#I really wonder if I should put his tag through | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sweeterthanficstion · 1 day ago

Text

— almost spring || l.s.k

pairing: slasher(?)!leon kennedy x fem!reader

tags: set in 1974, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!! graphic depictions murder, suicide, death, and animal death. leon has a god complex (? that was an accident), themes of religious guilt, religious trauma/conflict, and references to parental abuse. heavy depictions of grief, themes of obsession and other typical horror topics. if i've missed anything, as always, please let me know!!

summary: Leon loves you too much to let you leave, but not enough to let you live. Or: In 1974, you fall in love with a boy. A boy who loves too hard and too viciously, and on the eve of your departure for college, realises he doesn't quite know how to live without you. Leon takes you to the old homestead where his grief has festered, under the pretense of one last memory together. What you don’t know is he’s spent weeks convincing himself that if he can’t have you forever, no one else should.

word count: 15.1k (IT GOT LONGER)

a/n: hi so firstly if you saw me upload this 2 days ago and take it down within five hours 1) no you didnt, and 2) i'm sorry 😭 i was really unhappy with the finished version of the fic at the time, it wasn't edited at the time and i love this piece too much to put it out into the world like that. AND HONESTLY! i wasn't even going to post it in the first place because (ik i promised you all more rockstar!leon but when have i ever stuck to my promises) i felt it was too self-indulgent for anyone else to enjoy anyway, but i have a few very good friends that convinced me otherwise. so. here we are.

i hope some of you like this, and if it's not your jam then i get it, please don't read it if any of those tags make you uneasy or feel obligated to just because i've posted it and you follow this blog. anyway, i hope the those of you that do fw this enjoy it :) slasher!leon is my baby, i love him dearly, i hope i did him justice and you love this fic as much as i do.

playlist ⭑ AO3 || back to the party ⭑ « future⭑ present ⭑ past (coming soon) »

There is something so very wrong with this town.

You’ve known it for much too long; there is a staleness to the air and a stagnation to the people. Nothing ever changes, and yet nothing has ever felt the same. There is no comfort in familiarity here, past the tree line and in the prairie — the whistle of the wind does not soothe, nor do the roads ever lead home.

Soon, the prairie will settle into its stiffness as it always does. Even in summer, this ghost town remains cold and lifeless, a carcass of a place that you're not sure was ever alive to begin with. Yet where it’d usually bother you, you don’t find you mind so much this year, because by spring you’ll be gone.

Away from here and into the city; you will go to university, you will study, you will make so much money you will never have to worry about money again. You will leave this lonely prairie town behind, and you won't stop until you’ve driven a thousand miles and a mile and have reached the end of the world. Then, you think, you will be happy.

But for now you endure the biting cold and the terrible people, finish up your final semester of school, and wonder endlessly what the city must be like. You know it bustles with a life you yearn to love. Maybe you will find a home in an apartment on a busy street above a record store, suffocated between two more buildings, so cramped yet you do not mind because the air is thick with life and opportunity. You will crack open your bedroom window each morning and climb onto the fire escape. There, you will let the warmth of a morning coffee seep through ceramic and into your cold hands and you will smile as the sun rises to greet you.

You can’t wait, you count the days until summer on your fingers. You never did like autumn or winter anyway—not when this town already feels like shades of blue all year round.

The stupor you’ve let yourself fall into is shattered when there come two knocks at your window.

Leon walks into your life time and time again as if on stage cue, as if he’s practised being in your life infinitesimally. Through your window, he stumbles in like Romeo, a smile on his face and an autumn night's blush on his cheeks.

“God, Leon, you scared me,” you huff, the cold draft he lets in makes gooseflesh dot across your arms, makes you pout. You’re not really upset, but you feel like you should be. You’ve told him a hundred times over that he shouldn’t visit you unprompted through your window at ungodly hours of the night, lest your mother find out.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Leon placates you with a kiss to your temple, and then one to the corner of your mouth that tugs a reluctant smile from you.

He isn’t really sorry—no, not when it means he can kiss you like this. He thinks all the chiding he gets from you is worth it as long as his lips stay on yours.

Leon never did anticipate falling in love. It wasn’t a part of his plan. Then again, he never really had one. After the death of his parents, the world had dulled to something akin to a bitter grey, and he’d begun to see his life through a screen of black and white.

That was until you. You, sweet as summer rain and spring sunshine. You, with a heart that beats as loud as his. You came into his life and suddenly the world seemed brighter even despite the noose this prairie town hung around his neck.

Leon, who hasn’t believed in anything since he was twelve, kneeling in church pews, now finds that the only thing he believes in is the way your mouth shapes his name.

You give him hope—and that terrifies him. Hope is bright, and it burns his wrists like stigmata every time he reaches out for it. You are dangerous, in the way that only someone who makes him want can be. You make him want things he has no business wanting, things he never allowed himself to need.

Your hands are a vice that hold a power over him that you don’t even know of. But if Leon is to suffer under anyone's hand, he thinks, it might as well be yours.

You tap his chest once, twice, thrice. Pull him back to the now with such softness it chokes him. He worries he might crush you under his hold.

“Why’d you sneak through the window?” You ask suddenly, question catching him off guard, but the gentleness to your voice keeps him at ease.

“Well, I missed you.” Leon explains easily.

“I have a phone you can call me on, you know.”

“Yes. But I like seeing you.” He leaves unsaid the truth that drives him; he wants to ensure you’re real. Flesh and blood and tangible under his fingertips.

Because as of late, nothing feels real anymore.

Leon thinks the homestead must finally be getting to him. No, he doesn’t live there—thank God. But he goes there once a week for a reason he can’t explain anymore. At first, it was because the place was quiet, somewhere to quell the noise of his head for a few hours, and in his half-hearted hubris, he stayed. But now he’s convinced the darkness in those hallways has crept into his mind. Like a fish on a line, he is hopelessly tethered there.

The homestead—like an accumulation of past horrors that have nowhere left to go—must feed on sadness, as all evil things do. The house breathes in his despair as if it is a living being, twists his thoughts until the line between his own mind and the evil that lurks there blurs. He wonders if perhaps it chose him—if it knows his heart better than he does, if it sees the rot taking root deep inside.

But then there you are again, his sweet summer rain, his spring sunshine. He forgets about the cold in the heat of your embrace. You are a stagnation he is grateful for, an anchor, his temporary reprieve from the vigour that is his mind. The world will come and go, he knows, this town won’t change, but that’s fine—he will memorise the cadence of your heartbeat beneath your skin, and when that is not enough he will kiss you as he craves you and love you until there is nothing left of himself to give.

He knows he should tell you this, knows he should, but then you look at him—a gaze as soft as warm candlelight in the dark, and reach for him, like you don’t know what he’s capable of.

"You’re quiet," you say, fingers brushing his wrist, curling there like an anchor, like you could tether him to you instead.

"Just thinking," he murmurs, shaking his head.

You sigh, shifting back on the bed, patting the space beside you. Stay. You don’t say it aloud, but he hears it all the same.

Leon hesitates. Just for a moment. Then, with an exhale, he climbs in next to you.

You fit against him like you were made to be, your head tucked perfectly under his chin, one arm slung lithely across his waist. He is a furnace against you, all heat and warmth, and although he snuck in from the cold, it seems like his heart has been radiating warmth all along.

Leon wonders if it’s because of you.

Now, he counts your breaths, feels them feather out against his throat, the soft rise and fall of your chest against his ribs.

And when you shift to look at him, your chin lifting ever so, his heart stumbles. Your fingers reach up, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, then trailing lower, down the line of his throat, pressing softly against his pulse.

He knows you feel it, the boyish way it races.

You hum, closing your eyes again, pressing close, smiling sleepily against his skin.

Leon watches you for a long time after that.

He tells himself he will let you go once you’ve fallen asleep. He will climb back out your window and let the dusk swallow him up in its slow fade from ink to indigo.

But yet you are warm against him, your heart a steady lull, alive and breathing.

So instead, he stays.

The wind ripples through the prairie grass like it might be alive, shushing against itself as it bends and sways. The damp earth gives softly under Leon’s boots as he tracks his own footsteps down the path he knows so well.

He moves without thinking, without deciding, the path is muscle memory to him. He ducks beneath the broken split-rail fence, fingers grazing its surface. Years of sun and wandering hands have worn it down, soft weather-worn wood that no longer splinters.

The old house sits in the distance like a bad omen, its roof sagging in, paint peeling under years of heat and snow and rain. Its windows are like hollow eyes, watching, watching, watching. Always watching.

It is empty here, it has been empty for a long time.

The trap is set just beyond the homestead around the back, nestled deep into the brush. Leon checks it the way he always does, though he’s still not sure why. There is no need for him to do so anymore, no one is waiting for him to bring something home. No one will scold him for forgetting, or praise him for getting it right.

Maybe, he thinks, he set it to see if he could.

Maybe just to see if something would stumble into it, to see if the universe would put something small and helpless in his hands.

Maybe so he could prove to himself that he wouldn’t do it despite himself.

His father’s voice still haunts the edges of his memory, changed and softened by time, and the longing for a love greater than he was given. A summer afternoon, tall grass brushing his baby-soft calves. A gentle hand, with years of experience etched into the calluses, guiding his own.

See? His father’s voice echoes. Like this. It’s quick. They won’t feel a thing. A clean kill is a kind kill.

Leon doesn’t remember if he believed that.

So still, he isn’t sure why he returns each day to check the trap, but he does it anyway, yesterday it was empty, and the day before that too. He had exhaled relief both times.

Yet today—

The rabbit is trembling.

It is small and wild, barely more than a handful in size, yet shaking and thrashing with the force of something twice its size. It’s all matted fur and wide, scared eyes. Its hind legs twist unnaturally in the wire, kicking like maybe, just maybe, if it tried hard enough it could get away.

The wind whistles through the tree line with the truth of its being; It wants to live.

And Leon knows, knows he could let it go. He could pry the trap open, let it bolt back past the underbrush, pretend none of this ever happened—that he didn’t set the trap, that he never saw it here at all, that he wouldn’t have to do what he does next.

His hands are gentle despite their intention. They press into the rabbit’s soft side, he can feel the rapid, terrified stutter of its heart, the warm way its flesh sings beneath his palms.

Leon’s mouth goes dry.

The knife feels heavier than it should when he pulls it from his back pocket, the weight of it strangely unfamiliar despite the way it’s molded to his hold.

The rabbit’s fragile body spasms against him, claws like knives of their own scrape at his wrist, sharp pinpricks against his skin, weak but insistent all the same. He can hear its breath, sharp and fast, the pitiful, wheezing struggle of it.

It’s suffering.

Quick, it has to be quick. A clean kill is a kind kill.

There’s a sharp wet sound, the parting of skin, sinew, muscle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

But still, the blood comes fast.

It spills in a hot rush over Leon’s fingers, thick and slick it seeps into the creases of his palms, painting his knuckles in something dark and final. It soaks into the cuff of his sleeve, and the sharp copper stench of it is what makes his stomach turn.

Something ugly coils in his gut. He wants to call it nausea, but it isn’t—not entirely. There is something else, something worse, something hotter that curls low in his ribs, twisting there, sick and shameful.

Satisfaction.

The realisation makes his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Leon shoves back, scrambling to his feet so fast he goes lightheaded, stumbling to regain his balance. His breath comes sharp, his fingers shaking where they hover in front of him, bloodied and trembling. His heart pounds, hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs.

He told himself he wouldn’t do it, but the truth stains him anyway.

The blood is gone by morning but it still lingers on Leon’s hands like a phantom second skin.

He had scrubbed them raw, yet no matter how long he had tried for, he could still smell the copper, still see the red. He rubs his hands together absently even now, like he can still feel the slick between his fingers, he flexes his hands like the blood might come back if he catches the light just right.

But then your voice comes, your gentle talking. Something soft that drones on in its mundanity that cuts right through the thick fog in his head.

He is sitting on the edge of your bed when he turns his head towards you, slow, like waking up from a dream, and for a second all he sees is light.

Sunlight filters in through thin lace curtains, catching in the strands of your hair. It spills liquid gold over your shoulders, and the fine edges of your form, seeps into where he can make out the curve of your waist through the thin cotton of your dress, the swell of your hips and the lines of your thighs. Dust swirls in the glow around you, disturbed only by your movement as you tiptoe around your room, drifting from one thing to the next with a sort of absentminded grace Leon is sure he’s only ever seen you possess.

He thinks you look like an angel—wings of spun sunlight, gilding at the edges, a halo to match. The pretty cadence of your voice like angelsong that falls from gentle lips. He figures then, that you, bathed in heaven-yellow light, just might have been sent to save him. The heat of you is enough to keep him warm, stave off the cold that splits open inside him.

Your voice carries on, talking between verses, words scattered like leaves in autumn breeze, thoughts half-formed and entirely weightless.

He figures you don’t expect him to answer, not really, not with the way you ask a question and move onto the next. He nods where is needed and smiles where he should, and it seems to be enough for you. Leon finds a comfort in it, the way you let yourself exist near him so easily, like he belongs here with you.

And he does. That he is sure of.

You look untouched by his morning, by the things you don’t yet know he’s done. You smell like warm cotton, like candle wax and old wooden pews, like the incense that used to curl up toward the vaulted ceiling of the church. Like Sunday.

Your voice is light as you pluck up a book from your desk. “I wanted to bring you with me to service this morning. But you never showed.”

Leon says nothing.

You glance at him, then back at the book. “You’d have liked the sermon, I think.”

He doesn’t tell you where he was. He doesn’t tell you he didn’t show because he had woken before dawnfire slanted over the horizon, before the church bells rang, before the town stirred to life. He doesn’t tell you that while you had buttoned yourself into something light and lovely, Leon had spilt his first blood.

"Have you read this one?" You ask, flashing the battered cover of the book in your hand.

He barely sees it. Shakes his head.

You hum, tossing it onto the bed beside him. "You should.”

He won’t. But he won’t tell you that either.

You move again, the scent of you trailing in your wake. You step lightly over a pair of old boots left haphazardly by your door, bare feet on creaking wood, unbothered by the silence he’s wrapped himself in.

There is something about you. Something radiant, something unbearable. Something that aches to be looked upon.

He glances away, jaw tight.

You don’t know. You don’t know.

He should feel ashamed. He does.

“Leon?”

His eyes snap up.

You’re watching him now, head tilted slightly like a naïve fawn, brow creased just enough to let him know you see something fraying, something untangling.

He doesn’t say anything.

You step closer, and it’s an unfortunate instinct—something old and hardwired—that makes him tense.

"You’re quiet," you say.

Leon exhales through his nose, like you amuse him. "You always say that."

You huff a quiet laugh. "I know. But you’re quiet in a different way."

Again, he doesn’t answer.

You kneel in front of him, peering up at him like you’re trying to see inside. Like if you could, you’d splinter apart his chest and peek between the looms of his ribs to find his heart, like you might find love there, and not this sickness in its place instead.

It makes him ill, the way you look at him.

Oh, you don't know. You don't know what he is.

“Are you okay?”

Push

“Yeah.” He insists.

"Are you sure?"

Push.

"I said yeah."

"You don’t seem okay—"

Push.

"Will you drop it?"

It comes out sharp, harsher than he intends, and you still instantly. Deer caught in headlights.

Leon doesn’t raise his voice, not to you, never to you. To you, he is gentle hands that hold, soft lips that kiss, a kind heart that loves. You have never known him as anything other than that.

You blink up at him, lips parting slightly, your breath caught somewhere in the cavern of your throat.

Leon swallows. Regret is instant and hits like a fist, it makes his stomach cave in. But still it doesn’t cool the flicker of anger, the frustration. It still curls hot in his gut, climbing its way up his throat like a vice.

“You’re being mean.”

It shouldn’t gut him the way it does.

You don’t say cruel, or violent, or dangerous. Just mean. Like he’s a child, a boy caught shoving another in the schoolyard. Like he hasn’t done things worse than this, than raise his voice.

It is like an awful stinging brand to the marrow of his bone. A verdict. A sentence.

Mean.

Not the thing he fears he is, not the monster he’s convinced himself lives beneath his skin.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes. No apology, no defense.

He needs to leave, needs to wrench himself from this moment before it swallows him whole, before he drowns in the guilt of it.

Leon stands abruptly, and you flinch. It’s slight—just the smallest flicker of movement—but he catches it, and the sight of it nearly drives him to his knees.

He shouldn’t be here, not when he’s still raw with anger, with whatever awful thing is stirring inside him, with the taste of it thick like molasses on his tongue.

So he doesn’t look at you when he goes, doesn’t wait for you to tell him to stay, doesn’t let himself want to.

He kills a man that night.

Leon didn’t mean to—truly, really, he didn’t. He can’t even remember the moment it happened.

The night had been old, an hour close to dusk that made him restless. Leon finds himself at the homestead once more, circling the bones of a place that no longer feels like home.

He had been leaving when it happened, the weight of his knife heavy in his hand as he tossed it, caught it, tossed it, caught it, tossed it, caught it.

There was no rabbit, but that was a good thing, he thought. A sigh of relief.

And yet, despite it, there had been a man.

Leon didn’t recognize him. Not from town, but maybe passing through, maybe someone old or someone new. It didn’t matter, not then.

The night had been cold and blue, and there was no gilding light of yours to keep him warm. And Leon; he had ached terribly for something, anything, that made him feel as alive as you did.

So he had wielded his knife.

And the moment it happened, there had been nothing. No divine intervention, no reckoning from above. The sky remained starless, silent, watching but not bearing witness. He remembers the sharp crack of bone, the whisper of a breath spilling from the man’s lips.

Then, startling silence.

It had been so quick. The knife had driven up into his chest, right through the middle. A clean kill is a kind kill, after all.

A sharp breath had hitched in Leon’s throat then, something close to horror, maybe regret. It had come and gone in an instant, but it had been there, lodging itself in the back of his mind. And now, standing over the body of a man he does not know, hands tacky with already cooling blood, he should feel something more.

Shouldn’t he?

But still the sky does not split open, and the earth does not swallow him whole. He is not cast down, nor is he lifted up.

Instead, he feels nothing at all.

The man had barely struggled, hadn’t screamed nor kicked. It hadn’t wanted to survive the same way the rabbit had.

Leon tells himself that should make it better. He shouldn’t feel guilty if the man had no fight in him. If it had been quick. If it had been easy. Still, something churns deep in his stomach, a sickness that lingers behind his ribs. It gnaws at him as he kneels down, as his fingers skim across cooling flesh.

No. His mind speaks with a finality he cannot defer, if he stops now, he’ll feel it. The ache, the emptiness, the unbearable weight of knowing what he’s done.

So he keeps going.

And when the body is found by the old railway tracks the next morning, it is dismembered. Skin peeled away, ribbons of flesh left in its wake.

First the sheriff is called. Then the detectives. Then the priest.

Because this is the sort of town that still believes in damnation, in reckoning. That still believes a man’s soul can be unspooled from his body if his sins are dark enough, if his death is brutal enough, if his memory means enough.

The town hums with the news of it, a low, uneasy sort of murmur curling through the streets like a thick fog. Leon has heard the same thing all day long.

Did you hear? A man by the railway this morning. A single knife wound, right between the ribs. Someone must’ve known what they were doing.

But Leon didn't know. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. He tells himself that over and under and over again until it is the only thing he knows.

He tries to ignore how his breath catches in his throat when he hears the whispers, tries not to flinch when his boss leans over the register and mutters, It’s just not right.

Instead, he stares at the rows of screws and bolts and lockboxes he’s organised and reorganised all morning, every object neat and harmless in its purpose, and tells himself again:

It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t.

What Leon feels isn’t fear. No, it’s not quite that, but something close to it.

Because if there was no judgment the night it happened, will it come later? Will it slip through the cracks, find him in the dark?

Leon hadn’t even been rostered today, but he had insisted. Said he didn’t mind, needed the extra hours, said he needed the money.

The truth was, he needed noise. Needed the consistent, reliable clang of metal and the hum of fluorescents, needed to feel the ache in his arms from hauling boxes of nails and guttering and rat traps.

He figured the busy come-and-go of customers might be enough to keep his mind from wandering. But it isn’t.

Not when every passing face is a little too curious, a little too eager. Not when the newspaper sits folded by the register, inked with a headline he doesn’t dare read. Not when the wrench in his hand feels a little too much like the weight of his knife.

The bell chimes.

There you are.

Sunlight at your back, one hand curled around the strap of your bag. Your presence is enough to ease the ache in his chest like a balm, a smile like the sun on your lips.

You lean up against the counter and for a minute you look like a timid animal—smiling still, but fiddling with the strap of your bag, like you’re not sure whether to stay or go, like coming here was a decision you second-guessed the whole way over. Leon hopes you’ll stay. Of course, you do.

“Hey, handsome,” you greet like always, but the words come out funny, like they don’t quite fit the shape of your mouth. You clear your throat and try again, “I— uhm, m’sorry about last night.”

Leon’s mind lurches. A hop, a skip, and a sharp turn into the white hot memory of last night—blood, copper-bright under moonlight, a gasping mouth, wide open eyes. You know, you know, you know.

“I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” come your next words. And each one comes back in pieces, a slow realisation, like waking up from a dream. Oh, he thinks. Not that.

He’d half forgotten how he’d treated you the night before, all sharp edges and words that were meant to cut. He’d forgotten the way you’d wavered. You’d just tried to help, his sweet girl. He’d worried you, and then, because that wasn’t enough, he’d hurt you some more.

Mean, you’d called him.

The guilt that had been sitting heavy in his stomach shifts, grows roots, spreads like ivy through his ribs. He stays silent for a beat too long, and your lips—your pretty, angel lips—pull into the softest frown.

And guilt is a tidal wave that pulls him under.

“I didn’t— no, I’m sorry.” He says, ducks his head into your line of sight, enough to give you a half smile, enough to tick your lips back up just a little. The relief that comes with seeing it is instant. “I’m sorry, alright? Was my fault, I’ve been a bad boyfriend.”

“S’okay,” you beam easily, like that’s all it took. A barely-there apology, no penance required, and your heart is in his hands once more. Yours to give and his to hold.

It’s okay, you say. It makes Leon’s stomach curdle, because he thinks, if he pressed a knife to your throat, you would only look at him like this—soft, bright, sun-warmed—and show him where to cut.

The thought is sudden and unwelcome and it makes his insides turn out, makes him sick and sour. He couldn’t hurt you, wouldn’t, won’t.

You’re his summer rain, spring sunshine.

Easily, you reach into your bag, unaware of the thoughts in his head, and slide that same book from the day before across the counter.

“I think you’d like it,” you insist, and Leon doesn’t have the heart to deny you any longer.

He takes the book, pages curling and spine breaking, and flips through it. “I’ll read it.”

You beam again. The sun.

Leon doesn’t really read the book.

He tries, he really does, but it’s hard to focus on the words when the only thing on his mind is how you’d kissed him earlier that night.

He’d climbed through your window like he always does, and you’d pulled him into a desperate kiss the second he’d stumbled into your room. He hadn’t had a choice but to melt into your arms. It had felt like coming home.

He presses two fingers to his lips, still warm from where you’d kissed and sucked and bitten, giggled into his mouth so bright and easy. He feels his pulse thrum beneath his touch and licks his lips to savour the taste.

The book in his lap is half-forgotten. Its cover is a little torn, pages aged and dog-eared. It feels like a piece of you he is privileged enough to carry in his hands.

Romeo and Juliet.

He finds it ironic, despite everything, that you wanted him to read it so badly. His eyes dart over inky text, words that swim and shift like the river that bends behind the homestead, a gentle rush of water that serves as a lulling ambience to his solitude.

He finds a passage, one that you’ve underlined in red pen.

These violent delights have violent ends, it reads. A strange sort of line for you to find interest in, he thinks. He wonders why you picked it, what went through your mind when you highlighted it.

His eyes skim back up the page, trying to garner some context.

Love-devouring death do what he dare—

It is enough I may but call her mine

A hollow sort of breath escapes him, because all Leon can think about is you. Your gaze, eversoft and unwavering, like you see his jagged edges and want him all the same.

And it is true, he thinks, it is enough he may but call you his.

The thought creeps in once more, his knife, your throat, those eyes he loves that would shimmer with tears.

He thinks about you beneath him, if you’d dig half moons into his shoulders with your nails, if you’d let him drag the knife over your chest and press the blade to your sternum. How you’d gasp so prettily. He wonders what your blood would look like, taste like. It’s thrilling in it’s sickness, lovely in its ghastliness.

He snaps out of his thoughts in time with the sweet call of birdsong.

A bluebird perched in a tree across the river, awake at an hour like this.

He snaps the book shut and moves to make his way home, dusting dirt off his pants and walking his way down the bend of the river back towards the homestead.

The mud beneath his boots squishes with each step, reeds parting as the sun rises to greet the sleepy town like always, shades of pink and purple bleeding into a midnight sky.

It is not until Leon nears the tree line once more, that he hears another strange sound. A voice, gentle and soft, laughing prettily from somewhere deeper in the brush.

Leon finds himself following the curious sound back down the riverbend, the sound of laughter, light and bell-like, carries through the trees like a silver mist, weaves through the reeds and cattails.

He stills at what he sees.

Further down the creek, where the water teeters off and runs clear through the rocks, a figure stands with their back to him. A girl, he realises. Young, bright, wearing a dark dress, she stands knee-deep in the water, her arms crossed against the chill, head tilted back as she watches a boy shrug on his shirt, press a gentle kiss to her forehead, and disappear back into the brush, leaving her alone in the shallows.

Leon should leave.

He should turn around and walk away, pretend he never saw her, pretend he wasn’t here at all.

But then she hums, a soft, gentle lilt, and something in his gut pulls.

He doesn’t remember wading in. He doesn’t remember the moment she notices him—just that she turns, eyes going wide in the dark, lips parting like she might speak his name.

His name.

For a split second, the world narrows to the space between them. To her breath, sharp and hitched in her throat. To the way she sways slightly in the water, caught between fear and recognition. She isn’t a stranger, is she?

The silence between them feels like a choice.

Then, the choice is gone.

He moves before he can think. A hand to the throat, a push, the sudden burst of movement as she fights. She is stronger than he expects.

The river churns around them, frothing and thrashing as though it too wants to resist him. She fights the way people pray. Desperately, recklessly, full of blind and furious belief. Her hands scrabble at his wrists, her legs kick up mud from the riverbed, silt blooms dark in the water like ink spilled across a page.

Her mouth breaks the surface for just a second, one precious second, and the sound that leaves her is something raw, something torn from deep inside her ribs. A plea, a sob, a name, maybe. His. God’s. Does it matter?

Leon’s breathing is sharp, his pulse quick and importunate in his ears. Her hair floats like ribbons around them, tangling between his fingers, dragging across his arms. His grip tightens, his body locks against the current, against her twisting, bucking frame.

She looks a bit like you, Leon thinks. Hair the colour of yours, eyes that cry the same way yours do.

This is the closest he will ever get to killing you.

He knows this, swallows hard, and tightens his grip. Finality is the way he holds her under.

He wonders if this is what Othello felt, pressing a pillow to Desdemona’s lips. If this is what God felt, when he sent the flood.

It takes longer than he thought it would.

Long enough for him to feel the strength ebb from her body in slow, rattling increments—until the fight is just... gone. Her hands fall away from his wrists, her body goes slack and the water cradles her gently, like a lover.

And still, he cannot let her go.

His breath comes in uneven, fitful bursts now. His hands are shaking, his hands are shaking.

He watches the last breath slip from her lips in a plume of air bubbles, scattering like stars on the surface of the water. The last thing she gives to the world.

Then, finally, he releases her.

He staggers back, the bank uneven beneath his feet. He watches her body now, drifting softly down the current, her hair fans out like a halo against the pale shimmer of the river. His hands are still shaking near-hysteric now, still caught up in the phantom of her struggle, in the memory of her weight underneath him.

Something in his gut twists.

This should be enough.

He tells himself that, standing there, breath sharp and uneven, blood roaring through his skull. This should be enough. This should quiet it. This should—

He swallows thickly.

He won’t know until he sees you again.

It’s not until he’s made his way back to your window, climbing inside, finding you curled up in the sheets, warm and still and alive, that he realises he’s still shaking. He winds his arms around you, pressing his face to your shoulder, inhaling deep, trying to sink into the scent of you, the presence of you, the proof of you.

By the time the boy returns to the riverbed, the creek is empty, the water is still, and the girl in the dark dress is nowhere to be found.

The church suffocates you.

Stained glass windows cast slanted beams of bleeding gold and bruised violet across the pews, coloring the clamour of mourners in fractured, dancing lights. The air is stifled with too many bodies pressed into too-small a space, with incense and thick heat, and the cloying smell of day-old lilies that have since grown soft.

You sit in the second row, hands white-knuckle-tight stitched together in your lap. Despite not having spoken for days, there is a rawness that scratches your throat from the inside out, like you’ve swallowed something sharp and it’s lodged itself there, unable to go down. Maybe it is the weight of your grief, your regret, your guilt.

Someone speaks at the podium, a voice that barely cuts through the static hum that reverberates around your skull. Muddy words drift from there to here.

She was kind, she was bright, she was loved.

You hear every word, yet each one passes through you like wind through hollow bones.

It doesn’t quite feel real when they lower her into the earth. You try to remember the last thing she said to you, but cruelly, all your memories blur at the edges, overtaken by a litany of others—her bloated corpse washed up on the riverbed, her hair tangled between the reeds, the outline of her dress like dark wings fluttering beneath the water.

You picture her gasping for air.

The thought guts you clean in half, and your tears threaten to spill before you can blink them away.

Leon’s hand finds yours.

His fingers press into your palm, grounding and warm, as if he’s trying to anchor you to something beyond the weight of your grief. You squeeze back, hard enough to bruise.

And Leon lets you—lets you hurt him, lets you crush his hand in yours like the pain might balance out the weight of his guilt. He welcomes it, craves it, even. Because this grief of yours, this need, your trembling trust, it’s the closest he knows he’ll ever come to redemption.

Because he knows the weight of the dirt being shoveled onto the coffin. Knows what it’s like to hold someone under, to feel the last of their fight fade out through their limbs, he knows the exact hue her lips turned when the light went out behind her eyes.

And now he stands beside you, the architect of your mourning, and lets you draw comfort from the same hands that stilled her heartbeat.

He wants to be good. For you. Just for you.

He watches your grief manifest while something sharp turns in his stomach. He hates this part. Not the killing. That, he has learnt to live with. But this aftermath, you, and the raw pain in your soft cries, it makes him sick.

And it sickens him even more, how much he loves the blind, aching way you cling to him. As if you still believe his hands could do nothing but hold. That he would never hurt you. As if you don’t feel her ghost breathing between you.

Autumn gives way to blistering winter, winter on the cusp of newfound spring. The town exhales, slowly, warily, like it’s forgotten how to breathe without bracing for bad news. The snow that had settled itself over everything—over gravestones and shuttered windows, over street signs and the lonely traffic light in town—begins to thaw.

And with it, Leon watches you come undone by inches. A thousand little deaths, none of them final. He thought by now your aching heart would’ve healed, warmed with the coming seasons. But instead, he watches you lose pieces of yourself day by day. You stop painting your nails, you don’t come into town anymore, don’t visit him at work like you used to.

When he comes by your window some nights, with not another sound to fill the silence, he hears you crying. And he can’t bear himself to climb in, wouldn’t know how to offer a semblance of the solace you deserved.

Leon feels like he’s losing you.

And it’s furious, the hopeless way he runs his mind in circles. There is no more bloodshed because he sees no reason, no more bodies to be found because Leon’s knife has been tucked neatly into the drawer next to his bed ever since the funeral service.

Because what does it matter, if you don’t look at him like you used to? If your laughter doesn’t chase itself down the hallway of his heart anymore?

What use is ruin without worship? Worship without ruin?

But still, violence has since become as familiar an organ as his heart is to his body.

On restless nights, he dreams of you dead. With your face turned heavenward, just like hers had been, your eyes wide open, but the light gone out. And he wakes gasping, as if the world could not possibly go on without you in it. As if the very thought of you leaving him in this cold, dark, world would kill him too.

It reminds him of the deer.

He must’ve been eight, maybe nine. The sun was low in the sky, his father was tired. He’d hit a doe just outside of town, off the road, far enough away that nobody would care enough to clean her carcass off the road.

She didn’t die right away, she’d staggered, then crumpled right there beside the road, steam rising and curling from her body.

And every day after, they passed her in the truck on the way home.

The first day, she looked peaceful, her legs tucked up beneath her like she might stir if the wind coaxed her kindly enough. The second day, her eyes were gone—eaten out, maybe, or just caved in by time. By the third day, her ribs peeked through the belly, white as the moon. And on the fourth, there was nothing but a melted smear of a black shape left behind.

Fur turned to hide. Hide to sinew. Sinew to rot.

He thinks of that deer when he dreams of you.

And each time, you rot faster, fade sooner. The curve of your mouth becomes less familiar, the slope of your nose wrong, wrong, wrong. You morph and twist and change, until the shape of you is something unrecognisable, nothing more than an impression printed into the backs of his eyelids.

So, in the wake of what he knows, Leon finds himself by your window again. You’ve left it open like always, but he still finds himself knocking. Three gentle raps.

“Come in,” you say quietly, welcoming him into your dying warmth. You’re curled on your bed in the half-light, the bulb in your bedside lamp sputtering with the soft whine of something close to death.

“Hi, sunshine.”

You glance up, tired-eyed, a little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. That nickname again—ridiculous and ill-fitting now, like summer clothes in winter.

“I think your lamp’s giving up,” he adds, stepping inside. “Probably tired of listening to the same sad music on repeat.”

For weeks now, your room has been a graveyard of bitter melody, he’s sure you’ve worn out every record you own. You’ve played Dust by Fleetwood Mac until the grooves wore thin, spun Blue until Joni Mitchell’s voice felt stitched into your ribs.

You roll your eyes despite him, but it’s fond all the same. “So fix it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He moves toward the nightstand with mock solemnity, fiddling with the bulb as if it requires real effort. It flickers back to life with a reluctant hum.

He turns to you then, the golden glow casts him in sepia. He looks like a photograph you’d keep in a locket close to your heart.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He kneels beside your bed, brushing the hair from your eyes with the backs of his fingers. Then, he hooks one finger beneath your quilt, pulls the blanket down just to kiss your chapped lips softly.

You don’t feel like you deserve his kindness or the warmth he offers you so freely, like you should live in the shape of your sadness forever. But you let him anyway because grief makes you greedy. He kisses your cheeks next, one then the other, your nose last. His hands cradle the sides of your face, rough palms that have never felt softer to you.

He loves you, this you know. And you will hold onto it selfishly if it is all you have left.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he admits softly. The words are like a sinking stone in your chest. For a breath, you feel ashamed—like your sorrow is a burden he’s been forced to carry. He’s hurting too, you’ve known that for a while. The heaviness in his eyes and the weight of his smile speaks a thousand unsaid words.

But what exactly he’s mourning, you do not know. You wish you could fix it anyway.

“I know,” you murmur softly at last. “I’m sorry.”

Leon studies you quietly, tender blue looks at you like you're precious and breakable all at once. He kisses you softly once more, draws your hands from beneath the blanket and holds them in his own, lacing your fingers together like they belong together.

“Come with me,” He says, nodding towards the window, the rush of dying winter air billowing the lace curtains.

“Where to?” You ask, confusion lacing your brows together.

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t. So you follow him. Sneak out your window like Rapunzel. Leon helps you down, your bare feet skid across the shingles, arms windmilling once before you tumble—soft and graceless—into the sleeping brush below.

He braces for the worst, and yet you laugh. Something soft and sudden it startles the birds from the trees, and it’s like colour floods his being.

He takes you somewhere secret, a quiet hush-hush between gentle laughter the whole way through the thinning woods.

The trees are not dense where you live on the outskirts of the prairie, they stretch like spindles toward the sky, bark peeled back by time and winter wind. They do not grow thick here, only tall—long, reaching limbs that vanish into the mist. As a child, you once imagined climbing them straight into heaven, fingers grazing the stars.

You trudge shoulder to shoulder. The snow has thinned, melted to a slippery slush along the roots and rocks. You spot the first crocus bloom peeking out beside a fallen log, delicate and purple as a bruise. The woods are waking. And so, maybe, are you.

The radio tower rises suddenly, summoned from the earth itself.

It stands at the highest point of the valley. Its metal skeleton weathered and rusted, cables like veins strung between its limbs. Once, it must have pulsed with light and signal, voices skipping across the hills in Morse-coded static.

He takes your hand and leads you up the spindly ladder, each rung groans under your weight, as your breath fogs in the air. Higher and higher you go, until the town becomes a scatter of lights beneath you, until the forest is a patchwork, stitched into the earth like a quilt.

And finally, when you get to the top, tearing your skirt free from where it catches on loose wire, you feel alive for the first time in a long time.

The wind cleaves straight through you, sharp and unforgiving, but you like the way it bites your skin, whips your hair about in all sorts of directions.

“This is magic,” you say, words coated in disbelief. The entire town looks like a tiny playset from up here.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” You hear him before you feel him, the brush of his shoulder against yours as he leans against the rusted railing with you. The tower creaks gently under your shared weight.

You just stand there, taking it all in. Your breath puffs in the chill, slow and even. He hasn’t seen you breathe like this in months.

“I can’t wait to leave this town,” you say suddenly, voice soft, threaded with something close to wonder.

Leon doesn’t move. Just watches the way your eyes drift toward the horizon, like you’re already halfway gone.

“I used to think I’d miss it,” you go on, “but now… I don’t know. I think I’m ready for college. To move on, maybe. To start something new.” You laugh, quiet and a little sheepish, turn to look at him. “Isn’t that awful? I feel like I’m supposed to stay here. Be sad forever.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“It’s not awful,” he says, but the words taste like a bitter lie. It is awful. It’s so horribly awful that you’d ever imagine a life for yourself in which he doesn't exist.

New city, new people. Where does he fit in that picture?

A strange kind of panic stirs in his chest. You, leaving. You, gone. He can’t bear the thought of a world without you. One where he doesn’t get to hear you laugh, see you smile. One where you don’t follow him around or ask him pointless questions just to hear his voice.

He imagines your bedroom window with the light switched off.

The thought unmoors him.

He can see the homestead from here, a darkness exuding so potently the shadows flicker in the corner of his eye all the way from up here.

He glances back at you, and thinks consciously, for the first time in a while, how easy it’d be to keep you.

The voice in his head is gentle. Persuasive. It sounds a little like love.

So he makes his decision, albeit painstakingly, but with the sort of deliberation that feels, in some twisted corner of his mind, like mercy.

He tries not to. For weeks, he tries. Tries to reason with himself, the way one might try to wean a wild dog off affection.

His knife spills new blood. A rabbit. A dog. Something dumb and soft and unknowing, something helpless with a heartbeat loud enough to quell the sickening desire. He tries, desperately, to let you go in ways that might make it easier. Like if he staves the copper-in-his-mouth urge off for long enough, it’ll suffice.

But still, it’s fruitless. He knew it would be, and still, still, still, he tried.

He sees you in his dreams every night, lit from within and haloed in memory. He sees your silhouette in every open doorway and hears your voice whisper in the trees. A vision, beautiful and doomed all at once.

So when the crocuses finally come into full bloom, when the leaves sprout on the trees once more and the promise of spring begins to breathe warm into the soil, he asks.

Come with me. Where to? Does it matter?

And again, it doesn’t, because your trust bleeds deeper than your rationality, because you were born with a lamb’s heart and a martyr’s bones.

So you follow him, blindly, faithfully. Like you always have, like you always will.

There is a stillness to you that day, a gentleness in the way you’re soft with sleep and the chilly air, hair tangled, sleeves pulled over your hands to stave off the biting morning cold. He watches you trail after him through the tall grass and he thinks, with a pulse of something close to reverence: you have no idea.

The knife is a secret that rides in his back pocket. He feels it dig into the waistband of his jeans with every step.

He hates how easy it is. Hates how willing you are to go wherever he leads. It fills him with something hot and guilty and half-divine.

The walk itself is long. The sun shifts slowly overhead, dappling the earth through the branches just beginning to bud. Wind stirs the field grass into waves while you talk, albeit quietly. You fill the silence with idle nothings—how the birds chirp louder now, how the bees have started to come back, how it finally feels like almost spring. Your voice has always been birdsong to him. He can’t quite bear the thought of never hearing it again, and he steps a little closer to you, as if it’ll help, as if it could keep you tethered together for a while longer.

Still, he takes a small, strange comfort in the math of it, that even once you're gone, he won't have long to wait.

For less than a breath, and no more than a second.

Then you’ll be together again—wherever that is. Forever, at last.

The path to the homestead is overgrown, wild with creeping vine and honeysuckle. Nature reclaiming what man abandoned. The trees part at the prairie’s edge like curtains drawn open, and there it is—the house.

It’s worse than he remembers although he was just here a few days ago.

Peeling paint, sun-bleached boards, the screen door hanging crooked on one hinge, yawning open like a jaw. A place haunted by the many lives before it.

“Creepy,” you murmur, your voice light but not mocking as you stop at the threshold to the front door. You glance back at him, lips lifting at one corner. “Strange choice for a date.”

He swallows the laugh that wants to crawl up his throat. Instead, he says, “Thought you might appreciate the quiet.”

You hum thoughtfully and push the door open by the palm of your hand, the house sighs as the door swings open, as if welcoming you home. Dust blooms in the shaft of sunlight that follows you in, and the air smells like mildew and old wood.

“You really used to come here?” you ask, glancing at him over your shoulder.

Leon nods curtly, grinding his teeth. “When I needed to be alone.”

You tilt your head, puppy-dog cute in your innocence. “That sounds sad.”

He shrugs, and in the moment of silence that follows, you don’t press; you never do. That’s what makes this harder, that endless, bottomless trust. He could feed you poison and you’d thank him for the sweetness of it.

You reach for his hand without hesitation, squeeze it once, and that’s what undoes him a little more, how easily you slip your fingers into his, how warm they are, how alive. It makes him feel divine and monstrous all at once. Like a god with a worshipper who doesn’t yet know the mausoleum she stands in was built for her bones.

You explore without fear, toeing across warped floorboards and peer into the cold fireplace, play peek-a-boo with the torn curtains and warped doorways. You run your finger along the mantle and leave behind a line in the grime.

“Feels like something out of a ghost story,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Leon just watches you from the doorway.

Because you are the ghost. Or maybe he is. Maybe this whole house is just some purgatory he’s invented for the both of you to fall into together.

He follows you in eventually, his footsteps more timid than yours. Like one wrong move might wake something sleeping under the floorboards.

You drift from room to room like you’ve known this place for many lifetimes. He watches you go, follows behind, and thinks he should tell you everything, spill it like bile. Let the sickness come up and out and give you the chance to run.

“You okay?” you hum.

He nods only because lying feels easier than truth, and because you already look so proud of him for letting you in.

Finally, you end up in the living room. It is near empty; a fireplace, twin bookshelves on either side, and a sunken, moth-eaten couch pushed against the far wall. It’s dusty and old, springs breaking loose, but you sit anyway, curling your legs beneath you. Leon finds his place beside you, close enough to share your warmth. You lean your head on his shoulder with a long, contented sigh, and he swears he hears the altar creak beneath you both.

“I like it here,” you murmur. “It’s quiet. Feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

It doesn’t. Not anymore. There’s only this moment, this house, this version of you, of him.

And something in Leon whispers soft and sweet, that he doesn’t have to do this. He could keep you instead. Love you right.

He turns his face into your hair and breathes you in.

He thinks: I’ll take it back. I’ll take it all back.

You kiss him before he can say it. Just a brush of your lips against his jaw, soft and searching. He turns to meet it, and your mouth finds his. He doesn’t deserve it, but he kisses you like he might anyway. The kiss lacks the desperation Leon feels bone-deep. The desperation to seek penance for the sins he is still yet to commit. Like if you forgive him now, none of it will matter. His hands tangle in your shirt, mouths barely parted but pressed in urgency nonetheless.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and he almost confesses everything then. Almost lays it at your feet like a bloodied offering.

But he just kisses you again and again and again. Slower this time, gentler, thumb brushing your cheek as he pours himself into you. And it becomes so easy to believe he can have this, that he can be this man, the one you see.

You shift into his lap, lithe and loose-limbed with leftover kiss. The taste of him still lingers, something like salt-sweet sweat on your lips.

Leon doesn’t move, but his eyes follow the curve of your face. Studies you for the last time, tries to memorise the way your eyes glimmer with life and your smile curves just for him, him, only him.

Your hands brush the hair that always falls into his eyes from his face, curl gently behind his ear and tuck it in place. You kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail your lips along the line of his jaw. Fingers wander, slow and idle, tracing the path you’d just followed with your mouth, down the strong column of his throat. You feel him swallow.

Hands gentle as ever, sweep down and drag across the front of his shirt, slip lower still, curving down the arc of his waist, and that’s when they catch the edge of something tucked into his waistband.

He stiffens beneath you.

You tug gently, and Leon grabs your wrist with force enough to bruise. The suddenness startles you.

You try to yank your wrist free. “Leon,” you huff, confusion cinching your brows together. Again, you yank but his grip only tightens. “You’re being weird—”

Finally, you pull free, and this time Leon doesn’t stop you when your hand reaches to pull out what hides at his back. InA hunting knife glints in your hand.

It is sturdy and sharp. Worn, but cared for. It gleams faintly in the low light, all violent, jagged edge.

And you laugh, not because it’s funny, but because you’re confused, and confusion always sounds like humor when you don’t know where else to put it.

“Is this—what, for bears?” you tease, turning it over in your hands. “What kind of date are we on, woodsman? You planning to skin me for my hide?”

It’s a joke. It is. You look up at him, expecting a smile, something muttered quietly under his breath, a quip in place of the look that meets you. But Leon doesn’t laugh, nor does he move. His eyes remain on the blade in your hands, head hung.

The silence grows roots between you.

Your smile falters. “...Leon?”

His jaw twitches in place of answer.

“Why do you have this?” Your voice is smaller now, thinner. You offer it back to him. “I mean—you don’t hunt. You hate hunting.”

He doesn’t take it, just looks at you, and for the first time, you don’t recognize what’s behind blue eyes.

“Leon?”

A terrible pause. And then, finally—

“I was going to kill you.”

It doesn’t make sense.

The words land all wrong. Scattered in the space of your mind left for you to pick up and put together. Leon watches you, kind enough or cruel enough to let you do the math of your own undoing.

“What?”

He exhales hard, like something has at long last cracked loose in his chest. Like confession is a kind of relief. Like honesty makes this better.

“I was going to kill you,” he repeats, and this time, the words sink through your chest like a stone in water. A slow, sinking dread that blooms in the pit of your stomach.

Leon watches you with something close to awe. Or grief. It’s hard to tell with him now—his expression something unreadable. A blankness you’ve never seen before.

“I brought you here to— well, to end it. I couldn’t take it anymore. You, leaving. I couldn’t... I couldn’t let the world have you. Couldn’t bear the idea of you forgetting me.”

The silence that follows is so thick and cloying you can hear your pulse in it. Feel it inside your skull, pressing behind your eyes.

You stare at him, and for once, you don’t have any words. Just a mouth full of dry cotton and a heart knocking hard against your ribcage.

“But I changed my mind,” he says quickly, urgently, like that undoes the violence in the intent. “I did. You kissed me. You looked at me like I was still—still yours. And I realized I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never did.”

You feel dizzy. The room tilts.

“I love you,” he says. “God, I love you. And I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. So I’m telling you now. I’m being honest. Doesn’t that count for something?”

You shake your head minutely. Like you’re trying to knock the thoughts loose from where they stick to the walls of your skull. Like maybe, if you shake hard enough, you’ll wake up in your own bed, sunlight on the sheets.

“You were going to kill me,” you say, and the words taste foreign in your mouth.

Leon has the audacity to startle. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

You blink slowly. “You said you brought me here to kill me.”

“I said I couldn’t do it. That I changed my mind.” His voice rises without meaning to, cracking like dry wood. “I’m— I’m trying to be honest. That’s supposed to mean something.”

You realise you’re much too close for comfort. Funny how that works. Arms that once felt like home scare you enough to flinch when he moves. But your knee still brushes his while you sit on the moth-bitten couch, and the only thing you have to defend yourself is the knife still in your hand.

But he sees it. Sees your weight shift. Sees your eyes flick to the door, to the window, away from him.

“No—hey. No.” His voice drops to a raggedy whisper. “Don’t— I’m right here.”

You’re trembling now. Not just because of what he’s said, but because of how quickly he changed. Because that blank, even calm has cracked open into something frightful.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not,” he says again, as if repetition makes it truer.

Your mouth opens and closes uselessly.

“You just— You said it so calmly.” Your voice cracks in fear.

Leon runs both hands through his hair, stands and paces two feet before circling back.

“I wasn’t calm,” he presses. “I was trying to be honest with you. You want me to lie instead? Pretend I didn’t think about it? Would that make you feel better?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I changed my mind,” Leon’s voice is desperate, insistent, voice splintering as he sinks to his knees in front of you now. “I’m telling you, isn’t that worth something? Honesty should count.”

But the weight of his confession is not lightened by truth.

There is no nobility in admitting you once intended violence to the thing you claim to love. There is only a new kind of intimacy, one born not of affection, but of proximity to death.

You study him. The trembling of his hands, the wet glint in his eyes; and it is terrifying, how reasonable he sounds in his unraveling.

And more terrifying still, how he looks at you. Like a prophet would fire.

You are the last divine thing he believes in. Can’t you see? The only living being in the vastness of his mind that could save him. He has never known a love as pure as the one you had bestowed upon him.

And so, he has built his altar.

He has knelt at it, trembling, devoted.

He has prayed to keep this—you. The purity of your love before it spoils. Before the world takes you and reshapes you into something that no longer needs him.

He would rather die by your hand than live in a world where you turn your face away.

And if you won’t kill him, if you recoil from him now, if you leave, then the death he imagined will come just the same. Not with blood, but in absence. In the slow, shriveling death of being forgotten.

You watch him. You feel the weight of his stare, of his worship, like a noose of silk. Lovely. Crushing.

And something inside you—call it instinct, call it survival—begins to recoil.

“I need to go,” you say, though the words come like a foreign tongue. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

It takes him a moment to hear you. Or perhaps he simply refuses. His head tips, slightly. His brow furrows.

“What?”

Your legs shift beneath you, unsteady. You glance toward the door, the night pressing up against it. Your mouth is dry. “I—I need to leave.”

He rises a little, not all the way as if he is following your movement with his own.

“No,” he says, soft. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” You stand. You don’t remember deciding to do it. You just know that you must. You have to get out, you have to get away, before this becomes something you can’t change.

His voice cracks as he rises after you.

“Don’t.” That’s all. Just that one word, full of ache. And then, if that is not enough—

“I love you.”

There is something utterly childlike in the way he says it. Not manipulative, not cruel. You’ve never realised just how blue his eyes look when he says I love you.

“I love you.” He says again. “I love you so much it scares me.”

It scares you too.

And as if he sees the fear in your eyes, he continues, hands coming up in surrender, palms open. “I don’t want to scare you,” he says quickly, restlessly. “That wasn’t—this isn’t how I wanted it to happen. I just… I thought if I told you the truth, that it would mean something. That you'd understand. I only meant—fuck, I just wanted to be with you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Your back bumps the wall, you didn’t even realize you were retreating.

Leon doesn’t notice just yet, caught in the undertow of everything he’s kept hidden. He keeps talking, words spilling out in a desperate, clumsy rush.

“I was going to do it. I was going to end it. I wasn’t gonna let you go alone. We’d be together. Just us. No one else.”

The room contracts.

“Together?”

His face softens like he thinks you understand, like this is the moment he wins you back.

And then the silence tilts and shifts, because you do understand. Finally.

Not just what he said. But what he’s done.

He killed her, drowned her in that river. Killed that man, left him by the railway. The revelation is enough to make your lips part in a silent sort of scream, a gasp for air.

Leon’s mouth is still moving—he’s saying something about fate, about love, about how he never wanted to hurt anyone but sometimes the darkness just wins.

Your vision goes hot around the edges as your stomach churns grossly, and before you realise what is happening, you double over without grace. The knife drops from your hand in an unceremonious clatter, and you slap the wall in a last attempt at balance. You’re going to be sick.

“Hey—hey,” Leon murmurs, stepping toward you, “you’re okay. Let me help—”

His hand brushes your arm and you recoil like it burns.

“Don’t touch me.”

You shove him back, and Leon stumbles, caught off balance, eyes wide with something that doesn’t look like understanding.

“Don’t touch me,” you say again, voice trembling with something more akin to fear than anger.

And when you look at him again, his sad blue eyes look like steel.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, quietly. “You’re just upset, confused.”

“Don’t— Don’t make me feel naïve.” You’re panting now. “You killed her. You killed her, Leon.”

“No, you don’t— You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to look at me like—”

You scramble to run before he can get all his words out.

But you barely make it two steps before he tackles you down, a mess of limbs and a flurry of panic. The floor rushes up too fast, your elbow cracks against it, and the air punches out of your lungs.

And in the struggle, his hands come down around your body; a vice, or a lover’s embrace, either way, suffocating.

“Let go,” and it’s only now you feel the wetness on your face, your tears cascading in tremulous waterfalls, warm and salt-bitten. “Please, Leon, let go.”

“I love you,” Leon says again, like it’s all he has left to offer, the only language his mouth remembers. “I love you, I love you.”

His breath is hot and frantic against your cheek. His hands tremble with a fevered sort of need, fight for purchase on your wrists, clammy with the truth of the sins that stain them. You can’t tell if the suffocation comes from his body atop yours, or from your sobs, which are so sharp now, so relentless, that breathing has become an afterthought.

You push at his chest with whatever strength remains in your trembling arms, but he’s stronger in desperation You try to push and push and push, but he’s twice as desperate now, pain scrambling to keep you still, to keep you his.

Your nails sink deep into his forearm, red half-moons rising, beading, bloating, where his skin breaks.

What happens next is instinct.

Leon shoves you down and slaps you across the face.

Blood floods your mouth instantly, warm against your tongue, and your eyes widen in shock. For a few short moments that feel like lifetimes, you can’t move.

“You hit me,” you gasp, like it’s the worst of what has happened tonight. Like the fact of it is worse than all the other truths.

“You wouldn’t stay still,” Leon tries, eyes wide and lip trembling. “I’m sorry, you just wouldn't stay still—”

Your lip bleeds a beautiful crimson down the corner of your cheek, where his knuckle must have split the delicate skin. He watches it bloom and thinks of all the times he’s kissed you, those beautiful, soft lips.

He thumbs the blood away reverently, shaky and slow, smears it down the corner of your chin.

Leon lowers his head, lips close enough for your exhales to catch in each other’s throats. He could kiss you. He could kill you. The truth of it is terrifying.

His mouth presses to yours gently first, and for a few fleeting moments it’s familiar. Sweet and soft, like the boy you knew before. Then, his lips crush to yours in desperation—that’s all he seems to be now, the personification of desperation.

You feel him tremble when he tastes the blood he put there. The tremble spreads through you. It’s all you can do not to scream.

You cry into the curve of his mouth because you cannot bring yourself to kiss him back. Sobs so hard and violent that your teeth clack against his, your body shuddering under the weight of it all. And still, still, still, he holds you like he thinks it might save him. Like he can love his way out of what he’s done.

You can taste your own grief with every press of his lips to yours, a dirty salt and a biting copper.

And Leon, poor Leon, believes it means something. Still, despite everything, believes in the truth of your love.

You may call it naïvety, the way he trusts you so blindly, so much so that he doesn’t notice the way your hands shift, doesn’t feel the tension coiling in your legs, your knees folding slowly beneath him, measuring distance and breath. He’s too caught in the fantasy he’s spent weeks building, the one he gets to live in now.

And in this moment of vulnerability, you shove him.

Leon falls backwards with a startled grunt, his balance off-kilter, arms too slow this time to catch you. His eyes are wide, wild and stunned, like he’s just been slapped awake.

Your palms slap the floor, catch the base of the stairs, claw at the banister. You drag yourself upright with what little strength is left in you, and bolt for the door.

Sweat-slick hands of yours slip over the knob, desperate and clumsy in their desire to survive. Won’t budge. Locked, you realise with horrifying clarity. It’s locked. It hits you like an awful riptide, your own breath turning on you, as the panic settles in, and you barely even manage to duck as—

Leon lunges for you, a half-scream scratches its way up your throat, raw and aching on its way out. You pivot as fast as you can and crash back into the banister, your hands seize it like a lifeline, dragging yourself up with trembling legs, each step like a jolt to your nervous system.

Up, up, up, you take the steps two at a time, Leon on your heels like thunder. You don’t need to chance a look over your shoulder, don’t dare when you can already feel his presence in the thick air, in the pulse of the house, in the way the walls seem to close in around you.

You hear him behind you, a string of sweet nothings that pleases for you to come back to him.

But you're smarter than that, even if a part of you wishes you weren’t. A part of you that wishes you could be naïve enough to crawl back into his arms and accept the twisted love he would kill himself to give you.

Your legs carry you down the hall, dizzy with panic as your vision blurs at the edges. You don’t know where you’re going, how you’ll escape.

Door. Door. Try a door.

The first one doesn’t budge, stuck fast, even as you rattle the handle desperately. You sob once, a sharp breath that tears from your throat, and keep going.

The second door is the same, jammed.

Behind you, Leon’s boots thud against the last step and the floor creaks under his weight like the house gives you a warning.

“I didn’t mean to—” he pants, his voice echoing down the hallway towards you. “You have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You scream, sharp and terrified, and shove your weight into the third door. It finally gives under your weight and you tumble through, half-falling, half-running.

Leon’s hand slams flat against the door just before it shuts, fingers splayed wide like he means to claw the space between you apart. The handle jerks violently beneath your grip, the whole frame shudders under his weight as he tries to tear it open.

The cry that escapes you breaks his heart, but he can’t let you get away, not again. He loves you too much for that.

“Baby— sweetheart, please.” He begs, near hysterical, “I didn’t mean to— didn’t mean to scare you— You know I didn’t.”

You push back with everything you have, shoulder braced to the wood, feet skidding on the floor. Your heartbeat roars wildly in your ears, and you don’t realise you’ve replied until his voice comes back, soaked through with desperation.

“Stop? Stop? Why would I stop?” He emphasises his words with a harsh shove that makes you gasp in fear, “You don’t understand,” He convinces himself, “Sweetheart, let me help you understand, open the door.”

“Stop!” you shriek again. “Stop talking!”

He gives another push, enough so that the door swings open a few inches, and you see his eyes, once a cerulean, beautiful blue, now glassy, sanguine red.

“I can’t live without you,” he breathes, and it’s worse because it sounds true, his face is twisted with it. “You have to understand. I love you. I just wanted– I just needed—” You, you, you.

You scream to drown it out, wordless and panicked, and shove with everything you have. By a stroke of luck, his grip slips and the door slams shut and you twist the lock with haste. Your breath rattles in the cavern of your chest, and you wait, wait, wait. No sound comes, no movement, and just when you think it might be over, the whole frame rattles with a horrifying bang.

Quickly, you search the room for anything to barricade the door. Tucked into the corner by the door is a bookcase nearly half as tall as you. You move quickly, throw your weight against it, but even so it’s heavy. It does little but groan as it moves, sluggish and stubborn even as you push it with all your might.

Leon slams into the door again, so hard the frame begins to splinter. A terrified sob claws its way out of you.

“Please,” he begs, his voice echoing through the door.

Another bang, the walls rattle, a picture frame clatters off the wall and bursts across the floor in shards of glass.

“I know you’re scared, just— just let me in.”

The bookcase drags into place with a final grinding shriek of wood on wood. Your muscles scream. You heave again, one last time, and throw your weight against it until it finally, finally, topples over, crashing to the floor in front of the door with a thunderous bang that shakes the walls.

And at long last, silence greets you again.

Leon ceases his endless pursuit, the handle doesn’t tremble nor do the walls shake any longer.

Your hands, though, they tremble against your thighs as you double over, gasping for breath, chest tight with sobs you finally let spill out in their entirety. You don't know how long it lasts, this fleeting reprieve, but you don’t dare take it for granted.

Staggering back, you survey your surroundings.

The room you find yourself in is useless. No closet, not a back door. Just a battered desk, a thin rug, cracking wallpaper, and…

A window.

It’s small, too small even, but maybe—

You scramble to scale the desk in one desperate movement, knees thudding against its surface as your fingers feel along the window’s seam. There’s a metal lock, but it’s rusted shut. The glass is old and stubborn, and no matter how hard you yank, it won’t budge.

Leon calls through the door, rattling it’s handle.. “Sweetheart… you can’t leave. You can’t. I won’t know how to breathe without you.”

You brace your palms on the frame and try to lift the pane, but it doesn’t move. Painted shut.

Rage rises in your throat—rage and helplessness and the sheer grief of it all.

“No, no, no, no,” You reason, like this can’t be it, this can’t be how it ends. This house will not become your grave.

The thought of that alone makes you sob again, so you shove at the window harder, use the heel of your palm, then your elbow. Desperation overtakes the pain in your chest, and you pick the ceramic lamp off the desk, raise it high, and smash it through the glass.

Fragments rain across the room, glittering on the floor like ice. Yes! You nearly want to cry with joy. The cool night air rushes in all at once, cools the tears glistening on your cheeks.

But then the door bursts open.

The old wood gives with a scream, the bookcase sliding uselessly across the floor. You whirl, heart in your throat.

There stands Leon, he looks wild, desperate, gaze flitting immediately to you. You scramble, try to lift yourself through the window, as if divine intervention might save you now. But your legs won't move, stuck hopelessly in place.

Leon’s large hand wraps around your ankle, yanks you off the table and into his arms instead. You fight, of course you do, little fits and bursts of energy that die one after the other just as quick as the last. You’ve got those rheumy eyes that he hates to see, shiny and so, so sad. Those sweet eyes of yours seem to plead with him, as if beckoning him to remember your love. Why do you look at him like that? He loves you now, do you not know?

The knife in his hand nicks at the soft skin under your chin—the knife, the knife, the knife; he must’ve picked it up somewhere between the first struggle and this one—he truly doesn’t mean to, panics a little when he sees the pearl of blood bloat and dribble, but then it trails down the lines of your throat, pools in the cavern of your collar bone. Not enough just yet to leak any further.

God you’re beautiful, even like this. He really could love you forever. If only you let him.

“Leon, I don’t want to die.” Sobs blubber from your lips in desperate little fits.

“Stop saying that—” He grits. Desolate despair shakes you in his arms, and Leon’s grip on the knife tightens anxiously.

You struggle fruitlessly, kick your legs at him and try to wrestle out of his grip. The horrifying realisation that you are going to die tonight sets in stone, and you plead in vain despite what little air you have left—waste your last breaths on words you have repeated so, so many times. Please, stop, no.

And you wish that instead, you could spend your last moments loving him. Your boy, your Leon. That maybe, if you had just tried harder, this wouldn’t have happened. If only you could reach out, through the cracks in his ribs, and hold his hellbound heart in your hands. Sew the beating flesh back together in hopes you can piece what is so broken. He is your Leon, after all. Yours, yours, yours.

So you reach for him, to hold, to kiss, to soothe, maybe.

But like spooking an animal, you scare your killer. Worried he might lose you, you might make your escape, he presses the knife tighter. And fear itself is much like an animal, you flinch, and it happens fast. Faster than Leon anticipated it would.

A slip of his hand and the knife sinks in with sickening grace, one clean motion and your skin parts like silk. Blood spills down your neck in shimmering, shining rivulets. A rushing river of crimson that trails along the notch of your collarbone, then spills lower, soaking into the fabric of your sweater.

Your body slumps quickly and unceremoniously in his arms. Like the life drains out of you in a single breath. There’s so much blood, and Leon doesn’t even realise he’s dropped the knife until his feet slip on it while trying to hold you up. Horror blurs his vision, your blood stains his hands. It’s pungent, that copper, the tackiness of it, the way it clings to his fingers, hands, forearms.

And Leon can’t help but think of the rabbit. The way it had kicked and writhed fruitlessly, he had felt like a god holding its limp body in his hands as it trashed and kicked, as he made the decision to kill rather than keep. The way the first blood of his first kill had stained his hands like absolution, although, this seems to feel more like it.

Like the real absolution. Like the terrifying realisation of the truth. You are never coming back.

In Leon’s head, you had obliged to his plan easily. His little doe, sweet and naïve. You would’ve said yes, leaned into his touch like he was something to be worshiped. He would’ve died with you, wouldn’t have had to live in a world without you for more than a second.

Romeo and Juliet.

But now he holds your darling body dead in his arms, and can’t figure out why he did it.

He wants to ask you to wake up, to look at him, but your head slumps forward every time he jostles your body. And when he pushes you up by the forehead, smearing your blood along your face, the skin at your neck tears further, rips so sickeningly he can hear it.

Leon cries.

He tries to hold you together in his arms as he sinks to the floor. Your forehead rests against his shoulder, limp now, your blood seeping through his shirt until it clings to his skin like a layer of guilt. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he starts gasping for breath, until the sobs shake his chest so violently that he can’t hold on to you, not with how hard his hands are trembling.

Your warmth leaves you faster than he thought it would. But still, impossibly, your chest glows beneath his hand. Like the sun still lives in you, tucked beneath your ribs, a stubborn ember of life that refuses to go dark, even as his world turns to shades grey around you.

He presses his hand flat to your sternum, like he could maybe feel it flicker.

And with what little strength he has left, he decides to finish what he started—while your heart is still sunlit, while your body is still warm with the memory of the girl you used to be.

The forest is silver in the early light, soft and damp from the night’s weeping. Morning stretches over the horizon in a slow yawn, brushing the treetops in bruised lilac and pale blue. The birds have begun to stir, distantly, hesitantly, like even the world has begun to mourn you.

Leon’s arms ache terribly, but it’s the kind of ache that is reminiscent of what he imagined Christ must’ve felt, bearing the cross. The knife rides silently at the small of his back once more, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. The underbrush snags at his trousers, scratches his ankles, but he doesn’t stumble, he knows where he’s going.

He doesn’t mind the way your limbs loll with the gentle sway of his gait, he is sure to hold you carefully, to not jostle you too much in your peace. His steps are careful and slow, as though he’s walking a sanctified path through the nave of a church.

The altar is only just up ahead.

He finds the clearing just as the sun splits the trees. Crocus blossoms bloom like bruises across the forest floor, lavender and cream, petals open in the dying moonlight. He steps carefully through them. Then, he kneels, and lays you down.

He fixes your clothes first. Smooths the hem of your sweater, buttons what he can. Then your hair—sticky and matted in places—he combs through it with his fingers, untangling, arranging, brushing it back behind your ears. There is blood on your face, flakes and smudges, copper stains across your cheeks. He leans in and kisses you softly. Your lips are cold, your skin already stiffening. But he kisses you anyway, and the dried blood cracks under the heat of his mouth, melts on his tongue like salt.

Your eyes have gone glassy, that beautiful color he once loved, now hollow, vapid, gone. He closes them softly, kisses each eyelid as goodbye but only for now. Only for now.

He lays beside you for a moment, his shoulder against yours, and closes his eyes. Pretends, pretends childishly, that this is just one of your mornings. Pretends you’ll wake, turn to him, smile softly, call to him in your saccharine voice, Leon? Leon? Wake up, you’d say, a gentle playful grin on your warm, soft lips.

They’ll find you like this, he thinks. Someone will see the door broken down, the blood on the floor, and follow the trail across the prairie and into the woods. They’ll find the two of you laid out like sculptures in the crocuses. He wants you to look like lovers. When someone finds you, they’ll say, look how gently he loved her.

And it was love. Wasn’t it?

Even this—this ruin, this horror—came from love. The kind of love that is known to shake the bones and rip out reason. The kind of love that makes you do things, unspeakable things, because how else could you hold onto something so bright? So human?

He knows what he did, but there’s no forgiveness that comes with it. No redemption in it either. He thinks of your eyes—lovely now still, yet touched by death. The way they looked at him in those final moments, not with hatred, but with sorrow, with recognition. That’s what gutted him most, he thinks. Not that you feared him, but that you knew him, knew what he’d become, and mourned him before you died.

But still, still, still, you had loved him once. Before the fever took hold. Before he mistook obsession for undying devotion. You loved him then. And maybe, just maybe, that love still lingers in some soft, invisible corner of the world.

He is not naïve. He doesn’t think you’ll forgive him. But he hopes, god, he hopes, that wherever your soul went, it remembers him as he was. Not the monster who slit your throat, but the boy who learned how to love by watching you.

Maybe in the next life, he thinks. Maybe next time, it’ll be different. Maybe you’ll find him first. Maybe he’ll get to be yours again—just yours.

He takes your hand in his once more, squeezes your cold fingers tightly, and holds the knife in the other.

The serrated blade’s glistening edge finds the soft give of his throat. Leon’s chest rattles with the last breath of his.

He really did love y—

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

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snowmeow03 · 1 month ago

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I actually wrote an (almost) complete (still lack of specific level design and some of the encounters) Arknights Integrated Strategy dlc of dt8 called Determination's Loom of Fate but since no one online actually knows about it (I still haven't posted this au's full setting), I can never post it

actually I wonder if there is really anyone interested in both Arknights and handplates...?

since this is fandom of au of handplates I really think perhaps it's more Arknights than handplates (the plot still based on dt8 through), I've tried my best to make this Integrated Strategy's setting sounds playable and like an actual dlc

I don't even have any pictures to put since I can't draw things in Arknights' style

I'll just put Gaster's setting as a boss here for anyone who sees this as some random fandom thingy (what am I saying)(He shall be not very difficult since he only appears in a sort-of story mission)

Gaster, Old Memories

Attack Type: Arts, Ranged

Attack Range: Global

Skills:

Past-Normal attacks do not target Asgore, Toriel or Alphys. Attack drastically decreases upon defeating any allied Boss unit.

War-Increases damage taken for a period after entering the map.

Karma-Locks onto the allied unit with the highest current HP. Deals high Physical damage to the target and chains to the nearest other allied unit. The same unit cannot be targeted twice per skill activation. Deals increased damage to Sans and Papyrus, but this skill will not defeat them.

Void: When HP first drops below 50%, enters Invulnerability (excluding this skill's effect) and releases one instance of True Damage sweep across the entire map (left to right), affecting all units including himself. Invulnerability ends after this.

Remnant: When HP reaches 0, activates the 'Determination' effect on the map and remains on the field for a duration. During this phase:

Does not move.

Ceases normal attacks.

'Karma' targets randomly.

'Karma' activation interval greatly reduced and affects all units.

Can be blocked.

Effect: Determination

Forces all allied Boss units to Retreat.

Applies a True Damage over time effect to all units on the map. Damage dealt is percentage-based, increases over time, and cannot defeat units.

I'm not familiar with the expression in global so I make ai translated it, sorry if there's any confusion

#what on earth am i saying #arknights #undertale #handplates #gaster #I really wonder if I should put his tag through #well this is for if anyone's interested?#sorry for the possible disturbing

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humanjarvis · 5 months ago

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lonely millionaire

synopsis: sylus likes when you spend his money.

tags: suggestive (mdni), sylus sits you on his lap while you drain his bank account, it's for a cute reason though, dry humping, size difference, teasing, sylus is a scoundrel, use of "kitten" and "sweetie" cause we stick to the canon over here pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mc word count: 640

a/n: i don't really have anything to sa—omg this is my first non-caleb post! but yeah i've been thinking of this for a while. this is the most explicitly sexual thing i've written with worse to come

“Why don’t you get that one, too?” Sylus rumbles into your neck, pointing to a luxurious dress on your screen.

You’re seated on his lap in the bed you share, his legs caging your smaller frame while he peeks over your shoulder at the laptop in front of you. For the last 40 minutes, you’d been browsing the website of the most exclusive boutique in Linkon. It’d been Sylus’s idea—To get you something nice for being such a good hunter, he’d said—but as he urges you to keep adding opulent pieces to your cart—dresses, skirts, shoes, you name it—you start to suspect an ulterior motive.

Restless, you turn around to face him. But before you can speak, he steals your lips in a lewd, wet kiss, his thumb holding your chin in place while he swipes his tongue through your mouth.

“Hmm?” he hums when he releases you, expectantly peering into your eyes.

Dumbfounded, you stare up at him before his slow smirk jolts you back into your right state of mind. “Sylus! Stop distracting me. You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” you accuse with a glare.

“I don’t particularly enjoy being your distraction, kitten. I’d rather have all your attention in the first place,” he replies, wearing an infuriating look of triumph.

“You know what I mean,” you whine, thwacking his shoulder in exasperation. “You have me in your lap while I spend enough to buy a house on things I don’t need. I don’t get it—are you enjoying this?”

Sylus blinks lazily. Slowly, he chuckles before rolling his hips into the plush of your backside. “You’re well aware of how much I'm enjoying it, sweetie.”

Startled, you jerk your hands to his thighs, the laptop landing onto the bed with a soft thud. “Sylus,” you breathe, a whimper escaping you as he grinds upwards again. “I-Is this really okay? You’ve been so tired lately, you can’t hide it from me. What if I spend too much and you have to work harder?”

Sighing, Sylus snakes one thick arm around your waist, pulling you further back into his chest. As he splays his large hand across your belly, you feel his body warming yours, making your core clench with need.

“Kitten,” he drawls, nuzzling your shoulder. “When I’m out there making Onychinus deals, putting my life on the line just to come home coated in someone else’s blood—it gets…tedious, sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I should give it all up so we can start fresh somewhere new,” he confesses, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “But having you here with me, knowing I'm putting my life on the line for you? So you can spend what I earn for you, so I can give you all the pretty little things you could possibly ask for? It makes it worth it, kitten. It brings me…peace. Satisfaction.”

Throughout his musings, he’s been rubbing you harder and harder against his rigid length. Feeling it pulse beneath you, you moan softly and reach your arm back, threading your fingers in his hair. “As long as…as long as you like it,” you pant. “Want you to be happy.”

His deep chuckle hits your neck, sending shockwaves down your spine. “Won’t you help me relax, then? After all, I've been so tired lately,” he mocks, nipping your ear.

“Now,” he starts again. “How about you look at the accessories page next, hmm? Let’s see the handbags.”

It’s an hour later when Sylus is finally satisfied with the subtotal of your shopping cart.

He holds his card out in front of you while you type in the information, and once the order goes through, he captures your lips in a kiss, tender but claiming.

“What’s your schedule for tomorrow look like, sweetie?” he rumbles, pressing you close. “I think I’d like to look at some jewelry.”

#iris writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads #lads sylus #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #sylus qin #lnds #lnds sylus #lnds smut #lnds x reader

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gutsby · 3 months ago

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High Risk

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your dad finds out.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv/a. Age gap. Daddy kink. Sneaky sex. Breeding kink. Anal. Use of various sex toys. Joel Miller eats it from the back like a gentleman should. Slight pain kink, but it’s consensual. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk!

Word count: 15.0k

Read on AO3

Joel Miller had the willpower of a sack of flour.

If you beckoned, he came. If you called, he answered.

No matter the hour of day, any time or place, that man would be there, no hesitation and no questions asked.

Hell, he might’ve had a couple qualms about fucking at a gas station off I-10 in the middle of the day, but his devotion to you quickly overpowered any better sense. He just unzipped his jeans in the front seat of his Bronco, let you climb across the center console and into his lap, and, parked directly next to a gas pump somewhere just shy of Webster, Texas, he let you ride him for six minutes.

That was all either one of you needed to get off. With his keys out of the ignition and the thin, frigid air of a winter’s day soaking straight through to your bones and his, you needed to move quick to keep warm. You buried your face into his neck and whimpered repeatedly, ‘Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,’ and Joel had no choice but to oblige, really. He stroked the back of your head with one of his big, warm palms and told you he was right here, ‘m always here, sweet pea. That helped you climax fast.

It also didn’t hurt that you’d nudged the hand cupping your ass to start touching somewhere lower, inside there

Joel’s fingers brushed through the wet, sticky glaze from where your bodies connected and started rubbing someplace new—at your request, of course—and his heart damn near burst out of his chest when you let out a wanton moan at the touch. His cock twitched, and your walls clenched around him when his index first petted that tight ring of muscles. You squirmed in his lap.

“Fuck me there, Joel. Push it in,” you whimpered.

At least half of that sentiment must have been the pre-climax talking, Joel reckoned, but he couldn’t deny that he felt equally enthralled by that spot. It was more just curiosity and mindless need, wondering what you’d feel like wrapped around him in that new place. His fingertip breached the tiny ring, and the two of you groaned into each other. It was mind-numbing. He might’ve plunged his digit in and out all of five times before you were both pushed over the edge. You came with a shuddering cry, and Joel filled the condom inside you in thick, hot spurts.

Joel’s vision blurred for a second with how hard he came

He was still blinking, still breathing like his ribcage might cave at any moment, and you were lifting off him gently.

A little squelch and a sigh from your lips were all that he heard over the rush in his skull. Absently, Joel plucked the rubber off and looked around for a tissue to put it in.

He’d just secured it, and was zipping up his pants to step out of the car and toss it in the trash, when he saw you turned, peering out the back window. He chucked the condom and returned to find you in the same position.

“We should try anal next,” you said simply.

Clinically.

Joel almost dropped his keys turning the Bronco back on

“Try w—” He choked on the last word and stumbled for the third and fourth, sputtering. “What do you mean?”

Finally, you shifted back to face the front, to face him, and a smile was playing at your lips. Your nose wrinkled.

“You don’t know what that means, Joel? Pretty sure the mechanics are about the same as any other type of fucking, just like…in my butt,” you said teasingly.

Like hell it was.

You were no more than forty-five minutes away from your destination in Galveston. Your dad was already at his timeshare down there and would be expecting you soon. Both of you had been a little off-kilter ever since the man had called out of the blue that morning and offered you, Tommy, and Maria the weekend getaway at his place, but still. This? Where the hell had you gotten an idea like that in your head, when the focus was supposed to be on laying low the next couple days? Keeping sex to its usual bounds, not doing anything risky near your dad.

You and him had a pretty bad track record in that.

All the same, trying anal at your dad’s beach house sounded more than just crazy. It was plainly absurd.

Joel was planning to tell his best friend that he was in love with you not too far in the future. How was that conversation likely to fare if the man happened to catch him with his dick in his daughter’s backdoor beforehand?

“I ain’t fuckin’ your ass,” he mumbled grumpily instead.

He turned on the car and cranked the tunes to drown out any protest from you—and to quiet his own wild musings

What if he could, just once?

Would you even like it?

Damn, it might not—

“You need COOOOOOOOLIN’, baby I’m not FOOOLIN’.”

Thank you, Robert Plant.

The song started playing, and he felt especially grateful.

Actually, Joel might need the entirety of Led Zeppelin’s discography to clear his head of the nonsense currently coursing through it. He gripped the wheel tighter in his fists and started out of the gas station parking lot then.

You drummed a mindless beat with your fingertips on your thigh. Your legs were crossed, and you occasionally flit looks over your shoulder. At what, Joel had no idea.

“Take a left on General Acacius Way,” you said casually.

“What?” Joel turned to you.

Your finger was already pointing in the direction you wanted him to take the car. Your shoulders were relaxed, and that mischievous glint in your eye was unmistakable.

“Left on that road, then there should be another parking lot just behind the auto shop. It’s right beside the…yeah.”

Yeah.

Joel turned the wheel to pull onto the nearest street, and suddenly, he saw it. Right across the intersection, no more than a stone’s throw away from where he sat, there was a storefront that nearly made his eyes pop out.

He never considered himself a prude before.

In fact, he’d always thought he was pretty adventurous when it came to sex and being open-minded about stuff.

But this was fucking nuts.

There, on the corner of General Acacius Way and Clint Avenue, he saw a store with flashing pink-and-white lights and an even bigger, gaudier neon sign hanging above them, blinding half the street and making sure that it was seen on even the brightest, sunniest of days:

‘Mandalorian Sex Emporium: This is the Way…to Pleasure’

You had to be fucking joking.

You weren’t joking.

You’d gotten the idea driving to Galveston—or, rather, seated on your boyfriend’s lap and having him finger you in a place he’d never done it before—and then ran with it.

Sprinted, more like.

Your life and Joel’s were rife with stressors and uncertainty and fucked up paternal concerns galore. You’d been thinking nonstop about your dad’s latest conversation with Joel and about the possibility of him finding out about your secret relationship, and it had nearly sent you spiraling. You needed a distraction.

Was it the wisest idea to have that distraction be Joel’s dick in your ass? Probably not. But there were certainly worse ways to be spending your time, and sitting around wondering why the hell your dad had never bothered to tell you that he might not be your biological father, or that Tommy fucking Miller might have been, was useless. You wouldn’t know a thing until you talked to him yourself—and that conversation would have to take place later. This weekend, probably. Presently, you were perusing an aisle full of water-based lubricants, smiling.

Joel wasn’t quite scowling, but he certainly had that look

Like a father himself, far from approving of this scheme.

“Y’think flavored is the way to go?” you asked casually.

You held bottles of Beskar Berry Blast and Coruscant Cotton Candy in either hand and held them up for the purpose of getting your old man’s opinion on them, but his eyes glazed over both. His gaze penetrated yours, and then it flitted down to what he held in his own hand.

His phone.

Also, he had on his reading glasses.

They sat perched atop the tip of his nose, and from that look alone, you knew whatever came next would be good

Joel cleared his throat.

“Sugary lubricants are much more likely to cause a bacterial imbalance—infection, even—and with the heightened risk of microtears in the anal cavity—”

“Jo-el.”

You groaned.

Joel didn’t blink.

“What? If you’re grown-up enough to want anal sex, you need to be able to say the words. I mean it, sweetheart…”

And with that, he straightened. His back audibly cracked. Though he didn’t wince, you could tell that he’d felt it, as his brows were furrowed returning his focus to his phone

He was even more serious than normal, you could tell. Swiftly, you sidled up next to him. You looked down.

In the search bar on Joel’s phone, you read:

How to do anal first time painless & safe

Peering up, you saw his lips were in a line. He was scrolling through results like this was of the utmost importance, and your heart clenched, realizing just how much he cared for your well-being. On top of that, you sensed there was more to his nerves than just the sex.

“We don’t…have to do it, Joel,” you told him softly. “Seriously, it’s OK if you’re uncomfortable. Or worried.”

That last word carried the weight of the sentence, and at length, Joel met your look. His shoulders sagged a little.

He pocketed his cell. Put his glasses in his breast pocket.

“No. I’m alright. Really. Just thinkin’ of stuff,” he replied.

“Like Dad?”

“Like him shovin’ a shotgun up my ass.”

And both of you smiled some, but it was tense. Strained.

That momentary relief of humor between you two was, by force of circumstance, dampened by some weightier considerations. Like maybe this detour was a bad way to distract, and you shouldn’t be seeking that out right now

Maybe sneaking around your dad was risky enough.

Hell, maybe even the truth about you two had to wait.

It was a thought born of fear, but an honest feeling all the same—and, seeming to sense this, Joel’s expression softened. Suddenly, his hand was reaching for yours.

“I’m not havin’ second thoughts about tellin’ him, if that’s what you’re wonderin’,” he resumed, eyes on you.

“We just need to…go slow,” you finished. Questioning.

The fingers threaded through yours squeezed them.

“If that’s what you need, then I’ll do it, sweetheart.”

Slow.

Steady.

Setting an even pace for everything to come.

You couldn’t help but see some parallels, to, well…this.

You set the flavored lubes aside. You took Joel’s advice—got some simple, no-frills stuff. It wasn’t about being in a rush, or needing this new, fun thing to be a diversion from the reality you were currently facing. You did it because you wanted to. Because Joel was open to it, too, and though he was being extra cautious, you knew it all stemmed from the love that he had for you. It always did.

You picked out toys. You had to bite back a smile seeing your old man take in the sight of some thick, ten-inch plastic shafts and whistle quietly to himself. He picked out vibrating panties he thought might be fun, and you got two different sets of plugs and beads. By the end of your little excursion, both of you were calmer and content. You strolled out of that Mand’alor sex shop feeling more at ease than you’d been for a good bit.

In the Bronco, back on the road and hitting the homestretch of your trip down to the beach, you did feel like a weight had been lifted. If not completely dissolved, your anxiety, at least, had seemed to take the backseat.

With Joel up front and occasionally squeezing your thigh, telling you just how excited he was to spend the weekend together, you wanted to forget your worries.

You wanted it to be you, Joel, and no one else for a while.

Tommy picked the worst goddamn times to show face.

It was either that he had the worst timing known to man, or he secretly relished catching his brother in the most compromising positions—like the one he was in now.

You and Joel had gotten to the house around noon, not long after you were expected to arrive. Your father was already gone when you got there, having shot a text to say he was looking at bike rentals and that he’d made reservations for lunch at a restaurant down the road—head on over in twenty minutes, and I’ll meet y’all there.

Naturally, with the code to unlock the front door and almost a half hour to spare, a quickie had been a must.

You’d gotten busy in the first guest bathroom you could find and washed off the sex toys you’d just bought, too.

It was incredible how fucking arousing the sight of a little silver plug with a jewel at its base could be to see inside you. After a few slow pumps of his fingers while he fucked you up against the sink in doggy, along with a dollop or two of lube, he’d worked it in you. He thumbed at the spot where your hole was stopped up and smiled.

Then his brother had barged into the house downstairs.

“Who’s ready for some fuckin’ gruuuuuub?!” he’d yelled.

That had been over an hour ago. Now you, him, Tommy, Maria, and your dad were all finishing up said grub at a little cafe on the beach. You were dining outdoors, and the sun was shining bright, but not oppressively. A gentle breeze blew. The food was so good Joel could’ve sworn that his eyes had rolled back in ecstasy twice.

You, too, were squirming—but for very different reasons.

Before you’d left, you put on the vibrating panties. Joel had the remote that controlled them, and he’d been turning it on and off, up and down, all at his leisure.

He wasn’t going crazy, though.

The two of you had agreed you needed to be careful this weekend and couldn’t take too many risks near his friend

But, then again, you were you, and Joel was Joel.

Of course, you’d be fucking around a little bit.

Your dad was calling for the check presently.

You’d just reached for your glass of sweet tea, now nearly empty, but the second the rim touched your lips, your grip slipped. For a beat, Joel thought you might drop it.

Shit.

Dial that down to a…four, maybe?

The settings went all the way to ten. Apparently shocking you out of nowhere with a six was enough to make your eyes bug out and a cough to push itself out of your chest

“You alright, kiddo?” Tommy asked beside you.

You coughed again and forced a smile.

You quickly nodded back at him.

“Fine. Just—fine.” And at the last, your gaze shot to Joel.

You fucker.

He deserved that.

Under the table, holding the remote to your panties, he notched the toy back down to two, just to be nice. You visibly relaxed and pried your eyes off of his, but not before narrowing them briefly. I’m watching you, Miller.

Joel hoped you’d do a lot more to him than that by the time he was done. Just when your dad reached for the bill being handed over by the waitress, he intercepted it.

He slid his card out and stuffed it inside the little folder.

“Meal’s on me,” Joel announced without ceremony.

His friend gave him an appreciative, if not slightly objecting look. He looked like he was about to protest the offer, when Joel tucked his wallet—along with your underwear’s remote—into his pocket. He handed the check back to the waitress and told her not to accept a penny from his friend. Your dad barked a laugh at that.

“Joel, you know I’m fine to—”

“Fucking shit.”

The words leapt through your gritted teeth before you could even think to stop them from coming, it looked like

Joel’s eyes were on you the same second you said them, and as soon as he did, he saw you grip the edge of the table. You blinked hard and coughed a third time. Loud.

He hadn’t even…

“Language, young lady,” your dad snapped. “What is it?”

He gave the same look Joel had seen his own father give him and Tommy countless times growing up—the kind that said we’re out in public, don’t be showin’ your ass.

It wasn’t really your fault, though, if Joel had to guess.

Shortly, he was feeling around for your remote.

Next to you, Maria had a hand on your back.

“You need some water? Here.”

And she offered you hers.

You shook your head vehemently, and shifted in your seat again. Cursed again, though bit your tongue with it.

“Motherfuckin’ piece’a—ah, ah.”

You clamped down at the last.

Was that a moan at the end?

Joel fished around his pocket even quicker. At the same time, your dad ditched his fork from trying to shovel in the last couple bites of his mahi-mahi and glared at you.

“Is there something you’d like to share, sweetheart?”

No the absolute fuck there isn’t.

Where is it, where is it, where is it?

Joel had just been holding it a second ago. His pants pockets weren’t that deep. If he could just grab it and—

“No!” you cried. Actually, it was more like a plea. Your expression pinched, and your fingernails dug into the table, and right as Joel got his hand on the little pink remote, you almost jumped sideways out of your chair.

Fortunately, the waitress arrived with the check again. She handed it to him, thanked them for stopping by, and while your father was momentarily distracted, Joel found the remote. He clicked the button and realized that it had been cranked to ten as his ass was crushing it under him.

Whether you were about to climax on the spot or bawl your fucking eyes out was anyone’s guess at that point.

Joel shut your undies off.

You let out a heaving sigh.

Your father eyed you incredulously. Frowning.

“Any other stunts you’d like to pull before we go biking?” he said, though it was clear he wasn’t expecting a reply.

You gave him one anyway.

Answering your dad but looking directly at Joel, you said:

“I don’t think I wanna come, actually. I’m too tired now.”

***

It was a wonder you hadn’t murdered him on the spot.

If looks could kill, yours just might have done him in.

Lunch had ended without event—well, as much as could be said for your father occasionally stealing looks your way and seeming to wonder whether you might not have gotten drunk during the meal—but still, you made it out. Of course, your dad had roped you, Joel, Tommy, and Maria into riding bikes that afternoon, despite your protests, and despite the fact that the man was still recovering from an injured femur. Your dad had agreed to ride an e-bike to minimize strain, and he’d seemed as cheerful as anything to get going. Joel felt your sidelong dirty looks the whole walk to the rental bike place, and though they weren’t the dirty looks he liked, he still managed to maintain a happy demeanor himself.

He’d even gone so far as to squeeze your elbow playfully and say, ‘Bet I’ll beat you in a race down the beach, kid.’

He did make sure it sounded as platonic and innuendo-less as possible, though. If there was any time to ensure you kept things G-rated and non-suspicious, now was it.

Evidently, you weren’t having it.

Still shaking from your almost-orgasm at lunch, and likely dreading having to sit on a bike an excruciating hour or three, it seemed you wanted nothing more than to make Joel’s life misery now—in a sweet, discreet way.

He should’ve known it when you first peeled off your shirt getting onto your bike, leaving you in nothing but a lime green string bikini top and your shorts. Technically, it had been Tommy who started the trend by claiming it was ‘hot as shit’ and proceeding to rip off his own tee, but Joel sensed from the look you gave him as soon as you shed yours too that you meant to torture him. If he’d had his fun with a vibrating pair of panties, you could do the same showing off your rack while you rode this bike.

And you did. You’d pulled up right beside him no more than ten seconds after your dad had started off down the path to lead the way, and you’d arched your back, pretending to stretch in your seat before setting off yourself. You’d made sure Joel saw your tits in all their full, heaving, teasing beauty, and then you’d leaned in.

“What do I get if I beat you down there, daddy?”

You’d said it quietly; Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Whatever the fuck you want, baby.”

He might’ve been in for an afternoon of torment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tempt you right back—he would get a moment alone with you one way or another today.

Still, as expected, the bike ride went on forever.

Joel’s balls ached, and it wasn’t just from the triangular-shaped, hard-as-shit seat underneath him. You rode beside him, in front of him, weaving back and forth with ease and showing him everything he couldn’t touch with his best friend no more than fifteen feet away from him. It was agony. And it didn’t improve when your group hopped off their bikes an hour later to stop for ice cream. If anything, the torture just took on a bittersweet tinge.

You were talking to your dad again. On the bike ride, along the boardwalk, at the ice cream shop—for what had seemed like the first time in ages, you were really speaking to your old man and seeming to enjoy yourself. Joel knew there was a lot more to be ironed out between you two, and that would come eventually, but for now, you got to relax. On top of this absurd, mind-numbing attraction he had for you, he also felt oddly content to watch you bond with your father like this, in front of him.

Joel hoped he wouldn’t be the reason it all went to shit.

You were licking cookies and cream ice cream off the side of your cone, then your wrist, where the milky substance had trickled down a little bit. Joel was fighting like hell not to make that sexual in his mind, but it was difficult when you’d sucked him off dozens and dozens of times before. Your dad laughed at something you said; he practically wheezed, and then he’d pinched your nose affectionately. You wrinkled it in response, still grinning.

Joel loved you.

He was seconds away from sporting a raging erection under his shorts, and he loved you more than anything.

He really didn’t want your relationship with him to be the reason why you lost your own with your father, and for a moment, Joel wondered if it might not be a good idea for the two of you to wait. Until you were a little older, out of college, maybe making some money of your own and able to decide for yourself if he was what you really—

“Sweetheart!”

That was your dad.

But it wasn’t for you.

It wasn’t spoken to you, but rather behind you, where the ice cream shop’s front door had jingled with a new arrival

It all happened faster than Joel could process it—your smile had been so big beaming back at your father, reminiscing on some old memories together, and then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Lost. Dropped off of your face completely the second you turned around.

His friend rose to his feet and went for a warm greeting; at the same time, Tommy’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

Beside him, Maria’s did the same.

So he’d told her about Helen, then.

Your dad had just pulled the woman in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Helen had smiled appreciatively at first, then a little sheepishly as her gaze darted over the four other people sitting at the table.

Your look was as deadened as Joel had ever seen it—leagues worse than when you’d been mad about the vibrating panty situation. Your whole demeanor had taken a nosedive, and your back straightened reflexively.

You lowered your ice cream cone and eyed them both.

“Maria, I don’t think you and Helen have been introdu—” your dad started to say, but even he, in all of his affable humor couldn’t ignore the way your chair scraped back.

You stood and tossed your cone in the trash.

Then, without saying another word, you left.

It wasn’t particularly dramatic, loud, or angry. In fact, your movements were as mechanical and unaffected as if you’d just felt a cool draft and wanted to take a step outside. It didn’t look like you were annoyed at anything.

You got the fuck out of there, though.

You discarded your frozen treat like it was nothing, and, without thinking, Joel did the same starting after you.

Dimly, he was aware of the bell over the door jingling a third time with his exit. He felt the sun on his face and a breeze through his hair as he followed in your wake. It seemed you’d considered your bike outside for all of one second before quickly diverting your path; you decided you’d walk. You did walk for several yards in front of him.

Joel called your name.

You were off at a fast clip, so he had to jog to catch up.

When he did—and that didn’t take long—he reached out.

You jerked your arm away: “I’m not doing this shit, Joel.”

“I know.”

Another step closer.

Another pass for your elbow.

You didn’t fight it at first, as you’d gotten better about trusting him in moments like these. You’d improved your general reaction to bad situations and had managed to leave the shop without causing a scene. Still, old habits died hard, and in a second, you were pulling away and starting off even faster—further from him, to the beach.

Speed-walking at this point, like you needed to blow off some steam and couldn’t do that anywhere but near a body of water. Joel watched you scrub at one of your eyes and could sense something brewing inside you.

“He knew,” you spat, words harsh several strides ahead. “Motherfucker knew what he was going to do, so he took me to my favorite ice cream place from when I was a kid, talks to me like we’re—we’re good again, then fuckin’—”

You reached the boardwalk leading to the beach. You curtailed your speech just long enough to take a quick, ragged breath, and then you climbed the wooden steps.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” you muttered.

Joel could only see your profile, but at least you’d slowed down. You were maybe four feet ahead, and you had your mouth in a tight line, like words were getting difficult to say. He knew that look. He knew tears weren’t far away.

“And we’re—FUCK!”

At the last, you’d nearly made it all the way to the sand but had gotten your shoe stuck on a crooked part of a plank walking up, and you stumbled. You fell down, hands instinctively flying out to catch yourself.

Joel’s did the same.

As soon as you went down, it seemed, he was right there with you on the ground. If he’d acted a second faster, he might’ve been able to prevent you from hitting the sand at all. Unfortunately, you’d been a little too far ahead of him to make a catch possible. He dropped to his knees beside you, and his hands were reaching again. Grasping.

Holding, and not being nudged off this time. You cursed.

“Fucking sh—” you started, going in for your knee.

“Baby, hey—hey.”

Fear must’ve flashed in his eyes, because the second you met it, you were blinking hard—expression softening the slightest bit in spite of the pain probably shooting up your leg just then. You pulled your knee to your chest, but you let Joel hold it, too. You let out a labored breath.

“You OK? Lemme—” Joel brushed some sand off your leg. “—lemme see it, sweetheart. Just let me see, OK?”

His words were as soft and placating as he could manage it; it was silly, really, since a couple seconds’ inspection of your knee revealed you’d suffered no more than a minuscule scrape from your fall. Still, he leaned in.

And as soon as he reached down for your ankle, checking to make sure you hadn’t twisted it or anything in the process, he heard another sigh. It was softer.

A little more strangled, too, by the sound of it.

“We’re doing the same thing, aren’t we?”

Your voice was small. On hearing it, Joel’s hands stilled in place, and his gaze flitted up to yours. His brow furrowed

“What?”

“Lying,” you said, somehow even quieter. Frowning, but not on account of any pain. “Hiding. Just…just like him.”

Now it was Joel’s turn to soften his expression looking at you—he couldn’t help it. Your face was mottled with a mix of warring thoughts, from anger to fear to shame, and it made his chest hurt. He hated seeing you hurt.

“No. We ain’t like him.” He shook his head.

Your dad destroyed his marriage and upended your life for a love he should’ve fought to keep or left in the past.

You didn’t know that. Joel had only learned the truth the night before, and the story was fraught with so many other deeply personal things, he didn’t think it was his place to share it with you himself. You’d have to hear it from your father when you talked to him, and he knew that that would be soon. You’d already learned part of it.

“We ain’t them, sweetheart. Nothin’ even close to that.” And as he said it, his hand lifted to your cheek. He cupped the side of your face and thumbed at it gently.

You sniffled. You looked like you might jump into his arms and demand a hug, which Joel was more than happy to give, but then you stopped. You had to, shortly.

More footsteps down the way. They thundered fast and loud down the creaky, sunwashed stretch of boardwalk and came clambering to where you and Joel crouched.

Joel’s hand jerked back.

He didn’t want it like that, but he had no choice. Your father’s voice was booming overhead, concern laced in every word as he approached at a lightning-quick pace.

“Honey! Hon—fuck—are you alright?”

Then he was at your side. Reaching for you in that same, urgent way Joel had, only Joel was helping you up. The two of you shared a final look before you turned to him.

You were already waving your father off, “I’m fine, Dad.”

“Did you trip? What happened? Is your ankle alright?”

At least a half-dozen emotions were all flickering over his face at once, like the man couldn’t pick which feeling to stick to, but each one was born of fear, Joel could see.

As a matter of fact, Joel never saw his friend’s features betray such bone-chilling concern than when he happened to be worrying over you. It showed again.

Your father was fretting and fawning for no reason at all—no matter how insistent you were that you just tripped, that’s it, now lay off, Dad, please. It was clear that your admonitions fell on deaf ears, one right after the next. You were persistent, but you got that from him, and he wouldn’t let it go until he’d held you steady in his hands and checked your legs and feet and told you, sweetie, you could’ve hurt yourself. What were you thinkin’?

Running off like that was what he meant, surely.

Joel had to force his gaze away when he saw how earnest your father was on those last couple words. He was stooped a little, bent to match your height, and his eyes were glistening with a paternal apprehension like he’d never seen. It almost seemed too much. Overdone.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

And he wasn’t talking about you taking a spill on the boardwalk anymore, suddenly. His expression softened.

True to your stubborn self—true to being his daughter—you just shook your head and sniffled once. Then you tried to nudge him away again, your movements wooden

“I don’t ca—”

“Can we talk?”

Another sniff. Another step away.

“I don’t wanna talk.” You sounded resolute.

Your dad was even more adamant: “Well, I wanna talk.”

And that made both you and Joel stiffen involuntarily. It wasn’t necessarily the words that he spoke but the way in which they were said; your father’s voice nearly broke.

“We need to talk, pumpkin.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Something tugged at Joel’s chest that felt like a blade. Your father straightened and cast a look around, eyes scanning the sunny, colorful scenery like he was thinking, and then he quickly reverted his focus to you.

Joel wasn’t sure if his friend’s gaze had missed him on purpose, or if there were something more beneath it.

He was paranoid.

Insane.

“Five minutes. Then I’m going home,” you said coldly.

Whether you meant the house on the beach or the one back in Austin was anyone’s guess. Frankly, Joel was only aware of his surroundings in the vaguest, dullest sense, and the rest of his body was buzzing. He couldn’t stop blinking, fearing what was coming next for you both

A breath got lodged in his throat and he almost choked when your father turned his way, at length. He coughed.

“Miller, you—”

Fuck, this was it. The end.

Your father paused to cough, too, though this time, it looked natural. He appeared to be clearing his throat.

“—mind giving us a minute? Shouldn’t be too long.”

Oh.

“Sure thing, man.”

Shouldn’t be too long.

This was the last thought ringing through his skull as he turned to leave. He couldn’t bear to meet your look for longer than a second, for fear that your father might change his mind and suddenly out you both for fucking each other’s brains out these last three months. That would be horrific, and Joel wasn’t about to test his luck.

From what he could glean from your expression in the glimpse he got, you were feeling about the same as him.

Your voice was small—and growing more faint as he started to walk off from the way you two first came.

Down the boardwalk, haunting him all the way back:

“So what do we need to talk about, Dad?”

Your head hurt.

The talk ended up taking more than five minutes.

At the start of that conversation, you swore you’d tell your dad to fuck off and then head back to Austin before he could even utter the name ‘Helen,’ but here you were.

Staring blankly at a wall recalling every last minute detail of the exchange, hours later, and wondering what the fuck any of it meant. Freshly showered and splayed out over the front of a big, familiar frame and inhaling his scent. Laying with your head on his chest and your cheek growing hotter the longer it stayed in place.

You blinked and wanted to forget everything.

A hand stroked up and down your back, moving slowly.

“Your dad loves you, sweet pea. More’n anything.”

Joel murmured that into your hair, then kissed the crown of your head. Instead of giving you a good, warm feeling or making goosebumps break out across your skin, the gesture hardly registered. You could only stare harder at the wall beside the bed and recognize how numb you felt

“Even though I basically ruined his life,” you replied dully.

“Hey.”

Your head was nudged to turn up to Joel’s. Reluctantly, your chin came to rest on his chest, and at the same time, you felt two broad palms cup the sides of your face.

Joel’s eyes pierced you with a marked, solemn sincerity.

“Don’t say that,” he rasped.

“It’s true. I wrecked everything.”

“You didn’t wreck a single damn—”

“He doesn’t even know if I’m his daughter, Joel!”

Those words were spoken with an even harsher edge. Louder, like they needed to get out. You shifted a little.

“How the fuck am I not supposed to feel guilty when my being born was the only reason he chose to stay with my mom at all, and then it turns out, he might not even b—”

It was too ugly to say aloud. It was too foul, too shameful, too fucking gut-wrenching to think that your very existence was the reason for another’s unhappiness—and that that whole premise might’ve been built on a lie. Stupidly, you scrubbed at your cheek and pushed to sit, like the act and the new posturing might make the chances of you breaking down crying any less likely.

Joel sat up with you.

His arms wrapped around you, and you didn’t have the strength to push him off or tell him you were fine, really.

Shoulders sagging, you simply leaned in and buried your face in the crook of his neck. You let him hold you close.

“‘S’alright, sweet girl,” Joel cooed. Stroking your hair like he’d last done running his hand up and down your back. “He’s still your dad. You’ll always be his, no matter what.”

At that, the first crack in your exterior gave way.

You didn’t mean for it to happen, but a sob racked through you, and your body melted into Joel’s bigger one. Your numbness fled, and it left you feeling raw.

Needy.

Clinging to the old, heather gray shirt your boyfriend had on and hoping that your tears wouldn’t soak the material.

Carefully, Joel slid up the bed with you tucked snugly in his arms, and he leaned back into the headboard. He let you cry, probably because it felt appropriate, and also because he loved you more than words could express.

For some reason, that made you want to cry even harder.

Joel continued to stroke your hair and murmur sweet nothings in your ear, and the pit of unease in your stomach grew more and more painful as he did.

You fisted his shirt fully in one hand and wept. After some seconds or minutes passed, you could hardly decipher what had brought you to tears in the first place, but you knew what kept you there—what made you want to curl up in a ball and sob your eyes dry on the spot.

There were words sticking to your throat, begging to claw out, so in the next second, you ended up blurting:

“I don’t—I don’t wanna be like him, Joel.”

The sound was a little muffled against Joel’s neck, but it must’ve reached his ears all the same, because suddenly he was shifting the slightest bit and drawing back gently.

“Wh—”

“I don’t wanna lie like him. Keep…fucking things up.”

“Sweet pea, I promise you’re not—”

“I don’t wanna lose you.” And your voice was alarmingly steady, despite the tears you’d shed and the uncertainty you felt; you didn’t know how things would go with your dad, and neither did Joel. “I— I just love you so much.”

Hell, you might’ve heard his heart splinter at that.

You might’ve seen his throat work and his eyes glisten and the same feeling you’d expressed in words flood his features in a look—that he didn’t want to keep hiding this—but you also wouldn’t see it for long. Joel kissed you.

His lips crushed yours at first, the force of it so strong that it almost knocked you off balance. Sharp, gray stubble, parted lips, probing tongue, searching hands, and a rich, woodsy smell all overwhelmed you at once.

It wasn’t a question of if you kissed back but whether you could keep up, and you could feel it in every breath.

“I love you, baby,” Joel groaned against your lips, as if pained. “More than you know—I love you. I love you.”

This quiet refrain continued well into the kiss, as he laid you down and crawled over your frame. You melted beneath him. Your legs fastened themselves tightly about his hips, and you brought Joel in—welcoming him.

It wasn’t an altogether uncommon thing to be meeting each other with such urgency and need—in fact, these days, it seemed to be your favorite way to approach sex—but here, in your family beach house, on the brink of sharing something new and terrifying and unable to be walked back with your dad, you grew doubly restless. Your fingers threaded messily through his hair, and you tugged those soft, salt-and-pepper locks like your life depended on it. You opened your mouth wider and whimpered into the kiss; Joel ground himself into you.

“T—Tommy. And Maria?” you managed breathlessly, in between kisses and feeling Joel’s tongue explore every crevice of your mouth. Trying not to lose all your sense. You wanted to make sure the house was totally empty.

“Dinner. Probably—” And Joel had to stop himself just long enough to fight a chuckle, though a smirk remained. “Probably makin’ babies afterward, if I’d had to guess.”

“Yeah? That serious?”

“He plans on marryin’ her.”

“Never pegged him as the marrying kind.”

“Well, when you find the woman you want forever.”

As Joel said it, his gaze flitted from your lips to your eyes. You weren’t in a state to even attempt to decipher that look, so you didn’t. You leaned in and kissed him instead.

He tasted like wanting and something more. He moved his mouth over yours like his oxygen supply had come from your lips and tongue, and the rest of him was captive to your every other touch. You moved, and he followed. When you drew back to try and catch your breath, Joel swallowed and watched you just as closely.

“Dad should be out a few more hours,” you added, soft.

Joel didn’t speak, though his gaze trailed your body as you started peeling off clothes, beginning with your top.

He undressed quicker despite not being able to take his eyes off your body the whole time, and you felt need burrow even deeper inside you. The room got warmer.

The two of you were stripped down in a matter of seconds, and still, the temperatures seemed only to have increased and left you basking in a scorching heat. There was familiarity and ease, having done this so many times before, but nothing could ever really prepare you for when Joel spread your legs and slotted himself between them. There was his bare skin on yours, absurd amounts of warmth, and your head resting gently on a pillow, peering up at the man with wide and excited eyes.

Joel’s hand reached between your thighs, and your expression only brightened with the movement of it.

You canted your hips upward at just the right moment.

Joel sucked in a breath. Blinked hard, as if remembering.

“Honey…” His voice tapered off with just one, lone word.

You were glad he hadn’t completely forgotten, and you didn’t miss the way his length twitched against your hip. He liked what he felt, evidently. His fingertips had grazed the little jewel notched into your back entrance, and he was reminded, in no uncertain terms, that you wanted it.

You wanted him there.

Needed him, you hoped he knew.

Joel already had the pad of his thumb pressed up against it, and he was starting to stroke it. Considering.

“Want me to…keep this in while I fuck her?” He lifted his knuckles to brush the seam of your cunt—the ‘her’ in question, obviously—and when he did that, a shudder coursed through you. Your walls clenched around nothing, and more warmth trickled out of you.

All but blinded with desire, you still managed to get out:

“No. Want you to fuck me in there, Joel. Please.”

It was a borderline obscene request, but you didn’t care. He knew this was what you��d been wanting him to do, and so long as he was on board, you hoped it would happen. You ached to feel his cock someplace new. Claim you in a way he hadn’t gotten to do before.

When it seemed a warning might not be far from Joel’s tongue, you rejoined with equal warmth, even needier.

Lifting your hips again and digging your heels into the soft, white comforter beneath, saying, ‘Daddy, please.’

Joel was as good as sold hearing that, if you’d had to guess, but you went even further to seal the deal for yourself. Reaching down and touching the plug, pulling on it, gently, all while your gaze remained plastered on his. A soft whimper slipped past your lips when you did.

“Help me get it out, Joel. Wanna feel you—”

“Shit,” Joel panted. Shortly gritting his teeth.

At a glance, it seemed the man was primed to drop face-level with where you were currently playing with yourself. Maybe lick a stripe up your wet, aching slit and then tease the toy out with his fingers just like you wanted.

To your shock and dismay, Joel stood up from the bed.

Your body lurched with confusion at first; another whine might’ve escaped. Your mind was a wild and wanton place in that moment, filled to the brim with ideas of your father’s best friend having you any way he wanted. The thought that he might be planning to tease you now, or leave you hanging in this terrible, tireless deprivation altogether, was almost more than you could bear. You pushed to sit, eyes widening and lips about to protest.

Joel nudged you back down.

He turned and opened the top drawer of the nightstand.

Then, before another moment could clue you into what was going on or what Joel might be trying to do with the item he’d pulled out, you felt it: a hum between your legs.

A mechanical buzz and a palm pressing to your hip.

Joel ducked his head just in time to catch your lips in a kiss, soaking up the startled sound that had been quick to claw out. You couldn’t help it, of course—whenever Joel took a vibrator to your clit, you were putty under him

Joel also knew you loved the feeling, so he kept it there.

He kept his mouth pressed to yours through the initial shock of it, swallowing a moan or two, but then, almost as quick as he’d stunned you with the buzzing vibration, he pulled back. He waited until your eyes re-focused and your lips were trembling lightly, dying to whimper or groan or tell him, as best you could, that you needed him to push inside you, now, now, now, before he spoke.

“She’s already drippin’ for me, baby,” Joel said, near- mournful. Rolling the vibrator between forefinger and thumb and causing a shockwave of pleasure to course through you. Teasing up and down the slick, puffy seam. “So wet and needy, wantin’ to get stuffed full’a me. Be a real shame if I neglected my sweet girl now, wouldn’t it?”

It was true, your cunt needed him just as badly, and your walls were fluttering and aching with every twist of the vibrator’s tip on your sensitive little bundle of nerves.

Still, when Joel flipped you, sliding a pillow under your hips, you felt that urge for something more. Your back arched mindlessly, and you clutched the sheets tighter.

“Just—just give her a kiss,” you stuttered into the bed.

“Just a kiss?” Joel repeated, hands gripping your hips and lifting you toward him. If you’d had to guess, his face was hovering somewhere close, wearing a conceited grin

Then you knew that it was; his lips connected with your throbbing, glistening folds from behind, and his hold tightened. Sharp stubble—all mostly silver—tickled your thighs, and after that, a soft wet pop graced your ears.

Then a chuckle.

“How ‘bout a couple more?” he drawled out, teasing.

“Just fuck me, please.” You wriggled helplessly.

And you thought, as needy and visibly aroused as you were, Joel might oblige. He could extract that little jewel without issue, slick himself up with lube and plunge in. Simple as that. You arched your back again, higher now, and you begged him with every movement, every breath you were drawing in and exhaling, that you wanted this.

Joel kissed you again.

He pressed his lips to that shiny, wet place and sank in. Spread your cheeks with his hands, parted your folds with his tongue, and mapped the whole, weeping expanse of your cunt with that one, curious muscle.

Joel had gone down on you plenty of times before and every instance, without fail, had left you a writhing, whimpering mess—sometimes in a puddle of your making—but this was different. The feeling was new.

This sweet, gentle man was eating you from the back, and every muscle in your body was starting to contract.

Chin pressed firmly to the pillow and eyes staring, unblinking, at the headboard, you stuttered again:

“P—Please fuck me, Joel. Fuck me anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“In the ass?”

At the same time, Joel pressed the still-buzzing vibrator to your clit again and started licking into your entrance.

“Yes!” you cried, fingers twisting the covers and squeezing. “Please—please fuck my ass, daddy.”

You sincerely hoped Tommy and Maria wouldn’t be home at all tonight. If your dad came home, well…you might cry

You were about to sob, feeling Joel’s tongue push an inch inside your needy cunt and start stroking gently.

“I—” Joel had to pull back after just a few licks to reply. “Can’t fuck you there til you’re good an’ ready, baby. Gonna hurt you if I don’t. ‘S’alot to fit. Needs prep.”

Fuck prep.

“I don’t care if it hurts,” you huffed defiantly.

Just as you started to curve your spine higher, a wordless invitation for him to go ahead and try it, please, a palm came to rest on the small of your back, gently.

“Sweet pea, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Those words from Joel sounded serious. You turned your head to the side, eyes catching the soft brown irises awaiting you from behind, and you understood it.

You understood him, now leaning back on his heels.

This was a brand new frontier for you both. Not only being here, doing this, but preparing for something else. For a moment, you were transported back to your old troubles from before, and neither of you needed to articulate in words just what that was going to be, as it hung in the air between you with every breath, presently.

It felt like losing your virginity. Taking a new step. Although you knew that nothing would fundamentally change in what you and Joel had, it was still frightening. You turned around to find Joel still on his knees, thinking

Worrying what your father might say to him, probably.

“Come here,” you said, legs spreading wider.

You had ample support in the wall of pillows and cushions behind you, so when Joel crawled eagerly, and draped his body completely over you, you could hold him without struggling too much. You pulled him even closer.

And, with his head on your chest and your fingers combing affectionately through the black and gray strands, you did what felt most normal in the moment.

You told him you loved him, just like he’d told you before.

Joel’s body responded in kind, the way it always did.

It wasn’t lost on you that neither you nor Joel had ever been in a relationship serious enough to use those words, so whenever you said them now, they felt weightier. Particularly after spending so long trying to suppress those feelings, it seemed like you couldn’t get enough. Joel couldn’t control how much it affected him.

For one thing, he was hard as steel against your leg.

For another, his grip tightened protectively over your hip.

Instead of saying ‘I love you’ back immediately, he sat up and tilted his head to meet your gaze. Propped himself up on an elbow and adjusted his body between your legs.

Joel was warm. Broad. Muscular and thick through every inch of his frame, and his length was pulsing gently against your lower belly. His tip was probably leaking.

“Say that again.” It was an order, but nothing harsh.

You knew he was desperate to hear you, not merely asking you to obey, and, shortly, his hand lowered to his cock. He fisted it in a suffocating grip and squeezed it.

“Go on, sweet pea.”

“I love you, Joel.”

Then a tug on your shiny blue jewel. With his free hand, Joel gave it a pull, and he watched you squirm a little.

Still fisting his cock and starting to stroke, he said:

“Again.”

A beat. Another soft tug.

“Push when I pull on it, OK, baby?”

You nodded, not wanting to waste a second.

“OK. Joel…I-I love you so mu—oh.”

You were breathing in through your nose, bearing down like Joel had told you, and then, all at once, you felt a pop

“Don’t move, sweetheart. It’s OK.”

‘S’alright, darlin’, it’s just gonna feel a little different now, rang clear as anything through your ears, and you had to suck in a breath. Damn clueless and stupid as you felt, you hadn’t realized it would be so…weird coming out

Maybe it was best if you took this slow, like Joel said.

Before any real sting could settle in, though, something sticky and cool was being smeared between your legs.

You looked down and saw Joel using his thumb to stroke the raw, slightly stretched spot and soothe the muscle. His touch was tender and easy. Your heels dug a little deeper in the bed, there on either side of Joel’s body, and for a moment, you felt strangely, sorely exposed.

You were, after all, but that was what you wanted, right?

Another sharp breath rattled your chest—Joel’s thumb had notched inside, no deeper than a quarter-inch—and your feet slid reflexively again. Your legs tried to clamp.

Joel kept you open to him, thumb working in circles. Then, likely sensing your discomfort, he scooted closer.

His gaze flickered to find yours, and his look was soft.

“One word and we stop,” he said. “You got it?”

That voice was a little stern, trying to evoke some sense of austerity, but it was an altogether kind tone anyway—you knew Joel just wanted you to be completely safe.

You nodded.

Joel smiled.

“Now tell me again,” he murmured, eyes shining.

You’d nearly forgotten what the two of you had been doing just a few moments ago, but then it hit you. At the same time, while you opened your mouth to speak, one thick, lubricated finger replaced the thumb pressing in.

Joel’s index teased a little, then sank in an inch.

He withdrew, before plunging it back in gently.

Your muscles instinctively contracted around him, and while you did, as if from another reflex, you rushed out:

“I love you, Joel.”

And you did.

The man was eyeing you hungrily, but still with a reverence and a respect all the same. It pained him not to speak those three words back, but he was refraining from saying it so he could focus on working you open. He knew that as long as the anticipation was building, while you were aching to have more of him and growing more needy each second, he’d have an easier time at it.

Instead of talking immediately, he slid a pillow under your hips like he did before and drew close enough to where he could lay down beside you. He got more lube. He plumbed his finger in delicately, watching your face for any sign of discomfort or pain, and when you gradually relaxed into it, he grabbed the bottle of lubricant again.

Wet and slippery as everything was, you still couldn’t help but wince when Joel added a finger—his were thick.

No sooner had your features screwed up than Joel was kissing the top of your head, halting the motion of his digits momentarily, and then grabbing more lube. Again.

“This OK?” he murmured, coating his two fingers.

“I—I think. It’s just…tight,” you answered quietly.

Joel kissed you again, this time on your temple, and his index and middle fingers moved as slow as anything to work your entrance a little more. He was drenching it.

Lathering it with as much slick, artificial help as he could

“I know it’s hard, but try to relax. It’ll feel better that way.”

Joel had a perfect voice for coaching. He wasn’t pushy or gruff, agitated or in a hurry to get you someplace you weren’t quite ready to go. He let your body guide his touch, and he didn’t push for a third finger until you’d visibly gotten your bearings. When you were leaning in.

It started to feel good.

The push, the strain, the stretch. Joel’s never-ending words of encouragement as you fit him inside this narrow and unfamiliar channel. He kissed you more. Groaned into your skin. Said you were doing so fuckin’ good for him, and he couldn’t wait to make you feel better with his cock. You believed him. You wanted it.

And when, after several minutes, a third finger did make its way inside you and you really felt a stretch, you nearly bit clean through your bottom lip trying to stifle the moan that pushed out of your throat. Your head fell to Joel’s shoulder, and your breaths picked up a little more.

You weren’t even really aware when you said it, but then it came out of you all at once, face buried in Joel’s neck:

“Y-Y-You love me, too, right?”

It sounded uncharacteristically meek and almost pitiful to your ears—of course you knew he loved you, why ask?

But before you could chastise yourself, or even think twice about having said it, a warmth enveloped you.

Joel enveloped you, his free arm snaking down your side.

The big, muscular, protective and tender-hearted man with your pleasure in his hands nudged your cheek softly.

He wanted you to look up at him.

And when you did, your worries trickled away.

Or, at the very least, they took a backseat for the time being; Joel was meeting your gaze with the single most kind and loving look he might’ve ever imparted. Mixed in that expression was a tincture of guilt, you could see, like he was sorry not to have made this clearer to you sooner.

He blinked once, then resumed:

“As long as I live, sweet pea.”

And if that wasn’t enough, or else because he wanted to communicate it on your terms, with your needs in mind:

“As long as you’ll have me, and then some. I’m all yours.”

If three of Joel Miller’s fingers weren’t currently buried to the hilt inside you and stretching you wide open for him, you might’ve jumped the man. Hugged him. Squeezed him to your body as tight as you possibly could and assured him that you were his as much as he was yours and you’d never get tired of this, ever, you would have done that. Your eyes likely said as much, growing glossy.

Feeling a lump in your throat, you had only to turn into Joel’s body and try to get the words out, soft and hoarse.

“I love you, Joel. So much.”

Moving closer, though your bodies were practically flush with each other—but Joel didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, a grin just graced his features as he peered down at you. He pushed his nose to yours, and you grinned back.

“I love you more,” he said, not peeling his eyes away.

Before you could even try to reply, ‘Well, I love you most’ like some silly, lovesick puppy, Joel had you beat. He slipped his fingers out carefully from you and shifted in bed, to then overtake your frame and hover above it.

He dropped a kiss on your head, still smiling like an idiot.

“And I’ll love you most, ‘til my lungs give out, alright?”

“You better not be lyin’ to me.” You said it teasingly.

And Joel was just about to answer for himself when the sound of the front door swinging open downstairs interrupted you both. Noisy footsteps followed after, and in a second, you recognized the clamor as belonging to Joel’s brother and his girlfriend. Both were laughing.

The weight of Joel’s body pressed even heavier to yours.

He wasn’t stiff, for once, likely because you didn’t have to hide from those two anymore. And he’d locked the door.

“I ain’t lyin’, baby, swear on my life…” he went on softly.

Now his lips were at your ear, grazing your cheek, lowering toward the hinge of your jaw at a maddening pace. He didn’t seem to pay it any mind when Tommy and Maria went bounding up the stairs and retired directly into the bedroom next to his; he was busy.

You’d almost forgotten you were about to fuck.

With any luck, the couple next door wouldn’t be doing anything like it—or at least keeping their activities quiet.

“Get ready to hear some bullshit,” Joel supplied shortly. His face was buried in your neck, as if annoyed, but you could feel his smirk. “Probably makin’ babies right n—”

“So are we,” you hissed indignantly.

“Last I checked that can’t happen in your ass, sweeth—”

“Joel Miller.”

Technically, he was right.

“Less talking, more fucking, OK?” you added swiftly.

“Yes ma’am.”

Then he did.

It took more than a couple seconds for the levity and amusement of the moment to die down between you, but eventually, you both settled down. You got calmer.

You were reminded that the insides of your thighs and cheeks were completely smeared with lubrication, your walls were fairly well-stretched, and you were ready for it.

You were ready for Joel, and Joel was ready for you—or as close as he could possibly get while checking in to make sure that you really wanted to do this. He angled his cock and brushed the tip through your slick-drenched folds. Above you, his stomach muscles clenched, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his thick, soft middle looked in the glow of the lamplight. How the smooth and veiny member jutting out from a shock of dark curls looked absolutely delectable. Your bodies were almost connected, but not quite. He was hovering.

Gently, your legs beckoned Joel in. They spread wider.

Not even really knowing what you were doing or how you planned to fit all of this man from root to tip inside you, your gaze focused on the place Joel was lowering to.

The head of his cock nudged that tiny ring of muscles, and you sucked in a startled breath. You hadn’t meant to.

Next door, you could hear the Star Wars theme song—Tommy and Maria must’ve been watching the new Mandalorian movie, curled up snug in bed together.

Seeing your face, Joel hesitated. “Baby, we don’t hav—”

“I want to,” you said, breathlessly. Then you looked up. “Want you to have every part of me, even if…if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t seem too crazy about that last part, and he blinked back slowly. He braced a hand beside you on the pillow and used the other to grasp the base of his cock.

He leaned down to kiss your forehead again.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said softly.

You knew it wouldn’t be the easiest to keep that promise—at a minimum, discomfort seemed almost a given—but of course, Joel managed it remarkably. It was like he understood your body better than you ever had yourself.

The first push of his hips got him no more than half an inch, but the feeling was fine. He’d applied more lube, moved as slow as he possibly could, and grabbed your toy, which had been tossed to the side on the bed. He turned it back on, and, while notching in the head of his bare, slippery cock, he pressed it to your clit. You jolted more than a little at the buzzing—and you focused on it.

You weren’t even thinking of the stretch, as the sensation blended with the pleasurable vibrations between your legs, and you visibly relaxed. Your muscles softened.

Thanks to that, Joel was able to glide in another half inch, and his tip fit snugly inside you. It didn’t hurt.

In fact, it actually felt pretty…nice.

Tight.

Strange.

But also very, very right. Like you’d unlocked some secret bliss, and Joel was guiding you through it.

The buzzing struck you in just the right spot, and that only amplified the feeling as Joel pushed even further.

“See?” he murmured, voice the slightest bit strained. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya, sweet pea. Lean into that feeling.”

Another minuscule slide, another tight smile from Joel.

He was really trying not to go too fast, or cause pain.

“Just…relax f’me. Let me in,” he coaxed you gently.

You tried. And it almost felt like you were losing your virginity all over again, so odd and unfamiliar and new was this pushing, pulling, contracting, and tightening, the last of which couldn’t seem to have been helped.

You were giving him something in a way, though an uncharted physical boundary wasn’t all that it was.

Joel met your gaze, and he clearly felt it, too.

“I love you,” he said, nose brushing yours.

I love you, I love you, I love you, he seemed to say with every strange, painstaking inch. You accepted him, and you drew in a labored breath, lips parting to say it back.

“I lo—oh fuck.” Your words tapered off in a moan.

Joel was down to the hilt, completely sheathed.

Your muscles clenched one more time, and—

“Damn. Oh, shit. Fuck. Fuck, I-I love you.”

Your arms snaked around Joel’s neck, and you held on tight. You gripped him even tighter below, and your eyes trailed down, momentarily, to see how he’d made this fit.

Joel chuckled.

“Like how we look?”

“I love it,” you panted back. “I love having you here.”

And really, you’d never seen a sight more mind-numbing—whenever Joel was inside, balls deep and filling you up to the brim, you got lightheaded just watching him—and knowing how close you were, physically and emotionally, made it even better. Joel looked down with you and stroked the back of your neck. He helped tilt your head.

“Where?” he said. Teasing. “Where’s daddy, baby?”

And shit was he smug. Handsome as anything.

You knew just as well as him what kind of effect your words would have when next you told him, tone soft:

“In my ass. Feels—feels so good, daddy.”

Acknowledging the fact alone was enough to make your breath hitch, and Joel’s cock to twitch inside you as he let out a groan. He drew back, just an inch, and both of you grunted with the friction. You clung tighter to Joel.

“Fuck me now,” you begged him. “Please, daddy.”

Maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you were still getting accustomed to the stretch and the sting and the weight of Joel Miller’s broad, warm body pressing into you then, but at that moment, you didn’t care for perfect timing. You didn’t need it to be ‘right’—you just wanted Joel a panting, groaning mess above you while he worked himself in and out of you, repeatedly. You wanted more.

“Gonna cum if I move too fast,” Joel confessed, sheepish

“That’s alright. I’m close, too.” And it was the truth.

“Yeah? Y’like gettin’ this ass fucked that much?”

Of course you did. Clearly, you liked it a lot.

You nodded your head, and you held onto Joel’s gaze. He didn’t waste another second drawing out, almost to the tip, then plunging back in. And again, again, and again.

You couldn’t lie—it burned a little. It felt like Joel’s girth was searing a hole inside you, stretching you tight and leaving you sore, over and over and over with his thrusts.

Still, you liked it.

You loved the pain in a way that wasn’t really hurtful—you just enjoyed how Joel’s cock was invading you, breaking you in and making you his like nobody had.

And Joel liked it, too. His movements seemed to have taken on a more possessive edge as he fucked you into the mattress, bed shaking with every punch of his hips.

“This all mine?” he mumbled against your lips, panting.

Another stroke. Another crash of wood to the wall.

“All yours,” you repeated back. Voice cracking.

Your legs were wound tight around Joel’s lower half, and true to how you two normally had sex, the eye contact was constant. Your faces were inches apart, and Joel’s expression was strained. He swallowed, watching you.

“Ain’t—ain’t nobody else for me but you, baby,” he said, while his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and a fine dusting of gray stubble shifted with it. Muscles tensed.

You knew he wanted to say more. Then a door opened.

Thank fuck it wasn’t yours.

Still, you jumped.

You and Joel froze in place as the sound of footsteps echoed in the room directly beside yours—not Tommy and Maria’s, but your father’s bedroom on the other side. Time seemed to speed up and slow at once, and then the door that had opened in the other room slammed closed.

Through the wall, you could hear your dad groan.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and he blinked once.

‘Well…fuck’ that look seemed to say.

You hadn’t been expecting your father back for another hour at least. This, paired with the fact that the man was probably buzzed from whatever outing he’d taken with Helen and keen to stay up, made you nervous. Of course, you and Joel had been banging in secret for ages, but…

“Keep goin’.” It tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop it. Your heels dug deeper where they were planted, and the once-sharp stinging between your legs had ebbed to something more like a dull, tender throb.

Joel’s eyes shone above you.

Then, like he always loved saying: “Yes ma’am.”

He fucked you softer this time—most likely to keep the headboard from screaming—but with as much purpose. His thrusts succeeded at a steady rhythm, and his chest pressed closer to yours; his body weight draped over you

Your ankles locked behind his back, and you drew him even nearer, not wanting to miss one moment of this.

At the same time, a bed frame squeaked with someone’s weight dropping onto it. Again, it wasn’t your bed at all.

It was your dad’s.

He was in the room next door, and of course, his king-sized bed was pressed directly against the wall where Joel’s was positioned on the other side. Your father budged an inch, and you could hear it clear as day.

The walls were paper thin. What if that meant—

“Gotta be quiet,” Joel said through his teeth.

You were both so close to the edge that you were a mess of trembling limbs on the bed; Joel was panting, sweating, telling you over and over again how good you felt, how perfect you fit him, how nice it was going to be to feel you squeezing around him soon, and would you be able to control those pretty moans when you came?

“Gonna scream and let him hear? Have dear old dad come bargin’ in, see what I’m doin’ to his precious girl?”

Oh, fuck.

It was one of the worst things to imagine, you both knew. The thought of your dad catching you in the act, after everything you and Joel had done to keep this under wraps, well…it was nothing short of nightmare fuel.

As a matter of fact, it was horrifying.

It also pushed you both to the brink of climax, trying harder than anything to keep your sounds confined to strangled breaths, your movements to the quickest, quietest bursts, and your words no louder than whispers.

“What? Like finishing in my ass?” you taunted him, low.

Joel groaned. He probably shouldn’t have.

“Gonna let me, sweet pea?”

“Yes, daddy.”

Those two little words were all it took, for either of you.

It seemed like the sound of it was all you needed to hit your peak, and before you knew it, a coil was coming undone; a dam was breaking, and suddenly, shortly, a series of pulses and a rush of hot blood in your head was all you could feel. And then a wetness, spreading deep.

Shooting into the furthest recesses of your body while you fell apart beneath him, Joel’s heat was scorching and soft. It flooded your insides in thick, white ropes.

You wanted to scream with how good it felt. Joel’s expression above you was suffused with just as much pleasure—and pain, trying to contain it—and at the same time tiny dots started to flood your vision, the man’s words were a quiet, constant refrain for almost all of it.

“I love you, darlin’. Always, always gonna—”

“—love you,” you finished for him. “I love you, Joel.”

You might’ve said it fifteen times that night, and it still didn’t feel like it was enough. Your bodies were damp with sweat pressed together, and Joel’s eyes were flitting between yours, searching. In between breaths and lightly peppered kisses, you could tell that he was thinking hard.

You could hear your father cough in the next room over.

There was no better time to say it. As sore and satisfied as you were, as soft as Joel’s lips were grazing yours to soothe them, and as terrified as you both were for what was to come soon enough, the words just tumbled out.

“I’m ready to tell him, Joel,” you whispered.

A beat passed, and Joel blinked.

Then, slowly, a smile crept in.

“Y’mean it, sweetheart?”

“I mean it. Tomorrow.”

Mark never claimed to be a good father.

In fact, from the first moment he held you in his arms, on the day that you were born, he was almost certain he’d be the shittiest dad there ever was—holding a baby so perfect and sweet, how could he possibly deserve you?

He didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t, and still, he’d decided just as fast that that didn’t matter, because he would be trying his damn hardest to act like the kind of father you needed to have. You were his entire world, and he’d told you as much all throughout your childhood and beyond.

He should’ve seen Joel coming a mile away.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it the first time.

It might’ve been in a glance he’d caught this fall when Joel thought he wasn’t looking—watching you, and smiling so big that his cheeks probably hurt him a little after—and then the sound of his laughter around you.

It had been easy to chalk it up to superficial attraction, seeing as you were a beautiful young woman. Mark told himself that those kinds of feelings always faded in time.

Then they didn’t.

Mark could say your name aloud once, and you’d think someone had just told Joel he’d won the lottery; that was how his eyes would always light up. Of course, the man would quickly try and snuff it out the second his expression was set ablaze, but Mark caught it.

It might last an instant or five, but he always caught it.

Joel hadn’t batted an eye at the bachelorettes practically throwing themselves at him at the bar the other night. Hadn’t cast a look their way or even attempted to entertain their antics, all while nursing a drink and looking mad as shit. Mark had teased him. Told him he oughta get laid, chase a little tail—put himself out there.

Probably without meaning to, his best friend had given him a look like he was out of his fucking mind to say it.

It was in that moment that Mark realized he had a much bigger problem on his hands than the one he’d expected.

Joel didn’t just have a crush.

He was almost certainly infatuated.

What was worse, it wasn’t just attraction that had him.

What caused Joel’s face to flush each time your name was mentioned, his expression to flare with indignation at the mere idea of being with someone else, and his eyes to nearly pop out of his skull when Mark told him that Tommy might be his daughter’s biological father—complete bullshit, by the way—was what assured him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Joel Miller was guilty.

Mark had invited him down to the beach to confront him.

Then you’d taken a spill yesterday, and plans changed.

What was originally meant to be a showdown with Joel ended up being a heart-to-heart with you, telling the whole ugly truth about his relationship with your mother, Helen, and the very slight possibility that he wasn’t your father. Before that, though, Joel had rushed to your aid.

Out on the boardwalk, in the middle of a bright and sunny day, as if Mark needed another flashing neon sign telling him, ‘Your best friend is head over heels for your daughter,’ he found the two of you together: Joel crouched beside you, his eyes scanning you in a panic.

That look wasn’t far off from the one Mark had been wearing himself. It made him wonder even worse things.

Was he—

No, he couldn’t.

He didn’t even know you like that.

It couldn’t be that his daughter had reciprocated anyway.

You were a good girl, and there wasn’t a chance in a million years you had the faintest inkling about any of this nonsense—of that much, your father was certain.

Now, strolling down to the same beach in the same clothes he’d had on yesterday because he hadn’t been able to sleep, Mark was deep in thought. It was 7 A.M.

The sun had just begun its ascent in a sky painted tangerine and pink, and the breeze on his skin was soft.

Calming.

Mark knew he’d have to have one of the most soul-draining conversations that day, telling his best friend that his daughter was completely, unequivocally off-limits, and that he never stood a chance with her, ever, and still, he tried to stay optimistic. Tried telling himself that nothing too bad could happen in a place this pretty.

Idly, he scanned the horizon. His eyes roamed everyplace they could, watching the waves make their way to the shore and lap at the sand every other second, gently.

Nothing too bad.

Nothing too terrible.

Nothing a simple, straightforward conversation couldn’t be able to fix, and then things would go back to normal.

Mark’s gaze drifted to the shore. A couple stood at the water’s edge, huddled together, and presently, he took a sip from his travel mug. The coffee’s heat soothed him.

One day, his daughter would find someone her own age.

Someday, Mark hoped, Joel would find his person, too.

His attention shifted from directly in front of him to the tumbler in his hand, and only vaguely was he aware of some far-distant splashing. He read what his mug said.

Emblazoned on the side, in letters a bright yellow shade:

WORLD’S

BEST

DADDY

You’d gotten him that in first or second grade for Father’s Day, if he was remembering correctly. Mark smiled at the memory, recalling how pleased you’d looked handing it over to him. Two gaping holes between your front teeth, grinning like he was the single most important person in the world and your hero, for life.

He’d keep trying to be that guy for you.

No matter what happened, he always would.

Just as old memories began to fade, his gaze lifted.

Still smiling, still reminiscing and trying his best not to worry too much about what was in store for him that day, Mark fixed his focus on the beach out front, and to the happy, laughing couple now chasing each other down it.

The girl stumbled; the guy snapped her up in his arms.

“Daddy, stop!” the former shrieked, giggling.

Then Mark’s face drained of all its blood.

“Daddy, pleeeeease!” you begged for mercy.

There wasn’t a chance you were getting out of this.

You’d defaulted to using your most cloying, affectionate voice with Joel in the hopes of making it out of his grip and not ending up in the ocean, but that seemed unlikely

Impossible, really, as Joel squeezed you tighter to his chest and started stalking toward the water’s edge where waves were hitting the sand and your worst fears were being realized. You squirmed harder in his arms and kicked your feet like you were being dragged to the chair.

“You asked for this, sweet pea,” Joel chuckled softly.

In point of fact, you had. You’d asked him to take you swimming at 7 A.M., just after the sun had started to rise, but on the journey over, you’d changed your mind.

It was chilly as shit, and the water looked uninviting.

You’d thought a quick dip—possibly naked—could’ve been a fun little sidebar in an otherwise nerve-wracking day for you and Joel, but now you just wanted to be back in bed. Under the covers, kissing each other, grinning like two lovesick fools as you planned for the future, maybe…

“Let me go!” you wheezed. “I’ll—I’ll do anything.”

Joel had just made it into the water up to his knees. He was cradling you in his arms, smiling as he peered down.

“Anything?” he repeated.

“Anything!”

In a moment when some dirtier thoughts might’ve been starting to take shape in Joel’s mind, you decided to capitalize on the opportunity: you jumped up. Out.

While Joel was momentarily distracted, you got away from his hold and went stumbling toward the water. Narrowly, you kept your body upright and grinned.

Then, like a crazy person, you dropped to your knees.

It was meant to be a joke, obviously—waves rushing almost to your hips at this depth and a surge of murky, ice-cold ocean water all but chilling you down to the bone—and Joel laughed. He tried not to trip when you yanked him by the swim trunks and tugged his groin closer to your face, and then you were going to stand.

You were freezing your ass off, but you couldn’t resist giving Joel one, teasing wink as you looked up at him.

“I’ll suck your dick right here, real quick, if you—”

“MILLER!”

One word pierced the cool, windy climate like a blade.

What was once quiet and easy all at once became a cacophony in a single sound—your head jerked to it.

Your hands and feet flailed to get you standing back up.

Joel almost fell backward trying to make some space from where you’d just been kneeling in front of him, pretending to blow him at the worst possible moment.

You hadn’t seen it at the time, but now you did.

Your dad was standing on the shoreline, aghast.

No more than ten feet away on the hard-packed sand and staring on in horror, he remained there, motionless. While you regained your bearings and Joel shifted on his feet, probably trying to hide the boner poking up through his swim trunks, it seemed as if your father would never speak. He was so still, eyes wide and jaw hanging slack.

Then the scene changed faster than you could blink.

Your father was a blur of blue and gray, still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he had on the day before, and Joel was stationary. Shirtless. Entirely unprepared for when the former sped forward and, like something out of a nightmare, went for his neck with one, hard hit.

A stainless steel tumbler in the other hand made for an easy weapon; you recognized the shape of it immediately

Just as that travel mug struck the side of Joel’s skull and gave an audible crack, you saw the words fly by in a haze

WORLD’S

BEST

DADDY

“DADDY!” you screeched as the old, weathered steel came down on Joel’s head a fourth time, unforgiving.

Joel was cowered in the water on his hands and knees, having been knocked off balance with the third full hit, but he wasn’t moving away. Wasn’t fighting his assailant.

As a wave rolled over his frame and soaked his back and shoulders, you saw him lift a hand, and it was trembling.

Not venturing to fend off the blows to his face but rather making a plea of a kind, Joel tilted his head to his friend.

The shock that had had you paralyzed up until that point snapped then. Before you knew what you were doing, you were trudging over in the water, motions graceless.

Your father raised the mug again, and your vision blurred.

You didn’t sound like yourself, screaming: “Stop! Stop!”

The words hardly felt like yours at all, or seemed to have been heard. Your dad did drop the tumbler, but only to yank Joel up by the back of his head and stand over him, threading fingers through wet locks of salt-and-pepper and pulling hard. You saw Joel wince, and at the same time, you realized you were seeing his face on full display

Still crouched down in that frigid ocean, face no higher than a half-foot over the water’s surface, Joel was forced to turn his head to your dad, and the whole left side of it was streaked with blood. Saltwater splashed over his face and seemingly blinded him. The mug must’ve struck Joel right near the temple and torn the skin, because the whole length of his cheek was bleeding.

His head was hardly up for a moment before it was shoved back down, under the water, with brutal force.

This time, you grabbed your dad. Sank nails into his arm.

“Daddy, please. Please don’t hurt him, pl—” you started.

“My fucking daughter?!” your father roared over you.

Joel’s head might’ve been under for a second before it was jerked back up, and you saw him spitting up water.

Your dad was asking a question. It came again.

“My fucking daughter, you fucking—”

And the last part cut out, swiftly.

Joel’s head went under again, and simultaneously, you shoved as hard as you could to get your father off of him.

For a second, you did.

Joel’s head was released, and he resurfaced.

Your father took a hard breath and gritted his teeth.

And, just when you thought he might be reconsidering, or else slowing his attack, he went right back. He lunged for Joel and forced him under the water again, and every nerve-ending in your body seized with fear. Instincts kicked in, and you were about to reach over toward your father in a more demanding push. Maybe yank his shirt, shove him hard, tell him this isn’t Joel’s fault, let him—

“Go,” your dad snarled, pulling Joel back again. “Tell me.”

You expected another hit; maybe a kick to the head.

Instead, your father stunned you then, shouting:

“Are—are you fuckin’ in love with her, Joel?!”

It should’ve been low. Harsh. Threatening. And it was all those things, but underneath it, for the first time, you heard hurt commingled with it. Your dad’s grip tightened in the hair at the nape of Joel’s neck, and he bent down closer. He brought his face within a foot of his friend’s.

Joel, for the first time since he’d been hit, didn’t hesitate.

“I love her.”

As fast as he’d asked, your father kneed him in the face.

Joel’s head jerked back with the force, and at the same time, blood spurted from both nostrils. He blinked hard.

You wanted to strike the man standing over him even harder, and presently, you tried. You stepped up to your dad, about to take hold of his arm and yank it back, when suddenly, sharply, he turned to you. His eyes were ablaze

“And you?” he hissed.

He grabbed Joel again.

You didn’t have to think.

“I love him, daddy, I love him.”

Your father shoved Joel under a fourth time, as if punishing him for your response. Your stomach lurched.

And, in much the same way sheer impulse had guided your last answer, your body moved without considering itself. Your limbs moved of their own volition, and not thinking, it moved closer—this time, not to your father.

You dropped beside Joel.

He resurfaced a second later, sputtering for air.

His face was mottled with blood. Even with a near constant surge of water and being submerged every other instant, the bleeding was profuse. He kept blinking.

And, thanks to all the hits he’d taken, he hardly seemed to see the world in front of him at all. He coughed again.

More blood.

More blinking.

Scarcely conscious at all, he inched closer to you.

Over the lapping of waves, your pulse thudding in your ears, and sobs racking through your chest, you couldn’t hear much at all. Still, you saw his lips move limply then.

“‘M’sorry—”

The sound stopped and started with a strangled breath. One from him to exhale at first, and another to suck in some air while he was able. In the next second, before either one of you could think, his head was forced under.

It was held underwater, hard, by your father.

Tears nearly had you blinded, but you saw it.

Time might’ve slowed a little more, and your sense of seconds and minutes could’ve skewed, but it was still clear as anything to you that your dad was keeping Joel there, unable to breathe, and he refused to move an inch

You blinked, and the body in front of you had gone limp.

In summary:

#‘YOU NEED COOOOOOOOOOOOOLIN 😩 BABY I’M NOT FOOOOOLIN 😤’ actually changed me as a person the first time i heard it LOL #led zeppelin and b*tt stuff……….for the culture #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller

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whisperedmeg · 1 month ago

Text

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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saintobio · 1 year ago

Text

blank canvas. (2)

after offering a painful ultimatum to finally be enough for him, things ultimately get worse as he decides between keeping you or losing you as the only resolution.

pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

genre. florist x tattoo artist au, mild angst, opposites attract

tags/warnings. strong language, defloration (kinda), explicit smut, undertones of manipulation and gaslighting, toxic relationship, undertones of cheating

notes. 11.2k wc! thanks for the love on bc1, i didn't expect it to gain traction at all but tyty. last part will come soon, but that will be the final chapter to this mini-series.

part 1 | part 3

The ride back home was uncomfortable.

It wasn’t because you had promised to give yourself to him that night, but rather because his uncharacteristic silence was not what you had expected after delivering your ultimatum. You already proposed a wonderful solution to his needs, so why was he acting like you were the one being ridiculous? This was why you hated it whenever Sukuna chose silence over open communication, as it left you a hard time guessing about what was running through his mind. His expression didn’t offer any clues either, because he did pretty well at concealing his emotions behind a facade of indifference.

When you said you would do it with him, you meant it. But what did he think of it?

The sharp wind cut through your skin, the roar of his motorbike deafening your ears as your boyfriend accelerated his vehicle upon entering the tunnel. The vibrant yellow lights offered a cinematic view, tempting you to imagine yourself embracing the wind with open arms, though you knew better than to do so. Instead, you held onto him tightly, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning forward as he sped through the empty lane.

It was nearing midnight, and the sparse traffic allowed Sukuna to indulge in one of his habits: riding his bike in the late hours of the night through this particular tunnel and onto the highway. You knew this ritual helped him clear his mind since it offered a rush of danger that sharpened his focus on the road. His choice to take this route tonight also only confirmed to you that he was grappling with internal thoughts. The last time he rode this fast was when your parents made you choose between them and him, slapping it in his face that he was and would never be welcomed in your family.

To be honest, it frightened you. The speed at which he was riding was dangerous for both of you. Moreover, his bike was a YZF-R1, although street-legal, it was still a high-performance sport bike more suited for the track. It required agile and precise handling with its 1000cc engine. Yet, no other vehicle seemed more fitting for Sukuna than this.

Whatever was on his mind, he didn’t care to let you know. You two didn’t really speak throughout the ride while you clung to him like a backpack, praying in your head that you two wouldn’t get into an accident. Thankfully enough, he did safely take you home as you arrived at your shared apartment at exactly midnight.

“Please don’t ride like that again,” you muttered as he helped you out of his motorbike. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

His fingers then reached to unclasp your helmet, pulling it up to reveal your face. “Well, we’re still alive.”

You looked at his face despite his best effort to avoid yours, standing centimeters apart while he switched off the engine. He didn’t return your gaze as though he was drowned by guilt. Should you speak at this? Or should you let him do it first?

“Baby.” After a minute or so, it was your boyfriend who sighed and finally gave in, pulling you close and resting his forehead against yours. He kept his eyes closed even when he was cupping your cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

Yes, you certainly shouldn’t. You didn’t have to do things unwillingly, but that wouldn’t change the fact that this on-going issue was putting a strain on your relationship and this would be your last shot at trying to salvage it. And you couldn’t have him looking for sensual gratification from anyone else other than you, so what other option did you have, really?

“I want to do it.”

“Not if you’re forcing yourself like this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said I’m forcing myself?”

“Your face tells me you are,” replied he, staring at your face in defeat. “So, let’s not—”

“What, and let this issue haunt us over and over?” You smiled bitterly, shaking your head adamantly. “This has to be done. I need to experience it so I’ll finally understand.”

Understand what? His face almost spelled out those words, but he chose not to say anything of the sort and instead leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Alright. I’ll make it memorable.”

— —

Easier said than done, of course. You kept overthinking about whether your performance would be satisfactory to him given that you didn’t have enough experience to learn anything at all, aside from the make out sessions that you did once in a blue moon. Around thirty minutes of your time was spent hyperanalyzing your situation in the shower, while the other half of it was spent doing a little more than your nightly routines. Since Sukuna liked powdery scents, you placed a good effort in applying lavender-scented oil and perfume on every inch of your body. You also shaved any unwanted hair, especially on all the intimate places you knew he would be seeing. And by the time you were done, you stepped out of the bathroom blooming like a fresh flower, wrapped in nothing but a thin towel that hugged your womanly figure.

It didn’t feel right at all. It didn’t feel good knowing that you were preparing yourself like that, when these things should only happen on the first night after your wedding. It didn’t feel great that you were going to lose your virginity to a man who had not even proposed to you. This wasn’t even your honeymoon, but you had to pretend like it was.

Did Sukuna feel the same?

He wasn’t lying in bed when you walked out of the bathroom. Instead, he had just returned from outside—shirtless, wearing his favorite gray sweatpants, and holding a box of condoms and a tube of lube in his hand. It was clear he had made a quick visit to the convenience store nearby and got the essentials for your first night.

Immediately, he eyed your towel-wrapped body with restrained lust, clearing his throat as he walked towards the nightstand. “You look nice.”

Really? Did he really have to make this more awkward than it already was?

“Thank you,” was all you could softly reply. It was funny how he pretended to be busy placing the box and tube above the bedside table instead of lunging at you like a desperate man. But because you wanted to get this over with, you were the one who approached him from behind, wrapping your arms around his waist, and touching the firmness of his abs. For someone who had zero experience, you were definitely trying hard enough and that should please him. “You have to help me out here, my love. Guide me.”

When Sukuna turned around, your heart started racing. Of excitement? Maybe. Of anxiety? Perhaps. He made it better though when he finally caved in and looked straight into your eyes, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear before lifting your chin with his hand. “You smell extra nice, too,” he added, leaning close enough that you could feel his warm breath fanning your face.

You were feeling it now. The equal lust. The carnal desire. The feeling of his sweet kisses, which he made true as soon as he crashed his lips onto yours. His kisses usually ranged from tender to rough, but this time, it was an altogether different type of kiss. It was passionate and demonstrative, as if showing you exactly what he had been wanting to do to you the first time you got together. This must be the result of being celibate in over a year. He was clearly a man deprived of sexual pleasure, and you were responsible for it. You actually turned him into a monk.

Now, he wasn’t holding anything back anymore. With his hand on your nape, he deepened the kiss to the point where you could feel his tongue exploring your mouth. You followed whatever he was doing like a good girl, like a very good girl, as he completely devoured your mouth with his. It didn’t take long for him to advance his kisses in other places too, being your jawline his next target, and then your neck as he feathered kisses around the soft flesh, leaving marks that would need a few days to be concealed.

Because his arms were tight around your waist, yours were locked around his neck. Where else should you be putting them? What does the girl usually do in this situation? You tried not to think much of it and listened to your own body while your boyfriend was sucking the skin around your collarbone. At first, your hand traced his toned chest, then it moved southwards to feel his abs, and further down to his…

“Y-You’re hard.” Your eyes widened as you felt his growing erection behind the fabric of his sweatpants. It wasn’t your first time seeing his boner, but it was the first time you touched it with your own hand. It was the first time you had your palm stroking his length, swallowing hard as you realized just how hard and thick he was.

“It wants to be inside you,” he whispered through your mouth, kissing you back again, “so bad, baby.”

Gosh. Your knees felt weak and you two hadn’t even really started yet. How much more when he starts putting that thing of his inside you? You were breathing hard, trying to catch air as your boyfriend continued to lap his tongue with yours, guiding your hand to continue fondling his wood while it grew bigger the more stimulated it got. By letting you touch his hardened crotch together with his own, you realized that you had just unlocked a newfound fetish of yours. “D-Do you… do you think about doing it with me often?”

He bit your lower lip before pulling away, animalistic eyes sending you into an orbit of pleasure. “Do you mean if I touch myself to the thought of you a lot?” he teased, chuckling darkly at the obvious heat on your cheeks. You couldn’t help but feel excited at how vulgar he could be with his words. “I do jack off a lot, angel. And it’s always you in my mind.”

You didn’t even have the time to melt from his words, because before you knew it, he was already peeling the towel off your body to reveal your completely naked figure. Obviously, your first reaction was to get shy—with your heated cheeks, your inability to look him in the eyes, your little efforts in covering your breasts and crotch, but he made sure to pull your hands away while keeping his eyes on you. “…Don’t stare.”

Sukuna, however, didn’t listen. His dark eyes scanned every curve of your body, particularly around your chest area before he sighed and threw his head back. “Fuck,” he cussed under his breath. “You’re so fucking sexy. I can’t believe no other punk has seen you like this.”

Your confidence grew little by little because of his praises. “But isn’t that a good thing?”

“For sure.” He almost laughed at his own words, more so in disbelief, before he reached out to touch your bosom. “No one can touch you like this, either, baby.”

“That’s—”

“Hmm?” Your boyfriend smirked at your reaction. While his other hand went to squeeze your breast, the other traveled to your bum, squeezing the cheek with equal fervor. “Can I have a taste of you, baby?”

He fondled your breasts with both hands now, massaging the rounded mass like they were his property. You had to admit to yourself that the feeling of being touched actually transcended your expectations. Or maybe it was only because of how erotic it was, but you couldn’t deny how turned on you were as his veiny, manly hands cupped your bosom.

And as soon as you nodded and permitted him to ‘taste’ you, he took no time in gently pushing you down the mattress, allowing you to lay at a comfortable position under him and his wanton stare. Taste you? He was more like eating you, when he pinned you against the mattress and sucked the skin on your chest. At first, his tongue rolled along your cleavage, inching closer and closer to your right breast while he had his hand squeezing the left. Your body naturally gravitated towards him as you arched your back so he could have better access to your chest. Not only your chest, but also your crotch as he started grinding his clothed manhood in between your folds.

“Mm…”

Sukuna’s mouth was on your breast now, suckling on your flesh and playing his tongue around your nipple. You couldn’t tell if it was pleasurable or painful because his tongue felt ticklish on your skin, but the suction definitely was an entirely different feeling. Both weren’t bad, anyway. They were just new to you. But even if they were foreign, you were curious and all the more interested, studying every little thing he was doing with your body and trying to make mental notes out of it.

Maybe you should have watched porn. That way, you could have been more aware of the step-by-step process of having sex. Who knew there were steps to follow at all? You didn’t think that foreplay could draw this much delay in your session because all you thought was that he was going to insert his cock straight inside you as soon as he saw you naked.

With all the touching, fondling, and kissing… what were you supposed to do? He was doing all the work here.

“Baby,” you spoke softly, staring at the ceiling, “C-Can I… touch you?”

Instead of pulling away, his mouth latched onto your left boob, giving it the same attention before moving south. “Not yet.”

When he said that, you didn’t expect his hand to land on your crotch. Your heart was thumping at an irregular rhythm as you felt his fingers moving in circles around your bud, playing with your clit before spreading your folds apart. “Nghh—!” you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, eyes widening at the sound of your voice, but your boyfriend shushed you by placing a peck on your lips before spreading your legs into a V.

“You’re so wet,” he said, pointing out the obvious as he positioned himself in between your legs, spreading your labia to reveal your entrance. Something about the situation made you increasingly self-conscious, but his undeniably hungry gaze kept you from covering your most sensitive area. It seemed like he was enjoying the sight of your pussy, especially with how wet and ‘untouched’ it was. “Your pussy’s so pretty, baby,” he mumbled, lowering his face closer to the area, “Can’t wait to put my dick inside it.”

You whimpered at the feeling of his tongue in between your folds. No, you couldn’t even think straight after he started teasing your vagina, alternating between flicking his tongue around your bud to french kissing your entrance. His tongue was so deep in your cavern that you were raising your hips involuntarily, going insane from the pleasure it sent your body. Your hands even gripped the sheets and your back arched into a C as you held back from moaning like a wild animal. At some point, the slurping sounds and the feeling of his mouth kissing your vagina had your legs shaking.

Though, you could ask yourself: what turned you on the most? Was it him actually eating your pussy or just the idea of him doing it?

And just when you thought he was done, he replaced his mouth by inserting a finger inside your cunt, garnering a much louder whimper out of you. “B-Baby!”

“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes locked with yours as he slowly moved his middle finger in and out. “It’s so tight.”

“It hurts…” You nodded, feeling his finger moving in circles inside your cunt as though he was trying to get a feel of your walls, measuring the tightness and such.

He kissed you for a good minute. “Relax, angel. Don’t clench too much.”

Clench? You didn’t even know you were doing such a thing. “How to…?”

“Just relax.” Sukuna placed a hand on your abdomen, pressing it down while he was inserting yet another finger inside of you. “This’ll help you prepare so it won’t hurt as much later.”

Now, you were goddamn nervous. What did he mean it wouldn’t hurt as much? Because you were overthinking the pain of having him his actual cock inside of you. If you couldn’t even bear having his two fingers inside you, how much more with his clearly thick shaft? It was ridiculous to feel both anxious and yet aroused at the same time. Anxious, because you knew he could rip you open. Aroused, because his fingers were currently doing a great job at hitting your most sensitive spot. Whatever it was that he was reaching, it was certainly sending waves of ecstasy throughout your body.

His fingers continued to move. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Around. When he pulled his digits out, he sucked the juices on them, tasting every drip of your essence from his fingers. “Sweet.”

Were you? You started to get curious at how he tasted, too. Sweet? Salty? Bitter? You seemed to be moving on autopilot when you pulled yourself up and sat in bed on your knees. “Your turn?”

You asked the question as if you knew what you were doing, which was why Sukuna found it adorable and humorous at the same time. He did help you pull down the sweatpants that had been covering his erection for what felt like eternity, only to reveal a monstrous size that sprung out of the garment.

Holy fuck was all you could say.

He stood at the edge of the bed, a devilish smirk displayed on his saintly face as he saw the length of his cock compared to your face. You obviously hadn’t seen many cocks in your lifetime to be able to compare his size, but in your eyes, he was definitely big. He was girthy. He was lengthy. He was veiny. Meaty.

“Wanna suck it for me, baby?” he encouraged, pumping his shaft while looking at you. Fuck. “Open your mouth.”

You did as told, wrapping a hand at the base of his length while placing his tip on your mouth. You pressed your tongue flat on the surface of his tip, rolling your tongue around the head as if it were a lollipop. Was that what you were supposed to do?

“Eyes on me.” His voice deepened an octave. And it was also raspier.

Why did he want you to look up at him? It was already embarrassing.

“I said, eyes on me, angel.” He grabbed your chin and forced you to lock eyes with his darkened ones. Damn. No wonder girls were desperate to see him in his shop every single day. This was probably what they had been daydreaming about. “Suck my cock.”

In your head, you became a slut. In reality, you were still a shy, inexperienced virgin who didn’t know what to do. You relied on his instructions and looked at his expressions to know if you were doing a good job and to see what he liked and didn’t like. He definitely liked it when you sucked the head, liked it even more when you started to let him go deeper in your mouth, and surely liked it a hell lot better when you gagged after his cock hit the back of your throat. But in spite of the string of saliva that left your mouth after gagging from his cock, his arousal only grew harder, this time holding your hair in his fist as he began thrusting his hip forward. You were bobbing your head at a rhythm that satisfied him, feeling the stretch on your scalp as he tightened his grip on your hair.

“Tighten your mouth around it,” he instructed, fucking your mouth senselessly like hitting your throat was driving him nuts. Your eyes were already filling up with tears because of your urge to gag again, but you didn’t think it would be a good idea to stop now while he was just starting to pleasure himself.

This was the first time in your life to give someone a blowjob, and you weren’t sure what to make of that experience. It personally didn’t give you pleasure, but you liked hearing his desperate moans. You liked hearing him curse and get vulgar with his words. You liked seeing him get rough. His taste, on the other hand, was somewhat a different experience. Since you were only sucking his flesh, it was a tad bit salty at first contact but didn’t taste anything much after tongue got used to the skin around his shaft. Perhaps his cum would have a stronger flavor, though it looked like he had no plans in releasing his load into your mouth as he pulled his member out.

“Fuck it,” he grunted, gently pushing you back and spreading your legs wide open again, “I wanna feel your pussy so bad. Can I fuck you raw, babe?”

All those condoms, and he wanted to have you raw?

“But… I don’t wanna get pregnant.”

His face was full of assurance, shaking his head and denying any chance of knocking you up. “You won’t be. I’ll pull out, I just… I have to feel you raw the first time. I have to.”

“Okay…”

You were nervous as hell. You had butterflies in your stomach, your heart pounding in your chest like a drumbeat you couldn’t silence. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was here, the reality of it was too overwhelming. Your mind yet again raced with a whirlwind of doubts and insecurities, and every nerve on your body seemed to be on high alert while you watched him getting occupied with rubbing his entire length with lube, ensuring a smooth entrance inside you.

He was nervous too, right? You couldn’t be the only one. You couldn’t be.

You just wanted everything to be perfect. To show him how much you cared. To feel that you were enough. But the thought was paralyzing. Tonight was more than just physical intimacy; it was a step forward in your relationship, a moment of connection you wanted so badly to cherish. This first intimate encounter should be filled with love, respect, and mutual understanding.

But what if after this, he’d come to realize that you weren’t the one? What if he’d get disappointed and tell you that you weren’t worth it? What if he’d leave you for someone else who could pleasure him better? What if, after you had given yourself to him, no one else would ever appreciate you anymore?

You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze, the intimacy of your connection. You wanted to explore this uncharted territory with him, to dive headfirst into the unknown and discover what lay on the other side. But were you really ready for this? Did you truly want this? Would it be everything you had imagined, or would you regret losing your virginity to him?

The fear of inadequacy gnawed at your confidence as Sukuna positioned himself back in between you, his tip rubbing at your slit a couple times before he finally sunk it into your entrance.

“Haaa—!”

“Shh. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“N-No, I—!”

It felt like your walls were being stretched so painfully, like your flesh was being torn open in the most agonizing way. This was not the kind of pain you pictured out when he put his member inside. Sukuna even tried to grab hold of your hips to keep you steady, but you were withdrawing your hips back, wanting nothing but for him to remove his cock.

“It hurts… It hurts… please, stop. Please!”

“Baby, I’m trying to be gentle—”

“I SAID STOP!”

Both of your eyes widened at the same time, and that was the only time you two were ever in sync. He was clearly shocked by your outburst, while you yourself were surprised at how you raised your voice at him. Neither of you expected that situation. As a result, he did pull away and completely withdrew himself from you.

Frustration was evident on his visage and he couldn’t even hide it anymore. “Fuck this,” he spat in exasperation, taking a deep breath as he reached to slip his sweatpants back on. “I knew it.”

“No, I…” You swallowed. “It just… You kinda forced it, I wasn’t ready.”

“I forced it, really? I forced you?” His laugh was out of complete disbelief. “I never forced you into anything, angel. I’ve asked you since the beginning if this is really what you want.” He took a pause, a very uncomfortable one, before he went on murmuring, “It was just my tip and you’re overreacting like this. I’m not even halfway in.”

His agitation had finally awakened you to your senses, realizing that you did end up doing what you were scared of doing. You ruined the moment. You were so caught up in your bubble of negative thoughts that you had once again failed to fulfill what you were supposed to do. No wonder he was aggravated, now sitting away from you and wearing his clothes as if telling you that he was done. Done being blue balled by his own girlfriend. Done expecting something he was never really bound to have.

You reached out to touch his arm. “Baby, I’m sorry… I just got scared, but we can still—”

“Still do it?” he continued your sentence by ironically cutting you off, “No, the fuck, I won’t. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

His reaction brought tears to your eyes, because the way he was acting stung your fragile heart. You didn’t mean to ruin anything. More importantly, you didn’t wish for everything to just turn out like this. “I-I’m sorry. Let me try again, please.”

The weakness of your voice seemed to have softened him, becoming calmer and more composed after a few minutes of contemplation, but he still held his ground when he massaged his temple and sighed. “Let’s just not push it, Y/N.” He looked at your eyes, with hurt and rejection reflecting on them. “Even if you say you wanna do it, you think I can’t see it in your face that you’re not really into it? You’re never ready for me and maybe it’s my fault, maybe there’s something about me that you’re so scared of. Maybe it’s because you don’t feel secure with me, maybe you wanna save yourself for someone better, someone who can give you a brighter future—”

“That’s not true!” You shook your head desperately, your eyes blurring from the pool of tears while you clung to his arm. Where was all this coming from? It sounded like he had been harboring those feelings for so long. “That’s not true. What are you even saying?”

“I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m just…” Trying to give a reason why you won’t give it to me. That must be what he had wanted to say. “Look, I don’t wanna pressure you into this bullshit anymore. I don’t wanna make it look like I’m begging for your affection like this. Intimacy should happen normally for couples, and if we can’t have that, then we can’t. That’s it.”

Why did he sound like he was giving up?

You tried to keep your emotions at bay while listening to him battling with his internal thoughts. “I understand I disappointed you tonight, but…”

He was adamant at shaking his head, distancing himself from you by getting up from the bed. “No, you got nothin’ to apologize for. It’s your body and your choice. I’d never force you into anything.”

Then… then…

“I just think it’s not the perfect time,” he continued, shooting you a glance before looking away. Each step he took added another crack on your fragile heart. “From now on, I’m never gonna initiate anything intimate nor will I expect anything from you, aight? I’m over it.”

Alone in your vulnerability, you could feel the cold air hugging your naked body as you watched him walk towards the door, leaving you in the dark both literally and figuratively. “Where a-are you going? Come on… Please.”

He no longer cared to turn around. He no longer bothered to comfort you as he walked away, muttering, “Just gonna go for a ride. Don’t wait on me.”

— —

Nearly three weeks had passed since that night and you would be lying if you said everything was okay.

No, everything was not okay. You could feel the distance growing each day even when you two still did everything together. Your normal routines didn’t feel normal anymore because he was acting too detached ever since he told you that he wouldn’t initiate anything intimate ever again. And to be honest? It hurt. A whole fucking lot. Hearing your partner say that they would never wish to do anything intimate with you was probably the worst way to experience heartbreak. Because he was truthful with it, and he showed it very openly.

Now, he’d lock the door whenever he would take showers. He’d spent most of his time outside riding his bike until midnight. He stopped texting you sweet messages while on tattoo shop duty. He seldomly joined you to eat breakfast and dinner together. His back would face you whenever you two slept in bed. His eyes avoided you even when you walked around in underwear. His hand wouldn’t touch you even when you were centimeters close to him. There were no kisses exchanged either, unless obliged to do so when leaving the house. No hugs. No hair-stroking, hand-holding sweetness ever shared. You were simply cohabiting in your shared apartment like strangers who had barely even said I love you’s.

“Man, that’s rough,” remarked Suguru Getou, your cousin and the barista, as he tidied up the counter behind the elevated bar. Having just served his friend an Americano, he listened intently as you vented about your situation with Sukuna. “I’ll be honest with you, Y/N. It’s not looking good for you.”

You knew that. You just refused to acknowledge it. “I mean, all couples fight.”

Suguru shook his head, however. “You two aren’t even fighting. Dude just gave up and started detaching himself from you. If that’s not a sign already, then I don’t know what is.”

“What sign?” you asked, hiding the obvious worry in your voice. You need not be dense about his words, but you wanted to have some kind of hope to grasp on.

“Sign that he’s falling out of love?” he continued.

And somehow, his white-haired friend thought it would be okay to chime in. “More like a sign that the tool's not interested anymore and is about to dump her.”

Your face felt hot and in the most terrible way. “Sorry, what was your name again?” you asked, your tone dripping with sarcasm. You hadn’t expected the guy to suddenly chime in, considering he had been quietly typing on his laptop just moments before. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion, so don’t go listening to somebody else’s business when you’re not part of the conversation.”

“Jeez,” said the albino guy, grinning at your cousin as if amused by your barrage of a response. “She’s a yapper, too. I thought she was supposed to be this sweet and innocent type, Suguru?”

“Not always.” Suguru chuckled at his friend before turning to you, apologetic eyes now attempting to soothe your nerves. “Sorry ‘bout that, Y/N. Satoru just likes to tease people. Don’t mind him.”

You kept a straight face. “Well, then maybe tell your friend to keep his nose out of conversations he’s not invited to.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Satoru gave you a playful salute before extending his hand towards you. “Look, I didn’t mean to overhear, but I actually sympathize with you. If it were me, I’d never do that to you, baby.”

Oh, God. You were so bad at this. Was he flirting with you or was he simply playful like this?

Nevertheless, you rolled your eyes and ignored the hand he offered, essentially brushing off his advances. “I don’t need sympathy. All I’m here for is to talk to my cousin to try and have his advice on the matter,” you emphasized pointedly, making it clear to Satoru that he was the last person you wanted advice from. “I don’t need a stranger listening to my personal life.”

“Doesn’t hurt to receive advice from another guy,” countered Satoru, shrugging. “Right, Suguru? I mean, we’re both guys. We can give you some insight into how men think.”

You felt the urge to bury your face in your hands. It was clearly a mistake going there and putting yourself in that situation, and now having two guys aware of your sex life with your boyfriend. That alone was so wrong on many levels. But could it be helped? Suguru was your closest cousin, the only one who didn’t turn his back on you after you left your parents’ home. He was working at a cafe three blocks away from your flower shop and you happened to be delivering a batch of fresh floral decorations for their cafe. You obviously found it a good opportunity to open up to him about your struggling relationship and hoped he could offer some male perspective on Sukuna’s behavior. You just hadn’t anticipated his friend eavesdropping on the conversation the entire time.

Well, that should have been expected anyway, since only the three of you were in that cafe on a lazy Wednesday afternoon.

“I don’t kiss and tell, by the way.” Satoru was beaming as he gave you that assurance and you couldn’t help but admit that the man had some charm in him. He was attractive, no doubt about it. He was also tall, toned, and seemingly well off based on the way he dressed. He had a casual yet preppy style, something you would normally see from guys who went to private school.

“Do you work?” you asked out of sheer curiosity. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Oh, now she’s interested.” Satoru seemed to have found your sudden interest in him humorous. “I’m finishing my MBA, miss. Thank you for asking.”

“He’s a privileged rich kid with generational wealth and a family business,” Suguru remarked, playfully gesturing a cutting motion across his neck. “Definitely not your type, huh, Y/N?”

“Why, what’s her type?” The white-haired man looked intrigued, pulling his stool closer. He had that stupid grin on his face as though the topic just sparked his curiosity. “What’s her boyfriend like?”

Suguru, who wanted to play along, jokingly hummed in deep thought. “He’s got tattoos, likes to tattoo other people, is a college dropout, rides a big bike, smokes and drinks, listens to heavy metal, was probably a delinquent and a juvie alumni—”

“Excuse you, he’s never been in a juvenile detention center,” you defended your man, feeling like your cousin’s categorization of Sukuna was becoming a little too derogatory and you had to correct him for that, “and he’s a good man. He’s sweet and caring, he’s passionate, and he loves me sincerely.”

“Sincerely, not?” Satoru quipped, earning your glare in return. He immediately raised his hands in surrender. “I'm just joking. If you believe he’s all that, that’s your choice. I don’t judge booktok girls who romanticize typical bad boys.”

You rolled your eyes at his audacity. Each word that left his mouth seemed to stoke the flames of your irritation. “You’re so offensive, I’ll have you know that.”

The white-haired guy smugly took a sip from his coffee. “At least I don’t make girls feel guilty for not having sex with me.”

“Oooh.” Suguru was clearly enjoying the show, unaware that you were one step closer from smacking his friend across the face. “Touché. He kinda has a point, Y/N.”

“Be serious,” you warned.

To which he agreed to. “Okay, I am being serious now,” he said, abandoning his playful stance to lean in on a more solemn posture against the counter, “If you think Sukuna makes you feel guilty for not doing it with him, then shouldn’t that speak for the kind of relationship you two have? He wants something you can’t give. His reaction tells you everything you need to know about him.”

You tried to absorb his words with a better understanding and without any bias. “Isn’t his reaction normal? He’s a man, too. I understand his needs and I made him feel somewhat rejected.”

“It’s all about respect, Y/N,” answered Suguru, “If he’s a decent man, he wouldn’t make you feel that way. No mixed signals, no guilt tripping, no nothing. If you can’t do it, then don’t.”

“So, you’re saying you wouldn’t feel the same if your girlfriend keeps rejecting sex with you?”

Suguru smirked. “I never said I’m a decent man, either. All I’m saying is if what you want isn’t exactly aligned to what he wants, then maybe it’s best you break it off with him because this shit won’t get you anywhere, Y/N. Trust me. He’s gonna dump you before you know it. I mean, it’s one thing to pretend he’s all fine with it, and it’s another to distance himself from you like he’s silently protesting.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Satoru joined in once again. “It’s impossible for a guy like that to be in a relationship for so long and not have any pussy. We think of sex 24/7, some of us are just better at restraining ourselves than others. He’s putting up with it now, but it’s only a matter of time he gets sick and tired of waiting. You do realize he can get any girl he wants, anytime he wants, right?”

Although you were still uncomfortable at Satoru casually chiming in on the conversation, it was true when they said they could give you the exact male perspective you needed to hear. This allowed you to go deeper into Sukuna’s psyche and understand why he was acting that way. You just didn’t know how to save the connection you have with your boyfriend when both your cousin and his friend were describing all the red flags on Sukuna’s behavior.

“I don’t know,” you spoke in a tone of defeat. “I kinda understand where he’s coming from, so I can’t just leave him for it. I love him.”

Satoru looked at your cousin like you couldn’t be saved. “She’s in too deep.”

“Yeah, gaslighted as fuck.” Suguru was shaking his head in disappointment.

The taller man chuckled and brought up a ridiculous offer to lighten the situation up. “Honestly, Y/N. I know we just met and all, but if you ever need someone to teach you how to do good in bed, just hit me up. He’ll never know.”

“Shut up,” you shot back at Satoru, eyes rolling at his remark.

“You’re out here feeling bad for that guy when he could be fucking his clients at the tattoo shop.”

You argued. “No, he’s not—”

“Are you sure he isn’t?”

It wasn’t Suguru nor Satoru who posed that question; it was Yuki Tsukumo, the café’s manager and Suguru's respected senior. She was in a relationship with one of your boyfriend’s stepbrothers, Choso, and was also a fellow biker, which allowed her to cross paths with Sukuna in their community. Despite this connection, she was never particularly close to him. In fact, Yuki didn’t personally get along with Sukuna and she was very vocal about it. She was, however, a regular client of yours and ordered floral arrangements from your shop on a weekly basis.

It had been awhile since you last saw her, and didn’t expect that the first greeting you would give her was a question. “Yuki, what do you mean?”

Great. Now, three people know about your relationship quagmires.

She was placing her helmet at the counter and sitting on a stool before answering you, “I really think you should talk to him about it, Y/N.”

No, no. Why did you suddenly feel a pang of anxiety out of nowhere? Something about the sympathy in Yuki’s eyes felt unsettling, and it sent a wave of fear through you. She definitely knew something. What was Sukuna doing behind your back?

“Can you please just tell me?”

Her gaze studied your face intently, as if deliberating on the right thing to do. “Well... I spotted him riding with a girl the other night. Initially, I thought it might be you, but last night, I saw them together again. I recognized her... because it was his ex. I think he’s been giving her rides home lately.”

Amidst the quiet of the room, your heart felt like it was breaking in two. The sudden revelation sent you into an abyss of pain.

“You might wanna visit his tattoo shop later.” Yuki encouraged me with a comforting smile. “It may be best to confront him about it.”

— —

Sukuna wasn’t sure how to act around you anymore. It wasn’t like he was purposely avoiding you, but he just didn’t feel comfortable acting like everything was fine and dandy. Because if he was damn honest, the sexual frustration was fucking with his head. So much so to the point where he started questioning himself if he should still put up with a relationship like this.

First of all, there were pros and cons involved. He had to consider that it was a special connection filled with special memories, too.

If he was talking about the pros, he knew he would have a loving lifetime partner with you. You were beautiful, kind, and pure. You inspired him and motivated him to be better. You were unmaterialistic and happy with the littlest things. You gave his dominant side the urge to be a better man, like he was made to protect and provide for you. You became his muse; a blank canvas that was all for him to paint on. A canvas that no one had ever touched. Or, in your world, a white lily that was associated with chastity and virtue.

But then, there were also cons, and the foremost of it being you were too conservative for your own good. You grew up in a strict environment with uptight parents who wanted to control your life. He could never voice it out, but he really hated that you were square like your parents sometimes. You were too traditional and afraid to explore new experiences, oftentimes policing him for living his life as free as he wanted it to be. The ‘opposites attract’ thing did seem to work in your relationship at first, with your differences being exciting for each other, but as time went by, it became clearer to him that you two were too different to actually be in sync together.

Hence why your relationship became rigid and suffocating, forcing him to take a breather by distancing himself from you for some time. He did this for your benefit, because he had to clear his head before risking losing you for good. He didn’t want to jeopardize a relationship that he knew meant the world to him. Perhaps this was just a phase, a challenging period following the honeymoon phase, where all your differences seemed to become more pronounced.

But to repeatedly make him look forward to sharing intimacy with you, only for you to back out at the very last minute? Man, was that so frustrating.

It didn’t help that it was destiny itself that seemed to be stirring the pot. Because while you two were going through a rough time in your relationship, the irony presented itself outside of Sukuna’s tattoo shop late at night just as he was about to close.

“Ryo?” A tall woman with athletic build, long dark hair, and beautiful doe eyes came into view with a wide smile on her face.

His ex-girlfriend of three years.

Sukuna held the door for her albeit the confusion in his eyes. “Yorozu?”

The only difference he noticed was that she had become a lot sexier, with the curves on her body more womanly than ever. It was obvious that she was active in the gym to achieve such a fit physique. But other than that, her facial features were the same. Her heart eyes still shone bright at the mere sight of him, as if they carried stars and galaxies.

“I think I came too late,” said Yorozu, smiling in disappointment, “I should probably just return tomorrow.”

“No, you’re good.” Sukuna insisted on letting her enter his shop, closing the door as soon as she was inside. “What brought you here?”

She stood confidently in front him, wearing nothing but a blank tank top and some loose white pants. “Funny story ‘cause I actually just moved to this city recently and I just found out you had a shop in this area.”

Oh? That was interesting, indeed. Sukuna wondered how she even found his shop in that case, while he was leading her to the tattoo chair. “Are you here to get a tattoo or?”

“Yeah, yeah I am.” She was sprinkling some charm in her grin. He knew her too well. “I think it’s amazing that I’m gonna get it from you again.”

While Yorozu was talking to him, he couldn’t help but ask: was it wrong for him to be in the same vicinity as his ex? Considering how jealous you could get, this was definitely wrong in your eyes. But as he wasn’t doing anything sketchy, he figured there was nothing wrong about what he was doing. Yorozu was technically a client and he couldn’t deny her his services since she was basically a friend of his, too. So, was he breaking any code here?

“Well, only if you have time now, of course,” she added out of consideration, “It’s kinda late so I can always come back.”

Sukuna shook his head and headed to get his book of tattoo art samples. “It’s fine. I got clients lined up all day tomorrow, so,” he said, placing the book on her lap, “You wanna check that or do you have a design in mind already?”

Yorozu’s eyes fell on the tattoos marking Sukuna’s body, her gaze landing on every familiar inch as though she had seen them all the time before. It was true. She had seen more of him, actually. She had done more with his body, too. “I kinda wanna get a sleeve, but I want you to choose the design for me.”

A tattoo sleeve? Damn. It was something he would never in a million years see from you, but for Yorozu, it was totally normal. She was as obsessed with ink as he was. And although she’s had a couple of tattoos in her body already, which were done by him, it would be her first time to get a full sleeve.

“I get to choose, really?” Sukuna chuckled lightly. If he were to think of Yorozu’s traits, she was definitely a classic red rose. A seductress, alluring woman was how he saw her and the said flower would be a true-to-life representation of her personality. She was passionate when it came to loving someone, and was completely devoted to him back when they were together. The only reason they broke up was because they were too similar, as if she was his counterpart, and he saw fit to leave a relationship where they both constantly battled for dominance. Yorozu could get too aggressive on loving someone and he didn’t particularly like that. He made her understand why they weren’t working as a couple, and it took her some time, but she eventually accepted his decision. Now, you could say, they were somehow on good terms. “Alright, I’ll do your sleeve, but I’ll keep the design as a surprise.”

Her eyes sparkled in excitement at the thought. “I’d love that!”

“Since you want a sleeve, we’re gonna do some stencil application today.” Sukuna didn’t waste any more time in getting ready with his equipment, biting on the glove while wearing the other on his hand. “It’ll take fifteen to twenty hours to complete a sleeve, and each session could last two to six hours depending on your pain tolerance. My schedule’s actually full all day until next week, but you can come around the same time every night so I can finish yours.”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely fine with that,” she enthused. For some reason, Yorozu was happy with the idea. The idea of coming to visit Sukuna every night in his shop. The idea that they get to be alone. The idea that they would be able to reconnect just like old times. Those were the things that Sukuna assumed was going through her head.

And as he did start with his ‘client’, it was probably best to admit that the sexual tension was high. The room felt stuffy as the both of them remained there until midnight, with her sitting on the tattoo chair, and him doing her tattoo to her left. His eyes were intently focused on the intricate patterns he was doing on her arm, but also couldn’t avoid seeing the contours of her breasts since she was wearing such a thin tank top. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen them before. He’d seen every part of her body from her neck down to her toes. He’d put her in every position from missionary to doggy. Goddamn, he could even remember how warm she felt around his cock. Didn’t she like it when he came inside her? Or when he made her swallow every drop of his seed?

Sukuna cleared his throat, shaking his vulgar thoughts away as he continued with Yorozu’s arm. He may not be cheating, but thinking back on those intimate experiences with someone else other than his girlfriend was definitely not morally right either. But what sexual experience could he reminisce about with you? That ridiculously embarrassing night you two had shouldn’t even be counted since he was trying so hard to forget about it.

He cleared his throat. Again. For the third time. “What, uh, what’ve you been up to?”

Yorozu, who had no clue about his thoughts, turned her face to look at him happily. “Not much, actually. The bar I worked at closed down, but I got myself a new job in this club as a full time hostess and part-time promoter. You should come by. Drinks on me.”

By not exactly accepting or refusing, Sukuna decided to just smile it off. “That’s why you moved to this city?”

“Yeah, I mean… obviously, the rent here is higher, but it’s closer to my job. I get paid decently, too.”

“That’s nice.” He was just trying to make small talk at this point. “Do you know your way ‘round here? How are you gonna get home?”

She considered her options. “Probably a bus or something?”

Sukuna paused, contemplating the situation. “There's no bus here at midnight,” he remarked, concerned for the girl who would have to navigate her way home alone at such a late hour. She was new to the area and clearly still adjusting to the commuter lifestyle. Unlike her, he had a vehicle that could safely transport her home. There would be no harm in offering, right? “Look, I have a bike and I usually take midnight rides, anyway. I can drop you off on my way home.”

“Really?” Her voice echoed excitement in them. “I’d appreciate it, Ryo. Thanks so much.”

Life was ironic, truly. He didn’t see this situation coming because he never expected that he would even come across Yorozu ever again. They didn’t have any contact prior, but he still saw her on social media whenever he (on very rare occasions) decided to check his accounts. He never had her blocked, either, which was why you knew about Yorozu after snooping through his phone and reading through some of his old messages with her. Sukuna used to tell you not to worry about her, and that she was just his ex, and that she had nothing on you—which were all true, of course, but it was funny to him now that the woman his girlfriend was most threatened by was back in his life.

And she was riding at the backseat of his motorbike, her arms latching at nothing else but around his torso. She was seated at the seat reserved for you, wearing the helmet that was bought for you, and holding onto a man that was rightfully yours. It all didn’t feel right.

But because Yorozu delighted in his habit of speeding on the highway, he had somehow forgotten about the guilt that was forming in his heart.

“You still have your ex’s Instagram?” Your questioning eyes met his defensive ones as he joined you in the living room, finding his space on the couch next to you. “I read your dms. Why haven’t you blocked her?”

Sukuna’s breath remained steady. “Only toxic people do that shit.”

“But I’m not comfortable with it!” you nagged, letting him snatch his phone from your grasp.

“Do you see me talking to her still?” he asked, trying to be as patient as he could be, “Baby, I don’t even talk to her. I don’t think she’s active there, either.”

You crossed your arms. “Then, block her?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being fair. You shouldn’t be keeping tabs with an ex.”

“What are you—” Sukuna decided to cut his own sentence after realizing that the argument was plain stupid. “You know what, I’ll just delete my insta.”

“How many times do you two do it?” you asked out of nowhere, sitting at the waiting area while he was closing his shop. “Your ex. How often do you have sex with her?”

What kind of trap were you setting now? If he told you an honest answer, you would get mad. If he lied or even sugar coated it, you would also get mad.

“Does it matter? Why do you keep asking questions about her and then get upset with me?” Sukuna’s frustration resonated in his sigh as he tidied the space where he tattooed his client a few minutes ago. “She’s an ex for a reason, so get over it.”

He was starting to get annoyed by your never-ending questions about his past experiences, but he knew you were simply coming from a place of no experience. You probably wanted to know what he liked in bed, what pleased him the most, what kept him from wanting more. Was that too much? No. Were you overdoing this entire thing? A little bit.

“Why are you defensive?” you asked softly, still sitting on the couch as you watched him avoid your eyes. “You make me feel so insecure every time.”

He scoffed, shaking his head as he turned around. “I don’t know, baby. If you’re feeling insecure, then do something about it.”

“Thanks so much for the ride, Ryo.”

Yorozu stood by her door, returning the helmet back to him while she kept her eyes locked on his. Her gaze was inviting, tempting him to give in and submit to his carnal desires. Any man would read her intentions the same way; Yorozu stared at him like that because she wanted to invite him to her place. She wanted him to spend the night and do unforgivable things. To remember the passionate exchange they once shared.

But Sukuna wasn’t like that. No, he wasn’t a cheater. “I, uh, gotta get going.”

“Oh…” Disappointment clouded Yorozu’s face. “Okay, then.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“...Alright.”

“Okay.”

“Wait!” Yorozu pulled his arm just as he was heading back to his motorbike. The sudden closeness in their proximity made his heart race fast. He knew what was coming. “I missed you, Ryo.”

He knew what she was about to do next.

And holy fuck did he guess right, as he was taken aback when Yorozu suddenly leaned in to press her lips onto his. Her soft, cherry lips moved desperately to taste his sweet kisses.

But he didn’t return it. Instead, he immediately pushed her away. “Yorozu,” he spoke softly, “I have a girlfriend.”

“You do?” She didn’t need to hide it. He could see the heartbreak on her face.

“Yeah,” Sukuna confirmed, maintaining a more appropriate distance now. “We’ve been together for some time, and I live with her.”

Yorozu tried to maintain her facade of indifference, making it appear as though she was unfazed by his revelation. “That’s... That’s cool,” she said, “I’m sorry for, uh, the kiss.”

Sukuna nodded, “It’s fine. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“You’re alright,” she reassured him, “It's totally my fault. I hope she won’t be upset with you or something.”

Sukuna had no plans to tell you, knowing well the additional turmoil it would bring to your already strained relationship. However, he realized the importance of clarity in his intentions and the need to set boundaries. “We’re just friends. We’ll keep things civil. I’ll finish your tattoo in a couple more sessions, and then we’re done. Sounds fair?”

Yorozu nodded her head with a reluctant smile. “Fair enough.”

— —

5 more days. Her sleeve required five more sessions, and days went by too fast for him to count. He had busied himself with his clients, while you had busied yourself with yours. He couldn’t even spend time with you because his shop took a chunk of his time from him, and even at home, things had become too awkward ever since your unspoken night.

So, in some ways, Yorozu became his routine. She visited his shop for the past four nights and he had taken her home afterwards. She was in absolute love with her rose sleeve and they weren’t even complete yet. He still owed her one last session and told himself that it should also be the last time she should be around him. It wasn’t right and he didn’t want to create another source of argument with you.

And in truth, he certainly felt a little guilty for spending more time with his ex than his own girlfriend. But did he purposely do it? No, it was fate that brought her to his door about a week ago.

In spite of his stubbornness to admit his wrongdoing, he still ended up stopping by the flower market to get you a nice bouquet of white lilies. He knew you could make a prettier bouquet than that, but he thought it would be a perfect opportunity to surprise you with flowers that didn’t exactly come from you. Besides, he had some making up to do.

Later that night, when he returned to your shared home, he found you sitting at the couch seemingly waiting for him to come home. The lights were dimmed and the television was turned off. For some reason, you were wearing outside clothes and had a somber expression on your face, too. That alone caused the loud thumping of his heart.

“Hey,” he greeted, nonetheless, sitting next to you on the couch and kissing your cheek. “Everything okay, baby?”

Your eyes carried sadness in them as you looked at him and searched for answers you couldn’t find. “Where were you?”

Sukuna handed the bouquet over. “Got you flowers.”

You didn’t accept them. Instead, every second seemed to torture you. “Where were you before that?”

“In the shop…?” He didn’t know where to start, but he was definitely scared. “Why? Sorry I’ve been busy lately. I’ll make it up to you, angel.”

“You close your shop at nine,” you pointed out, voice breaking in the middle of your sentence. “Why do you always come home at two in the morning?”

Fuck. Fuck! What should he say? Should he make an excuse for it? Should he say he’d been checking on Yuuji after his shifts? Should he say he’d been riding to other cities to clear his mind? He didn’t fucking know what to say, especially not when you were clearly on the verge of bursting out.

“Answer me!” you cried, finally releasing the bottle out in the open. The tears that welled in your eyes now streamed ceaselessly down your face. “You’re an asshole. I-I hate you! I fucking… you think I don’t know? You think I’m too stupid to know?!”

Sukuna calmly received the fists you had swung on his chest as he tried to grab ahold of your arms. “Baby, I’ll explain everything.”

“No, damn y-you!” The tremor in your voice squeezed his heart in the most painful way because he hated seeing you breaking down in front of him and over him. This wasn’t the first time he had made you cry, but this was the first time he had seen you actually sob like this. “I-I gave myself to you! I left my p-parents for you! And this is what you do to me? You’re cheating on me with your ex?!”

He was desperate to hold you, hug you, cage you in his arms. He wanted to take your pain away. Wipe your tears away. However, you didn’t allow him to touch even a strand on your hair as you kept on pushing him off. Sukuna felt like he was going to lose his mind. “Baby, listen to me please. It’s really not what you think—”

“I don’t care!” you spat, moving away to wipe the tears off your face. “I don’t fucking care! You sleeping with her or not doesn’t change a thing. Don’t you get it? I’ll never be enough for you!” Despite your loud voice, the cracks in her facade only revealed your longing for validation and acceptance, etching into every tear-stained moment you two had shared over the course of your relationship. He watched you, paralyzed by the sight of you breaking down, as you grabbed a luggage you had been hiding behind the couch as if you were ready to leave. “I’ll never be the person you want me to be and staying with you will always remind me of it!”

“No, no, no… Let’s talk.” Sukuna had to suppress his own tears while he tried to reach out for you. “Baby, please. I don’t feel anything for her, or anyone. It’s just you. You are enough for me, baby. I’m sorry, please.”

You, on the other hand, were adamant at your decision. “I can’t stand what you’re doing to me anymore. I don’t like how you make me feel about myself. I hate how you make me question my own choices!” Tears continued to flow, and your voice wavered, transitioning from anger to a more subdued, pained tone. “I hate… I hate that I love you so much, that I lost all my backbone just to make you happy.”

“You don’t need to.” He was feeling more and more miserable now, his heart sore from all the emotions he had seen from you. “Y/N, you don’t need to. I’m sorry, I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

…

“It’s over, Sukuna,” were the last words he could recall hearing before passing out drunk in his bed that afternoon. “We’re done.”

— —

It was your first heartbreak. Your first actual relationship. Your first everything. Surely, people shouldn’t expect you to move on easily, especially not when the subject of your heartache worked across the street from you.

You were a mess. You had cried enough tears after you moved out of his apartment that night, screamed your heart out as you suffered from the pain of loneliness once more. You couldn’t even bear the thought of returning to your parents and hearing them say they told you so, because loving Sukuna was a choice you thought was good for you.

In the end, he was just a poison without any antidote. A toxin without remedy. The most effective solution was to sever all ties to prevent further contamination.

But strangely enough, you hadn’t seen him in his shop ever since that night, either. The tattoo parlor remained closed for more than two weeks without any notice. While a small part of you worried for him, a bigger part of you cared for yourself. He no longer held any importance to your life, and you should let it remain that way.

What you should focus on, instead, was living your life without any trace of him. A life of independence, away from the toxicity of a manipulative man who constantly made you doubt yourself and what you offered. As they say, you have to learn to love yourself first before you can fully learn to love others.

And in your journey of knowing the truth of that saying, a certain white-haired man entered your floral shop on a somber Friday afternoon just as you were arranging preordered bouquets for multiple customers to pick up.

“Hey,” you greeted the man, surprised at his sudden appearance at your shop.

Satoru grinned as he approached you closer. “I’m here to pick up two bouquets.”

“Oh, it was your order?” Your eyes widened. Silly you. Of course, Suguru would order on his friend’s behalf. He wouldn’t even get his girlfriend some flowers, let alone his mother. So this being Satoru’s order made much more sense. “Okay, you got a bouquet of blush peonies and another bouquet of pink tulips, am I correct?”

He smiled handsomely, displaying his set of perfect white teeth while listening to you talk. “Correct.”

“For your mom?” you asked before you made your way to pick up the bouquets, handing them to him carefully.

His response came with a soft, affirmative hum. “Mhm. One for her,” he said, taking only the bouquet of tulips, “The other is for you.”

Oh, no, no, definitely no. You had seen this before and it didn’t go well.

“That’s lovely, but…” You offered a smile. “I’m not taking those peonies.”

Satoru acted innocent, his vibrant blue eyes coruscating under the ambient lights. “But it’s mother’s day.”

You playfully shook your head. “I’m not even a mother.”

“Yes, you are,” he went on teasing, “the mother of my future kids. I like to think in advance, you know.”

Honestly? This man started off with a bad impression on you, but he wasn’t actually so bad. He was an easygoing, happy-go-lucky person who carried positive energy around him. That, and he was decent, too. He was the type of guy your parents would have surely approved of. He was a degree holder like you, even pursuing graduate studies to run a business that was already generating an income that you could only imagine of getting. He was set for life with no uncertainty with what he wanted for his future.

“Satoru?”

He met your gaze. “Yeah?”

“About your offer last time,” you recalled, recalling his earlier jest about teaching you some things in bed, “I think I'd like to take you up on that.”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna angst #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #tattoo artist sukuna #biker sukuna #tattoo artist x florist au

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littlcdarlin · 7 months ago

Text

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 || read on AO3

summary: Reader goes on a beach vacation with Joel after her father breaks his leg. tags: daddy kink, big age gap (Joel is 49, reader is 23), dbf!Joel, Joel has a lovely belly, Joel is a little mean, praise kink, Joel calls reader "kid", unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, sexual tension, blow jobs, smut with a little bit of plot, no use of Y/N, afab!reader, reader has hair (will add more as I add more parts)

note: The devil works fast but I work faster. New multi chapter smut fic inspired by those damn new Pedro pics in the works…enjoy part 1! I haven't planned all of the smut scenes, so if you have any requests for specific kinks/scenes, do let me know!

He’s dead fucking wrong. You love your father, enough to not immediately say no, but he’s wrong. It’s true you could use a girls’ trip, perhaps even a couple of days out of town with your Dad, and he’s not entirely off about university being the death of you, kiddo – you’ve spent one too many nights inhaling coffee and cramming for your finals. The idea of an all-inclusive trip is tempting, given the fact that all you manage to eat these days is pasta and store-bought pesto, if that.

Nevertheless, you need to keep studying, there’s less than two weeks left until your exams, and although the trip is only a couple of days, you don’t know Joel.

Sure, you’ve been to his barbecues, and he let you use his bike one year when yours was stolen and your Dad refused to buy you a new one, because you should have locked it up in the first place. You know how he patched up your Dad after the divorce – you never worried about your mother, who was heartbroken, but able to talk about it to her family and friends. Your Dad was the one you spent sleepless nights over. The way the beer bottles accumulated in his garage, how distant he seemed on the phone. You know it was Joel who looked after him, made sure he left the house and had anything edible inside it. You’re grateful for it, you are, but you don’t really know him. For most of your life, he has been a friendly smile and wave over a fence, and you’re shy around people you know much better than the occasional hey kid, you back for the summer? or if you see your Dad, tell him I borrowed his screwdriver, I’ll put it back tomorrow.

You do feel slightly guilty your Dad can’t go on his trip. He broke his leg, and although it’s not entirely your fault he slipped, you had been the one to mop the stairs right before the accident. As much as your Dad was looking forward to his vacation, after a week he had to admit a beach holiday would be little fun with a whole leg in plaster.

You sigh, staring at your phone screen, tapping on it every once in a while to keep it from turning black. He’s expecting an answer soon, you know he is. Who the hell books non-refundable trips anyway? When you get the time, you’ll need to tell him about a lovely invention that is insurance.

You glance over at the stack of unfinished coursework on your desk, your laptop taunting you with its quiet – no responses to the millions of job applications you have sent out have come through. At this rate, you’ll be jobless in a couple of months, when you finish your degree. You’ll have to live with either of your parents forever, no money for any sort of vacation whatsoever.

"Oh, screw it,“ you mutter, unlocking your phone, and typing quickly.

I’ll do it. Only because my A+ cleaning is the reason you can’t go. Tell Joel to bring something to read, I need to study.

***

"It’d be a shame if it went to waste, kiddo, I’m glad you’re doing this.“

"Yeah,“ you answer, thinking of the endless powerpoint slides you haven’t even looked at yet. "Maybe studying at the beach works wonders.“

There’s a knock on the door, and you move to open it, your Dad chained to his chair by his broken leg. You’re not particularly excited about the smalltalk you’ll have to make with your Dad’s friend, but if you remember correctly, Joel is as much the quiet type as you are, and might actually appreciate your studying. Great, you think, at least one of us will enjoy it, then.

When you open the door, the first thing that strikes you is how hard you find it to envision Joel at the beach – he’s all mountains and trees to you, with his lumberjack boots and flannel shirt. His smile is friendly, and only gains warmth when he notices the critical look you give his outfit.

"I know,“ he says, voice deep and quiet, "I’m king of dressing for the occasion.“

You grin, and open the door wider.

"Come on in. Dad’s in the living room. What’s with the…uh…“

Your voice trails off, as you gesture towards his distinctly un-vacationy clothes.

"Thought you might bail,“ Joel answers easily, stepping into the house. "Can’t imagine you’re overly thrilled about this.“

You think about denying it, but this is your chance to come clean about how you would much prefer keeping to yourself and preparing for your finals, so you sigh.

"Well, it’s kinda my fault Dad was, like, almost paralyzed from the neck down, so I figured the least I could do was not let his trip go to waste. I’ve got finals in two weeks, so the timing is…suboptimal.“

"Yeah, your Dad said. I brought reading material, so I won’t bother you too much.“

He’s easy, you realize. Easy to talk to, and easy to accept your reluctance to bond with an almost-stranger, quick to make you feel comfortable by hinting at that boundary. You smile back, and are struck by how he holds your eye contact until you break it yourself, nodding towards your suitcase.

"Think this will fit inside the car?“

"Sure,“ he answers, "I’ve got a Bronco.“

You have no idea what that means, but you assume it’s a good thing, so you smile vaguely.

"It’s an SUV,“ Joel explains with a hint of good-natured amusement in his voice.

"Right,“ you say, attempting to overplay your obvious lack in car-knowledge, "SUV. One of the big ones.“

It makes Joel smile again, and you notice the wrinkles around his eyes that make his face look all sunny.

"Yeah,“ he says. "One of the big ones.“

You lead him into the living room to say good-bye to your Dad, who’s expression is a weird mixture of sombre and excited at the sight of his daughter and best friend getting ready to drive to the airport.

"Take care of her, Joel,“ he says, when you’re getting ready to leave.

"Don’t worry,“ Joel answers with a pat to your father’s arm. "I’ve got her.“

"I’m twenty-three,“ you remind your father, "I’ve done more dangerous things than a trip to the beach.“

"Yeah, but you’re still my little girl,“ he answers with a smile, squeezing your hand. You squeeze back, though his comment irritates you.

"See ya, Dad. Call me if something’s wrong with your leg, alright?“

"Sure, kiddo. Have fun, you two, and bring me a seashell.“

Joel grins at the open envy on your Dad’s face.

"We’ll go on another trip next year,“ he says in an attempt to cheer him up.

"Yeah, yeah,“ your Dad answers, glancing at his watch. "Better get going, or you’ll miss the flight.“

"We’ll be fine, Joel’s got a fast car,“ you argue, "A Bronco. That’s an SUV.“

Joel snorts.

***

Joel lets you take the window seat and plops down next to you, legs slightly spread so as to fit into the little space the two of you have. His leg nudges yours, and he pulls it back immediately, though you can see how uncomfortable it must be with his knees pressing into the seat in front of him. You move your legs towards the window with a glance at Joel, who looks grateful and is able to relax his muscles into a more comfortable position without invading your space.

"Thanks,“ he mutters, "Fucking hate flying.“

So do you, though not because you’re too big to fit into the space, and not because you’re afraid – mostly because it’s boring. Sure, takeoff is exciting, but you get nauseous from watching movies and the plane is much too loud to really enjoy your music the way you would lying on your bed at home. You could study, you suppose, but you tell yourself you wouldn’t be able to concentrate and kick your backpack further under your seat. Joel notices and chuckles.

"Finals, huh? You almost done with your degree?“

You can’t imagine him finding your boring university struggles interesting, but you’re not exactly fantastic at smalltalk, so you take the conversation he’s offering you.

"I’ve got one more year, but I’ve got to do a six month internship, and write my thesis, so yeah, this is, like, the last of my regular classes and exams.“

"You enjoy it?“

The question is strikingly honest, like he really wants to know, like it’s fine if you don’t. You look at him, his eyes already on your face, and for a second you think how handsome he is. You didn’t notice before, when he was just the owner of a bike you could conveniently borrow, when life was all skinned knees and staying up till sun-down. Now, he looks like an equal, like someone who wants to know about your life, someone you want to know about yourself. The change is a little unsettling, but thrilling. You realize you haven’t answered him, so you clear your throat.

"Sure, it’s alright. Not what I would have done if money didn’t matter, but it does, so…I can be content with it.“

Joel considers this, eyes still lingering on your face, as the plane starts speeding up for takeoff.

"What would you do if money didn’t matter?“

You shrug, and smile to yourself.

"Creative writing, maybe. Or English lit.“

"You always were the smart one in your family,“ Joel answers with a chuckle.

You glance at him, and feel a pang of something warm in your stomach as he compliments you. When the plane takes off, you look out of the window, but get the feeling Joel’s eyes keep looking at you. It makes your skin prickle, though not at all unpleasantly.

***

You get to the hotel when the sun is high in the sky, burning the top of your head and making you long for a shower and an ice-cold coke. Joel courteously carries your suitcase and although you don’t want to inconvenience him, you don’t mind the way his muscles bulge under the weight, arms straining against the navy shirt he had underneath his flannel. You wonder how he’s not suffocating in the heat, wearing his thick jeans and boots.

When you get to the front desk, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, searching for his reservation details with furrowed brows. You smile when you notice he uses two hands to scroll. It takes him a couple of minutes, cursing under his breath, and you smile at the lady, who smiles back, patiently waiting for Joel to find the right email.

"Sorry,“ you say to her, and try to catch a glimpse at Joel’s phone, so as to figure out what’s taking him so long. "Need some help?“

He throws you an offended look that makes you grin, and finally shows the lady his phone. She smiles, types something into her computer and gets out two room keys.

"Go easy on your Daddy, it’s easier when you grew up with the internet,“ she says, handing you each a keycard. You feel Joel stiffen beside you, and your stomach flutters.

"Here’s your keycards, you’re on the third floor. Enjoy your stay!“

"Thanks,“ Joel mumbles, taking the cards and handing them to you, before grabbing the two suitcases. He huffs, when you walk around a corner and towards the elevators.

"She was makin’ fun of me,“ he says accusingly when the lady is out of earshot, as if that would be your fault. You snort, all of a sudden feeling giddy at the prospect of being at the beach soon, your holiday only a couple of minutes away.

"I don’t think so, she was trying to help you by blaming your incompetence on your age,“ you say, Joel looking at you like he can’t believe what you said.

"Sorry.“ Your voice is quivering with amusement at how offended he is. "Daddy.“

That makes him clear his throat, and if your eyes aren’t playing a trick on you, his cheeks turn a shade darker. Bingo.

"Don’t say shit like that,“ Joel grumbles, "’M not that old.“

"How old are you, then?“

"Why?“, he asks, eyes meeting yours, and suddenly you’re the one blushing, your stomach swirling with something you definitely should not be feeling for your Dad’s best friend. Joel shakes his head. "Don’t start something neither of us can finish, kid.“

It’s just an offhand-comment about the way you jokingly flirted, but you feel all bashful all of a sudden. His mention of there being something to potentially start, the fact that the possibility even crossed his mind…when you look up at him again and watch him press a button on the elevator, you study the grey patches in his beard, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches as you’re waiting, his thick fingers drumming against the handle of his suitcase. It’s not what you expected to happen, but Joel’s got you intrigued.

***

You both agree to take a shower, get settled in and meet outside the rooms in half an hour – they’re neighboring, so it’s not far. You’re too lazy to properly unpack, so you just grab a bikini and a comfortable white sundress to change into after your shower. The water is welcome on your skin, washing away the grit and sweat of the hours spent on the plane, and you feel like a new person when you step out of the bathroom. You put on sandals and a pair of sunglasses, grab sunscreen, your books and notes for class, and a bottle of water, and throw it all into your beach bag, then head for the door. Joel is already waiting for you, leaning against the wall opposite your door wearing a different shirt, red swimming trunks and dark sunglasses. He’s got a towel thrown over his shoulder and you grin.

"Raw-dogging the beach?“, you ask, which makes him furrow his brows.

"The hell does that mean?“

You snort at his obvious annoyance at your innuendo.

"It means you’re only bringing a towel, nothing to entertain yourself with,“ you explain, gesturing towards your bag. Joel shakes his head, still frowning.

"I’m going to the beach, not the library,“ he answers, and starts walking towards the elevators, his flip-flops making their soft sound on the floor. Your gaze flickers down towards his legs, his swimming trunks revealing tan thighs.

"Comin’?“

You swallow, and catch up with him.

***

He’s fucking gorgeous. It’s a problem, how gorgeous he is, tan torso, swimming trunks low on his hips, bits of dark hair scattered across his chest and soft belly. His shoulders are wide, like they were made for swimming, his hair glistening as he shakes like a wet dog when he comes up for air. You have been staring at the same page for far too long now, but there’s no way Joel is able to notice your staring, not when you’re wearing your sunglasses and he’s busy swimming.

You know it’s a bad idea, that there’s no good that can come from crushing on a man twice your age, more than that, even. You know he must surely see the girl who came over to borrow his bike with tears of anger in her eyes every time he looks at you, and you know how much he respects your father.

Still, you are allowed to have fun. You’re doing this for your Dad more than anything, and you’ve been bending over backwards trying to make him proud with your good grades, so if there’s something you’re able to get out of this trip, you figure you’re at least allowed to look. And anyway, it’s not hurting anyone. It’s just natural, the half-naked bodies and blissful relaxation would affect anyone who has spent the last four months cramped up in a little dorm room.

You watch Joel swim towards the beach again, rising out of the water like some sort of Poseidon sent to personally make this trip unbearable for you. You think of his reaction when you teasingly called him Daddy, and swallow.

"Fuck,“ you mumble to yourself, when he tugs on his swimming trunks so that they don’t slide over his hips, dripping water onto the dry sand all around him. He smiles at you as he makes his way over to your spot – two deckchairs shielded by a parasol.

"Wow,“ Joel says sarcastically, when he looks at your book, still on page two. "Real page turner, huh?“

You blush, and open your mouth to defend yourself, but Joel’s expression softens, all biting humor gone, as he grabs his towel.

"You’re allowed to take a break from studying, you know?“

You watch him dry himself off, big hands rubbing the towel over his chest and stomach, leaving his legs to dry on their own, as he lays down on his deckchair.

"Easy to say, you’re not the one who has to face my Dad if you fail all your exams.“

Joel turns his head towards you, and you’re struck by how gentle his expression is.

"I know he can be a hard ass, but I guarantee you you’re not goin’ to fail all your exams, kid.“

You sigh and shrug.

"He give you a hard time ’cause of your grades?“

"No,“ you answer quickly, all of a sudden feeling defensive of your father. "I just wanna…make him proud.“

Joel smiles.

"I know for a fact you’re doin’ that without even tryin’. And anyway, it’s good to take breaks. Let’s your brain cool off and absorb information much better afterwards.“

Can’t argue with that logic, you think and close your book with a thud. Joel grabs it from you and throws it into your beach bag.

"I grant you two hours of studying each day,“ he says, and you have to laugh. "The rest is for having fun, gettin’ tan and drinkin’ cocktails."

It’s preposterous, that he would order you around like that after you told him you need to study, back before you even made it to the airport. But something is different here, away from your desk, and your Dad’s broken leg (and the rest of him, for that matter). Joel and you have fallen into an easy dynamic, and although it’s unusual, your reservations are gone. You’re actually looking forward to spending time with him, and not just because of the way his belly nudges against the waistband of his swimming trunks, or how his accent seems to thicken in the sun.

"Fine,“ you say, "but you’re paying for my tuition if I do end up failing, Miller.“

He grins at you.

#mine #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us part 1 #tlou1 #tlou #pedro pascal #my writing #dbf!joel #older!joel #smut #Joel miller smut #Joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel miller #tlou fic #my burning sun will someday rise

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sleep-0-deprived · 9 months ago

Note

Hello Dimitri!

I really love your works - especially your yandere oc's and jjk content!- I was wondering if I can put in a request for a poly yandere of Geto and Gojo with a bottom male reader? I want to know how this relationship works when they were in their teens and now that their adults (Geto still choose to be a cult leader, also he does not die. My poor heart cannot handle the heartbreak of Geto dying and leaving Gojo and reader behind ). You can make it sfw or nsfw which either one you like! :)

Ps. Sorry for the long request, it is my first time requesting (0///0)

Two psychos is better than one right?~! (Yandere Geto suguru x male reader x yandere Satoru Gojo) ❀˖°

WC:. 5.7k

Tags: fluff-smut, threesome, spit roasting, poly satosugu, trio friendship, friends to enemies to lovers blowjobs, p in a sex, male on male oral, handjobs, ass eating, anal creampies, Yandere themes, dark content x male reader, dub con, non con, manipulation, drugging, Gojo just gaslighting reader

About: satoru and suguru become friends with male reader ending up in an obsession leading to Geto leaving, even after you split ways with him, he stays watching you from afar despite their separate paths they stay holding their obsession leading to trapping you.

A/N: this is a bit of a longer fic compared to others I’ve I’ve wrote, I put all my effort into this one! After some long writers block I’ve made it back around into writing again <33

Before the Riko incident you became a transfer at jujutsu high, you weren’t really strong nor weak, you were the prime balance of an average guy who just wanted to be in the middle- as long as you helped others then that was fine by you, being well known seemed overrated anyway.

You never thought you’d get between the infamous duo, they were tight knit after all, they were all any jujustu student aspired to be and after all you were just a boy looking to make it through the academy without any complications

If you would’ve known the outcome of transferring to this school you would’ve stayed far away, how did you even enter their lives? You were put on their team as a balance, you were put there to be guided and who was better to guid you than you once upper class men Satoru?

You were put on their missions, it started simple, the three of you going against curses together but you noticed very quickly that your friendship meant more to them than what met the eye. The friendship you thought of as normal or even just knowing them out of same interests turned dark far to fast.

What stool out at you the most was during a mission when you were saving a civilian from a low level curse, after a hour the fight was over and you were clean from any wounds, the man just ran up to you muffling his words between tears grabbing your hands.

“thank you—I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t show up!”

The man hugged you and the next thing you knew you tilted your head and suguru was already pulling him off of you pushing the man away harshly throwing him to a wall of a near by store.

“What do you think you’re doing suguru?!”

You quickly ran forward to him pulling him away from the civilian leaving the man running off terrified, your hands reaching up to his uniform shaking him back and forth while yelling at him. All Geto seems to do is stare blankly like he didn’t care what you did in the slightest.

“He touched you [name], nobody should get up close and personal, unless it’s me or Satoru”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You two aren’t my damn keepers, we are friends Suguru- just friends!”

You look at him offended with your lips pressing in a thin line shoving him back and letting him go, walking off pushing past a confused Gojo leaving him tilting his head looking back at Geto with a ‘what did you do?’ Face.

The next few days to pass you avoided Geto like the plague, only being around Gojo when he wasn’t near Suguru.

Sitting in a café during the weekend with Gojo lifting your drink, the feeling was off and you weren’t the biggest fan of how Gojo kept staring over at you but your dad was pushing you to be more like other boys your age, that’s how you ended up calling Gojo on the water day morning after the incident with Geto.

“You don’t have to avoid him Y’know [name]?”

Gojo breaks the silent looking at you with his eyes rolled forwards under his glasses watching your every move when you take a bite of whatever pastries you made him buy you.

“He’s just so damn possesive Toru- it’s like he thinks I’m his property..it’s just weird”

Gojo just gives a shrug, of course he would. Always sticking up and vouching for Geto like he was some sort of fan boy. What did you really expect? Gojo knew Geto before you, they had an uncanny close relationship and knowing all you know now looking back on it that’s the reason Suguru didn’t mind sharing you with Satoru.

“I think you’re overreacting, he was probably just worried about you, I’m sure he did in in good intentions”

“Yeah, whatever you say Toru”

You shove down a few more bites while Gojo takes a sip of his tea, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched but you always feel that way. Gojo kept trying to bring the topic back to Geto, trying to persuade you two to make up and apologize but you were just creeped out with his actions.

“Come on? He’s our friend [name] you don’t wanna be the one to put a wedge in our trio right?”

Gojo did his best to speak sweetly to you. Trying to convince you, and if that didn’t work then he’d just whine and make you feel bad til you felt like you just had to forgive Suguru. You didn’t wanna be the reason your friend ship fell apart with them right?…

The next day was a Sunday and Gojo had practically done everything but force you to meet up with Geto. Gojo had used the fact he and Geto were on a mission looking after a girl as the perfect opportunity to finally get you three together.

You hear your phone ringing whilst you lay sprawled out in bed, it’s a Sunday morning after all, it’s the last day of your week to sleep in until next weekend.

“Hello Toru..why’re you calling me so early?..”

“I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come and hangout at the beach today? Me and Geto are gonna be watching after this girl for our mission and I really-really want you there [nicknaamee]”

You just let out a small sigh and groggily open your eyes up begrudgingly mumbling back out to Satoru when you hear his whiny voice on the other end of the phone pleading and going high pitch on the nickname he gave you”

“Fine I’ll come but don’t let him act creepy Toru”

After that day at the beach things fell right back in line, you and Suguru had made up, and Gojo was happy, after all his best friends had made up.

Then it went and happened, some assassin had killed who they were protecting- or so Satoru told you. You weren’t there the day it had happened, you were on another mission with your upperclassman Nanami. Suguru wasn’t the same after that point, he hardly talked to you or Gojo- he would just silently space out staring at you.

Then summer hit and when he had came back he wasn’t the same at all, he was cold and distant and snapped at you over the slightest things. If you spent more time with Satoru than him then he’d give you the cold shoulder until you apologized despite your lack of knowing what you did wrong.

“I just don’t understand why you’re acting like this Suguru?”

You walked along side Gojo after school one day following after Geto, your eyes were wide and your lips pressed firm.

“Hey! Where are you goin?!”

Gojo ran faster than you walking forward more when Suguru stops and turns facing Gojo, their argument starts leaving you chiming in every few seconds standing next to Satoru, by the end of their fight Suguru just turns forward to walk away.

“Suguru wait! What the hell are you doing?”

You stand in utter disbelief for what was happening right in front of you— this couldn’t be happening? Your friendship was splitting up right before you and suguru, the boy that was eerily close around you was leaving you now.

You didn’t think you were going to be that affected over the loss but it left you confused on how you felt.

The days following that incident the team had drifted apart but you and Gojo had a newfound closeness but you couldn’t shake the feeling of always being watched, it felt like all eyes were on you even when you were walking through your dorm, that must just be the paranoia that comes with being a jujustu sorcerer right?

By the time you had graduated from Jujustu high, Gojo was already number one, you were happy for him of course as any friend would be. Eventually by the ripe age of twenty you take up a teaching job at jujustu high after a long time of Satoru pestering you to take the job with him.

“If I take the job will you just shut up Toru?”

“Of course I will! I promise [nickname]”

You eventually get tasked over the same team as Gojo, which you found strange. Not that Gojo didn’t totally pull strings to make them place you two together. The teams you were mentoring were names Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi, the boy that Gojo had been watching after ever since he fought with his father- you think he’s the son of that assassin that killed Riko.

The Jujustu world became hectic, not that it was new but it became crazier than usual especially after finding out that Yuji boy had ate one of the king of curses fingers— how was he even alive after that?

Over the years of being a Jujustu sorcerer you had seen and dealt with many things and you couldn’t deny you never thought you’d see Suguru again, not after what he did to his parents- you had just assumed he was gone for good. For some odd reason Gojo never seemed too concerned it felt as though he knew something you never did.

You remember earlier in the day hearing Satoru asking you to take the subway with him later after classes had ended, something about this new place he wanted to take you too and knowing Gojo and his Expensive tastes you had just expected another luxury restaurant so imagine the confusion on your face when you see a old Japanese style parlor.

You walk right in behind Gojo, following confused seeing the dark colored interior and dim lights, non sorcerers walking out of the place wearing matching robes.

“What is this place Toru?”

“It’s just a parlor ran by an old friend”

The way he hummed those words with a smirk made you feel uneasy, this place felt cultic, the purple walls and candles lit around the halls leading towards a pair of Japanese styled double doors, Satoru opens them ushering you inside. Your senses feel different in this room, it smells sweet and all you can do is feel fuzzy inside, were you being laced?

When you come to again you open your eyes half way seeing two figures hovering above you. Softness is all you can seem to feel right now, you’re laying on something soft, maybe a pillow? It’s fluffy and all you wanna do is close your eyes and succumb again, your body is weak and you only muster up enough strength to open your eyes when you feel a hand undoing your pants.

Your eyes roll around a little in their sockets before focusing in on the two figures, they look like yin and yang- one has white hair, it’s Gojo…is that—

“Suguru?”

His name sounds pathetic when you slur your words looking up at him letting out a little whine seeing his robes, where has he been and why was he dressed like a messiah. What was happening? All those thoughts are postponed when you feel hands pulling your cock out of your boxers.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you [name], god you know how hard it is to not be able to touch you? To not hear my name from your mouth? It’s torture sweetheart”

“Awe suguru! You told me the cameras I put in his apartment were close enough?”

Satoru and Geto conversation while kneeling before your body, one of them on either side of you with Suguru’s hand on your cock playing with the soft flesh and teasing it. Your body felt too many things to let your mind properly think.

“You’re alive?”

Those words come out shakily with your body shuddering feeling the warm palm of his hand under the base of your cock pulling a few strokes while Satoru leans down more sliding your shirt up your body, lifting your arms up and discarding it while you lay on your back in the parlor. Your eyes seeing candles lit around the room next to a picture of Geto— this was a cult.

“Of course I’m alive? Why wouldn’t i be [name]?…you know me and Satoru will never leave you”

“Look at him Suguru, he’s so loopy, I told you that gas was too strong~”

Your cock pulses in his hand with your nipples erect from the cool air, your body heating up and your cock starting to leak precum.

“What’re you two doing?”

The words fall weakly while you lay on the pillows with your eyes circling in on Geto the whole time he touches your cock, your eyes rolling over to Gojo when he coos words to you talking you through it while your hands tremble pulling at the pillows.

“What we’ve wanted to do since day one [name]”

Suguru hums, leaning in more stroking your cock a little faster and moving his way between your thighs before craning his neck backwards whispering out something to Gojo. Gojo groans and pouts, taking his hands off your body and getting up walking off and out of the room leaving you and Suguru alone.

When Gojo comes back he’s holding a bottle of strawberry flavored Lube, Geto let’s go of your now hard cock and turns you over on your stomach, Gojo tossing Suguru the lube while he squirts the lube all up and down your crack, sitting the lube aside and squishing your cheeks together over and over making the lube smear around in between your cheeks.

“All I can think about is how you’ll taste, I hope Satoru don’t get mad I eat you up first”

Geto leans down kissing your arch and holding your hips sliding them down to your ass cheeks and slowly pulling them apart while grinning up at Gojo, watching the white haired man undoing his slacks and pulling out his cock, Gojo slaps his tip to your lips still soft.

“Toru please-“

“C’mon, suck it hard f’me?”

Before you can respond Geto has his faced buried between your cheeks eating you out like your his last meal, his tongue sliding up and down your crack and back down to your rim.

When your lips part to gasp, Gojo takes that as his chance to shove his cock down your throat making your lips wrap around him gagging and tearing up laying on your stomach with Satoru’s hand reaching down to grab a handful of your locks making you tilt your head back and look up at him.

“How’s it taste [name]?”

You can’t seem to muster a word, feeling Geto’s tongue going flat against your rim and pressing its way inside you while he reaches one hand under you to grab back ahold of your cock, Suguru starts stroking you in time with his tongue while aiming your cock down towards the pillows in jerking motions like he was milking you.

Gojo and Geto share gleaming looks, they were on cloud nine finally getting the intimacy from you they had longed after for years. Gojo thrusts his hips forward slowly making your cheeks bulge with every motion, his cock now fully hardened in your mouth hitting the back of your throat making vibrations around his base when you wail out.

“Poor baby is all delirious isn’t he Satoru?”

Geto smile against your flesh, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your rim rolling his own eyes back at the taste of strawberry and you on his tongue leaving a satisfaction in his stomach with his cock hard under his robes being pressed to his hip.

Gojo keeps stroking your hair before starting to lift your head by your hair and bob your mouth up and down on his cock making you deep throat him to the point your face was buried in his white pubes.

“Sugu—tworu ple~”

Your words come out choppy around his cock. You speak with your mouth full feeling your throat hurting and the hot tears in your eyes streaming down your cheeks being used by the two men unable to put up a fight due to the drugs in your system keeping you weak between the men.

The feeling of Geto’s tongue swirling around your insides makes your head go fuzzy again, you just wanna close your eyes but you can’t because yours are locked on Gojo’s bright blue ones, have they always been as blue as they are now? The look of pleasure on his faces makes knots build in your stomach knowing you’re the cause for his half closed eyes.

“Oh you’re so close aren’t you? Don’t even gotta answer I can tell [name]”

Geto can tell by the way your rim greedily puckers around his tongue and the amounts of precum oozing from your tip that you’re on the verge of your orgasm. His hand keeps working you between your thighs leaving your legs trembling laying on your stomach when a wave of heat floods your whole body making you moan around Gojo’s cock.

Your tip starts to swell angrily under Geto’s thumb, when his tongue laps your prostate it pushes you past your breaking point making you lose it, cumming all over the pillows, staining the purple fabrics with an off white stain making Gojo look down at you with his signature smirk.

“Mhmf— he’s a fuckin squirter Satoru”

“Suguru you should just feel how he’s gagging on me right now-“

They talk about you like you aren’t there, using you for their own pleasures you feel Geto pulling his face from your cheeks with one last lick pulling his tongue out of you leaving your s/c ass all sticky from a mix of spit and lube.

Geto starts lifting up his robes pulling them up over his head throwing them to the side with a smile, wearing black boxer briefs with a prominent bulge inside them with a dark patch of black hair trailing down his abdomen giving Satoru little to the imagination.

Suguru slides his fingers under his boxer waist band pulling them down his thighs allowing his cock to spring forward and press to his stomach.

“I would ask if you’re ready [name] but you probably shouldn’t speak with your mouth full~”

His voice is cold and mocking not giving a damn about Satoru face fucking you like a fleshlight. Suguru pulls your slick cheeks apart again thrusting his cock up and down your crack getting himself lubed up with the mixed substances.

Gojo reached his thumb down tracing over your full cheeks, watching how your throat bulges more and more the deeper he pushes himself inside your mouth fucking your eyes to reverse watching how they looked away from him and into the back of your head with a teary face that could arouse any man.

“I need-air tworu~”

Your drool running down your chin with your cock half limp between your thighs from how Geto jerked you off leaving you already feeling empty. Suguru reaches his hands up and grips your hips tightly nudging his cockhead against your rim watching while it stretches wide in a sad attempt to fit him, his cock feels like it’s tearing you in half.

“Fuck!~ hurts Suguru—“

You gasp when Satoru pulls his cock from your mouth leaving you fishing the purple pillows clenching up around Geto while he lazily pushes in, he doesn’t pay mind to it hurting you, he rubs small circles on your hips before bottoming himself all the way inside you with your rim leaving a little blood in with the lube from being stretched so much you tore.

“Shh, now you know you can take it can’t you [nickname]”

Gojo drops your head letting it fall forward with your teary face in the purple pillows, your lips all swollen and your throat feeling like razors doing nothing but keeping you from screaming anymore. Your voice is weak and all you can do is hold the pillows and let out little squeals around Suguru.

“Suguru- pleasee—“

You get shut up again by Satoru’s cock, he doesn’t tap his tip to your lips like last time, he forced his whole cock back down your drool filled throat making a slobbery mess running down your face while you reach one hand back trying to push Suguru’s hands off your hips.

“Don’t even try it [name] you know better, god you’re still as feisty as the last time I seen you”

Suguru reached one hand forward holding both your wrists tightly leaving promising red marks while he slowly thrusts his hips forward pushing your face more into Satoru’s groin when Suguru starts to fuck you from behind holding you and binding you with his hands keeping you all defenseless but at this point with the way his cock is sliding against your inner walls you can’t even properly think.

“There you go [nickname] you’re so good at this aren’t you? I think he was made for two cocks Suguru”

Gojo’s blindfold hanging around his neck with his large hand around the back of your head holding it in place while he rocks his hips forward making his veins start prodding against the roof of your mouth more showing you he was close.

“Hmfh!~ Toruu”

You whine wanting to reach your hand down and start touching your cock, you needed to come so bad but you couldn’t do anything but depend on them to make sure you got off. Suguru’s cock pressed against your prostate milking your insides with his base stretching your channel to fit his cock like he was trying to mold you.

“Does our boy wanna come that bad?”

Geto asks you with a fake confused tone fucking you a little harder holding your hands behind your back with one hand using the other to reach down and lift your left thigh up forcing his cock inside you at a deeper angle making you feel every vein and curve to his cock.

“Mh hmm-!”

You’re so far gone you can’t bother to care about every messed up thing these men are doing to you, all your mind can process is ‘needa come’ your back arches and you start trying to bob your head under Satoru’s hand trying to earn good graces from him when you look up at him with your wide eyes batting your lashes back and forth like a doll.

“Oh what’s this? I think he’s starting to be a good boy Satoru, you think we should let him come?”

Suguru asks Satoru with a smug smile holding your thigh tight fucking your insides raw with your rim all puffy and wrapped around his cock split open wide now accepting him with ease with the room in the parlor filling up with lewd squelches from the mix of lube and his spit making wet sounds when his hips hit your ass cheeks.

Plap-plap-plap, the sounds silently echo throughout the room while you just stare up at Gojo with a full mouth before feeling his load shoot down your throat spilling all over the back of your throat and running down the roof of your mouth leaving the pungent taste on your lips.

“I think we should let him come Suguru- he’s been actin nice hasn’t he?”

“I think you’re right Toru~ good boys deserve rewards after all”

Geto let’s your arms go reaching back down between your thighs starting to jerk your cock like he did before, fucking you rougher with his chubby cock head pulsing and twitching on your prostate putting a strong pressure in your stomach threatening to break over at any moment.

Satoru’s cock slips out of your mouth letting you finally breath and gasp for air while Gojo stares down at your face stroking his soft cock hard again and aiming it at your fucked out face watching you get pounded from behind by Geto.

“Close- just a little more- suguru pleasee~!”

You start letting out whiny moans and sounds you never new your voice could make when his thumb runs right across your slit, staring up at Gojo the whole time with your teary face ruined and covered in tears and drool with your hair messy from Gojo’s pulling. Geto keeps going bucking his hips forward harshly rutting himself into you going deep as he can pressing his balls to your backside feeling your rim spasming ready to orgasm around him.

When Suguru flicks his wrist holding the base of your cock it sends you over the edge arching your back under him clenching around his cock and holding onto the purple fabric beneath you, orgasming so hard your ears start ringing making everything in the room feel surreal when you come in Geto’s hand.

“There he goes Suguru- oh that’s such a beautiful face you’re making [nickname]”

Your come floods over Suguru’s thumb and spilling onto the pillows under you making you wail and cry at the nearly dry orgasm being pulled from your cock having you stiffening up under the two men with your nose scrunched in a over stimulated pleasure.

“I’m getting close [name], gonna flood these insides”

When Gojo hears those words he starts stroking his cock faster at your face watching his two best fiends fucking eachother with you laying all out of it and fuzzy from the drugs having you limp under Geto when he lets your thigh down to mount you more fucking your motionless body making you feel how his cock nudged you on its own before his flood gates break.

“O-oh hng~ suguru-“

The words come out high pitched and louder than the last when his come floods your anal cavity, the warmth surrounds your prostate in a hot sensation leaving you feeling all bloated and full from his seed, your hole instinctively starts to clench and unclench around him milking the rest of his load out of him while Gojo lets out a groan watching the whole scene play out before him.

“Here it comes [nickname]”

Those words were the only warning that Gojo gave you before his orgasm shoots across your face all over your nose and lips running down your chin, mixing in with your spit and tears leaving you completely ruined from the two men, with two loads in your tummy and another on your face leaving you spent.

“I can’t take no more Toru~ Suguru I can’t-“

“But you gotta [nickname] ! I haven’t even got to feel your hole yet~”

Gojo lets out a whine while Geto lets go of your cock and pulls out of your ass, using his thumb to push any come that oozes from your hole back inside you while he rotates with Gojo letting Satoru get right behind you swapping places, god! At this rate it was gonna be a real long night.

“Toru- I can’t take it”

You droop your head down feeling his hands flipping you over back into your back on the pillows feeling your come stained pillow fabric pressed to your skin making you cringe, Satoru lifts up one of your legs placing it up on his shoulder nudging your sore rim with his cock while Suguru adjusts himself now facing at your head pressing his cock against your come stained lips.

“Don’t lie, we know you can take it [nickname], you were made to take it baby”

“He’s right baby, we know you can handle it”

They don’t take your weak response as an answer, Gojo slowly pushes his cock into your already stretched hole, sliding in easily from Geto’s come and lube. Your chest aiming up at the air arching splayed on your back with your cock red and soft unable to harden from being milked to many times by the men.

Suguru pushes his cock pash your lips delving it into your wet cavern. Your throat bulges again from your now full mouth, your whole body aches and hurts but all you can do is lay still and take it. Gojo gives you no time to rest before he lifts your other leg up in the air holding you in a mating press while jackhammering into you.

“Fuck Suguru, you’re right his hole feels so fucking good”

Geto hums in response shuddering a little when your canines graze over a sensitive vein on the underside of his cock making him reach his hand down choking your throat a little bit as a warning making your fission blur from the lack of oxygen and the way Gojo was fucking you, reaching more spots than Suguru if that was even possible.

“Ah- careful with your teeth baby, don’t chew on it. Suck it”

Your thighs start trembling pressed to your chest with Gojo dipping his face down and burying his face into your pecks like a madman, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking on it. His hips roll forwards lifting and reaching down to pull your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with your moans being gagged by Suguru’s cock.

“T’muush~ too stuffed Suguru~”

You roll your eyes back into your head looking up at Geto above you with your nose pressed to his balls from the angle he was fucking your mouth at leaving Satoru’s cum all smeared across your face like a sticky mess. Your cock half limp and tender against your inner thigh while it rests on your stomach leaking a little puddle.

“You sucked Satoru off fine, I think you can handle me too [name], now don’t start acting defiant again on us”

The way Geto spoke to you made you whine sadly unable to fight either of them, the drug still in your system and the way they were trying to consume your body whole left you mute sucking on his cock while Gojo pressed his chest up against yours making your toes curl up when he thrusts forward and nails your sweet spot head on.

“Don’t be so mean to him Suguru, he’s just about used up S’ all”

Satoru coos out to Suguru while he makes the pillows dip under the shared weight of him on top of you, Geto’s come swirling around your insides and trickling down your thighs around the base of Gojo’s cock while Gojo bites down on your nipple again only pulling his mouth off of your flesh to speak.

“I’m getting close [name], do’ you want it down your throat or face?”

Geto asks looking down at you feeling his balls drawing up against your cheek signaling he was close to his peak. Gojo on the other hand didn’t care about Suguru’s orgasm, he was too busy trying to chase his own inside your stomach. Your rim starts burning and stinging from being used and gaping around a cock for so long leaving you in painful pleasure.

“On m’ face~”

You whimper out quietly just not wanting to have to taste another load or feel more come inside your stomach. Reaching one hand down whining when you start to touch your cock, it felt like touching a stiff rod, your hand slowly moved up and down it crying to have to pull another orgasm but you needed to come so bad.

“You can’t do that [nickname] you gotta come from me or Suguru, so no touchin yourself”

Before you can respond or complain Satoru has his free hand slipping off your hip and down onto your cock, quickly swatting your hand away from it. His strokes aren’t gentle like yours were, his are fast and unorganized like his thrusts are. Gojo takes his mouth off your nipple and shoves his face in your neck while Suguru keeps fucking your mouth, his thrusts slow down pulling out of your mouth with his cock jumping on its own.

“There we go [name] see what you do to us?”

Your ass feels sore and red from hips slapping against them over and over but before you can complain a hot load shoots all over your face spilling into your eyelashes and into your mouth making you taste his come, he tasted sweeter than Gojo, his semen more thick and less opaque than Satoru’s.

“I’m getting close Sa-Toruu~”

Your voice cracks from a sore face fucked throat, your lips are all sticky and cracked in the corners from opening your mouth too wide, your lips part and ho agape making an ‘O’ shape when Gojo bites at the crook of your neck licking over the red marks he’s leaving on your S/c skin.

Your abdomen starts feeling hotter and more tense making you sweat underneath Satoru when his cock teases your insides making your legs feel like jello up in the air with your knees bent over his shoulders. By the way Gojo was tensing up and the muscles of his shoulders stiffened beneath your finger nails you could tell he was about to come.

“Me too- you’re just milking it out of me [nickname]”

His hand works harder and faster against your cock making you groan starting to orgasm shaking and crying with hardly any semen able to spill from you. Your tip starts leaking barely any pre come, you begin orgasming dry making Geto smile above you happy to know they had milked your body dry, Suguru reaches his hand down stroking your cheek while Gojo plows you between your thighs making the room spin through your eyes.

Soon the feeling of warmth in your gut hits you again letting you know Satoru had just found his release inside you, his semen seeping out of you overflowing your hole leaving the thin strings of his come running down your thighs and staining the pillows beneath the two of you.

“Toruu.. I’m soo sore-“

You whisper out under him reaching one hand up to his neck and grabbing his hair with your other hand still on his shoulder. Rolling your eyes forwards looking up at Suguru with your insides flooded and your face ruined- god you can’t handle these two insane men- They’re something else!

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yoonjae20 · 7 months ago

Text

Danny deeply distrusts the Justice League

Based on the wonderful @saltymarshmall0w 's prompt.

I really feel like they aren't enough fanfics or prompts where Danny dislikes the Justice League — and continues to dislike them even after everything (Anti-Ecto Acts) is revealed and taken care of. (Or maybe I'm not looking in the right places — if you guys have any recommendations put them in the Tags or Comments!)

Read on ao3. Masterpost

After many years Danny has finally retired — sure he had to leave everything he loved and that was familiar to him behind for it, but it was worth it. He had a small little house that was his own, he would water his plants every morning and make small talk with his neighbors. Everything was fine.

Everything turns not so fine, when there’s a sudden knock on his door. Expecting it to be one of his neighbors — for example needing eggs or flour (a neighbor’s kid had needed eggs to bake one of her parents a cake and Danny had been more than willing to spare the few she needed) — he opens the door without a second thought.

Only to almost immediately want to close it again.

Because that’s the Justice League standing in front of his door. And that can mean nothing good.

Before Danny can slam the door closed, Superman‘s shoe slides in between the door frame, blocking his escape. The smile the man shoots him is probably meant to be reassuring, but the only thing Danny feels is dread.

To most civilians the Justice League is seen as a beacon of hope — but to Danny? He knows the bitter truth. When he needed them the most they turned his back on him before chasing him across half the globe calling him a villain without even hearing his side of the story. They handed him over the GIW for Ancient’s Sake. He would have died if it weren’t for Tucker and Sam. (He may not have scars to show for it but he can still feel his chest burn when he thinks back to it.) Not that they can remember that though. He still doesn’t trust them.

“You are Danny Fenton, correct?” Superman asks and Danny stiffens.

Fenton — not Nightingale like he has changed his surname into to escape his parents influence and leave everything behind.

“Yes,” he says warily — seeing no point in lying. Considering Batman is lingering behind Superman the Detective would figure it out instantly.

“And you used to be Amity’s Park’s vigilante Phantom?”

Danny grips the door frame, knuckles white. What’s their point? Are they trying to intimidate him?

“Yes,” he grits out.

“We were told that you are the one we should seek out in matters involving Ghosts and the Infinite Realms,” Superman continues, but Danny doesn’t let him finish.

“I’m retired,” he interrupts. “Find someone else.”

“There’s a world-ending event,” Superman says like that would convince Danny. Like Danny hadn’t lived though so many of them — had to prevent them from happening without anyone’s help every single time. Guilt-tripping much? “Even if you don’t want to fight — we need you as an advisor.”

Danny snorts, shaking his head.

“Go take up the matter with the Justice League Dark then.”

Danny moves to close the door, but still Superman’s foot doesn’t budge. He could probably brute-force his way through this — but Danny’s tired and he’s not in the mood to explain to his neighbors why his door is broken and he needs to do repairs.

He glares at them and to his surprise Superman actually takes a step back — but still not enough to be able to close the door.

Danny hasn’t transformed into Phantom since he left Amity Park. Had kept that part of himself locked away — would have separated his Ghost Self from himself if he didn’t know he would be selfish for that. Had ignored his Obsession even if it screamed at him — had pushed it away in his Human Form even if it muted all the colors around him and it meant that every breath was a painful wheeze.

Faced with this situation he almost wants to break the promise he made to himself — but he can’t.

There is no GIW anymore — Danny had made sure of that. He had wiped all of their files and his parents published research with the help of Technus. He had dismantled both portals to the Ghost Zone and made sure no one would be able to replicate it. But Danny also knows the Justice League — knows how much Superman’s punches hurt, how it feels to get mind controlled — they could overpower him in an instant if he twitched as much as into the wrong direction.

He really doesn’t have a choice here, doesn’t he? If he doesn’t go out of his free will — they will force him with any means necessary, of that much he is sure.

His gaze trails to his neighbor’s house and the swing in their backyard. And if they are right and he turns them away — is he sure he won’t feel any guilt if something happens that he could have prevented? Sometimes Danny really hates his Martyr Complex.

Danny sighs, defeated.

“What do you need my help for?”

They had liked their new neighbor despite the fact that he barely left his house other than to water his plants. They had known that the young man was sickly. He looked like death wormed him over and was weak on his feet— his ice-blue eyes dull. His smile barely held any warmth in it.

Still they invited them over after he had given their daughter eggs to bake the cake for their birthday. They learned that he was kind and had escaped to their small village to live a quiet life.

When the young man came to tell them that he would be out of town for a few days and to please water his plants if they could, they were worried.

“Are you sure that you are fine, son?” they asked and touched the man’s forehead — but it was icily cold like the rest of their skin had always been. “You look even paler than usual.”

The young man had only given them a half-hearted smile and affirmed them that he was fine

Their daughter's excited steps had hurried behind them and she tugged on their pants after the man had left.

“Was that Uncle Danny?” the girl asked. “Can I play with him?”

They gave their daughter a weak smile.

“Uncle Danny is busy for a few days,” they explained. “Later, okay? How about you draw him a picture while we wait for him to come back? So he has something to look forward to?”

Their daughter nodded and raced back to the living room, searching for supplies, while they continued looking out of the window. They can’t help but have a bad feeling about this.

It’s unnerving how quiet the young man is.

There are no easy smiles, sassy quips and puns like from the few shaky phone videos they had pulled from the internet about Phantom.

He’s meticulous. Probably even more than Batman — and that is a statement. There had been a deep mistrust in the eyes when they had located him and asked him to help them. It’s evident in every step he makes. He double-, even triple-checks every single evidence, every single sentence, every single word they say.

Nothing is left unturned as he works the way though the situation like if he is dealing with a case. He never stops moving, always doing something — reading through heavy leather-bound books or through their reports. His heart rate is so slow that Clark sometimes wonders if the boy is still breathing at all.

When the young man had asked them if they spoke to the leader regarding the war declaration and the reasons behind them, he had clicked his tongue when they told him no.

He hadn’t let anyone help him when he drew out the summoning cycle — it looked even more intricate and complicated than they had seen from Zatanna or Constantine. When he had spoken the words for the spell, his words had sounded ancient and undescribable — hushed whispers following every single word. He clasped his hands and only opened his eyes when he spoke the last word, his eyes burning a deep green.

The cycle goes up in green fire before a form appears — Clark recognizes the Ghost from the declaration.

The man’s cold gaze sweeps over the Justice League before it stops on Phantom. He smirks, bowing his head slightly.

“I greet the Prince of the Infinite Realms.”

“Cut the crap Fright Knight,” Phantom's voice is steel-hard. “We both know I refused that position.”

The man tilts his head but nods.

“Very well,” he says. “I greet Phantom, savior of the Infinite Realms.”

Phantom grits his teeth like he wants to refuse that title too before he shakes his head. He gestures to the Justice League.

“Explain.”

“We are just paying back what has been done to us,” Fright Knight claims. “Vita brevis, ars longa, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.”

“Life is short, art is long, opportunity fleeting, experiment treacherous, judgment difficult,” Diana translates for them.

“I see the Daughter of the Queen of the Amazons knows her arts,” the man’s voice has a hint of mockery. “Humanum genus est avidum nimis auricularum. Ignorantia legis non excusat:”

Diana’s eyebrows knit together as she listens.

“Mankind is too greedy for lies. Ignorance of the law does not excuse,” her voice is almost a whisper.

“I would have thought you would know of this Phantom,” Fright Knight addresses the young man again. “But now seeing your state, you probably didn’t feel the call for the announcement either. Is there a reason why you are starving yourself?”

Phantom doesn’t meet any of their eyes as he answers.

“That is unimportant to this situation.”

Fright Knight’s lips twitch back into a grin.

“If the savior of the Infinite Dreams claims so, then I have no choice but to accept it.” He turns back to the Justice League. “Si vis pacem, para bellum.”

“If you want peace, prepare for war.”

“When have we been ignorant?” Batman finally steps in.

Fright Knight huffs out a dark laugh.

“When has mankind not been ignorant?” Fright Knight questions. “When your government captured my brethren and tortured them, where were you? When they declared us as non-sentient and staged war against us, where were you? When they threatened to destroy our home, where were you?”

The man’s eyes seem to burn as he repeats himself.

“Where were you?”

Clark and the rest of the League are shocked to silence.

“Now that the danger has passed, why should we just forgive you? Why should we forget?” Fright Knight continues. “If we are not worthy enough to be counted towards mankind that means we just have to rewrite the rules. And since we were never given the chance to negotiate, that means by force.”

“The Meta-Protection Acts-”

“Only count towards those that are alive.” Fright Knight interrupts Batman. “After all, how can the dead feel any emotions such as pain? I’m sure if you ask your government they will hand you a lot of pretty reports on the biased experiments that prove so.”

“But that’s-” Clark starts but Fright Knight doesn’t let him finish.

“Despicable? When has that ever stopped mankind?” Fright Knight asks. “We can talk if there isn't a law that states that we can be eradicated without any consequences.”

Before either of them can stop him, Fright Knight swishes his cape made out of purple fire and disappears. Clark faintly asks himself if that is how other people feel when Batman does that in front of their noses.

Seeing no other option the entire League turns back to Phantom who hasn’t said a single word since the Ghost went on his tirade.

“Phantom-” Batman tries, but the young man’s eyes burn with so much hate that the normally stoic man stocks in his words.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Phantom seethes. “You heard him. Now finally do your jobs right for once.”

Then he leaves the room without a single glance back.

Clark gulps as they look at each other.

“I feel like we made a mistake.”

When the news declares the Anti-Ecto Acts as abolished, Danny feels nothing but exhaustion. The Justice League barely managed to avoid a large-scale — and very justified war.

Danny leans back tiredly on his sofa. His eyes trail to the drawing his neighbor’s daughter had given him and the first genuine smile in months graces his lips.

“What I don’t do for mankind,” he sighs before he closes his eyes.

#dc x dp #dc #danny phantom #danny fenton #justice league #danny meets justice league #danny is not the ghost king #yoonjae20 writing #yoonjae20 #fright knight #anti-ecto acts #dc x dp crossover

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snowstormarts · 25 days ago

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Can you make Headcanons for Amir,Hector,Volt & Eddie who with a Y/N who was once use to be in a bad relationship before with the ex trying to contact them again despite Y/N being in a new relationship with the Dateables

Oooh, I had so much fun writing this one, thanks for this request and you know the boys will turn from sweethearts into protective boyfriend in a blink of an eye! Also sorry that it took so long, I got sick/still am sick & coughing up a lung/suffocating almost a few times aint putting you exactly in a writing mood ^^"

Likes & Reblogs are appreciated and my ask box is open for Requests & Asks. Also because you asked to be tagged @itsseaberri

"An old flame who refuses to burn out"

[GN! Reader x Amir, Hector, Volt & Eddie]

🪞 Amir 🪞

- It happened during one of your "compliment taking" lessons, Amir was proud of the progress you've made over the months you had known each other. You could accept compliments much easier now and wouldn't hesitate to throw one back at him all the while giving him that smile that made his heart wanna leap out of his chest and into your arms.

- At first when your phone started going off he ignored it, assuming it's just your ex-boss or that assistant guy? Tom was his name he believed, were texting you again, nothing new really. But then it continued and he could see the tension rising in your body and before he could ask what was bothering you. He watched as you stormed off, cursing under your breath with your phone in hand as you typed something before throwing a pillow on top of it. [He felt a bit sorry for poor, Phoenicia but he could check on her later]

- He walked you downstairs, away from the constant buzzing to ask you what bothering his love. At first you refused to talk, staying quiet since you didn't want to bother Amir with it but he wasn't one for backing down and soon pried a "It's nothing, really...Just some idiot who dosen't know when to quit" from you

- Amirs curiosity was spiked and he continued to dig for more information. Holding your hand as he slowly kissed it up and down, across each knuckle before pulling back with a smile. Slowly but surely your body relaxed, shoulders un-tensed as he guided you to lean against him, running his hand through your hair and whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

- In the end it had all payed out as you let out a deep sigh and explained that your shitty ex was contacting you again. You had blocked them everywhere but they got a new number and messaged you over and over again, at first it seemed like normal small talk but of course that couldn't last. They suggested that you two should get back together, that the break-up and the fights were mostly your fault for 'stifling their dreams' and 'wanting so much attention.' When at most you asked to see or hear from them every now and then, to know they were ok but they wouldn't listen, they never did

- And as you talked Amir listened, he remembered a few years ago when you would stride into the bathroom with a smile and the air of pure excitement and confidence. You would always wear that gorgeous outfits as you made sure your hair was perfect before storming out of the house with a pleased hum. Only to return later looking exhausted, leaning against the sink as you washed your face. That wonderful smile he saw that morning, washed away and he could only watch you suffer. So close yet so far away

- But now he could be there for you, he promised he would take care of it. At first you protested, not wanting to drag him into this whole mess, more then he already was. Let alone have him hear what your ex had to say about you. Maybe you were afraid but who wouldn't be? What if your ex would threaten Amir or brought up things from your past relationship? Insecurities, fights that never ended well or just something that would make him see you in a different light? You couldn't stand the thought of loosing him

- But Amir didn't back down and after five whole minutes of staring at each other you gave in. "Promise me that, you won't hate me after you hear what they have to say about me." "I promise, even if I could never hate you. Now wait here for me, maybe get some tea for your nerves?" You nodded, watching him leave the room, hoping he would be back soon

- The second Amir got hold of your ex he tried to be polite, explaining that you had a boyfriend now and that you didn't want to hear or see them again. But of course they didn't believe it and went on a rant about you.

- Complaining about how you would take up space (having some hobbies that required some room, which you always made sure to clean up afterwards, maybe forgetting it once or twice) how you would complain about his friends (who didn't hesitate to make jokes about the two of you & one even dared to cat call you and then cried when he got a punch to the face), they would also complain about how clingy you were. They would've gone on and on about their perceived flaws of you but Amir had enough

- He was a patient man, he saw beauty in everyone he met but for once he couldn't see anything but an annoying, piece of trash that had caused you so many insecurities. And so he allowed himself to rip your ex a new, never letting them get a word in until the very end where he asked if they finally got his message and would leave you alone from now on. They agreed quickly and ended the call without another word

- Amir met you down by the couch again, tea on the table as you had pulled the blanket on top of you. Hiding you from the rest of the world until Amir gently pulled it down to reveal your beautiful face

- "Eshgam, look at me" his hand cupped your face not allowing you to turn away from him as he spoke. "I do not care what that disgusting, pig of an ex has said about you. They're clearly just jealous of your endless beauty, of the talent you hold and of all the hard work you've done." A kiss to the forehead was what finally broke you down into a giggling, slightly teary eyed mess as you pulled Amir into your arms. You two spent the rest of the day in each others arms, no more notification or call sounds, just Amirs sweet words.

💨❄ Hector ❄💨

- It was on one of your date nights, Hector was recovering from his outing with you and a few of the non-attic objects who had drained his social battery quiet quickly. But you both still saw it as a huge success in his ever growing self-esteem journey, he didn't even stutter this time when Betty called him a Sweetheart

- The only thing that had slightly bothered him was your phone that was constantly vibrating with messages that he could just tell were starting to grind on your nerves through out your outing. He didn't watch you lovingly from afar for so long without picking up at least some of your body language but even then, he had never seen you this frustrated? Stressed, Angry, Overwhelmed? All of the above? He wasn't sure what it was but it wasn't anything pleasant

- He was worried and suggested you go back to the attic, secretly hoping that the reception wouldn't be that good up there, which could've granted you some peace from whoever was trying to contact you. Sadly that didn't work and the barrage of messages just kept on going and going, your body continued to tense with each new 'bzz bzz' sound that filled the room

- It took another hour of your phone vibrating before he decided to get a quick peak at it while you were grabbing some more snacks from the Kitchen. Normally he wouldn't do it or at least ask you first but he just couldn't help himself this time, especially after seeing another notification bubble popped up of someone sending you a suggestively flirty message

- He wanted to read only a few message, really but they just kept on coming and coming. In the end his curiosity and worries won and he scrolled up, reading through some of the messages but quickly deciding to skim through most of them. Your ex was already getting on Hectors nerves for how they stressed you but now after reading what they sent? Oh, he was livid from all the insults & complaints that were thrown at you only to change the tune of the music not a minute later and ask for a "favor" or flirt with you, half-way through did Hector realize two things. One, this was clearly the shitty ex that you had vented to about after an outing at Beverly's which made him almost beg you to realize him just so he could go and beat their ass and second. You were standing in the attic door staring right at him

- He stuttered through an apology, explaining why he took your phone and looked through the messages from your ex and only your ex no one else. It still ended up with him getting a bag of chips thrown in his face and a light scolding but you couldn't be fully mad at him, seeing as you were weak to his puppy eyes...Also his apology kisses that were reserved only for you

- You two decided to rant about your ex, Hector mostly just listened to you, enjoying the sound of your voice even when you were pissed. What he didn't take into account was that after your ex saw that the messages were read that they would start typing even faster somehow. At that point Hector just decided to muted them for both of your sake´s and so that he could hear you better without any annoying buzzing sound.

- He held you close as you explained how the relationship between you and your ex had started out great, you two were happy, barely any fights and at one point you were sure that they were the one but then they started to loose interest in you

- At first you didn't notice anything and believed them when they said that life was simply a bit hectic, you too had days were you just wanted to fall onto a bed and scream your soul out before sleeping for a whole week. But then he would ghost you for weeks on end, no phone call or message, just absolute silence on their part. And when you did finally meet up with them again, they would just complain about you and how you were never there for them even though you tried. Only to be brushed off, again and again and then came the fights, followed by insult which turned into screaming matched where they confessed at last that they hated you. You remember walking out on them, ignoring their cries for you to come back and their empty apology's

- Hector was fuming as he held your hand, gently stroking it as he asked if he could have a word with your ex. It was clear to see that he was ready to set your ex straight and who were you to deny it?

- And that was how you had the pleasure of leaning against his shoulder and seeing him type away on your phone, you had to confess that seeing Hector this angry and protective was something you would love to see again

- It took 10 whole minutes before he sent his first message and more followed soon, your ex tried to talk his way out but got corned until they could only insult Hector for his "poor choice" in a partner and blocked you at last

- "Poor choice?! Who does he think he is to call you such a thing, maybe he should look into a mirror before saying such nonsense. You're like the best choice anyone could make, they should've been more grateful that you even spent your precious time on them!" He let out a sigh, turning to you. "But...I guess, I am happy they broke up with you. N-Not because you deserved it or because you were bad! No,no it's because I was allowed to get to know you better and be your partner! I swear it's not beca-"

- Normally you loved to hear him ramble on and on but right now all you wanted to do was kiss him and so you did. You pulled him down and kissed him until he ran out of breath and collapsed on the ground with a big goofy grin and eyes full of love as he slurred out a soft "I love you so much~"

⚡ Eddie & Volt ⚡

- Eddie was a bit worried after he saw you run out of the bar without saying a word, your eyes were laser focused on the screen of your phone, mumbling something he couldn't hear over Johnny's performance. He brought it up to Volt who didn't think much about it at first, he reassured Eddie that it might've been just a family member texting you or some other important call that you needed to take. But that didn't ease him, he just knew that something was wrong which only intensified when after they had closed the Breaker Box you still hadn't shown up. Not even for a quick goodnight kiss like you usually do, at one point they even tried to ask Dorian but he wasn't there in his usual spot, so Volt decided to go out and look for you

- Eddie wanted to come with him but Volt argued that someone needed to stay behind in case you came back to the bar and needed them. "Fine, I will stay here but when you find them bring them back here" "Of course"

- Volt started with the Bedroom where Betty was talking with Dirk who both assured him that you hadn't been in here since the morning. Able suggested checking out the Office, he was sure he heard you walking around in there not long ago, so with a quick 'thank you' Volt left. His own worries grew which didn't really help him when he saw you pacing around in the Office. Hand gripping tightly onto your other arm as you stared at your phone. He could clearly see the fear reflected in them as they flickered from window to window, almost as if to study which one would be the best escape route if you needed to leave run and couldn't go through the door

- He hated seeing you like this, driven by his need to comfort you he moved. His hand was raised above your shoulder, mere centimeters away from making contact but before he could you flinched away from him. Eyes widened as you turned to face him directly, it reminded him of a cornered animal, scared and yet ready to fight for its life

- Once you realized that it was just one of your boys you calmed down a bit, without hesitation you threw yourself towards him. To which he gladly caught you, wrapping his arms around you, one resting on your back and the other on your back, he wanted to ask what had happened, why you had run out of the bar and if you were ok but first he had to get you back to Eddie

- When Eddie heard the door open he walked (sprinted) towards the two of you, trying to play it off cool but you two could easily see the worry that was crawling under his skin. He hissed as he saw the indents on your arms, some nails had dug deeper then expected and without your notice had covered some of your arm in (now) dried blood. He quickly waved you over to the bar where he got started on taking care of your injuries while Volt sat besides you and asked what he had happened that made you pace like a tiger in a zoo

- You stayed quiet for a while, thinking about how to say it without causing both of your Boyfriends to go on a war path and cause a major blackout in your neighborhood (mainly because you didn't want either of them hurt.) Eddie waited patiently, caressing the back of your hand with his own as Volt assured you that they were here for you, no matter what

- With a sigh you started to explain what had happened, they knew a little about your ex thanks to a few late night ranting sessions. So they already knew they were an ass, you even had to stop them a few times from going out and electrocute them in their own home, though the sentiment while extreme was sweet. But you rather not be connected to a murder while stuck in work limbo

- It had started with them calling and texting you again whenever they could, asking (more like begging) you to give them a second chance, to take them back and even when you revealed that you're happily taken they wouldn't stop ("I could be your third!" "First of all, you would be our fourth and second no.")

- They had stopped for a few weeks, not thinking much about it you continued on with your life as usual but then the messages came again. But this time it wasn't them asking to get you back. Oh, no they threatened to come over and 'claim' you, since they believed that you two still belonged together and that your boyfriends weren't real

- It also didn't help that they knew where you were currently living, seeing as it's the same place you had when you two were still a thing. Even your own threats of calling the police or siccing your boyfriends at them didn't deterred them a bit, instead that was when the pictures started to come. At first it was random landscapes, buildings and those love quotes that could be found on Pinterest but slowly those pictures started to look familiar and the night at the Breaker Box they had sent you a picture of an old Cafe you two went to all the time, the caption read "soon :)"

- In that moment you just had to move and make sure every window and door was locked. You even asked Windowly, Curt & Rod and Dorian to keep an eye out for your ex and alarm you if they spotted them. Dorian assured you that he wouldn't let them get past him but seeing that you were still on edge he offered the basement as an emergency hide away

- You gladly accepted the offer and started to move a few things like a blanket, a book or two and a LED Candle (given to you by Jerry) into the basement. You were just pushing the curtains closed when another picture was sent to you, it was your ex smiling with the caption "only an hour away, see you soon <3"

- It was a few minutes after that when Volt had found you pacing and brought you back to the Breaker Box, which helped you a lot to not fall into a panic attack if you're honest

- Eddie was livid to say the least, not at you of course but at your ex and what action they took to torment you because of some sick delusion they had. One look at Volt told him that his partner felt the same, he could see the back of his neck and hands skin turn a light electric blue color. His hair started to spark as his smile turned strained

- They glanced every now and then at your phone that you had laid on the bar table, shining bright with each nee message and picture while they had started their current mission. Mission 'make your partner feel loved and safe before we have to go down and beat someones ass.'

- You three joked about, Eddie even went so far as to say he would try not to leave any blood behind since it was probably a pain to clean. Volt suggested that they could rope Johnny in and have him sing to your ex for hours on end until they begged to be let go ("So you finally admit that, Johnny is a bad singer, does that mean we can ban him from the stage? "No, Eddie dearest. He just...Needs more practice, y'know?" "...Is this because you also suck at singing?" "Live wire?! Why must you betray me?!" "Because it's true, you suck at singing" "Eddie?!)

- The laughter and cozy atmosphere that had grown around you three was interrupted by a few loud bangs against the entrance door. A familiar voice was calling your name, asking you to come out or else he would have to come in and neither of you wanted to make a scene surely

- Eddie told you two to wait here, he would deal with them.. Volt was ready to follow but stopped when he felt a light tug at his jacket, you were clinging to one of his sleeves and looking at him. "Stay here...Please." He glanced at the door that closed behind Eddie before sitting back down and pulling you onto his lap "Of course, Live Wire" he just hoped Eddie would be fine

- As Eddie got closer he could hear the knocking get softer, the voice of your ex was a mix between excitement, deranged and anger? It was hard to pinpoint really, even Dorian seemed unnerved with your ex and how they were acting which wasn't an easy feat to achieve

- Taking a deep breath he opened the door, giving your ex his best 'I will kill you if you even say one wrong word' face, which had helped him often with more rowdy customers at the bar. Sadly it seemed to have no effect on your ex who simply froze in confusion for a bit before turning all his anger towards him, great

- Most of the things he threw at Eddie, the other had heard so many times he stopped counting. Which of course only agitated your ex even more. Some threats where thrown into the mix, accusations of you hiring Eddie to be your "fake boyfriend" and for some reason asking Eddie if he knew who they were, as if he cared who they were besides his partners shitty ex who seemed to have finally lost it

- "Are you done talking non-sense or do you need a few more minutes to finish your tantrum? They're their own person not some object you can own, they are in a happy relationship with me and our other partner, they dont want you back. Especially since you never treated them right, you really should be more thankful that I don't engrave your teeth into the floor board and let you bleed out in a random alley way"

- Eddie had to dodge a swing as your ex started to lash out, arms swinging wildly. Growing more and more pissed when none of their hits would land until they decided to simply jump Eddie or at least they tried to. Before they could even reach their target, Volt had grabbed them by the back of their neck making them choke a bit and turn their glare towards him. Who simply let a light electric current pass through his arm into your ex as a warning

- His forced grin showed off his sharp fangs, that seemed a bit too long to be for a regular human. His eyes practically glowed as audible crackling noises could be heard, leaning closer he whispered something into your ex's ear which made them curl into themself, shaking their head and running away not soon after Volt had thrown him out (they only looked back a few times at the duo that stood at the door, staring right at him, like two predators just waiting for their prey to slip up)

- After they were sure your ex was gone and wouldn't return they walked back to the bar where you were sipping a drink with Volt's jacket thrown across your shoulders. You got a quick kiss from.both of them on each of your cheeks as one of them proposed to take a nap together and having the Breaker Box closed for today. While you three could have another rant night And maybe lovingly, bully Eddie into getting more then three hours of sleep

#date everything #date everything x reader #de eddie & volt x reader #de eddie x reader #de volt x reader #de amir x reader #de hector x reader #de hector #de amir #de eddie & volt #ngl not that proud of the Eddie & Volt section but I just wanted to finish it since I think #I got another illness that will stay for a month or even longer

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