lovesick boy just a few years back.

꒰ note ᰔ the idea where megumi takes after gojo in some ways really squeezes my heart and that’s what inspired this little piece. ꒱

[slushycoookie]

Between Two Worlds ~ Loser! Miguel O'Hara x Stripper! Reader (Pt.7)

★ Word Count: 6.5k

★ Content: Uh oh Dana alert. Tyler alert too. There's fun in a hot tub. Intense making out. Oral sex (male receiving). Vaginal fingering. A lot of sexual tension in here. Minors DNI!

★ A/N: This is wayyy longer than the every other week time frame that I wanted to set, but it's okay y'all are gonna be eating good this chapter. Let's just say this an early New Year's gift from me. Enjoy!

⁺˚⋆｡°✩Prev | Next ✩°｡⋆˚⁺ Masterlist | Commissions

“Did you just arrive?”

Miguel nods, pointing at the front desk behind him, “Yeah. The room's not ready yet.”

“I see.” Dana’s eyes check out his attire and the bag filled with snacks dangling from his arm. “How was your drive?”

“Good. Fun. Yours?”

“We didn't drive.” Miguel’s brow raises when she continues, “I told Tyler I'm not a fan of long car rides so we flew.”

“You…don't like long car rides?”

As Dana shakes her head, memories of all of the long trips they took together flashed in his mind. Even back in college, when they drove for eight hours to attend a festival she wanted to go to in Virginia. No hint of discomfort when they piled into his dad's mini-van, blasting songs that would play at the festival the entire time.

His hand rests on his churning stomach.

“It’s…it's good Tyler was able to accommodate you.”

“Yeah, it is.” Her gentle smile makes him sicker. He wants to know where you are, to get away as far as possible. “I know I asked before but, are you sure you'll be ok?”

Miguel’s throat clears, “What do you mean-oh.” Amusement lingers in his throat, “Yeah I will be.”

“Are you sure? We can have dinner later on tonight if you want-”

“Hi, baby!” You crash into him, hugging his side tightly. “My bad for taking so long. I had to call my mom to let her know we arrived safely and then I had to text the group chats to let them know too.”

Miguel immediately wrap his arm around you, his laughter coming out and directed at your presence. The sickness in his stomach goes away and butterflies remain.

“You’re okay.”

“Miggy? Who's this?”

He hasn't heard that nickname from her since they separated. Xina used it for him back in high school and Dana caught on. She'd only used it when being overly affectionate.

You face her, a smile so wide that appears to be genuine. Miguel knows it's fake. You resort that smile to the rudest customers at The Weave.

He introduces you to Dana and you shake hands. It goes on a little bit long as he watches Dana access you. She does that when she's trying to feel out someone. To see if she likes them or not.

“It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” Dana flashes a polite smile, “I'm sorry, I was under the impression that Miguel would be alone this year.”

“And why would you think that?”

Your head tilts, feigning confusion. Dana shortly laughs. “Well, he didn't tell me that he was bringing another woman along. Given it's been, what a few months since our break up?”

Almost six, but who's counting?

“I thought you wanted him to take your advice? You know, about moving on?”

“Oh.” She stammers, “I-I guess I did tell him that.”

The beeper goes off in his hand and it's time to escape.

“Our room is ready now.”

“Yay!” You kiss his cheek. “I'm so ready to put my stuff down I am tired.”

Miguel beams, “So am I.” He turns back to Dana, “You mentioned something about dinner, right?”

“Oh yes!” She recollects herself, “We're going to this Japanese restaurant. I can squeeze you, uh you two in if you want?”

You glance over at him, waiting. Avoiding Dana and Tyler was something he wanted to try and do all weekend. But it would be a good opportunity to lessen his anxiety. And you'll be there.

“Sure. What time?”

“Is seven okay?”

Miguel looks over to you and you nod, “Seven is great.”

The room at the hotel is a one bedroom suite.

When walking in there's a kitchenette to the right and a living room area straight ahead. Going further in the suite was the bedroom, with a king sized bed and a spacious bathroom on the right. It contains a large glass door shower that can easily fit him and you inside.

The best part is the hot tub.

You're in awe seeing a patio connected to the bedroom. A hot tub sat in the middle of a gorgeous view of the lake that's nearby the hotel. The walls on each side seal the deal on how private it is.

No one can say Alchemax doesn't treat it's employees well.

“It has a massage feature.” Miguel picks up the remote, “And it changes the color of the water.”

“You already sold me on the private hot tub. I will definitely use this later.”

The two of you waste no time unpacking for the event tomorrow. Just to get everything out of the way before relaxing for the rest of the evening.

“So, I thought you wanted to avoid them this entire trip.”

Miguel grimaces, “I did. Then she sprung dinner on me and I thought that maybe we should go. It'd make the banquet less awkward.”

You hum, not saying anything else when you hand him your dress. He briefly admires the sparkle from it before looking at your face. It's lowered and he's unsure if you're upset with him.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's fine, Miggy.”

He pouts when you use his nickname in that way. In a condescending tone.

Miguel comes closer, brushing against you with his chest. A corner of your lips go up, but you try to hide it. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

You pause momentarily before snorting, “Maybe you can eat me out. Then I'd feel better.”

“Okay.” He checks the time on his watch, two hours before going to dinner. “Let me brush my teeth first.”

“Whoa wait!” You grab his hand when he turns towards the bathroom. “Hold on, I was joking.”

Miguel blinks, “You were? I don’t have a problem with that-”

“Yes I was. I need to freshen up anyway so…”

“I don't care about that.”

It's your turn to blink, “God…you're perfect. B-But I'm fine, for real. I was fucking around.”

“Oh.”

Maybe it's for the best. If he ate you out, that would lead to him making love to you. And it would be your first time with him so he'd want to take his time. It's not ideal when having dinner plans in a few hours. Miguel wasn’t the type to stand anyone up.

You relax when he backs down, not upset anymore.

Dana sends him the location of the restaurant.

It's about ten minutes away from the hotel, tucked in between a confectionery and a distillery. Both of you make a plan to stop by the confectionery after. His eyes adjust at the dim atmosphere of the restaurant, creating an intimate ambiance.

Miguel gave the reservation name and held your hand, following the waiter throughout the restaurant. There, they’re led to the back where the VIP tables are. Larger tables with comfortable seating. Tyler and Dana sat at the rounded one that’s next to a fountain. The latter waves her fingers in greeting while the former makes an effort to be polite when reaching over to shake Miguel’s hand and kissing yours.

Miguel holds back in grimacing at Tyler touching you.

“Aren’t you a surprise?” He says, eying you up and down. “We weren’t expecting Mike to find another person so quickly.”

Dana gasps, hitting Tyler’s arm. “Hey, I thought I said not to call him that anymore.”

“Force of habit.”

Miguel’s upper lip twitches. He’s always hated that damn nickname. Ever since he found out that Tyler’s his actual father, he wonders if it’s the name he’s always wanted to call him instead of Miguel.

You force out a chuckle, “Well, it hasn’t been that long. And look at Dana! She’s doing exceptionally well for someone that’s also moved on so quickly. It’s almost like it was instant, really.”

Tyler and Dana shift in their seats, sitting up straighter if possible. You keep going, starting to casually gaze at the menu.

“Did you all order yet?”

“We wanted to wait for you two.” Dana says.

“Aww, that’s nice of you.” You look at Miguel, “Isn’t that nice, Mig?”

“Yes, it is.”

No one says anything at the table. Even as Miguel searches through his options; sushi, udon, salad. The air felt thick. Tense. He didn’t like this. He should've just went out to get burgers with you like you suggested during the road trip.

The waiter comes by, starting everyone off with some drinks.

Both of you decided on the yuzu lemonade that's offered while Dana and Tyler go for a brandy.

“So, how did you two meet?”

Miguel glances over at you, who’s unfazed. He didn’t want to fabricate a story of how he met you, with your ass in his face. While making the trip up, he expressed concern about you and him once more. You wanted to see their reactions when telling people that you strip as a side job, but thought it was more appropriate to say that you dance. You didn’t want to be inappropriate in front of his boss/father.

“We met at a club!”

Dana’s eyes go wide, “A club? I didn’t know you go to clubs, Miguel.”

“It’s a recent development.” He states while sipping his lemonade.

“I wish you can see him, he couldn’t keep his hands off of me.” Miguel does his best not to choke while you giggle, “I changed your life that night, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

You wink at him and Dana clears her throat, “That’s…that’s good to know. It’s good to try new things, right?”

Tyler’s lip curls upward, “I guess. Didn’t think you had it in you, son.”

Miguel grimaces, but he plays it off as if he just had a brain freeze. He appreciates you caressing his temples and leans into your touch.

“Oh the waiter is here!” Dana’s shouting alerts a few nearby tables.

After ordering appetizers, a sashimi platter, and a main course which consisted of wagyu, the menus were gone and the couples went back on track.

“Do you work?” Tyler asks you, “Miguel here is a busy man. He’s often home late due to the mountains of work I put on him, so I don’t want you to end up all alone as pretty as you are.”

Miguel’s fists clench under the table. Did Tyler just call you pretty? It’s true, but you should hear that from your boyfriend and no one else.

You laugh, “I do work, yes. Two part-time jobs. I work at a retail store at a mall and then I dance on the side.”

“You dance?” Dana questions, “What type of dancing that you do?”

“Pole dancing. It’s been a huge thing these past couple of years.”

“Wow, I have heard about that. Although,” She examines you, eyes going up and down. “isn’t it difficult due to someone of your stature?”

Your head tilts and Miguel immediately cuts in, “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh.” She rapidly blinks, shifting in her seat. “I just mean I’ve seen a lot of people with much…slimmer body types participating in that type of dance, that’s all.”

Miguel scoffs, but you snort, “Girl, you need to expand your horizons. Pole dancing isn’t limited to skinny girls. You should see me dance sometime. You too, Tyler.”

They look at each other while Miguel tries not to make an outrage at what Dana was implying. You slide your hand over his under the table, squeezing it affectionately. It helps him calm down.

“Sorry, I wasn’t implying-”

“Too late. I knew what you meant.”

Dana stammers, but is saved by their appetizers.

You immediately forget the entire conversation and start eating your sashimi. Smearing a ton of wasabi on each piece and eating it with ease. Not ruining your lip gloss in the process.

“Miggy?” You called and hold up a roll for him to taste. He quickly eats it, the burn from of the wasabi shooting all over his face from his ears all the way up to his eyes. “Good, right?”

“Mhm.”

Dana eats one of her spring rolls and sends the rest over to Tyler, who doesn’t eat it from her hand and instead grabs it.

“Speaking of jobs,” You say, dabbing your lips with a napkin, “do you work, Dana?”

“Oh, no I don’t currently have a job.”

“You don’t work at that department store anymore?” Miguel asks, knowing she liked working there.

“I told her to quit.” Tyler takes a sip from his glass, “I’m providing for her now. That’s what a real man should do for the woman he cares for.”

You laugh loudly, alerting the tables nearby. “Oh my god, how old are you?” Tyler’s displeasure doesn’t go unnoticed and you continue, “Sorry, sorry I know that’s rude to ask. It’s just that type of mentality is a little dated, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” He grunts, ordering another drink.

“It’s okay. I understand. I would love to be taken care of so more power to you, girl.” You raise your glass in solidarity. “I’m sure it gets boring since Tyler here is a busy man being a CEO and all.”

Dana waves you away, “No, it’s alright. I can usually manage just fine while he’s gone.”

“Ooh, so you’re spending up his money?”

“W-Well…”

You lean forward, holding up the dessert menu to act as a barrier between the men side. “Go ahead, it’s just between us girlies.”

She nervously laughs, putting down the menu gently. “No, I don’t just shop. I’ve been getting into hobbies like golf, since Tyler plays.”

Tyler nods, halfway listening as he’s checking his phone.

“Golf? That’s an…interesting hobby to get into.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything, but his scrunched up face probably gives it away. Since when is Dana interested in golf?

The main course arrives and you quickly take a picture of the wagyu course before digging in. There’s mainly silence, besides the gentle music playing throughout the speakers. You’re obviously enjoying the meal, saying they should come back here next year.

“Are you ready for the banquet?” Dana asks Miguel.

“Yes. I have everything prepared and ready to go.”

“With his cute little flash cards.” You nudge his side and he smiles bashfully.

Dana giggles, “You’re still using flash cards? Ever since high school, you never stopped using them.”

“They’re very handy and efficient.”

“I know, I know.”

After dinner, no one takes dessert to go. Tyler pulls out his card when the check arrives and stops Miguel from pulling out his own.

“My treat.”

While walking out of the restaurant, you say your goodbyes.

“Thank you for dinner.”

“Of course, it’s no problem.” Dana waves the two of you goodbye when Tyler whisks her off, leaving Miguel and you alone.

“I should’ve had a drink back there.” You lean against him, sighing from fake exhaustion.

“Well, the hotel has mini wine bottles that’s complementary.”

“Say less.”

After coming back from the double date to wind down, you suggested going in the hot tub. He did read a study saying the jets helps relax your muscles. He just didn’t expect to see you like this inside. Relaxing with a mini bottle of prosecco in your hand. Entranced at the multitude of lights glowing in the water.

When he walks out on the patio, you lock eyes and smile at him.

“Care to join me?”

“Yes.”

Miguel steps in, only wearing his swim trunks. He doesn’t miss how your eyes scan his upper body. Taking in how moderately fit he is. He holds in getting flustered at your gaze before sitting down, not too close from your own space, but not too far. The jets against his muscles help them to relax and he needed it after dinner.

You’re still looking at him, eyes lowered. That could just be the alcohol in your system. He’d get some too, but decided not to.

“Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“I did, despite the bullshit from your ex.”

Miguel pouts, “I’m very sorry about that.”

You shrug and remain silent.

The led lights shifts colors and he’s able to take note of your swimsuit. A black, two piece that ties in the front of your chest. He doesn’t see any sparkles and is surprised that it’s plain. Miguel scoots a little closer to get a good look. Maybe you have something sparkling in the back?

When he does, you smirk before taking a sip from your wine bottle. “That’s as close as you’re gonna go?”

Miguel perks up, quickly moving back to his original position. “Sorry, I wanted to give you space.”

“Here you go again…” You place your bottle to the side, “I don’t want space from you. I’ll tell you otherwise.”

Dana always wanted some distance from him. She liked her space and never hesitated to tell him. Although, occasionally she gave mixed signals. Her tone being lighter than her words. Saying she wanted to be alone, yet she remained in his presence.

Miguel moves closer. Your face lights up, matching the intensity of the hot tub lights. It makes his heart pound in his chest when his arm brushes along yours. He exhales to lessen his anxiety.

“Is this better?”

“Much.”

You trace his arm with your fingertips. The water droplets running down his bicep and back to the hot tub. Goosebumps gathers on his skin from your touch. Not to mention the blood rushing down to his lower half. You keep gazing at him, a low smile on your features, enjoying the fact he’s right next to you.

“Are you nervous?”

He gulps, hoping you aren’t catching his strange behavior. “A-About?”

“The banquet tomorrow. You’re presenting.”

“Oh! No, no I’m okay. I have my flash cards and there’s rehearsal tomorrow, so I’m prepared.”

“Good.” The water sloshes when you move in front of him, getting in between his legs. Not there. Anywhere but there. “It just sounded like you thought I was talking about something else though.”

Miguel shakes his head, “No, I knew what you were talking about.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

You snort, your hand on his chest and his cock twitches at the contact. “It’s okay, Miguel. You know it’s just us here.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him. Your head on his chest, right where his beating heart lie. He knows you can hear it. The way it’s wrapping against his chest like a drum.

“Am I scaring you?” You playfully pout. “You can tell me.”

“You’re not.”

Miguel wants to smack himself for making you think that. He thought he’s over being nervous, right when there’s a gorgeous human being like you in front of him. His actions are showing otherwise.

“Then…?”

Miguel cups your face, leaning down to give you the most gentlest kiss in the entire world. He licks his lips at the taste of prosecco, before giving you another kiss. And another. And another. Soon, he’s making out with you in the hot tub.

Your lips follow along his. Your hands grip his forearms as if he’s going to part from you. Miguel doesn’t and keeps you confined to his embrace. Your tongues brush along one another, entangled in bliss.

He sighs against your lips and turns you around. Your back against the tub. The kiss gets heavier. Messier. Miguel is swallowing you whole, securing you with his body. His palm presses along your breast, missing how it felt under him. He smiles against your lips when he fondles it and you moan.

Miguel’s cock is hard against your thigh when he does it once more. His thumb rubbing along your clothed nipple, feeling it harden under his touch.

You quickly pull away. He doesn’t have time to be concerned when you motion towards your top.

“Take it off.” Miguel starts reaching around, but you snicker and stop him. “It unties in the front.”

“Oh.”

You poke your chest out, allowing him to untie your top. Miguel sticks his index finger under the knot, pulling it up to loosen it. Once so, he pulls the fabric apart as if he was unveiling a grand surprise. Your breasts, glistening from the water of the hot tub. You barely have a chance to remove it completely when he pulls you close to him.

Miguel’s mouth latches on to your neck, suckling on the skin. He knows it’s not a good idea to get too crazy with you, knowing your dress shows your neck. So after licking and kissing, inhaling your signature scent, he moves lower to the apex of your chest. He suckles on your breast, groaning against your skin. His tongue circling around your nipple while your hand grips his nape.

“Fuck me…” You shudder against him when he switches to your other breast. Suckling and flicking your nipple while he pinches the other, rolling it under his index finger and thumb. He grinds his hips against you to show you how you’re affecting him. No sign of nervousness when his pleasure takes over.

Then his phone alarm goes off.

It scares the two of you. You hide along his body as if someone was about to walk in and see your upper half. Miguel quickly reaches over to grab his phone, turning off the alarm completely.

“What was that?”

He facepalms, “I…set that alarm so I know when it’s time for me to sleep. The rehearsal is early in the morning.”

You check your phone, grimacing at the ten-thirty time. “Really?”

“The rehearsal is important. I want to be wide awake.”

“Miguel…” You gesture to your bare chest and his hard cock against his pants. “You can’t stay up a little late?”

Miguel rubs his neck. He wants to finish what he started with you. But the thought of him wanting to take his time with you came back.

“I want to have sex with you.”

You grin, “So do I.”

“You are very attractive and enticing and I’m trying not to rush into it because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable-”

“You practically fingered me back at the club.”

Miguel sighs, “I know, but I do want you, really. I want to take my time.” He gives you a simple peck.

“I get it.” You reciprocate once more, before glancing down at his erection. Miguel knows its going to be hard to sleep like this for a while, but it’s not like he hasn’t had this before. You trace his swim trunks slowly. “We don’t have to have sex right now though.”

He raises a brow in question, “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say…” You cup his dick through his pants, making him hiss at the touch. “I can make sure you have a goodnight sleep.”

Miguel checks the time. He can do with another twenty to twenty-five minutes.

“Okay.”

You have him sit on the edge of the hot tub. You pull down his pants enough to release his uncircumcised cock. His father, George, decided against circumcision in the delivery room. He’s learned to accept it, but issue a warning whenever his lovers is about to see it.

Dana was flabbergasted. She eventually got used to it and reassured him that it wasn’t his fault. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t say anything when you gave him a hand job at the club. Not a peep when his large shaft is in your face.

You admire it for a moment like a work of art. The sight of you licking your lips causes some cum to leak. The droplet slowly crawling halfway down his shaft before you lick it up. Your tongue makes him groan. He watches you stroke him, while pulling back the hood.

Miguel bites his lip when your mouth encloses around him. His eyes rolling back as you slide down his shaft. His pre cum across your tongue. He gasps when you manage to take him completely, your nose ticking his curly hairs. Your saliva coating his length. His hand grips the nape of your neck when you slide back, creating a moderate pace.

Sure, it’s been a while since he’s had sex.

It’s probably he feels so sensitive. The way his tip hits the back of your throat. His hood grazing along the roof of your mouth. How your breasts move in tandem of your movements, still soaked from the water. He wants to lick them. Nibble on your nipples while he’s buried deep in your cunt. Or maybe you’d let him cum all over your chest. Coat you in his sticky seed as proof that you’re his.

Miguel whimpers, not once removing his hand from you. He doesn’t remove eye contact from you, watching you in what feels like you’re sucking his soul away from him. Can he die like this? From your slick, wet mouth? Your fingertips stroking his balls every time you fully take him in.

He can’t take any more of this. It’s getting too much.

“O-Oh I’m…oh I’m…” He whines, struggling to tell you what’s coming. You don’t pull away. You take his load of cum when he shudders. The grip on your neck getting stronger while his seed spills down your throat and you swallow it all.

He tries to gather his bearings, taking deep breaths while you admire your handiwork. Your cocky smile telling him everything that he needs to know what you did a good job.

Miguel fixes his pants and gets back in the tub. Your brows furrow at his action when he picks you up with one arm, settling you on the other edge. He pulls off your bikini bottoms, tossing it aside to have you spread your legs. Eating your pussy is something that has to wait. Otherwise, he’d spend all night between your thighs.

“Your turn.”

He silences your moan with a kiss when he rubs your clit. His lips never leaves yours when a thick finger pushes inside you. Miguel falters at how slick your sex feels. How easy it is to bump along your soaked walls. He immediately adds another finger, absorbing your cries of pleasure. Your nails dig into your bicep, not able to do much besides take him.

Miguel’s fingers pumping into you all while thumbing your clit. You always sound so pretty. He wants to insert your moans into his head and section them in an archive. You push your hips against his fingers. He holds you still with an arm secure around your waist. He takes in your body jolting, toes curling as he doesn’t stop playing with your cunt.

He knows you’re almost there when you start squirming, trying to escape. Miguel doesn’t let you, keeping you secure when you reach your peak. You crying out under his lips as he feels your pussy get soaked. He keeps pumping into you, extending the duration of your climax. All while nipping at your bottom lip.

Miguel doesn’t let go while you come down from your high, your breaths fanning his neck. He strokes your back while kissing your forehead.

“Now, you’ll sleep good too.”

He doesn’t want to get out of bed.

Even as the alarm rings to tell him to get up, Miguel’s too busy being absorbed by you. You’re warm and soft. Fitting along his body perfectly like a puzzle piece.

When you awake, your lashes flutter open like a dream. He can’t help but kiss your forehead, holding you closer to him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too.” You turn and hug him, his chest overshadowing your entire face. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

You perk up, “Breakfast just started thirty minutes ago.”

“I know. I’ll go down and bring you back something. You don’t have to-”

Before he can say anything else, you sat up. “Nuh-uh, I’m coming down with you.”

“You don’t have to. You can get some more sleep-”

“I’m coming.” You give him a big kiss on his cheek before going to the bathroom.

Miguel stumbles out of bed to get dressed in a reasonable attire.

He’s so used to going alone while he’s with Dana. She wanted to sleep in while he wanted to take advantage of the breakfast the hotel had to offer. He’d always bring her back food, not after eating alone by the window, with his omelet and fresh fruit.

The breakfast area was in a smaller hall.

Assortments of breakfast, rows of cereal, granola, and oatmeal on a variety of tables. An omelet bar with an extensive amount of choices from jalapenos to shredded cheese. Waffle and pancake makers that were right next to a juice bar. All topped off with a display of fresh, cut fruit for anyone to enjoy.

“Goddamn, this is a lot of food.”

Miguel nods in agreement, “I know. I usually stick with an omelet and fruit.”

“That’s it? No waffles? No fruit parfaits?”

“I just focused on eating so I can take food back to Dana-”

“Enough about her.” You silence him with a finger to his lips, “When do you have to go to rehearsal?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“You have plenty of time.”

Miguel grabs a few plates via your instructions. You wanted to have a grand breakfast, since the hotel offered so many options. The best plan was to divide and conquer. You focused on the waffles and the fruit while Miguel went to order omelets and meat. The entire hall wasn’t too crowded either. The later crowd usually arrived around 9 - 10 and the hall is packed.

So it was easy to ask for two omelets, filled with his usual spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, and cheese, then pile up his plate with sausage, bacon, turkey bacon, and ham. You two reconvened and sat at the spot Miguel always sits at. That had another view of the lake nearby.

He admires the spread with you. You quickly take a picture of the food and him before doing your cute shimmy.

“You did an excellent job, partner.”

“I just had years of experience.” He hands you your omelet, checking to see if there’s any meat you wanted before diving in.

Food at the Sunset Grove Hotel never disappoints. They’re always consistent all the years Miguel’s been able to come there. It’s the one thing he looks forward to every year.

“I can see why you like this spot.”

Before he can ask why, a few ducks land in front of the window, taking in the sun. They’re so close to the window, contempt in just existing. It makes their little breakfast spot peaceful, blocking out the hustle and bustle.

“Yeah, it’s nice to share it with somebody.”

Your lips purse, but go back to normal. “This is our special spot now. We’re going to sit here every year.”

“While eating waffles.” He raises his glass and clinks it with yours.

“While eating waffles.”

When it’s close to rehearsal, Miguel walks you back to the room. It’s supposed to end around twelve, which gives him some time to rest then get dressed for the banquet later. He goes to apologize about leaving you alone for a few hours, but you don’t mind it. You reassure him that you can keep yourself entertained.

You kiss him in goodbye and he lingers in that kiss all the way through rehearsal.

Miguel never has any problems when he rehearses.

He’s always prepared with his flash cards that he memorized. His section was never long. After researching what was the best time to have a presentation during a high end event, he resorted to seven to eight minutes. Not too long and not too short.

All of his presentations included whatever Tyler wanted him to say to get the shareholders invested in the company. This year, he managed to correlate his spider DNA work with a drug early in the works. Project Rapture. He hoped that name was just a placeholder.

While communicating with his other coworkers who was also presenting, Tyler didn’t bother him. He didn’t bombard him with questions of the presentation like other years. Or make a sly comment here and there to embarrass him. No, he remained idle. Hardly saying a word in his direction besides a ‘Morning’.

Did it have something to do with the dinner last night?

After rehearsal, Miguel walks over to his boss, who’s currently with the coordinator about the finishing touches of the banquet.

“Sorry to interrupt.” He says, “I wanted to ask about my presentation?

Tyler quickly waves the coordinator away, wanting her to give him a moment. “What about it?”

“It’s…okay, right? No glaring issues or concerns?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Is that all?” Before Miguel got a word out, he’s cut off. “Good, now if you’ll excuse me.”

With a brush of his shoulder, Tyler was gone, back with the coordinator. Miguel’s boss was always busy, but he still found time to heckle him. He wasn’t sure what to do but decided to go back to the room.

On the way to the elevator, he checks his messages.

Gabriel and the family asked how the trip was going. His brother insinuating if he, in his words, ‘bumped uglies’ yet. That earned an eye roll and a ‘not yet’. His mother requested to bring back those macaroons she liked, as she does every year, while also filling up his messages with the work in progress of the house. The living and dining room completely gutted with tarp on the floor. He managed to see the color she was working with which was a bright orange. An interesting color.

You sent him messages, mainly flirty of how good you bet he looks on the podium. That you won’t know how to act when he puts on his suit. Also about a rerun episode of a cop sitcom you were watching.

Then Dana sent him a message. Miguel will admit that he ignored the one she sent him last night while he was with you in the hot tub. She asked if Tyler behaved well during rehearsal, knowing how he heckled Miguel when it came to it.

So that’s the reason his boss acted strange.

Miguel’s stomach twists when he stepped out the elevator. He should be grateful, relieved at Dana’s generosity. Yet, the only emotion that stirred inside was annoyance. It’s hard to explain and Miguel wondered if it was just because he was wracking his brain for no reason at Tyler’s behavior. But it’s not a good feeling to have when he’s going to see them again later tonight.

So he pushed it away, shoving his phone in his pocket.

You were busy. When Miguel came in, you had your wig on its head stand for tonight. Your makeup out and ready to go for later. You were watching TV when you jump off the bed to kiss his lips in greeting.

“Rehearsal went well?”

“Yeah, it did.” He didn’t want to tell you about Dana texting him. He had a feeling you get annoyed every time she was mentioned.

“Good. Now, I had a quick question for you.” You motion to your dress hanging up in the closet, “Should I wear a thong or a bikini under it?”

“Thong-oh, uh, I mean, whichever you think is comfortable.”

“You said thong first, like I knew you would.”

Miguel felt the blood rush to his cheeks while you kissed them.

He spent the few hours he had relaxing. His suit already pressed to his liking. Miguel watched an episode of that cop show with you before taking a nap on your lap. Your hand stroking through his soft hair contributed to it. Your sweet smell comforting him, carrying him away in a bed of clouds.

If the banquet didn't happen tonight, he'd be in bed with you for the rest of the day.

After hearing his ‘get ready’ alarm, you two were up. You take showers before getting ready in your respective areas. Miguel gave you space when you mentioned you wanted to wow him. So he got dressed in the living room.

With thirty minutes until the banquet starts, you came out of the bedroom.

“Prepare to be speechless-whoa.”

Miguel’s eyes went wide at seeing you. Your black, sequin covered dress hugging your body. He couldn’t help but gaze at your cleavage, how nicely held up together your breasts are. And your hair. Long, full brown curls that grazes your shoulders.

“Whoa, yourself.” He stepped closer, still admiring you. “You’re beautiful. Gorgeous. It was worth the wait.”

The entire time you're speechless. Not saying a word as your eyes trace his body. Miguel shifts, your silence being unnatural.

“Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong.” You huff, closing the distance. “Look at you, baby.”

Miguel glances over at the mirror, seeing himself with his hair parted to the side. Small curls framing his face. And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Oh, the no glasses? I-I don’t wear my contacts often. Only for special occasions.”

“You’re hot as hell right now.” You trace his chest up and down, eyes getting that same spark as it did in the hot tub. “I mean, you're always hot but…”

He shudders when you press against his body. Just once, he cups your bottom, groping your cheek. He remembers that you're wearing a thong underneath this.

“I don't want to be late…”

“I know.”

No one makes an effort to pull away. The kiss you two have is gentle. It's slow, yet heated. Miguel doesn’t want to ruin your makeup. He wants to hike up your dress, pull that fabric to the side and sink himself inside you. Rock his hips along yours while your manicured nails dig into his shoulder.

They just have to get through this night.

After that tense kiss, you take a few pictures together. A cute video in the mirror. You send that to your multiple group chats before grabbing your purse. Miguel takes your hand, kissing it while admiring you by the door one more time. You squeeze it to let him know that you're ready.

The two of you make your way towards the banquet.

Tags:

@miguelzslvtz @kitcatcrunch @nina-from-317

@slut4oscarissac23 @anythigbutmiguel @moonlight00sthings

@bajbr @freehentai @chubbybyunnie

@ilikeowlsidkwhy @questionable-behaviour @imamexican

@tatatida @aphinthestars @bluesidez

@saintdiior @prettygirleli @twinkdrakez

@vicravluv @brown-eyed-thang @peachipeachy

@sonicbutbutter @mermaidian02 @celi-xxmoon

@roserfz27 @hellokittyloverrxox @sweeetas

@avengersinitiative2012 @takeyour-pants-off @avis15

[cherrychilli]

18+Steve Harrington x f! reader, established relationship, young adult runaways, starting over, shitty parents, tiny bit of angst. Just a drop. WC: 1K Summary: Steve yearns for a fresh start. So do you. Somewhere new. Somewhere right for the two of you. But before that, he has something very important to take care of until it's time for the two of you to hit the road.

A/N: This little scene has been munching on my brain for the past week now ever since I came across the picture on the right. Had to write it out so I can finally drive it out (of me). Enjoy!

The craggy rock you hand him requires both hands to pick up and hold, a soft, patchy layer of moss caking your palms and fingers when you look back down at your empty hands.

"Yeah, this'll do," Steve tells you, ducking his head to reach inside his car, placing the cold, black stone on top of the accelerator pedal which makes the maroon beamer whir.

The brakes are still on, cloudy puffs of white smoke spilling out of the exhaust pipe.

"You're absolutely sure, right?", you check one last time, biting the inside of your cheek.

Steve turns to look at you. He isn't irritated despite the many times you've asked him this very question. He knows you're only trying to be considerate. He knows that you're only trying to make sure that he doesn't come to regret his decision.

So he steps away from the noisy, stationary vehicle until he's able to place his warm palms on your cheeks, leaning closer so he can slant his lips over yours.

"This is what I want. I'm absolutely sure of it, baby", he tells you when your lips separate with a little smack, picking off a spec of moss that'd made it on to your jaw from under his thumb.

You smile back at him. You just needed to hear it one more time and now that you have, you're ready for what's to come next.

"Okay. So, shall we?", you cock your head towards his car. The one that'd been gifted to him by his parents though not out of love or anything akin to it.

His father had forbade him from driving around in "whatever shit heap", Steve might have set his hopes on, taking great offence at the thought of his son causing the family any kind of embarrassment.

"We're better. Always. And we will conduct ourselves as such," his father had seethed at him from across the dinner table, pointing his fork, (the finest silverware of course) in Steve's direction, it's prongs juicy from his filet mignon cooked to a bloody rare.

So, with the shiny new BMW came strings as thick as piano wire. His parents tugging tugging tugging on them to puppeteer their son this way and that, though they were seldom ever satisfied. Even when Steve would bend over backwards of his own accord for them it was never enough. No kind of gymnastics could win their approval, he learned.

Now here he was with you, someone who he never had to prove himself to on the bank of lover's lake as he steps over the remains of the pricey watch his mother had pressured him to wear for the same reasons that his father had bought him the car. Steve had stomped the heel of his converse down on the timepiece 10 minutes ago when it stopped ticking once and for all, it's now crooked, fractured hands frozen at 9.18AM behind shattered glass.

Steve reaches in one last time to pull back on the hand brake and steps back, his fingers weaving in with yours as you both watched.

The car takes off and rolls forward swiftly, splashing into the water with a booming clap, tire tracks etched in the soft sand as the car travels further and sinks deeper. Steve watches on unblinking as it takes on water, mucky, opaque waves sloshing around and drowning the leather upholstery.

As far as he's concerned the thing's nothing more than fish food now, the front finally sinking deep enough under water to get wedged in the muddy riverbed. The trunk is the only thing sticking out above the water now, the engine sputtering to a stop as gentle waves lap away at the useless thing.

In it, he gladly leaves behind every memory of all the times he spent alone in that car and the night time drives he took in it, sore, red eyes and tears he couldn't shed inside his own home rolling down his soggy cheeks after every dispute with his high strung parents.

Even though he'd taken refuge in that car many a night, he still hated the damn thing, a constant reminder of how he was never enough for them. The thought that he might never be free of them scratched at the inside of his skull everyday as he drove around in a four wheeled spiderweb he wished to untangle himself from.

So severing those ties today was more than necessary, marking the end of his latest chapter. On with the new.

His bags are packed, just like yours in the trunk of the little butter yellow Volkswagen Beetle you'd saved up for and bought second hand with your own money and fixed up. You had to compromise too though of course. The paint job was a little patchy if you looked at it a little too long and the engine sometimes needed a few tries to get it going but the bug practically flew down the freeway when you needed it to. Perfect for long distance travel.

To Steve, your car meant something that his hadn't. It didn't carry any kind of strings to twist and turn you with like some kind of sad marionette. You drove it around free from any kind of expectations. And you didn't have to shoulder the fear that one slight misstep would cost you. You didn't have anyone in your life who would come down on you hard if you were ever seen driving around with so much as a little dent or a little scratch like his parents would. You were completely unburdened that way. He considered you so lucky.

With the sun shining down on you, you hand Steve the keys, letting him take over the wheel while you take over passenger princess duties with your shades pulled on. It was half his now anyway. You hadn't said so out loud but you know that he knew it too.

He sticks the key into the ignition, your car rumbling to a start, the radio coming alive. 'Let them say we're crazy, I don't care about that. Put your hand in my hand baby, don't ever look back...'

The battered, paling 'Now Leaving Hawkins' sign is just a few meters ahead. He's looking forward to seeing it shrink down to a pin point in the rearview mirror as he puts some much needed distance between you two and Hawkins for good.

So, Steve slips his own shades on too, a hopeful smile growing on his lips.

"Alright, doll. Let's blow this pop stand."

[anya-nya-nya]

A sudden concept that struck my head today.

SFW, GN! reader, slave! reader, mention of Aventurine’s past > mention of SA, slavery

All wealthy men are the same - thinking money and status not only open all the doors but also crush all the morality norms. The higher you step, the more godlike you felt, thinking there's nothing you could do that would lead to bearing the responsibility.

Aventurine knew that along with another conclusion - all wealthy men are stupid but with a goddamn good memory. Because even when he stood on the same level as them, the whisper about his past lingered in the air, always the same conversation that popped like a soap bubble the moment he entered another casino. Of course they never would discuss it in front of him - at least not straightforward. Commentaries about his unique eyes or rare luck never were aimed to please Aventurine, but to puncture the invisible pit that still separates him from all the other players in the room, no matter how long his win strikes would be.

One day the usual groveling teases and double views become boring, resulting in a more cruel joke.

“And… The ace makes a full house.” — The hand behind his back calmed enough from trembling to be slided back onto the table while the second sprawled lazily over open cards with the highest score around other sets. Not a surprise but adrenaline hits anyways. Though, even with steam in his blood, Aventurine could easily say today's atmosphere was slightly off.

“Well, aren't you lucky today?” — The phrase one of his opponents said the first evening they accidentally intercourse, that now flew from his cursing mouth every time they met again - like some inside joke. — “He even outplayed you, Jake, despite your precious gift!”

Interruption wasn't the best way to learn the information, so Aventurine kept his mouth shut for now, busied himself with the chill the edge of a champagne glass gave to his lips. His eyes flash to the addressed man anyway - cause there were no gifts.

“Well, maybe because he hasn't seen it yet? I'm sure after unwrapping our dear player would be more amiable toward us, huh?” — Jake smiled, but both his mettle and voice was too familiar to Aventurine now - that tone certainly wasn't good for him. — “Pardon, but it seems my surprise was spoiled a bit. I've arranged for it to be delivered to your hotel room. Go check anytime.”

Maybe if the chance that it was just some stupid tight bracelet laying in his VIP bedroom to remind him about all the chains Aventurine didn't freed from but switched material of which was high enough, then he wouldn't even bother to get up and finish the game. But for some reason this moment didn't seem quite suitable for any chances and bets.

“Oh, it's okay. We call it even, then - cause, pardon me, I'm too curious now to see what my dear friends decided to prepare for their humble Aventurine.” — Shoving himself away from the green table, he didn't even bother to collect win chips and redeem them back for currency.

Brisk stride drove Aventurine straight to the elevator, yet it seems he left not only prize money but also his stomach on the casino floor: elevator went up - something plummets in his insides. They never were really kind with him. Although regular reminders about Aventurine’s past keep him on toes - maybe it was a kindness in some way.

Door to his room was locked - how did they get inside? Bribed employees? There are many things a guy with minimum wage would do for a few coins - slipping a box or something inside someone's hotel room with duplicate keys wasn't the worst, probably. Yet as soon as Aventurine opened the bedroom, all the guesses were blotted out by sudden rustling.

Gloved hand flick the light on, and sound repeated - this time certainly with metallic echo - coming behind the other side of the bed.

“Is my gift alive? If so, I'm certainly not ready to have any pets..” — With a chuckle, Aventurine circled the bed, preparing to see something striking and painful that reminds of his past, or perhaps his home planet. Maybe these fuckers managed to bough a sand fennec that lives only on Sigonia.

But as his path drew a half a circle around the bed, he stopped.

Fucking hell.

Oh, how naive he could be! Thinking someone like guys who probably are still sitting in the casino and laughing their asses off, would think small and cheap!

Scantily clad, with arms and legs in metal chains. Is this their idea of wrapping?

“I'm sorry, didn't mean to call you like that.” — Gently kneeling on one leg - a rare sight, but his bespoke pants would endure the fur of a rug in an extraordinary situation - Aventurine tilted his head, not touching the trembling figure a few meters away from him. He knew better. — “These jerks send you here?”

Through these long years, Aventurine learned psychology and knew how to be so winning and appealing, yet not this knowledge helped him get you to talk - but shared experience does. In a slow, long hour of careful questions and small stories - because there's no trust in a chat without equivalent exchange - he learns enough about you, and about the way Jack paid for some cleaner to lock you there, and about how long you've been in these chains.

Of course there was no key near you - it's probably still hanging in the keychain in the pocket of one of the men down on the lower floor. They want Aventurine to get back and to ask about it - cause both they and he knew he wants you free - just to see quite an emotion on his face. Not like humiliation would hurt him that much, he's more worried about what to do with you after.

Luck kissed his forehead and blessed him with a hell named IPC, good enough for someone to even call it heaven, but Aventurine sure he couldn't bring you there on the same terms. And just unlock your chains and free you? All the paths he, as a slave, had in front of him - besides IPC - were even more revolting. To think you would need to survive on the streets on your own, without metal chains but with the weight of cold and hunger on your shoulders that would be equal to collar tugging you to sell yourself in dark alleys... No.

Aventurine didn't know but it seems his heart was as big as his wallet - cause no matter how expensive it would be to rehabilitate your life, he would invest. He just needs to make sure you wouldn't feel the need to pay back, and that's the problem - it's hard to wean someone off from a habit he can't shove away from himself too. One slave helps another to adapt: the irony some authors would thrive to write about in poetic books.

But the evening is still young and all these thoughts and questions only begin to bloom - Aventurine has enough time to discuss them all with you, and maybe warm his way into your heart a bit more.

[c-o-t-o]

Veiled Whispers - Zayne (Part 1)

Author: c-o-t-o

Character: Zayne x fem reader

CW: 18+ only, sexual content/smut, explicit language, drunkenness, dubcon, teasing, bdsm (some CWs apply to other parts)

Misc: ~1.7k words, Part 1. This fic is supposed to take off where the 5 star memory ends with Zayne.

About: After falling asleep to Zayne's kisses, you wake back up to him taking more care of you. Zayne drinks more than he realizes and starts making moves.

*Do not remove info or credit from posts when reblogging or sharing!*

You wake up on the couch, vision a little bit blurry and struggling to focus. You look over into the kitchen and see Zayne cooking. What time is it?

“Zayne? What are you doing?” You ask while rubbing your eyes. How long had you been asleep after he kissed you and let you fall asleep on the couch?

“Cooking.” He replies simply. You look at the table in front of you and reach out to grab the small bottle of wine that you were gifted to sip a little more, and notice that it's almost empty.

“Did you…drink this wine? I thought you didn't want any.” You pout and swirl around the remaining wine in the bottle before taking a small sip and savoring the flavor. It was very sweet, almost like a dessert wine. That's why it was so delicious to have, and hard to stop drinking.

“After you fell asleep and left me alone by myself, I got curious. I tasted the wine and did end up liking it. I see now, it's very good.” Zayne seems to be stir-frying something and it smells delicious. You end up finishing the little bit of wine that's left in the bottle and get up to get rid of it. You walk over to see what Zayne is cooking, and see that he is stir-frying some noodles with meat and vegetables. Your stomach growls when you realize that you hadn't really eaten in a while since the banquet ended.

Realizing that you and Zayne are about to have a nice quiet meal together, you get excited and set the table. You light a small candle in the center, set the dishes and utensils, and pour a glass of wine for each of you from Zayne's bottle that he was gifted and hadn't drunk from yet. Sitting at the table, head in your hands, you look up at him giddy as he serves you both your food.

“It's not good to go to bed hungry, you'll wake up feeling even worse. I suspect you'll be hungover tomorrow, so at the very least, you shouldn't also be hungry. Enjoy." He says, motioning to your plate. Still feeling somewhat drunk, you happily oblige and start eating.

“Zayne, this is delicious. How did you make this? I didn't even know that I had these ingredients in my fridge." You say between bites. The flavor was perfect, the meat tender, and the vegetables still crunchy. If he wasn't there to feed you, you probably would have just rummaged through your snacks and finished a bag of potato chips or something before falling back asleep on the couch.

“Well, I…” Zayne somewhat bashfully covers his mouth with his hand and looks away momentarily. "You don't realize where we are, do you? For a hunter, it's not very good to be unaware of your surroundings.”

You feel your face turning red as you stare at Zayne eating. Looking around, you suddenly realize you're at Zayne's house. You had been there many times, so drunk you didn't even remember that you were briefly home before falling asleep. Zayne tells you how he didn't feel right leaving you drunk at home alone, so he brought you to his place to keep an eye on you.

You enjoyed seeing this side of him, it wasn't often that he took care of you in a non-medical sense. Plus, you don't know when you'll ever get a home cooked meal from him again, so you savor every bite. Especially because he could have just left you at home and went his separate way. Thinking about how he had to have carried you out of your house to his car, and into his house… it made your heart melt and your longing for him grow even more.

You and Zayne continue to finish your dinner, talking about random things like work and the banquet, enjoying your wine between bites of food. At the end of the meal, the alcohol hits you once again. You hazily look up at Zayne, who is sitting there across from you, staring off into space. You think how it's so unusual to see him so unfocused, almost in a trance-like state.

“Zayne? You okay…?” You ask, moving your face into his line of vision so that he's looking at you. His eyes move to meet yours, when you think you detect the slightest hint of red on his cheeks.

“I… I had wine with dinner…” his voice trails off.

“Yes? And?” You ask confused. You thought it was pretty obvious that you were both drinking the wine that you brought home from the banquet.

“It's just… I had forgotten I already drank wine when you were asleep on my couch. I-” Zayne rubs his eyes while his head sways a bit. "I don't drink often, so when I do, alcohol tends to take effect fairly quickly.” Zayne’s speech is a bit slurred. You giggle and look back at him with a heartfelt smile, your chest aching with longing for the man in front of you who was always just out of reach. “Or, I might just be tired. It has been a very long day, and I'm still awake taking care of you at this time of night. Yes, I'm sure now, I believe I'm just tired.” Zayne tries so hard to convince you, or more likely himself.

You move your fingers over towards his hand and rest them on his. Zayne looks over at you with his head drunkenly tilted, looks down at your hand holding his, and back up at you. He quietly chuckles to himself, but you can see his eyes smiling, a drunken twinkle glistening in them. The blush on his face starts to redden, as well, making your heart flutter.

“I'm really glad I'm here, Zayne." You confess. “We don't get time together like this very often." You find that you've started subconsciously rubbing the back of his fingers with yours, almost in a self-soothing way.

With all sense of restraint gone from the alcohol, Zayne suddenly jerks his chair back, scraping the floor loudly. You jolt and sit upright in response. He stands up abruptly, walking over to you, and grabs your face with both of his hands. He stares so deeply into your eyes that, for a moment, you swear he could probably read your thoughts.

“I need you. Right now." Zayne says quietly and deeply, slightly slurring his words. “Come with me." He demands, starting to walk away from you. When you hesitate, confused about what just happened, he somehow whips around (you assumed with how drunk he is that he would have stumbled after doing that) and picks you up bridal style. Zayne holds you up like it's nothing, and you can feel his rigid arms and body against you. He brings you into his bedroom and nearly throws you down onto his bed.

Zayne tries to play it cool, but you see him slowly coming apart in front of you. He looks down at you on his bed, his hair falling over his eyes. He keeps trying to comb his hair back with his fingers, but it's no use. Eyes locked onto you, Zayne falls to his knees on his bed, and begins to slowly crawl over you. He needs you, and he can't fight off the urges any longer. Zayne after too much alcohol is a Zayne that becomes starved for your touch. And he WILL get what he wants, no matter how hopeless he may end up looking. To him, it almost doesn't matter if he doesn't look cool, calm, and collected anymore, as long as it means satisfying his desires. In the end, it'll be a win for him, anyway.

Zayne holds himself up above you now, looking down at you so directly. Not used to seeing him so lustful and forward, you look away bashfully.

Zayne grabs your chin and pulls it so that you're looking back at him. You hear him swallow hard, followed by a slight pant while he tries to catch his breath.

“Be a good girl for me, won't you?" Zayne whispers with a voice so deep that it vibrates through you. He leans in to kiss you, but stops inches away from your lips. “Doctor's orders."

Your face blushes HARD. And you immediately feel a burning sensation between your thighs. Zayne moves in closer and closer to your lips, still holding your chin. He gets so close that you can feel his breath on your lips… when he stops, chuckles, and pulls away.

You can't help but whimper out loud, fully expecting that he was going to kiss you on the lips. Slightly annoyed from the tease, you pout.

“Doctor's orders? I thought you were only ‘Doctor Zayne’ when we were in the hospital. You said you're just ‘Zayne’ otherwise." Your eyebrows narrow in frustration, your heart palpitations turning to heartache as you want nothing more than for him to actually kiss you.

Zayne lets your chin go, but runs his fingers through the back of your hair, fist tightening and grabbing your hair slightly. He pulls your head up towards him, making you gasp out loud.

“You’re in Zayne's house now. Or have you already forgotten? Under my roof, you'll follow my rules, including my doctor's orders.” Zayne slurs, but still with a hint of sharpness in his words. He smirks, looking you over with his eyes. You open your mouth to say something back to him, but are cut off. Still holding a fistful of your hair, Zayne leans down and licks your lips, pulling your bottom lip into a bite. His teeth pull away at your lip until it leaves his mouth. You gasp, and Zayne laughs quietly under his breath. Still gripping you with one hand, he drags the back of his other hand down your face.

“I'll give you what you want… yes. But you'll do the same for me in return. And what I want right now…” Zayne pulls your head closer to him, his other hand now grabbing your bottom lip with his thumb on your tongue, “Is your mouth.”

[goddessapostle]

Storm

Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Wanderer/Scaramouche, GN!Reader Summary: You're going to die thinking about a man whose name you don't even know. Warnings: Violence

1k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: Another request from @acidsbeats! Thank you for helping @ficsforgaza once again, and thank you for your patience this time as well! ^^

Damn, you wish you could fly. If your friend were here, he'd carry you down the cliff. Anemo Visions are so useful. 

But he’s not here. Bandits are. They separated you from the caravan you were guarding, then drove you up a cliff overlooking Mawtiyima Forest. You're trapped between a waterfall and a long drop. 

Your friend could hold them back. Then again, your friend could escape without certain death. Your friend is awesome. 

Except for the fact that he wont tell you his name. It’s been almost a year since you met the wandering Inazuman, but he just won’t reveal it.

“Call me whatever,” he said, more annoyed every time you asked. 

Well, Whatever won’t have to worry about it anymore. 

You dodge the fist headed for your face. Another lands in your stomach. You cough, but still manage to elbow the guy responsible. He stumbles away, clutching his nose. You have maybe a second to catch your breath. 

One man lounges in the back of the crowd. He nods towards you, and two more Treasure Hoarders walk forward. He’s the ringleader, clearly, but you have no clue why he’s targeting you specifically. He had a chance to steal your client’s wares but chose to chase you instead. 

You beat down his two grunts as the memory of him floats up from your mind. 

It was the night you and your friend met. Lambad kicked you both out of his tavern because he was tired of your bickering over the best seat in the place. This asshole tried to mug you both, but you kicked his ass right into jail. Your friend was impressed. He’d be impressed now, too, since you’ve just disabled seven of the people trying to beat you to a pulp. 

Fuck. Now is not the time to think about him. 

The mugger waves another person forward. 

“Fight me, coward!” you call. “I’ll go easy on you this time.” You smile, despite the pain of your split lip. 

The mugger stands. You raise your arms in front of your body, fists clenched, stance wide. 

You have no idea what happened next. You woke on the ground. The ache in your knuckles suggests you were fighting. The ache in your head suggests you lost. The bindings around your wrists confirm it. 

A blurry face floats in front of yours — the asshole mugger. 

“Not dead yet, I hope?” He sits you on your knees and brushes dirt from your shirt. His hand travels under it to yank your necklace from you.  

“Don’t–touch–” you try as he searches for more treasure. You can barely form a coherent thought.  

His fingers hover by your head, removing most of your earrings. He leaves you with just one pair — dangling silk ribbons that attach in three different places. 

If anything, you’re glad you still have those. They were a gift from your friend. They may be the only reason your body is identified. 

“Satisfied?” you ask as he walks back to the group. 

He hums, parsing through your jewelry with a finger. Scowling, he sets it on a nearby barrel and picks up a roll of leather. 

Five knife hilts reflect the sun as he unrolls it. 

The first knife sinks into your shoulder. You grunt, hoping he doesn’t hear it over the waterfall to your left. 

“You humiliated me.” The second lands in your thigh. 

“You have to pay for it, y’know?” The third, your abdomen. It burns with every breath you take. 

Wind rushes by your head. You think the fourth knife missed until you feel blood drip down your ear. 

“And your shit ain’t worth nearly enough.” 

There’s only one knife left. You have no doubt as to where it’s meant to go. 

You have to do something — maybe the waterfall? 

Water falls into a pool, usually, but you have no idea how deep it is or how long the drop. The fall could kill you. 

Could. You can risk could. 

The mugger raises his hand. 

You tense.  

A gaze lands on your back. One that’s familiar. One that’s full of rage. 

Your muscles go slack as air flows all around you. It gathers at some point behind you. 

“You dare touch what’s mine?” 

Your body sways, teetering in the wind. An arm steadies you, wrapping gently around your shoulders. 

Your friend slashes his other hand. 

The bandits fly. Some into the water. Others into trees. Those that can still move run away. 

The grip on your shoulder tightens before dropping to your wrists. He doesn’t untie the rope; you hear a snap! and then your hands are loose. 

You slump against your friend’s chest, wrapping your uninjured arm around him. Tremors make their way through your body. 

You were going to die. 

Gods, you were going to die. 

Your friend holds you close. 

“How?” you croak, voice lost with your adrenaline. 

“I was helping the Matra with an investigation. And...” He holds up his hand. In his palm is a knife that matches the ones still sticking out of you. The only difference is a scrap of fabric caught in the tang — the silk from your earrings. 

“You saved my life. Thank you.” 

The fabric flutters in a breeze. He stares at it, then at you. 

“Scaramouche,” he says. There’s a weight to the word, one you cannot decide is reverence or despair. “My name is Scaramouche.” 

You blink, slow to understanding. “Your… name?” 

“Call for me if you’re ever in danger again. I’ll find you. I can’t-I can’t lose you.” He hugs you tight, pressing you firmly against his chest for the briefest of moments. 

When it passes, he scoops you up — one hand on your back, the other under you knees. 

“What–” 

“You need a doctor. I’m going to tell Cyno where those assholes went then take you to one.” 

“Wait-” 

You scream when he jumps over the waterfall. 

Scaramouche just smirks. 

[yuujispinkhair]

Separation Anxiety (Chapter 14)

Put your lips on my scars and teach me to love

When a ritual separates Sukuna from Yuuji, Sukuna is delighted to find that besides having his own body, there is also another gift handed to him: The brat has lost all his memories and is now the perfect little plaything to take home and manipulate. At least, that's the plan. But the King of Curses isn't prepared for the feelings that come along with being human again. And another complication is how cute the brat is when he has no idea who Sukuna is and, instead of hating him, treats him with genuine love and affection. So, without realizing it, Sukuna suddenly finds himself on a journey of learning how to be loved and how to love.

++ Masterpost ++

Pairing: Sukuna x Yuuji Genre: Memory Loss AU, fluff, smut, light angst Word Count: 4.5k Playlist: Separation Anxiety Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of violence, dub-con (Yuuji has lost his memories, and Sukuna lies to him about being boyfriends). All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

A little reminder for this chapter: In this AU, Shibuya and the Culling Game never happened.

Chapter 14

I can't keep you in these arms, so I'll keep you in my mind (You and I - Stripped by PVRIS)

Sukuna's POV:

He wants to tear the whole city down. He wants to set the world on fire, wants to kill and destroy and hear the screams of thousands burning in his wrath.

But Sukuna doesn't do any of those things. He does nothing at all.

Because Yuuji is somewhere out there in this city, and Sukuna cannot risk hurting him or the people Yuuji cares about. On top of that, Sukuna knows that Yuuji would blame himself for the destruction and the deaths. Sukuna knows how his brat's mind works. Yuuji would convince himself it was his fault because Sukuna managed to escape the cage that Itadori Yuuji was supposed to be.

That foolish brat will always blame himself for every crime Sukuna commits. This will never change. But what has changed is that Sukuna doesn't want to use this knowledge against Yuuji anymore.

So Sukuna does nothing. He just sits in the dark in his living room, which is too silent without Yuuji's excited chatter and loud laughter. He has a glass of dark red wine in his hand, occasionally taking a sip while his gaze wanders over Tokyo's bright lights glittering in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows.

Even if Sukuna would burn this city down, he doubts it would bring him any satisfaction. Nothing seems to be able to do that anymore. Everything has lost its meaning. Uraume can serve him the most exquisite meal, and it tastes bland. This city could crumble to ashes, and it wouldn't lift Sukuna's spirits. It wouldn't be able to fill that emptiness in Sukuna's chest. The dull ache is back, stronger than ever.

Uraume stands behind him, waiting for Sukuna's orders, watching him, observing every little thing he does. Their presence never bothered Sukuna, but right now, he feels their gaze like needle pricks on his skin. He never felt as exposed before, like his chest got torn open, and his heart and soul spilled over the floor for everyone to see.

"We can get you a new pet, Master Sukuna."

Sukuna's hand tightens around the wineglass so tightly that it breaks. Dark red wine spills over his hand, seeping into this white shirt, dripping down his wrist, and onto the luxurious white carpet beneath his feet.

Sukuna stares at the growing dark red pool at his feet, looking like the spilled blood he just imagined. He doesn't like lashing out at Uraume, not after all the years they spent together, but it takes every last ounce of control to keep his voice low and steady as he answers,

"I don't want another pet. The only one I want is him."

No one else could give him what Yuuji did. No one else could make him feel the way his brat does. No one else could be worthy. No one else could even begin to know him like Yuuji does.

When Yuuji was here, Sukuna felt warm. But now he feels that old familiar solitude drowning him again in its cold, rough waters. It's even worse now than it was in the past. A thousand years ago, Sukuna didn't know what he was missing, at least. He didn't know love. He didn't know the warmth of a lover's embrace, the utter bliss of seeing trust and affection in someone's eyes, the comfort of a genuine smile given to him without any ulterior motives or selfish reasons. Back then, he didn't know what it felt like to be loved.

But he has been touched by love now, by this oldest and most powerful curse of all. There is no going back. Yuuji came into his life, tore Sukuna's walls down, kissed his scars, and changed him forever. It's irrevocable.

Yuuji's presence still lingers in the apartment, even weeks after he left. The cookbooks with his messy handwritten notes scrawled all over the pages where he added his own adjustments to the recipes. His clothes, carelessly shoved into the closet, despite Uraume's attempt to fold them neatly, still smelling like him. The manga he bought at one of the small bookshops, which he enjoyed so much, dog-eared and strewn all over the apartment.

And that photo album he made for Sukuna and himself.

I wish I had had something like that when I woke up and couldn't remember anything. Now, we will always have these pictures to look at! He had said, and now Sukuna is the one who leafs through the small album, feeling the pain in his chest becoming even worse.

He can see the change in himself in those pictures as the date progresses. With every page he turns, it becomes clearer that Sukuna has fallen in love.

He stares at a picture taken in front of the shrine in the park only a few weeks ago. Yuuji took it, holding up his phone, smiling his happy sunshine smile into the camera, and making a peace sign. He is leaning against Sukuna, who is standing behind him, both arms wrapped around Yuuji, hugging him while smiling into the camera with matching genuine happiness written all over his face.

Sukuna wasn't even aware he was capable of looking like this, so at peace with everything in the world. So content. So happy.

It's unsettling to see himself like this, with all those human emotions he thought he had locked away forever, so openly on display on his face. Sukuna's first instinct is to tear out those treacherous pages and burn them to ashes. He cannot let anyone see this testament to his weakness. His long fingers hover over the page with the picture where he hugs Yuuji in the park.

But he cannot do it. He cannot destroy those pictures. Instead, he touches them gently, tracing them with his fingertips, careful not to do any damage, like he is touching his most precious possession.

Once again, Sukuna asks himself what he is doing. He used to be a man who always took what he desired, a man who only did what he wanted. A thousand years ago, he wanted to become The Strongest and hadn't stopped until he had succeeded.

But what does he want nowadays? Even more power? Make everyone bow down to him? Kill all the sorcerers who aren't worthy in his eyes? Enslave every human? Wage a war on this whole world?

No.

Sukuna gets up and slowly walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window, stopping in front of it and gazing out over the endless city lights.

"I just want to live my life in peace."

He is surprised that he said the words out loud and even more surprised by how right they feel.

Peace. It's something Sukuna never thought he would want. In his past life, he had been restless, always pushing himself to become stronger, always striving for more, reaching for enlightenment and a god-like status. He had different lovers every night, never letting anyone get truly close to him, just using them to quench his desire. He watched cities burn to dust while already thinking about the next steps he had to take. He sat on his throne and ruled over the masses.

But nothing ever felt as good as this new life he had those last few months. Nothing ever brought him more joy than the peaceful, domestic life he got to experience with Yuuji by his side. The peacefulness of walking the streets without anyone recognizing him, without having to watch his back at all times for the traitors who wanted to kill him. The peacefulness of only having Yuuji and Uraume around him and not having to deal with all those fake people surrounding him who told him everything he wanted to hear just to get on his good side. The peacefulness of sleeping in Yuuji's arms every night, knowing he could rest without any fear of getting attacked in his sleep.

And suddenly, peace doesn't seem to be such a dirty word anymore.

A humorless laugh escapes Sukuna's lips. His breath fogs up the window, making the bright city lights beneath him blurry. As unbelievable as it sounds, Sukuna knows it's the truth. The only thing he wants nowadays is to live a peaceful life with the man he loves by his side.

Sometimes, Sukuna sees him down in the park in front of the house.

Sukuna knows Yuuji is coming here intentionally. There is no other explanation for it. That sorry excuse of a school is too far away for Yuuji to accidentally end up here in front of his former living space. And the way he's looking up at the penthouse leaves no room for doubt as to why he is here. Golden eyes gaze up intently as if trying to see through the mirrored windows.

In these moments, Sukuna feels his heart contract painfully. The longing is so intense that he finds himself pressing a hand against the cold glass of the window as if reaching out to capture the boy down in the park, to capture that dream of a life with him.

He has to remind himself that this is his own doing. He chose this. He pushed Yuuji away. He changed the locks. He shut Yuuji out of his life.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't eat him up alive.

The first time the brat returned, he rang the doorbell for a solid ten minutes, and Sukuna felt more fear than at the time he faced a whole army of jujutsu sorcerers in Heian times.

He barked at Uraume to not let Yuuji in and fled to the bedroom, only to end up asking himself angrily what was wrong with him. The strongest sorcerer of all time was hiding away in his room because he feared he wouldn't be strong enough not to answer the door! Pathetic!

Sukuna stood at the floor-to-ceiling window with his arms crossed, staring unseeingly at the city below him, while his mind was filled with warm, golden eyes, a bright smile, and cherry blossom petals on pink hair.

The same thing happened several days in a row. The boy came back and rang the doorbell, stubborn as always. But Sukuna stayed adamant and didn't let him in.

It took Yuuji a whole week to stop ringing the doorbell, but it wasn't enough to make him stay away. He still comes here all the time. He still goes for his morning run here in this park, just like he used to do with Sukuna. As if he is waiting for Sukuna to join him.

Sukuna had to change his schedule. He gets up an hour earlier now to finish his morning run before the boy comes here. He tried to avoid going out completely, but he missed those morning runs and refused to give them up. And yet, they don't feel the same anymore.

Those runs used to fill him with exhilaration. But now, the park doesn't hold the same beauty as when Sukuna was here with Yuuji. The shrine, where they used to go to make wishes, suddenly seems shabby and not very well looked after. And the park seems to be too small, too lifeless, with no animals and poor choices when it comes to the flowers they planted, with no sense for poetry or beauty.

But it's not just the park. The whole city is different. Dull would usually not be the word someone would use to describe Tokyo, but this is how it feels to Sukuna now.

All the noises that used to be almost overwhelmingly loud seem far away. The city lights and neon signs aren't able to illuminate the streets the way they used to. The world doesn't have the same bright colors it had when Sukuna was walking through it with Yuuji by his side and heard his loud laughter and neverending chatter.

When Yuuji was with him, it felt like Sukuna was a part of all this. Of this city, of this modern world. But now it has pushed him out again, and he is a mere observer from the outside, never belonging, never finding any connection.

It's ironic. Sukuna had wanted to become Yuuji's whole world. That had been the plan back when he decided to keep the boy as his little pet. But now Sukuna knows better. The one he truly played was himself.

Yuuji still has a whole other world that belongs to him. He has other people who love him. He has a life he can live. He can blend into this world naturally and find a way into people's hearts.

When Sukuna looks around, he knows that this is Yuuji's world. This city, these modern times. It all belongs to Yuuji. He can go out there and meet new people, make them love him, and build a new life with them. He doesn't need Sukuna.

The one who is alone is Sukuna. He is a thousand-year-old relic walking these modern city streets, always knowing that he doesn't belong. He is an alien in this world, has always been, and will always be.

Yuuji was the one who made Sukuna feel like he was a part of this world. Yuuji was the one who took him by the hand and dragged him along into this modern life with its movie theaters and coffeeshops and restaurants and bright lights and loud music.

When it comes down to it, it is always Yuuji. He is everything. Sukuna's whole world.

Sukuna thought he was on the safe side with his early morning runs. But he is proven wrong when he is halfway toward the little shrine on this chilly Thursday morning.

His senses tingle, alerting him of the presence of another sorcerer. But it's not just any sorcerer. What gives it away is the strange feeling of relief that fills Sukuna's chest, making him let out a loud breath. Those last few weeks, the dull ache of their severed soul connection was a constant pain in his chest, the mark of their separation haunting Sukuna unrelentingly. But now, that ache is getting less prominent with every second that passes.

And that's why Sukuna knows that Yuuji is here. An hour too early.

Sukuna feels himself slowing down without making the conscious decision to do so. He huffs, shaking his head as a bitter grin spreads over his face. How foolish he has become. How utterly weak. He knows the reasonable thing would be to run faster. To get away from Yuuji as fast as he can. But Sukuna finds himself unable to listen to his mind. Is that what he is now? A prisoner of what his heart wants?

He has come to a complete stop when the familiar, too-loud voice is heard behind him,

"Kuna!"

At least Sukuna still possesses the strength not to turn around. His shoulders tense up, but his voice is calm, not giving away how distraught he feels when he answers,

"You shouldn't have come. I told you to stay away, brat."

"I don't want to stay away! I want to talk to you! Please!"

Sukuna still refuses to turn around and look at Yuuji. He doesn't want to encourage the boy. But most of all, Sukuna knows the moment he looks at that pretty face, he will feel too much. He will drown in those emotions again, in that unfamiliar territory that makes him feel so terrifyingly helpless. Sukuna knows whatever he does, he must not turn around and look at Yuuji.

But, of course, Yuuji thwarts Sukuna's plan. Of course, he is his usual stubborn and fearless self, who doesn't even let himself get scared away by the fact that the man he lived with for all those months is the King of Curses. He jogs past Sukuna, breaking through Sukuna's last line of defense as if it doesn't even exist, and puts himself right in front of Sukuna on the path leading to the shrine with flushed cheeks and an indignant look in his beautiful eyes.

"Stop trying to push me away! I know, Sukuna, ok? I know who you are and what you did, but I still want to be with you!"

He is breathing heavily, staring so intently at Sukuna that it seems as if he is looking right into Sukuna's soul. A soul that is in turmoil.

It was easier to stay strong when Sukuna watched Yuuji from the penthouse's windows. But now the boy is so close, close enough for Sukuna to see the tears shimmering in those golden eyes. Close enough to hear that warm voice tremble slightly when Yuuji adds,

"I miss you so much."

Something throbs in Sukuna's chest.

"Why do you still come back after knowing you lived with a monster all that time?"

"Because I don't want to be anywhere else in this world. You aren't a monster to me. Or if you are one, then I am a monster, too, and we make a good match."

Sukuna sighs. He feels that nothing he says will be able to make Yuuji back off.

"You foolish brat."

But the words lack the bite. Sukuna can hear the affection in his voice. The words aren't an insult but rather an endearment, and he knows Yuuji realizes it, too. The boy takes a step closer to Sukuna, looking at him with big eyes,

"When you said you love me, you meant it, didn't you, Kuna? I'm not talking about the beginning. But when you said you loved me during the last weeks, just tell me, did you mean it? Yes or no?"

There it is. The most dangerous question. Sukuna wants to deny it. Wants to say it was just part of his game. Wants to make Yuuji leave again. But didn't he try that already? And yet Yuuji is standing before him now, crying and asking Sukuna if he loves him, golden eyes begging him to tell the truth. And so Sukuna nods softly.

"I did mean it. I still do."

A happy, breathless chuckle escapes Yuuji's lips, but those golden eyes still look unrelentingly at Sukuna. So much strength. So much want.

"I knew it. So, if you love me, and I love you, why aren't we together?"

And for once, Sukuna knows no answer.

He exhales slowly while eyeing Yuuji carefully. Finally, he says,

"I don't deserve your love. Look at you. You are so full of love and compassion. The embodiment of humanity. And I am none of those things."

Yuuji shrugs,

"I don't think you are as bad as you try to make yourself out to be. I know there must be more to it than what I read in all those old files in the academy. Maybe if I only knew the man those records talk about, I wouldn't be able to love you. But the thing is, I know another version of you, and he is nothing like that evil king everyone tells me about. And I know no matter what you did in the past, you aren't doing those things anymore now."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because I know you."

Yuuji says it so matter-of-factly that it makes Sukuna laugh softly. How can the boy say such things? How can he say them with such conviction? How can anyone claim to know him? Him, Sukuna, who always hides behind a mask? Who locked all of his feelings away such a long time ago that he forgot about them? That he forgot how to be human.

But is that really true? Didn't he already prove himself wrong by falling in love with Yuuji? Didn't he feel human emotions all those last months with Yuuji by his side?

If anyone in this world can claim to know him, it is Yuuji.

They are closer than anyone else. They shared a body. Their souls used to be entangled, and even now that they are physically separated, there is still something tying them together. They are connected by a red string of fate. The stars wrote their story into the history of this universe. Yuuji and Sukuna. Sukuna and Yuuji.

So maybe Yuuji can say such outrageous things with such conviction. Because maybe he is right, at least a little. Out of anyone in this world, he is the one closest to Sukuna's soul. Closest to his core.

Sukuna cocks his head and gazes challengingly at Yuuji,

"What do you think I will do if anyone tries to hurt you? Do you think I won't burn this world down?"

But Yuuji just gazes back at him unafraid, cocking his head too, mirroring Sukuna's stance,

"Then I guess I will have to make sure to stay out of trouble, huh?"

There's a lopsided boyish grin on Yuuji's face, and Sukuna stares at him incredulously.

How can Yuuji tear Sukuna's walls down so easily? How can he be so filled to the brim with love and understanding? How can he be so sure and adamant about his feelings? How can he stand here in front of Sukuna after everything that happened and tell him it's ok and that he still wants to come back?

Sukuna had been so sure that sending Yuuji away was good for Yuuji. He had been so sure that Yuuji would hate him once his friends confirmed who Sukuna truly was and what he did.

But he is beginning to realize his mistake.

Yuuji isn't a stupid child or a damsel in distress who needs saving. He is strong and smart in his own way and so much better at understanding emotions and love than Sukuna. Yuuji is very capable of making his own decisions.

Sukuna knows what to do now. He starts walking again, waving Yuuji over with a casual flick of his wrist,

"Come on, walk with me. I will tell you the whole truth. I will tell you everything, even the things you didn't find in the sorcerers' records. And if you still think you can love me after that, then stay."

They slowly stroll further down the path, side by side, and when they reach a park bench, they sit down on it right in front of the shrine. Their shrine, the shrine where they made all those wishes, where Sukuna even stooped as low as asking the resident deity for help, the shrine that he always went back to every day, and more than once stood there with a small wooden ema in his large hands, staring at it, needing all of his strength not to write another wish on it.

He always put the empty ema back on the shelf and left without writing another wish, but in his mind, he knew what he would have written. He knew he would have wished for a new beginning for Yuuji and him. For a chance to make things right.

And now Yuuji is back, sitting next to Sukuna, so close that his thigh brushes against Sukuna's. He looks at Sukuna with those beautiful golden eyes that seem to carry all the riches of the world, everything one could ever want, the biggest treasures there are.

Sukuna speaks to him in a soft, calm voice. He tells Yuuji the truth. All of it. Tells him about his former life, the loneliness, the walls he built around himself, the absence of love, and the abundance of cruelty. Tells him that all that mattered to Sukuna used to be strength. How he needed to be The Strongest, and how he became it. He tells him about the violence Sukuna excelled in. About power and control. He tells him about abandoning a regular human life and becoming something more, something god-like and yet he wasn't satisfied. He tells him about dying and then waking up again in Yuuji's body a thousand years later. He tells him about the hatred in his heart, about the cruel joy he found in tormenting Yuuji because he hated the fact that a boy like Yuuji could hold him hostage in his body.

He tells Yuuji about every terrible thing he did and also about some of the terrible things he had to endure. He tells him about how his own mother thought he was a monster. He tells him about only ever seeing fear or disgust on the faces of the people who stood before him. He tells him about all his admirers who only flocked to him because they wanted to gain an advantage. He tells him how he discovered only now that there is more meaning to life than just strength. That he craves a peaceful life. The kind of life Yuuji showed him when they were together. He bares his whole soul to Yuuji, feeling naked and weak like never before. And yet, it feels right. Because this is Yuuji.

"You can only remember me as your boyfriend, Kuna, but I am also Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, and I have killed many, and I felt nothing while doing it. I still feel nothing for all those people who swarm the world like insects. You are the only one who makes me feel something. The only one I care about. But that wasn't what I planned. I went into this with bad intentions. I manipulated you. I tricked you into loving me and had my cruel joy with it. I wanted to break you. So consider it carefully. Do you really want to be with someone like that?"

He watches Yuuji's pretty face intently, blue eyes looking deeply into golden ones. He sees all the different emotions flickering over Yuuji's face. He sees the disapproval when Sukuna talks about killing, but also the understanding, the love, that is still there unwaveringly. A soft smile spreads over Yuuji's face when Sukuna is finished.

"You tricked me at first, but the Sukuna I lived with those last few months was the real you. And I love you the way you are. There isn't any manipulation or magic involved. I fell in love with the man I laughed with so often, who loves food as much as I do, who took me on nice dates and showed interest in my movies, and re-watched them all with me even though you already knew them by heart. What I feel for you is real, Sukuna. And I am glad to know the whole truth now. I am glad I can be by your side now and pull you out of that loneliness. I am glad you want different things in life now than you did in the past. I am glad that I can help you with that. I choose you, Sukuna. I choose you willingly, with your past and everything that comes with you. I want to live my life by your side. I think that's where I belong."

Sukuna watches him in silence for a moment, his chest filled with that warmth he was missing so much, his fingers tingling with the urge to reach out and pull Yuuji back into his arms.

"Then teach me, Yuuji. Teach me how to love you the right way."

"Oh, that's easy! Because you already do!"

Yuuji smiles that bright smile at Sukuna and reaches out to cup his face, tenderly tracing the black lines on Sukuna's cheeks. And Sukuna finds himself falling again, falling into Yuuji's warmth, into his bright colors, into his love. It's both terrifying and beautiful how the gentle touch of Yuuji's fingers on his cheeks holds more power than a whole army. Destruction in the most beautiful way.

Thank you so much for your patience!! I am so happy to finally post the new chapter! AND THEY ARE BACK TOGETHER 💗💗

I once again cried a lot while writing this. It always gets me so much when I write from Sukuna's POV, and he is vulnerable 😭 I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that you are happy they are united again!

I started posting this story over a year ago, and it has been a lot longer in my drafts before that, but I am actually really happy that I am still working on it atm because I love seeing the current chapters of the manga, where we get so much Sukuna and Yuuji content and it makes me an even bigger mess for those two lol.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet 💗

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter four: the mourning after

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Three |🩸 Chapter Five (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion reels in the wake of his consort's amnesia, and forms a plan to restore her memories.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? With whom can the vampire vent some of the intense sensuality that seems to pervade its breed? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Blood smears over Astarion’s swollen lips, painting his front from neck to navel. He’s already drained two thinking things dry today. The dirt from their graves still lines his nail beds. No matter.

The nobles’ screams will sound just as sweet, whether they see the horror coming or not.

After he laid Naomi in the safety of their shared chambers, and laid Claude and Thessa to rest in the gardens, the other patriars had remained in his study to be dealt with. Claude had the foresight to lock them there. But the door would only hold the conniving fools for so long. 

Astarion would be sure to clean himself of all the gore before waking his darling. And when he wakes her, he’ll wash away the woes of the day with one last compulsion: remember.

His steps thud down the hall. Racing heartbeats slap his ears like boots smacking through puddled streets. So much wet, delectable noise. He swipes his tongue across his teeth in anticipation.

Astarion lurches towards the study door. His hand claws around the knob.

In an instant, he could be rid of the patriars for good. Pour their pride, their hopes, their lives down his throat until only he remains. And he’ll do the same to every footsoldier that comes calling after. Even Duke Ravengard, when he inevitably comes to visit righteousness upon the Crimson Palace. 

Astarion could take everything, in light of what’s been taken from him. He should. It’s only right someone else should suffer. Naomi’s not here to argue any different. 

Her name pangs through his temples. Astarion recoils abruptly from the door, his hand dropping slack at his side as he bites back a pained hiss.

The vampire ascendant sits at the head of the conference table in his study. His fingertips curl and unfurl into fresh grooves worn down in the mahogany. 

At the table’s other end, Naomi surveys him in portrait, her expression guarded and glittering. She’s not alone; they’re seated on separate thrones in the towering canvas, hands delicately clasping each other’s. Both of them are drenched in jewels, clad in finery worth more than any who set their eyes upon it. The gold-leaf frame on its own cost more than most peasants make in a decade.

There’s a more lascivious version in their private chambers, with Naomi seated on his lap. The only finery she wears there is that of her bare figure, with Astarion likewise undressed. It’s lucky he preemptively covered it before she batted her eyes open. Given how she reacted to her own reflection, she may not have taken kindly to her likeness twined so completely with his.

Her reflection is a gift, granted by the greater present of his presence. And yet, his generosity is entirely lost on her now. She's forgotten all of the times he's taken her so tenderly, all the wealth he's lavished over her, all the pains she's been spared as his treasured consort. She's forgotten the love they share, the love that broke through the dirt of those sunless centuries and seated them here: happy, eternal, untouchable.

She can barely stomach his touch at all, now.

“Oh darling,” he utters in the barest whisper, his pounding head dropping into his hands. “What am I to do with you?”

Outside, night falls in a dark curtain across the Gate. The windowed wall overlooking the city fills with little motes of flickering lantern light. From here, they seem small enough for him to reach out and extinguish, one by one, with just a pinch of his fingers.

His jaw clenches. He could’ve been far crueler to this city. He’s been utterly benevolent by comparison. 

And this is how his kindness -- his restraint -- is repaid. This is the thanks he gets.

The empty kind, bleated by sheep who don’t know their own luck. Every one of the patriars muttered their gratitude as they filed from the room without so much as a scratch. Any misgivings they had were soothed with the calming timbre of his Ascendant Authority --  a devilish boone that grants him the ability to bend the perception of even those he doesn’t have direct dominion over. 

It’s time for you all to leave. Everyone expected to attend the meeting was present. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. You definitely didn’t notice any blood.

It isn’t the bludgeon of compulsion. The effect is more subtle, and must operate within the reasonable expectations of whatever captive audience he seeks to manipulate. He cannot command those he hasn’t bitten, but he can curate. Such revision is made all the easier by the blood of his new spawn thrilling through his veins, and the mundane, repetitive song and dance all the nobles come to expect. The cattle long for their routine, and will readily return to it at the sight of a strong hand.

Astarion drums his fingertips restlessly against the pages of an open book. His abilities will stave off immediate inquiry into Thessa Gray’s sudden disappearance. For most, it will be enough not to arouse any suspicion. Unless pressed -- and who would have reason to? -- the other nobles will offer threadbare replies as to the day’s dealings. But such answers could crumble to confusion under scrutiny. 

If someone knew better, they might know a vampire had a hand in muddling their minds.

Wyll knows better. Wyll will know about Astarion’s new spawn soon enough. Time enough for Astarion to sort out this matter of memory.

He skewed the patriars’ recollections easily enough. They had recollections to tamper with. The spell scroll didn’t simply mold Naomi’s memories. It stole them. He can’t curate absence. Evidently, he can’t compel it away, either. 

“By the bloody hells!”

The table rattles with the sudden pound of his fist, but the pain needling his temples barely recedes. It doesn’t flee like it should. The low, guttural growl in the back of his throat doesn’t scare it off, either.

His head hurts. His head shouldn’t hurt. Nothing so mundane as a headache should have a hope of harming him! Astarion grits his teeth, nearly ripping the page from the tome in front of him as he turns to the next. 

It’s the same cruel pain that plagued him when he woke Naomi. After the incident in the throne room, he’d braced for her hostility. He hadn’t accounted for her terror. Or that it would feel like teeth sinking into his skull.

The woman cries in glass; every tear down her cheek has the same lethal sheen. No soothing words or gentle touch could dull the sharpness. And now he bears the unseen scars of it.

His compulsion didn’t work. His consort can’t remember their precious time together. And he, the vampire ascendant, is suffering something so inane as a migraine.

If Naomi feels the pain, too, then at least she’s trancing through it. Their bond requires emotions to be shared. He feels any harm that comes to her as if it were his own, and vice versa. His triumphs are hers, and their joys are joint.

She would not recoil from him so, stranger or not, if she could feel his affections. Astarion’s lip curls. She had no problem seeing the monster of him, turning a blind eye to the care he’d taken in her comfort. Her fear could’ve cut a throat as easily as a dagger. Astarion tried to scrape his way past it, but when her eyes set sight on her own reflection, it climbed into something consuming. It was reflex to send her into trance again. Like shirking away from a fire spitting sparks. 

She can’t trance forever. The back of his throat grows drier, the longer his thoughts linger on his consort. She needs to feed.

And pain is not the same as fear. They are complementary colors, not identical ones. Astarion is intimately acquainted with all the subtle shades in between. The distinction stirs a festering disquiet in his gut.

Can she feel their bond at all? Her memories may have taken the direct hit, but their bond is…strained. Twisted in on itself. So loud and large are her feelings, maybe his are simply quiet in her head. 

Or, maybe, the time for his restraint is over.

It could be a stronger hand that’s needed for her thoughts to open to him again. The seamless telepathy they shared before was something cultivated over time. A conscious choice they each made until it became an unconscious one. Either of them, in theory, could choose to shelter their own thoughts. Feelings would still seep through, and such deprivation didn’t suit a union so harmonious as theirs.

It’s a choice she would never ordinarily make. One he could grow to forgive when this interruption in their eternity is so far in the past, it can be forgotten.

With a long-drawn sigh, Astarion snaps the book shut and tosses it into the piles of others strewn over the floor. In lieu of tearing out the patriars’ throats, he’d torn all the tomes from the shelves. So much for all the coin he’d spent furnishing Emilia’s studies. He’s yet to find anything of use in the rare arcane texts his library boasts of. No cures for his consort’s ailing memory. Only more and more incendiary possibilities of what caused it. 

A charm? Unlikely. Emilia said it herself: by your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours. An enchantment would’ve ended when the caster did. The man turned to literal sand before Astarion’s eyes, and still, Naomi’s amnesia persists. What’s left of the culprit sits in a bronze dish further down the desk, alongside the burnt scraps of the spell scroll. He can’t make sense of such remnants -- it’s in a strange, geometric script he can’t decipher.

  A curse on the other hand… 

The notion nips at his mind like a putrid rat. At first, he bats the idea away. But as night bleeds to dawn, it recurs with a sickening nausea he can’t ignore.

What a specific insult to add to this particular injury; Naomi has been the victim of a curse before, albeit of a very different nature. Only those who knew her during their tadpole days would know that intimate detail. She herself didn’t understand her own plight when they first met. Astarion freed her of those bonds long ago. What lingering effects of her former curse remain, Naomi learned to wield as weapons of her own.

Astarion rubs the fresh creases on his forehead. Only a day ago, Naomi smirked and said: this is my home. I know where all the sharp things are. And now, she cuts her own lips on the fangs she’s unfamiliar with. Her abilities could be further hazards, if she no longer recalls how to use them.

Still, it was no mere wizard who cursed her in the past. All things considered, this is a far simpler predicament than last time. It should follow that the solution is simpler, too. If it is a mundane curse, then a mundane cleric should be able to cure it. Or, another wizard. One more skilled than Emilia was. 

Astarion knew such a man once. A shame that man is no more. Gods never answered Astarion’s prayers in the past, and he’s not about to depend on one, now.

He still knows a skilled cleric. One that might answer the call of his coin purse. After all, where would the Mother Superior and her House of Grief be without his financial sympathies?

But no. His consort won’t need either of them. Astarion stiffens abruptly, a new realization latching into place in his mind. 

It wasn’t Gale or Shadowheart who saved Naomi from her first curse. It was Astarion. It was never clear to him if the act of making her vampire did the trick, or if it only worked because he was the vampire above all others. Either way, Astarion usurped Naomi’s former chains by binding her to him instead.

He lets out a strangled laugh, the only sound for hours in the deathly quiet palace.

It all comes down to blood, really. It’s the way he’s solved all of his problems in the end, one way or another. He needn’t worry himself with magic when the old vampire cure-all could have her in his arms again within hours.

One drop should do. She’ll remain a vampire bride as she was meant to be -- there can be no separation, and no making of a ‘true’ vampire unless a sire wills it. She will sup of him once more, and know him again.

And what bliss that will be. 

A sudden smile wakes on his lips, warming his face with the fresh daylight streaking through the windows. His nose tilts towards the ceiling, and his eyes flutter shut. Naomi’s touch feels far too muted in his mind when it’s only memory he’s drawing from, and not the live current of their flourishing bond. 

It’s a comfort all the same, to imagine her fingers coursing through his curls, her nails scraping against his scalp. Her scent of lavender and lemongrass, sharp and sweet, never fails to make his mouth water. He’d sup of her, too. Take that divine nectar from her neck and take her with her stomach laid flat across this desk, back arched, legs spread wide, his hands hooked around her thighs, his name a fountain from her mouth.

Astarion.

His eyes flash open at once. He gags back a raw whimper in his throat. Pain, not pleasure, flares within his skull. His lustful fantasies dissolve into one piercing recollection: the distress on her face when she woke beside him earlier.

“Do you know my name?” He’d asked his wife.

Astarion, she said. He mulls over the shape of the sound in Naomi’s mouth, the way she said it with such warring confusion and certainty. Even as she answered him without hesitation, he saw the surprise cross her face.

Astarion. To her, he is inextricable. He is instinct.

She isn’t lost to him. She isn’t. She can’t be.

Astarion shoves from his chair so violently, it topples over. He doesn’t bother to right it again before storming from the room like a thundercloud. The corridors echo with his footsteps and the shrill squeak of his heel as he turns down another. Before long, he comes to the closed door he seeks, a faint glow of silver magic glittering around its edges. 

Emilia had the enchantments carved at his behest. They’re a part of the manor itself, and so they still survive without her. None but he and Naomi can see the effect without some manner of arcane detection. None might enter or exit without the spell’s password, known only to him and his consort.

A detail, like so many others, Astarion’s sure she’s forgotten.

Soundlessly, he turns the knob and presses the door open. It’s absurd, the way he tip-toes towards the bed. As if she could wake without him willing it. It’s absurd to be looking in on her at all. Of course, she’s still here. Astarion forces out a long breath. It doesn’t sate the anxious scamper of his heart beating in his throat.

It’s equally ludicrous that he hesitates at his side of the bed, glancing furtively between the empty space beside her body and the empty chair in the corner. Ridiculous, really, that the corner is where he ultimately retreats to. But then, the situation itself is outlandish in every sense. No ill was ever supposed to befall her here, in their home, beneath his protection.

He sits stiff-backed, legs crossed, with his hands clenching the armrests in a rigid grip and his eyes fixed on his trancing bride. Her white hair splays over the silk pillowcase. The lace of her nightgown drapes off her freckled, lilac shoulders. Except for the occasional flutter of her eyelids, she’s utterly still. Astarion is a statue at her bedside.

What memories play behind those closed eyes? He wonders. Perhaps, in her trance, she relives her time in the Underdark, and the temple to Eilistraee that raised her. Naomi still remembers her mortal life, something that fades for most vampires in time. 

Without such mortal memories of his own, for centuries, all Astarion could remember  was Cazador’s cruelty. He learned to substitute reverie with sleep. It gave him a chance, at least, to dream of something different, instead of replaying something agonizing. Some nights, he was luckier than others. Cazador could still turn a dream into a nightmare, after all. 

Astarion has been nothing but lucky since knowing Naomi. And he’d no longer needed to trade reverie for sleep. He hasn’t gotten a wink of either since she’s forgotten him.

It’s nighttime again when he rises from his seat. He latches the door behind him just as quietly as he coaxed it open. His legs move sluggish, as if wading through waist-high water. The cool air of the garden courtyard tickles his collar, rousing him from his daze.

Something clatters nearby. Movement flashes in his periphery. Astarion’s heart lurches in his chest as he pivots and stiffens. With the culprit locked in his sights, he lets out a long, pained groan.

Gods below. It’s only the gardener, skulking as she’s wont to do. Astarion studies the skeletal figure with equal measures of disgust and fascination. She was only a dusty pile of bones when he and Naomi happened upon her in some forgotten closet. No doubt Cazador locked her there years ago and threw away the key without a second thought. Astarion has no idea who she might’ve been.

But the second Naomi sang, the skeleton became whoever his consort wanted her to be. And Naomi wanted a gardener to help her grow all manner of beautiful, exotic things. Astarion’s heartbeat settles, though it aches like a bruise with every pang. He starts off again with a huff.

Floral sweetness cloys in his nose, lush petals framing the stone path to the heart of the courtyard. The gardens are home to every shade of violet ever known. His favorite are the petrea vines, hanging like garland from the trellises. Wistfully, he reached out to cradle a strand. The delicate blooms are so similar to the shade of Naomi’s eyes, when she was still mortal. Water babbles from the enchanted fountain up ahead, mingling with the faintest sound of piano keys. 

Astarion’s eyes grow heavy. If he only closes them, perhaps he can pretend he’s still in the ballroom, that the moonlight bleaching his cheek is the sun, that he never left Naomi alone at all. That she plays for him, still.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Astarion whirls around, seething. “What are you doing?!”

The gardener scuttles on, trowel in hand, without so much as a croak in reply. It’s a relief, really, that the thing can’t talk, even if it is uncanny in its understanding when others do. Naomi thinks his distaste for the gardener is a matter of favoritism, that he simply values his own progeny over her bonier servants. He doesn’t dwell on it long enough for any other reason to come to mind, though his eyes linger on the trowel’s sharp edge until the gardener disappears between the hedges again. 

That Naomi’s servants still function as they should, he supposes, is a good sign. Her magic remains as strong as ever, it seems, even if her memory isn’t.

When at last he comes to the bare patch near the back, strategically shielded from sight by lush hydrangeas, the dirt is already writhing. He watches coldly as the soil shifts and sinks. An arm bursts through, raking madly at the air, and then another. The hands are the color of a faded rose, and tipped in dark, pointed claws. Thessa.

“Finally!” Astarion sighs. “I was beginning to think I killed you for good!”

He reaches forward, grips a flailing hand, and pulls. 

The tiefling bursts from her grave, collapsing at Astarion’s heels. Her clogged scream sends a score of crows into the sky. At least the cacophony drowns out her awful retching. 

Claude still hasn’t stirred. Well, Astarion won’t weep if he fails to. He doesn’t weep over the same ceremony that once started his own existence as a snivelling spawn. With Zylar and Emilia, he took time and pride in molding them, and even mustered a fair amount of pity for their lesser state. The burial was something he prepared them for. Something they saw for the rite of passage it was.

There’s no time for such luxuries now. Astarion’s kindness cost Naomi dearly. Whatever Zylar did or didn’t do in the throne room before Astarion arrived, it led to Naomi’s current state. The wretch will stew and starve in his cell while Astarion sees to his fresher spawn. 

The dirt of Claude’s grave begins to crack. A ragged snarl rips from Thessa’s throat. She’s filthy, streaked in dirt, eyes wide and wild, blood and spit hanging from her chin like some slavering dog. Astarion knows what’s next. He steps back neatly as she lunges, leaving her to thump face-first at his feet.

“You will not allow harm to come to your-- wait!” Astarion holds up a finger, brow furrowing. 

Thessa stares ahead blankly on all fours, an empty canvas awaiting his command.

“No,” he decides. “Not that.”

He taps the same finger against his lower lip, abruptly pensieve. He was about to say: you will not allow harm to come to your sire. But it was that command that caused Emilia to harm Naomi. And Emilia’s inability to conceive of nuance led to her downfall.

If he compels Thessa in the same manner, she’s likely to meet the same fate as the spawn that came before her. She’s not special or smart enough to steer herself towards any other outcome all on her own.

So he settles instead on: “You will not harm your sire or his bride. You will protect them both to the best of your ability.”

He can’t help but feel a small twinge of disappointment at how quickly the compulsion douses Thessa’s fire. His shoulders stung for an hour after her death: a product of the frantic, scorching spells she lashed at him as he drained every drop of blood from her body. Now, she merely lies limp in the dirt, haggard and panting, glaring daggers at her new master.

Claude surfaces shortly after. Astarion heaves him from the hole by the collar, setting him atop solid ground with little ceremony. The gnome echoes Thessa’s sputtering for air he no longer needs, but he refrains from any foolhardy aggression. He quivers as Astarion repeats the same compulsion he bestowed on Thessa. When it’s done, Claude’s wet, pleading eyes fix on Astarion. No longer are they colorless gray, but a gleaming, ruby red.

“H-hungry,” Claude stammers, voice fraught.

“Yes,” Astarion says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come, both of you.”

He leads them to the dining room, where he pulls out the chairs across from where he and his consort typically seat themselves. On grander occasions, the lavish hall hosts all manner of rich and powerful guests. Most days, it seats only two. 

Stiffly, Thessa sits. Claude nearly collapses into his chair, clutching the armrests for dear life. The man is pale, even by vampire standards. He always had a sickly pallor in life. Undeath didn’t relieve him of it.

The nearby hearth bursts to life with a snap of Astarion’s fingers. He crosses the hall to an ornate cabinet. The lock opens at Astarion’s mere touch. He takes a decanter, with velvet red liquid sloshing inside, and a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet before shutting it again and sauntering over to his waiting spawn. The lock re-engages with a faint click.

Claude’s eyes track his every motion. Thessa leans in, hypnotized by Astarion’s fingers toying with the glass stopper. It calls to mind a cat, with pupils blown wide, preparing for the perfect moment to pounce.

He’s not a monster. Well, not entirely. This isn’t an act of kindness. It’s necessary, if he doesn’t want them wilting over like desiccated waifs.

With a thin smile, Astarion twists the stopper free. The scent hits the roof of his mouth at once, rich, ripe, and succulent. He can see the second it reaches his spawn. Their eyes glaze over with raw, overwhelming want. Thessa’s lips twitch towards a snarl. The sound that seeps out instead is nearly obscene. Claude shudders hard enough to shake his chair, too.

“Wait until it’s set in front of you,” Astarion chides, carefully pouring each glass in turn. They recoil only slightly. “And do try to drink like you’re civilized.”

They can’t help but not be. Like meat tossed to starving dogs, reason leaves them, and instinct takes the reins. Between their frantic gulping, glass shatters. In only seconds, they’ve downed their first blood, and shed just as much of their own in the process. With a low growl, Thessa plucks shards from her lower lip. The same broken pieces glint from fresh cuts in Claude’s hands.

Astarion could’ve compelled them into composure, but the demonstration suits him. It’s an important lesson for any spawn of his to see how little control they have, and how much their sire holds.

“Now that you’ve become acquainted with your new nature,” Astarion says pointedly, fully aware their attention flits between him and the decanter he shifts casually between one hand the other, “ let me acquaint you with our current predicament. Your mistress…”

Astarion clears the abrupt thickness from his throat as he contemplates what to say to set his spawn to task. He could lie, say Naomi’s been wounded, or fell ill. But any vague excuse could raise suspicions of a make-believe weakness. And weakness, even if only pretended, is something fresh spawn would be all too hungry to exploit. Such is the way of those lowest in the ranks. There’s no time for needless distractions that could muddle their aims.

No, the truth will have to do. 

“...was the target of a powerful spell. It’s taken a great deal of her memories. You’re going to help me get them back. Your aid in this will be duly rewarded. And let me assure you: there is much I could reward you with, should I choose to.”

As if he snapped his fingers, their focus recenters on him.

“Claude, you will show Thessa to Emilia’s chambers. These are to be her chambers now. And then, you will take her to my study. There, Lady Gray, you shall discern how the caster who so harmed my beloved disintegrated into sand before anyone else could lay a finger on him. Claude will assist you with whatever you require. Neither of you are to leave the palace. And neither of you will speak of Naomi’s ailment to anyone else.”

Thessa’s eyes narrow. “I’m a sorcerer, not a wizard. I’m certainly not a healer or an alchemist.”

“If you’re not useful, you’d best endeavor to change. And quickly.” He offers a humorless smile. “You’re welcome, by the way. You won’t be able to tell by looking in a mirror, of course, but I’ve done wonders for those wrinkles of yours, darling.”

Hesitantly, her fingertips ghost across her own smoothed cheek, tracing upwards to the corners of her eyes. Her hand falls back to her side, gaze dropping to the floor. 

Quietly, she says, “My family will ask after me.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “A secondary problem. One we can solve to your satisfaction, should you first earn mine.”

“Master,” Claude blurts, voice raw and rasping. “Might we have more?”

The gall of it! Anger sparks like waking embers in his gut. Astarion stills the decanter within his grip, holding it close to his chest.

“You might,” he croons, “but neither of you will unless I permit it.”

The gnome’s lip quivers. Perhaps he’s pushed poor Claude too far. No -- this is all heavenly compared to Cazador’s vampire orientation.

Astarion heaves an exasperated sigh. “For your own good, you’ll have to learn restraint. That learning starts now. It will be trying. But we’ve no time to be delicate, I’m afraid. I’m certain you can shoulder the burden.”

Sheepishly, Claude nods.  “Yes, my lord. To your new quarters then, Lady Gray.”

As they leave the hall, Astarion spies another figure stirring at the perimeter. It clacks across the tile, a broom and dustpan in skeletal hand. Ah. The maid. Another one of Naomi’s ‘spawn’.

This one, at least, seems intent on disturbing him as little as possible. The skeleton crouches as it nears the table, carefully collecting the remnants of the shattered wine glasses. Astarion repays its consideration by leaving it to its work.

He eyes the decanter of blood wistfully, but doesn’t hesitate as he replaces the stopper and stows it back inside the cabinet. Though he’s a man of immense appetites, tonight, he doesn’t intend to spoil his supper. Not this time.

He’ll be dining with Naomi, after all.

A/N: Thank you so very much for your patience! I've been battling a recurring sinus/respiratory infection that just won't quit. Between that and the holidays, this chapter took a little longer than I would've liked.

More Naomi and Astarion in the same room together in the next chapter ;) And, as some of you suspected, we’ll be seeing at least one other familiar face soon-ish, too.

HUGE thank you to the amazing, phenomenal, incredible @pinkberrytea for pre-reading this one, and for being a constant source of encouragement and inspiration. Please check out her lovely fic!

And a shout out as well to another dear friend, Garnett Gibson, who recently gifted me an amazing one-shot of non-amnesia Naomi x Astarion engaging in some steamy hunter/prey play. If you enjoy this story, or liked Blood in the Mortar, you'd love Garnett's one-shot. And their other wonderful fics, too!

Thanks for reading! <3

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

I Won't Forget

Soap x Civilian!Reader

Your last night with Johnny...

SFW, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Established Relationship, Long Distance Relationships, Mutual Break-Ups, Failed Romance, A bit mopey, but not toxic, hopefully not OOC, Scarcely Proofread, Drabble

I felt like writing angst, but not heavy angst. Here's the drabble that thought concocted.

Masterlist

Johnny took the long way back home from the park. He hadn't commented on anything in particular, beyond what played on the radio, and you didn't mind the silences, frequent as they came tonight.

A choice lyric sent him into a small rant at some point, each new comment springing a giggle out of you. It warmed him each time to hear, though he wouldn't say so in words, even as he attempted to. Johnny feared he could never find the right way to express himself to you, but it never kept him from trying. He always was adaptive to anyone and anything, it seems. Anytime the world allowed for it.

The silence returned after a few more roads had passed, as though a sudden realization had dawned on you both; an impending doom and growing nausea which came once more. Reality.

When this drive was over, this was it. He'd be gone for another long assignment. Another indefinite amount of time. Another handful of moments taken. And after a long talk over dinner, you both came to the mutually painful conclusion that things needed to end.

Your lives split you two apart more often than not, and it was past time for you both to move forward without one another, no matter how ambitious you both had been about things; your problems could be swept away no longer.

For the first year it hadn't been so bad -- the long evening phone calls, the gifts and letters, and that unmatched excitement from finally reuniting. It made for memories you were sure to live with until your elderly days; like falling in love all over again. Yes... it hadn't been so bad the first year.

It took him about as long to make things between you two official; a whole year of him popping in and out of your area like a short-lived dream. When he'd asked you to be his girlfriend, you could feel the hesitancy mixed into the excitement in his voice, not from a fear of rejection but rather a fear of regret. Because even then he knew that being with him wouldn't be easy. You believed you could handle it.

By the third year the phone calls grew routine, feeling more akin to a daily task you had to do rather than a want or need. And while at times you had bemoaned the interruption they caused in your schedule, selfish as it had made you feel, you'd cry yourself to sleep every night you didn't hear from him at all, wanting to go back to those five minutes he could spare you between missions.

Eventually the stretches of radio silence between your calls grew so much that you stopped noticing them after awhile. These days it feels you've been together separately more often than near one another. His calm blue eyes looked more accustomed to your phone screen than right in front of you.

And it hadn't been as though Johnny were purposefully pushing you away. There was nothing more he wanted than to just find a nice plot of land and spend the rest of his days with you.

But this other side of him, his identity before you that had been the very other core of himself, Soap... that had just been a part of him that could not be separated.

He lived for his career, and it's all he's ever known until now. Being a soldier had meant everything to him and it hadn't been something he could so easily set aside, not even for you it seems. It was the one thing he felt he'd been good at, and it brought him just as much pride.

You couldn't take him away from his life, just as he couldn't do so to you. Your life mattered too, and that included being deserving of a present love. Someone to be there for the special moments, and someone you didn't have to wait for.

So he would stay a soldier, and you would go back to your life, uninterrupted this time. So goes the end of what had otherwise been a pleasant on-and-off time between you two.

But you hadn't wanted your last memories to be this. To be you both sitting silently, sadly, in the car as he drives you home. The ultimate summary of your relationship. You hadn't wanted this ending to feel so awful if it had been something you both agreed upon.

So you turn up the car radio and you sink back into the passenger's seat with a bittersweet smile. And when a dumb joke crosses his mind, Johnny finds himself unable to keep himself from sharing, even laughing for a time or two before the joke had even come out. If you both didn't talk about the obvious, then it didn't have to mean anything right now. Let that be later, and these moments feel endless.

You hope whatever road this is, that you've hit every red light, every stop sign, and every passing pedestrian the street could throw at you. You hoped Johnny would drive five miles under the speed limit and accidentally forget a turn or two, forcing him to backtrack and restart the route once again. You would hope to stop time itself tonight and keep the sun from setting any further over these quiet streets.

It was the hope that hurt the most, knowing these wishes were impossible and out of your hands, just as life always was. But you hoped for these things regardless. If not that, what else would there be beyond everything else around you?

You loved these finite moments, and it's many sweet little trappings. They were often provided just by the cool touch of his skin on yours, or the vibrations of his voice against your living room walls. You could spend ten years apart and three minutes together, and those three minutes would be the only thing you think about for the next ten years to come.

With each light you've passed, and corner you've turned, dread slowly rises in you, knotting in your throat even as you try to keep singing along to the radio.

Johnny stopped talking as much the closer you got home; he even stopped taking quick glances your way, replaced by small sighs and silences. You always did envy his ability to remain so calm around you, unable to tell if it had been some front of his or merely a side of him that you alone brought out of him.

Your eyes look down to see his hand firmly resting over the stick-shift, and you invite your own over it, letting your fingers dance lightly over his warm skin and cup them into your palm, feeling Johnny's fingers gently squeeze over yours as he's felt you.

His blue eyes glance your way momentarily, dipping back and forth between you and the road. He always adored the way you looked in his passenger's seat, sat comfortably with your legs crossed and your body leaned in as toward him as you could be within this confined space. He could easily reach out and let his hand rest over your thigh, that simple trust bringing him peace for the entire ride. Tonight his hand felt perfectly placed in yours, having your thumb caress his rough skin, and your warmth take the coolness in his palms away.

You come across a red light, the final one before your road. A brief moment longer between you two parted ways for good.

You look over at Johnny, who looks back at you. Had it been daytime, he may have seen the tears brewing in your eyes rather than the hazy gloss the night had shaded them with instead, tinted by a crimson glow.

"When are you leaving?" You could no longer keep the question to yourself, despite knowing the detail had been trivial at this point. A small part of you just needed to know.

Johnny holds back a sigh, keeping his gaze locked on you. "...Tomorrow afternoon."

"Ah..." You look down at your lap shyly, drumming your hand lightly against your thighs. "I'm guessing you won't be able to see me one more time before you go then..."

If he could have more time, he would give it to you in a heartbeat. He would have said that to you, but something held back his tongue. Some fear he'd yet to get over which had been admitting to the desperation he'd slowly begun to feel tonight. A desperation to make the time stop, take it back... only to be followed by the discomforting realization that no matter what, you could not in fact stop time. For better or for worse.

"I'm afraid not, Bonnie..." he said. "...I'm sorry."

"It's OK," you say, though your voice is faint. "Well... do you think you can spend the night?"

Johnny knew what you were doing, or rather trying to do. He knows you're well aware that he had until the sun rises before his departure, so if you could take every last hour of that time until then, you'd search for a way, somehow. It's something he loved most about you, and found himself thinking back on at multiple points throughout the night as he'd followed you into your apartment, prepared to make himself at home for a final time in your walls.

Your couch felt a bit more cozy this time, your living room more warm. There'd been no concern as to look at the clock, your drooping eyes and slurred words telling time well enough. Neither of you can remember when the conversation ended that night, but you wouldn't forget when he took you into his arms for again, pulling you into him beneath your covers, lips locking with yours.

Wrapped in each other, you didn't want to forget his skin or scent, the taste of his lips or how each movement brought you immense pleasure. You didn't want to forget a thing.

He fell asleep before you, and you woke up that morning before him. When the sun dipped through the curtains, you'd hoped he'd sleep a bit longer. And when his eyes finally crept open, as bittersweet as it felt, you greeted him with a kiss. It was small, but it was one you would always think back to.

(._. )

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep7 Musings - RIP Claudeleine

Here we effing go, y'all. 🤧

The coven tortured them b4 the were put on trial--W T F 😱

Yep, in the rat box--what practical PURPOSE or POINT was there to put Claudia in there to get gnawed on by feral rats, other than sick sadistic viciousness? We know Celeste & Estelle used the Mind Gift on Roget--you mean they could'n't've done that to Claudia like Santiago did on Madz? You HAD to stuff her in there? EVIL.

Daaaaang, they used a wombo-combo Mind Gift to tell her to STFU; her effing nose is bleeding!

"In all their chilling premeditation"--yep, this is why criminals should never leave diaries or use social media! 😅🤦‍♀️ And omfg they let the audience read her diaries, I can't. 🫣 And the Baby LouLou fangirls aren't in the front row this time; effing fair-weather fans! 😒

GOD the coven frikkin hamstrung them, too!? 😱 To the BONE!

"Evil of my evil," SAY IT. Claudia laughing like she finna dance in his innards. "It moved Claudia, right up on her [HAMSTRUNG] feet," I was AGHAST. If y'all don't step TF back and give my daughter room to tear his a-hole wide open!

I love how AMC changed Ghost!Claudia's legacy, cuz the diaries were all Lou had, which implied that Claudia died "hating his guts," as Daniel said in 1x7. But by regaining his memories of the Trial, AMC!Lou gets to see that Claudia actually went out DEFENDING him. The one she REALLY had beef with was Lestat. Ofc she resented Lou, but most of all she loved her Daddy Lou, and was traumatized seeing him broken like an EGG from an airplane that SHE tried her darndest to piece back together. And Lestat can't say EFF ALL, cuz he already admitted that he broke him to hurt him.

EXAAAAAAACTLYYYYYYYYY! 🗣️🗣️🗣️

(Girl we all know you ain't sorry, lol. But PREACH!)

SPITE! 😫 Lestat was being SPITEFUL. Yes, this IS his big revenge; he DGAF about Claudia, he came there for Louis, YES! Did he expect Claudia to die? No, he EXPECTED Armand to get TF up and save ALL of them. But he DID go in there ready and willing to throw Claudia under the bus to get Louis out of there.

Claudia called herself "just a roof shingle" that flew off Loustat's townhouse, as she shuffles her way back to her seat. Chile, this whole audience us dumb as a pile of bricks to not notice that she's LITERALLY hamstrung. The unbelievable pain she must be in, omg.

FACTS! 😫👏

"Took the air out of the place with that one" EMMYS WHEN 😫 "Got a lot less fun real quick" EMMYS WHENNNNNN 😫

("'RHIIISE!" Santiago's campy accents & pronunciations STAHP.) WHY ON EARTH would anyone wanna join this nasty AF coven after seeing the hypocritical effed up way y'all treat people!? Y'all shoulda just kept her hypnotized and made her say yes, which proves that y'all really didn't care if Madz joined or died anyway! She was just collateral; and I guarantee if she'd joined they'd've used her in their actual mock trial plays, making her relive her shame the same way they did with Baby LouLou.

I get that Claudia shook her head, only wanting Madz to join so she'd stay alive, but I'm with Madz--they'd've killed her for some bogus reason sooner or later. Might as well die with her companion.

😭 MY COVEN IS CLAUDIA, TOO! 😭 Claudia finally feeling like someone in the world picked her first. 😭

STFU Santiago. 😡

STFU Lestat. 😡 (I had to make a separate post for this, cuz it's both ironic AF but also wildly in-character that Lestat of all people would mock Madeleine for doing this.)

Flip them all off, yaaas! 🤬🤬🤬🤬

I was on the edge of my seat; I knew my BAMF daughter was gonna do or say SOMETHING crazy. 👀

My daughter said "Until you do right by me everything you THINK about gonna fail!" 😤 Armand said moment of defiance; PLEASE! ALL HER LIFE SHE HAD TO FIGHT!

Rest in power, Claudia! ❤️👸🏼👸🏽👸🏾❤️

My life every time a new IWTV episode airs.

That's the same flute dude AND SONG playing when Armand set that Children of Darkness/Satan vampire on fire. Execution dirge WTF 😭

The ultimate gaslight.

Not Claudia embracing Madz as she singing that effing song take me out back and end it. 💔

Look at Lestat's bish arse standing back there watching while HIS BLOOD DAUGHTER burns to ash--Mr. I Could Not Prevent It #2! The last thing she saw on earth was her deadbeat father not doing a effing thing to help her--

--but Louis leapt through FIRE and a whole burning building to save his daughter; a girl he didn't even KNOW, and already loved unconditionally! Blood ain't thicker than water, eff what ya heard! 😤

EXCUSE ME!? 😱 Santiago I hate you so much, wow.

"Tweedley deedly dead" written on the mirror in Claudia's (or Santiago's?) booth at the Theatre; you can see her yellow dress in the corner too; omg this coven is nasty. That BETTER NOT BE her ashes.

We been expected this my guy; the movie's like 30 years old and the book's 50+, be serious. But y'all did an AMAZING adaptation; adding in things I definitely didn't expect, like Claudia singing the song. 😭👌

Claudia's the GOAT. 🐐

[storiesforhim]

Day 5 of Forbidden Love Summer - Library and Ice Cream

If there’s one thing Ryan loves it’s ice cream so happening to end up at an ice cream parlor on our first date which was supposed to be at the Library was genuinely no shocker.

Me and my precious boy were not allowed on many dates so our first one had to happen months into our relationship. We were really excited! It was the first time we’d be able to see one another outside of a school setting so we were gonna make the most of it. We decided on something unsuspicious, the library.

We went there to work on an English project separately but together but quickly got distracted by one another’s presence. It started with targeted jokes about my hand writing. This was the first time we were able to be with one another and not have our attention divided by some other responsibility. So we took advantage of that. We chatted and joked with one another, snuggled up side by side as I tried to sneak kisses while he swatted me away cause he got shy.

He gave me a little gift, a little blow up lightsaber cause I really like star wars, he had one for himself as well. I still have it to this day. It’s saved in this keepsake box of all the special things and memories we had together.

We spent that time with one another, giggling over ridiculous things and sitting in our bubble together. For a moment we were at absolute peace.

Then we magically discovered his friends happened to be there, it was the most perfect excuse, next thing you know a suggestion that we go to the ice cream parlor comes up and it sounds perfect.

We all walked outside as a group, I hold his hand and we all joke in a group. I think at some point we ended up talking about some ethnicities for some reason? Stars I don’t really remember I just recall being all lala land while looking at the center of my universe. Him.

We arrived at the ice cream place and I ordered and paid for both of our ice creams. We sat down, me right by his side, I goofed off with him. Holding his hand under the table, tapping my foot against his, clearly joking and trying to get more of his attention.

We all exchanged stories having a genuine fun time. Then the I swear to funniest thing happened, across the street, this pair of people were like ARGUING. Full on yelling at one another and this woman decides she’s had enough and drives away but then comes back for more! Leaves again, THEN RETURNS AGAIN. Leaves another time, does some fancy driving to COME BACK AGAIN. And she just does not give up on arguing with this dude, she keeps on leaving just to drive back and say some more just leave again. We all become convinced she’d never leave because girl just kept coming back for me.

Ryan, his friends, and me stare completely dumbfounded by what we’re watching. We just had a front row seat to the most hilarious drama in our town. Next thing we know we are laughing full drawn out laughing. Making jokes about how “girlie just kept needing the last word” and joking about the possibility of her coming back yet once again.

We all could just not give up how funny that was.

And.. it was really nice.

I was there outside next to an ice cream parlor laughing with my love and his friends. We were free for a moment, we didn’t have to worry about looking over our shoulders, dodging cameras, doing an activity, or academics. And for a moment he just.. looked so free a calm and happy. And that meant the world to me.

There’s something special about seeing someone very important to you simply just.. relax and smile. To find them laughing and joking for a moment, just for a moment no longer worried about the anxieties weighing them down. Seeing that joy on their face is just so beautiful.

Ryan had a lot of anxieties on him, so it was.. nice to see him free of responsibilities and worries for a second.

We were still paranoid about his parents, there were still anxieties but it was our first day of freedom together even it was for a little while.

It showed me how amazing things can get. And that one day.. we can have days like these all the time.

This date lead to a few more and I will forever be grateful for that.

Here’s to more dates and freedom, every day I had with Ryan was a very special day, and everyday in the future I will have with him will also be a very special day. It sure was heck of a first date to remember, maybe next time I’ll put ice cream in the plan to just save some steps.

Thank you for a special day hun,

I love you Ryan ❤️

- Nolan

[addisonstars]

"take a photograph and live inside"

written for day 24 of september for @jegulus-microfic with the prompt "capture"

708 words of fluff, fluff, and more fluff!

“Happy anniversary love,” Regulus says as he hands James a part of his gift. He’s proud of this gift, partly because he didn’t need Sirius’s help on it like he normally did when deciding to get James something. He never knew what to get people; gift-giving was a very stressful thing for Regulus. 

James smiles brightly and sets down his fork. They were eating cheesecake to celebrate their 7th anniversary, along with a bottle of expensive champagne Regulus had gotten. They normally went out to eat or did something special, but they opted out this year and had a domestic day to themselves, just enjoying each other. Doing it this way also meant they had all day to fuck each other senseless on all surfaces of the house. 

He unwrapped the little gift, holding a photobook in his hands. One side was green, and the other was red, a little throwback to their days at hogwarts. 

“A photobook, for me?” James exclaims, delighted. “I love it already.” 

Regulus blushes, the tips of his ears turning pink. He ushers James to get on with it, to open it already. He is partly nervous because even though he knows James will love it, some part is worried he won’t. 

James peels back the cover, and flips to the first page. It’s a picture of them at Hogwarts in the astronomy tower. He had to practically beg Remus to take this picture sneakily while they were in there, but he was able to con him into doing it. He would have asked Sirius, but he didn't know about their relationship yet and he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to tell Sirius quite yet that he was shagging his best friend. 

“Aww, it’s us in the early days. I remember those days, when we were so careful yet carefree with our relationship.” Regulus sees the smile forming on James face and he can’t help to contain his own forming. 

The next page shows a picture of them in their quidditch robes, with their brooms in hand. The next, one in the common room with James and Regulus ties mixed up; James was wearing Reg’s green one and Reg had on James’s red one. That was not the first time that the occurrence happened, nor would it be the last. 

They kept flipping through the picture book together, seeing all their moments captured in print. It warmed Regulus' heart to see him and James so happy, so peaceful together. 

There were photos of him and James in front of their first flat together, some of them holding Teddy - Sirius and Remus' child - some selfies taken in the dark, some dinner photos, or other holiday pictures. James couldn't help but recall the moment that they were taken in, describing each moment in vivid detail. 

They passed their wedding photos and Regulus started tearing up. He couldn't believe that he had gotten so damn lucky to be with James. It was almost as if some god had made them just for each other, Regulus made just for James. 

Them in their best suits, with their favorite people surrounding them. It was a fever dream to Reg, and sometimes it was hard to believe that they had made it so far. 

He sniffled at the happy memories and James turned his head to look at him. “Aww my Reggie darling, don’t cry,” James came and wrapped his arms around Regulus. “There's no need to.” 

Regulus wiped his tears, and said, “It’s just, I love you so much, and,” he sniffed, “I don’t know what's gotten into me. I’m never like this,” Regulus laughs. “I love you so much and it makes me cry happy tears,” he chuckles. 

James’s eyes leaked a tear, because he too couldn’t help the fact seeing Regulus cry happy tears made him cry happy tears. He loved Regulus so much, and seeing their wedding photos from 7 years ago was such a emotional moment for the two of them. It was proof that there was nothing that could separate the two of them. Nothing could break the bond of their love.

“I love you so much too Reggie. So much my star.” James kisses Regulus with a wet smile. “So much.”

rahhh they make me so happy i dont think you understandddd

title inspired by "photography" by cody fry

-a.s.

[bentosandbox]

Chen (guard) module 2 TL

Towards the past

The scars of the land run from across the horizon, striking a Victorian building complex with such precision the structures collapsed in a radial pattern around a singular point, like a cyclone-struck forest. Amidst the ruins of this miniscule empire, two figures clamber up a fallen monolith trying to find a vantage point.

"Just how long has this place been deserted?" Chen stands on the ruins gazing into the distance, the stone slabs behind her once displaying names as symbols of honour, now all worn out beyond recognition.

"They abandoned this area ever since the war broke out, and the juniors still studying were all shuttled to the new campus to finish their classes... That's our old training grounds in front of us, Chenchen. Remember?" Bagpipe's voice travels from below.

"All too well. Always felt like we missed out on some good stuff when we were students. They fixed up both the road and the grounds only after graduation."

A shockwave had splintered the training grounds into separate chunks. Chen picks up a rock and throws it into a bush that had sprung up from the crevices, sending the resident featherbeasts screeching and fluttering away into the distance.

"Come on, it was already good enough then." Bagpipe's voice came from far away, lingering in Chen's ears.

"I suppose. That was probably the most simple time in my life. I only had to concentrate on training and studying with no troublesome problems to think of."

"So that's what got you spending all day everyday in a training frenzy and acing all our common subjects?" Bagpipe puts her hands on Chen's shoulders, shaking her gently.

"After I went back, I realised there were too many things a sword alone could not solve. And sometimes, even if I worked my hardest, there were so many things I couldn't change, and I just felt so insignificant—sometimes simply destroying the enemy doesn't solve the problem." Chen shakes her head, as if trying to throw out all the complex thoughts from the past out of her mind.

The two of them walk down the high slope, the flower garden from their memories still present.

The Guard School sign once raised up high was now half sunken in the dirt, leaning against a broken stone pillar. The sunlight pours down on the rusty signage as the sun sets, and what little lustre reflecting off the metal testifies to the place's former glory.

"Everything's changed... Victoria included, right?" Chen mumbles to herself as she stares at the school crest.

"Some people never change, though. I made sure to visit Instructor Taylor a few days before when I knew you were coming. Back then, you left so quick you left behind all your papers and stuff behind in the dorm—and she's kept it all safe all these years. Here's your school certs. Oh right, and this too!"

Bagpipe pulls out a stack of documents from her carry-on along with a wooden sword.

"This here's your training sword from back then. Technically it's school property, but your grades were so good the instructor wanted to give it to you as a surprise gift..."

"Thank her for me. I left so quickly back then..."

"At least you've come back. In these last few years, many of our classmates... they won't ever get to."

The two were silent for a moment.

"Where do you reckon you'll be in ten years?"

"Who knows. I have to go back, there's still so much to do." Chen looks into the distance, in Lungmen's direction. "Back then, it was them who decided for me to come and leave here, but now, I'm going back on my own accord."

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i know lore =/= gameplay but the idea of a wooden sword giving 70 DEF ignore is so funny uhm this was so good chenpipe besties froever