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thesvnandthemooon · 3 months ago

Text

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: the request didn’t ask for the backstory but here i am, giving you one anyway. part two with the actual request should be done in a couple days :)

summary: based on this request; firefighter!nat

warnings: alcohol, cheating

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 1: Death of a Marriage

Natasha's spent her entire life putting out fires. When she was a kid and angled the magnifying glass wrong. When she was a teenager and tried to make scrambled eggs. When she became a firefighter, carrying hoses and using fire extinguishers. The only fire she didn't manage to put out was the one burning down her marriage. Even worse — she was the one who struck the match.

Your daughter Valerie is four when it begins. Heat, fuel and oxygen come together. It's just little sparks, nothing more and nothing less; but it's enough to start something neither of you can put out.

It's an early night for you and your daughter. Valerie has been cranky all day due to a missed nap and a lingering fever, so you quickly dip her into a bubble bath before getting her into bed.

Cheeks warm and arms clutching her stuffed rabbit, she stares at the ceiling with the little glow in the dark-stars. Her toes wiggle under the blanket, and you smooth out her comforter.

"I want mama", she declares.

"Mama's at work, baby", you reply, bringing your hand up to her face. You brush unruly red locks behind her ear. "You'll see her at breakfast. She promised, remember?"

"No", she mumbles. "Want mama now."

You exhale, fingers brushing against her cheek in a soothing motion. This isn't uncommon — Natasha's shifts are long. But she used to be home more often, especially in the evenings.

She used to swoop your daughter up from the couch and into her arms, tickle her and carry her up the stairs. All you'd hear were belly laughs and quiet wheezing. It's been a while since that happened.

"I'm sorry", you reply. You grab her favorite fairytale book and open it, hoping it'd distract her. "Want to see what The Three Little Pigs are doing?"

Valerie shakes her head and turns around, arms crossed stubbornly. You frown and start reading anyway, but she stays quiet. No sign of interaction whatsoever — she's not looking at the pictures, not reacting to any of the scenes.

Finally, you close the book. You haven't even gotten halfway through.

"Honey?"

Valerie huffs, hugging her stuffed rabbit tighter. Her back stays turned to you, and you adjust her pajamas so they cover her lower back as well. You run your fingers through her red hair. Your hair texture, but the exact shade Natasha has.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. You know mama's doing something really important, right?"

"No", she mumbles. "It's stupid."

That does slice you open a little. You know she doesn't mean it — she's four, for god's sake. Last week, she threatened to not invite you to her birthday party. But she's a little human with big emotions, and in this moment, those emotions are directed at the profession her mother chose to pursue.

You understand her. You've been angry at it as well. Not often, and not like this, but it's happened. It's hard to be understanding when you're sleep-deprived and rocking a toddler who caught the flu.

"Hey", you say, giving your failed attempt to distract her one last try, "what cartoon do you want to watch with mama tomorrow? I'll let you have breakfast on the couch."

First, she pauses. Then, her head turns and she gives you a hopeful look. "On the couch?"

"Yeah. You can watch whatever you want. Curious George, Franklin, Winnie...your choice, bub."

Valerie sits up and clumsily wipes her hair away from her face. "With mama?"

"With mama", you confirm. You tap her nose. "Don't be mad at her. She's saving people, you know. Putting out fires. You remember Fireman Sam?"

She nods. It's the first cartoon Natasha introduced her to. The why is obvious, but honestly? You thought it was endearing. Valerie was barely old enough to sit at that point, but your wife — fresh from her shift, complete with turnout pants and soot smudged on her hands — slid a dvd into the dvd player and watched two full episodes with her.

You miss those days. Back when Valerie was still a baby, and your marriage still felt new and exciting. When the cracks hadn't appeared yet, when love was enough to keep everything together.

Valerie, now content with the prospect of eating her favorite cereal on the couch tomorrow, curls into the blankets again.

"Can you read the pig story?"

"Of course, baby."

Once she's asleep, you tiptoe out of her room and leave the door ajar. You get started on the things you weren't able to do during the day. You do the dishes, wipe the table, fold the clean laundry. When you're done you turn on the tv, blankly stare at the screen for a moment, then sigh and turn it off again.

It's quiet in your bedroom. The bedsheets have little indents in them. While you were getting dressed this morning, Valerie had jumped onto the bed and hopped around until you were ready to get her to preschool.

You don't bother getting undressed. You had six clients come over for therapy sessions — which isn't a lot, per se, but when combined with having to take care of a very lively toddler afterwards, it easily becomes too much.

The pillowcases smell like Natasha's shampoo. Warm, woodsy, making you press your face into it. You fall asleep quickly, buried between the sheets and sprawled out on the bed. When she returns, it's 3am. You don't notice.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and not making a sound. She's still in her work clothes, which means turnout pants and a black tank top. Her arms are smudged, her hair in a low bun. She watches your back move with every in- and exhale, then she quietly makes her way to the closet and starts to undress.

You stir at the sound of her boot toppling over. She glances at you. She doesn't want you to wake up. She knows you've got your hands full with Valerie and work, and you need your rest. But you stay asleep, arms beneath the pillow and legs sprawled out.

Only in boxers and a sports bra, Natasha joins you. She puts her head on the pillow and tries to make out your features in the darkness. Her hand reaches out, fingers grazing your side, then she pulls back. You let out a tired hum.

"Home safe?", you mumble, half-asleep.

"Yeah." She brushes her fingers against your shoulder. "You're here."

"Always am."

"I know. It's good."

"Did you shower?"

Natasha rolls onto her back. She smells like sweat and smoke. "You can tell, huh."

You yawn and sit up, rubbing your eyes. It's been almost seven years since you got married. Figuring out whether she's taken a shower after work isn't hard, and truthfully, it never was. The smell is distinct, strong, but not that unpleasant anymore.

"You smell like you brought the entire station home." You tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not sleeping under the covers like that."

"Good god, Y/N."

"I changed the sheets two days ago!"

Natasha sighs, then gets up. You can tell she's exhausted. No wonder. She's told you about her typical day at work before, and just listening to it tired you out. Her muscles must be killing her after a long shift like this one.

You watch her disappear into the en-suite bathroom. Part of her is tempted to ask whether you want to join, but not much has been happening on that front for a while now, and she's not in the mood to get turned down. The door falls shut, and seconds later, you hear the water run.

You lay back down, eyes on the ceiling, and silently wish you'd installed those glow in the dark-stars Valerie has in your room as well. Maybe they'd be able to distract you.

. . .

"Mama, look!"

Valerie's standing atop the swing set your wife built two years ago. It's complete with a little treehouse, a climbing wall and a slide, and your daughter spends almost every day playing with it. Natasha's standing by the sandpit, arms crossed and a backwards cap on her head.

"You wanna slide down, bub?"

She nods, red curls flying, and jumps onto the slide. She slides down so fast that she ends up in the rubber mulch. "Woah!"

"Yeah, that was fast."

You poke your head out of the window, frowning. This is what you get for marrying a firefighter — the reckless genes get passed down to your children.

"A bit more careful next time", you call.

"Sorry, mommy!"

Natasha grabs Valerie's hands and lifts her off the ground. The girl shrieks and laughs, legs kicking. You smile faintly.

It's a peaceful evening. It's Sunday, the sun has started to go down, the sky is lit up in all shades of pink and blue. Someone's barbecuing. You watch your wife and daughter as they sit in the sandpit together.

"Are you guys hungry? Dinner's almost ready."

"Not now", Valerie says, grabbing a bucket. "I'm making a castle, mommy!"

"In this economy?", Natasha asks, grinning. She starts scooping sand into the bucket. "Anything for you, princess."

You smile to yourself and turn around again. The house smells like the pizza that's baking in the oven, music is playing on the radio, the book you ordered is actually interesting and worth spending your free time on for once. It's hard to believe that things aren't as perfect as they seem.

You go into the kitchen and get a few plates. You hear your daughter giggle outside, actual belly laughs that mostly Natasha manages to coax out of her. They join you in the kitchen a few minutes later, still smiling and talking. Sand is clinging to hair and skin, and you're pretty sure one of them smells like spilled apple juice.

Valerie climbs onto the counter to help you tear lettuce into smaller pieces. Natasha comes up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist in a way that almost seems foreign now. Her lips brush against your shoulder.

"What's mommy making for dinner?"

"I made pizza." You reach out to turn on the water for Valerie so she can wash her sand-caked hands. "There you go, honey. Now you can help."

"Smells good", Natasha mumbles. Her nose nudges your neck. "You smell good, too."

"Ew", Valerie says, tossing a piece of lettuce at you. Natasha laughs quietly.

"What, I can't be nice to my wife?"

The girl shakes her head 'no'. She turns, one foot dangling off the counter, and reaches into the bowl to grab another handful of lettuce. You hum and put out a bowl that she can put the smaller pieces into.

Hands roam your sides, your stomach, slip under the fabric of your shirt. Something in you twists with longing. This is exactly what it used to feel like. Warm, safe, normal. Now, it's just something you aren't used to anymore.

Natasha puts her chin on your shoulder to look at you. You give her a glance, a brief smile, and she squeezes your waist. She doesn't say anything — words have always been your strength in this household. You get paid to talk, after all. What she does instead is build stuff and use her hands, which can be useful, but not always appropriate.

"Dinner?", you ask, still looking at her.

"Kid's hungry."

"And you?"

She presses a quick kiss to your jaw. Her hand squeezes your tummy. "Dumb question. I always am."

You want to lean into her embrace. Instead, you turn to take the pizza out of the oven. Natasha stands there, rejected and silent, then scoops up Valerie and carries her to the dinner table.

Dinner is quiet, awkward. Out of the three of you, Valerie talks the most. She's a toddler, which means that she'll talk about everything and anything. Her current hyperfixation? Space.

"You can be an astronaut, mama", she says, peeling the peppers off her pizza. "It's so cool!"

"I already have a job, bub."

"But astronauts are cool!"

"No doubt", Natasha says, her voice shifting into a mumble when her phone buzzes. She takes a look at the screen and flips over her phone.

You pick at your salad, watching her. She bites into the pizza crust she abandoned earlier. You clear your throat. "Who was that?"

"Colleague", she mutters, reaching for her napkin and wiping her mouth.

"Which one?"

There's nothing going on between her and that woman. She's sworn that multiple times, and in a way, she's telling the truth. Flirting isn't cheating, after all. It's innocent enough. She's still not going to say her name out loud, though. It'd just end in another fight.

"Just a colleague", she replies. She bites into another pizza slice. "Nothing important."

"No", you agree half-heartedly. Valerie jumps up from her chair and runs into the hallway. "Wash your hands!"

"Okay!"

You stare at the almost-finished pizza in front of you. It's gone silent now that your daughter isn't filling the awkward space between you now, so every sound you make feels painfully loud.

Natasha puts down her pizza slice and scrubs her hand down her face. When she got married to you, she had no idea what it'd entail. All she knew were failed marriages, like her parents'. To this day, they don't talk.

She didn't know what being married to you would be like, or how she was supposed to act as a wife. She didn't know what it'd feel like, either. She still doesn't really know. But she's certain that it shouldn't feel like this. Not when it used to be so different once.

"I'll clean up", she finally says, just to make the silence less loud. You look up. "Just...stay here. Relax a bit."

"Sure", you mumble. Natasha gets up, balancing three plates and a salad bowl. She disappears into the kitchen. You lean forward, elbows on the table and your head in your hands.

They're still just sparks. They're small, minor, easy to extinguish. Somehow, despite all your knowledge and experience, you can't remember how to do it.

. . .

Fights become more frequent. They're not bad fights — just little arguments that you can ignore. Disagreements, squabbles, slowly but surely increasing the heat and feeding the growing flames.

Neither of you are sure how they start. It's not like the love isn't there, but it's not enough to quench the fire.

It's the small things that add fuel. Natasha not immediately responding to a text, you holding onto her mistakes and throwing them into conversations like pebbles. Her disappearing into the garage for hours, you comparing her to clients and subtly psychoanalyzing her.

(Natasha will probably never get over your anger-fueled remark that 'Freud would have a field day with her.')

Then again, there are moments where you're able to ignore the cracks. Where the love, buried beneath dishes and responsibilities, comes back up and gasps for air. Where your hand slips into hers easily, where she pulls you aside during a family function just to make out with you like you're back to being in that honeymoon phase of dating.

One Saturday, you get up early to go to the annual summer block party of Natasha's fire station. Knowing it'll be sunny day, you make both her and Valerie sit down after breakfast. Hands slick, you run them down your wife's arms to put sunscreen on them. She shifts and squirms.

"Hold still", you say.

"Yes, ma'am."

"God, even Vee doesn't move this much."

Natasha rolls her eyes. You smear some sunscreen on her nose. Valerie sees that and starts laughing so hard she almost falls off the couch. You chuckle along with her.

"Teaming up against me, I see", she mutters, wiping her nose.

"That's what you get for your attitude", you hum, rubbing some sunscreen into her cheeks and neck. When you're done, you pause. Your hands rest on her jaw, and you're standing between her legs.

Not too long ago, you would've leaned in and kissed her. It used to be the easiest thing in the world. Now, you're not sure — you feel like you should kiss her, but you don't know if you can.

Natasha swallows. She reaches up and adjusts your dress, subtly running her fingers over the soft fabric.

"You look good."

"Yeah?"

"Beautiful. You look beautiful."

"You do!", Valerie adds, getting up to grab her sandals. "I want ice cream. Can I?"

You smile faintly, still staring at the woman in front of you. There may be cracks in what was once a stable marriage, but that doesn't erase the past. It's all still there, floating between and surrounding you like air — invisible, silent, but always there.

She gets up and suddenly, the decision is taken from you. She smells like sunscreen and cologne, lips warm and familiar despite everything. You cup her face and press closer, mouth moving against hers.

Hands trail down your arms, to your waist. She tugs you closer. You wrap your arms around her. Things haven't gone further in weeks. Usually, it ends after a kiss. Now that it could go further, though, it doesn't. Because a little girl with an orange mini pop in her hands decides it's the perfect moment to skid back into the living room.

You pull away immediately, wiping your mouth to remove smudged lipstick. Natasha stands there, aroused and annoyed, rubbing at her own lips. She's tempted to send your daughter upstairs to play, but you have to leave in ten minutes.

"Ice cream?", you say in disbelief. It took you a few seconds to realize that Valerie managed to swipe a sweet treat from the freezer. It's melting already, dripping onto her white dress. "Hey, careful with that. Great, now you need a new dress."

"Didn't bring me one?", Natasha asks, sitting on the couch again. "Is that the last one, bub?“

"You're not having ice cream!", you call from the hallway.

"But-"

"We have to leave!"

Valerie nods. Her chin is pressed to her chest as she tries to peek at the stains the ice cream left. "Listen to mommy."

Natasha narrows her eyes at her. The way she said that sounds so like you that it's both infuriating and hilarious. "Careful, smartass."

You return, a fresh dress thrown over your arm. You crouch in front of Valerie and get her changed. She squirms, holding the half-eaten ice cream, and puts the cherry on top by dropping it. She stares at the ice cream, then starts crying.

"No, my ice cream!"

You sigh, tugging at the dress to make sure it sits right, and then get up. "I'll clean it up. Go to the car with mama, yes?"

"I want ice cream!"

"They'll have ice cream at the station", Natasha says. She scoops Valerie up despite her protests and carries her outside. Once the floor is spotless again, you follow them.

It's warm outside. The area surrounding the fire station is crowded and loud. It smells like hotdogs and cotton candy, kids shriek and laugh, adults try to keep up with conversations.

Your hand in Natasha's and Valerie on her hip, you make your way past smaller groups of people. Your daughter starts wiggling impatiently when she sees the bouncy castle they put up. Apparently, a house made of inflated PVC is enough to make her forget about the ice cream-disaster at home.

"Down, mama! I wanna play!"

You exchange a look with Natasha. She sighs and puts Valerie on her feet, but keeps a loose hold on her shoulder. "Shoes off and be careful, alright? Don't jump into anyone else."

One hurried nod later, your daughter storms off. You watch her join Clint's kids in the bouncy castle.

"You're sure this is a good idea?"

"She's a kid. Kids play. She'll be fine."

You cross your arms. You know she's right, but that doesn't mean you'll agree. The bouncy castle is cramped, so much so that a little boy ends up tumbling out. The ground is covered in soft rubber tiles, thankfully, but he starts crying anyway.

"Besides", she adds, "aren't you the one who's always going on and on about how kids need to be 'independent' and 'resilient'?"

"Don't use my own words against me", you retort, voice more biting. "I just don't want to drive to the ER on a Saturday."

"It's a bouncy castle."

"Romanoffs!"

As soon as you hear Clint's voice, you shut up and turn around. He approaches you, a beer in one hand and his shirt unbuttoned. He may seem oblivious on the outside, but he's done this before — broken up a fight that hasn't started yet.

It doesn't even faze you anymore. Natasha is just grateful she doesn't get sucked into another argument, while you're simmering silently. You've known Clint ever since you and Natasha started dating, and although he is the godfather of your daughter and basically part of your family, he still possesses the unique ability to piss you off. Not many people are able to do that.

He gives you both a happy nod and gestures at the surrounding area. "You see that? Half the town is here."

"It's nice", you agree. Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders. "Where's Laura?"

"Oh, talking to Peggy. You guys want a drink?"

"Driving", Natasha mutters.

"Too hot. I'll end up nauseous again."

"Again?" She frowns and squeezes your shoulder. She's forgotten about your almost-fight already. "You okay?"

You wave your hand, trying to dismiss her worries. "It's only been a few days, Nat. I'm fine."

Clint scratches his ear. What you're describing sounds a lot like something his own wife went through a couple years ago, but it's probably better to let you figure it out yourself. No need to add more tension.

"Alright", he says. "Hotdogs, then? They're great this year, Cooper killed five of 'em."

You shake your head, but Natasha's nodding already. Defeated, you follow them to the barbecues they set up.

Valerie comes running about ten minutes later. She jumps into Natasha's lap, talks animatedly with her hands flailing, steals bites of her hotdogs. You watch her, and the sight makes you feel even more guilty.

It's not fair. This little girl has been the buffer for way too long now. She deserves more than a home that feels like it's constantly holding its breath. Yet, there's no sign of her noticing it — she's as happy and smiley as always.

You, on the other hand, are exhausted. You feel a gentle nudge and turn your head.

"You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"Tired", you say. "Must be the heat."

"You're tired a lot lately."

Valerie climbs into your lap now, but only to grab your lemonade and sip on it. You wrap one arm around her and smooth her hair down with the other.

"I told you I'm fine", you mutter, reaching for a napkin to wipe the ketchup off your daughter's mouth. "Probably work too much."

"Right." She exhales softly. Her fingers drum against the surface of the table. "It's just, you know..."

You're not stupid. You know exactly what she's insinuating. Once upon a time, you loved the idea — two kids, maybe three. Beds filled with giggles, fingers sticky with applesauce, feet dirty with mud. Cartoons on Sunday mornings and a living room full of toys and picture books.

Honestly, it scares you now. Your marriage problems are enough to deal with already. Adding a new baby to the mix could be the thing that makes the cracks grow and the glass shatter.

"I'm fine, okay?", you snap. Valerie gives you a confused look. "Just let it go."

Natasha stares at you, jaw clenched with worry. She silently notes to grab a pregnancy test on the way home.

. . .

Seeing a single line appear is both relieving and disappointing in the most confusing way.

You're both in the bathroom, barefoot and only in pajamas. You're crying, silently, and you're not even sure why. The thought terrified you, but now, you miss the glimmer of hope you felt at the thought of a little being growing inside you.

Bullshit. Like a baby could change anything. Putting that much pressure on an infant can't be healthy. Still, you glance at Natasha. She quickly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Well, there's that", she mumbles. "At least we don't have to buy a new stroller."

"No", you agree. You sold the stroller a couple months ago, when you were certain you were done with having kids. "No crib, either."

"Right." She clears her throat. "I, uh, should go and keep working on that bookshelf for Vee's room."

You reach for her wrist right as she gets up. This is so painfully familiar in the worst way. Whenever there's something that's not quite going right, she grabs her toolbox and starts assembling or fixing stuff. Your first big fight is how you wound up with a potting bench — neither of you garden, but you technically could.

Natasha looks at you, her eyes still glassy with tears. She swallows. "Hm?"

"I want a baby."

She stares at you, staggered. "What?"

You hesitate, still holding onto her. You're not even sure why you just blurted it out like that. Of course there are more sensitive ways to say it, but your brain isn't functioning how it should right now. Sitting in the small bathroom downstairs, with the peach scented soap and the turtle stickers on the tiles, the negative pregnancy test on the counter — you're overwhelmed.

Natasha isn't doing much better. She slowly sits back down on the edge of the tub. Your thumb rubs her skin absentmindedly.

"I want a baby. With you. I want to make this work."

"It is working", she protests weakly.

"Is it?"

Her eyes flicker between you and the floor. She pulls away only to grab your hand and squeeze it. You feel her wedding band against your palm. She can tell where this is going just by your voice. You're using your therapy-voice again, the one she's heard you use with patients when she accidentally walked into the hallway that leads to your practice.

She's not in the mood for this. She doesn't like talking it out, she doesn't like verbalizing what she's feeling. She's more of a 'show, don't tell'-person. If she's sorry, she's building you patio furniture instead of apologizing.

"A baby", she says, quickly edging past the topic you just brought up. But she sounds hopeful. "We said we're done."

"We don't have to be", you say, more softly now. "Maybe it's what we need. I mean, when we had Valerie..."

"I know." Natasha smiles, her fingers intertwining with yours. Those first few months of baby bliss were the sweetest she's ever had. It was quiet, warm, like you were trapped in a bubble in which nothing could go wrong.

In a way, it was true. Nothing did go wrong. Spit-up on your shirts and sleepless nights were your biggest problems. You didn't fight once. You were able to kiss issues and disagreements away. The knowledge that a tiny human relied on you was enough to make you keep your shit together.

You hum, glancing at her. She exhales and rubs your hand. You see her in that hospital room again, the night you gave birth — a little baby cradled to her chest, cheeks tear stained, mumbling 'it's okay' over and over again —, and everything clicks into place.

It may not fix your issues. It may not be some sort of magical cure. But you're desperate enough to convince yourself it's worth a try.

"I want to do it for the right reasons." You force those words out, even if they taste bitter. "Not just so we..."

"We won't."

"Natasha."

She shakes her head and gets up, pulling you along. "No", she says. You find yourself seated on the counter of the sink. "I don't want to hear it. It's not happening."

"God", you mumble. She kisses your neck. "I hope you're not wrong."

Your breath hitches when her hands tug at your shorts. You shift and wiggle out of them. Hands roam your sides and thighs, lips press against your shoulder and chest. You wrap your legs around her waist.

This is not a new situation for you, but it feels new anyway. Different, exciting, scary. Her movements are quicker, her breathing is ragged and slightly shaky.

Saving a marriage isn't easy. Not even a baby can put out the flames that are already eating at the support beams of a house.

. . .

It takes almost half a year before looking at the crib Natasha assembled doesn't hurt.

You didn't think it'd take this long for you to get pregnant again. With Valerie, it happened immediately. You just decided to start trying for a baby one day, and a month later, you held a positive test in your hands.

This time, it isn't nearly as easy. It's like the universe is trying to warn you, trying to tell you to really think this through.

Neither of you listens, though. It turns into a routine. Once the kid is asleep, you lock the bedroom door and tug off your clothes. There's not much talking involved, but one thing's certain: the fire may affect your marriage, but definitely not your sex life.

Natasha buys pinewood and baby-safe paint. She sits in the garage for hours, headphones on and fingers calloused. She misses lunch three times before she's done building the crib.

None of that seems to matter, though — the tests stay negative.

You take one every week. You go through two dozen pregnancy tests before one is finally positive. Two lines, one a bit weaker, but both clear enough to quell your doubts.

Tears flow, again. They're silent and salty, dripping on your shirt and on the test. You can't get a single word out, so Natasha pulls you into her arms and kisses your hair.

"It's okay", she mumbles, over and over again. This time, it's directed at you. You cry harder and fist the fabric of her shirt. You don't even hear the padding of socked feet behind you, don't notice how Natasha's voice drifts off.

A dimpled little hand pats your back. You turn your head. Somehow, seeing Valerie stand there — all sleepy and confused — makes your tears worse. You scoop her up with one arm, holding her between you and Natasha.

For the weeks that follow, things are okay. Cracks disappear, the fire dies down little by little. You bask in the same light you felt a few years ago. You're almost as overeager as Natasha — you order onesies, search the basement for your breast pump, clean out the extra room you use for everything that has no real place in the house.

Valerie is old enough to sort of understand what's happening. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she's happier about it than Natasha. Unlike her mom, she's verbalizing her excitement constantly. She tells everyone — her teachers at preschool, her friends, the random neighbor she sees while playing in the backyard — about the baby.

Natasha doesn't talk about it much. Instead, she does what she's always done. Build, paint, repair. Buy food and make breakfast in bed. Put her hand on your stomach at night. Kiss it, maybe. Clean the house. Find your old maternity clothes (then decide you deserve new ones and order four boxes full of them). Stock up on snacks.

She doesn't tell you what she's feeling. As someone whose entire career revolves around just that, you both hate and love her for it.

At first, she's present. She's attentive. Then, you start to pull away. Not intentionally — it's something pregnancy can do to you. It makes you feel alone, especially when your partner's ability to talk about emotions and feelings is limited. But when you pull away, so does Natasha.

It's subtle. Late nights at the station, maybe once or twice a week. A missed dinner here and there. Being avoidant. Still making midnight runs for your cravings, but not staying while you pick at them. You used to share the bag full of fries you requested. Now, they go cold.

You start to fight again, which is much worse than the silence ever could be. Because no matter how hard you push, she still won't say much. Some of your patients are kids with traumas, kids who go non-verbal whenever they're stressed. They still tell you more than she does.

The fights get loud, anyway, but you're the one who's doing most of the yelling. You're the one who finds herself with a cup in her hand, ready to hurl it at the wall. Only the cartoon playing on the tv in the living room is what stops you.

The more you fight, the less you see her. Late shifts, she says. It's stressful. Luis quit. Not enough people in case of emergencies.

Tears dry on hoodies. You curl into the sheets on your own. Sometimes, Valerie tiptoes into your bed and snuggles up against your back. When Natasha finds you like that, the guilt she feels is so suffocating it makes it hard to breathe.

The next morning, there's a birdhouse on your dresser.

Despite all of this, she still manages to feel the baby's first real kick. She doesn't cry often, but she does that night.

. . .

You go into labor when Natasha's working another late shift. As soon as she gets the call, she's sprinting towards her car and leaving.

Charlotte is born seven hours later. Natasha's the one who picked her name, because you wanted her to. You regret doubting that decision in the beginning — the name definitely makes sense for the little baby in her arms.

"She's got your eyes."

"She's asleep."

She nods, biting the inside of her cheeks. Her thumb is rubbing featherlight circles into the baby's cheek. She smells like smoke and exhaustion. "I know you. I know her. She's definitely got your eyes."

Outside, the sun is peeking over the horizon, sneaking glances at the newborn your wife is holding. You could swear you've never been this tired in your life, and it might be accurate. You spent the hours right before your water broke trying to soothe a sick toddler.

Natasha shifts in her chair. There's one thing you've always loved about her, and that's the way she treats children. She puts out fires and carries 200 pound men out of burning buildings, but she holds babies like they're made of gold.

She looks at you. You both see something you thought was long gone. "You alright?"

"Bit hungry."

"Oh?" She gets up, no questions asked — it doesn't matter that you had a full meal just a couple hours ago. She hands you the baby and slips into her jacket. Do, don't tell. "What do you want?"

You hesitate, cradling Charlotte against your chest. She squirms in her sleep. "You're leaving?"

"Just to get some food."

"I'd rather you stay", you admit, lightly rubbing the baby's back. "We could order something."

"You sure? There's a diner right down the street, or a Wendy's-"

"Stay. Please." You exhale shakily. "It's been weeks since I fell asleep next to you, you know."

Natasha stares, her heart heavy. Between late shifts and early mornings, she never realized this. When she gets home, you're usually fast asleep — being pregnant and taking care of a toddler will tire you out.

She shrugs off her jacket and puts it over the backrest of the chair. She sits down next to you, kicks off her boots, curls around you. Her fingers trail down the baby's back, and her arm wraps around your shoulders. You lean into her.

The sun comes up. The room is bathed in bright colors, yellow and orange in all their shades. You fall asleep with your head on her chest.

. . .

Having a baby doesn't take the oxygen away from the fire. It doesn't stop the flames from licking at something that was once stable. It just puts your life on pause, even if only briefly.

Postpartum is always hard, but it's infinitely harder when you have a toddler to look after as well. Natasha takes a couple weeks off work, which helps. She makes food, entertains Valerie, holds and rocks the baby while you shower.

It's healing. It reminds you of why you're doing this. Suddenly, you're falling asleep together again (not for long, since Lottie wakes up three times a night, but who are you to complain?). You're in a similar headspace as to when you had Valerie. Things usually get easier before they get harder, but for a few weeks, you don't dare worry about that.

Why should you, after all? Despite the stretch marks and the spit up on your shoulders, Natasha's flirting again. She's present. She's changing diapers instead of fixing chairs in the garage. Whenever the baby blues hit, she appears next to you with a cup of tea and your favorite meal. When you're breastfeeding, she pulls out a book and quietly reads it out loud. Not even the little sex jokes she throws in here and there bother you anymore. Somehow, it's nicer to feel desired when you're not at your personal best.

Natasha disagrees with that one. You're always at your personal best, even when you're fighting with her, but especially when you just gave birth to her baby. Of course, she doesn't tell you that.

It's not postpartum that makes you worry. It's what comes after those three months of bliss.

You knew she'd have to go back to work eventually, and that's fine. Obviously it is. But the second she's late to dinner, the moment you realize she's taken over a late shift again, you slip back into that feeling of being abandoned.

You start to pull away again, and so does she.

No more falling asleep together. No more dinners on the porch. All that remains is the smell of smoke, clinging to her skin and to the bedsheets. Conversations become shorter as you reduce them to the absolute minimum.

Charlotte is four months old when you have your first big fight since having the baby again.

It starts as something mundane. Natasha, home late from work and missing dinner. You, barely talking. Valerie, asleep in her bed.

She's in her turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips and soot all over her hands. She picks up Lottie and you nearly spiral.

"Wash your hands first!"

"What?"

"Your hands, Natasha." You walk to the portable crib and take the baby from her. Charlotte squirms. "Wash them, for god's sake."

She stares at you, taken aback. She knows it's not just her unwashed hands. It's happened before, because she's tired when she gets home and tends to forget about things, and you usually just remind her before going on about your day.

This time, you're pissed. You cradle Charlotte and walk into the kitchen. Natasha quickly follows after you.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"She's a baby. I don't even want to know what you've been touching all day."

"I wash my hands all the time while at the station." She stands next to you. You put Lottie into her bouncer and fasten the safety harness. She kicks her legs, gurgling at Natasha. "Hey, sweetheart."

You turn on the faucet and gesture at it. She sighs and gives in, pumping some soap into her open palm and scrubbing off the soot.

"I don't know what's gotten into you", she mutters, drying her hands. You raise your eyebrows. "All I did was-"

"You picked her up without washing your hands first! You know that rule!"

"Dirt builds immunity", she argues.

"I don't need you taking risks", you hiss. "She's four months old. Plenty of time left for her immunity to be built."

Natasha can't help but chase you when you leave the room once more. You've got the baby in your arms again, your steps hurried as you walk up the stairs. She hesitates when you pass Valerie's bedroom — she's barely seen her today —, then speeds up when she loses sight of you.

"I forgot, okay?"

"Yes", you mutter, putting Charlotte on the changing table, "that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

The baby lets out an unhappy squawk. Maybe it's you peeling off her onesie, or maybe it's the fight you're having right next to her. Either way — you bite the inside of your cheek and grab a diaper, knocking over a bottle of lotion in the process.

It drops. You, being in a hurry earlier that day, left the cap open. Lotion spills on the floor, and you start to cry.

"Get out."

"No, no, wait", she pleads, stepping closer. "Why are you crying? It's just lotion, I'll clean it up."

"Get out!"

Charlotte fusses and starts crying as well. You shake your head and put the fresh diaper on her, then you reach for her pajamas. Natasha's still there, standing next to you, looking lost and helpless.

You're bitter. You're tired. It's not your fault for thinking she deserves to feel that way. You've been feeling like that for a while now, haven't you? It's fair that she experiences it as well.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't move, doesn't help. You scoop Charlotte up and walk to the crib that's attached to your bed. Only then does Natasha clean up the lotion.

When she's done, she leaves the room. She closes the door, gently. She shrugs on a jacket and grabs her keys. She gets into her car and drives off.

It's quiet in the barn behind the station. It's an old thing, huge and smelling like dust, but the team renovated it a couple years ago. The beanbags are flat and probably full of insects, the mini fridge is almost never stocked, but at least there's alcohol.

Going here is probably the dumbest decision she could've made that night. She should've talked to you, apologized, listened. Instead, she's about to turn a fight into a full blown war.

Clint looks up when she sits on the beanbag next to his. He raises his bottle in silent greeting. She nods, arms crossed, and stares at the wall. It's covered in pages ripped from old Playboys. How very different from the house of milk bottles and lullabies she just ran from.

First, he clears his throat. She doesn't react. Then, he nudges her foot with his. She shakes her head.

"Alright", he finally says. "Why the hell are you here?"

"Not your fucking problem, Barton."

"No", he agrees. "You got two kids waiting for you, though. And a wife who's probably not too happy about this."

"Y/N is never happy, anyway", she mutters, flicking a fly off her knee. "Doesn't matter if I'm home or not."

He frowns. She reaches into the cooler he brought and grabs a beer. When the barn door opens, she looks up and sees Wendy. A wordless nod of acknowledgment is exchanged, and Clint elbows her in the ribs.

He's seen them flirt. Natasha claims it's harmless. In a way, it is — she could never feel for her what she feels for you. She married you. She has kids with you. But oftentimes, flirting is not about feelings. It's about escaping. About feeling something new for a few minutes.

"I swear to-"

"You need to talk to Y/N", he says, "not ogle Johnston."

"I'm not ogling", she replies, cracking open the can. She takes a sip and grimaces. "What the fuck is wrong with your cooler? This is warmer than my piss."

He rolls his eyes. "Bring your own, then. Now get up and go home, or I'm driving you myself."

"Shut up", she mutters, taking another sip. "She needs some time to herself."

"Sometimes I wonder how you guys are still married."

"Trust me, I do too."

"Yeah, well..." He plucks the can from her hand, "...go home and change something about it!"

She glares at him, but he doesn't budge. He gestures at the barn door as if he could make her get and leave with his sheer willpower. But Natasha's more scared of what awaits her at home than she is of him, so she stays seated.

Clint is sick of her by this point. He has a teenager at home who isn't this hard to deal with. Playing marriage counselor when her wife is a literal family therapist also doesn't make much sense to him.

He gets up and grabs her by the collar of her jacket. She sputters and lets him drag her to her feet.

"What the fuck!"

"Get your sorry ass home!"

She stumbles out of the barn and nearly trips. It's cold out, her breath coming out in aggressive little puffs. Clint pats her back and nods at her car.

"Go", he says. "Before you screw this up."

Before you screw this up — for some reason, Natasha thinks she might've missed that opportunity.

. . .

When she returned that night, you didn't talk for two full days.

It slowly got worse. Longer shifts, more time spent in the garage. You, pulling away from her every touch. The flirting died down. When you did talk, it was about the kids. Your sex life was nonexistent.

Two months later, and it's gotten somewhat better.

That is, until she doesn't come home after a fight one night.

You're terrified. Scared to death. You call all of her friends, colleagues, family members. You put Valerie and Charlotte into the car and search every corner of town for her. Right as you park next to a playground, you get a text.

It only consists of two words.

Natasha: I'm sorry — 5.02am

Natasha, in another woman's bedroom, her head pounding with a hangover and her fingers trembling. The bedsheets rustle as Wendy shifts, and she quickly walks into the hallway.

You're not replying. You're staring at the screen, confused and heart rabbiting in your chest. Behind you, Lottie fusses and spits out her pacifier. Valerie grabs it and puts it back in her mouth, soothing her with her sleepy-soft voice.

You press the call button. She picks up immediately.

"What do you mean you're sorry?", you say, not giving her the chance to say something first. "What did you do? Where are you? Do you know how worried I am?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know", she says, rubbing her temple. She hears Lottie let out a cry in the background, and her entire body seems to recoil with guilt. "I don't know how to tell you."

"Natasha. How bad is it?"

"Really fucking bad. I didn't...this wasn't supposed to happen."

Charlotte's fussing turns into crying. She kicks her legs and refuses the pacifier Valerie's trying to put back into her mouth. You turn around, shush the baby and rub her belly, while also trying to tell your older daughter to let it go.

"I don't have time for this", you say. "Lottie's teething, I left the teething ring at home-"

"I slept with Wendy."

You freeze, your hand stilling on Charlotte's tummy. She keeps crying, her hands balled into little fists. Valerie gives you a questioning look.

"No."

"I'm so sorry."

You exhale shakily. Tears fill your eyes, but you barely register them. All you feel is the numbing feeling of disappointment and the quiet realization that maybe this is how it was always supposed to end.

You're angry, anyway. You hang up on her and throw the phone onto the passenger seat, then you start the car and speed off. Trees, houses, bakeries and mom-and-pop stores create a blur as you drive past them. Your vision is even blurrier, so you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

Natasha stares at the phone for a moment. Her heart almost stops when Wendy leans against the doorway. All it takes is one look at her — hair tousled, only wearing a white shirt — and she instantly regrets everything that led to this moment.

Flirting for months. Harmless, but constant and unapologetic.

A drink at the bar next to the fire station after a fight. More flirting. Natasha, slipping back into old habits she thought long buried.

She's married, after all. Ever since she found you, she was convinced she could leave it behind. One night stands aren't nearly as significant as waking up next to someone familiar each day. Knowing someone's habits by heart is much more soothing than having to guess them.

But she was pissed, and tipsy, and Wendy slid behind the bar like the personification of a cruel twist of fate.

And now, she's in her house. Wendy's studying her, eyes drowsy and arms crossed, and Natasha wants to scream. She's so unlike you it's painful.

"You're up already?"

"I'm leaving", Natasha says, turning around to find her clothes. Where did she discard them? In the living room or in the hallway? She's not sure anymore.

Wendy watches, eyebrows raised. She tilts her head and leans it against the wall. "Behind the couch."

"What? Oh." Natasha huffs and crouches beside the couch. She reaches behind it and fishes out a hoodie and jeans.

"No 'thank you'?"

"Fuck off."

She slips into her clothes. Wendy steps closer, and she steps away. They repeat that once, twice, before Natasha snaps.

"Are you kidding? Back off!"

"Wow", she muses, frowning. "You're in a mood. What happened?"

"Nothing", she snaps, grabbing her boots. She walks to the front door and opens it. "Absolutely fucking nothing."

The door slams shut. There's a baby sock in the backseat of her car. Her world as she once knew it is now in pieces.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #x reader #fanfic #wlw #lesbian #marvel #fluff #angst #moon’s fics

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eternal-evergreens · 9 months ago

Text

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass."｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Stalking, Violence, Age Gaps, Teacher/Student, Caretaker/Ward, Bullying

Color indicator: Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

Another dull morning, you think to yourself, rolling over to turn off your alarm. You pick up your cellphone and blearily swipe your screen as you clamber out of bed. It’s embarrassing to admit, but you really didn’t notice anything was wrong until you stood up and looked in the mirror. You blink, poking at you face and staring where your reflection should be, but isn’t. You wave your hand in front of the mirror. Nothing.

You look around, only to realize that your surroundings are different, too. The room you’re in is plain, cramped, and completely devoid of character. It’s almost liminal, in a way. Eerie in its emptiness.

You need to get out of here.

You nervously reach for the door and twist the handle. The doornob moves with you, but the door remains fixed in place. Your phone buzzes, and you fish it out of your pocket, quickly turning it on. You’ve gotten a text, but the number is blank.

You have not chosen an avatar yet. Please choose one from the mirror before leaving your room.

Well, that woke you right up. Is someone watching you? You swerve your head around, checking the ceilings and corners for cameras. You try the door again. You go in circles, turning the whole room upside down. You try the door. Nothing. You check your phone. The same message appears as soon as you open it. You swipe it away out of habit, but it refuses to budge. Freaky. The time hasn’t changed since you woke up, either, though you’re sure you’ve been at it for more than fifteen minutes by now.

You decide to take a peek at the mirror again. You try to remove it from the wall to look behind, but your vision goes white the second you make contact with its’ surface. Your vision clears, and in front of you is a grey figure of ambiguous gender. It looks almost made of clay. Your phone buzzes.

Player avatar selection.

Select a sex. Sex cannot be changed after starting the game.

1.) Male 2.) Female 3.) Hermaphrodite

Well, you’ve either fallen asleep or been drugged. Not knowing what else to do, you choose female, watching in horror and fascination as the figure morphs to accommodate your choice.

>Next

Other customization options soon come up. You give the figure your ideal height, weight, and features. You change her skin tone, hair color, texture, and eye color. You watch as she slowly comes to life as your ideal. The person you’ve always wanted to be.

Your phone buzzes just as you finish touching her up.

Set Name

You’re about to name her when the text fills itself in with your name instead.

Welcome, [First]! 1. Start Game!

You grimace, and hit play.

—————————

When you come to, it’s 07:00 again, and you’re still in that room. You glance at the mirror, only to see your avatar glancing back. You wave your arm in front of it, and she mimics your movements perfectly. You make a lewd gesture, and she does, too. Creepy. Is this really a dream? You’re startled out of your thoughts as your phone buzzes once again.

Welcome to the alpha of Degrees of Lewdity!

If you want to avoid trouble, dress modestly and stick to safe, well-lit areas. Nights are particularly dangerous. Dressing lewd will attract attention, both good and bad.

The new school year starts tomorrow at 09:00. The bus service is the easiest way to get around town. Don’t forget your uniform and backpack!

1. Next

Your face pales as you read the text. There’s no way. You hit next, reminding yourself that you’re only in a dream, and that no one can harm you in a dream. Your phone opens to its home screen, where you see various apps, some of which are labled.

-Characteristics -Social -Traits -Journal -Stats -Feats

You open characteristics and take a look. At the very top is a color chart indicator. description of your body’s appearance and condition, underneath are familiar stats.

Purity: 7/7 You are angelic. Physique: 3/6 Your body is average. Willpower: 1/6 You are fainthearted. Awareness: 3/7 You have a normal understanding of sexuality. Promiscuity: 0/6 You are chaste and pure. Exhibitionism: 0/6 You are coy. Deviancy: 0/6 You are squeamish.

Everything seems to be in line with the stats for the beginning of a playthrough. Everything except one.

Beauty: 7/6 Your beauty is beyond measure.

That’s…not good, if the blaring red is anything to go off of, anyway.

You scroll down. Your skills are all ranked as F, which is actually better than the “None” stat they usually start as. That’s weird, but you aren’t complaining. Your sex skills, however…are all at C. That’s super weird! You aren’t sure what to make of it, so you choose to ignore it instead.

Your overall school performance is terrible, with F’s all around the board. In real life, this would mean you’d picked the athlete trait, but your physique is baseline, and your athletic stat is also at F, so it can’t be that. It must just be inconsistencies from being asleep, you reason. That’s why your stats are all over the place.

Your status is normal, aside from your allure. Which is maxed out at “You look like you need to be ravaged.” You shudder.

You check traits. You have two.

Alien - You aren’t from around here! RPG like elements have been incorporated into your reality for a smoother experience. Virgin - Your purity recovers faster. Your virginity might be worth something.

You open your journal.

It is the 4th of September, 2022.

-It has been 0 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn. -It is autumn. -School term starts on Monday the 5th of September.

Current quests:

Visit Bailey in his office by 20:00 tonight to recover your ID documents and gain your independence.

Failure to complete quest will result in the day restarting

You turn your phone off and look around. Everything seems normal, too normal. You read somewhere once that it’s impossible (or perhaps just very difficult) to read clearly while in a dream. Could you have been drugged? Or did you take something and then forget about it?

You pinch yourself. Ow.

Well, that’s not solid proof. People have reported cases of feeling pain in dreams before it’s just kind of really rare is all. Or, or! Maybe you’re not dreaming. Maybe you’re dying. Maybe you got into an accident somewhere, and now you’re in a coma. People hallucinate during comas, don’t they?

You pinch yourself, again.

It’s not real.

…You might as well see what this quest is about.

You leave your bedroom, and walk to Bailey’s office. You don’t question how you know the way there. You knock on the door and enter.

“I know why you’re here,” he says. “You want me to release you from my protection, so you’ll be an independent citizen. I could do that. But there’s a problem. You’ve been living under my roof without giving anything in return. You owe me. Until you pay me back, I’m not letting you go.” He picks up an envelope and flips through it. Dozens of identification documents are stored within it. One of them is yours. “£100 should do. To start with. I don’t care how you get it. Knock on doors and ask for work. Rent yourself as a footstool. Steal it, even. Just have it a week from now. Or I’ll find a way to extract value from you.”

You nod and leave his office, returning to your room.

Your phone buzzes as soon as you close the door.

Quest completed. New quest added to journal. View Now?

Y/N

You hit yes.

Time-Sensitive:

Bailey wants £100 on Sunday. Find a job and free yourself from his clutches.

That’s great and all, but maybe you shouldn’t leave the orphanage today…or ever. Not until you wake up. You decide to just download some social media apps and scroll for the rest of the day instead. You scroll until midday, when you’re stopped by your stomach growling. Can you get hungry inside a dream…? You feel uneasy as you climb off the bed. Your neck hurts from the uncomfortable position you had been in, but that’s the least of your worries right now.

You leave your bedroom and enter the main hall. A trim girl happens to be passing by your door, so you stop her and ask about when lunch is. She looks at you strangely.

“Whenever you want…? Just go somewhere and get it. I don’t know.”

“I meant here, can we get food here?”

“Sure, if you’re underage. We have to provide for ourselves once we reach eighteen, though. You know that. Everyone knows that.” She leaves in a hurry. You go back to your room to watch “Gootube” videos. It’s not as pornographic as it sounds.

You stay on your phone for the rest of the day. It never seems to run out of charge. Finally, you turn it off and climb under the covers. You don’t bother to wear pajamas. You sleep soundly, and wake up at 07:00 on Sunday, September 4th.

Wait, what?

You look at your journal again.

Journal

It is the 4th of September, 2022.

-It has been 0 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn. -It is autumn. -School term starts on Monday the 5th of September.

Current quests:

Visit Bailey in his office by 20:00 tonight to recover your ID documents and gain your independence. Failure to complete quest will result in the day restarting

But you didn’t fail your quest! You completed it and…

It’s because you didn’t get a job yesterday, isn’t it?

You sigh and climb out of bed. Off to visit Bailey again.

“I know why you’re here,” he says. God, you wish you could skip dialogue in real life. Or in dreams, you guess. Bailey wraps up his speech and you leave, this time heading outside the orphanage to look for work right after.

As expected, you bump into someone almost immediately. A voluptuous woman grabs you. “You’re the cutest thing I’ve seen all week!” She says, lunging for your clothes. You step back, but she catches you, lifting your sundress’s skirt and revealing your lace panties. You try to grab her hand and pull it away, but she’s stronger than you. She pushes you to the ground, and you land painfully on the sidewalk. You let out an involuntary yelp as your elbows scrape on the pavement. Is she really going to try and molest you out in public like this? It would appear so, as she’s currently straddling your legs with her knees, keeping them apart. You come to your senses when you feel a hand on your groin, and scream out for help.

A taut man comes to your rescue, chasing off the woman and helping you to your feet. He treats your wounds and gives you a pepper spray charge. You thank him and go on your way.

The dog pound is probably the best place to start with, you think to yourself while looking at the map on your phone. So you hop on a bus and wait for your stop, but not before a thin man sits next to you and rests his hand on your thigh. You shuffle away from him, and he follows you. You stand up, and he does, too. No one else is paying attention. You quickly walk to the most crowded area of the bus and sit next to a plush woman. She doesn’t look happy, but doesn’t say anything, either. The thin man watches you from his seat. You reach your destination, and he moves to follow you when you stand. Luckily, a tall man stops him, giving you a thumbs up as he blocks the thin man’s view of you. You give him a grateful nod and step off.

Your shift at the dogpound goes on without incident. Thugh the employees tried to get handsy more than a few times, they never took it further when you moved away. You even took your lunch break at the nearby cafe! You’re surprised by how much character the place had visually, considering it comes from a text-based game.

By the time the dog pound closes, it’s nighttime. You pale at the realization. It’s nighttime, and you’re in Degrees of Lewdity. Should you risk taking the bus? Or should you risk the streets?

If you’re on a bus, you’re there for less time, but it’s an enclosed space. If you’re outside, there’s more places to run and hide. But hiding goes both ways.

You elect to go through the streets, sticking to the places that are the most open and well-lit. You get home without incident, though you swear you saw something in the alleys.

You collapse into bed and sleep for ten hours.

—————————

It’s 07:03 when you wake up. You have school today, so you look through your wardrobe for your uniform. You find it, but…why is it so skimpy? Sheer tights, short plaid skirt, tight shirt, platform mary janes and loose socks. You put it on, but the shirt is so tight it won’t button all the way, leaving a sizable amount of your cleavage and lace bra visible.

Speaking of which, aren’t you only supposed to start with plain underwear? Why is all of yours lace? And why does it clasp at the front? You spend twenty minutes looking for a jacket, different shirt, or other way to cover yourself, but find nothing. Bailey bangs on the doors around the orphanage to wake the orphans up. You sigh and put your clothes back into your wardrobe before leaving.

You bump into Robin on your way out. Literally. He nearly runs you over.

“Hey!” He says running towards you. He doesn’t slow down in time and plows right into you. You help him up. “Thanks,” he says, looking a bit bashful. “I didn’t see you yesterday. Remember, you can visit me in my room anytime you want. I have something to show you. I’m so excited!” He runs off, and you realize you’ve forgotten your backpack, so you head back in and find it. It takes you another ten minutes to realize you’d put it behind the door. By the time you’re ready, it’s already half an hour past seven. You decide to see if Robin is still in his room.

You knock, and hear some crashing. Before you can ask if something’s wrong, Robin opens the door and hugs you. “Look,” he says, pulling you inside. Your eyes immediately land on the shiny new game console in the corner of the room. “I’ve been saving up,” he says. “What are you waiting for?” He pats the bed beside him and you hop on. You watch him play for a few minutes, and the two of you walk to school together.

Though it’s literally your first time meeting him, you feel safer around Robin. Though you know he can’t fight to protect you, having someone by your side does a lot to ease the mind. Plus, he’s one of the only decent people in the game. You’re glad, but at the same time, you’re uneasy. You wonder if he notices you’re not his childhood friend. That you look like her, sound like her, but you aren’t her. You wonder if he’d hate you, should he find out.

“Is something wrong, [First]?” You snap to attention.

“Huh? Oh, uh, no. I’m okay,” you say. “I was just kind of busy yesterday, came home exhausted but couldn’t sleep, you know how it is.” You wave your hand dismissively at him as you pass the school gates. “Where are you heading? I’d like to go with you, if that’s alright. Since I didn’t see you yesterday, and all.” Really, you just don’t want to be alone here. But there’s no need to say that.

Robin smiles, and the two of you hang out in the rear courtyard. It’s nice, but you can feel him glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. It makes you uncomfortable. Has he caught on? You excuse yourself and head to the library. Maybe you should acquaint yourself with the other non-crazy person on campus. At least you won’t have to lie about your identity to Sydney.

You walk over to the counter near the back of the library. A tall boy with a strawberry blonde ponytail and glasses is stamping books behind it. You smile as you approach him. “Good morning…” He says, yawning. “First time at the rental counter? You can rent out one book at a ti-” Sydney yawns.. “Time. You can also buy school-approved clothes here. Headmaster Leighton’s marked the prices way up, though. Students with a good record get special discounts.” He seems excited, though you can’t place why.

“Books can be rented out for two weeks at a time. You can renew your rental at any time…” He looks down. You look down. Sydney has stamped his hand. You smile.”...Let’s call that a demonstration of what happens if you return a late or damaged book. My name’s Sydney, by the way! Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m [First],” you respond. You and Sydney spend some time chatting. You notice that he’s oddly red.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, raising a hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up! Let’s get you to the infirmary!”

“W-what? No, I’m okay…”

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling him up by the forearm. You drag him to the infirmary, and he has to bend down to allow it. No one pays you much mind, though you’re sure you look a little silly, holding onto the forearm of someone much taller than you. You reach the nurse, who informs you that Sydney is perfectly healthy, though tells him to take a rest on one of the beds upon seeing the bags under his eyes.

“See?” He says, smiling. “I didn’t realize you were such a worrier.” You flush, embarrassed. Is pure Sydney supposed to tease people? His face softens. “Thanks…for worrying about me, though” he says, then checks the time. “You should probably get to class.” Right, you’d nearly forgotten you were at school. You thank Sydney for reminding you and leave as he waves you off.

You go to your science lesson. Despite your grade being at F, the lesson is actually pretty easy to follow, some of this you remember from your own highschool lessons. The bell rings and you leave the classroom, only to get shoved into a locker immediately. A boy with blonde hair covering one eye looms over you. You recognize him immediately.

“Don’t get in my way again,” Whitney says, pressing his knee against your crotch. “Or I’ll put you in your place.” He releases you, but you know that won’t be the end of it. You hurry to math class, hoping Whitney will skip today. You’re tense for the first twenty minutes of class, but slowly begin to relax upon realizing Whitney probably isn’t going to show up. Nearly half an hour into class, the teacher River steps out for a moment. And with the kind of timing you’d only see in movies, Whitney waltzes in, his jacket thrown over his shoulder. You try to look away, but it’s too late. Whitney makes eye contact with you and grins. He walks over to the mousy girl sitting next to you.

“Move,” he says. She does. You turn away from him, but he grabs your hair, forcing you to look at him.

This is unfair, you think to yourself. Whitney isn’t supposed to sit next to you unless you’re dating. Why now?

“Watcha lookin at, slut?”

This sucks. You want to go home. When is this dream supposed to end?

Whitney tugs at your hair even harder. “I asked you a question, slut.”

How did you even get here in the first place? Did you really die? Were you in a coma? Whitney yanks your hair back so hard your body goes with it, creating an awful screeching sound as your chair lurches back. River walks in just in time to see you fall on your back. Whitney is sent out. He turns to make a penetration sign with his hands at you as he leaves.

Math ends, and you head to English. There’s a crowd of students blocking your path. You peer over shoulders and heads to see the source of the commotion, and see a dark haired student on the ground, with two bullies standing over him. Your first instinct is Kylar, but you must be wrong. Kylar’s event shouldn’t happen until a week from now.

You could try to help, but that would probably get you assaulted. Even if you didn’t, your fellow students would think less of you, leading you to getting picked on later, and potentially assaulted more and–

Fuck it, you can’t ignore this. You’re already shoving past students and blocking the bullies’ view of the student. “Leave him alone,” you say. “I won’t stand for this.” One of the bullies, a thin girl, shoves you down.

“Sit, then!” She says, the audience laughs. You pick yourself up and ram into the thin girl and her friend. You knock her off-balance and she falls to the floor, screaming as soon as she lands. “You stupid bitch! You broke my tailbone!” The audience is laughing at her, now. Her friend is helping her up. “I’ll get you for this! Mark my fucking words!” You shiver. Hopefully no one notices. You turn to check on the boy they were harassing, only to nearly bump heads with him. You jump back, and the boy smiles apologetically. There’s something else in his expression, but before you can figure out what it was, you make eye contact with him, and the whole world goes dark.

Tousled black hair, short stature, sickly pale skin and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. It’s Kylar. It has to be. “T-thanks,” he says. “I-I’m Kylar.” Your face drops, but you aren’t sure if he saw it before running off. The tips of his ears are red, you notice. You step towards the crowd, which is already dispersing. The remaining onlookers make way for you, though you feel a hand grope your butt as you leave. You turn, but no one’s there.

You head into English class, already exhausted. Kylar watches you from the back. You ignore him. The plump boy sitting behind you sniffs your hair during the entirety of the lesson, so it’s hard to focus. You look down at your notes. It’s an unintelligible mess. Is this what it means to have a grade F in English, you wonder?

Finally, it’s lunch time. You head to the cafeteria, passing by the headmaster on your way there. You swear you saw him checking you out. You shudder and speed up. Upon reaching the canteen, you are presented with three options.

Robin is talking with some students at his table, they seem to be arguing.

Sydney is sitting alone, several piles of books surrounding him.

Kylar is also alone, stabbing at his food with more violence than seems neccesary.

Despite your self preservation instincts, you walk towards Robin to see what the commotion is. The lean boy is accusing Robin of ‘looking at him with disrespect’. Arguing with him would be pointless. So you do the next best thing and smile as you spit in his face.

As expected, he doesn’t take it well, and pounces on you immediately. He tears open your shirt, leaving you only marginally more exposed than you already were. You scream loudly, and Leighton rushes in. You suppress a smirk.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” He shouts, pushing past students to find you exposed on the ground, the lean boy holding you down. He scrambles off of you, and you fix your uniform. The lean boy tries to explain, but Leighton cuts him off and sends him out. Robin helps you up.

“Are you okay?! Why did you do that?”

“I saw Leighton on the way over here. I figured if we caused a scene, he’d be the one to get in trouble for it.”

“Don’t do something like that again! That was really dangerous!” You nod, though you don’t really mean it.

Kylar watches from across the canteen. +Jealousy

The rest of lunch passes without incident and you go to History with Robin. The two of you chat about his game before class starts. You learn some interesting things about the history of the town. Nothing happens during history, and you leave feeling refreshed. You navigate the halls to your swimming lesson and change. You keep your eyes down, but swear you feel the stares of your classmates. You think you hear a camera go off, but when you turn, no one’s looking at you.

A taut boy follows you around the pool, and doesn’t stop trailing until the lesson is over. He keeps his distance, but it still makes you feel uneasy. The bell rings, and you don’t see him again.

You meet up with Robin in the courtyard, but hesitate walking home when you see Whitney hanging out by the gate.

“Can we go out through the back?”

“The back? Why?” You nod your head towards Whitney and his friends, and Robin makes an ‘O’ with his mouth. “I don’t mind, but how will we get out?” You’re about to answer when a realization hits you. Right. You haven’t unlocked the tunnel outside yet, which means you can’t leave unless you climb the fence.

“...Nevermind,” you say. “Maybe they won’t notice us.” You and Robin try to blend in with the crowd, but a hand on your shoulder quickly yanks you into the open.

“Hold it, slut.” Shit. “You didn’t pay the toll.”

You grit your teeth. “What’s the toll?” Whatever, you have twenty quid to spare.

“Flash us your tits.” There’s a crowd circling around you. You notice people pulling out their phones.

“[First]...”

“It’s fine, Robin.” You give him a strained smile as you unbutton your blouse. “Happy?” You ask, turning back to Whitney.

“Not quite,” he says, grabbing the front of your bra and unclasping the hook. Your breasts flop out. “There. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” You turn and quickly fix your bra, wishing it clasped at the back instead of the front like a normal bra. You and Robin speed away, then find a secluded ally to fix your shirt.

Finally home, you decide to check out some of the apps you didn’t bother with yesterday.

Social

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

Primary relationships:

Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend. Love: 100% Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Lust: 40%

You smile. It’s little different than the starting relationship in the actual game, but you’re slowly getting used to the inconsistencies. You’re about to look at the next box when your eyes are drawn back up to the pink text. Wait a minute, doesn’t that mean bad? You check the color chart to make sure.

But, why? Why is that bad? Isn’t it good? Or, is it because his confidence is low? Maybe the key word here is “wants”. Still, wouldn’t that count more as poor than bad? Whatever, no need to nitpick. You’ll check back in on it later. You move on.

…You almost move on. Why is his love so high? And his lust, too?! It’s gotta be a glitch, right? Right?

Right. You restart your phone and boot it back up. Nothing’s changed. You put that aside for now.

Whitney The Bully Whitney wants to own you. Love: 50% Dominance: 50% Lust: 100%

Another different one. Also bad. Terrible, even. You aren’t even sure what to make of it. You just met him, and his lust is already maxed out. His love is also surprisingly high, though only half as much as Robin’s is. You make a mental note to sit in view of the teacher during math going forward.

Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you. Love: 100% Jealousy: 55% Lust: 90%

Another case of inexplicably high stats right off the bat, though you aren’t surprised with Kylar. You move on.

Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted. Love: 77% Purity: 44% Lust: 66%

Okay, you’re pretty sure those are all just angel numbers. Or, supposed to be angel numbers. It’s kind of hard to do that with only two numbers. Though 666 is actually more of a demonic number, it still fits the theme. Aside from the strange percentages, you’re also concerned by the question mark next to ‘faithful’, not to mention the fact that his purity is already so low he’s conflicted. You haven’t even flirted with him yet!

You glance at the other named NPC’s. They’re all unremarkable, full of “has no strong opinion of you” aside from two.

Bailey The Caretaker Bailey doesn’t want you to leave. Love: 25% Lust: 99%

Leighton The Headmaster You’re Leighton’s favorite. Love: 10% Lust: 85%

Your stomach lurches. Gross. You are absolutely repressing that shit.

You check your reputation next.

-The police aren’t concerned with you, and have no evidence linking you to any crime. -The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. -You are considered a normal student by teachers. -Your fellow students desire you.

You grimace at the last one. You make a mental note to buy a more concealing uniform.

Finally, you have your fame. This one should be normal, right? You’ve only just gotten here.

Sex: Unknown Prostitution: Unknown Rape: Obscure. Beastiality: Unknown Exhibitionism: Unknown Pregnancy: Unknown Combat: Obscure Kindness: Obscure Business: Unknown Socialite: Unknown Overall: Famous

What?! Famous?! How does that— Ugh, forget it. You keep reading.

The townsfolk call you Darling. Those in the criminal underworld call you Darling.

…?

What…what does that mean?

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animasola86 · 10 months ago

Text

🐺 A FILLING EXPERIENCE

knotting!dildo x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 9.8k

You were a little drunk and very horny when you browsed the website looking for a new sex toy. When your order arrives, however, you feel like you did something very wrong. Or did you? Maybe it'll grow on you? (Not sure that's a good thing, though.) Prepare for a wild ride.

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Sex toys! Possessed sex toys. Masturbation. Knotting. Referenced werewolves. Referenced A/B/O dynamics. Possession. Vaginal sex. Breeding. Memory loss. (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: The prompt was "knotting, masturbation, sex toys". The pairing is what it is. For a reference picture of the star of the show (aka the dildo) check it on AO3! (Also, very surprisingly, but this is not an ad for Bad Dragon, I swear.)

You spend a whole minute staring at the item you just pulled out of the unassuming box. The sheer size of it both makes your head spin and mouth very, very dry (at the same time, you feel a growing wetness somewhere much lower). Wow. Just wow. What is that thing? You're absolutely sure you ordered it in a different size, the smallest to be exact, so this can't be right.

Licking your lips, you blink, focusing back on the packaging. There isn't anything on the box, but you find a little sheet of paper next to the satin bag it came with. The dimensions listed make you frown. Putting the hefty item back on your desk, you fumble for the ruler you keep in one of the drawers. Then you start measuring the damn thing.

It's almost nine inches long, if you dismiss the large base that holds it steady to any surface. The head is the smallest part, two inches wide and tapered, the shaft flares out then, you measure two and a half inches in width, sloping into a soft curve lined with ridges and little nubs, before the main attraction protrudes in a rather menacing way: the knot, two bulbous bumps, and they even added thick veins to the design. Your hand is shaking when you put the ruler next to it. Three point five six inches wide.

That's a lot. Way too much. This will never fit inside you. Ever.

And still you are intrigued. Of course you are, you ordered that dildo for a reason, even if it came in the wrong size. (You could return it, you know that, but it's been a thrill to order it in the first place, so sending it back seems like too much of a hassle.) But just seeing it now, sitting heavy on your desk, with your small hand resting beside it, with its intricate and strangely realistic textures, it looks too intimidating.

You've read these werewolf stories where some fair maiden stumbles through the forest and ends up getting relentlessly knotted by the monster (or the more modern versions of some alpha male knotting his omega mate to help them through their heat, which always fascinated you a little more because it seemed not as fantastical). The idea to have something big inside you, filling you, stretching you out, and then something even bigger holding you in place, making it impossible to move, gives you chills, in the good way.

You may have been a little drunk and very horny when you ordered this fantasy dildo, but seeing it now, in the “flesh”, makes you very anxious. This was a stupid purchase. It won't be the same anyway. It's just the disembodied dick of a creature that doesn't exist in the first place. You'll be stuffed, sure, but you'll miss the warmth and the strength of whoever this would be attached to.

You sigh. Well, nothing you can do about it. You neither have a boyfriend to test this out with nor do you possess any magical abilities to make that fantasy come true, and as of right now, you don't see yourself using the damn thing anyway. It's too large (your other dildos look downright puny in comparison), and you are too small.

Despite it all, it is mesmerizing you. You chose a deep midnight blue as the color, that blends from a lighter blue at the tip into an almost black at the base, which makes it look slightly slimmer than it is. Slowly you move your hand up and close it around the curved shaft, well, you try, your fingers are too short to reach all the way around. You still slide your palm along the ridges and bumps, feeling the firm smooth silicone. It gives way in some places, you can bend it just a little bit, but when your hand reaches the knot, those bulbs feel almost a little too rigid.

You squeeze them, watching your knuckles blanching, knowing you will never have the same grip with your pussy. Warmth rushes into your cheeks at the thought. Biting your lip, you keep stroking the strange toy, getting a feel for it, trying to imagine how it would fit inside you. With how hefty the base is, you would have to put it on the ground and lower yourself onto it, which sounds like a workout you're not so sure you'd like.

But maybe the base comes off and you can use it like a regular dildo, snuggled into bed, hidden under your blanket? You lift the thing up and try to twist the base, but nothing happens. Hmm. At least it's sturdy. You find a little hole at the bottom, and you remember you ordered it with a... what did they call it, cumtube? Sounds weird, but it's just a long tube you can fill with cum-like lube that shoots out at some point? You're not too clear on the workings of that. But the idea to be filled by something warm and sticky makes your stomach tense up in anticipation.

Shifting on your chair, you inhale sharply and pull your hand away from the dark blue item. Well, this is not going to happen, not now. Maybe never. The idea is nice, but you don't see it being too pleasurable in reality. So you pack it up into its unassuming black satin bag along with the bottle of lube and the long tube it came with, and store it in the lowest drawer of your desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

Or so you hope.

When you go to bed that night, you see the large dildo in your mind's eye, and you recall these smutty stories, you imagine the grunts of the werewolf as he fucks the poor woman beneath him, rutting into her like the feral creature he is. And how she screams when he bottoms out, pressing all those inches into her, forcing his knot to stretch her entrance, how her pussy lips grip around it and pull it further inside. You have your hand between your legs as you try to imagine what it must feel like to be this full, to be bred and filled, with nowhere to go, stuck on those bulging bulbs.

A moan escapes you as your body shudders. You could try it. You have the hardware. It's right there. You just have to get up and get it... But you're too cozy in bed, under your warm blanket, with your fingers rubbing hard circles around your clit. You end up coming to the idea of it, and that's enough for you. Content with your heart racing, you exhale loudly, wiping your wet fingers on your thigh before you snuggle into the bedding and close your eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.

Maybe not as dreamless as you've hoped. You wake up the next morning with a dry throat and sticky thighs, your mind swimming with images of cocks plunging into squelching holes, of being held down and ravaged, and you shudder at the memory. Blinking your eyes into focus, you sit up – and freeze.

There, on top of your desk, sits the large dark blue dildo, shining in the sunlight filtering through your window. No way. You've put it into the drawer, into its bag, far away, and even though you thought about using it last night, you didn't. And even if, you wouldn't put it back on the desk like that, right? But it's there, almost mocking you. Slowly you stand up and walk towards your desk, reaching out a hand to touch the smooth surface.

It's sticky, almost warm to the touch. What the hell? But you haven't used it, you're sure, you'd certainly remember it, wouldn't you? Shaking your head, you dismiss it for the moment and start your morning routine as if nothing happened.

Before you leave for the day, you grab the dildo and the toy cleaner you keep in your bedside table and give it a good scrub. Then you hide it away again, shutting the drawer with a firm thud. You are tempted to put a lock on it, but that's just silly.

Later that evening, you sit in bed and scroll through the stories on your phone, mindlessly skimming through your preferred genres. Somehow you end up on another knotting story. What are the odds. This one is set in the omegaverse, depicting an alpha bodyguard taking care of the omega girl in his care... by knotting her senseless. Just your kind of story. You end up with your fingers in your cunt, rubbing and poking desperately as you read.

You're close, your thighs twitching with every brush against your sensitive clit, stomach tense, feet curling into the sheets as you pump your hips. Your breaths are frantic, heart thundering inside your chest. Soundless, strangled gasps escape you (you're always mindful of your noises, these walls are thin and you don't want to alarm or entertain your neighbors) and you squirm and writhe, your phone falling out of your hand when you have to clutch at the edge of the bed.

“Fuck,” you croak out quietly while you roll onto your side and press your thighs together, trapping your hand, fingers stilling inside your clenching pussy as your body convulses under the mind-numbing throes of your orgasm.

You lie there for a moment, taking deep gulps of air into your burning lungs, slowly calming down again. Through the dark room you look towards your desk. And you can see it, your new toy, hidden away, waiting, and before you know it, you stumble off the bed and rip the drawer open and the large dildo out of its bag. You don't even care about the lube at this point.

With your back pressed into the bed, you rub the tapered tip between your wet folds, gathering your slick. You need both hands to guide the big thing back and forth, it's quite heavy. With your heart racing and your stomach fluttering, you angle your hips, feet pressed into the bed, and then you push. The head parts your lips and sinks into your entrance, and it's already a stretch that makes you inhale sharply.

But you keep going, your arms shaking under the exertion of forcing the toy deeper. You feel its protruding ridges and nubs rubbing against your soft walls as you start moving it in and out slowly. There's still so much of it in your hands, but the curve of the thing already presses between your tight muscles. You turn it slightly, figuring out which way feels best, and in doing so drill it even further.

You stop before your pussy lips brush against the bulbous knot, and you hold it tightly when you let the thing just rest inside you for a moment, feeling its girth and length and weight, its textures and shape. Clenching around the toy, you try to relax on the bed, grinding your hips slowly against your hands. It feels amazing, those ridges and nubs seem to hit all the right spots. Little moans slip from your parted lips, mouth hanging open as you squeeze your eyes shut.

The base is heavy between your fingers, and you feel them cramping slightly as you continue to move the large dildo in and out, considering using it like it's intended to be used: standing upright on the ground as you impale yourself on it. But it's a daunting thought, and your legs are already shaking badly. You doubt you have enough strength left to do squats on it now.

So you keep pumping half of it into your tight cunt, both hands closed around the hefty base, hips meeting your thrusts, the wet squelching sounds echoing through your room, adding to the growing arousal inside you. Your wrists hurt under the strain, but you're desperate now, hectic whines escaping you as you double your efforts, pushing and pulling, ramming that damn thing into you as fast as you can.

Arching your back and lifting your hips off the bed, you lean into the impending release, so close, a few more nudges, come on – when a sudden cold breeze over your sweaty face alerts you to something you cannot stop. It's as if an unseen force pushes the dildo with you, stronger than your own hands, an assist you didn't ask for.

But you're too far gone, gasping with your mouth wide open, head pressed into your pillow, thighs twitching, the tension ready to explode, and then it does, and at the same time as your orgasm crashes over you, a strange jerk goes through your body, and your usually voiceless cry becomes a real one, an almost scream as you feel your clenching cunt being stretched. Your hands fall away from the toy in an attempt to let it pop out and relish in the empty feeling as your contractions shake your body, but there's no empty feeling, because you're not empty.

You're stuffed. Somehow the knot has made it into your tight channel and your pussy lips grip the shaft beneath it, and as much as you push and clench, it doesn't budge. Cold panic rips you from your post-orgasmic bliss. Your hands claw at the base sticking out of you as you gyrate your hips, feeling every ridge and nub and bump pressing hard into your fluttering walls, but the toy is lodged within you. How did that happen?

Breathing harder, both from the exertion and the anxiety of having a sex toy stuck in your cunt, you wail quietly, rolling onto your side, lifting your leg, pulling on the damn thing. No chance. It's in there now. Knot and all, and the more you squirm, the more you feel the tapered tip pressing into depths nothing has ever pressed into before. It's a strange pain, sharp and piercing, a jolt of electricity with every movement of your body.

You lie on your back now, legs still angled, thighs twitching, trying to calm yourself down. You need to relax your muscles to get it out, you know that, but it's hard, as hard as the toy inside you. And somehow you feel it... expanding? No, that must be your imagination. It's not one of those inflatable things, you made sure of that. But the stretch is there, and it hurts.

Your hands are back between your legs, gripping the hefty base, but in your attempt to rip it out somehow, you suddenly feel it loosening and with another surprised/pained gasp, you realize you're holding the base of the toy – but without the toy.

“No!” you wail louder, staring at the dark piece of silicone between your fingers. It came right off, not as sturdy as initially suspected after all. You throw it aside and finger at the now-base of the fake shaft. It's barely sticking out now, your cunt eager to swallow it whole it seems. Whining in panic, you try to hook a finger between your tightly stretched skin and the dildo, but there's no way you can grip it like this.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as your anxiety grows. Chill. Calm down, it'll pop out on its own, they always do, don't worry, you try to soothe yourself. Not the first time you accidentally pushed a toy in too deep, but those were smooth ones, half as long and half as thick, with no ridges or knots, of course they'd slip out again. But this thing? It's a fucking knot, designed, by nature, to keep itself lodged inside any unsuspecting hole.

You think back to those stories you read about the topic. Those were fictional though, and every author handled it slightly differently. In some of them, the knot would just deflate when the man (or werewolf) was done dumping his potent load into his victim or mate, in others it stayed bulbous and inflated for a long time, locking the two people together, which, in a way, is a romantic thing and something you'd like to experience once in your life as well, but there's nobody attached to the dildo in your cunt, no one to hold you, to calm you, to rub your back and ease you through the pain of stretching and being filled.

The thought makes you sad, and in your frustration you buck your hips, only to gasp when the motion causes the toy to rub against these very sensitive spots that make your toes curl. You move your pelvis again, ripping a quiet moan from your throat, and then you fall into a slow rhythm of undulating into the bed, one hand back on your mound, feeling the tight fit of the toy before you start rubbing your swollen clit gently.

Before you know it, you work yourself to yet another orgasm, and the dildo seems to work with you. You even nudge its base a little, pushing it deeper, right against that sweet spot in the far back, and you groan at the sensation of pleasure/pain as you thrash your head into the pillow. Rolling onto your side, you keep grinding against the heavy thing inside you, panting under the exertion, your body curled up tightly, just like the coil in your tense stomach.

You're teetering on the edge, head empty except for that delicious cotton that makes you forget everything. It feels so good. The stretch, the pressure, the snug fit, those ridges and nubs and those seemingly pulsing bulbs pressing right against your g-spot. Mewls and wails fall from your trembling lips, and in your haze, you end up on your stomach where you lift your hips up and start humping your mattress feverishly.

The additional stimulation to your clit makes you cry out loudly, and you can only muffle your noises by pressing your face into the pillow. Your hard nipples rub against the fabric of your shirt with every gyrating motion with how you scrape your chest over the bed, and it doesn't take long before you stumble right over the edge, your muscles clenching hard around the toy, squeezing with all they have, as a million bright lights explode around you.

You're too far gone to think at that point, but if you would have been able to, you'd wonder why the toy doesn't come shooting out of your convulsing channel like most other toys would. It's not just the knot holding it in place, there's a strange force keeping your hips up and the dildo inside you. But you notice none of it, not the stiff position of your body as you tremble and quake, hands clawing at the sheets, knuckles white, fingers hurting, you just keep riding the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

You do, however, feel a familiar warmth gathering deep inside you, and you assume it's your own release waiting to gush past the item if it weren't for the knot plugging you up like a cork. Though it feels a little different, not something your body produced due to high stimulation, but something being added...

You groan deeply when your body makes a forward jerk as you feel the toy moving within you. Which shouldn't be possible. It's almost as if it's pulsing, throbbing, twitching, and with those motions something hot pushes into you, filling you up, seeping into every nook and cranny left by the large toy invading your already tight space. You shudder deeply, wondering in your fucked-out state what's going on, before you feel a strange stretch, a pressure building up inside you, and then, like an airlock being lifted, a strange squelching sound appears and you feel something hot and sticky trickling down your leg.

Remaining in your bent-over position, you move a hand between your legs and feel for whatever is leaking out of you. It's thick, thicker than your own juices, and much stickier. You bring it to your eyes, and whatever liquid it is, it pulls into thin strands as you part your fingers. Feels like cum. You blink at the sight and feel of it, and in your stupor, you roll onto your side, feeling more of it gathering between your legs.

When you're on your back again, you lift your hips, your sticky hand rubbing over your bare stomach, trying to ignore how tense and full it feels, down to your mound, teasing at the stretched opening. You feel the silicone against your fingertips, and it's no longer an intruder you want to get out immediately, it's become a strangely comforting feeling, despite the out of nowhere appearing cum-like substance. Maybe you filled it up before you used it? You can't remember, honestly. Does it matter? Not really.

You enjoy the feeling of fullness, the stretch and pressure, how with every slight movement the toy's ridges dig into your soft walls. The curve of it fits perfectly inside you, and the bulbous knot makes it sit so snug, as if it was made specifically for your cunt. You almost laugh at your initial apprehension and how you thought that huge thing would never fit into your tiny body, but look at you now, stuffed and happy.

With one hand on your mound, now eager to keep the toy in, as you rub your swollen labia gently, you roll onto your side and snuggle into your bed, your other hand pulling the sheets over your sweat-slick, sticky body. You don't care about washing up, you just want to sleep, softly riding out the blissful tremors of what this amazing toy has made you feel.

Closing your eyes, you imagine lying next to your alpha mate, or even a fluffy werewolf, as he holds you tightly pressed to his warm body, cock stuck inside your clenching cunt, knotting you to your (and his) heart's content.

But despite feeling exhausted, you can't stop grinding your hips against your hand, breathing harder when the warmth and tension builds up all over again as the dildo presses into all the right places. Soft moans slip from your dry lips, a shudder crashing through you at the feel of the tight knot stretching your sensitive skin. That last orgasm before you actually fall asleep is a mild one, a soothing thing washing over you, a warm embrace from something that isn't there.

You wake up with a sigh, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to start the new day. There is a strange soreness between your legs, as well as a very sticky sensation on your skin, but you don't care much for it – before you sit up and yelp when a sudden pain crashes through you. You stand up so fast your head is spinning, and as you press a hand to your mound, you can feel that the dildo is still lodged snugly inside you.

Yet you don't even have time to panic as the room grows dark all of a sudden. Then it all happens very fast. Somehow you are being turned and bent over the foot of the bed, chest pressed into the mattress by a force you can't explain. Your hands grip for the sheets as you struggle against whatever is holding you down. Are you still dreaming? You can't be sure. It feels too real.

And the pain when something pulls at the dildo in your cunt, when the knot stretches your pussy lips as it forces its way past them, is very, very real and makes you wail into the bedding. After the first stretch, the rest of the toy slips out easily, and with it comes a flood of something warm and sticky, spraying against your inner thighs, dripping down your legs, pooling around your bare feet on the floor. You gasp at the sudden emptiness.

All that wasted seed, you think as if someone has planted the thought into your head. Better put in a new load. Before you can properly wonder about where those words came from, you feel something nudging against your stretched entrance. You stand on shaking legs, ass in the air, torso pushed down into the bed, and you struggle, or try to, but you can't move. It's as if you're frozen in time and place, held down by an invisible force.

It's too dark to see anything, not that you could anyway with how your face is buried in the sheets. All you can do is take it, and even that you're not sure you can. It feels like something is standing behind you, something cold that lets goosebumps ripple over your exposed skin, and at the same time there's something very hot sinking into your fluttering cunt. You know it's the silicone toy warmed by your own body, but it feels different somehow. It feels... real.

You grunt with every sharp stab it gives you, parting your folds, plunging deep, but not as deep, teasing you with those ridges and nubs that scrape over your gummy walls, and the swell of that knot nudges against your entrance, never breaching it. Not yet anyway. The pace is brutal, a feral rutting, pistoning in and out fast and hard, and you can barely contain your noises anymore. They're muffled but still loud in your ears. Maybe because they're the only thing you hear, aside from the wet squelching of your cunt.

Whatever is pushing that dildo into you, whatever took over for you, doesn't make a sound, but you can feel it, you know it's there, holding you down and restrained. Whatever it is.

As sure as you are about the invisible force fucking you on your own bed, you are about the impending orgasm creeping closer with every hard thrust. The constant in and out of the rigid toy makes your head spin, your stomach tense, your thighs tremble. You're moaning and mewling, desperate for release as the warmth gathers in your core, ready to burst free. You even manage to press your hips back and meet the motions of the toy pounding into you.

And then you come, wailing loudly, barely restrained, lights exploding behind your eyelids as your body shudders and convulses, and you feel something wet splattering on the wooden floor, adding to the mess pooling around your feet. You've never squirted before, but you just know that's what happened, if you could analyze the moment, which you can't because your head is deliciously empty as you let bliss take over your thinking apparatus.

You barely register how the toy keeps plunging into your wet cunt, those squelching noises obscene if you would care about them, and as you still float on that amazing high, you feel its thrusts getting slower, slightly deeper, more deliberate, those bulging bulbs nudging firmer against your pussy lips, and suddenly the pressure grows stronger, making you gasp and your legs shake badly, and you fight it, stiffen, muscles tensing up, making it all the worse, but whatever controls the large dildo doesn't care as it pushes it further into your protesting cunt.

You let out a deep groan when it finally breaches the tight squeeze, stretching your sensitive skin, slipping into you, and that motion, the getting swallowed by your own body, turns your wails of distress into cries of pure pleasure as you come again around the invading object, your walls fluttering around the knot. You almost lose your footing, but the force that's penetrating you is still holding you up, no matter how badly your body spasms against the bed.

The dildo is back inside of you, all of it, from the tapered tip that teases at your cervix to the swollen protrusions to the bit of shaft after that. Your cunt clenches around all of it, holding it in place, hugging it to its contracting walls, letting it rub against all those special spots. And you keep shaking, so sensitive by now the slightest motion causes you to gasp and shudder. You'd be content like this, having it inside you, just resting, as heavy and large as it is, but whatever decided to take over, doesn't see it that way.

While you couldn't possibly push the thing deeper the last time it was wedged into you, you now feel it moving, nudging further, the hard tip pressing into your depths, stretching you in a way you've never been stretched before. It hurts, but it also feels good. And it's good that you think so, as you don't have a choice in the matter anyway.

The toy is pushed and pulled in slow fluid motions, and you feel the knot pressing hard against your entrance, stretching but never leaving your cunt. That doesn't stop the force behind you, though. The shallow thrusts continue until they turn into a desperate rutting, quick short stabs that make you howl as they bully both your deepest spot and the tight muscles of your hole. It's painful in the best way possible, and you feel your legs trembling, your stomach tensing, that warmth filling you up before it all explodes, catapulting you over the edge all over again.

You scream as you come, luckily muffled by how your face is still pressed into the bedding, but the sensation isn't any less extreme. Your orgasm crashes over you like the biggest tidal wave you've ever experienced, not that you have seen any of those before, but it sure feels like it hits you straight in the chest and drags you along, throwing you around, unrelenting, merciless, as you're being pushed and pulled and gasping for air.

Your walls clench hard around the still pistoning intruder, the curve, the ridges, the nubs, that fucking knot, all playing vital roles in keeping you afloat (or drowning), prolonging the gloriously mind-blowing experience. You feel dizzy, your heart thundering in your chest, lungs burning, body arching and spasming, as you are being hurdled from one orgasm to the next, or so it feels, and it never ends, not even when the toy suddenly stills, pushed as deep as possible, and then it throbs.

Even though you're barely able to feel anything anymore, you can feel its vibrations, the thrum from deep within it, and it shouldn't do that, it's not a vibrating toy, you tell yourself, it's also not an inflating one, but it still seems to swell, or the knot is, and it's pulsing against your tense muscles, stretching them, working inside you, and then... it unloads.

The warmth it fills you with is scorching, so filling you feel it bulging your stomach, which shouldn't be possible, and you may even taste it on your tongue as you gulp for air. It's all around you, but mostly inside you, and there it stays because the knot keeps it from spilling out. You are plugged shut, and it keeps pumping, giving you more, and it feels both oddly comforting and terrifyingly too much. You feel like bursting, so full, way too full, but all you can do is groan quietly.

With your mind still reeling, you are suddenly moved, lifted up by invisible hands (or paws?), cradled against something strangely warm as you're being put onto your side on the bed, your stomach fluttering and bulging, tensing badly under the onslaught of whatever liquid is pumped into your depths. The knotting dildo remains deep inside you, stuck and locked in, and you become drowsy, exhausted from whatever just happened. The darkness is still all around you, but you feel warm and content and taken good care of.

A smile grazes your dry lips as you imagine lying in the embrace of a mate, a lover, holding you after the strenuous ordeal of being knotted and bred, as their cock keeps pumping cum into you, as you remain tied together. And it feels so real...

Your eyes flutter close, and you inhale deeply, shifting slightly with your precious cargo inside you. As you drift into unconsciousness, the room grows brighter again, letting in the warm sunlight of a day already reaching its halfway point. Of course, you notice none of that, gone as you are.

When you stir awake, the darkness is back, this one real, lying like a heavy blanket all around you, while you lie on your side, shivering because you seemed to have kicked off your own blanket. Once you come to fully, you feel a little strange. Your mind is fuzzy, laden with images that couldn't have happened. Did you dream all that? Surely. It would be too weird if not.

But then why do you feel full when at the same time you are blatantly empty? Rolling onto your back, you grind your hips, assessing if you were indeed knotted and bred, but there's nothing. Your stomach rumbles, and when you touch it, it's normal, not bulged and tense but soft, and that's probably where the emptiness comes from. You're hungry, but that hunger also feels like an air pocket inside you, too big to ignore, giving you the feeling of being full? It's a strange sensation, to say the least.

And then there's another kind of emptiness. The one sitting invisibly in your aching little cunt disguised as nothingness. The toy is gone. You recall vividly how deep it's been in you, how stuck and immobile and heavy it sat between your clenching walls, but now they are fluttering around nothing. Where did it go?

You sit up, rubbing your naked arms, realizing you are indeed completely naked. Strange, didn't you go to bed with your sleep shirt? And why is it dark? It's been morning before, what happened to the rest of the day? You lean over to the lamp on your bedside table and the dark room is suddenly bathed in a warm yellow light, causing your eyes to wander straight towards your desk.

And there it is, sitting on its hefty base, the dark blue knotting dildo, in all its glory, with its curve, those ridges and nubs, and the formidable two bulbs making up the knot of the thing. You blink at the sight, confusion washing over you like a cold shiver. Slowly you stand up, groaning as you do, feeling your limbs shaking. Why are you so weak? Rubbing your stomach, you take a few steps before you almost slip on the floor.

Something wet coats the soles of your feet, and when you look down there's a big puddle of something shiny all over the wooden boards. Some of it is clear, but there's also a white shimmer to it, and you feel your heart accelerating as you remember how that came to be (even if the memory is faint, but seeing the evidence makes it all the more real and that frighteningly so). The feeling of being filled to the brim and leaking with the rest of it, the sensation of coming so hard you squirted all over the floor, while a strange force pounded your new toy into your willing body. Has it really happened? Apparently. But how is that possible?

Your heart beats faster as you keep walking until you reach the large dildo, standing proud and tall and girthy. You reach out with a shaking hand, carefully sliding your fingers over the textured shaft, tracing the thick veins on it. It feels warm and sticky, and it makes your blood run cold. It feels real, and it shouldn't. You know that. You're not crazy.

But there are too many things you just can't explain. How did it get back on the desk, back on the base you seemingly broke off last time? How was it possible that the toy fucked you on its own, in that bent-over position, and why weren't you able to move as it happened?

You feel chills all over your naked body. In that moment your rational mind just gives up. Normally you don't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, but how else could you explain any of this? Is the toy haunted? Possessed?

It's a silicone thing, man-made, fabricated to cater to certain people's needs, a fantasy product, but it feels real, it pumped seemingly real cum into you (or so you think, it could still have been loaded with that artificial stuff without your knowledge and by squeezing it too hard you made it come out?), it fucked you as if attached to the real deal (whatever the real deal was).

Staring at the item, you lick your lips, eyes scanning every inch of its ridged surface. As creepy as this whole situation is, you still can't deny how good it felt also. How full and happy you were, how many times you came as it rammed into you, how those little nubs felt against your tense walls. They clench just remembering it. And somehow, from the darkest corner of your mind, comes the need to put it back in, feel it again, let the knot lock you up...

A shaky sigh escapes you, and you force yourself to look away from its tantalizing appeal. No. You can't. It'll all happen again, a mind-blowing fuckfest, and you'll waste another day in bed or wherever this thing wants to fuck you, or you it, it's still unclear how that happened, and maybe it was just your extremely horny mind who made up the idea of it being controlled by somebody else, maybe it has been you all along, driven crazy by sheer lust as you rammed that knot into your own cunt.

Shaking your head to clear it, you step away and into the bathroom. You spend a long time in there, inspecting and washing and handling your sore body, and when you emerge again, wrapped in a towel with your wet hair falling over your shoulders, the toy is still sitting on your desk. You watch it, but don't approach it. Instead you leave the room and venture into the kitchen to satiate the human need of eating, and after you sat at the counter and shoveled a bowl of cereal into your achingly empty stomach, you return to your bedroom.

The sight of that thing haunts you. You feel antsy just looking at it. In the end, you pick it up and put it down on the wooden desk chair, something you feel like doing, as if something put that thought into your head, a not too unfamiliar sensation. Then you pull the chair back, drop your towel and move to sit down on it. Again, you're barely thinking about it, it's like a need, an urge, a thing that feels right.

So you squat down on the toy, feeling the tapered tip pressing between your folds, and as soon as it breaches your entrance, pushing against your sore muscles, you gasp, hands curled around the edge of the desk to ground yourself as you let gravity do the rest. Or most of it. You feel the curve sinking into your tight depths, carving a way into your gummy walls, but when the knot presses against your pussy lips, you pause, breathing harder.

It feels too big, but you know it can fit inside you, it's happened before. Inhaling deeply, you try to relax, gyrating your hips to ease it into you, but your hole's too tight, unwilling to part further. You're in that weird half-squat, hovering over the chair, arms propped on the desk in front of you, and instead of giving up, you start moving up and down, fucking yourself slowly on the curved shaft, feeling those ridges and nubs and the tip poking at those delicious spots.

You're panting from the exertion, thighs burning under the strain, but you keep going even when sweat drops down your brows. You feel as if your muscles are opening up, and before your legs give in, you slam your hips down. A shrill shriek escapes you as you feel the knot stretching you open, your sensitive skin and muscles giving way, allowing it inside before they close back around it, swallowing it and the whole thing inside of you. You moan when you feel it filling you out.

Sinking a few inches further, you feel your rear pressing against the base of the toy before you sit down fully, ass cheeks on the chair, the entirety of the dildo wedged between your tight walls. A trembling exhale escapes you as you try to relax on it, your arms shaking before you bring your hands to your lap, your chest rising and falling faster, your stomach fluttering. For a few minutes you just sit there, trying to calm your frantic breaths and your rapid heartbeat, adjusting to the filling sensation.

And then, as if you haven't just impaled yourself on a knotting dildo, you reach a hand out, turn the lamp on your desk on and pull the laptop closer that you keep at the edge of it. You've missed an entire day it seems, so you're hellbent on making up for it. As your fingers fly over the keyboard, you occasionally grind your hips into the chair, relishing in the sudden jolts of pleasure/pain as the toy nudges your insides.

You sit there and work until you've edged yourself so badly, you can barely think anymore. Leaning back in your chair with your hands flat on your desk, you inhale sharply, tilting your head back as you undulate against the toy wedged between your thighs. You're so sensitive, every single motion causes you to shiver deeply. Even the hefty base of the toy rubs delightfully against your mound, adding pressure where you didn't know you needed it. A moan escapes you, and you move your hands to your rear and pull your cheeks apart until you can grind against it better.

It feels so good. To be stuffed, to be teased like this, to feel all those little details on that firm silicone shaft. You want to congratulate whoever came up with this design. It's perfect.

In an attempt to feel more of it, you lift yourself up slightly, really wanting to ride that thing now, but of course the knot prevents you from doing so, plugging you up tightly. You can still nudge the curved dildo a little deeper, so you end up humping your chair with small shallow snaps of your hips, your thighs trembling after only a few minutes, your panting breaths loud in the quiet room.

With a little whine you stand up properly, but instead of forcing the toy out from between your clenching walls, you lift up the entire thing, base and all, as it's firmly stuck inside of you. Its weight is heavy between your legs, but you still manage to stumble towards the bed with it where you throw yourself onto your back, spread your legs, lift your hips and start pushing your hands against the base, working yourself up even more.

Once your wrists cramp up under the strain, you focus on stimulating your clit, and the first touch has you already writhing on the bed. Gasping quietly, you buck your hips against your own fingers as you keep rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs spasm wildly. You feel the tension building, the warmth gathering inside you, and then you come with a soundless half-scream, mouth wide open, legs clamping shut around your hands as you ride out the waves of pleasure, the toy practically vibrating inside you with how your walls are fluttering around it.

Your limbs go limp then, hands falling away, legs falling open, as you try to catch your breath. Eyes closed, a stupid smile on your lips, you lie there like a stranded beetle, stomach convulsing, chest heaving. You don't notice how the darkness creeps back in, dimming out the warm light of the desk and bedside table lamp. You don't feel the cold wafting in the air around you, but you do feel the dildo moving, tiny movements, little nudges against your tight muscles until it pops out with an obscenely wet squelching sound, coaxing a deep sigh out of you.

You feel utterly relieved and satisfied and content, ready to fall asleep like that, with your legs wide open, presented on the bed like a strange little offering, and whatever lurks in the shadows around you, seems to take the bait.

It feels like your bed is moving, the mattress denting on either side of your hips, and then you're being lifted a little, and it's cold and warm at the same time as your legs are pushed up and against your chest, and as if you want this to happen, your hands move to grab your thighs, holding your legs like this. In this position you are wide open, a cool breeze on your swollen clit, your cunt clenching around nothing – but not for long.

The tapered tip pushes between your folds, eagerly sinking into your slightly stretched hole, scraping along your soft walls. The curved shaft follows, digging into you, its nubs and ridges rubbing against those sensitive spots that make you mewl softly. You are in a trance, held by lust even as exhaustion wants to pull you under. You don't question anything at this point, you just savor the sensations.

And you feel everything. The shaft moves then, in and out, shallow little stabs, carving its way deeper until you feel the bulbous knot pressing against your entrance. But it doesn't go in yet, it keeps slamming against your puffy lips, the wet squelching sounds a telltale sign of how aroused you still are. There's a strange weight to the thrusts, as if there would be more than just the toy being pushed into you, it feels as if it was attached to something much bigger, a presence you can't see (not even if you would open your eyes), but can sense in a way that feeds your longing.

The pounding continues, and that warmth builds up again, all around the thick shaft that moves between your tight walls with ease and power, in and out, fast and hard, and in an angle that makes you wail, bullying all the right spots until you can't hold it in you anymore. You come with a croaked cry as your body tenses up before it explodes into nothing but bliss, tiny lights dancing behind your eyelids, that soft warmth turning into a burning that devours all of you at once.

Through your orgasm the fake cock (or so you think) keeps pumping into you, those wet squelches are obscenely loud, and you moan and whine, hips bucking to meet the thrusts as your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding your legs squished against your breasts, your feet jumping above your head with every plunge.

And then it happens, your fluttering cunt gives way to the knot, but instead of plugging you up, it pops out, then plunges into you once more, and out again and in again, and you wail under the stretch and strange sensation of being stretched repeatedly. There's pain, but there's also blinding pleasure whenever it forces itself into you, and you keep coming from that motion alone, gasping and writhing, barely able to breathe or think or do anything but let it happen.

Now the whole length of the thing pushes into you, as deep as it'll go, bullying your cervix with its tapered tip, knot fully swallowed by your walls, then it's pulled back almost entirely before doing it all over again, driving you to the edge and over it and back and over in rapid succession. It's all a blur, but it feels so good, you could die on the spot just feeling it breaching your tight space over and over again.

Luckily, you don't die, you are just pushed from orgasm to orgasm, until every single nerve ending is buzzing and tingling, and you come to the point where you don't want to come any more. Not that the thing fucking you seems to mind that very much. It keeps going, in and out, your cunt giving off a lewd wet popping sound every time the knot is forced out and another wet slurping sound every time it's pushed in and swallowed by your walls. Along with your breathless whines and the squeaking of the bed, it's a cacophony of sounds driving you to the edge of sanity, and pleasure, and pain, and all of the above.

You feel yourself fading, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, but just as you think you'll drift off now, the thing in your cunt plunges particularly deep, a final thrust full of power and strength, a heavy weight pressing you down as it prods painfully against your already battered cervix. You cry out, your body too confused, so it makes you convulse all over again as another orgasm crashes through you. The curved shaft stills inside you, ridges and nubs and its knot settling against your fluttering walls, and you feel as if it's throbbing and twitching, and the bulbs seem to grow, stretching you further, really plugging you up now.

A groan slips from your dry lips as it starts pumping something warm and filling into your cramped depths. Spurt after spurt, more and more, until you can feel your stomach bulging, tensing under the growing load, and your head is spinning as your body comes down from that strenuous but still utterly pleasurable experience. You feel a little drunk almost, dizzy and disorientated, wondering why you are still holding your legs up. But you stay like this, submitting to whatever leans over you, holding you down with their cock.

The last bit of your rational mind tells you you're just dreaming. Of course you are. And what a nice dream it is, hm? But then your eyes flutter open, and you blink at the darkness around you. It feels impenetrable, too dark. Even at night, you can usually make out the shape of your furniture, the outline of your windows, the streetlamps trying to push their light past your curtains. But you can see absolutely nothing. Did you even open your eyes?

You blink. Yeah, you did. There's something eerie in the way you're staring into the black void in front of you, it gives you chills, makes your body shudder, and as you jerk a little, you feel the weight and the pressure inside of you. The toy. It's still in there, buried deep, and it keeps throbbing, spewing liquid warmth into you. It feels so real. Your heart beats faster, your breaths quicken.

Then a strange hum fills the air, you freeze immediately, your eyes widening. It's a soothing sound as much as it is terrifying. It makes you stiffen, frozen in place, a deep chill running down your spine. And then there's this huff, like an exhale, and you can feel warm air wafting towards you, hitting your sweat-slick face. A tiny little croak escapes you as fear grips your limbs after all.

There is something, holding you down, impaling you on its cock, leaning over you, breathing right against your quivering lips. You can't see it, no matter how hard you try, but it's there. Huffing and puffing in a low, deep rumble, an unseen weight resting between your legs. Hot tears fall from under your lashes, running down your cheeks, but they never reach the pillow beneath your head.

It's a warm sensation, wet, almost a little slimy, and it feels like a tongue lapping at your skin, and the thought alone pushes you right to the edge of hysteria. Helpless whimpers escape you, but that disembodied, unseen tongue keeps licking up the tears continuously spilling from your eyes. Warm breaths dry your wet cheeks, those little huffs quieter now, calm and collected, and they slowly ease your own breathing as you stare ahead at nothing but blackness.

A little shriek is coaxed out of your throat when you feel the same tongue on your neck now, something soft nudging your calves until you let go of your legs and let them fall open against whatever has settled between them. They don't reach the soft bedding beneath but are held up now by something else, and you're too far gone to question it anymore. With your legs down, your torso is exposed to the shadows, your breasts trembling as your chest rises and falls quicker.

Those warm huffs of air hit your sensitive nipples before something warm circles them, and you can feel them being pulled and teased, making you shiver deeply, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure straight to your clit and fluttering cunt. The thick shaft inside you throbs as well, still leaking the occasional spurt of warm fluid. The knot is pulsing, tight and harder than before, or so it feels, those bulging veins on it rubbing deliciously against your stretched flesh.

You feel yourself drifting again under all these ministrations, lulled into your own darkness.

In your dreams, or whatever reality you find yourself in, you see a large shadow leaning over you. And you are calm about it, not afraid, but content. The appearance of the figure above you is hazy, like black smoke, fraying at its edges, no clear contour to make out. But what you can see (or think to see) are strong arms, a broad torso, muscles wherever you look. A display of strength and power and dominance, and in its shadow, you feel safe, protected.

You assume it's a large man, but you can't see his face. It's still too dark. But you can feel his breath on your skin, his lips trailing around your breasts, upwards to your collarbones, before you feel that warm tongue against your neck again. You tilt your head, giving him better access, and he hums deeply, showering you with little kisses and broad strokes of his tongue. Your pulse is fluttering against his mouth, and he senses your arousal, smells it. He seems to sniff you, hovering over you, warm and heavy.

“You are mine now,” you hear a low thrum in the air, assuming it's his voice. “My mate.”

You don't know what that means, but you're ready. You want it. And as if he can feel your approval, he leans in, his lips closing around your pulse, sucking softly, his teeth nibbling carefully, before you feel a different sensation. A pinch, a prick, a sudden cold stab when something sharp sinks into your skin.

You moan quietly as a strange warmth rushes through you (and out of you), the smell of metal wafting towards your nostrils, but you keep still, and without knowing what's happening, you let him bite you, mark you, and he grunts against you, holding your neck between his teeth as a shudder crashes through his big body that travels all the way to his cock buried deep inside of you. You feel it throbbing, the knot pulsing, and as your walls clench in response, you feel more warmth seeping into you as he fills you up again.

His hips grind against yours, soft little nudges, and you feel so good. An unusually gentle orgasm washes over you then, like a calming caress through your body that soothes you, eases your sore muscles, the slight pain in your neck, any other ailments you might have had. None of it matters anymore. You've found your mate. You're not alone anymore. You feel like coming home. Safe...

“What's your name?” you breathe out into the black void ready to consume you, not sure why you feel the need to ask this.

A huff of warm air moves over your face before a low hum vibrates in your ear. “Fenrir,” he growls quietly, and it's all you need to know as you inhale deeply, a soft smile grazing your lips.

Then, the darkness closes around you as if someone puts their hand over your eyes, whisking you away to sleep, or back to reality...

The next time you wake up, you are cuddled into your sheets, and the sunlight filters through your curtains. A new day, and you've never felt this refreshed before. Sitting up, you stretch with a soft squeak, rolling your neck, inhaling deeply. Your eyes move through the room, and the sight of the large dildo on your desk doesn't even confuse you anymore. It feels right to see it there. You stand up and walk past it on your way to the bathroom, your fingers sliding gently along its curved shaft.

In the midst of your morning routine, you hear the chime of your doorbell. Slipping into your fuzzy bathrobe, you hurry to the door, but when you reach it, whoever was there, is already gone. Though they left something behind. You bend down to pick up the small package, seeing your address on it and the usual postal stamps. Delivery? But you didn't expect anything.

You close the door and bring the unassuming box to your desk, putting it down next to the big toy on its base. Humming to yourself, mindlessly scratching at a spot on your neck, you open the package – and frown when you see its contents. Slowly you raise it out of its black satin bag. It's the dildo you ordered. The right size also. It's so small, barely as long as your hand, maybe the size of a soda can but much thinner, less than half the size of the toy that sits next to the opened box.

It's got the same design, the same ridges and nubs and the protruding bulbs of the knot, but it's so... tiny. You really ordered this? Apparently so, as you check the accompanying receipt and instructions. You can only half-remember that horny night when you browsed the site, and intimidated as you were, you chose the smallest size: Mini. You had no idea it would be this small. There's a picture of the different available sizes, and you realize the thing you actually fit into your cunt is the Large one. And just how large it is...

You shiver just thinking of having it inside you. But you also can't wait to put it back in. Your mind is hazy with memories of using it, of what really happened since you got it (and somehow you don't even wonder why you received two packages), and it's all a blur of ecstasy that makes you salivate and drip into the panties you put on.

Yet when you notice that the article has a name, you pause, blinking in confusion, your hand still scratching at what feels like a scabby wound on your neck. The name of the dildo feels familiar, like a distant memory, and it is –

As soon as you say it out loud, the big dark blue toy starts humming, its vibrations (even though you're not connected to it) sending shock waves through your whole body, activating all the right nerves. Your heart beats faster, your breaths turn into soft moans, and your cunt clenches hungrily around nothing.

“Fenrir.”

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

#x reader #x reader smut #monsterfucker #monster x reader #werewolf smut #original fiction #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #monster au #supernatural smut #joel miller smut #simon ghost riley smut #arthur morgan smut #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #f!reader #fem reader #terato #teratophillia

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theballadofharkness · 3 months ago

Text

Mine to Manage (1/2)

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: At Continental Studios, power is currency and chemistry is collateral damage. You’re the sharp-tongued horror exec with a red-lip reputation and no patience for games. Maya Mason is the dangerously charming head of marketing with a Rolodex full of directors and a closet full of designer chaos. You were supposed to be keeping your relationship quiet, but when flirtation becomes a business strategy and jealousy starts bleeding through the seams, secrecy stops feeling smart.

Word Count: 9.5K

Warnings: explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: sorry to my babies who were anticipating this fic on Wednesday but I hope nearly 20K words and some filth will make up for it xo turns out tumblr has a word limit and I exceeded it so here is part 1! 💜🪻

You wake up to the sound of Maya’s espresso machine roaring like it’s been wronged. Something by Portishead plays low through the Bluetooth speaker. The sheets are still warm where she was, tangled around your legs. Her Gucci t-shirt slips off one shoulder as you stretch.

It’s quiet in that golden kind of way that only happens in the hours before LA decides to start screaming.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen.

Maya’s at the counter, back turned, hair clipped up in a lopsided twist. She’s in branded Fenty sweatpants and a tiny cropped Prada tee that reveals a sliver of toned stomach and one tattoo you’re still not sure you’re supposed to know about. She’s arguing with her milk frother.

“You either froth or you die,” she mutters, shaking it like it’s personally offended her.

You lean against the doorframe. “You threatening your appliances again?”

She glances over her shoulder and grins. “Only the ones with attitudes.”

Maya pours you a mug without asking, oat milk, one sugar, just how you like it, and passes it to you in a cracked old Continental Studios mug from the Vampire Western she’d marketed a couple of years ago.

You take a sip. She leans in and kisses your cheek like it’s nothing.

Back in her bedroom, you curl up in the rumpled sheets with your coffee while she opens the doors to her closet. It’s chaos, half runway archive, half sportswear drop. Balenciaga, Gucci, Stüssy, Diesel. A soft avalanche of logos and weird textures.

She yanks a pair of parachute trousers off a hanger, throws them onto the bed, and starts layering.

Oversized YSL denim. Pile of chains. A tank top that might technically be lingerie. Ridiculous platform sneakers you’re sure you’d break an ankle attempting to walk down a slight of stairs.

You just watch, quietly sipping, legs pulled up to your chest in her Gucci shirt that is still hanging off you like an afterthought. Maya catches your reflection in the mirror, your messy hair, your bare thighs, the way you’re watching her like she’s a sunrise you don’t want to end.

“You’re staring,” she says, smirking as she stacks rings onto her fingers like armor.

“You’re putting on six brands before 9 a.m. It’s a little hypnotic.”

“This is what it takes to look ‘naturally iconic.’” She spins slowly, arms out. “Too much?”

“Never,” you murmur. “You look like a streetwear goddess and a sex scandal rolled into one.”

She walks over to you, leans down and kisses you slowly, careful like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. Then she pulls back just a little, fingertips brushing your jaw.

“I love-” she starts, too fast, too soft.

She freezes. You freeze.

Silence.

Then she lets out a breathy laugh and redirects like a pro, “-that you wear my t-shirts like they’re not couture.”

You blink once. Sip your coffee again. Say nothing. But you felt it, and she knows you did.

Maya clears her throat and grabs her bag. “You coming in with me or sneaking in the back entrance again like a disgraced intern?”

You roll your eyes. “You wish I was disgraced.”

She winks at you on her way out. “Get dressed, goth girl. Sal’s already texting me memes about ‘soul-devouring time travel scripts.’ He says that’s your fault.”

“It is,” you call after her. “And it’s gonna make us millions.”

The door shuts. You’re left alone with your cooling coffee, her t-shirt hanging off your frame, and the ghost of something she almost said.

You’re not in love.

Not officially.

But it’s close.

Close enough to hurt, once the day gets going.

Maya’s car smells like the inside of a well-funded record store, full of incense, leather, and some limited-edition air freshener shaped like a blunt. You’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sipping the iced matcha she insisted on stopping for even though you were already late.

The studio building looms ahead, a sharp grid of glass and clean lines, sun already bouncing off the steel letters above the entrance. CONTINENTAL. It’s glossy. Cold. Unforgiving. And this part, the sitting in the car five minutes before walking in separately, always makes you feel small.

You check your phone again, already half reading emails, but mostly just waiting for the moment where you’ll have to go.

Maya taps her manicured fingers against the wheel, rings clicking lightly.

“You know I don’t like this,” you say quietly.

“I know.” You glance over. She’s got her big sunglasses on, hiding whatever flicker’s in her eyes.

“You could park and we could walk in together,” you offer, not for the first time.

She doesn’t look at you. “Not with Patty gone.”

There it is again, the unspoken weight of it.

Patty Leigh, queen of organized dysfunction and your lowkey protector, was ousted six weeks ago. Matt took over. You like Matt. You trust him, mostly. But Maya? Maya’s been burned before. And she’s not about to let her career get caught in the gossip fire.

“If someone finds out,” Maya says, finally meeting your gaze, “it becomes a conversation. And if that conversation makes it to HR, I’m a conflict of interest in every room we share. I’ve worked too long to be sidelined because I sleep with someone smarter than me.”

You huff a half-laugh. “You really think I’m smarter than you?”

“I think you don’t know how to drive a car but can quote 1930s French horror cinema, so yeah, I do.”

You should be used to it by now. The staggered arrivals. The careful glances. The way you go home to her but spend your workday pretending like you’re just two sharp women with too much power and perfectly normal tension.

But you hate it.

You hate the five-minute wait.

Maya reaches over and rests her hand on your thigh, fingers splayed soft and grounding. “It’s just a little longer. Let the dust settle. Once I’m solid under Matt and Sal stops comparing you to a haunted crow in development meetings…”

You snort. “He says it with love.”

“He says it with fear.”

You look at her again. Her mouth is soft. Lips a little glossy. She’s trying.

So are you.

You take one last sip of your matcha, lean over, and press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, quick, almost chastely, but not enough to be meaningless.

“I’ll go in now,” you murmur, adjusting the strap of your bag. “See you in there.”

Maya watches you go with that unreadable expression she wears like armor.

You step out of the car, shoulders squared, heels clicking on the pavement like punctuation. Behind you, the engine idles. She’ll wait five minutes. She always does.

And then she’ll follow you in, like you’re nothing more than colleagues.

The second you walk in, it’s chaos.

Quinn is pacing in shoes that are far too loud for this early in the morning, waving her tablet like a weapon. Sal’s leaning back in one of the conference chairs with a protein bar in one hand and a smug expression that practically dares her to throw it at him.

“She doesn’t care about press metrics,” Quinn snaps. “She directed an entire film with no dialogue and it still got into Venice. You can’t just wine and dine her like a bro-y showrunner!”

“I’m not wining and dining,” Sal cuts in. “I’m being a human person who respects her enough to have a fucking lunch with her and talk about the movie.”

“Yeah, but your version of lunch involves whiskey and quoting Heat until people give up and agree with you.”

Matt, seated at the head of the table, looks like he’s already aged a decade this morning. He’s flipping through a printout of the director’s past interviews like he’s cramming for a final.

You drop your bag on the table. “Are we courting her or summoning her?” you ask dryly, as you take a seat.

All three of them turn.

Matt visibly relaxes. “Thank God.”

Quinn sighs dramatically. “Please tell Sal that not all female directors want to be flirted with over steak.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m being charismatic. It’s called being likable.” He snaps back.

You fix Sal with a look. “Your version of likable is describing blood spatter in the first five minutes.”

Sal shrugs. “You like that.”

“I’m emotionally stunted.”

Quinn snorts. Matt hides a smile behind his hand. The tension breaks just a little, your presence has always been good at that.

Matt pushes the director dossier toward you. “She’s brilliant. And prickly. And this project means a lot to her. She doesn’t want to feel like she’s being handled.”

“Then don’t handle her,” you say, skimming the notes. “Offer her the resources. The vision. Make her feel like she’s not being pulled into a machine that’ll strip her film down to ‘marketable trauma.’”

Matt nods. “Exactly.”

Sal mutters, “That’s literally what we do, though.”

And that’s when the door opens.

Maya steps in like the scene’s been waiting for her. She’s late. She knows it. She’s unbothered.

The air changes.

Even Quinn, who’s rarely starstruck, straightens up a little.

“Morning, bitches,” Maya says, tossing her phone onto the table and sliding into the chair next to yours like she owns the room, and you. “What’s the damage?”

“You’re late,” Sal says.

“I’m perfect,” she replies.

Her hand brushes against your knee under the table. No one sees it. No one’s supposed to.

Matt hands her the dossier. “We’re locking in the final pitch strategy for the Hartley project. Meeting with her at eleven.”

Maya flips it open. Glances at the headshot. Tilts her head. “She’s hot,” she says bluntly. “Sharp cheekbones. Complicated personal history. Probably listens to fuckin Joni Mitchell.”

Quinn groans. “Can we not focus on her cheekbones?”

“We’re not,” Maya replies, already tapping through something on her phone. “We’re focusing on her ego. Which lives somewhere around her jawline and her last Sundance standing ovation.”

She looks up and meets your eyes, just briefly. It’s like watching her slip into costume, the Maya Mason who owns every room, who says the quiet part out loud and makes it sound like gospel.

You love her like this.

You hate her like this.

Because you know what happens when someone like that walks into a meeting. And you have no idea yet just how bad it’s going to get.

The conference room is gleaming and too bright, all glass and polished surfaces. There’s something cold about the air as the espresso machine in the corner hums and someone thoughtfully lays out a spread of croissants and berries you know no one’s going to touch.

You sit at the long table next to Quinn, your notepad open, though your pen hasn’t moved since you sat down. Sal’s across from you, already relaxed into his seat like he’s at brunch despite his eye twitching anxiously, while Matt flips through a meticulously organized pitch packet. He’s trying to look cool, nonchalant, but you can tell he’s buzzing.

At the far end of the table, Olivia Hartley crosses one leg over the other, her rings clinking against the water glass as she sets it down. She’s calm. Curious. Predatory in that quiet, magnetic way that successful directors seem to radiate.

She’s not playing hard to get. She just knows she’s the one being chased.

Matt clears his throat. “First off… just want to say how much we love this script. What you’ve built here, the emotional structure under the genre, it’s rare. You’ve got atmosphere, but also teeth.”

Olivia offers a polite smile. “Thank you. That’s the goal.”

Sal leans forward, fingers steepled. “We’re not here to talk about notes. You don’t need notes. You need a machine that will let you do what you do best, without flattening it for mass appeal. We’re that machine.”

“I don’t really like machines,” Olivia says, swirling her water with her ringed finger.

Quinn jumps in smoothly. “This one’s more like an organism. Mutates to fit the vision. Bites when necessary. Like your short film Venus traps!”

That earns a laugh from Olivia, a quiet one, but real.

You cut in, steady and direct. “You’ll have creative control. Minimal input, if any. We’re not looking to sand it down. Our approach is: let the auteur lead, and we follow. If you want the darkness, you keep the darkness. If you want the tenderness, we amplify it.”

Olivia tilts her head at you, interested. “You’re the horror person, right?”

You nod. “Been developing genre projects for the last six years. I’ve fought more battles about blood volume than people fight in custody court.”

Sal snorts.

Matt adds, “Y/N’s the reason the Harkness House slate is still alive. She knows what works and what sells. She’s also the one who told us we’d be fools not to pursue you.”

Olivia’s eyes settle on you for a beat, sharp and observant. “Well. Good taste.”

You nod, but don’t smile.

And then she walks in.

Maya enters like it’s her pitch meeting. Like she’s been here all along. She’s late, unapologetically. Her oversized bomber jacket is hanging open over a cropped Diesel tee and camo pants that cling perfectly. Designer sneakers. Messy-styled hair. Her statement sunglasses are clutched in her hand, not on her face, she wants you to see her eyes when she says something lethal.

She doesn’t sit next to you. She never does in front of the team. She takes the seat directly across the table next to Olivia.

“Apologies,” Maya says, sliding her tablet out of her tote. “Had to run damage control on a filmmaker who thinks limited theatrical means punishment.”

Olivia perks up instantly. “Sounds familiar.”

You clock the moment she notices Maya, it’s unmistakable. The smile isn’t just professional. It’s interested. Slow, assessing.

“And you are?” Olivia asks, like she doesn’t already know.

“Maya Mason,” she says, extending a hand, jewelry glinting. “Head of marketing.”

Olivia shakes it. “Of course. The branding sorceress.”

Maya smiles, a small, dangerous smile. “Flattery works best when paired with vision.”

Matt jumps in again, grateful for the new energy. “Maya’s here to walk you through our rollout concept. How we’d position the film, from festival debut to wide release.”

Maya taps her screen. “Look, we’re not selling this as ‘the female version of’ anything. No lazy comps. No ‘elevated horror’ buzzword bullshit. We position it as what it is: singular, evocative, uncomfortable. The kind of film that gets a standing ovation and a thinkpiece war on Twitter.”

Olivia leans in slightly. “You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be in this room if I didn’t.”

“And would you be… involved? Directly?”

Maya doesn’t even blink. “Every step.”

The silence hums. Olivia’s smile deepens. “I like collaborators who aren’t afraid of sharp edges.”

Maya cocks her head. “Good thing I’m not afraid.”

Your throat goes dry.

You glance around, but no one else seems fazed. Matt is nodding along, Sal’s looking at the slide deck, Quinn’s updating notes on her iPad. No one is watching Olivia look at Maya like she wants to devour her.

And Maya… Maya is doing what she always does. She’s unshakeable. Smirking. Charming. But you can see the subtle tilt of her shoulders, the way her voice drops when she says Olivia’s name again while referencing the visual strategy:

“And when we roll out the first teaser, it’s not about the plot. It’s about fuckin mood. A single shot. Tension. And your name, dead center. That’s the sell. Your name becomes the genre.”

Olivia actually hums. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

“I have.”

“And like you’ve had success with women like me before.”

You freeze.

Maya smiles, unbothered. “Women like you tend to know what they want.”

“And you don’t mind being… persuasive?”

It’s so direct it borders on inappropriate.

You feel the flare of jealousy like a sudden fever behind your ribs.

Maya glances across the table, right at you, for the first time since the meeting began. It’s fleeting. But you catch it. And then she looks back at Olivia, still cool. Still casual.

“I’m persuasive when it matters,” she says. “And I only pitch what I believe in.”

“Well,” Olivia says, reclining back into her chair. “I believe I’m intrigued.”

Olivia stands once the meeting comes to a close, sliding her sunglasses on with a quiet, amused little smile. “Well. I certainly have a lot to think about.”

Matt rises halfway out of his chair, polite but tense. “Of course. Take your time. If there’s anything you need-”

“I’ll be in touch,” she cuts Matt off smoothly, her eyes flicking one last time to Maya. “Very in touch.”

Maya just nods, calm as ever. “Looking forward to it.”

You feel it in your teeth.

The door shuts behind her and it’s like someone cuts the air. Everyone exhales at once.

Matt immediately runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, that was… good, right? I think that went well.”

“Went well?” Sal barks a laugh. “She’s circling us like a shark in a Gucci blazer. She’s weighing the offers. You saw the trades this morning, Warner’s throwing her a budget the size of fucking Sweden.”

“She hasn’t signed with anyone yet,” Quinn says, tapping her screen. “She’s still listening. That’s something.”

Matt’s pacing now. “We need a strategy. We need to lock this before the next meeting. She’s our shot at breaking out of prestige-adjacent and into legit award territory. What do we do to seal this?”

Sal leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

You feel it coming before he says it. You brace anyway.

“We have a secret weapon,” Sal says, jerking his thumb toward Maya. “Mason. She was flirting up a storm.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly gives you a migraine. “I’m sure HR has rules against pimping out our staff.”

Sal holds up his hands. “Jesus, I’m not saying she sleeps with her. I’m saying we use what I like to call the Mason charm offensive. She’s obviously into her. It’d be dumb not to use that.”

Quinn doesn’t even look up. “It was kind of obvious.”

Matt nods, still in go-mode. “Yeah. Maya, you looked amazing. You could wear that dress you wore to Charlize Theron’s party last month—”

You snap. “I thought we were focused on making a movie, not her crotch.”

The room goes dead silent.

Sal blinks. Quinn freezes. Matt physically recoils like someone pulled the emergency brake on his brain. Maya’s still sitting calmly at the table. She hasn’t looked at you once.

Yet.

You feel the heat in your cheeks, the throb in your throat, the stupid sting behind your eyes you refuse to let become anything more than fury.

Matt clears his throat. “No one’s… saying anything inappropriate. We’re just… trying to be strategic.”

“Right,” you say, tone flat as a morgue drawer. “Because strategy means leaning on sex appeal when creative vision isn’t enough.”

You push back your chair and stand. Too quickly.

Maya finally speaks. Her voice is calm. Even. “You think I crossed a line?”

You meet her eyes. Finally. And you wish you hadn’t. Because there’s something there — not guilt, not shame. Just quiet fire.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab your notepad and leave the room without another word.

You’re halfway through a cigarette you weren’t supposed to start again.

A film crew’s setting up across the pavement, a dolly track is being laid, extras are loitering in background-costume purgatory. Someone’s shouting about eyelines. Someone else is laughing way too hard for how little sleep they probably got.

It should be inspiring. The heartbeat of the industry. All that buzz.

But all you feel is static.

You take another drag and exhale like you’re trying to exorcise something.

Footsteps crunch behind you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

You don’t turn around. “Didn’t know you cared,” you say.

Quinn steps up beside you anyway, arms folded, tablet still in hand. Her heels are too nice for asphalt and she smells faintly of lavender and unspoken ambition.

“I don’t,” she says lightly. “But I noticed you turned purple in there before storming out like a Victorian widow in a horror. So here I am.”

You glance at her. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I think you already did it,” she says, unbothered. “Just figured I’d check if you were about to punch a hole in a studio wall or cry in craft services.”

You scoff. “Neither. I’m just getting some air.”

“Right. And nicotine.”

You take another drag. There is silence for a beat. The faint sound of someone yelling “ROLLING” across the lot.

Then Quinn, more gently, asks “you know she was just doing her job, right?”

You don’t answer.

“You think I haven’t seen Maya pitch before? She could sell blood to a vampire. That doesn’t mean she wants to sleep with one.”

You flick ash onto the pavement. “She didn’t have to go that hard.”

“She always goes that hard,” Quinn replies. “It’s why she’s Maya Mason.”

You grind your teeth. “Sal wants her to flirt. Matt wants her to wear a dress. No one’s talking about the film anymore. Just what Maya can offer her.”

“And you don’t like that?”

You finally turn to look at Quinn, jaw tight. “I don’t like watching people turn the person I care about into a marketing asset.”

There. You said it. A little too much.

Quinn’s eyes narrow slightly. “…You care about her?”

You inhale sharply. Don’t respond. Just exhale the smoke like that’ll take the confession with it.

But Quinn’s already got the puzzle mostly assembled. “I thought you two just had matching power-lesbian energy,” she says softly. “But… okay. That tracks.”

You glance away. “She doesn’t want anyone to know,” you say. “She thinks it’ll compromise her position with Matt. That HR will freak. That she’ll lose the authority she’s fought to build.”

Quinn’s quiet. “She’s not wrong,” she admits. “This place has eaten women for less.”

You nod.

Another silence. Somewhere nearby, a PA yells “CUT!” and a director groans.

Then Quinn adds, “Still doesn’t mean it didn’t suck to watch.”

You finally allow a small, bitter smile. “Yeah. It really fucking sucked.”

She bumps your shoulder, just a little. “Don’t burn the whole studio down over it, though.”

“No promises.”

Your office is dim. The blinds are half-closed. You’ve turned off the overheads and let the desk lamp cast everything in low, amber light, like a noir set built for one.

You’ve been staring at the same production breakdown spreadsheet for twenty minutes, making notes in the margins like you’re rewriting the Bible. None of it matters. Not right now.

But at least it’s something you can control.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look at it. Instead, you scroll down to the distribution budget line and adjust a figure by $2,500. Just to feel like you’ve done something.

Another buzz. You finally glance.

<Maya: You still mad?>

You ignore it.

Click into an email draft. Something about an indie sound designer’s availability for October. You start typing a message that doesn’t need to be written this second. Or even today.

<Maya: Okay. You’re working. I get it. You’re mad and goth and in control and unbothered. I support it.>

The corner of your mouth twitches but you don’t respond.

You highlight a paragraph about licensing clearances. Rewrite it. Delete it. Rewrite it again.

<Maya: I didn’t mean for that to happen like it did. I was doing what I always do. You know that.>

You do.

That’s the problem.

Another ping.

<Maya: Talk to me when you’re done pretending this doesn’t bother you.>

You lock your phone and slide it face-down on your desk. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to her. It’s that you’re afraid of what you’ll say if you do.

You stare at your screen. Your cursor blinks, waiting.

Outside your door, the studio hums on with muffled voices, distant phones, and the occasional laugh from someone who isn’t standing on emotional thin ice.

You click into a calendar invite. Add another fake meeting to your schedule.

Busy.

That’s all you can be right now.

The sky outside the glass walls has gone dusky blue, that dead time between day and night when LA starts to hum again with restaurants opening, headlights flickering on, and everyone scrambling to be somewhere.

Inside, the conference room is a pressure cooker.

Matt’s on edge, bouncing a pen against his knee. Sal’s pacing like he’s trying to wear a groove into the carpet. Quinn’s quiet, but alert, like she’s already taking mental notes for a postmortem email she’ll send at 2am.

Patty’s back, seated with a drink in hand like she never truly left the place, just allowed it to implode without her for a little while.

And Maya?

Maya’s sitting across from you, effortlessly cool in her bomber and a white tank that rides just a little too high on her ribs. Like she is casual. And she keeps glancing at you. Small things. Quick looks. A flick of her eyes that lingers half a second too long. But you won’t meet her gaze. Because you can’t look at her and pretend she’s just some colleague, some flirtatious closer-for-hire.

She might be able to play that game.

You can’t.

Matt finally breaks the silence. “Okay. Tomorrow is it. Our final pitch. Olivia meets with Warner this evening. If we don’t land her, we lose this whole project.”

“She wants resources,” Quinn says, swiping through notes. “They can offer more. All we have is the pitch and the promise we won’t ruin it.”

“And Maya,” Sal adds, like it’s obvious. “We have Maya.”

Maya raises a brow. “We do.”

“You saw how she looked at you,” Sal continues, grinning like this is all very fun. “You’ve got her attention. You turn it up a notch, seal the deal.”

You see Maya’s smile stretch wide and easy. “Fuck it, okay.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t care.

“Seriously?” Quinn asks, surprised.

Maya shrugs. “People flirt. It’s not illegal. It’s leverage. And we fucking need this.” She says it like it’s just common sense. Like she’s explaining taxes or how to jump a car.

You feel your stomach twist.

Matt, trying to be earnest, adds “it’s not about asking anyone to cross a line. Just… use what you’ve got. You’re good at it.”

Sal laughs. “I mean, c’mon. If I got a shot at a Marvel movie, I’d blow Anthony Mackie and thank him for the privilege.”

You blink.

Slowly.

“…What?”

Even Quinn pauses, lips parted in stunned confusion.

Patty, seated near the back of the room, swirling the last of a drink she definitely didn’t clear with security, raises one eyebrow. “Honestly? Not even surprised.”

“I’m just saying,” Sal shrugs.

“Yeah,” you say, voice like steel. “And if what you’ve got is a functioning marketing department, maybe try using that.”

Patty sighs, setting down her glass. “I hate to say it, but he’s not wrong. If Maya’s angle is what gets us across the finish line, then… it’s a safe bet.”

Sal, undeterred, adds “I’m just saying. Sometimes you gotta hustle.”

“I’m not offended,” Maya says, smirking. “I’ve flirted for worse reasons. I once got a VFX delay approved by making eye contact and licking the frosting off a cupcake.”

She says it like she’s proud. Like she’s amused. And maybe she is. It’s not personal to her. But it is to you. You’re still staring at the table. Still biting your tongue. Still trying to decide if you want to scream or cry or laugh in someone’s face.

Maya’s watching you now. Not glancing. Watching. “Y/N,” she says gently. “It’s not a big deal.”

And maybe it isn’t. To her. But it is to you.

You stand, slow and careful, the tension in your shoulders so taut it’s making your bones ache.

“Well,” you say, tone like glass. “Now that we’ve established ethics are optional and seduction’s a marketing strategy, can I go?”

“Y/N… ” Matt starts, but you cut him off with a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes.

“I’m fine with it. We’re in survival mode, right? Fuck nuance. Fuck professionalism. Whatever works.”

“Don’t be like that,” Sal mutters with an eye roll.

“No, I’m being practical. Isn’t that what we’re all doing?” You sling your bag over your shoulder, still not looking at Maya.

“Anyway, I’ve got a late lunch-slash-dinner with the exec producer of the cannibal project. We’re negotiating how much cannibalism is too much.”

Quinn, still recovering from the tension, pipes up. “Wait… how much is too much cannibalism?”

You pause at the door. Finally glance over your shoulder with a tight smile. “Oh, honey. There’s really no such thing.”

You walk out.

You don’t look back.

You don’t see the way Maya’s smile fades, how her fingers stop drumming on the table.

How she suddenly looks less smug and a little more like someone who’s just realized they might’ve played the wrong hand and lost more than they thought.

The air outside is cooler now, the light fading fast. Studio golf carts hum in the distance. Somewhere, a clapperboard snaps, another project rolling, another director who doesn’t make you feel like this.

You’re already halfway to the curb, bag slung over your shoulder, eyes fixed on the far end of the lot where the studio gate opens to the street.

Behind you, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones.

“Hey!”

You don’t slow. You don’t turn.

Maya catches up in two long strides, her voice sliding into that playful, practiced ease.

“So,” she says, like you’re still okay, like nothing’s wrong, “you wanna grab Thai and crash at mine? I’ve got that weird Turkish found-footage movie queued up, and I swear I won’t complain about the subtitles this time.”

You keep walking.

She tilts her head toward you, still smiling like this is a bit. “Or we could do Carrie again. You love watching her snap.”

You turn to her, calm. Cold. Detached. “I’m not coming over tonight.”

She frowns. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve got work. Projects to finalize. Schedules to lock.”

Her smile falters. Just a flicker. “So… what, you’re seriously not coming back with me?”

You shrug. “Not tonight.”

Maya stares. “Y/N. Come on. You drove with me.”

You nod, stepping toward the curb. “I’ll grab a cab.”

She’s quiet for half a second, just half. Then, sharper: “Because of what? The meeting?”

You don’t look at her. “Because I have work.”

“Jesus, it wasn’t personal. It was business. That’s what I do. I close. I get the win. You know that.”

You turn slowly, deliberately. You look her dead in the eye and smile. But it doesn’t reach anything soft. “Exactly,” you say. “And now I’m doing the same.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough.

You step off the curb.

The cab door opens and look back at her once, just once, as you slide inside.

“It’s not personal, Maya. It’s business.” Then the door shuts and she’s left standing there, watching the car drive away.

The wine is already open within seconds of being home. You didn’t even bother with a glass, you just uncorked the bottle like a woman with intentions, grabbed a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and collapsed onto your couch with the kind of energy that screams, “I’m not spiraling, you are.”

Your laptop is balanced on your knees, casting flickering shadows across the living room as some grainy, overexposed Mario Bava deep cut plays. La Maschera del Demonio, maybe, or The Whip and the Body. Something bleak and gothic with slow tracking shots and thunder that never sounds quite real.

A black-clad woman is wailing in Italian. A man in a cape appears from behind a curtain and stares into the camera like he knows what you’ve done.

You take a swig of wine. Then a spoonful of ice cream. You’re totally fine.

You’re totally, completely fine.

You pause the film. Rewind twenty seconds. Rewatch the scene where the doomed heroine runs down a hallway lined with candles, breathless and wide-eyed and absolutely unaware of the masked figure stalking her from the shadows.

You mutter under your breath. “She deserves better.”

Another sip. Another bite. Another dramatic scream from the screen as you turn the volume up, drowning out the silence.

Your phone buzzes on the armrest beside you.

You glance at it.

<Maya: What’s the movie tonight?>

You stare at the message for a second. Then flip the phone face down again. You rewind the scene again and press play. Because you are not texting her back. You are not going to be the one who breaks.

You are a professional. You are a horror executive. You are a totally emotionally adjusted woman who definitely isn’t crying during black-and-white Italian horror and finishing a bottle of red wine alone on a Thursday night.

The screen flickers. The heroine screams again.

You raise your spoon to toast her. “To us, babe.”

And take another bite.

The movie is at its climax, strings are shrieking, lightning is cracking, and some tormented baroness shrieks as she runs through a crumbling monastery with wind machines going full throttle. There is fog everywhere. Candles begin exploding. Your wine bottle’s two-thirds empty. The ice cream has melted to soup in your lap.

You’re leaning forward on the couch, eyes wide, totally immersed, spoon hovering mid-air.

The killer is right behind her. You know it. She doesn’t. She’s crying. There’s thunder. The scream on screen hits its peak, piercing, orchestral, just as there’s a sudden, urgent knock on your front door.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You scream. Loud. Guttural. The ice cream bowl launches out of your lap in a sticky arc, smacking your chest and dumping half-melted salted caramel across your dress. You nearly knock over the wine trying to stand up, heart thundering like you’re the one being chased through a crumbling cathedral.

Another knock, softer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your blood chills.

You shuffle toward the door in melted sugar and panic, flinging it open.

And there she is. Maya. Hair messy from the wind, hoodie zipped halfway over her usual chaos-couture, tote bag slung over one shoulder, looking way too calm for someone who just got a bowl of dairy launched in their general direction.

She takes one look at you, flushed, wild-eyed, wine-drunk, caramel-coated, and tilts her head.

“…You good?”

You blink at her. “Are you serious?”

“I knocked,” she says, stepping past you into the apartment like she owns it. “Very politely, I might add. You screamed like you were being murdered.”

“You timed it with a murder scene!”

Maya turns to face you and immediately clocks the full situation. Your dress is clinging to your stomach, ice cream down your chest, mascara smudged slightly from the general humidity of rage and Italian ghosts.

She raises a brow. “You’ve got ice cream on your…”

“I know,” you snap. “Thank you.”

She walks deeper into your apartment, glancing at the movie still playing, the open bottle of red, the half-eaten pint abandoned on the couch. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

And then she turns back to you. “Okay,” she says softly. “What’s going on?”

You blink. “I told you. I was working.”

“On what?” she asks. “Your blood alcohol tolerance?”

You huff. Cross your arms. The ice cream squelches again.

Maya takes a step closer. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were hurt?”

“Because it shouldn’t have hurt,” you say. “That’s the problem.”

A beat.

“I know you didn’t do anything wrong. I know it was harmless flirting. I know it was a strategy, okay? But I watched you charm the hell out of her and then laugh about it. Like it meant nothing.”

“Because it didn’t,” Maya says. “Not to me.”

You finally meet her eyes and it’s brutal. “But it meant something to me.”

That lands.

Maya steps forward. Gently this time. No swagger, no performative cool. Just Maya.

She touches your wrist, careful not to get caramel on herself. “I didn’t realize it would feel like that for you. I just… I thought you understood the game.”

You look down. You whisper it more than say it. “I did. I do. I just didn’t think you would play it with me in the room.”

Maya’s quiet for a long beat.

Then she steps back, just slightly, and gestures to the couch. “I’m going to go get a dish towel, and then you’re going to sit down, and we’re going to finish this batshit horror movie while I apologize for being a clueless asshole who doesn’t deserve you.”

You blink. “You brought a tote bag to my apartment.”

She smirks. “I always bring a tote bag. Your apartment has zero good snacks.”

You don’t stop her when she walks into the kitchen. You don’t stop her when she pulls a dish towel off the rack and comes back, crouching in front of you, gently blotting the sticky mess from your dress like she’s done it a hundred times — and maybe she has, in other ways.

You don’t stop her because you’re not ready to forgive her yet.

But you don’t want her to leave, either.

The movie still flickers faintly in the background, all moody strings and crumbling architecture. But neither of you are watching anymore. The wine bottle is nearly empty on the coffee table. The ice cream, long forgotten, has turned into a sticky puddle soaking into a throw blanket.

You shift in your seat and grimace. “I feel disgusting,” you mutter.

Maya, perched next to you with one knee tucked under herself and her hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, smirks just a little. “Yeah, you do smell kinda like cream and emotional instability.”

You roll your eyes, but she catches the corner of your mouth twitching.

There’s a beat. Then you sigh and push yourself off the couch. “I need to shower. I’m basically a sticky wine ghost.”

You don’t expect her to follow.

But she does.

Steam rises slowly, fogging the edges of the mirror, curling against your bare shoulders. You’re under the water, hair soaked, hands resting against the tiled wall as you try to breathe out the day.

You don’t hear the door open.

You only notice when the curtain draws back and Maya slips in behind you naked and unapologetic, her skin already misted with steam.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just steps into the water with you.

You turn to face her and suddenly her hands are on you, warm and grounding. She runs her fingers over your waist, your hips, her touch tender, reverent. Her gaze flicks down your body like it’s the first time all over again.

She leans in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbones, then finally captures your lips. And it’s soft. Gentle. Slower than usual, like she’s not trying to pull you under, just hold you here.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against your lips.

You blink, water dripping down your cheek. “For what?”

“For not thinking,” she says. Her hands stay on your skin, thumbs stroking lazy circles against your ribs. “I was focused on the pitch. On getting her. I didn’t think about you sitting there. Watching.”

You don’t answer right away.

She presses another kiss to your temple. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter.”

Her voice is low. Uncharacteristically small.

You reach for the soap and run it over your arms, just for something to do with your hands. “You didn’t make me feel like I didn’t matter. You made me feel like we don’t.”

That stops her dead.

You turn away slightly, facing the water. It cascades over your shoulders, your spine. For a second, you think maybe she won’t say anything. That she’ll back out, or brush it off.

But instead, her arms come around you from behind. She pulls you into her chest, wet skin against wet skin, and holds you like she can keep everything from spilling out.

“I was doing my job,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“I flirt. I charm. I make things happen.”

“I know.”

She turns you back around and looks you straight in the eye. “But I don’t want to lose you over this.”

You stare at her before whispering gently “Maya… I can’t keep doing this.”

She stills. Eyes wide. Breath caught.

“You’re breaking up with me?” she asks, like it doesn’t compute. “You’re breaking up with me while I’m naked in your shower?”

It’s absurd, it’s laughable, it should be funny. But the look on your face tells her it’s anything but.

Your voice cracks. “No.” You shake your head, and now your eyes are full, not with rage, not with spite. Just ache. “I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just… I can’t keep being your secret.”

She doesn’t breathe.

“I can’t keep pretending we’re nothing. That I’m not yours. That you’re not mine.”

You take a shuddery breath. “I can’t act like I don’t love you.”

Maya’s face shifts like the words knocked the wind out of her.

Water falls steadily between you. The air is thick with heat and steam and silence.

Her hands slide up your waist, over your ribs, and cup your face like she’s holding something precious and fragile.

“You love me?” she whispers, like she doesn’t quite believe it. Like the words knocked the air out of her lungs.

You nod, eyes glistening. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And then she kisses you. Her mouth crushes against yours, hot and desperate, and she crowds you against the tile like she can’t get close enough, like she’s starving for something only you can give her. Her hands slide down your back, over your hips, fingers digging into your skin with quiet hunger.

You moan into her mouth, and it lights a fuse in her.

Maya pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild and glassy. “Say it again.”

You swallow. “I love you.”

She kisses you again, biting your bottom lip, hands sliding between your thighs, making you gasp.

“Again,” she growls, lips at your neck now, sucking marks into your skin like she needs proof you belong to her.

“I… Maya!” you gasp, breath catching as her fingers find you, hot and slick under the spray. “I love you.”

“That’s right,” she murmurs, kissing down your collarbone, one hand splayed flat against your belly, holding you steady. “Say it for me.”

She drops to her knees. In the shower. On the tile.

And when she looks up at you, soaked, pupils blown, mouth open, you feel it in your chest, running up your spine, in your very soul.

“Maya…” you whisper, already trembling.

“I want to hear it when I make you fall apart,” she says, voice low and reverent. “Every time.”

And she does. Her mouth finds you, slow and unrelenting, tongue sliding over you as her hands hold your thighs open, firm and commanding. You cry out, shocked at how fast it builds, how full of everything it feels.

“I love you,” you whimper, fingers twisting in her hair.

“Again,” she murmurs against you.

“I love you… God, I- Maya!”

She moans at the sound of it, tongue circling harder, firmer, until your knees buckle and your voice breaks on a sob.

She catches you as you come undone, arms wrapping around your hips as you ride the wave of it, shaking under her mouth, gasping out the words like they’re the only ones left in you.

“I love you, fuck, I love you”

And when it’s over, when you’re sinking down into her arms, hearts pounding in unison under the spray, Maya presses a kiss to your temple.

The steam still clings to the walls as you both step out of the bathroom, wrapped in oversized towels. Your hair is damp, skin flushed, legs a little shaky. Maya guides you gently to the edge of the bed and nudges you to sit.

You do.

She doesn’t say anything right away, just moves in that calm, purposeful Maya way. She takes a smaller towel from your drawer, the one you usually use on your hair, and gently begins patting down your face. Your cheeks. Your nose. Your chin. She’s ridiculously tender with it.

“I love your smile,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes just yet, towel working gently across your skin. “Even when it’s smug. Especially when it’s smug.”

You blink at her.

She’s serious. She smooths a few strands of wet hair off your forehead, drapes the towel over your shoulders.

“I love that you love those weird foreign horror movies I’ve never heard of,” she says. “But that you’re not too up your own ass about cinema to laugh with me at that diarrhoea zombie movie I worked on last week.”

You laugh, because God, that movie was awful.

She grins, soft and warm, but still a little nervous. “I love how you mouth along with lines from the recent Suspiria, but you still make fun of the lighting like a bitchy lighting designer.”

You shake your head. “It’s bad, Maya.”

“I know, babe. That’s what makes you special.”

She kneels in front of you again, towel bunched in her hands now, voice quieter. “I love touching you,” she says, hands running slowly along your arms. “I love knowing when you’re going to shiver before you do. I love the noises you make when you don’t know you’re making them.”

Your throat tightens.

She exhales. “I love that you never try to change me.”

She finally looks up. Meets your eyes. “I love that you see all the ugly, messy, strategic shit I do… and you still want me.”

You nod, because you do. God help you, you do. And then, finally, like she’s known it all along but just didn’t know how to say it until now, “I love you.”

You don’t speak. You just fall into her, towel sliding, skin to skin again, lips finding hers like gravity’s finally done its job.

And when you pull back, breathless and blinking hard, she smiles, a little lopsided. “Also, for the record,” she murmurs, “you looked really hot covered in ice cream.”

You laugh into her shoulder, and she holds you like she’s never letting go.

The towel around you is barely holding on.

Maya’s eyes are locked on yours like she’s trying to memorize this version of you, flushed, wet, hers.

“I love you,” she says again, voice a little raspier now, lower.

You don’t get a chance to reply before she surges forward and kisses you, deep, open, hungry. Her mouth drags against yours with so much heat it feels like the air might catch fire.

The towel around your body slips loose, pooling around your waist. Maya pulls back just far enough to look down.

“Fuck,” she whispers, reverent.

Then she’s on you, hands sliding up your torso, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, fingers splayed like she’s staking a claim.

“You’re so-” she kisses the base of your throat, “fucking-” your sternum, “perfect.”

You exhale sharply when her mouth finds your nipple, her tongue circling, teasing, before she sucks it between her lips and groans against your skin.

“Maya,” you gasp, back arching into her.

“Lie down.”

The words are firm. Commanding. You obey.

You fall back against the bed and stretch out across the sheets, still damp from the shower, your legs falling open just enough that her gaze drops and her pupils blow wide. She strips her own towel off in one clean motion, crawling up your body like a woman possessed.

Straddling your thigh, she bends to kiss you again, deeper now, her hand already sliding down your stomach. Her fingers trail between your legs, and when she feels how wet you are, she moans your name like it’s a curse and a prayer at once.

“Say it again,” she whispers, stroking you with two fingers, slow and lazy.

You whimper. “Maya…”

“No,” she says, kissing along your jaw. “The other thing.”

You bite your lip. She presses her fingers inside you just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

She presses in deeper.

“Again.”

You cry out , it’s so much, almost too much, her fingers sliding inside you, her mouth at your neck, her free hand cupping your breast as she takes her time.

“I love you,” you gasp again, louder this time, like it’s being pulled straight out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she growls.

She finds a rhythm , slow, hard and unrelenting and watches you unravel beneath her, every moan, every gasp, every whispered “I love you” making her move faster, rougher, until your thighs are shaking and your hands are clawing at the sheets.

“Maya, please…”

She leans down and whispers, “I want you to come saying it.”

And you do.

Your whole body tenses and then breaks, your back arching as you scream it into her mouth, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush.

“I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you!”

She kisses you through it, holding you down, drawing every last second of it out until you collapse beneath her, gasping, boneless.

But she doesn’t stop.

She shifts lower, kisses her way down your body, lips soft and open as she settles between your thighs like she belongs there, because she does.

“I’m not done,” she murmurs, right before her mouth is on you.

And then?

You forget the studio.

The pitch.

The pain.

You forget your own name.

There’s only Maya, her hands holding you open, her tongue working you like she’s starved, her eyes on you the entire time, like she needs to watch every flicker of pleasure she gives you.

She doesn’t stop until you’ve come once more sobbing her name, fingers in her hair, begging her to slow down. And only then does she crawl back up beside you, flushed and panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

You can barely breathe.

She curls around you, kisses your temple.“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

You turn your head, meet her eyes, and whisper it again, “I love you too.”

Your body is trembling, breathless and boneless, still warm from the aftermath of what she just did to you. Your legs are barely working. Your heart is hammering.

Maya lies beside you on the bed, damp hair fanned out on your pillow, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen from the wreckage she left on your skin. Her thighs are slick where they’ve been rubbing together — not just from the shower. From watching you fall apart. From hearing you say you loved her. From owning it.

You roll onto your side, press a soft kiss to her shoulder.

She hums. Lazy. Dangerous. “You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, fingers threading slowly through your hair.

“No,” you whisper, kissing down her arm, her wrist, her hip.

“Good,” she says, sliding one leg over your back. “Show me.”

You shift lower, trailing your lips over her stomach, her hipbones. You glance up once, asking without words.

She smiles. Leans back against the pillows and opens her legs wide. “I’m yours,” she says softly, voice like velvet and threat.

You nod, already dazed again, drunk on her, high on the way she gives you permission to adore her.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She tenses slightly in anticipation. Her fingers tighten in your hair. “Don’t tease.”

So you don’t. You flatten your tongue and lick, slow and deliberate, tasting how ready she already is for you. She groans, low and satisfied, hips rolling into your mouth like instinct.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she breathes. “You know exactly what I need, don’t you?”

You moan against her. The sound makes her twitch.

“Again,” she growls.

You do it again, longer this time, your tongue circling her clit before sucking her into your mouth gently, letting the pressure build exactly the way she likes it.

Maya gasps, her head falling back, one hand tightening in your hair. The other finds your jaw, holding you in place. Controlling your rhythm. Pacing your devotion.

“Don’t stop,” she pants. “God, don’t you fucking dare stop.”

You don’t.

You let her ride your face, moaning into her as she grinds against your mouth, wet and needy and completely undone. She’s breathing harder now, her abs tightening, thighs clenching around your head.

“Faster,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Fuck, right there… right there…”

You press your tongue harder, flicking in the way she taught you, the way she loves, and you feel it when it hits her, her whole body going tense, her moans breaking into choked, desperate pleas.

“Oh my God yes, fuck, don’t stop, don’t you dare-”

She comes hard, gasping your name, thighs trembling around your head, and she doesn’t let go. She holds you there, rides it out, breathing like she’s been running for miles.

When she finally eases back, you look up with your lips shiny, your jaw aching, your eyes wide and she’s beaming.

“Goddamn,” she whispers, pulling you up by your hair into a filthy, wet kiss. “You’re mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“All of you.”

“Yes.”

She kisses your neck, your mouth, your cheek. “Good girl.”

You nearly whimper.

She wraps you in her arms then, possessive and tender all at once, and whispers, “I love you.”

And this time, you know she means every word of it.

The sunlight spills through her floor-to-ceiling curtains in that slow, creamy way that only ever happens after a night like last night.

The sheets are twisted around your waist. Your legs are tangled with hers. You can still taste her on your lips. Her fingers are tracing lazy lines along your ribs, and every few seconds, she leans down and presses a kiss somewhere on your face, your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose, like she’s mapping her own little galaxy.

You’re barely awake, but you know what day it is.

The meeting.

The one with her.

You open your eyes and see Maya already smiling at you, her eyes soft, hair in a messy bun barely holding on, her voice a low rasp from hours of loving you senseless.

“I love your face,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “I love your morning voice. I love the tiny little frown you get when you’re pretending not to be needy.”

“I’m not pretending,” you mumble into her pillow. “I’m just quietly suffering.”

Maya laughs. “You’re so dramatic in the mornings.”

You shift, curling against her a little tighter, refusing to let her get up yet. Your fingers trail across the curve of her hip. “Do you have to be dangerously hot and persuasive today?”

She kisses the tip of your nose. “I do.”

You pout. You actually pout.

And she grins, soaking it in. “You’re jealous.”

“Don’t say it like it’s cute.”

“It is cute.”

You glare. She rolls you onto your back and straddles your waist, pinning you effortlessly with just her body and that look — the one that says she owns you, and your stupid jealous little heart.

“I’m yours,” she says, voice low and honest now, hands framing your face. “Okay? I love you. No amount of power flirting is gonna change that.”

You want to believe it. You do believe it.

But as she climbs off you and starts getting ready, pulling on a pair of cargo pants that shouldn’t be that flattering, shrugging into a Loewe crop jacket, layering her gold chains, the ache creeps in again.

You sit up on your elbows, watching her slick her hair back in the mirror. Her rings are already on. Her lips are glossy. Her confidence is radiating off her like a scent.

She’s gorgeous.

Deadly.

And she’s about to walk into a room where someone else wants to be devoured by that exact energy.

She catches your reflection watching her. Turns, mouth quirked. “Don’t start spiraling,” she says softly. “Come to the meeting. Watch me charm her and keep my hands to myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think that’s going to help?”

She walks back over to the bed, leans down, and kisses you. Slow. Firm. Certain. “I think you’re gonna love watching her realize she’s got no shot.”

You swallow hard.

She presses her forehead to yours. “Put on something terrifying and chic,” she whispers. “Make me nervous.”

You laugh but the need is still there. The ache.

And she feels it too. “Come on,” she says, pulling you up by the hand. “Let’s go make this bitch fall in love with the studio and make fucking millions.”

You pull on your clothes, still half aching, half reassured.

And tell yourself: She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

But it doesn’t stop the jealousy from thrumming.

#maya mason x reader #maya mason smut #maya mason #agatha harkness x reader #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness x fem!reader #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader smut #kathryn hahn x fem!reader

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rosierin · 4 months ago

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he said what? | atsumu miya

synopsis; a compilation of atsumu’s stupid innuendos and (y/n)'s unexpected comeback.

a/n; icl this is dumb af, read at your own risk

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

One thing about Atsumu—he loves an innuendo.

Like, really loves one.

It’s not even always on purpose. Sometimes it just slips out—smooth as butter, dumb as hell, and way too confident for someone way past the age of fifteen.

He’s got a sharp tongue and a terrifyingly fast brain. Combine that with the maturity level of a teenage boy and the charisma of someone who’s used to getting away with too many things, and well—that pretty much sums up Atsumu as a person.

(Y/n) has known him since they were fifteen. She thought she’d be used to it by now.

She was wrong.

She could still remember some of his dumbest jokes…

Exhibit A: The Shared Bed Setup

It was a weekend trip, one hotel room, two beds. And unfortunately for (y/n), three overgrown boys with zero regard for personal space.

Osamu and Suna claimed the first bed without hesitation, leaving (y/n) to share with Atsumu—who, in a rare show of self-control, was actually lying still for once.

Until she started shifting.

“Ugh,” she groaned, adjusting the pillow again. “I can’t find a good position.”

Atsumu turned his head, already smirking in the dark.

“I can think of a few.”

From across the room, Osamu’s muffled voice cut in like a disappointed parent.

“No one asked, man.”

(Y/n) smothered him with a pillow.

Exhibit B: The Smoothie Scene

Osamu had just finished making post-workout smoothies—one of those weirdly thick, borderline gloopy protein-packed ones that could double as cement.

He handed hers over proudly. “Strawberry banana. Real fruit. No sugar.”

(Y/n) took a sip. It was good—cold, creamy, but the texture really did throw her off guard.

“Jesus” she said. “It’s so thick.”

She should’ve known better.

“Ya like it that way, huh?” Atsumu grinned from behind his own glass like he’d been waiting all day for that setup.

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, closing her eyes in silent prayer. “Don’t.”

Suna, who was sat on the floor with his back against the couch, bit back a groan.

“It’s 8:17 in the morning.”

Exhibit C: The Baking Scene

Osamu was feeling domestic, so naturally, everyone else was dragged into a cupcake-making session against their will. (Y/n) was reading out the recipe, Atsumu was licking batter off a spoon he wasn’t supposed to be touching, and Suna was there for moral support only and nothing else.

“Okay,” she said, scrolling on her phone. “It says to beat it for five minutes—”

“I’ve gone longer,” Atsumu said smoothly, without an ounce of shame.

There was a long pause.

Osamu sighed, not even surprised. “We’re talkin’ about eggs, for fuck sake.”

(Y/n) put down the bowl, debating walking out the kitchen. “Honestly I'm just not gonna speak."

Exhibit D: The IKEA Furniture Scene

The mission: build a bookshelf.

The reality: two mental breakdowns, splinters, and a tiny Allen key that had no business being this powerful.

Osamu was reading the instructions like it was ancient scripture, Suna was lying on the floor pretending to help, and (y/n) was trying to force a stubborn wooden peg into a misaligned hole.

“This won’t fit in the fuckin' hole,” she huffed, pushing harder.

Atsumu, lounging beside the scattered box of parts, raised an eyebrow and purred,

“Want me to give it a try?”

(Y/n) clenched her teeth. “I swear to god.”

Suna chuckled despite himself.

Osamu sighed. “Ya walked into that one.”

Exhibit E: The Workout Scene

Someone (Atsumu) had declared it “Group Fitness Day.”

Someone else (Osamu) had refused to participate unless there were snacks after. Suna had stretched once and called it a day.

(Y/n) actually tried. She followed a YouTube Pilates video, flailing through positions that felt scientifically designed to break her spine.

By the end, she collapsed onto the floor, groaning, “God, my legs are so sore.”

Atsumu barely missed a beat, flashing his stupid bedroom eyes at her. “Must’ve been a good session.”

(Y/n) glared but was too exhausted to retaliate.

She had surrendered both physically and mentally.

Osamu smacked him for her.

Exhibit F: The Moving Day Scene

Helping a friend move was always a mistake. Doing it with these three? Borderline masochism.

The van was full. The elevator was broken. (Y/n) was carrying a suspiciously heavy box labeled “light stuff :)” in Atsumu’s handwriting.

“This is heavier than I thought,” she huffed, adjusting her grip.

Atsumu who was climbing the stairs behind her, grinned. “That’s what she said.”

Suna smirked. "Classic."

(Y/n) let the box drop on Atsumu’s foot.

Exhibit G: The Jenga Scene

It was supposed to be a peaceful night. Snacks, a movie, maybe a board game.

Emphasis on supposed.

They were five rounds deep into an increasingly vicious game of Jenga. The stakes? Loser had to do the dishes and let the others post one embarrassing photo on their story. And with Suna—serial picture taker, blackmail king—there was no room for failure.

(Y/n) was locked in.

Unfortunately, she’d been paired with Atsumu.

And Atsumu… did not have what one might call a delicate touch.

He was moving way too fast, yanking blocks like he was hurrying to defuse a bomb.

“Stop!” (y/n) snapped. “You’re moving too fast!!”

He glanced up, grin already forming, offering a cocky little shrug. “Heard that before.”

(Y/n) reached for the nearest block.

Atsumu threw both hands up. “Joking! Joking!”

Suna’s grin widened as the tower crumbled before them, securing his sweet, sweet victory.

Osamu gave his twin a long, tired look. “Yer gonna get yerself smacked.”

Exhibit H: The Ice Cream Scene

It was a brutally hot day. The kind that made pavement shimmer and ice cream trucks emerge from the shadows like seasonal beasts.

Naturally, (y/n) sprinted for one as though her life depended on it.

Now she sat on the curb, cone in hand, doing her best to keep the scoop from dripping onto her shorts.

“It’s melting too fast,” she complained, frantically licking at the sides.

Atsumu leaned over her shoulder, smirk detectable in his voice. “Guess ya gotta lick it faster, babe.”

She froze mid-lick.

Slowly, silently, she turned to glare at him.

Suna reached over and gently turned her head back toward the cone. “Don’t make eye contact.”

Final Exhibit (and the exhibit nobody expected): The Head Bump Incident

It happened quickly.

One second (y/n) was standing on the kitchen stool, reaching for a bag of crisps someone had stashed in the top cabinet.

The next—

Thunk.

She misjudged the angle. Her head collided with the cabinet edge. Hard.

“OW—”

The stool wobbled. She stumbled off, clutching the side of her head, blinking stars out of her eyes.

Atsumu was the first on the scene, hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to help or make fun of her.

“You good?” he asked.

(Y/n) winced. “Fine.”

He squinted. “How’s yer head?”

She paused.

Blink.

Then, slowly, dramatically, she tilted her chin, shot him a lazy smirk, and said—

“Never had any complaints.”

Osamu and Suna whipped their heads toward her thinking they'd misheard.

Atsumu took a minute to process her words.

Then—

His eyes went wide.

And his face split into the biggest, dumbest grin known to man.

He slapped her shoulder with a bark of laughter. “Atta girl!!”

Osamu shook his head but couldn’t hide his chuckle.

Suna closed his eyes and mentally checked out.

(Y/n) beamed, still rubbing her sore head. “I’ve been saving that one.”

“Proud of ya,” Atsumu said, still grinning. “That was good."

Then, after a beat:

“Are ya serious though? ‘Cause I can be the judge—”

She swatted his arm before he could finish his sentence.

"No."

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dreamsteddie · 4 months ago

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Instinctual

Written for the @stmarchmm day 30 prompt “omega nests/alpha nests” | Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Eddie Munson, Omega Steve Harrington

Divider - @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Also posted on Ao3

Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing or why it’s pissing him off so badly.

There’s been this itch under his skin for the last couple of weeks, and even if Eddie doesn’t like to conform to the expectations of his designation, he’s also never been one to ignore his instincts. When he’s mad, he’ll fill the place up with his scent. When he’s overwhelmed with love for his pack, he’ll force them all into a big, messy puppy pile. Wayne likes to say he’s just a big pup disguised as an alpha.

But none of that explains why he’s been madly redecorating his den. He can’t help it; his instincts are telling him that it isn’t right, even though his den has been diligently crafted and maintained since he moved in with Wayne and didn’t have to compete with his dad for space anymore. The light is hitting his face wrong in the morning, his sheets are the wrong texture, and for some god forsaken reason, the big tapestry blanket he was very proud to thrift needs to cover the far wall that connects to Wayne’s room instead of remaining on his bed.

Normally, Eddie is happy to follow his instincts, but he also usually knows why he’s doing something. Eddie would actually really like to not be doing this, but he doesn’t feel like there’s much of a choice, hence the irritation.

He’s in the middle of moving around the pile of blankets on his bed again — why his instincts want so many blankets is beyond him. Spring in Hawkins isn’t that cold — when he hears the door open. Wayne won’t be home for another six hours, so that means it must be Steve.

Despite the judgemental looks the old bitties in the trailer park give them, the omega has been coming over almost every day since the not-so-end-of-the-world. It started off as pack bonding, everyone cramming into the double-wide to be with Eddie and Max when they were both too injured to go far. Eventually, everyone settled. The kids, Nancy and Robin, all went back to school, but Steve stuck around. Eddie won’t try to say he discouraged it. He kind of loved having an omega in the house. Loved having Steve in the house.

All that is to say, Eddie doesn’t bother to go see who’s at the door, he lets Steve know he’s in the bedroom knowing the omega will meander his way in after he kicks off his shoes and grabs a glass of water the same way he always does. Eddie just keeps working, instinct screaming at him even louder now that someone is going to see his incomplete den. It has nothing to do with that person being Steve. He swears.

When Steve finds him, Eddie is mid-wrestle with a particularly ornery fitted sheet, which has decided to betray him and come undone. Steve pays him no mind, flopping down directly onto the mess of his bed after putting his glass down on the dresser.

On a normal day, Eddie would pay this no mind. Steve is good at making himself at home wherever he is, and with so much time spent with Eddie at his house, he doesn’t bother with asking permission for much anymore. Eddie's house is Steve’s house as far as either of them are concerned, but today is not a normal day.

Today, Eddie is wound up and trying to figure out what his instincts want from him. Today, Steve flops down on Eddie’s bed, in Eddie’s nest, and lets out that same happy groan he always does when he can finally get off his feet after a long day. Today, Eddie realises what exactly he’s been doing, and for whom.

He’s nesting.

He’s building a full-on nest in his room for Steve Harrington.

Eddie must make some kind of noise because Steve lifts his head from where it had been happily buried in a stack of pillows, tilting his head in that puppyish way that is far too cute for Eddie to handle at a moment like this.

“You alright, man?” Steve asks, all mind concern and genuine curiosity. Eddie knows from experience that if he says he’s not feeling well, Steve will invite him in for a friendly pack cuddle and trill at him in that sweet way that makes Eddie’s heart squeeze. He can not handle that right now.

“Yes. Yup. All good here, Harrington. Just trying to conquer this fitted sheet.” Cool, he’s totally being cool.

“If you say so…” Steve responds, clearly not buying it but willing to let it go for now. “I like what you’ve done with the room, by the way, very cozy.” The omega turns on his back, stretching big and long like a cat settling in for a nice nap. It makes his t-shirt ride up, exposing his soft, hairy belly. Eddie is going to die.

He makes himself look away, cheeks flaming in a way that is definitely not cool so he can finish forcing his sheet into submission and maybe even get a goddamn grip. Unfortunately, he’s so focused on getting a grip that he doesn’t even notice himself getting up to gather one more sheet for the bed. The entire thing is covered in blankets, but it needs a nice, smooth layer over it so it doesn’t get too hot on his omega’s skin.

It’s the errant thought of his omega, and the sudden realization that Steve hasn’t said a word in almost five minutes makes him snap back to reality. He doesn’t want to look up, but he knows not looking would be weirder, so he forced his eyes up and oh.

Steve knows.

He’s looking right at him with those big hazel eyes like he’s just had an epiphany, and he’s staring right at where Eddie’s just finished tucking in that last, incriminating sheet.

“Eddie?”

“Uh…this is not what it looks like.”

“Eddie.”

“Ok…” Eddie says, hands going up in the air as if he can pretend someone else made the nest if he moves his hands away fast enough. “Ok, it’s exactly what it looks like, but…but!” He’s scrambling, looking for any kind of way he can pass this up as a completely platonic nest, as if alphas ever make nests if it’s not for their mates.

He’s just about to start spewing some bullshit about stress (constant but not more than usual) and mating season (junk science Eddie loathes) when he realised that Steve looks, well, he looks like he’s waiting to get his heart broken, like Eddie has that kind of power over him. Like Eddie denying what they both know is happening will hurt, but he’ll accept it.

And, well, Eddie promised himself that he wouldn’t be another thing, another person, who hurt Steve. After all the supernatural bullshit, after his old friends, his old alpha, and his parents, Eddie doesn’t want to be another thing Steve has to recover from.

It’s time to be brave. Time to stop running.

“Fuck, ok yeah it’s exactly what it looks like,” Eddie says, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m uh, I’ve kind of been crazy in love with you for like, months. Maybe since the beginning of the whole Vecna thing, if I’m being honest.” Eddie can’t look at Steve when he says this, looking off into the middle distance, too caught up to try and parse out the individual notes in Steve’s scent. “I’ve been too chicken shit to ask you to court, but I guess my instincts decided enough was enough.”

“Can you look at me, Eddie?” He doesn’t want to, but if it’s Steve asking, he’ll do just about anything. But, really, Eddie should have known better than to be scared, the omega has never looked at him with anything but kindness, not in a long time. Steve is smiling at him, a sweet little thing that sets Eddie’s heart to fluttering. “It’s a real nice nest,” Steve says, and suddenly Eddie can’t breathe. Everything he’s ever wanted is staring him right in the face, asking him without asking to take the last step.

Maybe Eddie doesn’t subscribe to any of the stupid designation stereotypes that say alphas should be in charge and omegas should follow their lead, but he also thinks that Steve deserves to be asked. He deserves a moment he can recall fondly to his kids of the day his alpha asked him to court.

“Well,” he pauses, licks his lips and wishes he could grab that glass of water Steve left on the dresser because his throat is suddenly parched, “It’s all yours if you want it, Stevie. There’s no other omega I’d make a nest for. And, uh, I’d love to court you, if you’d give me the chance to prove myself.”

Steve is smiling at him like he put all the stars in the sky, scent blooming sugary, cinnamon happy. “Well, with such a nice nest, how could I say no, Alpha?” The omega simpers, the coy effect lost as he hauls Eddie up into the nest, their nest, by his shirt.

And then they’re far too busy to say much of anything, for a while.

---------

This is my last submission for March Mating Madness 2025! It's been so fun working on these and reading what everyone else has written.

#march mating madness #omegaverse #omega steve #alpha eddie munson #nesting #steddie #fanfiction #stranger things #dreamer speaks #steve harrington #eddie munson

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all4aoki · 6 months ago

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᱖ NOW PLAYING . . . Love Hangover Jennie

۫ ੭̲ SOMMARiE Valentine’s week is always a marathon for you, but you wouldn’t want it any other way

ׁ 𝑝oly!ot7 𝐸N- x f!reader ׅ ౨ৎ 𝓦c 6.1k ! & 𝓒w kissing, suggestive in Sunghoon’s & Heeseung’s part, YN accidentally burns herself, overall sleepiness, me guessing stuff about being an idol, not proofread ! ࿁ ⠀ ˚ BiBLiOTHÈQUE

📄 happy valentine’s day my loves! ♡︎♡︎

©all4aoki, 2025

You’d always loved Valentine’s Day. It never mattered if you hadn’t had a valentine, or had no plans surrounding the holiday, because the concept of the celebration of love was precious to you. Everything about the holiday was perfect in your opinion: the colors, the decorations, the food—all of it. And as the years went on and you finally had the privilege of celebrating with not just one, but seven of your soulmates, Valentine’s Day got even better. However, Valentine’s week was a bit of a marathon for you.

Jungwon had never understood why you never let any of them past the threshold of your room while you were getting ready, but as he stood in the door frame now, he knew. Because watching you get yourself dolled up to go on a date with him had him wanting to burst into your room and ruin the lip gloss you were smearing over your full lips. The warm lights of your vanity reflected onto your skin beautifully, and the flattering neckline of your white dress made your neck look extremely kissable–

“Don’t even think about it.” Your soft voice snaps him out of his thoughts instantly. Your shining eyes meet his as you begin putting in your earrings, and Jungwon feels his heart melt a little.

He grins, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The way you tilt your head and how your neck flushes a deeper shade than your usual skin tone reminds Jungwon of why he loves teasing you so much. Seeing you flustered was so utterly adorable. But the small sigh that escapes you as you look back at your appearance in the mirror has him furrowing his eyebrows. Jungwon pushes off the door frame, crossing his arms as he enters your bedroom. This time, you don’t make any protests, which only makes his concern grow.

Jungwon leans down, carefully wrapping his arms around your waist from behind as his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. He’s careful to not mess up your hair that you’d spent so long curling. “What’s wrong?” The smell of your perfume, the same vanilla one you’d been using for years now, is comforting, and Jungwon has to stop himself from pressing his nose against your skin. Instead, he keeps eye contact with you in the mirror.

Your hands come up to hold onto his forearms, the texture of the beige sweater he’s wearing soft under your fingers. “Nothing,” you reassure as you shake your head a little, “I just spaced out for a second.” Jungwon doesn’t seem to buy it though, the slight scrunching of his nose cluing you in.

“I know this week is gonna be busy for you… since you’re spending time with all of us. Individually–”

“It’s fine, Won, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you say as one of your hands moves to cup his cheek. “It might be tiring, but I want to give each of you the love you deserve.” That seems to do it, though, and you can see the way he visibly relaxes at your words.

“You’ll tell us if you need a break?”

You nod, but a part of you knows that even if you do get tired, the excitement and love would overpower that. This week and Valentine’s Day was about love, and you wanted to give all of your love and energy to your favorite people in the world.

“Good.” Jungwon smiles as he slowly stands up straight again. He offers you his hand, and you quickly turn off the lights on your vanity before you take it. His much larger palm closes around yours and a small rush of electricity goes through you from the contact. “Let’s get going then. Don’t want to be late for our reservation.”

Straightening out your skirt, you get to your feet. “All ready. M’excited,” you say with a grin. But when you raise yourself on your toes a little to kiss his cheek, your lips meet the back of his other hand.

“Can’t mess up your lip gloss, doll.”

The date with Jungwon is nothing but perfect and both of you return to the dorms with adorable pieces of pottery. Well, Jungwon’s is a little questionable, but he’d themed it around you and he was the one who made it, so it was flawless in your eyes. And you wondered, why had you been so worried about this week being draining? After spending the night with Jungwon, you’d felt refreshed and your heart was full of happiness. Just as the holiday intended it to be.

So, you were carrying an air of confidence with you as you sat across from Sunghoon at a restaurant the both of you frequented. It was on the fancier side, but when you both were in the mood for something a little more romantic, this place was always your first choice. The dim lighting and warm glow of candles on tables reminded you of how romantic your boyfriend could be. It was a side Sunghoon didn’t show often, but it was always there.

“Did you like the flowers?” he asks as you sip at the red Chateau Margaux wine you’d decided to indulge in that evening. Neither of you were big drinkers, but it felt fitting with the intimate atmosphere. Sunghoon was referencing the large bouquet of pink roses currently sitting in the car that was parked in the parking lot. At the thought of them, you feel your cheeks warm and your heart stutters with giddiness.

You nod, “Roses are the most Valentine’s flower you could get.” He lets out a small scoff that’s definitely a laugh in disguise. As he smiles, you can see his little fangs and the urge to kiss him comes over you.

“I know they’re not your favorite, but I thought they were fitting.”

“I love them,” you reassure as you twirl your fork around in the pasta you’d ordered. Sunghoon had gotten some kind of steak and you could smell it from across the table. His chocolate-colored eyes notice the way your own eyes linger on his dinner and he laughs softly.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you watch him cut off a small piece of his steak before offering the fork to you. When you don’t move, he tilts his head in a gesture for you to take it. “Have a bite. I can practically see you drooling.”

“I am not drooling,” you protest, but you take the fork anyway. The steak is as divine as it smells. Much better than your pasta.

“Maybe not over the food…” With the way he trails off, you can tell what he’s implying and you resist the urge to throw the silverware you’re holding at him. Sunghoon grins cheekily at the angry expression on your face and how you can’t respond as you finish eating your bite. “You want to switch dishes, don’t you?”

You tried to school your facial expressions, but in truth, you did kind of want to. “That’s your food, Hoon, I’m not gonna take it from you–” Before you can finish your sentence, his pale, large hands are already swapping your plates. You swallow harshly, stomach doing flips at how caring he is. “You don’t mind?”

Sunghoon shakes his head, “Tonight is all about you.”

And he made that clear in more ways than one.

A sharp breath leaves you as your back meets the wall beside the door to Sangmi and your dorm. She was out with Intak. They probably hadn’t begun their own Valentine’s celebrations yet, but if you could remember correctly, he was asking her to be his Valentine tonight. But you couldn’t exactly think clearly thanks to Sunghoon’s lips on your neck.

The light drag of his teeth against the delicate skin sends a shiver through your body, and your hands grip his biceps over the blazer he’s wearing tightly. When he lightly bites down on a sensitive spot he’s well acquainted with, you yelp quietly, pressing your body to his. Sunghoon’s nose nudges under your jaw as he pulls away. No doubt his eyes are lingering on the red mark sitting on your neck now. Once he deems it good enough, his lips are on yours.

His movements are passionate and desperate, clearly not patient enough to wait to get you to your bedroom. Instead, his tongue slides past your lips. He deepens the kiss, one of his hands on your face tilting your head back to give him better access. His other hand grips the skirt of your dress, beginning to pull it up your thighs.

“Bedroom,” Sunghoon mumbles against your lips as he hikes your dress over your hips. Thankfully, you make it to your bed before your panties hit the floor.

The next morning, it’s hard for you to get out of bed. At first, you wake up slowly, the mid-morning sunlight filtering in through the curtains and caressing where your and Sunghoon’s bodies are tangled together in bed. You’d only gotten a few hours of sleep that night for… certain reasons, but when your eyes finally fluttered open, you didn’t expect it to be past noon.

“Shoot,” you mumble, fully sitting up in your bed as you notice all of the text messages from Riki. You were supposed to meet up with him an hour ago for his Valentine’s date. Sunghoon shifts next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he buries his face in your lap. Halfheartedly, you run your fingers through his hair to try and keep him asleep while you text Riki back.

Riki I’m outside your dorm. Let me in

You sigh softly as your fingers slow in Sunghoon’s hair. “Hoon,” you whisper as you set your phone down, turning your full attention to the man still asleep in your lap. “Hoon,” you repeat a bit louder. You just get a small hum in response. “Let go, baby, I’ve gotta go see Riki.” This time, Sunghoon lets out a hesitant grumble before loosening his arms around your waist. You smile softly and lean down to press a gentle kiss to his hair. “Stay in bed as long as you want…”

Ignoring your soreness and the heaviness in your eyes, you slip out of bed and quickly shrug on a random sweater and some jeans after replacing your undergarments from the night before. It was probably best to let Riki into your dorm first… then fix the rest of the mess Sunghoon had made you from the previous evening. Wincing a little, you did your best to exit your bedroom without making a sound, and your steps moved faster once you reached the door.

Riki’s tall frame appears as you swing the door open and as he opens his mouth to speak, you hastily press a finger to his lips. He tilts his head in confusion before his eyes find your neck and a look of realization fills his expression. Your face flushes from embarrassment.

“Sit on the couch. I’ll be quick,” you whisper to him as you let him into your dorm. Sluggishly, you go through your morning routine and apply a hefty amount of concealer. Both to the red bruises on your neck and to the dark circles under your eyes. After about another twenty minutes, you and Riki finally leave the dorm building.

You hold onto his arm tightly as the two of you walk through the streets of Cheongdam. “I’m sorry I slept late, Ki… I swear I had an alarm set.”

A laugh leaves him. “Must’ve slipped your mind from all of the fun you were having last night–”

“Nishimura Riki!” you exclaim, cheeks and neck warm from his teasing. Letting out a small huff, you still keep a firm grip on his arm. “Don’t say stuff like that in public…”

“Sorry, princess, you just look so funny when you get all embarrassed–” You cut him off with a soft smack to his arm. “Hey!” Riki whines. “I’m taking you shopping and in return I get hit?”

“Please, I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

The first store he takes you to is Chanel. While Riki isn’t a huge fan of the brand himself, he knows that you like a lot of their pieces. Maybe he could justify picking out and buying you a few things since you liked Chanel. He thought you’d be more excited about looking around, especially since he’d booked a VIP experience, but you still hadn’t moved from his side.

It was almost like you were leaning on him for support, like you were too tired to stand up by yourself.

“Ooh, Riki-chan, look at this dress,” you breathe, and–maybe he’d just been overthinking the way you were clinging to him. After all, you were often very touchy with him. And if something was wrong you’d tell him, right?

He looks at the dress you’re talking about, a rather simple and pretty black one. Strapless with a flowy skirt and a white rose on the center of the neckline. It would fall to about mid-thigh on you. “You should try it on. I want to get you some things today,” he says and, as expected, your wide eyes find his.

“You don’t have to buy me anything! I’m just glad I get to spend time with you.”

Riki tilts his head as his full lips raise into a small smirk. The sight has your heart racing. “If I want to buy you something, I’m buying you something.” He moves away from you, leaving you standing next to the dress. He’s probably going to look for more articles of clothing to make you try on. “Consider it payment for ditching me for Sunghoon-hyung this morning.”

“You–!”

Your youngest boyfriend ends up buying you quite a bit that day, most of them his selections of what you looked best in after modeling each piece he’d picked out for you. By the time you get back to the dorms, your feet hurt and your lack of sleep from the night before is catching up to you.

As you lay in Riki’s bed with him, cuddled closely to his side as a random movie plays in the background, your mind goes back to how many more dates you would have to go on this week. Excluding Valentine’s Day itself. You felt guilty for dreading the number of activities you would participate in, after all, you were an idol. You should be used to having so many energy-draining things to do in a day, much less a week. But the combination of your schedules and the time you were dedicating to your boyfriends, you were already feeling exhausted.

You drift off to sleep before the movie’s even a quarter of the way through.

Part of you is thankful, though, since you have to get up early the next morning for a schedule. With much-needed sleep and cuddles from Riki, you thought you’d be up and bursting with energy the next day, but that was the furthest thing from the truth. He had to practically drag you out of bed and to the bathroom for you to try and put yourself together a little. You weren’t sure why you were so tired, but you refused to let your body be the reason you weren’t able to follow through with all of your plans for the week.

It was Valentine’s Day week for goodness sake.

You had to keep reminding yourself that as Jake showed up just as you finished changing out of your clothes from the photoshoot you’d wrapped up. His big smile and excited eyes only make your guilt grow, and in turn, you push the thought of staying in for the night away.

“If only I was two seconds earlier,” he says as he enters your dressing room. He had knocked, and Jake was only teasing about seeing you indecent.

You playfully roll your eyes as you grab your bag from the table it’s sat on. “Not today, Sim.”

“I know, I know,” Jake laughs as he offers his hand for you to take. You quickly grab onto it and he squeezes your hand in his softly. “How was the shoot?”

Tiring. “It was good. They had me sit in water at one point and it was cold.”

He leads you out of the dressing room and towards the exit of the building. “Well, I can’t wait to see the results. I’m sure they’ll be amazing as always.” It was so sweet the way Jake always knew how to cheer you up. If you were feeling down, even for the stupidest of reasons, he made sure that you knew your feelings were valid and then followed up by distracting you in some way.

And while you weren’t feeling down today, you definitely weren’t feeling your best. But Jake was there like always, and this time for your Valentine’s date, he brought you to an arcade.

His eyes light up almost as bright as the neon lights from the various screens when he sees the variety of games, only for you to drag him over to the claw machines.

“Think you can win me a plushie today?” Jake’s track record wasn’t great. There were only two stuffed animals in your room from claw machines. He hadn’t won either of them. His lips press together in a determined expression and you giggle at the sight.

“Laugh all you want, angel, but you’re gonna be leaving with an armful of the goods.”

“Don’t call them that.” So while spending an obscene amount of money on tokens wasn’t Jake’s first idea for a date with you, he was still overjoyed to do it.

You walk ahead of him with the bowl filled with tokens he’d just purchased, taking him back over to the claw machines. “Okay… Which one d’you want?” You hand him the tokens before turning to the many options of plushies. A polar bear, some kind of snowman, a duck… When your eyes land on an orange cat your finger presses up against the glass.

“That one. The orange tabby.”

Jake scoffs. “If you wanted a cat, you should’ve brought Jungwon.” He pushes two of the tokens into the slot and the machine blares to life. The loud music and glaring lights immediately attack your senses, but you do your best to shake it off.

Your boyfriend steers the toggle with precision. Jake’s aim was good, but it depended if the claw machine wanted to cooperate today or not. And as the dog plushie is dropped one, two, three, four times, you figure that the machines aren’t in the mood to comply. You reach to pull at Jake’s sleeve. “Let’s go do something else.”

He shakes his head, his brown eyes locked on the treasures inside the glass as his fingers work over the joystick again. “No. I’m gonna win you something this time.”

“That’s sweet Jake, but don’t you want to go play some games–”

“I want to win you something.” His mouth presses into a thin line as he barely misses the dog plushie. “Wanna put two more tokens in for me?” You sigh, but you push the two coins into the machine, the lights and music roaring to life again.

The neon colors were beginning to make your head hurt as you leaned against the glass, the coolness doing little to wake you up as you made sure to stay out of the way so Jake could see what he was doing. Your eyes flutter. Maybe you could close them for a second to give them some relief? Jake was very focused on earning this stuffed animal for you anyway. You don’t even realize it when your eyes fully close, and the loud music and other sounds from the arcade do little to keep you present.

Only when Jake cheers victoriously, are you snapped out of the half-conscious state you're in. Your vision is blurry with sleep as your boyfriend squats down to retrieve the plushie before he holds it up for you to see. The excited smile on his face makes you feel guilty, considering it does little to push your exhaustion away.

Despite your attempts to match his enthusiastic smile, Jake notices your weary expression. His eyebrows furrow in concern and the grin drops from his lips as he lowers the plushie. Jake’s free hand comes up to rub your arm in a comforting manner. “You okay?”

You were most definitely not okay. You had never fallen asleep while doing an activity before, much less going on a date. And since Jake cared for you, he shared this information with the rest of your boyfriends, much to your dismay.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Heeseung asks you as he kills the engine of his car in the park’s parking lot. It’s hard to not be a little annoyed with the constant questions if you were okay. You knew that they were coming from a good place, that your boyfriends were just worried about you, but you had promised them you’d tell them if something was wrong. That thought is bitter to you as well, but you didn’t see getting small amounts of sleep as something that was concerning. What would be concerning is if you weren’t able to celebrate the literal holiday of love with them.

You reach across the center console to hold his hand. “I’m okay. If anything, I’m ready to watch this movie with you.” Heeseung’s doe eyes narrow at your words and you were hoping that he’d believe you. “I’ve always wanted to watch a movie from a projector.”

He sighs softly, his free hand coming up to rub at his face a little before he gives in. “Fine. But you’re not carrying anything. And I’m setting it all up.” Like that was a threat.

“That works for me,” you giggle as you let go of his hand and undo your seatbelt to hop out of the passenger’s seat.

True to his word, Heeseung somehow managed to carry the picnic basket the two of you had packed along with the box for the screen and the portable projector all at the same time. You’d teased him about his scrawny arms. He’d threatened to drive you back home. But you both had found a free spot in the grass to set up.

“Is it still crooked?” he asks as he sits next to you on the pink blanket you’d laid out. You had busied yourself with eating some of the chocolate strawberries Heeseung had bought while he had set up the movie.

You shake your head. “Just leave it. It looks good. Besides, I want to cuddle.” Heeseung laughs.

“We’re in public.” True, yes, but it was nighttime and there was hardly anyone in the area you’d picked. “Don’t want someone thinking we’re a weird PDA couple.”

“Oh please,” you scoff softly as Heeseung still moves to let you rest your head on his shoulder. Neither of you are paying attention to the movie, but the speaker on the projector sucks, so you can barely hear it anyway. “If either of us is a fan of PDA it’s you.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m taking other people’s eyes into consideration…” he trails off as you look up at him. A small shudder goes through you as his thumb comes up to wipe at the corner of your mouth. “You’re a messy eater.”

Your face warms at both the action and his words as you look back at the projector screen. “The strawberries are good.”

“Maybe I would know if you’d left some for me.”

Movies this week were apparently your worst enemy. Apart from sleep, of course, but each time that you watched one, you felt yourself lulling into a state of unconsciousness. This time though, you were determined to not fall asleep. But it’s easier said than done as you feel your eyelids begin to droop maybe halfway through.

Heeseung’s a small help, whispering in your ear and sending shivers through your nerves as he comments on the main character’s choices, but it’s still difficult for you to follow along with the storyline when you simply don’t care. Your breath hitches when he tucks his face into your neck, his nose pressing against your skin as you hear him inhale softly.

And when his lips brush against your pulse point, the kisses have the opposite effect that he intends them to have. It’s relaxing, the soft tickling sensation, and when Heeseung pulls away to have his lips find yours, your sleeping face greets him instead. It would be funny if he wasn’t so worried about you.

“I really am fine,” you try to convince your boyfriends as you all sit in the living room on the second floor of the dorms.

Jake gives you a look. “If that were true, you wouldn’t fall asleep while Heeseung-hyung’s trying to make out with you–”

“That’s beside the point,” you interrupt him, a small sense of embarrassment rushing through you. Last night hadn’t been your greatest moment, and while you felt horrible about it, Heeseung had assured you that it was okay. Only after saying ‘I told you so’, though. “The point is that there’s no difference from this week and every other week in my life. I’m always busy.”

“But you’ve never been this tired before,” Sunoo points out as next to you, Jungwon wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Sunoo-ie has a point. Maybe you should just stay in tonight,” Sunghoon suggests and you shake your head frantically.

“No! I’m not letting a little bit of tiredness ruin my Valentine’s week with you all.” You sigh softly as you watch Riki lean against one of the decorative tables next to the couch. “I want to give you all the love you deserve…”

Jay shakes his head from where he’s standing. “We don’t want you to be putting yourself at risk for us though. Even if it is just sleep, your body needs rest, YN-ie.” You huff. He’s right, of course. “There’s nothing wrong with staying in.”

“But I’ve been looking forward to my baking class with you all week,” you complain, feeling frustrated with yourself. “Eunchae-ssi said that the teacher we’re supposed to go see is really nice.” Each of the boys smiles a little at your whining.

“We can always reschedule, angel,” Jay reminds you, but you shake your head again.

“No, this place is popular… Please, Oppa, I want to go.”

You watch as Jay exchanges a look with Heeseung and you hate how it feels like you’re asking if it’s okay for you to go out and do something with them. You understand why, but you still don’t like it. After a moment, Jay meets your eyes again. “Alright. Let’s go. But we’re gonna go to bed early tonight, okay?”

Your heart races with relief as you nod excitedly, squeezing Jungwon beside you in a small hug before you stand. “Okay!”

The baking class starts fine. Jay and you had decided on making molten lava cookies, to satisfy both of your cravings for chocolate, and Eunchae had been right about how sweet the teacher was. She was able to instruct you both while giving you enough space to still have a bit of time just with each other. Problems only begin to surface again while you wait for the cookies to bake.

The teacher had stepped away for a moment to get you all some water, leaving you and Jay alone in the kitchen. You watched him fondly with half-open eyes as he began to wipe down the counter.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s not your job to clean up the workspace.” The corners of his lips tilt up at your statement. The rag in his hands is dropped onto the counter as he glances at you and your sleepy expression.

“I don’t mind doing it. Figured it would help her out considering how messy we got.”

“That was all your doing, by the way.”

Jay laughs, “Sure angel. You totally weren’t the one to spill the flour because you couldn’t keep your eyes open.”

“Hey!” Your giggles are cut off when the timer on the oven goes off. Both of you look over to the oven and Jay moves to shut the timer off. “We should probably take them out so they don’t burn. Our teacher wouldn’t mind, right?” you ask as you shuffle over to lean against Jay’s side.

“She shouldn’t. Most people don’t enjoy eating burnt cookies,” he chuckles as he reaches for the oven mitts. You blink slowly, mind a little fuzzy as you grab them before he can.

“Let me. I feel like I haven’t been any help at all.” Jay lifts his hands in mock surrender as he moves to the side a little, giving you the room you need to get the sheets out of the oven. Carefully, you open the door of the oven and remove the two pans full of chocolate cookies. With the pans safely placed on the top of the counter, you remove the oven mitts and Jay turns off the oven.

The door to the kitchen swings open as the teacher enters again. “Oh, it smells so good in here!” In her hands are three glasses of water, and your boyfriend being the gentleman he is, rushes over to help her set them down. Your heart softens at how kind he is, but as you move to lean against the counter, your hand seeking the surface, a red-hot pain shoots up through your nerves, making you cry out softly.

Jay’s by your side in an instant, and you would almost feel bad for how he’s running back and forth in the kitchen if it wasn’t for the stinging your skin was feeling. He coos gently as one of his hands finds the small of your back, steadying you.

“Let me see, angel.” Hesitantly, you hand him the palm you’d burned on the still-hot cookie sheet. Jay tuts softly and you know you’re in for a scolding later. “You need to be more careful.” Or right now.

Thankfully, the teacher has aloe for even minor burns like these, and Jay helps you run your hand under cool water from the sink, caring as ever. “I am careful,” you protest quietly to Jay as the teacher retrieves the medicine for the barely there burn. “I’m just… tired.”

An immense weight was lifted off your shoulders as you finally admitted it, and the confession received the reaction you were expecting. Because the next day, Valentine’s Day itself, your boys had decided that instead of your one-on-one date with Sunoo, you would be spending the evening at the dorms, resting.

At least you were able to spend some time alone with Sunoo, though.

“I can’t believe I’ve been put on house arrest,” you mumble as he stands between your legs while you sit on the counter. He’s trying a new serum on you tonight, part of his Valentine’s present for you. Sunoo’s fingers gently massage the skin of your cheeks as he works the product into your pores.

“Should put you on house arrest more often. Seems like you can’t figure out what’s best for you–”

You smack his shoulder playfully, making Sunoo laugh. “I’ve learned my lesson.” You suck in a breath between your teeth. “I forget how much burns can hurt.” Sunoo’s laugh fades and is replaced with a look of worry.

“Does it still hurt a lot?” With a tight-lipped smile, you shake your head. The counter is cool under your legs and goosebumps rise on your thighs since you’re wearing pajama shorts instead of pants.

“Just a little. It’s still red. See?” You offer him your injured hand and Sunoo carefully takes it.

“Let’s put some more lotion on it. It’ll help it cool down.” He lets go of your hand, but you keep it raised as he moves to grab the cooling lotion Jay had purchased for you on your way home from the baking class yesterday. It’s like he’s handling a porcelain doll as your raven-haired boyfriend massages the lotion into your hand. His eyes never leave the red mark on your palm as your eyes never leave his face.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” you say softly. “I should say that to all of you… I’m sorry for not telling you all how tired I was, I just–” A heavy sigh escapes you as Sunoo’s eyes meet yours. “I just wanted this week to be perfect. You all do so much for me and I wanted to give you all of my time and love in return.”

Sunoo’s thumb brushes over your palm again. “You already do that every day. We all know how much love and care you put into your relationship with each of us… And we’re so grateful, princess.” He carefully lifts your hand to his lips, kissing the burn mark gently. “This week– this Valentine’s Day is perfect because we’re all together. No amount of missed dates could ever affect that.”

It’s hard not to feel like crying from his words, and your heart is touched by how Sunoo soothed you. Just like the cooling lotion on your burn. “Thank you, Sun.”

“Of course, princess,” he says as he helps you remove the pink skincare headband and then helps you off the counter. “Let’s join the others before they start getting crabby, hmm?” You laugh softly as you nod. Sunoo guides you out of the bathroom and back into the living room.

They’d gone all out in terms of decorating the second floor’s dorm. Cushions and blankets covered the ground in front of the couch, and they’d pushed the coffee table off to the side. From where the coffee table was, just in front of the TV, it’d been stocked with snacks and other little treats for you all to enjoy throughout the night. Fairy lights had been draped along the walls and set to a light pink color, enhancing the Valentine’s Day ambiance. Other than the fairy lights, there was only one other lamp on. From the ceiling were little pink and red heart-hanging decorations that sparkled when they caught the light from the fairy lights. In the corner of the living room were all of the gifts you've received from them. Having just opened them, you didn’t have the time to move them to your room yet.

But that didn’t bother you too much. Not when all of your boys were already lounging on the couch and the other cushions they’d placed on the floor. It was like your own little heaven and it made you sad to think about how it’d have to be cleaned up eventually.

“Did you guys have to be in there for five hours?” Riki asks, setting his phone down as you and Sunoo enter the living room. There’s a clear spot left for you in the center of the couch.

“It was only one hour,” Sunoo corrects as you bound over to the couch, practically jumping between Jake and Sunghoon. “Riki-ah, if you want me to do your skincare, all you have to do is ask.”

Riki’s quick to shake his head. Instead, he leans over Jake to kiss your cheek. “Do I look as refreshed as I feel?” you teasingly ask your boyfriends. As expected, a flood of compliments is fast to follow.

“You look beautiful” “You're glowing, Doll” “Your bare face is my favorite”

You can’t help the way your heart races at their words, and you cuddle further between Jake and Sunghoon as Sunoo sits on the floor in front of you with Heeseung, Jay, and Jungwon. There are seven sets of eyes on you as you laugh softly.

“Thank you all for this. I don’t know what I would do without each of you,” you say with a small smile on your face. “I love you all so very much.”

With the way they’re looking at you, you don’t need to hear them say the same words back to know they feel the exact same way. Still, you can’t help but feel your eyes water as each of your loves tells you how much they love you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Doll,” Jungwon whispers to you as he reaches up to squeeze your hand. You return the gesture before settling back down. Jay and Heeseung were trying to decide which movie to put on, but you couldn't care less when you were with the people you loved the most.

Happy Valentine’s Day indeed.

#⩩⠀ ៰࣪⠀ ࣭ 𝓐OKI 𝓨N #poly!enhypen #poly enhypen #poly enhypen x reader #enhypen x reader #ot7 x reader #enha #enhypen #enhypen 8th member #enhypen added member #jungwon x reader #heeseung x reader #jay x reader #jake x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunoo x reader #niki x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen x female reader

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iplayghoul · 1 year ago

Text

𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞

pairing:: onyankopon x reader

wc:: 2.6k

warnings:: umm starts off as soft sex, they get a lil crazy (my fault), tongue sucking, squirting, cunnilingus all that. nothing too crazy. using 'mama' and 'ma', reader has braids and acrylics.

note:: heyy.. how yall doin 😅 work below the cut.. dont beat my ass

“You remind me of the sun, ony’,” you mumble, cheek pressed against his bare bicep with your head resting soft against the picnic blanket as you look up at the night sky. He's like the sun to you. “mm, yeah What– does that mean, pretty?” His voice is deep… just above a whisper and in your peripheral vision you see him looking at you but your eyes are fixated on the stars above. “I dunno, your skin is always so warm when I feel cold but– I gravitate towards you all the time. Like all the other stars do. You exude something… mmph, what m’ I saying rightnow.” You fumble, chuckling lightly at your lack of words.

“do you believe in destiny? like ‘written in the stars’ n’ shit? Hm?” Onyankopon speaks up, you feel an emotion behind his tone you can't quite describe. It sounded like… uncertainty, insecurity. “Well, you know how my exes were… I'd like to think those were just unfortunate circumstances that I'm tryna grow from, baby. I don't wanna think the universe puts us through that on purpose… y'know?” You sit up, pretty little night dress falling down to cover your thighs. Your hands holding you up as you look around the night sky. The full moon tonight facilitated an impromptu shoving of a picnic blanket onto the balcony, warm glasses of chai tea emptied and hot in your bellies as you laid together to watch the moon.

Onyankopon rests his head with his hands behind his head, admiring you. He clears his throat, “I love you. Y'know that?”, “I do know that, you know I love you too?” You look at him over your shoulder before turning over and pressing your palms onto his stomach, he groans in faux pain. “Mhm,” He purrs, sitting up to clasp your hands in his own, tugging you onto his lap. “I know that, mama,” the moon was so bright. It illuminated the darkness around you both on the balcony and glimmered in his eyes. You stare. His moistened lips glistening in the light, you scoot closer to him. Chest pressed against your breasts and he sits handsomely, basking in your gaze and touch. Pretty white french tip acrylic nails with bow decor caresses his neck, scratching the back his neck and playing with his ears. Ony’ shivers lightly.

“Why you touchin’ on me like that, hm?” He bites back a smile when u tug at his earlobe. “Gimme a kiss,” You murmur, lips sealed by the clasp of his against yours. He pecks your lips several more times, Onyankopon really liked the texture of your lip gloss on his lips. Hands drag down his chest, following the tiny lines of his wife-beater: twirling the drawstring of his sweats.

“Do you wanna–”

“No,” Your eyes meet his, and Ony’ watches you as kind as ever, with his stupid handsome face. “No, baby,” He kisses his teeth, “Not g'na fuck you out here. Not on the balcony,” his cheeks deepen with dimples as he offers you a low chuckle.

“‘M not asking you to fuck me.” You roll your eyes teasingly,”And what's wrong with out here . . . we got blankets and pillows, s'comfy baby,” He's offered a sweet smile, the lavender rubber bands on your braces reminded him of the colours of the night, so he looks up at the sky.

The moon colours dusted blue and purple hues onto the clouds that bordered it. Reflecting and sparkling in your eyes and your face. Shit . . .

“What I'm asking, is that you make love to me, Ony’,” You whisper, resting your head in his neck. Onyankopon sucks a deep breath in between his teeth. “Grab some f'them pillows.” He uttered.

Ony’ scoots forward, shamelessly staring at your ass as you bunched up the pillows scattered across the balcony and stuffing them behind where he previously sat, blankets included and teacups pushed far aside. “Lay back right there,” , “Mkay . . . ,” You whisper, eyes flickering to his position while he only eyes you, fixing your braids behind your ears and tucking yourself comfortably back into the mound of pillows and blankets. “Mhm, pull it up,” Onyankopon turned to you and gave your night dress a light tug, eyes still focused everywhere else but your own.

You shuffled, clutching the little thing up above your hips, pretty panties scrunched up between your legs . . . you wore some random ones with rainbows on it. “Take it off, ma’,” Onyankopon ordered, his mouth muffled by the hand on his chin, finger pressing into his lips while he watched you. Gingerly, you hook your acrylics beneath the band slipping the panties off. Flustered, your legs remained snapped shut, though your puffy cunt still pushed itself out, feeling tickled and tingly at the touch of the cold air. It was the type of wind that blew before a cozy storm. And you nibble on your bottom lip. Ony’ grabs your knees, prying them apart. He watched how the moonshine glistened against your pussy.

He pushed your legs back ‘till your knees brushed the blankets behind you, “Ony’ don't stare,” a grumble escaped you, body warm. He hummed. Leaning down, Ony’ spread your pussy further with his thumbs before offering your clit a kiss. You gasp softly, expecting the upcoming stimulation anxiously, wishing he could just skip this part n’ pull his dick out. You drop your head back into the pillows, eyes to the stars and moon when you feel Onyankopon's tongue swirl over your hole before dipping in gently. He likes to take his time. He does this a few more times and you whine, eyes falling shut when you feel him drag his tongue over your clit. Then, he's going in; he's licking up n’ down your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth n’ tugging it to let it snap back into your pussy. You moan freely, thick into the air. The clouds above moved with the wind and suddenly the moon sent glows onto your face, so much so that you opened your teary eyes to see what was so bright on your face.

Onyankopon groans vibrations into your pussy when he sees your face, overcome with pleasure under the moonshine. He dips his face into you, licking circles about your cunt, kissing and suckling, and spitting, and slipping his tongue deep in you. “Ony’, Ony’ c'mon,” You whine, hands dancing behind his neck, pushing his face deeper into your cunt when you feel your clit throb hard. He makes circles around your clit, kissing it and once sucking it into his mouth. “Right there, right there,” You ache when he tilts his head and tongues a spot of your clit and you start grinding your body into his face. He thinks he might suffocate in the best way possible. Little glossy pearls of tears glide down the sides of your cheeks and tickle your ear. Head pressing back into the pillows when the rest of your body arches forward to Ony's mouth. You spread your legs so wide and they stiffened, all you feel is his tongue around your clit now pushing out undisturbed by your folds and you grab your braids tight. He stuffs two fingers inside you while maintaining his motions on your clit, sloppily fucking them into you, twisting them with each stroke and you think your ears are actually ringing. With it, you let out a sob and squeal, “Fuck! Fuck, oh-my-god, Ony–,” then it was silence, “Breath, mama, breathe,” Ony groaned, and suddenly you were gasping for air, cumming hard.

Your lips were quivering, feeling somewhat numb while Ony’ offered you some slow calming strokes with his fingers as you mellowed down. “Shit, you still want s’m cock after that?” He gave your clit a final kiss, seeing your bleary eyes as you sniffle and sigh. Your legs ached when you tried to move, closing them slowly. “Gimme a minute,” you pout and flop your head back down into the pillows, collecting yourself a bit, eyes blinking wearily. “S’ sensitive, m’ sorry,” Ony’ only re-fluffs some of the blankets and pillows that were now pushed askew, lifting your lower body by your legs while he pushed them back beneath you.

“Chill out,” He whispered, shifting to lay beside you and look at the sky. “S’ finna rain soon,” He announced,”Mhm, yeah,” You push your legs out, throwing your arms above you for a big stretch, squeezing your thighs tight to block your exposed pussy from the cold air. “Want head?” you peep at Ony’ who rests his hands behind his head. He shakes his head ‘no’ and stretches. You observe him and openly stare at his hard dick printing out of his sweats. Leaning forward, you rub, ever so gently, along the shaft while he watched you.

“‘Kay, get over right here,” Ony’ sat up moving from his spot, gesturing for you to situate yourself there with a quickness and brushing your hand off him. You huff, teasing, and pull your night dress back down as you crawl on your hands and knees to the pillows. Lay on your back and braids adjusted, Ony grabs your night dress, tugging it back up your body and kissing his teeth. “Keep playin’,” He gives your ass a playful smack and you giggle.

Grabbing your ankles, Onyankopon pushes your legs all the way back. What you'd like to call, ‘knee headphones’ the way they were in line with your ears. Some traces of creamy white release cooled under the air, clit puffing out and hole aching to be stimulated again. Ony’ adjusts himself above you, leaning close and tugging his sweats down, letting his pretty, dark dick fall out and slap your thigh. Fuck, you might cry. Little beads of pre-cum dripped from the tip, he was already girthy, yet his cock got thicker and meatier towards the center of the shaft. “Y'gonna go slow?” Ony lines up, pressing his tip into you and smiles,”Yea, mama, i’mma go slow,” He sinks and drawls out a long, ”Fuck.”

His heavy hand grips your thighs, pressing you down into the pillows. Onyankopon adjusts himself over you, letting his weight hold you down while he all but throbs in you. Legs now thrown over his shoulders and dark brown eyes staring deep into your own, fighting your weighted eyelids. “Bet’ not run, ma',” Onyankopon observes your face, licking his lips and giving you a quick peck, he resists indulging you when you pout and instead kisses about your damp cheeks and neck. “Oh-my-god,” you squeal when he begins to lift his hips out of you.

Onyankopon's hands cage your head, and the closeness leaves you nowhere to grab; thus your hands are left to mindlessly flop back onto the pillows. Nice and easy . . . proper n’ slow, he begins to rock his hips into you, “Why you suckin’ me in like that, mama?” He groans low. Ony’ let's his forehead rest on yours while the tip of his dick nudges the spongy mound inside you. “Ony’ your fuckin’ dick,” you whimper, “W’ssup wit’ it, huh?”, Onyankopon pressed his lips to yours in a wet kiss, grinning when he sees your pretty little eyes welling with tears. “Deeper–,” a sniffle, “Want it– deeper, shiiiit,” And he gives you just that, digging his fat dick deeper with each antagonizing stroke. Your cleavage bounces beneath your chin with each thwack of his hips into yours, tits having been firmly mushed into Ony's chest and you feel like you're gaping. Thighs burning n’ cunt stretching as he slowly builds the well in your tummy to milk you. “Mhm, watchu’ wanted?” You only groan and bite your lips, eyes screwed shut as you lay limp on the pillows getting fucked. Onyankopon gives your cheek a few slaps, “Answer me ‘fore I stop, don't play,” You force your eyes open and see Ony's eyes locked on yours. Brows furrowed and mouth ajar, that pussy felt fuckin’ good. “Yea, s’ what I wanted– daddy, fuck,” You let out a bratty sob when sloppily fucks into you faster before slowing again.

“Stick y'tongue out,” Onyankopon hums lowly, and you're not sure if you can focus on anything besides the smack of his hips and the squelching coming from his cock. You still comply, tongue lolling out from your mouth with heavy breathes. Ony’s dick throbs inside you, and he slurps your tongue into his mouth, suckling on it before locking your lips to his, tongue massaging yours. “Takin’ that fuckin’ dick, mhm,” His lips glide over your cheeks, fucking into you with fervor. He mumbles a chant of, “Shit, shit, shit,” pummeling you with his cock, reaching depths in your cunt you hadn't even discovered before. Ony’ seemed determined on knocking the fucking wind out of you and stuffing your swollen, little pussy full of dick. “Oh–,” wails escaping your lips, “Ohmygod unh, f– daddy, fuck,” you continue to mewl.

Your hands frantically grasp any and everything, your braids, Onyankopon's back, your ankles, the pillows; entire body gyrating as he fucks you. Onyankopon tongues your neck, licking about your ear, kissing your cheek. Your cunt feels sticky, s’ sloppy and warm and your entire body feels hot all over. Your eyes roll back and he's got you so trapped under him getting pounded that you can't even arch up into him. Cunt remaining spread at just the right angle and makes your legs quiver. Onyankopon let's out a tight groan and you feel the curve of his cock digging you hard. “G'nna make me fuckin’ cum. Squeezin’ on me like that, mama.” His sharp words muttered right into the shell of your ear making you clench hard. “Mu'fuckin’, sloppy pussy,” He lifts off you and pushes your legs above your head, crossing your ankles as he holds them together for leverage.

“N– Oh, no,no,no, Onya–!” you uttered out with gasps at the new angle. “Take it, take it, take it,” Ony’ murmured. Just like that, warmth squirted out of your cunt, dripping down his abdominals and pooling right between you where the hilt of his cock slapped into your folds as he kept drilling himself into you. “Mmmmph,” You can't help but cry and moan, cheeks feeling a bit warm with embarrassment yet it's overcome by the exponential throbbing of your clit. Your hand started tapping the pillows, shaking as you tried to tap out of whatever Ony’ was serving you right now. “C'mon,” He whispered, “I gotchu’.” It's like he senses it, thumbing your clit lightly.

“Need it! Need– it, daddy, shit,” You peer up at him.

“I know you do, baby, give it to me,” His commands echoes in your head, over and over. You're gasping, body jiggling off the pillows and slapping back up into his, “‘M . . . fuck, daddy,” sobbing and failing at formulating your words.

“‘M cumming, I'm cumming, oh my god.”

Your hips stiffen up and with each pelting thrust Ony’ cussed above you; a harsh wind blows and you think the coldness against your hot body makes you gush all over his cock while he cums alot. You blink the tears out of your eyes when Onyankopon fucks your cum mixture back into you a couple more times, before pulling out quick to avoid you being too sore and pained for him to move then plopping beside you on the pillows. Your legs fall carelessly below and all you hear besides silence are his harsh breaths and his deep voice asking you something you can't yet register, your clits throbbing too hard.

The moon really did look pretty tonight. Onyankopon does remind you of the sun. Shit, you felt like you were sitting among the fuckin’ stars.

#﹒﹒﹒💗 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦: 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 💌 𓂃 !#onyankopon x reader #attack on titan smut #aot smut #onyankopon #ony x reader #onyankopon smut #aot onyankopon #onyankopon snk #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankapon #onyankopon x you #attack on titan

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qwimblenorrisstan · 8 months ago

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Hey guys the Worms are coming back so I’m having thoughts,

tw: a/b/o dynamics, major angst no aftercare, panic attacks, past abuse, military

I love the stories where the 141 (in a/b/o context) are all alphas or a mix, but I also haven’t seen much of them being all omegas, which I think would really make sense.

Imagine it, omegas are more sensitive to their surroundings I think, with sharper instincts and reaction time imo, and they’re probably smaller than the stereotypical alpha so they can move faster. They can stay relatively calm under pressure and suppressants deal with the issue of a heat. I’ve always more imagined the 141 as four omegas, but four that stand out, and are used to criticism from people not in the military that don’t understand their team bonds.

So imagine they one day get news of a new transfer onto their team (maybe replacing soap as he’s recovering from his bullet wound HES NOT DEAD MW3 NEVER HAPPENED) and they’re not worried until they’re told it’s an alpha. An American alpha, too, if I let this get really self indulgent. Americans are loud and proud and annoying, so they fear the worst, you could throw off their team bonds, or make fun of them, or mess up their missions, etc, etc.

But in this imaginary world imagine that omegas also have more societal power than alphas, not physical power though, and you happened to be a victim of alpha-abuse. So what if the alpha that comes is shockingly quiet despite your imposing height and strength, and even looks nervous. The 141 would be absolutely ready for a brawl, I think, scents stinking up the room, only for you to stiffen as your nose stings from the potent mix of scents.

They’d observe you the entire time of the initial scenting, your stiff posture, uncomfortable behavior, and most of all the odd texture and scarring of your scent gland on your neck. Not unusual in your line of work.

After that, they made it clear you were an afterthought.

They wouldn’t let you get them food in the mess, or let you enter their shared nesting area, or even linger in Price’s office. If you covered them on a mission they’d nip at you or give you little low growls. They didn’t like the change to it, having to adjust, or just wanted to prove that they didn’t need an alpha, especially not to replace Soap.

You were trying. You knew you had to work your ass off for their respect and trust, and you were trying so hard. They didn’t seem to care.

Before they’d met you, they’d never thought that an alpha could have anything similar to a distress, nothing even close to the physical and psychological damage and pure stress someone had to be put through to reach that point. That was, until, one day when Ghost yanked you down to his scent gland to take a whiff when you ask how he covers the gunpowder from missions in his scent (spoiler: he doesn’t) and you just completely…freak out.

Shoving him away, eyes wide and looking through him, heart rate and breathing too fast. You’d absolutely booked it to your lone, sterile room that was the opposite of their cozy nest. It had taken a good hour just for Price and the rest to drag a medic and find out what the hell was wrong, only for you to be diagnosed with “Cane Baker Condition”,

“It’s, essentially, a form of PTSD related to a secondary gender, or experiences with one in a negative light. Think like a panic attack that lasts until their body is convinced they’re safe. Keep them out of bright light, away from loud noises or anything triggering for them, and give them some recognizable items from the nest, and they’ll snap out of it.”

It was then that they’d realized you had no recognizable items. Because they’d not let you even have a chance to enter their nest, and here they were now. You, lying underneath your piss poor bed in a pitch black room with one blanket in a sad mockery of a nest for comfort, getting as close to a panicked whimper that an alpha could between every breath.

Now they had to figure out how to earn your trust and respect, especially after they’d given absolutely none to you, neglected and abused you, for weeks.

should I make this a series?? (midterms are almost over so I’ll be more active soon, so far I’ve passed all of them!)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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blondieeu · 11 months ago

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2 seconds. shigaraki t.

old draft

shigaraki who doesn’t really like to touch you because of his quirk, let alone during sex even if he does have the gloves, so he relies on specific positions and places to fuck you in.

THE COUCH — 8/10

the couch was one of your favorite places because you like being able to see so much of him in the positions you do there. like if he wanted to give you back shots with your face pressed into the wall of the couch, he could do that while you turned to watch!! or maybe he wants to flip you over and give it to you with your legs opened, it was always a good time. the only con about the couch is that it’s not very comfortable fucking laying down.

“u—oh!”

“hmph.”

shigaraki pressed his hand deeper into the middle of your back, molding you into the plush couch. the night was long, and harder than most. there was nothing wrong with japans best villain finding comfort in his lover was there?

your moans filled the relatively empty living room accompanied by muffled slapping as your nails scratched at the back of the couch, almost holding on for your life.

shigaraki pushed his long white hair from his face hurriedly before slapping your ass and you gasped, reaching one of your hands back to rub on his toned stomach, all the way up to his chest to then rub at his shoulder.

THE BED (FULL NELSON) — 10/10

now this, was shigaraki’s favorite position. while the two of you don’t actually talk about sex outside of when you’re in the middle of it or it’s absolutely necessary, this position has made it into your conversations a couple of times!

“what’s that thing we did yesterday called? where’d you learn that?”

“why”

“because we’ve never done that before”

he made a quiet noise. not answering you immediately as he kept working on whatever the hell he was doing. finally, he turned his head a little.

“you liked it?”

“yeah”

you crossed your arms over your chest, wife beater loose around your shoulders. he turned his head back to his work calmly, almost unbothered.

“then don’t worry about it”

•••

“ohmygosh baby”

your fingertips pressed and scratched at your boyfriends pale-ish arms as they held your legs out of the way, ensuring he could fuck you properly. with nothing you could do to run from him, hot tears welled up in your eyes and a pout formed on your swollen lips.

“keep takin’ it.”

his cock barreled in and out at an relatively medium pace, but in this position—with his angry tip kissing your cervix everytime he pushed it in to the hilt, it felt like he was moving way faster.

he cursed you as your cunny clenched around his length, a creamy soap like texture created a ring around the base of his cock.

CHAIRS — 3/10

absolutely not. you really hate fucking in chairs it’s so uncomfortable, especially in spinny chairs, but shigaraki doesn’t really mind it. it makes your back ache and it’s hard to find a place to put your knees!

“baby i don’t like this spot”

“you got so much to say for someone not doing any work.”

“please?”

“stand up”

blondieeu xx

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ceilidho · 10 months ago

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fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 3 masterlist

You don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for, but it doesn’t happen.

The man doesn’t appear again. No one knocks on any windows or appears on any scans though you run another one not twelve hours later. It’s not enough to convince you that it was all in your head, but it’s enough for you to start the process of putting it out of mind.

You just can’t shake the unease following you, a shadow extending out from your feet. Your skin feels tight against your face, clinging to the muscle and bone; months under artificial light will do that to a person, sap them of something essential that can’t be replenished with just vitamins capsules and supplement injections. The human body isn’t meant for space travel. It longs for the sun and the earth under its feet.

And now you have something new to worry about.

Much to your relief, Hadir doesn’t bring up your earlier encounter at dinner. Though part of you wonders whether he mentioned it to anyone else, he doesn’t outwardly treat you any differently. Amiable as ever. It goes a long way towards assuring you that he must have put your earlier encounter out of his mind already. You should too.

It’s just that—

You’re the person the crew goes to when they need fixing. Abrasions, lesions, migraines, broken bones, aches and pains. Though your training is in emergency medicine and space physiology, years of clinical rotations and field research have equipped you with an extensive medical background. Not the least of which includes psychological and neurological health. You’re the de facto psychologist on board should any of the crew suffer a mental health crisis.

And if there’s something wrong with you, who’s going to fix it?

You sit with that thought for entirely too long, but then one day passes into the next and nothing happens. When you look out the window, you only see the throughline of the universe, its heart tipped over and the milk spilling out. The ambient light in the station keeps you from seeing it as clearly as you’d like, but it’s there when you look out the window, ever-present.

Still, you can’t help thinking about an astronaut somewhere out there, slipping into the darkness like a cold lake dragging a body down into its depths and holding it tight to its breast.

You shake off the thought. Scrub a hand down your face.

When your stomach rumbles, you ping the crew to let them know you won’t be in the medbay should they need you and head out to grab a bite to eat. Nikolai is already eating at the counter in the galley when you come in to make yourself supper.

No crew dinner tonight. Though you eat together for the most part, there are days where work tasks keep everyone’s schedules from lining up. You know from the morning briefing that Alex and Graves will be busy until well into the evening working on celestial navigation and dead reckoning.

He looks up from where he stands hunched over the steel tray of food in front of him, a mix of rehydrated rajma, rice, and raita, and waves his fork in a silent greeting.

“Is that what’s on the menu tonight?” you ask.

The big man nods, pointing towards the pantry with his fork. “New week. No more Hamburger Helper,” he says with no small amount of derision towards the aforementioned meal.

You smile. “Looks good.”

Though the new ownership thankfully didn’t skimp on food rations, most of the crew’s daily meals were determined months ago, long before the ship’s departure back on Earth. There’s a laminated week by week menu tucked away at the back of the pantry listing each day’s repast from departure until arrival, but you haven’t given it so much as a glance since you boarded. Better to have something to look forward to every day.

The food packet from the pantry goes into the rehydrator for the requisite amount of time and then into the crisper to add the texture back to it. Space food is never quite as satisfying as the food back on Earth, but you’ve grown fond of it in recent years, even enough to crave it back home. No matter the dish, you can always taste the faint peppery, slightly bitter undertaste, like fresh watercress.

You’d been planning on eating by yourself back in your quarters or at a table in the mess, but you feel weird just leaving Nikolai to his own devices after exchanging a few pleasant words, so you join him at the island counter.

“Did you have a lot on your plate today?”

“My plate?” Nikolai asks, looking down at his food. “Нет, not so much—I had big lunch at around four o’clock.”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile. “No, I meant, did you have a lot of work?”

“Ah, why didn’t you just say that? Yes, lots done today, lots more to do tomorrow. Farah and I are still working on finding the root cause for the issue with the cruise control.”

“It’s a tricky fix?”

“Yes. Complex,” he grunts, talking around the food in his mouth. After weeks of eating with him and longer working around cut open bodies and exposed organs, you’ve long learned to suppress any sign of disgust on your face. “The pilot augmentation system isn’t controlled by this ship’s AI, so it’s not an easy software fix. We thought it was component degradation from the asteroid the other day at first, but Farah had a look at it today and all seems good, so not so sure now. Maybe gyroscope malfunction. Maybe GPS receiver is having issues. Hard to say. Lots of work still to do.”

You nod as if you understand. Most of it goes over your head apart from the obvious frustration in his voice.

“Would be easier problem to fix if we had specialist, but—” Nikolai shrugs, a rueful look on his face “—little budget, small crew. Better we have doctor for wrist sprain than specialist to fix pilot augmentation system.”

Though his tone isn’t necessarily bitter, you can’t help but prickle at the light sarcasm. Your impulse is to go on the defense. It isn’t your fault medics are mandatory. Certainly not your fault that the original twelve crew member allowance was slashed to only six.

“Farah and you make a good team,” you say instead, ever the diplomat. Magnanimous despite the way your teeth ache in your gums.

“Smart girl, that one. Would clone her if I could.”

His praise makes you look away only because you wish it could be aimed at you. You crave it these days. Not necessarily from Nikolai, but from anyone. The downside of these longhaul missions is that you go months without interacting with family or friends; it’s why space crews bond so strongly with one another, the only reprieve from the claustrophobic sense of isolation out in space. It’s also why you’ve felt as lonely as you have these past few months, emotionally out of sync with this crew.

“Let me know if there’s any way I can out,” you offer as he finishes up the last of his supper, putting his tray away into the dishwasher.

Nikolai nods. Hums. “Could do with another pair of hands.”

You smile, relieved.

He starts heading towards the door, throwing a hand up behind him to wave goodbye. “Will let you know when I find some way you can be useful.”

The smile slips off your face. The doors slide shut behind him, silence filling the room.

You don’t have it in you to eat much more. Most of your meal goes straight into the compost, along with the empty packet, and then you leave the galley as well. The last couple of hours of your day are spent sitting aimlessly at your desk in the medical unit until it’s time to head back to your quarters to shower and sleep.

And then to bed you go.

In the middle of the night—though the meaning of ‘night’ seems boundless out in space, like a word without a cognate—a deep sense of unease throbs in your chest.

Sleep sloughs off you gradually and then all at once. One minute you’re twisting in the web of a nightmare and the next, your eyes are open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

You sit up in bed with the dull ache in your chest growing worse. The duvet slips off you and piles around your waist, the sheets under you damp with sweat. It hurts like heartburn.

It’s too early for breakfast and you don’t have to pee. You’re not entirely sure what woke you up actually, your last dream already fading away, the threads of it unraveling when you reach out to try and pull it back in. It’s too far away to recall any of it. Propping yourself up on one arm, you twist to the side, hoping to let the sight of the stars guide you back to sleep.

Out of your window, like a lone buoy in the middle of the ocean, an astronaut floats in the middle of space.

For a moment, it doesn’t register. Likely just a dream that you haven’t woken up from yet. It’s remarkably vivid for a dream though. Your room is a cool dark blue, the band of dim artificial lights encircling the window beside your cot giving your quarters the distinct feel of a night back home on Earth. It’s only when you pinch your bare thigh and wince from the sharp, accompanying sting that you grasp that you’re awake.

You are awake and there is a man floating away from the ship.

The light from the ship glints off his suit, illuminating the shape of him. You stare out at him with increasing concern and dread. Not consciously grasping the gravity of the situation, but aware that you need to do something. He’s farther away this time, so distant that though his white spacesuit is stark against the dark field behind him, the visor of his helmet is impenetrable. Dark as obsidian.

He drifts aimlessly in space, his body so still that you wonder if he’s even alive. With a jolt, you wonder if, in your haste to find help the other day, he did run out of oxygen and simply floated away. Occam's razor. You did not imagine a man speaking to you from outside the ship only for him to vanish from existence; he simply passed out while you were gone and drifted off before you could save him.

“Oh shit,” you hiss, scrambling out of bed, nearly getting tangled in your sheets on the way out. You don’t even bother changing into more appropriate clothes, slamming the button to your door and squeezing through the gap between the door and the wall as soon as it opens for you.

The corridor outside your room runs from stern to bridge, and is dimly lit at this time of night. The ship oscillates through Earth-tethered day and night cycles, the lights only at their brightest at a certain point aligning with morning back on Earth to simulate the distant sun. A slight chill to the air as well, to mirror night. Artificial photic and nonphotic zeitgebers to ensure the body maintains its circadian rhythm. Necessary to prevent sleep deprivation and keep the crew from going mad.

Now though, it makes you feel prey-like. Small. Darting from your room to the cockpit like a mouse scurrying across the savanna under the cloak of darkness and moonlight.

Your bare feet smack against the metal floor as you run, the sound following you down the main corridor towards the cockpit. You pass another porthole but don’t bother glancing out of it, too intent on reaching the main viewing deck. You’ve got to—

Get the body help him save him I’m so sorry I left you out there—

Alex and Graves’s heads snap up as you barge into the cockpit panting and drenched in sweat. You don’t bother to explain yourself, heading straight for the flight deck window instead and leaning over the dashboard. The edge of the panel digs into your pelvis as you lean into the window.

You crane your neck to look left and right, scanning as far as your eye can see. The astronaut you saw off in the distance from your bedroom window is gone. Only stars and dust shine from lightyears away.

It doesn’t make sense. You saw him with your own two eyes drifting out there. You couldn’t have mistook him for anything else—not with the shape of his body, the helmet obelisk black. But there’s nothing out there. Nothing at all.

“Doctor?” Alex asks tentatively from behind you, standing up from his chair.

When you glance over your shoulder at him, wide-eyed, reality finally begins to seep back into you. The two of them stare at you from the other side of the cockpit, their concern and wariness evident in the tension in their shoulders.

“Um—sorry. I…”

You don’t really know what to say. There’s no excuse that seems appropriate, no way of explaining the state of you, panicked and out of breath. For all intents and purposes, it’s the middle of the night. No reason for you to be out of your quarters and so disheveled. Panting like something chased you out of bed.

You wonder what they would see if they cut you open; if they’d find your intercostal muscles bruised from the heavy beat of your heart.

“Somethin’ you wanna share with us, doctor?” Graves asks. His tone is far less charitable, verging on suspicious.

You swallow on a dry throat. “No, I’m—…it was nothing. I just…I had a bad dream.”

From the way they look at you, you can tell that neither of them believe you. It's flimsy, as far as excuses go. But there’s little else they can do but take you at your word. The rules are different out here, more tolerated than back on Earth. Everyone goes a little stir crazy; you just have to know how to manage it.

“I should go back to my room,” you whisper when neither says anything.

You move towards the door on cautious feet, suddenly aware of how cold it is in the cockpit. Goosebumps ripple down your arms and legs, nipples beading under your shirt. Alex politely averts his eyes when he notices. If you were less distressed, you’d be humiliated.

“Get some sleep,” Graves says, eyes following you until the doors close behind you.

You walk back to your quarters slowly, pausing to glance out one of the portholes just to confirm that you haven’t made a huge mistake.

A minute or an hour goes by. You see nothing out in the distance.

Back in your room, you shut off the automatic light that comes on when you enter and collapse into bed. You avoid looking out the window for your own sanity, instead turning over onto your side. Wide awake now. Nothing to do but wait for sleep to sneak up on you again, if you haven’t scared it off entirely. All you can do is think about the look on Alex and Graves’ faces and cringe, pulling the blanket up over your head.

Sleep almost finds you again when something knocks twice on the wall beside your head.

Your breath catches in your throat. Fear scuttles across the floor beneath your bed. Just don’t look. Don’t look at it. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for it to go away.

Whatever it is knocks again. The window this time.

It takes an age to work up the nerve to roll back over. When you look up at the window, a face stares back at you, so close now that you can make out dimples and thick lips turned up at the corners. A close-shaved beard.

He smiles down at you, heedless of the horrified look on your face. “Hello again, love. Care to let me in now?”

#ceil writing #cod x reader #gaz x reader #gaz x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

Note

hi hi! i was hoping you could write a katsuki bakugo x autistic!reader who struggles with ARFID/sensory issues when it comes to food and eating? thank you very much!

Taste and Patience

You sit on the edge of the couch, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt, watching the microwave tick down the last fifteen seconds on a plate of plain white rice. That’s all you can stomach tonight. Again. Just rice.

It’s not even the warm, buttery kind that smells like something you’d imagine a comforting hug would taste like. No. It’s dry. No seasoning. No sauce. It smells like almost nothing. But at least it’s safe.

You hear the front door open, heavy boots clunking on the floor. Katsuki’s home.

“Oi,” he calls from the hallway, dropping his keys into the tray on the entry table like always. “You eat yet?”

You flinch. You don’t want to lie. But you’re not sure you can handle another conversation about this.

“Sort of,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sort of?” he appears in the doorway, frowning. His eyes flick to the microwave as it beeps, then to the bowl in your hands as you pull it out. “Rice again?”

“Yeah,” you say, focusing way too hard on the way the steam curls from the bowl.

Katsuki walks closer, scratching the back of his neck. His voice softens. “You eat anything else today?”

You shake your head. “I tried. I—I made some toast but it was… it got weird in my mouth. Too scratchy.”

He squats down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “Did you spit it out?”

You nod, shame crawling up the back of your neck like it always does when this happens. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to eat like a normal—”

“Hey.” His voice is firm. Not angry, but grounding. “Don’t talk like that.”

You blink at him. Your throat feels tight.

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your knees a little. “There’s not a single damn thing wrong with you just ‘cause food feels like hell sometimes. You’re trying, right?”

You nod.

“That’s all I give a shit about. Okay?”

You look down at the bowl. “I hate that I’m like this. I wish I could just… eat whatever like everyone else does. Go out and not panic because the menu has too many things I don’t recognize. Not gag when something has the wrong texture.”

Bakugo doesn’t interrupt. He never does when you get like this—when the words come all messy and hard and your chest feels like it might collapse from how small you feel.

“I get so hungry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But the thought of putting anything new in my mouth just makes me want to cry. Or puke. Sometimes both.”

He moves up onto the couch beside you, pulling you gently into his side. “You ever think I don’t get it?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him. “I mean… you don’t, though. You eat literally everything.”

He chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. “Yeah, but I’ve got shit I deal with too. Not the same, but I know what it’s like for your body to fight you. Or your brain. Or both.”

You stare at the rice in your bowl. It’s already cooling. You kind of don’t want it anymore.

“Wanna heat it back up?” he asks, noticing.

You shrug.

“Wanna put it away and just hang with me for a bit?”

You nod.

He takes the bowl from your hands without a word and slides it into the fridge. Then he comes back, sits beside you again, and puts his arm around your shoulder. You melt into him like you always do. Like his warmth is the one kind you can handle without flinching.

“You ever want help trying something new,” he murmurs after a few minutes, “we can do it together. You pick what it is. We can go slow. No pressure. And if you spit it out or can’t eat it, who gives a shit?”

“But what if I waste food?” you ask, voice small.

“I’ll eat it,” he smirks. “You know I’m a bottomless pit.”

You laugh weakly. “You are. You’re basically a black hole.”

“Damn right.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s steady. It always is.

“Hey, remember that plain udon we tried last month?” he says. “You liked that, right?”

“Yeah… the noodles were soft. Not slimy. And the broth was okay. Just mild enough.”

“We could try that again. Or I can make it at home, make it blander if you want.”

“Would you really do that?”

Bakugo snorts. “You think I wouldn’t fight god himself to make sure you eat something that doesn’t make you wanna scream?”

You smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “You’re kinda dramatic.”

“Damn right I am. You love that about me.”

You poke his side, and he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Thanks for not getting mad about it,” you say quietly.

“Why the hell would I get mad?”

“People do,” you mutter. “They think I’m being difficult. Or picky. Or manipulative.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” he says. “You’re not being anything but honest. And I’d rather you be honest than force yourself to eat something that makes you feel sick.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then—

“Maybe tomorrow we could try something. Just a little. One bite.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Maybe. If you make it.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll make it. I’ll make three versions so you can pick the one that feels right. I’ll even name ‘em something dumb like ‘Option A: Gentle as Hell’ or ‘Option C: You’re Gonna Hate It But I Made It Anyway.’”

You laugh again, genuinely this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I do.”

He holds you a little tighter. “And I love you. All of you. Even the parts that are picky, and sensitive, and terrified of toast.”

You snort. “I am terrified of toast.”

“And that’s valid.”

You rest there with him in silence for a while, the rice forgotten. The hunger still there, but not unbearable. Not when you feel this safe. Not when Katsuki’s beside you, promising that tomorrow—or next week, or next month—you can try again.

And you believe him. Because with him, you always feel brave enough to try.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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jo-com · 1 year ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ➛ Mine

Charles Leclerc x fem!reader

Summary: He's yours, and you're his. That's how it should be.

Tw: DARK, implied smut, obsession, manipulation, possessive behavior, branding, angst, jealous charles, some grammatical error, not proofread, google translated french cause i can't speak french and sorry if i wrote it wrong i just started writing again so idk if this is good or not.

words: 1.1k

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist (Part 2)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ───

From the start, Charles was nothing more than amazing—he would give you endless adoration and assurance, and overall was the perfect boyfriend. He would worship you like you were some kind of goddess—well, in his eyes, you were.

But Over time, his once pure love became a crazy obsession.

The need to always be by your side and not let any other guys come closer to you, talk to you, or even breathe the same air as you intoxicated his mind and clouded his judgment.

And you start to see changes that would never occur in the past—changes that weren't good. Like that time when you and Carlos were just casually talking and catching up—that sight alone was enough to make his once-puppy dog eyes become piercing ones. Burning a hole in both the backs of your heads, from across the room you could see how tensed he was, his jaws clenched and his hands gripped the seat making the texture of the seat all crinkly.

At that time you only shook it off as a "concerned gesture" and never said anything about it to him.

But then it was constantly happening; he would always get riled up whenever someone would just approach you, whether it was a girl, boy, kid, or even animals; he was getting jealous over almost everything.

You started to worry that things would get even more complicated as they continued. So you stood your ground and got up the courage to voice your concern to him.

...

"Charlie?" you said softly, entering the room, where he was reading. Your eyes scanned around the room then stopped when you spotted his figure.

There he was, sitting by the fireside with a book in his right hand and the other resting on the armrest. He looked like one of those guys that were sculptured to perfection, but you knew that, underneath that godlike demeanor was one possessive beast that was hard to tame.

Hearing your voice, Charles looked up from your direction and immediately lit up. "Oui? Mon chéri," he responded with his thick French accent.

You smiled half-heartedly and slowly walked to where he sat. From your action, he could tell that something was bothering you.

His face scrunched up with a frown as he stared intently at you as you sat down on one of the armrests.

"Is there something bothering you, Mon cœur?" he asked, lowering down the book he was reading and then slowly snaked up his free hand to rest on your waist.

You let out a deep sigh before answering, "You'll tell me when something's up right?"

He didn’t answer but just tilted his head and stared at you blankly. At that moment there were many questions running through his mind, but one particular thought stood out: Why would you ask something out of the blue when everything has been perfect? not unless someone put thoughts into that pretty little naive head of yours.

He let out a low chuckle—the grip on your waist tightened as he sucked out a breath—your eyes met his. Seeing the lack of emotion as he stared back at you, sent shivers down your spine, and what scared you even more was when he gave you a calm but menacing smile.

"What makes you think that there's a problem sweetheart?"

You bit your lower lip, holding back the urge to just blurt out your thoughts.

That small gesture was not left unnoticed by Charles. He raised his other hand and touched your lower lip, softly grazing his thumb to where you sunk your teeth. "You know you can tell me anything, right? Mon cœur? he assured.

His expression didn't change; the loving eyes that you once knew were now an emotionless void. With that look, you knew he was getting impatient the longer you stayed silent.

Breaking the silence, you slowly nodded your head and smiled lightly. "Yeah, I know baby, it’s just that you’ve been off lately and you get so riled up easily, mon amour—I know that you mean no harm, but it’s just too much and i-"

“Do you think I like being that way? ”Charles cuts you off.

He gazed at you—eyes filled with rage from what you just said. You squeaked at his burning glare and were quick to look away. The hand that used to rest in your waist was now at the bridge of his nose, pinching it with frustration.

"You know i wouldn't be that way if not for you, y/n. I am just keeping you safe from all those disgusting men at the paddock, tu ne sais pas de quoi ils sont capables y/n (you don't know what they are capable of)."

You kept your head down and stayed quiet, not wanting to say anything further that might ignite more of his anger.

Charles stared at your weak state and sighed heavily.

He stood up, standing in front of you. His hands are cupping both your cheeks, forcing you to stare at him. Charles rubbed your rosy cheeks soothingly, making you lean in on his touch.

"Everything I do is for you, mon chéri, okay?"

You looked at him through your eyelashes and smiled. Charles just wants you to be safe and there's nothing wrong with it, maybe your just overthinking it?.

Charles smiled and kissed your temple; hugging you close to him as if you'd leave once he let's go.

Only a fool would believe that Charles's "just wants you to be safe".

Y/n was a fool

...

Your body jolted at the sensation, your hand moving to your mouth as you bit down the urge to moan out loud.

The two of you were inside a closet room in the pit. Charles decided to pull this stunt the moment he laid eyes on you and Max talking. Like usual, he got riled up and dragged you somewhere secluded to "teach you a lesson".

Tears swell up your eyes, making your vision go blurry. Your other hand was pushing his head away and attempting to stop him from diving into your cunt and eating it like there was no tomorrow.

"Stop," Charles hissed, grabbing both your wrist and pinning it above your head—restricting your movements.

"What did i tell you about talking to others?"

You gulped down the lump in your throat and shook your head. "I am sorry, mon amour" your eyes pleading for him to stop.

Charles scoffed, gripping your jaw tightly. "espèce de salope (you slut), you just want everyone's attention, don't you?"

"Charlie, no, it's not like that," you begged, your voice shaking as his grip on your jaw tightened.

"Oh, I'll give you attention alright, Chienne (bitch)," he cussed, his accent making his aura more frightening.

...

You lay emotionless on the table, tears falling down your face—your clothes on the ground, your hair a mess, and your body filled with his markings.

In the corner of the room, Charles was fixing his clothes. Acting as if nothing had happened.

He then went over to you and pulled your body towards him, crassing your hair and kissing your temple. "Je t'aime tellement mon amour."

...

Should i make a part 2?? Btw hope you like this idk if i did it okay i just wanted to write again and like always my request are open!!

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chloeangelbaby · 8 months ago

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Too much

Crybaby! Reader x rafe Cameron

————————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊———————————

The day started rough, and it didn’t get better from there.

Reader shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her little pink dress feeling scratchy against her skin. She had loved it when she tried it on last night—soft, pastel perfection. But today, it felt all wrong, like it was suffocating her.

Across the table, Rafe was talking to Topper and Kelce, the brunch spot bustling with clinking glasses and loud chatter. Reader’s shoulders were hunched as she pushed her waffle around her plate, her appetite gone.

“Dolly, you okay?” Rafe asked, turning his attention to her.

She nodded quickly, pasting on a smile. “Yeah, just… just tired.”

He frowned, but she looked away before he could press further. She didn’t want to tell him that the clamor of the restaurant felt like it was vibrating inside her skull, or that the seams of her dress were itching her skin raw, or that his chewing—even though it wasn’t loud—felt like nails on a chalkboard.

“You sure?” he asked again, his voice softer this time.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, her voice a little too sharp. She regretted it immediately when his brows furrowed, but before he could respond, someone else at the table cracked a joke, pulling his attention back to the group.

————————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊———————————

By the time their food arrived, things had only gotten worse. Everyone was talking over each other, the noise reaching a deafening pitch in her head. Every sound grated on her nerves—the scrape of forks on plates, Topper’s laugh, the clink of a glass being set down.

She tried to eat, but the syrup was too sweet, the waffle too dense, the texture making her stomach churn. She pushed the plate away, her hands clenching in her lap.

“Dolly,” Rafe’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, her throat tightening as her vision blurred.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

“Nothing,” she choked out, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. But the effort only made her feel worse, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I—I wanna go home.”

Her voice cracked, and the entire table went silent. She could feel everyone staring at her, and the lump in her throat grew bigger.

“Alright,” Rafe said quickly, standing and tossing a few bills onto the table. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to the group as he helped her out of her chair, his hand resting protectively on her back as they weaved through the crowded restaurant.

————————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊———————————

As soon as they got to the car, the tears started. She climbed into the passenger seat and curled up, hiding her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered as Rafe slid into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t be,” he said, reaching over to brush a tear off her cheek. “What’s going on, baby?”

“It’s just—it’s too loud, and my dress feels gross, and everything’s itchy, and you were chewing so loud—”

“Me?” he cut in, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

She groaned, covering her face again. “I know you weren’t! It’s just—ugh!” She let out a frustrated sob, her shoulders shaking. “I don’t know why everything feels so… so much today!”

Rafe reached over, pulling her hands away from her face. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said softly. “You’re just overwhelmed, Dolly. It happens.”

“I feel like a baby,” she sniffled, her lip trembling.

“Well, you are my baby,” he teased gently, earning a watery laugh from her.

“You’re so annoying,” she muttered, wiping at her face.

“Yeah, but you love me,” he said, leaning over to kiss her temple.

“I do,” she whispered, her voice small but sincere.

He pulled back with a smile. “Alright, let’s get you home. We’ll throw on something comfy, put on a movie, and just chill. How’s that sound?”

She nodded, sniffling again as he started the car.

And for the first time all day, the world felt just a little quieter.

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softlypaintedseafoam · 6 months ago

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the summer moon was born from the waves to be loved

synopsis. you get pregnant and the ghost of university days past finds out five years later.

pairing. gojou satoru x f!reader (afab)

word count. 10.2k | masterlist

content warning. 18+ (mentions of sex but nothing explicit), college au (no powers), friends with benefits, pregnancy, hidden child trope, onesided feelings (unreliable narrator), use of y/n

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

a repost of an old favorite two-part story of mine. this story originally came about as a what if discussion concerning characters from jjk to tokrev to even bllk and the gojou idea was the most inspiring so i really ran with it. pt 2 will be posted later this week. this is filler while i work on my current wips

o. ghost

This felt like something out of a bad movie.

One of those “yeah, that’s me. The one looking like she just shit herself because the ghost of Christmas past just showed up” kinds of movies. The ghost of Christmas past whom you haven’t seen in the last five years.

The ghost of Christmas past that your daughter looks at curiously, wondering who put you in such a stupor as she asks sweetly, “who’s he, Mommy?”

The ghost of Christmas past whose face is unreadable as he looks at Itsuki before he settles his gaze on you. “Yeah, [First],” the ghost asks. “Who am I?”

Where did I go wrong?

A rhetorical question.

A lot in life has to go wrong for a man you thought you left in your memories to show up at your doorstep but you can pinpoint the exact moment in time in which you screwed up. It’s all because you sat next to Ieiri Shoko in your mandatory calculus class. If it weren’t for that, none of this would be happening.

No, that isn’t it. Your gaze turns to Itsuki, who looks back at you with familiar light blue eyes and white hair. She may have gotten the Gojou Satoru eye and hair colors, but her hair texture and skin tone both pointed to you. If I sat anywhere else she wouldn’t be here. And even if you knew that sitting next to Shoko meant meeting the world’s most aggravating man you could have fallen for, you feel like you would have taken that path once again.

No, sitting next to Shoko wasn’t where you messed up all those years agoー it was telling her you were pregnant in the first place.

i. spring tide

When you met Gojou Satoru, you considered it a godsend.

Not because his eyes were a rare shade of blue that most would kill to have. Not because he was drop dead gorgeous and the last person you were expecting to see when your classmate Shoko invited you to eat lunch with her and a couple friends.

The reason was a lot more simple thatー he was the first person you’d met in years that had watched and liked Digimon more than Pokemon. I am so glad I sat next to that Shoko girl, you thought in gleeful disbelief as he told you his personal favorites before flipping the question onto you. “I’m basic,” you told him with a laugh. “I’ve been riding the wave of Gatomon love since I was 7.”

Getou Suguru, Satoru’s childhood best friend from what you’d gathered, groaned, “please don’t make him continue with your excitement.”

“Ignore him,” Satoru pushed Suguru’s face away with all the nonchalance in the world. “He thinks Digimon is stupid.”

“It’s a Pokemon bootleg!” Suguru shot back with a sly smile.

In unison, you and Satoru gasped in disbelief and offense. “Boy bye! You can talk all the shit you want about Digimon, I can rest every night at ease knowing if my house were on fire Agumon would be able to say ‘[First], your house is on fire’,” you sneered in jest at the man, Satoru clapping in agreement all the while at your defense. “You don’t get that kind of insurance with Pikachu! ‘Pika pika’ could mean so many things!”

“Where have you been all my life?” Satoru snickered, holding his hand out for a high five you reciprocated with complete enthusiasm.

“Watching Digimon by myself,” you laughed, whipping out your phone. You needed this man’s number stat. “The next time I have a Digimon rewatch, I’m inviting you over. Like, you don’t have the option to refuse, you’ve doomed yourself.”

Satoru’s eyes were gleaming from his lowered shades, “funny, I was about to say the exact same thing to you,” he glanced over at Suguru with a teasing look. “Friendship ended with Suguru, [First] is my new best friend,” the white-haired student declared as he typed his number into your phone.

He labeled himself Digidestined Satoru, sending a text to himself: This is coming from the phone of Digidestined [First]. Your cheeks hurt from how widely you were grinning as you looked at the message. “That better be what you put me in your phone.”

“Definitely, new best friend,” Satoru promised, whipping his own phone around to show your new contact in it. Digidestined [First] it was.

Despite the apparent disownership, Suguru looked amused and unbothered, “okay but see if your ex-best friend takes notes for you if you ever take off from class.” Suddenly your new brother-in-Digimon was singing a different tune, waxing poetic about how Digimon and Pokemon were brothers from different mothers. You rolled your eyes but you’re unmistakably giddy as you watched him talk with his hands.

“There doesn’t need to bad blood between the two,” Satoru ended with a grand bow. “As such, I declare that I can have more than one best friend.”

“How did we even get on the topic of Digimon,” Shoko asked with an amused look on her face, cracking open another beer. “That was so random.”

You grabbed your own beer with a light giggle, you felt rather light compared to how you started this day. “His sunglasses had a Metal Greymon-like pattern and I had to say something about it,” you say after a few sips. “Glad I did because now I have a new brother-in-Digimon.”

Blue eyes held your gaze for a moment and you clacked your cans together in celebration.

That was how your friendship started. Clothed in beer and Digimon. It took about a week before he swept over to your place, seeking out the promise to watch Digimon together. If you can really call what you did watching, you spent more than half of the time talking over the episodes about miscellaneous topics than actually watching Tai and the gang try to get back to the physical world.

He’d known Suguru since he was 5.

(“We got into a fight on the playground. I wanted the swing and he wouldn’t get off. So I kicked him and he threw sand at my face, we’ve been buddies ever since.”

“I have a lot of questions about how y’all went from trying to kill each other to being best friends.”

“Look, don’t question our methods.”)

He was a December Sagittarius, born December 7th.

(”Yeah, I can tell!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”)

He apparently started eating sweets to stimulate his brain but ended up with a sweet tooth.

(“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, did you get that shit from Death Note?!”

“…. no.”

“Oh my god, you did!”

“You literally got a tattoo of a butterfly because of a crush you had on Jolyne from Part 6, shut up!”

“Satoru, don’t play these games with me.”)

He sounded eerily similar to Bruno Bucciarati from part 5 of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure.

(”Arrivederci!”

“Oh my god that’s insane! You do! Say something else!”

“STICKY FINGERS!!!”

“PFFT-”

“See? I could totally get away with saying I voiced him and no one would bat an eyelash.”

“Who else do you sound like?”

“I’ve been told I make a great impression of Kuroo from Haikyuu!!”

He did, by the way.)

And he was currently enrolled as a business major.

(“My old man wouldn’t get off my back about it. You?”

“Marine biology.”

“We have that program here?”)

He had a natural charisma that just drew people in, yourself included. That’s why you think it was so easy being with him, he made it feel like you’d been friends all your life even if reality said otherwise. He made everyone feel like that, that’s why he’d always be surrounded by people.

Still, he’d find a way to make you feel special when his eyes would light up in recognition when he saw you wave across the room at parties.

How he’d jig across the room with those lanky limbs of his to grab you in a hug. “[First], you finally made it! Thanks for coming out of the bat cave you call a room to grace us with your presence!”

It made you feel special that you were friends with the person adored by everyone else. That’s why you could playfully push him off of you and say, “you mean the bat cave you crawl to when you lock yourself out of your room and Suguru isn’t in either?”

“I’m hurt, why are you being mean to me?” Satoru pouted batting his white eyelashes like a distressed damsel. “Don’t you know who you’re being mean to when you’re being an ass? This, this is who you’re being mean to,” he gestured to himself.

“Last week you ate my fries after I specifically said not to touch them because I counted how many I had left, I know exactly who I’m being mean to.”

“How was I supposed to know you’d count them again whenever you decided to eat them?” Your irritation from last week had long since passed though, that was why you could laugh it off with a shake of your head. Satoru was Satoru, it was what you liked most about him even if he could be a pain in the ass.

Suguru’s brown eyes twinkled as you joined the small fray of him, Shoko and Utahime in a corner of the room, “I’m just glad I’m not the only one dealing with him anymore.” Satoru suck his tongue out with a ‘rude’.

“Someone has to do the dirty work,” Shoko replied as she raised a cigarette to her lips. “it might as well be us.”

Utahime smacked the tobacco stick out of her girlfriend’s hands as she said, “I’d rather not be included in the list of people of doing the dirty work.”

“Et tu, [First], et tu?” Satoru asked when you made no effort to come to his defense.

You raised your hands in mock defense, “I have to be a little mean to you sometimes, Satoru,” you told him with a snicker. “It keeps you from getting too big an ego.”

Whether or not that was working was debatable.

The night went on smoothly until your favorite brand of beer had been noticeably picked off from the coolers.

That’s my cue to leave.

“Sorry gang, but my lips don’t touch anything but Don Equis and Asahi,” you said with an air of regality not suited for a party of college students. “Maybe Corona if there’s nothing else. I’m not drinking… whatever this is. So I’m gonna head out, there’s a 24 hour liquor store around here somewhere.”

A chorus of farewells came from your friends minus one. “You coming back?” Satoru looked over at you in earnest.

But you shook your head, “nah, I think I’m done for the night,” you told him truthfully. Your social battery was gone for the rest of the evening and home was the only place you wanted to be. “I’ll catch you guys later though,” you stood up with a stretch.

Satoru stood up with you, “I’ll walk you back to your place then.”

Which was how you ended up sipping beers at the park, laying on soft grass. It wasn’t truly quiet, not with the passing of cars and the occasional passersby but it was quiet enough compared to the welcomed ruckus of the party. “Satoru,” Satoru hummed wordlessly in acknowledgement. “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

“Dunno,” Satoru shrugged back pressed against the earth snuggly. “I never really got to think about it.”

He was an only child and as such the only one his parents’ turned their gaze to with pressure of taking over the family business. He confided in you ages ago how he hated it when you started seeing more sides of Satoru than the mischief-loving comedian he presented himself as.

You scooted closer to him to lean over his head, “well I think whatever you end up doing, even if it ends up really pissing off your dad, you’ll be great at it. You’re Satoru, that’s how I know you’ll be fine,” your voice held the tone of a promise. I promise you’ll be fine and you’ll be happy.

Thanks, [First]. You liked to think that was what that look on Satoru’s face meant. “I think you’ll make a great part-time aquarist, full-time whale researcher,” Satoru replied instead.

“You’re damn right I will,” you smiled warmly at him, moving a stray strand of his hair off his forehead. “Be careful I don’t disappear for months, spirited away by the sea folk on my Children of the Sea shit.” You took his sunglasses off, you had no clue how he was able to wear them 24/7. Even stranger was how he was still able to walk so easily at night despite having them on. Apparently the Gojou eye genes were built different; the colors of his eyes certainly were. “I’ll come back to shore occasionally, mysterious as the sea itself.” The sea you got to see every time you looked at his eyes, even if now they were barely visible even with the street lights.

Satoru looked back at you with a small smirk, “even if you got spirited away, I’d just go and bring you right back. Suguru’ll kill me if I try and make him watch Digimon Tamers with me again. You said it first, remember?” His voice was low as he recalled your exact words from your first meeting. “You’ve doomed yourself. There’s no ditching me now, not even at sea.”

“I did say something like that, didn’t I,” you smiled wryly.

He didn’t say anything back, but you could guess that he was likely thinking something along the lines ‘yep, that you did. No take backsies.’ A comfortable silence fell between the two of you, his eyes staring up at yours. It’s then you swore you saw him glance at your lips from where he laid and just when you considered the idea of kissing himー the sprinklers turned on.

Even worse, in your surprise his head clashed into yours as he tried getting up with a start.

Then there was a dash of bullshit on the side when your beers spilled over into the grass.

Great, you thought as Satoru tossed your emptied cans into a nearby trash can after you got out of the line of fire. You shook your arms, droplets of water flying off your soaked sleeves.

You should have taken that as a major sign from the universe that you would be making a mistake of gargantuan proportions if you kissed that man.

Instead, the two of you looked at each other and laughed. “God I hate this park, why do we even come here? Nothing good ever happens when we do,” Satoru said with a shake of his damp hair.

“This is the first time we’ve ever even come here,” you snickered.

“And see what a great start we’re already having with it?”

“Come on,” you tugged him by the wrist. “Let’s just change at my place, you have some clothes somewhere over there.”

A smarter person would have left it at that once you got home and showered, placing your clothes in the wash. It could have been a pleasant end to the evening, the two of you crashing on the couch while watching some dumb movie you never heard of on Netflix.

But the same atmosphere from the park came back with you when he came out of the bathroom at the same time you planned to knock on it to ask if he wanted something warm to drink. “Oh, sorry-” you say when your fist lightly landed on his chest instead of the door. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted tea or something. I bought your favorite brand of honey.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” he answered but you made no move to go to the kitchen and he made no move to ask when you would.

Who kissed who first, you weren’t sure. It didn’t really hit you that you were kissing until Satoru tore his lips from yours with a pant, “hey how drunk are you because I really just wanna make sure-”

“I’m not,” you pulled his lips back onto yours and Satoru hadn’t wasted time in hoisting you up by the legs.

ii. neap tide

When does one stop sleeping with their friend? You suppose it is probably when you realize you have feelings for them.

You didn’t do that.

If it had been anyone else doing this to themselves, you would have told them to cut the cord while the feelings were still manageable.

Or maybe you at least tell the other party how they felt.

You didn’t do that either.

Maybe that was why it was all catching up to you one day when you woke up feeling like crap. The physical manifestation of your stress coming back to bite you in the ass. Right before the trip you were planning on taking with your friends, you started feeling like crap only exacerbated when Satoru was in your presence.

But you still went despite your physically manifested stress because you’re a pushover. Or more specifically, if it involved Satoru, you folded faster than Sunday morning laundry. You had to when he looked at you in concerned disbelief you were trying to drop out of your plans last minute.

“Satoru, it isn’t the end of the world if I stay home. It’s just a week long break.”

“A week long break from your friends? From me? Your best friend?”

You struggled not to laugh, “last week you said I was kicked from that position because I watched one episode of Love is Blind without you.”

Satoru scowled at the memory, “because that’s our show, we started that together, there’s no watching ahead,” he reprimanded you. “And clearly I’ve forgiven you since you’re back in that position because I can’t believe you’re trying to leave me to survive with a couple and Suguru for a week!”

You puckered your lips and shrugged, “if it’s any consolation, Suguru is your boyfriend like 95% of the time.”

“Well right now Suguru is that asshole Kenjaku’s boyfriend and Kenjaku is supposed to be coming and I do not want to fourth wheel that by myself.”

You flicked his nose softly, “so you want me to third party fourth wheel with you so you don’t have to be alone with two couples?”

Satoru grinned and you stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. “Third party fourth wheel with benefits, yes.”

You stared at him for one, two, three seconds before you relented. “Look, I’m only going because I want the sex, not because I’m happily agreeing to fourth wheel with you.”

Satoru whooped regardless in his victory, “works for me!” He chortled as he went back to scrolling on his phone.

Silence fell over you as fiddled with your pointer finger and thumb.

“Hey,” Satoru spared a glance from whatever he was staring at on twitter. “What are we supposed to be?” Blue eyes grew to the size of saucers and you continued, “Classic no strings attached? Or is this supposed to be going somewhere?”

That made him set down his phone, “why,” he licked his lips before grinning, but it looked forced even to your eyes. “Why are you asking me that so randomly?”

You deserved an Oscar for how smoothly you delivered what came from your mouth. “Well what if the receptionist there is hot? I don’t need to make things between us awkward because it turned out we aren’t on the same page,” you thumbed behind you in the direction of the hotel. “‘What the hell, [First]’,” you deepened your voice, puckering your bottom lip as you whined. “‘I thought we had something special and you fucked the receptionist? What if they end up fucking with our reservation now?!’”

“First of all, that is not what I sound like,” Satoru stuck his tongue out at you but his shoulders were relaxed and subtle he tried to be, you could feel the relief rolling off of him in waves. “Second, fucking the receptionist does sound like a terrible idea because what if they do fuck our reservation because things go south? Just find someone at a club like the rest of us. But fucking someone else is a non-issue, get all the ass you want.”

“Well glad to know I have the Gojou Satoru thumb of approval,” you smiled and Satoru grinned in return, giving you a nudge with his elbow and you nudged him back. Underneath the calm, you were a storm of turbulent emotions. You weren’t surprised, your feelings had been confirmed. This wasn’t a Disney movie. You weren’t Tiana and he wasn’t Naveenー you weren’t going to turn this commitment-phobe into something he wasn’t. Yet the pain of the confirmation echoed in your chest. “Well, not when it comes to the receptionist.”

“Because no one fucks someone with the power of their reservation at their fingertips, that’s like,” Satoru searched his mind for the perfect example. “Handing over the poison to a chef and that chef was the person you were planning on poisoning.” So is continuing to sleep with someone who didn’t want the same things as you.

You couldn’t help laughing at your idiocy, relieved that Satoru took it as a humorous dig at his less than perfect metaphor. “I’m still fucking the receptionist if they’re hot.”

“I hope they’re married and old, how about that?”

“I’ve always liked them with a little salt and pepper. I fucked your prematurely whitening headass, didn’t I?”

“First of all, this is all natural-”

You’ve doomed yourself.

iii. red tide

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

Those are the five stages of grief. It was certainly the steps that you experienced when the fact your period was late hit you while you were floating when Utahime gasped about the sea turning red.

Red tide, it was the first you’d ever seen it. But that excitement or concern about the possibility of what that meant completely subsided as you stared at the reddening shoreline when you realized a noticeable absence of red that week.

There was no way you were late for any particular reason. This was one of those flukes, your period always had a tendency to be finicky. It would be early or late at its convenience, never mind you being the one suffering. That’s why it was absolutely ludicrous that you left the beach to buy a pregnancy test.

And if you were the word you refused to think, it was your own damn fault for playing with karma the one time you decide to trust Satoru’s pullout game. Both of you were stupid, very very turned on and stupid and you should have just waited to get a condom.

But in the chance you weren’t pregnant, you swore you were going to remain celibate the rest of your university experience. You’d focus on other things, like journaling consistently like you said you would when you were writing your New Year’s revolutions.

Bargaining means nothing to biology, however, that was what you took as the universe’s answers when you were forced to look at the positive result staring back at you.

A lot of thoughts would run through a person’s head at an unplanned pregnancy resulting from a very ill-advised friends with benefits relationship.

Were you still in depression? Or had you reached acceptance yet? You weren’t entirely sure as you stared out the sparkling sea. Your sight blurring the stars above and the stars below did little reassure you as the possibilities ran through your mind.

What would you tell Satoru?

How would he react?

Would he think this was why you asked him about where your relationship was supposed to be heading?

Would assume the worst of you and accuse you of trying to trap him into a relationship when it was clearly supposed to be no strings attached from the beginning?

You didn’t know which unknown would hurt you more.

I should really decide on whether or not I’ll keep it to begin with before I start with all the scenarios, you inhaled deeply with shudder but you didn’t bother to wipe your tears. The blurriness was your own punishment. If I don’t, I never have to tell him anything. We can just cut this off and he’ll be none the wiser.

It was the most optimal scenario when you were still in college. You were barely handling the fees you currently had to pay for school, a child definitely wouldn’t help with that.

Was it too late to find something unhealthy to use as a coping mechanism?

“Yo,” you could have laughed bitterly. Of course, this is when Satoru shows up now. Right after you’ve isolated yourself away from everyone else on the more populated part of the beach. He was grinning, you could hear it in his voice. “[Fir]- hey are you alright?”

Great.

“Yeah, it’s just, you ever see something so beautiful you want to cry? It’s one of those things,” when he looked unsure, you grinned widely and wiped your tears. You didn’t need him to suspect a damn thing. “Seriously, dude, this was the reason I wanted to go into marine biology as a kid. I saw a picture of it once and decided, I wanna see that too. It’s just a surreal moment for me.”

At your reassurance, Satoru sighed, “geez, don’t freak me out like that.” You snorted as he settled next to you and you couldn’t think of anything humorous to say.

“Pretty cool, right?” The blue of the bioluminescence was reminiscent of his eyes, the thought crossed your mind now that he was in front of you.

Satoru whistled, impressed, “yeah but what is it?” He slapped a foot down on the ground, whistling again at the additional sparkling at the stimulus. “You’re the marine biologist, explain the science to me.”

“Sea sparkle,” you told him with a snort, heart drumming all the while. “I never thought I’d see something like this in my life. Red tides are signs of algal blooms are going to happen. They can be harmful but sometimes, completely harmless. This is the completely harmless kind,” a sparkling wave rolled across your feet as if to prove your point. “Well, technically harmless, there’s some conflicting evidence on whether or not it’s okay to swim in. We shouldn’t touch or swim in it to be safe. It’s just been a childhood dream of mine to do this, so don’t tell my friends in the not-dumb-scientist community. And wash your skin really really well tonight before going to bed.”

A grin blossomed on his face in his usual expression of mischief, “I ain’t no snitch.”

“Good because if you do I’m telling Shoko it was you that ate her leftovers,” you stuck your tongue out petulantly and Satoru kicked a splash at your thigh.

“Anyways,” Satoru drawled, observing the glow of his footsteps in the sand. “How long will it last?”

“It depends, sometimes a week. Sometimes a month,” definitely longer than the two of you and the situationship you’ve maintained thus far. “Once the food source runs out, they’re out. But hopefully they’ll be here the rest of our vacation, it’s pretty cool, right?”

“Yep, pretty damn cool,” he repeated like you hadn’t already asked that question earlier.

Satoru wasn’t yours, nothing was going to change that.

iv. ebb

If I’m not going to tell him, I need to leave.

That was the conclusion you came to after ultimately deciding to keep your child. Gojou Satoru wasn’t yours to keep, that was more than apparent. You wouldn’t force him to stay by means of a pregnancy.

You weren’t the first single mother in existence, you doubted you’d be the last. You’d do everything, without his help. Everything would be figured out in due time, it didn’t matter the run around you would have to take.

It took a week after the trip for you to come to that conclusion, packing your bags so you could head home. You’d transfer to a different school, there was no way you’d be able to keep a pregnancy underwraps on campus. Especially not from your friends.

You tried to distance yourself from your friends slowly, but even an inch was noticeable.

You alright?

What kind of sadists are your professors if you’re this busy?

Just let me know if you need me to come over some kind of distraction. Sorry for coming over earlier unannounced, I shouldn’t have assumed. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.

Those were the texts Satoru sent you the most. If any your friends doubted you, it seemed Satoru doubted you the most despite your reassurance that once you got your workload more manageable you’d be more available. You told him things were fine, maybe he just doubted you because you never told him he couldn’t come over whenever he felt like it. That was how things had been since you became friends.

Your place was his place, his place was yours.

That’s why Shoko had to be at your apartment, arms crossed and looking thoroughly tired.

“What’s been up with you anyway?” Shoko barged into your apartment before you could stop her. “Satoru’s been driving me insane asking me to check on you.” So she said, but you saw the worry on her face even if she tried to hide it. “So what’s going on? He says he’s pretty sure something is going on and you don’t want to tell him. Are you failing a class or something?”

“Nothing,” you told her a little too quickly and the brunette gave you a look that said ‘girl, please’. If your attempt to look as composed as possible wasn’t doing you favors, neither was how messy your room was. “Seriously, Shoko, I’m fine. Satoru’s just being overdramatic. It’s Satoru, you should know this. He went to your clinic once for almost breaking a nail.”

Shoko rolled her eyes at the memory, “yeah but now he’s pestering me to see if you’re actually fine or if you’re just trying to shut him out,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before the concern peeps out of her face. “He said once in high school Suguru pushed him away and stuff went bad between them for a while. He felt like it was his fault for not trying hard enough to see what was bothering him. The rest of us are being chill about everything but we are worried too, you know. Just considerably less dramatically than others.”

That made your heart twist in both in the best and worst ways.

“It’s…” you took a step back and held yourself. “It’s fine. Tell Satoru he’s just being dramatic.”

“Then why is your suitcase out?” [Color] stared into brown as Shoko’s look told you that she wouldn’t drop it until you came clean to her. “Is it that serious? I won’t force you to talk about it, but I at least want to know how okay you are and it’s something you can manage on your own. That’s all, I promise I won’t say anything to Satoru if you really don’t want him knowing,” she’s the most gentle you’ve ever seen her. Only Utahime is privy to the softest of Shoko’s expressions but you can’t help but appreciate the look of worry she has. But I don’t want you to just up and disappear on us either.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I,” you licked your lips and sat down on your couch. “I’m thinking of transferring to another school.”

Shoko peers into your face, “and you’re worried about how we’ll take it?”

You shook your head. “I am worried about that but, I’m more worried about the why I need to leave. My parents will probably freak out too, but I’m going to promise them this isn’t going to stop me from pursuing my education.” Wide as her eyes already were, Shoko’s eyes were practically the size of dinner plates. You cut her off before she could say anything else. “I’m pregnant. I found out on the trip we took.”

…

“It’s Satoru’s,” it wasn’t a question.

Your silence was enough of an answer.

“You’re plan was to transfer schools because you don’t want to tell him you’re pregnant?” Shoko’s eyes were wide and you looked away from her. “[First], you can’t expect me to not tell him about-”

Your eyes snapped back to look at her, “you can’t tell him about this.”

Shoko shook her head, “this isn’t just your kid-”

“I’m the one who’s pregnant, I’m the one who decides what to do with it! It’s none of his business!”

Shoko probably would have slapped you if you weren’t expecting, “it’s his kid too, of course it’s his business!”

“Fine,” you muttered coldly, fixing your friend with a cold stare. “I’ll tell him if you can tell me you genuinely think it’s going to go well. That you can really Gojou Satoru dropping everything to become a father for a kid he never planned on having with someone he never planned on being with. Mr. Heir of the Gojou Conglomerate Satoru,” you remember his genuine fear and subsequent genuine relief. “Hell, that he won’t think I tried babytrapping him because I asked him recently if he saw what we had going anywhere and he clearly didn’t want that. And even if he doesn't, do you think his parents would be happy with this? Truly?”

Shoko couldn’t say anything.

You shook your head with a humorless huff, “yeah, that’s what I thought too.” You paused to close your eyes and inhale deeply before looking at your friend once more. “I’m not telling him anything. I don’t need his help to raise this baby, I can do this myself.”

Shoko eyes are dark and you knew she was second guessing everything. “[First]-”

“You can’t tell him anything. Not even Suguru, especially not Suguru. He’d tell him right away.” Suguru was your friend, he was a great friend even. But you knew where his loyalties lied. He’d tell Satoru in a heartbeat. “Please,” you pleaded. “I’m asking you as your friend.”

Shoko reached for the pack of cigarettes sticking out of her pocket before dropping her hand to the side. Right, your pregnancy.

You looked at her in desperation, biting your lip. “Please, I’d never ask you this if it wasn’t important. Satoru doesn’t want me,” your eyes stung at the admission even if you accepted that truth ages ago. “Not the way I want him.”

“I,” Shoko released a shaky breath. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

You dropped out of school without a word to your friends before the month ended.

v. moon

五条・五月。

Gojou Itsuki; you considered writing that on her birth certificate when she was born. Instead, it was your last name Itsuki received.

五, that was the only part of Satoru you would give her, the ‘five’ in Gojou. You promised that little girl you would love her five times as much for his absence.

vi. flow

That all brought you back to now in the present, Gojou Satoru sitting beside you on a park bench while you daughter looked nervously between you both. “Go on then,” you sweep your hand in the direction of the swings. “I’ll be sitting right here, okay? Have some fun with the other kids.”

Yet like moth to a flame, the man with snowy white hair is all your daughter can focus on. “But who is he?”

Satoru opens parts his lips and you beat him to the introductions, “he’s just an old friend of Mama’s, that’s all. Like Aunt Shoko. We haven’t seen each other in a while and we just want to catch up, that’s all. Right?” You shoot Satoru a pleading look.

“That’s right,” Satoru beams. “Maybe I can push you on the swings later.” That makes Itsuki grin back widely. She looks so much like him that there is no denying who she is to him. You know it and so does he.

The smile drops the moment Itsuki is out of an earshot. “You really never planned to tell me about her,” his eyes that normally remind you of crystal clear seas look more akin to frigid chips of ice as he looks at you. “You stop talking to me, you block me on everything out of nowhere and when you dropped out of school, I had no idea where you were-”

“Satoru, you have to understand,” you start, it sounds weak even to you.

Satoru looks at you with a look of pure offense. You can read his mind clearly, “What is there to understand?”

“This was the best outcome for everyone involved. You, me and Itsuki.”

“That isn’t the kind of thing you decide on your own, it takes two to make a child, [First]!”

“We’re not arguing in front of my daughter, Gojou Satoru.”

“No,” the smile that spreads across Satoru’s face is feral. You’ve seen that smile before, one he had whenever he was on the brink of swinging and starting a fight. Never before had that smile been directed at you. “She’s our daughter. My daughter. And I had to find out from Shoko five years after she’s been born that she ever existed in the first place!”

“Like you wanted to be a father anyway,” you hiss, glancing at the growing concern on Itsuki’s face.

“You didn’t even bother asking me what I wanted,” Satoru snaps back. “I would have helped. I want to help.”

“I didn’t want or need your help then and I sure as hell don’t need it now,” you stand up, swinging your wrist away from the large hand that tries to stop you. “You aren’t even her birth certificate,” Satoru flinches like you shot him. “Not your name, not your birthday, not anything. Itsuki’s never even asked about her father,” a lie. It isn’t nearly so frequent as to be considered a problem, but Itsuki did ask about the whereabouts of her father every so often. “It’s just us, Itsuki, I keep telling you that.”

“Do I have another mommy then?”

“No, it’s just us.”

Still, she asks. But Gojou Satoru didn’t need to know about that. “Just go the hell away and leave us alone. I’m not asking for your help, I’ve been doing this alone so far and I plan to keep it that way.”

You take Itsuki home, telling her not to mind the sad-looking man you left on the bench.

“Before you say anything,” Shoko starts when she answers the phone. “I know you’re pissed off.”

“No shit,” you all but seethe at your closest friend. Itsuki is asleep and it takes all of your willpower to not turn a firm but loud whisper into shrieks of hysteria. “Shoko, what the-”

“[First], I had to tell him,” Shoko sighs and you can practically smell the nicotine through. “I get it, you were scared back then but Satoru deserved to know he is a father. Itsuki deserves a chance to get to know her father!”

“You don’t get to decide what my kid needs,” you retort immediately. “We have been doing just fine without him in our lives and that’s how I wanted to keep it. Now she keeps asking about the man with the white hair and why he looked so sad and-”

“This isn’t one of those situations where you had a surrogate and did this all on your own, [First]. And he isn’t some random stranger you met some campus party years ago, this is a friend! Why on earth would you tell him that you never put him on the birth certificate.”

“Was. He was a friend,” you correct her. You push back the memories of late night study sessions gone awry by Satoru shoving his phone in your face to show you some video in his recommended list. You ignore the creeping reminders of sharing shit-eating grins, waiting for the moment Suguru learned that you changed his autocorrect for chocolate into something stupid. “We haven’t been friends in years, we’re just old school acquaintances at this point. You know why I never told him about her. And I said it so he would have an out; he doesn’t need to stick around to be her father.”

“And what if she gets tired of you skirting around her questions about him?” Shoko shoots back without giving you a moment to reply that you would handle it if it ever got to the point that it became a problem. “You might be able to skirt around it now but when she gets older she is going to ask and ask and askー and she is going to keep on asking before she does research of her own! There was no way you’d be able to keep this a secret for the rest of her life, what were you planning to do then?!”

“… I was going to figure that out by then.”

“Right and that was going to go by so smoothly and Itsuki wouldn’t feel hurt or betrayed you took away the choice for her to get to know her dad. That could ruin your entire relationship with her.”

“You couldn’t have at least asked?!”

“You never let me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry I betrayed your trust and said things behind your back. I told him to at least let me call and tell you that he knew, but he wanted to meet Itsuki.”

“I just…” your back hit the wall and you slid to the floor, resting your head on your knees. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t think I would ever see him again.”

There’s silence when Shoko hesitates to reply to your tired voice, “look, I get it. As much as I can try to get it, anyway.” There is only so much that your child-free doctor of a friend can relate to when it comes to your situation. Things worked out perfectly for her when she fucked a friend, Utahime and Shoko’s names were written in the stars. You only admit your envy on lonely nights when thoughts of university days past make a reappearance.

“Satoru is a lot of things. He’s a clown, he’s insufferable and he’s Gojou Satoru that’s enough trouble as it is,” much to your chagrin, you can’t help snorting at her comment. “But he should have a chance to get to know his daughter. You’re a great mom, you’ve been doing great without him. I’ve seen you handle everything, you even went back to school to get your degree. You’ve got the job, everything. I’m not trying to say you need his help, I just want you to be open to the idea of letting him get to know her.”

You think of Itsuki and her questions and the look of hurt that graced Satoru’s face earlier that afternoon. “I don’t want Itsuki to get attached to him only for him to take off,” but a bitter taste fills your mouth at your words. I’m only using Itsuki as an excuse, you can only admit to yourself. The one who doesn’t want to see her father is me.

Fearful you may have been, it was no excuse to keep her away from her father.

“If he does that, I’ll kill him myself. But he wants to be there,” Shoko promises, her voice the softest its been the entire conversation. “He wants to get to know her. She looks just like him.”

She does.

You grab a baby wipe, rolling your eyes in amusement, “Itsuki, you’re getting syrup all over your face, hold still,” gently, you wipe away the sugary mess on her face before it dries and becomes even stickier. Itsuki always leaves the table looking like she’s been off to war. “You definitely don’t get your messy eating habits from me. Let me clean your hands and the fork too.”

Itsuki’s eyes sparkle curiously, “is Daddy a messy eater?”

You look at your daughter, her white hair pulled into pigtails by pastel knockerballs and her blue eyes that sparkle with hope that you’ll have some sort of answer as to the mystery of her secret parent she doesn’t realize she’s already met. “Yeah,” you whisper softly, the ghost of smile on your lips. “He got pretty messy whenever we ate.”

“Really?”

“Yep, and he would always steal the chips out of my bag whenever he thought I wasn’t looking,” you smile knowingly. He isn’t the only one guilty of such a crime. “Kinda like how someone always takes extra bites out of my pudding cups when she thinks I’m not looking.” Itsuki erupts into giggles as you pinch her cheeks now free of syrup. “You really want to meet your papa, don’t you,” you ask almost weakly, resting your hand on the table.

With a nod of excitement, Itsuki answers your question with an unmistakable yes.

“What if Mommy brings Daddy to pick you up from daycare soon? Would you like that?”

Itsuki gasps in disbelief, “Really?!”

Your nerves don’t show as you grin in return, “really.”

The first few rings you wait for Satoru to pick up the phone later in the day are painful.

I should have just asked Shoko to do this, you pace anxiously in the employee parking lot of your job. A childish part of you wishes you had asked your friend seeing as she had already spilled the beans to you. But you remember the more than subtle tone in her voice when she mentioned the other day that Satoru’s number hadn’t changed in all the years you spent out of his life. He’s the father of your child, [First], you scold yourself. Get a grip.

A second later when he picks up the line, you almost hang up in a panic.

“… Hey, [First],” he sounds like he’s grinning but it lacks his usual bravado. “You didn’t change your number.”

“Neither did you,” you reply nervously, fiddling with the fabric of your uniform as the expected awkward silence filled the air. Five years ago, Satoru was one of the easiest people in the world to talk to. Annoying and arrogant at times, most of the times even, but still easy. He spoke his mind clearly; it’s hard reconciling that person with the silence on the other side of the phone. “I shouldn’t have kept Itsuki from you,” you finally begin. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did yesterday, you have a right to be mad at what I did. I’m sorry.”

Satoru’s sigh is slow, “why didn’t you tell me in all these years? If Shoko never said anything, were you really not going to tell me about her at all?”

“Can we not-”

“No, I get to know why you didn’t want to let me know I had a daughter,” Satoru’s voice hardens and you know that running away isn’t an option. Old habits seem to die hard. “You didn’t even tell me you were pregnant.”

“I was scared, okay?” Scared and pathetically in love with someone who didn’t want you back. “I didn’t know how you were going to react… and I didn’t know if you would want to be part of the baby’s life if I decided to keep it. We weren’t even a couple. I freaked out and thought this was best course of action.”

“I would have helped, I would have been there. We were friends, [First],” you can’t tell if he sounds more angry or sad with your younger self’s line of reasoning. “You really thought I would have let you done everything on your own? I would have had your back from day one.”

“…. I’m sorry, I can’t take it back but I’m sorry,” you rest your back against the side of your car. The breeze on your skin doesn’t calm you as much as you’d like.

Satoru sighs again and he’s quiet, contemplative and your heart races wondering what is going through his mind. Would he curse you? Maybe he would take you to court for his parental rights. Instead, Satoru peacefully asks, “what’s she like?”

“Adorable,” your lips quirk slightly at the thought of your child. “I’m pretty sure Shoko’s probably shown you some pictures, so you probably know that already.” Painfully adorable and the entire world knew it, it’s a blessing she isn’t nearly as much of a troublemaker as her father. If she were, you don’t doubt Itsuki would get away with most of her ‘crimes’. “She’s a sweet girl, if she sees a caterpillar on the neighbor’s strawberries, she’ll pick it up and ask if we can take it to the park so it can eat there instead.”

You both share a laugh at that. “She’s smart too, she just sucks things up like a sponge. And she’s popular at daycare, you know,” she gets it from her father, that is easy to admit. Satoru definitely surpasses everyone you know, yourself included, when it comes to attracting people to him. Even when he’s annoying you can’t help but be drawn in. “She’s good at making friends, always looks out for the ones there who have a harder time connecting with people.”

“It’s nice to know she got all her charm and good looks from me,” Satoru chuckles smugly. “It’s a no-brainer the people love her, I expect nothing less from my kid.”

“Oh shut up,” yet you can’t deny his claim. She is Gojou Satoru’s daughter through and through. “She’s a lovable kid; Itsuki was born for it.”

“Was Itsuki the only name in the running?”

“It’s a pretty name, isn’t it? There were others in the running though,” you count down on your fingers the various options you ultimately decided against. “Itsuki stuck out the best.”

“What characters did you use to write her name?”

“The characters for ‘Five’ and ‘Moon’,” you answer softly, remembering the various combinations you could have gone with. Ultimately, there was only one that you could have gone with. “I got the idea from your last name, I… I wanted her to have a part of you with her even if she didn’t know you.”

There’s a pause then a shaky breath. “Gojou Itsuki,” Satoru says finally, sounding a million miles away despite being just on the other line.

“She has my name,” you tell him gently.

“I know,” Satoru replies softly yet there’s a tinge of emotion you can’t quite place. Melancholy? Acceptance? Perhaps a little bit of both. “I just wanted to try it out.”

Silence falls over you both again and you hug yourself despite the sweltering heat of the afternoon. Shoko is right, your secret wasn’t one that was sustainable. “Do you,” your lips suddenly feel too dry and you lick your lips. “Do you want to pick her up from daycare with me today? She wants to meet you, she always has. She even asked about you this morning.”

He does. It shouldn’t surprise you that he does and it doesn’t. Still, your heart pounds when you see him show up at the daycare your daughter spends a large portion of her time at. “Hi,” you greet him nervously.

“Hey,” even though he’s grinning, his smile is a bit off kilter. A sugary pink bag hangs from one his arms. “I uh, didn’t know exactly what sort of things she like but I got her a present. You said she’s really into whale sharks, right? So I got her a plush.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him Itsuki already has five. She’d love his gift anyway. Maybe the one he got her would become her favorite.

“She might adore that more than you,” you joke but you give him a nod a beat later. “But don’t worry about what happened last time. She’ll be happy to see you in a better mood, she was worried about you when we left the park.” Maybe that was the father-daughter bond at work, or maybe it was your child’s empathetic nature.

Maybe both.

You already discussed things with him after he agreed to come meet her properly. He could get to know Itsuki, could even meet the daycare attendants. It would just be a while before you’d be able to trust him with being an emergency contact.

“Hey, Choso,” you wave at the man with pigtails. Intimidating as he looks, his daycare is surprisingly popular due to the low rates. He wanted a place where his youngest brother could grow up happily with his friends. “This,” you start before Choso can question you, gesturing to Satoru. “… This is Itsuki’s father. You’ll uh, probably see him coming around a lot more when I pick her up from now.”

There’s a lengthy pause.

“Nice to meet you,” Choso’s tone says otherwise. If it were possible, Choso’s face would be place right under the definition of judgement. He is definitely deeming Satoru a deadbeat that was finally crawling out from the woodworks.

Satoru ignores it with the air of confidence he didn’t have a few minutes ago outside, “thanks for looking after my kid while [First] was busy. I haven’t been around but I’m hoping to make up for all the lost time.”

You doubt that was meant to be a dig, you still take it as one. “Itsuki’s playing with Yuuji and the rest of their friends right now. You’ll see her at the playground,” he gestures at the infant in his hands. “I have a diaper to change.”

“Don’t worry, I got it,” you wave. “And tell Kechizu that he needs to stop cooking better than me. The other day Itsuki said she liked his lunches more than mine.” That manages to get a snicker out of the man.

“Itsuki!” You call out once you’re on the playground and you see her eyes light up with recognition and a ‘Mommy!’ Even funnier is her little excited jig before she runs over to hug you although she stops as she recognizes the man beside you.

She glances between the two of you and you smile reassuringly. “Why are you getting so shy? Don’t you remember what I promised at breakfast?”

Itsuki’s eyes widen and her jaw drops wordlessly. You suppose she might not have truly been expecting you’d make good on your promise. At least, definitely not so soon.

“Itsuki, this is Satoru, your father,” you tell her gently, smile small. “Although I suppose, you already met him yesterday. It just didn’t go at all the way it was supposed to.” But what was done was done; Itsuki deserved to know her father. You wouldn’t take away that choice because of your own fears anymore.

“Daddy?” Itsuki asks Satoru, voice just above a whisper.

Satoru nods, settling down on one knee to look her in those familiar blue eyes. “That’s right, kiddo,”

“Daddy?!” Itsuki hops in disbelief, looking between the two of you before her eyes settle on yours again. “It’s really Daddy?!” You aren’t sure if Itsuki knows whether she wants to cry or run away in disbelief that this moment is finally happening.

You knelt beside your old friend, “say hi to your father, Itsuki.”

The tears suddenly well in her eyes but despite Satoru’s panicked voice, you can tell they aren’t sad ones as Itsuki throws her arms over Satoru’s shoulders. And if your eyes are warmer than they were a few moments ago, you don’t mind it as you watch you’re daughter hug her father for the first time.

Itsuki adores Satoru, that’s what you learn in the span of a single afternoon. And yes, she does love the whale shark plush he got her more than the other five you already purchased. She cried even harder when he hugged her back, softly promising he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d always be there and he would come see her as much as she wanted.

She adores how he took her out for ice cream before dinner and how even after dinner, he purchased even more dessert.

He was weak to her with no immunity built up over the past five years.

This was why he couldn’t say no when she pleaded he stayed over to at least watch a movie with her before bedtime. Not that you had any room to talk considering how easily you agreed.

“So she had to get Merlin’d?” Satoru asks incredulously as the credits roll across the screen.

“That is not what was supposed to happen, the beautiful girl is subjective to the one who got cursed!” You tell him, flabbergasted that that was the conclusion he came to. Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarves is far more than a comedy. It’s social commentary! “Not to mention the body positive message it sends with the fact that shoes represent societal standards of beauty along with the objectification and idolization Snow experiences while wearing them which further supported the fact that had she had gone to the F7 as herself they wouldn’t have he-”

“Nope, too late. I like my idea better,” you could strangle this man.

“You’re going to ruin Itsuki’s perception of love,” you shoot Satoru a look of amusement and annoyance. At the very least, you know he enjoyed it.

“Good, I don’t need some snot-nosed brat trying to win over my kid that’s obviously aroace,” Satoru says firmly as he picks up your very much fell-asleep-before-the-movie-ended daughter. It’s almost uncanny how natural it looks to you, like he had been around from the start. He probably should have been. You were the one who took that choice from him and made him an unintentional deadbeat.

“Satoru, she’s five and doesn’t even know what that means yet,” you say instead, Satoru oblivious to the thoughts running around your head. One day you’d tell Itsuki the truth, once she was a little older.

“What? She told me she was aroace when I asked earlier today,” Satoru tells you petulantly, moving away when you try to hold her.

“Only because you told her you’d give her ice cream if she agreed to be,” ice cream she wasn’t even supposed to eat because it would spoil her appetite for dinner in a moment you weren’t supposed to see. “It means you’ll love Daddy forever and think everyone else is gross,” Satoru happily exclaimed, holding a cup of Itsuki’s favorite salted cookie dough ice cream. The five year old happily obliged to his whims.

Maybe Satoru will be right in his hopeful predictions that romance will be the last thing on your daughter’s mind in the future thought. On the other hand, maybe he’d be dead wrong and forced to tolerate whoever she brings home in the future.

“They’re just like you, Dad, but they’re brilliant!” She’ll say, hearts in her eyes.

You almost wanted to manifest the opposite of his wishes, only to see the face Satoru would make. It is far too early to be thinking about such things however.

“I don’t want my kid to date anyone, sue me. So I’m manifesting early,” Satoru pouts as he starts takes her to her room to lay her across her bed.

“You’re so stupid,” you roll your eyes and shake your head in exasperation, but a look of fondness is apparent in your expression.

Maybe you were born to see this moment, the moment you could see that Gojou Satoru is absolutely smitten with his daughter. You can see it in how he presses a kiss to the temple of her forehead as he takes her to his room.

Itsuki was born to be loved, she makes it too easy just by being herself. Suddenly your fears from before felt unfounded. You knew underneath the rejection of Satoru in your life that he would have been there and he would have been more than happy to shoulder the burdens of parenthood even in a platonic way. You stop yourself from wondering what that path might have looked like. You made your choice and this is path you’re on now, there is no other way but forward.

“I’ll have you know,” Satoru points a finger gun at you smugly when he returns, child-free, “my kid thinks I’m the smartest man in the world. So one of you is lying and I know it’s not her.”

“Your kid is biased and spoiled from snacks and gifts,” you retort softly with a grin.

“I don’t hear the voices of the naysayers praying for my downfall, sorry,” you both release a chuckle at your exchange and a comfortable silence falls between you both. “I should probably get going I guess.”

You smile at him politely, “we should do this again sometime, I wanna see what else in our movie collection Itsuki will have you watch next.”

Satoru grins, “it better be the Digimon reboot DVD set I saw in the corner,” he pauses before asking you seriously, “our kid does like Digimon, right?”

“You’ll be happy to know that her favorites are Palmon, Kokomon and Wormmon in that order,” you tell him smugly. How could he think otherwise? Did he forget who you were? “The plushies are just in the toy chest she has at the foot of her bed.”

Your child had to be a fan of Digimon, she had no other choice.

translation:

五月 five moons (same character in Gojou as well as a radical in Satoru) ⤷ 五・いつ - five ⤷ 月・つき - moon

part 2 ->

#romance dawn ー 🌅#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojou x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x black!reader #jjk x black!reader #jujutsu kaisen x black!reader

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