#for straighter teeth. that was all. Nothing fucking else

[the-maddened-hatter]

Honestly it's low-key kind of wild to me that the two main flavors of dentist are A. literally so amazing and fastidious, one of the if not THE most important healthcare providers attending to our food holes, treating and preventing major problems and horrible pain, and sometimes even detecting stuff that's not directly their facet of work like EDs, reflux, cancers, wild shit like that 10/10 important and amazing

Or B. I love money soooooo much please give me some to bleach your mouth and put large strips of very painful metal to make your bite bones more aesthetic angles and also make you feel bad about everything you've ever done in your life

[niccolites]

TAPE ONE: - BATS IN THE ATTIC

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH X FEM!READER

TAGS - Explicit Sexual Content, Stalking, Sexual Harrassment, Dubious Consent, Implied Somnophilia, Violence, Unplanned Pregnancy, 1970s Period Setting, Size Kink

-

“Dinnae go all shy on m’,” he coos, in a tone that implies the opposite. “C’mon, anythin’ you wantae talk about, we can.”

“I don’t want to talk about anything with you,” you hiss down the phone.

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or continue groaning down the line but it goes quiet. The faint buzz of two phones connected and nothing else. There���s a deep buried and polite instinct that almost has you asking if he’s still there but you swallow it down and choke on it. Insane to wonder if you’ve hurt his feelings.

“That’s not very nice,” he says, voice scratchy. You swallow a whimper, unused to the gritty tone that he has now. “Are ye sorry?”

//

Or: the one where some pervert won't stop calling you on the landline. BLACK CHRISTMAS!AU

anthology masterlist here or read on ao3 here

[INSERT]

[PLAY]

Winter has only just curled its cold hands around your window when the phone calls start.

You are the first one to answer, padding out from the kitchen with one eye still on the stove for your popcorn that you’ve just started cooking.

“Hello?” you say into the landline, tucking the receiver into your shoulder so you can tug your sleeves up.

The tinny whistle of two invisible lines connected, phone to phone. An electric landscape that you barely understand, dipping in and out.

“Hello?” you repeat, standing up straighter, phone back in hand. It’s a responsibility in the sorority, answering the phone. You don’t want to get nipped at later because one of the girl’s fathers phoned and you didn’t pass along a message correctly.

Then - a snuffle and there is life in that electric landscape. Breath, exhaled through wiring and into your ear. You press your ear into the phone, bakelite digging into your flesh, as if trying to get closer.

“Is someone there? Are you alright?” you ask, frowning to yourself.

The breathing has a heavy quality to it, a pant, on the verge of a grunt. Concern leaks away from you and discomfort crawls over you in its place. A sigh, veering sharply into something intimate that has your teeth on edge.

You’re about to hang up the phone and pretend that you never picked up in the first place, when the voice speaks. “Are you still there, angel?” it groans and you flash hot all over at how lewd the voice sounds. “Say something, anything. If I talk sweet enough, would you let me see your pretty pussy?”

You gape, floundering in your shock. “What -” you start before you can stop yourself.

He groans, long and overdrawn at that, and you slam down the phone before you can hear anymore. Back away, as if it were a curling viper. It rings again, a taunting note and you pick it to slam it down again. You pick the phone up from its handle and leave it on its side, the hum of the dial tone. Line busy, please call again later.

The calls continue, but you don’t pick them up. Your sisters in the house do. Bernie cusses him out and tells him to stick his dick in a woodchipper. Amy picks it up but drops it out of shock and it lies, dangling but alive until Charlotte had found it and terminated it.

He gets a nickname after a while. The Moaner. Bernie refers to him at the dinner table, although everyone else shushes her. He’s a dirty secret, a presence that sits, alive, in the dial-up phone but never to be discussed.

“Who gives a fuck,” Bernie poses, lighting a cigarette, her dinner untouched in front of her. “He gets to torture us but we have to prudish about it? Fuck him!”

It;s a sentiment that you echo, even though you don’t think you would have the same courage to curse him out on the phone. You haven’t answered since that first time, but you have heard him. Amy had answered and you had pressed your ear closer, just to hear the burr of his voice as he cursed at her.

It’s strange, he seems to have gotten angrier. On the phone with you, his tone had been coaxing, if rough. A lamb with sharp teeth and wide eyes, trying to pull you into the woods with it. His tone with the rest of the girls now is furious. Disguise off and prowling in its pen, blood in its gums and rabid.

You wonder who he is, find yourself skirting around the windows. You imagine that a man who is willing to stalk women over the phone wouldn’t be opposed to stalking them physically.

“That’s what he wants,” Bernie tells you, over a cup of coffee. All the other girls think that Bernie is too abrasive, and one bender away from a drinking problem. You like her well enough, have a fearful type of respect for the way that she barks and drinks and smokes too much. You’re both the same age, but she feels like a cool aunt that you never had.

“I know, it just makes me feel…dirty,” you admit, sighing before cupping your hands around your cup. Warmth bleeds into your palms, chasing away the chill of December.

“That’s what he wants as well,” Bernie says, stubbing out a cigarette, and lighting up another. “He gets to be the pervert but you get all the shame about it, He’s a cunt, if I catch him, he’s getting smacked.” She flashes you a grin that you echo, emboldened by her.

“Do you think we should go to the police about it, again?” you ask, shifting in the squeaky cafe chair.

Bernie shrugs. “Didn’t do anything last time,” she says. “Anyway, enough talk about The Moaner, what’s going on with you and Mick?”

You flush and try to pretend that you aren’t. “Nothing, he’s just being nice,” you say, unconvincingly if the way that Bernie smiles as if she’s scented blood is any indication.

“Yeah, nice in what way?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. You kick her under the table and she cackles. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s so nice to you. Is he?”

“Not like that,” you hiss, sure you’re about to overheat. “He’s just - he offers to walk me back after class, that’s it. We talk.”

“I’m surprised football players know how to do that,” Bernie muses, finally drinking some of her coffee, wrinkling her nose at the taste.

You roll your eyes, good-natured. “He’s sweet, I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Good call, you always overthink,” Bernie lets you know. “Have you slept with him?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Which means yes,” she responds. You roll your eyes and take a pointed sip of your coffee until she changes the subject.

You stretch your head back and gaze out the window. The sun licks the edges of trees and sets them alight. Everything is beautiful, frost lingering on everything and making it all shiny.

The window is wide, allowing you to take in the entire scene. If anyone is looking back at you, you shrug it off, but turn away from the window. Just in case.

-

You sleep and dream of hands curling around your throat, pull you up until you’re hanging, feet glancing off the ground.

You shriek like a woman in an old horror film, beautiful even as you’re dying. The dreams stretch out, you’re brought back to life just to die again and again, your throat ripped and raw with the perfect scream each time. 

A version of you stumbles into your room and tears through your belongings. Your mirror ends up smashed, your drawers pulled out and half of your clothes missing. You wake up and nothing is out of place, everything exactly where you left it.

Amy asks to borrow a skirt one night and you let her root through your drawers.

You swear that you can see eyes around your doorway in the mirror but when you turn around, no one is there.

“Are you alright?” Amy asks, holding your skirt in her hands, poised to leave.

“Yeah, sorry. Just - stressed, I have assignments due…” you trail off, fiddling with the end of the throw on your bed.

Amy nods with understanding. “That pervert on the phone isn’t helping,” she offers, folding your skirt over her arm. You jump, as if she was speaking about someone in the room with the two of you. But you know it’s just the two of you, you know this. “I know Bernie and the rest of the girls think that it’s funny to make fun of him, but I don’t know. You see all those stories of girls talking back to men and it always ends up horrible.”

A headache starts to build up behind your eye. “You think he’s going to get angry or something?”

“I think he already is,” Amy tells you, frowning. “You should have heard what he called Charlotte the other day, it was horrible.”

You have half a mind to ask exactly what was said, but you aren’t totally sure if you want to know. “I just don’t know what he wants,” you sigh, remembering how he had huffed at you down the line. Like all he wanted was to reach down the phone and stick his tongue in your ear. A queer feeling to be wanted in such a grotesque manner. Flattering and horrifying all at once.

“Not us, certainly, I don’t think he likes us,” Amy replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Considering he’s the one phoning us, he keeps telling us to - eff off.” You laugh at her attempt to swear which makes her give you a shy smile. “Charlotte says he’s a loser, and I agree, I’m trying to ignore him, I think you should as well,” she adds.

“You’re right, it’s just all so stupid,” you sigh. “Anyway, what do you need the skirt for?”

“I’m going to the football game, I thought you’d be going as well,” Amy says, holding the skirt up to her waist in your mirror.

“Why, because of Mick?”

“Well, you’re going steady, aren’t you?” Amy asks, folding the skirt back over her arm.

“I guess, he’s a nice guy,” you say. “I’ll see if I can swing by, but I’ve got assignments due.”

Amy nods and thanks you, taking a swift exit. Downstairs the phone trills to life and you hear someone answer it, feel a fine tension work up your back. It’s Charlotte but she doesn’t start yelling down the line, her laughter and faint words float up the stairs to reach you.

A strange disappointment lines your stomach, the anticipation of the guillotine drop thwarted. The headache pulses like something angry, knocking behind your eye until you give it some attention.

You force yourself up and get dressed. Mick will be happy to see you, and you can reach for that old giddy feeling that you’d had at the start of term when he smiled at you.

The phone rings as you leave and you slam the door shut behind you, cutting the sound in half.

-

A cold wind chases after you into the house, desperate to warm up as well. You lean against the door to get it shut, sighing as the howl is cut off.

It’s approaching the holidays, but you have a pile of assignments due in January that you’re steadfastly ignoring. You drop your bag next to the stairs, reaching over and picking up a stack of letters next to the phone and start flicking through them.

The phone rings, and without thinking, you pull it up and to your ear.

“Hello?” you ask, frowning as you scan for your name.

Nothing, then the stuttered breathing that feels as if it’s against the back of your neck. You stiffen, a presence on the phone, touching your ear, reaching in and breathing against your mind.

The creak of plastic as your hand flexes.

Then -

“Hey, angel,” the voice coos down the phone. You shudder and as if he knows, the edge of a pant comes out. “‘av missed you, where have ye been, ‘av been calling fer y’.”

“What do you want?” you ask, frustrated tears in the corner of your eyes. All the confused and oddly pleased feelings that you’d had alone in your room are gone when you actually have to deal with him. 

“I can’t talk to my favourite girl?” he asks, and there is a genuine confusion laced around his words. So genuine, you imagine it must be mocking.

You look over your shoulder, able to see the edge of the kitchen window. It’s empty, nothing but the inky black of the early evening. All of the girls are upstairs, you can hear the tinny sound of Bernie’s record player.

When he calls in the afternoon, it’s easier to imagine him as a sad, pathetic loser, huffing and moaning down the phone at unsuspecting girls. There’s a sense of bravado that comes from gathering around the phone, giggling and muttering insults until someone says something clever. A crowd claps, the mic is tapped and the dig is read out.

Dark out, standing in your winter coat, snow in your hair, you feel like you may as well be alone in your home. Standing in the middle of an empty field, watching a shadow loom closer and closer.

There isn’t anything funny about the way you can imagine him straining himself to hear you over the line. His sigh when you don’t respond.

“Dinnae go all shy on m’,” he coos, in a tone that implies the opposite. “C’mon, anythin’ you wantae talk about, we can.”

“I don’t want to talk about anything with you,” you hiss down the phone.

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or continue groaning down the line but it goes quiet. The faint buzz of two phones connected and nothing else. There’s a deep buried and polite instinct that almost has you asking if he’s still there but you swallow it down and choke on it. Insane to wonder if you’ve hurt his feelings.

“That’s not very nice,” he says, voice scratchy. You swallow a whimper, unused to the gritty tone that he has now. “Are you sorry?”

You shake, eyes darting around the hallway, waiting for anyone to come down. This is how he speaks to the others, you recognise this tone. You don’t understand how the girls can shrug it off, you feel as if someone has pushed the barrel of a gun to your temple.

You wait for him to chew you out for your lack of response, but he suddenly has all of the patience in the world. The phone is a python curled around your arm, willing to wait forever for the best time to strike out at you.

You’re not fearless alone down here.

“Yes,” you say, trying not to sound pathetic and likely failing.

“Yeah?” he pants immediately, the image of a man leaning over and taking up your space comes to mind. There’s still an edge to it, like a wolf pawned off with a leg of meat. It’s still snarling at you even as it takes what you have to give.

“I -” you start before cutting yourself off. There is a moment where you realise what you’re doing. He isn’t real, he’s a voice on the phone. And you’re apologising and letting him frighten you.

“How are ye gonnae make it up tae me, angel?” he groans, and you don’t know if you’re imagining it, but you can almost hear a slick noise behind his voice.

He’s just a voice on the phone. You put the receiver down and hear the click of the call as it disconnects. You wait for it to ring again, for the wire to spiral up and snap at you.

It lies there, silent.

The house settles around you, beams of wood creaking as they groan and stretch, holding up all those rooms. It’d be easy to sneak around this building, the floorboards creak even when someone isn’t standing on them.

You go up to bed and you don’t tell anyone about the call. No one notes that The Moaner hasn’t called in a week.

You sit in silence, the quiet that is broken up by the trill of the landline. It doesn’t come again for a while, but you sit in it still. Waiting for the quiet to shatter, hand reached out and curved, perfect to receive.

-

Your dreams spiral out of control. Mostly figure-less, only sensation. A hand around your throat and the other hiking up your thighs until your chest is weighed down by your own legs.

A mouth on your cunt, then hands then something else, splitting you open until you hiccup as you try to buck away from it and also into it.

You wake up sometimes, sweat on your forehead and a pulse between your thighs. You lean back and lower a guilty hand, shivering with your clit is already swollen when you touch it. As if it’s already been coaxed out with a rough hand.

Time goes on, winter cracking open your window and chilling everything until you go to bed shivering. The nights keep you warm though, the dreams getting more and more vivid.

Before it was just sensations, a mouth detached from a body kissing you, but now the rest is here, pressing you down into the mattress and swallowing you whole.

Sex with Mick is nice. You’ve been seeing each other for months at this point, and he knows where to put his hands, how to tilt his head. He must treat it like he treats a football game - plan in mind, comes at you with steady hands and intent.

It’s nice, you either get off or you don’t.

The dreams are never in the shape of him, which you try not to feel bad about. A guilty desire, shaped in an impossible man. Someone bigger than you, firm where you’re soft. Digs his hand deeper than he should, just the edge of mean. Hands on your throat, sparking off a plug that you didn’t know was connected in the back of your mind.

You dream of being on all fours, your back in a painful arch while a man that you don’t know drives into you until you shriek. His hand comes over your mouth, two fingers pinch your nose, his hips colliding with your backside. He’s going to kill me, your dream self tells you and you come, twitching, with no air.

You wake up, on your front and your cunt feels swollen and sticky. You flop down, kick your duvet off until the cold air cools the sweat that has pooled at the small of your back.

You don’t think it’s cheating, but you don’t tell anyone about it either. All the girls would disapprove, or worse, Bernie would tell you that this means you need Mick to tie you up or something.

You don’t ask Mick to do anything of the sort, but the next time you kiss him, you scratch your nails through his scalp.

He laughs into your mouth, boyish. “What are you, an alley cat?” he muses, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Sorry, I guess I got excited,” you murmur. There’s an illness in you, drip poison that starts at your tongue. You seem to be the only one getting sicker.

“Don’t be sorry for that,” he laughs again, kissing your cheek and giving you another kiss.

You fall asleep that night and dream that you’re getting fucked with your head under bathwater. You take a cold shower in the morning and ignore the lip of the bath next to your knees. If it matches the curve of your belly if you were to bend over it, that’s decidedly not your business.

-

Amy goes missing the week before Christmas. At first it’s shrugged off, assumed that she may have gone home early, or was staying somewhere else.

Another breakfast passes with an empty chair before the house mother decides to phone the police.

You watch the phone as the police sit you all down in the front room, asking you when you all saw her last, what she was wearing, where she was going.

It doesn’t ring, doesn’t chirp up, or join in on the conversation.

“Ma’am?” the police officer says, jumping you out of your reverie. “Is everything alright?”

You turn away from the phone where it’s mocking you on the sideboard in the hallway. “Sorry,” you mumble, ashamed and you don’t fully know why.

Everyone stares at you, waiting for you to elaborate, but the words are caught in the gaps of your teeth.

“There’s been a pervert on the phone, stalking us,” Bernie says, for you. She’s the only girl that doesn’t look ashen and frightened. Disturbed, maybe, but there’s a glass of vodka with it and the ice doesn’t clink against the sides as she holds it. “We’ve reported him before.”

“Do you think that he could have something to do with this?” the policeman asks.

“He’s been quiet recently. Maybe he feels rejected,” Bernie muses, taking a sip. She gets a dirty look for the nonchalant drinking, but you burrow yourself deeper into the couch. You don’t know why you couldn’t say it, why Bernie had to say it for you.

You don’t want to admit to the last phone call, the one only a few days ago, just before Amy disappeared. Guilt churns in your stomach, as if you know the direct series of events, and how they confirm that your rejection of the man on the phone has led to this.

Charlotte nudges your knee and you look up, blinking at the harsh beam of the policeman’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, I know this must be very distressing,” he says, trying to give you an encouraging smile. “Do you remember anything from the last time you saw Amy? Anything at all?”

You don’t. You don’t even remember when she disappeared, just that she isn’t here now. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, staring down at your hands.

The policeman, unconvinced, nods and moves on.

You feel a stare on the back of your neck, and you refuse to turn around. The prickling of nerves, the sore thud of your heart as you let a wave of nausea spread.

The police officers go to speak to the house mother in the kitchen, and the rest of the girls murmur between each other, a symphony of concern and fear. It pulses like a police siren through the room, turning your vision red then blue.

There’s a knock at the front door and you jump, frightened like a rabbit in a field. “I’ll get it,” you mutter, and stand up before anyone can stop you, your hands shaking and hidden in your pockets.

You can see the colour of Mick’s jacket through the glass window. You step outside, ignoring Bernie’s raised eyebrow and everyone else squinting at you in what feels like suspicion but could also just be general offence.

“Is everything alright, I saw the police car outside,” Mick says, cupping your elbows in his hands after you close the door behind you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, tone more accusing than you mean it to be.

His grip falters a little, leaning back to peer down at your face. “We had a study date, remember?”

You drop your head in your hands, the heel of your hands digging into your eyes. “Yes, sorry, yes we did. Um, Amy is missing, so the police were asking some questions,” you say, voice trembling even as you make an effort to power through.

“Woah, alright, alright, c’mere,” he hushes you, tucking you into his chest, his arms around you. You sink in, shuddering as you accept comfort that you don’t deserve.

Mick is nice, with a sweet smile and muscles built up from high school football that he uses for college football. He’s a storybook, you look at his face and you can see everything that has happened to him and everything that ever will. It’s comforting to be with someone that’s so open. You know almost everything he’s going to say before he says it.

“That’s crazy, do they think she’s been taken or something?” Mick asks, his voice deeper where you’re hiding in his chest.

“I don’t know, they were asking us because they don’t know where she’s gone,” you say, sighing as his hand scrubs up and down your back. You pull back and wipe at your eyes, cast a self-conscious look at the glass window in the front door in case anyone can see you, but your attention is dragged back to Mick. “Sorry, can we reschedule, it’s just - I can’t right now.”

Mick is already nodding seriously. Solid and dependable, not even offended. Bernie is writing the script for this conversation inside, likely. “Please don’t worry about it, alright? I’m here if you need me alright, just give me a call? You should get back inside, it’s cold out.”

You nod, giving him a weak smile. He leaves you with a kiss on your forehead and a rotten feeling in your stomach. You pull the door open to get back in, stepping inside just in time to hear a slam upstairs. You peer up, but shrug it off when no one appears at the top of the stairs.

Bernie leans against the banister, freshly lit cigarette in her hand. “Golden boy ok?” she asks, taking a drag.

“Yes, we were meant to be seeing each other today, but I’m not up for it,” you reply, tugging the sleeves of your jumper.

“I’m sure if you put out later, he’ll forget all about it,” she says, which makes you scowl.

“Our friend is missing, maybe you should act like it, instead of getting drunk before the bars even open,” you hiss and storm upstairs.

“The police still want to talk!” she calls up the stairs after you.

“I don’t have anything else to say!” you yell back, storming into your room and slamming the door behind you.

You come to a stuttered stop, staring at your vanity table. The mirror is smashed, glass cracked down the middle, which you know wasn’t there the last time that you were here.

It would be easy to go downstairs and tell someone this. Report that someone has been in your room since you’ve been upstairs, only an hour ago.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach over and pull your mirror off the vanity and stash it behind your table. Then realise that it’s insane to do that and try to pull the mirror back out and cut your finger on the glass and hiss, cradling your hand to your chest.

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and calls your name softly. Charlotte, you think.

“Can I be left alone, please!” you call back, your voice on the edge of hysterical.

“Alright, I’ll check in later, alright?” she says and steps away, footsteps leading back down the stairs.

There’s glass all over your vanity table, made worse when you’ve started shifting things around. You sit on the edge of your bed and stifle a sob. You don’t know why you’ve hidden it, as if when you showed the police, they would know about the last phone call with The Moaner, that they would know about your weird, perverted dreams.

Now you’ve hidden it, and you can see it rolling out in front of you, a bad C-Tier Film. Here is the moment that you can open up, show the blood on your hand and cry and let someone sort it out for you.

You curl up in your bed and cry alone instead.

The house mother asks about the mirror the next day when you come back in from binning it. You gesture with your plastered hand, cut a few more times as you’d tied it up.

Everyone accepts it. Bernie sips a gin at breakfast and you don’t think you’re much better off as the porridge you pile into your mouth tastes like dirt.

-

You roll back and forth in the little hours of the morning, unable to sleep. Months ago and you wouldn’t have thought twice about getting up in the middle of the night.

It feels as if there’s a wolf prowling along the bottom floor of your house, and it’ll strike as soon as the floorboards creak beneath your weight.

You decide to force yourself up anyway. You won’t be scared away from your own kitchen. Besides, the mirror is gone, if someone wants to trash something else in your room, at least it’ll be easier to throw away.

You potter about the kitchen, filling a pan with some milk to heat it up for some hot chocolate.

The milk bubbles and froths, swirling as you stir it.

The phone rings like the drop of an axe.

You stare at it, broken down and wearied. You think about letting it ring out until the phone line bursts and shrivels but you don’t want to wake anyone else up.

You pick up the receiver and lift it up to your ear. “Hello?” you murmur, although you already know who it is.

“Hi, angel, ‘av missed ye, have ye missed me?” he croons down the phone at you.

“No, what do you want?” you mutter. You pick up the body of the landline and carry it over to the back of the sofa, leaning against it as the phone digs into the soft of your cheek.

“C’mon, sure ye have, ah can hear it in yer voice,” he coaxes. The phantom feeling of a finger running down your jaw, you shiver with it.

“Did you -?” you start, choking on your words. You want to ask but you’re not sure if you want the answer.

“Did ah…?”

“Amy, do you know where she is?” you whisper, the only way you can get the words out.

“Now, ye know that you’re the only woman in m’life, baby,” he croons, which you scoff at. “Who is she?”

“She’s in my dorm, she’s missing,” you say, voice trembling before you clear your throat.

“Aw, angel, dinnae cry, c’mon now,” he coos and you tilt your head back and stare up at the ceiling to stop any tears from falling.

“You don’t know anything about it?” you ask.

“Cross my heart, baby, ah swear on m’life. Now, stop crying, yer breaking ma heart over here,” he says, and you sniffle. 

“Ok,” you mutter, and he hums in response. It has the edge of a grunt but you ignore it, desperately needing this to be a normal conversation. You hear the milk that you’ve left in the sauce pan start to spit. “I have to go,” you murmur.

He whines, and it’s mundane enough that it almost has you dropping the phone as you remember who it is. “Naw, c’mon, am starting tae tear up maself here, are ye no gonna cheer me up in return?”

“I-” you cut yourself before you offer a genuine response. “I have to go, I’m sorry.”

You hang up before you can say anymore, muttering a curse to yourself for apologising to The Moaner of all people.

You pour the hot milk down the silk and leave the pan to soak and drag yourself back upstairs.

You don’t dream for once, but you still wake up with an ache between your legs. Brushing your teeth in the mirror, you wonder if you should’ve asked if it was him that smashed your mirror, but you don’t think you want to know.

Lean your head down and spit, and you don’t look back up at the mirror before you leave.

-

You think that you may be pregnant, throw up in the morning and throw up again later when you take a test and it shows positive.

Bernie finds you staring at the wall in the bathroom, back against the cabinet under the sink. With your head resting back, you can feel each drip from the leaking tap as it slaps into the sink. You imagine it going right into your skull.

“Not that I haven’t been here myself, but are you alright?” Bernie asks, leaning against the doorway.

You wordlessly pass the test up to her and she whistles when she sees that horrible little positive sign on the stick.

“Wait, did you piss on this?” she asks, dropping it into the sink.

“Well, that’s how they work,” you point out, leaning forward just to rattle your skull against the ceramic again.

“Let’s not do that,” Bernie decides, reaching over and tugging you out from under the sink and over to the wall. “Right, well, what are we thinking?”

“Killing myself,” you say, which Bernie snorts at.

“Behave,” she mutters, sliding down to the floor next to you. She offers you her cigarette and you take a drag of it before coughing hard. “You are terrible at this, I feel like I’ve failed you somewhere along the way.”

“I’m not keeping it,” you announce. When you look over, she’s staring at the wall looking thoughtful. You feel the start of an apology, covered in mud, buried deep and starting to surface at the back of your throat.

Bernie looks over and sees the complicated look on your face. “I accept your apology, but I don’t accept you wasting my cig, give it here,” she says, pinching it back off of you.

You lean your head against her shoulder, sighing. “I’m gonna have to tell Mick,” you mumble, staring at where the paint has dripped off of the wall and dried into the running along the floor.

“I’m sure if you put out, he’ll forgive you,” she tells you, snorting when you whack her thigh. “Just use protection, maybe, you knob.”

You sigh again, and bat your hand out until she offers you the cigarette again.

-

Christmas is looming over you when most of the girls leave to go home to spend it with their families.

You’re very grateful that you aren’t the only one staying over the pinnacle week of December, able to dodge any digging questions about where your family are.

Yes, my parents are still alive. No, they don’t want to come and pick me up. They’re abroad, haha, lucky for some!

Bernie chain-smokes on the couch while most of the girls say their goodbyes and promise to be back for New Years Eve.

“Should we bring some boys over?” she asks, lolling her head back when the final head disappears out of the front door.

“I don’t think I’m interested in the type of boy that would be looking for a party with two random girls alone over the Christmas holidays,” you reply, throwing yourself into an armchair with a huff.

“I don’t think most guys would be into two girls, alone on Christmas, but we cannot afford to be picky,” Bernie lectures you.

You laugh then sober up, feeling awful for laughing when Amy is still missing. You went out with the girls, putting up posters on lampposts for anyone to report if they see anything. No one has and you’re starting to suspect that no one will.

Bernie, as if she can read your thoughts, muses around a cigarette, “I’m starting to think Amy had the right idea to swan off with some guy and head to a hot country.”

“Is that what she’s done then?” you ask, staring up at the ceiling.

“It’s what I intend to do next year, no offence, but you’re poor company. It’s like looking at some sad teenage pregnancy documentary that no one watched,” she says, raising an eyebrow over her glass of orange juice that’s likely spiked with something.

“My documentary would be super popular, I’ll have you know,” you respond, primly, which makes her laugh.

She sticks her tongue out at you, standing up. “We should still go and do something, that tree is fucking depressing.”

You look at the Christmas tree that the house mother had dragged out. It is very bald.

The house creaks above you, but you ignore it, smiling up at Bernie. “Yeah, ok, let’s go out,” you agree, and when the house settles again, it sounds disapproving but you ignore it.

-

The next day, the phone rings again when you’re home alone but you ignore it. It chimes, trilling again and again, needling at you. You force yourself to look unbothered, still somewhat convinced that The Moaner could be outside, peering through your windows, watching every tick of your brow.

Losing your composure is how he wins, and you are as stubborn as a mule, digging your heels in and raising your nose in the air.

You regret the conversation in the night the other day. You’ve encouraged him now, and now he’s constantly on the phone, winding Bernie up.

You listened to him on the other side of the landline while he cussed Bernie out. Amy had been right, he’s a lot rougher with everyone else compared to the slick tones that he used with you.

“I’m getting bored of this,” Bernie informed him, when he asked for you, then promptly hung up the phone. “Any reason that he’s asking for you, specifically?”

You’d shrugged and darted down the hall away from her scrutinising gaze.

Now, you wash your dishes, wipe down the counters, consider chipping away at some assignments that you have to finish. The phone rings and rings and rings. A gap of silence before it rings again, a hammer against the sensitive skin of your eardrum.

Still composed, you stride over to the phone and yank the cord of the wall and it stutters into silence. Not even dialtone, you leave it there, dead.

You sit at the kitchen table and sigh, thumbs digging into your temple, trying to push back a headache that is drumming behind your eyes.

The house settles around you, home alone it unsettles you. You sit up, look down the hallway that you can see through the kitchen door.

A creak of floorboards above you and you stare up at the ceiling as if you could see through it. “Hello?” you call, and it goes quiet again. The wind batters against the windows, whistling to get you to let it in. “Amy?”

There’s no answer. When you peer up the stairs, there’s no one on the landing.

You glare at the disconnected phone and kick the table it sits on as you go past.

-

“Did you disconnect the phone earlier?” Bernie asks, her hands on her hips. There’s snow on her shoulders, melting now that she’s stepped inside. Uncharitably, you don’t say anything, although you’ll have to listen to her complain about her coat being soggy later.

“Yeah, I thought it was the perv,” you say, primly, staring back at the TV and not seeing what’s on.

“Well, I was waiting for a call, you might’ve answered it for me,” Bernie sniffs, rolling her eyes when you don’t respond. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” you snap, hunching further down the sofa. Turning around would make it a true argument, and ruin the image of nonchalance that you’re trying to cultivate.

“Yeah, you fucking do, get a grip of yourself,” Bernie snaps back, making your shoulders hunch up to your ears. “I know there’s some shit going on, but maybe you should sort it and stop acting like an asshole, huh?”

“Rich coming from you,” you mutter, picking at your nails. Bernie scoffs and storms out of the living room. Leaving you in the shame of your own making.

You listen to Bernie stomping around upstairs, and sigh, rubbing your face down with your hands. As much as you hate to admit it, you do need to sort your shit out. It probably was The Moaner on the landline, but it could’ve been Mick, who is also spending Christmas on campus over break and who you have also been avoiding.

You pull yourself and reconnect the landline. You stare down at it, shiny and green. Completely inconspicuous. It sits, as silent as a babe as if it wasn’t your biggest torment.

You pick it up and spin the dial for Mick’s landline. An action that used to make you feel a bit giddy, finger skidding around the phone and getting the number wrong.

The line connects and your stomach drops. “Hello?” you ask, shuffling uncertainly. “Mick?”

Silence. Then - “Hey, you, I was calling you but your phone was down or something it wasn’t even ringing,” Mick says, half a laugh framing his sentence.

“Yeah, sorry, we’ve had some issues with it. Listen, are you free just now, I gotta tell you something,” you murmur, rubbing your temple.

“Oh dear,” he says, chuckling. “Am I in trouble or something?”

“Nah, nothing like that, listen it’s better to say in person.”

“Alright, yeah, no worries. Listen, I can swing by just now, if you want?” Mick says, his tone sobering when you don’t laugh back.

“Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks,” you reply, and murmur a goodbye. When the phone sets back down, it starts ringing again, loud and obnoxious.

You stare down at it, considering not answering but you’ve already pissed Bernie off, you don’t want to make it worse.

You lift the receiver up, but as soon as you hear the start of a Scottish accent, you disconnect the call. “Not now,” you mutter to it, as if it can hear you. It starts ringing again, but the door goes so you’re allowed an excuse to not answer it.

Mick stands at the door, lightly panting and giving you a sweet smile. “Sorry, ran over here, I thought something might be wrong,” he says, shuffling in as you open the door wider. He glances over at the ringing phone. “Do you need to get that?”

“Nah, it’s that pervert who keeps calling,” you explain, rubbing your eyes.

You set out to the living room, accepting your lot in life to always hear that same ringtone, but Mick reaches over and lifts the receiver before you can stop him. “Hello?” he says. There’s silence on the other side, you can’t even hear the burr of a response. Then - “Listen, mate, I think you need to leave these girls alone, alright? Or you’re not gonna like what’s gonna happen. Yeah?”

Mick doesn’t wait to hear what else is said because he hangs up pointedly. There’s a beat as you both stare at the phone and wait for it to ring again. A second, then another and it stays blessedly silent.

You can’t help but worry about any retribution from that, but you give Mick a weak smile when he spreads his arms out as if to say - see?

“Well, hopefully he’ll leave you alone, let me know if he doesn’t. If I get my hands on him, I’ll show him how to speak to a lady,” he announces.

“Right,” you murmur, nerves chewing you up and spitting you out whole. “Listen,” you start, turning into the living room. “I have something I need to tell you.”

He sits on the couch next to you, and looks at you very seriously. He’s so nice, he’s breaking your heart. “It’s alright, say it,” he says, like he knows already.

“I’m pregnant,” you manage, looking at a point over his shoulder to give yourself the strength before you look back at him.

He didn’t know already, his face goes slack and he blinks a few times, stupefied. “Right,” he murmurs, turning away and looking down at his palms as if trying to find some kind of answer there. “Right, ok.” He gives you another glance, then looks back down at his hands.

You sit, hovering an uncertain hand over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spring that on you. I just thought it’d be best to come out with it.”

“Right,” he repeats, and you try to poke down the spike of irritation before it comes out.

“Listen, you don’t have to worry about it, ok, I’m not keeping it.”

His head yanks up to look at you. “What?” he asks, incredulously.

“Well, it’s not the best time for a baby is it? I mean, we’re both students, neither of us work -”

“I work at my dad’s office sometimes,” Mick interrupts.

You blink back at him, barely believing what you’re hearing. “Well, that’s nice and all, but we’re not ready for a baby.”

“Well, we don’t know that yet, do we? Listen, this is all very sudden, but are you telling me that there isn’t even a little part of you that is thinking of keeping it?” Mick asks, looking at you imploringly.

There is, but it’s in a small, selfish place within you. The same place that is living with all the money in the world and doesn’t have to think about dealing with any real life problems. “I don’t think that would be best,” you say, frowning.

Mick scowls over at you. Gone is the sweet man who walked you home and smoothed your hair out of your face when it was windy. “So, you just get to decide that then? No input from me, it’s not a group decision?”

“What are you talking about, group decision?” you repeat, flummoxed. “I’m not getting married, I want to actually live my life first!”

“So, marrying me would be ending your life?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “That’s not what I meant, I just -” you sigh, standing up and trying to inhale a deep breath to get your words right. “If we got married, then there would be kids and a wedding and a house and - I don’t want to do that yet! I want to do something first, and then think about that.”

Mick stares back at you, incredulous. “I never said that we had to do all of that -”

“Oh, come on, Mick, what else are you saying! I’ll keep it and what - keep studying? I’d have to drop out, and you’d have to support me, and people would talk if we weren’t married - and then that’s exactly where we would end up.” You sigh, turning away from him. You tug your hair out of your face, feel the pull on your scalp. Little pinpricks of pain, needling and firing up your annoyance.

“I just think that we should talk about this some more,” Mick says, approaching you. You can hear the groan of the floorboards, the heat of his hand before it reaches your shoulder, but you duck away from it before it can connect.

“I don’t want to talk anymore, I’ve just let you know what’s going to happen. I think you should go, Mick,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t think that’s going to help,” he argues, making you roll your eyes..

“Mick, listen, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, please,” you say, stepping back again when he reaches for your hands.

Mick says your name, the way that he has a hundred times and you shut your eyes to it.

His hands still on your arms. There’s a horrible crunch and when you open your eyes, you see Mick staring down at you, his face frozen in confusion. “What-?” you start and then he falls forward and you see the mess of the back of his skull.

There’s blood trickling down the back of his coat, mixing with the snow that was lingering there. You try to catch him but he’s too heavy and you both slump down with the combined weight. Yourself versus gravity, a losing battle.

“Put ‘im down, lovely,” a voice says, something that you’ve heard too many times, only without the tinny whistle of the phone line over it.

You stare over at the man from the phone, barely understanding what he’s saying. He’s standing there, tall in your living room. Taller than any man you’ve seen, in a grey henley that is stretched over the muscles in his chest. He looks angry in a badly concealed way, his jaw sharp beneath a 5 o’clock shadow.

Your eyes drag down a muscled arm and see a brick in his hand, blood on the corner. “Oh my god,” you whimper, knees buckling as Mick’s feet go out from under him.

“Here,” the man says, reaching over and plucking Mick out of your arms. He makes it look easy, as though Mick isn’t nearly as tall as he is. You step forward as if to stop him, but he only lifts Mick a step away and lets him drop to the floor, along with the brick. “There we are, what a bore he is, huh?” he grins, teeth keen in his mouth.

You stare at him, tears in your eyes. He groans at the sight, the way he had on the phone. You’d taken it for sympathy, but now you can see his expression, you can see the way his eyes light up as the tears gather in your waterline.

“Hey, c’mere, sweet thing, stop that,” he coos, reaching out for you.

“Why did you do that?” you whimper, glancing down at Mick, slumped out on the rug, blood staining the back of his head. The man cups your face, and you can feel the sticky drag of blood on his fingers. “Please don’t.”

“Shh,” he coos, leaning forward and nudging his nose against your own. “‘am here, ‘ave got you.”

His words are the opposite of comforting, pure terror as cruel hands cradle you. “I don’t-”

“Sweetheart, it’s alright, all this stress isn’t good for the baby, yeah?” he murmurs, stroking his thumbs along your cheeks. He looks so happy now, blood lightly splatters in the shadow of his beard, gazing down at you like he might even love you.

“The baby…?” you repeat, voice weak.

He shushes you, leaning down to kiss you, quick enough that you barely have time to jerk back. “It’s alright, ‘am no’ going tae leave you, ye hear me?” His hands cupping the back of your neck, supporting your head. His thumbs dig into the soft skin under your chin, raising gooseflesh across your skin.

Mick groans on the floor, and the man looks a moment away from snarling. Over his shoulder, on the stairs is Bernie. Point of contact, you want to reach out and grab her, cower behind her and let her take over. She’d never find herself in this position, you’re certain of it.

You glance down at Mick, the blood seeping into the rug. Amy’s bedroom gathering dust. “We should go,” you say, loud enough that Bernie freezes on the stairs.

The man’s attention is dragged back up to you, eyes scrutinising you.You’re a terrible liar, you always have been. “Yeah?” he asks, staring at you, unblinking.

You nod, swallowing harshly. “Yeah, I want to go. With you. We should go,” you stammer, hesitating in the air before you lay a hand on his cheek. He’s stone, staring down at you. He’d been hunched before, but he’s at full height, blocking your view of the stairs. You barely come up to his chest and that has another tremor rocking through you.

It’s not working, you go to lower your hand but he catches it, looks at it, cradled in his. He leans down and nudges his nose against your own. He kisses you again but this time it’s open mouthed and wet. You can barely keep up, tongue tentatively touching back before he sucks it into his mouth with a groan that you feel vibrate into your chest.

When he pulls back, there’s a string of spit between your mouths which you break with your hand and an embarrassed look that he seems to like. “Let’s just go,” you say, looking up at him, pleading. “Please,” you add, voice trembling.

“Aw, now how can ah say no after you’ve asked so nicely,” he murmurs, pressing a harsh kiss into the crown of your head.

He pulls back and you can see that the staircase is empty, making you inhale shakily with something like relief and devastation. Mick’s hand twitches on the floor but the man barely spares him a glance and his gaze turns hot on the side of your face when you linger for a second too long.

“You ready?” He asks.

You don’t nod but you let him tug you out into the cold. The last image of the house is the phone sitting, quiet and docile, on the sideboard in your hallway.

-

You stare at the rest of your life standing in a motel bedroom in front of you. He’s taller than you thought he’d be. Even in your guiltiest moments, you’d been convinced that he would be small, maybe a bit snivelly. Someone that would resort to doing all of this because he was convinced that no one would want him.

You’re a bit baffled because this man is built. He pushes the hold-all into the corner of the room, and you watch the flex of the muscles in his back through his shirt. He looks strapped into his henley, ridiculous pecs about to burst out of it, the hair on his chest peeking over the neckline.

You hover, unsure what to do with your hands as you watch him. He looks up at you, crouched over and unpacking his belongings. “Are y’alright there?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at your shuffling.

“Yeah,” you say, voice higher than you intend it to be. This captures his full attention as he turns to fully face you, still on his knees, but he still feels like he’s taking up most of the room. “I don’t have any pyjamas,” you add, for want to say anything.

His grin, raunchy, has you forgetting the situation that you’re in so you can look away, mortified. “Well, that’s no’ a problem, angel, I reckon you could fit in my shirt easily enough.” He stands up and crosses the space between you in a few steps before you can say anything. He circles your waist in his hands, as if measuring but his gaze is heated on your face.

“What’s your name?” you ask, blinking up at him.

He startles as if he thought you’d already know it. “It’s Johnny,” he murmurs, eyes heavy lidded as he takes in your face. They’re blue, you think. Something that startles you more than it should. Someone looked at those eyes and named him once, and years later, he’s standing here with you.

You introduce yourself, but this seems to amuse him more than anything.

He reaches up to cup your face, his fingers long, swallowing up your face. “Why are you doing this?” you ask, voice fragile.

“What a silly question,” he scoffs, thumbing over your cheekbones. “Yer the one for me, I knew it the second ah heard yer voice.” One hand smooths your baby hairs out of your face, the callouses in his palms dragging against your skin.

You don’t know what to say, staring up at him, frozen. He has to be insane, that’s the only way to explain it. His affection seems volatile, blaring hot and sparking off your skin.

His pupils are blown, until the blue is almost gone. He leans down and kisses you. You’re still frozen, ice rapidly melting until you feel like you may disappear.

It’s chaste until it isn’t, his lips parting your own and there isn’t anything teasing about it. His tongue is in your mouth, licking along your own and he groans, deep in his chest.

Stubble catches against your chin. You’re barely able to do much else than let him tilt your head back, thumbs on the hinge of your jaw so he can kiss you deeper.

He pulls you towards him, sitting on the bed and yanking you onto his lap. You cling to his shoulders. An exhale, rough, as you feel his hands cup your backside. He groans, his hands squeezing. You blink at him - embarrassed and horrified all at once. To be wanted so openly feels rotten and flattering all at once. A confusing cocktail of emotions that flutter up through your chest..

He kisses you again, pulling you on top of him as he leans back. Everything is almost frantic about it, his hands trying to touch every part of you at once. On top doesn’t seem to be enough for him because you’re rolled beneath him soon enough, his mouth pulling back from your own so he can lean down to suck a mark onto your neck.

Catching your breath, you realise that there is spit down your chin, slick and cooling which makes you repress a shudder.

“Wait, I don’t think we -” you start, cut off when he yanks your shirt down to kiss the start of your breast. Your bra irritates him, yanked down as well so he can suck your nipple into his mouth. Your nails dig into his shoulders, thick muscle that you barely make a dent in. He pulls back, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin which makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands fevered as they reach for the waistband of your jeans. Your nails dig in, small crests in the cotton fabric but he barely notices. “I need to taste you, angel, it’s been killing me, please.”

“I don’t think - ” you stammer, but he lifts you bodily and whips your trousers down your legs, getting caught on your ankles where your slippers are still on. You squeak but try to stop yourself from shaking too much. The image of that brick in his hand, the same hands that he slides your thighs now.

He barely seems to care, ducking down and spreading your thighs over his shoulders. Your heels kick at his back, but he’s pulling your panties to the side and cooing at the sight of your bush. “There she is, there’s my girl,” he murmurs, reaching his hands up to yank your panties down to your knees.

Any moment not spent with his face close to your cunt seems to be a moment wasted as he drops back down so hurriedly. He uses his thumb to part you, the breath getting knocked out of him at the sight of your bare cunt.

“Fuck, baby, she is so pretty,” he sighs, pressing a rough kiss to your clit that makes you jump before he opens his mouth whole and laves his tongue all over you.

It’s so messy - his grunts as he eats you out, his tongue dipping into your hole which makes you burn white hot. You think he’d reach all the way in, lick all the way until he ended up in your chest to eat the muscle of your heart.

He sucks your clit in his mouth and you yelp, kicking his back which makes him laugh. Your hands dig into his scalp, scratch red lines that you can’t see.

His thumbs dig into the back of your thighs, holding you still even as he works his tongue flat over your clit. You whine, almost sobbing, hips jerking as you try to resist grinding against his face.

One arm hooks around your hip, his hand lowering so he can pull the hood back on your clit. You hear him coo before he licks over it, fat and wet.

A shard of light, stretched long and it bursts, cracks right along your spine. You groan, deep in your chest as you come, legs kicking out as your body is shocked back into itself. “Oh fuck,” you mutter, grunting as he pushes his hands down on your hips to hold you still. You don’t want to look down, see the mess between your legs and likely his grinning face. You cringe as you hear his mouth pull back from your sex, the sound wet and slick.

“Fuck, I always knew that you would taste good,” he groans, spitting on your cunt which makes you jump. He kisses a rough path up your torso, his stubble rubbing against your sensitive skin and setting it alight as he goes. You groan as he pushes your legs apart, an ache building in the muscle of your upper thigh.

“Huh,” you manage, eloquently, before he dips his tongue in your mouth and you’re thoroughly distracted.

You’re fluid, tugged in whatever manner Johnny wants you. He pulls you up, his hands on your backside to brace you over his thighs.

Your slippers have kicked off but your jeans are still tangled at your ankles, another barrier to prevent you from moving away. Not that you have any strength left to think about it. He unbuckles his belt and the sound is erotic, you still have enough shame to look away from his hands.

You feel the nudge of his cock against your cunt, but you’re so wet that it starts to slide in. Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut as he starts to work into you. Johnny’s head drops to the pillow beside you, whining into your ear as he gets halfway in. “Holy fuck,” you manage, gasping out.

He pulls back just to push back in, dropping his hand back down to your clit which has you twitching. You clench down which makes Johnny’s eyes roll back in his head. He mutters some kind of prayer under his breath as he thrust back into you.

A moment later and he bottoms out, his forehead digging into your clavicle. He’s deep enough in you that you can feel him in your chest. You pant, unable to catch your breath even though he hasn’t moved yet. “Johnny -” you start, but just saying his name makes him moan so loudly that it cuts you off.

“Have some mercy, angel, ‘am no’ trying tae embarrass myself here,” he tells you, gripping his hands on your waist. You clench down on him as he says that, making him thrust against you even as he’s buried all the way in.

“Hang on, wait -” you start, voice high and breathy in your chest. Your hand is clammy and skids across his shirt. He bites down on your collarbone and sets to work.

Everything is sticky. You can hear the wet slap of your bodies as Johnny pulls back just to buck back into you. He’s barely pulling out, as if he can’t bear it, cock kicking inside you as you whimper.

There’s a dull ache, as he must be knocking against something deep and unseen. It’s a strange pain, that you think you must like, legs jumping to try and cling onto him.

“Holy fuck, you’re so good, even better than ah thought,” he huffs against your collarbone, his voice liquid and slurred.

“Uh huh,” you respond, eloquently. He pulls back just to yank his shirt off with one arm. A flash of cold air that almost knocks you before it’s swept away as he drops back down. A wall of heat bearing down on you.

Your mind is leaking out of your ears with each thrust into you. Your whines are punched out of you, and you’d worry about being loud if Johnny wasn’t drowning you out. He’s babbling into your throat, his hands digging into your ass to buck into you harder, your lower back lifted right off of the cheap mattress which shrieks in protest to all this movement.

“There’s a girl, c’mon you can do it, fuck, this is the best little pussy, huh?” he moans, hot air against the soft underside of your chin. His hand drops down to your clit and you jump, electric wire touched and skeleton on display.

“Oh Christ, no,” you moan, and he scrapes his teeth along your jaw, his thumb relentless even as you squirm away.

It’s a gathering of heat that you don’t feel equipped to deal with. You try to tell him, but the weight of him against your chest is suffocating, the hair on his chest is matted in with your combined sweat.

Your back arches off of the bed again, coming harder this time. You feel the wet that comes out of you this time, feel each pulse as it rocks through you.

“I can’t,” he whines, huffing into your neck, his hands bruising on your hips. “Tightest cunt - ‘Av never - oh fuck, fuck.”

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. The kick of his cock and then heat pooling in you as he grinds against you, buried to the hilt.

He finally stops and the room is filled with wet panting. Your thighs tremble, spread over his own. There’s a pain on your ankle where your jeans have rubbed against them and are likely irritated now.

His thumb brushes over your clit and you hiss, almost bucking him off of the bed. “Easy,” he laughs, breathlessly, pulling his hand back and leaning back. All his breath is knocked out of him as he looks down and sees his cock buried in you. He runs a thumb through your bush, everything wet and shiny, his gaze reverent.

When he starts to pull out, you can see a white ring of both your cum on his cock. Shame curls in your stomach, disgust as the levity of the situation you’re in starts to weigh on you.

You look up at the ceiling, white paint applied haphazardly and without care. Johnny smooths his hands up the curve of your waist and up around the back of your torso. His hands dig in, oddly fascinated by the feeling of your shoulder blades beneath his hands.

He slams down into the bed next to you, tugging you over onto him. One hand holding yours, his other rubbing up and down your back. You fuss, dragging your jeans off of the one leg that it’s still clinging to. Jeans thrown off, you flop back down, and Johnny receives you, palms hot against your skin. He still has his jeans on, the fabric rough against the skin of your legs but you can barely do more than twitch in protest.

You stare at the faint freckles that you can see through his chest hair, dotted all along his chest. He’s like a dog, nuzzling his head into yours for affection.

He runs his thumb along the back of your hand, lingering on the tendon that leads up to your ring finger. “Me, you, and the wain,” he says, voice satisfied. A bear in the back of a cave, sated, surrounded by bones. “Tha’s all we need.”

The rest of your life, laid out for you. You feel dull, wrung out and dropped into a puddle. “Yeah,” you murmur, thinking about Bernie on the stairs, Amy’s missing person posters, Mick and his blood on the house mother’s rug. You made the decision there, in the space between you and Bernie. Time to live in it.

Johnny pulls you up to kiss you easier, and you let your mouth drop open and swallow his spit like arsenic.

-

You stand in the car park while Johnny haggles for a car. You feel more pregnant now, a small bump that you and Johnny notice, but everyone else could ignore.

It’s still winter, but Christmas has passed along with New Year, well into the chill of Marsh that is overstaying its welcome.

Johnny jogs back to you, keys in hand that he shakes above his head. “Guy tried to rip me off, but I got a decent price for it,” he tells you. When he reaches you, he loops his arms around your waist and reels you in. “Hey, pretty lady,” he grins.

“How much did you get for it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as he kisses your cheek, then your hairline, your temple. It feels bizarrely domestic, if you ignore your missing poster on the pole over his shoulder.

“Nothing out of budget, don’t worry,” he mutters, pressing a rough kiss to your jaw and tugging your scarf down to mouth at your neck.

You hum, letting him do as he pleases for a second before you whack him with your gloved hand. “My ankles are sore, can we go?” you ask, peering up at him with wide eyes when he pulls back.

He snorts. “Let’s get you out of the cold,” he murmurs, onto your temple, as if it was his idea.

A script from another life. You let him pull you into the car and buckle you in, suffocatingly affectionate.

You tug your gloves off and he kisses you. One hand on your belly, the other on the ring on your finger.

You sleep while he drives and dream about chopping down power lines until your hands are covered in sores from the handle of the axe. You wake up and they’re still standing. As they always have.

[EJECT]

[pome-seed]

Too Late | Part 2 | ــﮩ٨ـ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Yearning Protective!Bucky x Injured!Reader

Summary: Bucky refuses to leave your side. Grief, regret, and what-if's consume him. All he can think about- all he can want, is for you to wake up.

Word Count: 4.2k

Tags: Yearning, secret affection, physical touch, panic attacks, bucky being a sweetheart. Protective Bucky Barnes. Mention of violence. Serious injury.

18+ blog, Minors Do Not Interact.

Authors Note: Sad sad boy. If you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Masterlist

“Can I come in?” Steve's voice is quiet from the door frame.

Bucky’s stomach curls bitterly, his gaze stuck on your still form. “Not my choice.” He mutters, his lips pressed to his scarred knuckles. 

There’s a sigh, then the sound of footsteps against tile. “I just wanted to check in…” 

“You think she’s made a miraculous recovery?” Bucky tries to stifle the venom in his tone, but it bleeds through his clenched teeth. The resentment is too potent to staunch. Too painful.

“I just wanted to see how she’s doing, Buck.” Steve approaches your bed carefully, as if one step too close to you and Bucky might snap. 

“Take a look, Steve.” He mutters, tracking the slow rise and fall of your chest. “I think it’s pretty clear.”

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Steve tries, the guilt basically seeping from his pores. 

“Then leave.” He finally looks at the blond, his blue eyes dark, cast beneath the shadows of his knit brow. Neither of the men can remember the last time such a rift was torn between them. Since the moment recognition sparked, since the wounds of time and captivity healed over. 

There had never been such a deep wound between them. 

But Bucky doesn’t know how to fix something like this. An accident, a preventable accident. One with consequences far more painful than either could imagine.

“Please,” the blonde whispers, his frown curling deeper. “I just- I came to check on you. “

“You’ve seen me.” His voice is cold, detached- wounded. He shifts his gaze back to your bruised face. 

“You haven’t eaten.” Steve shifts on his feet. “I just think-”

“I don’t care what you think.”

Steve flinches, the sting of those words burning deep. “She wouldn’t want you hurting yourself like this. Neglecting yourself won’t help her-”

“Don’t talk to me about what she’d want- about what’ll help her.” He hisses, sitting up straighter in his seat. “She doesn’t have wants anymore- not like this. If you want to help, then fix her!” He snaps, his throat bobbing with sudden emotion. “Huh? No, you can’t. No one can. So just get the fuck out.” 

Bucky slumps back in his seat, his knuckles pressing tightly to his lips. 

Steve’s jaw snaps shut, his lips pressed to a thin line. There's a moment of tense silence shared between the two, but it’s clear to them both that Bucky’s uninterested in talking. Nothing Steve could say would change that. 

So he lowers his head and leaves the room. 

The door clicks shut, submerging the room in silence.

Your unconscious form lays still, ignorant to the entire exchange. Ignorant to the rest of the world. Your battered body knows only the tube keeping your lungs expanding, and the needle stuck in your hand. 

Nothing else matters to you now.

Bucky blinks back tears, his knee bouncing anxiously. The resentment he feels towards his best friend brings him no satisfaction. It doesn’t help the pain in his chest, but he just can’t help it. He looks at Steve, and all he sees is regret. All he feels is grief. 

He hears Steve’s voice forming the words, telling him about your condition. 

Saying the words “You were right.”

“Fuck,” he chokes, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. He shakes his head, trying to clear the voices- the dark thoughts. It doesn’t work, of course. The silence of your room only drags him further into the darkness. 

And when he looks back at you, he can’t help but cry. Silent tears slip down his cheeks, cold against his heated skin. 

You look so different from the woman he knows. From the woman he longs for. 

Regret burns in his chest like an old friend, spreading like poison. 

He never should have let you go out there.

He never should have waited so long to tell you how he feels.

He never should have waited so long to ask you to dinner. To tell you how beautiful you are. To tell you how you make his heart stagger in his chest.

He never should have waited. 

Life is made up of choices, regrets and joys. But mostly regrets. Regret is what makes a person human. It makes them think about the past, about the future. About their next step, their next choice. 

Nobody wants to live a life of regret, whether it be because of a job, a child, a love, or a choice. Regret tears a person apart, makes a person bleed and drown. 

Bucky has known nothing but regret and suffering. He’s had nothing except memories to keep him going. The memory of his family, of his childhood, of Steve. 

Memories of what life could be.

Until he met you.

You were like a breath of fresh air. Like the smell of rain in a drought. 

The moment he saw you, he knew it was different. He knew you’d become something sore in his chest, perfect to torture him. He knew that smile, that laugh, that awkward tap of your fingers against your desk, it would kill him. 

It would bleed through him, like a drug. 

It was such a foreign feeling that it terrified him, you terrified him. He didn’t know how to talk to you, how to draw you closer. It wasn’t for the lack of trying, because on his part, he was always finding ways to be near you.

He was always finding reasons to wander into your office, to draw out conversations in the briefing room, to help you with anything you needed. 

And God, the soft smile you’d send his way whenever you caught his eye, it melted him. 

The quiet “good luck out there, soldier,” you’d whisper to him on the way out of the briefing room.

The sound of your chuckle in his ear, when you spoke to him over comms. 

Everything about you set him on fire. 

And all he wanted was to see that smile one more time. Hear that laugh, one more time. 

This fate was so preventable, and that just made it all the more painful. It would have been so easy for you to stay home- behind the desk, behind the scenes. But you didn’t know how to say no.

They needed a woman. They needed someone to blend into the background. Someone invisible. With every other female Avenger being a face even a blind man could recognize, you were all that’s left.

And you never said no to helping people. To helping the team. God, did Bucky wish you could have just been selfish this once. Been too afraid to go out there. Too cowardly. 

But you said yes. 

You had no idea what you were walking into, and you said yes. 

Bucky drags your limp hand into his, careful to not touch your IV. His tongue swipes over his lip, soothing the anxiously bitten skin. It’s been days, he thinks. Days of silence. Days of bad news. Days spent in denial.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” he whispers, his voice cracking. But no apology could make this better. “I don’t-” He sucks in a trembling breath. “I don’t know what to do,” he choked. “I don’t know how to make this better…”

Talking to you feels pointless. You can’t hear him. And even if you could, you shouldn’t have to listen to his pathetic ramblings. 

He swallows hard and drops his head to the mattress, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. His eyes squeeze shut, his breath fanning over your scabbed hand. You don’t smell like you anymore. You smell like antiseptic and papery sheets. 

Bucky tries to remember the last time he was close enough to smell you.

He thinks it was the last time the group of you and the team went out to the bar. You asked him to watch your drink so you could go dance, and when you came back you leaned into his space to sip from your straw. 

He remembers the feeling of his cheeks staining pink as he shamelessly smelled your perfume. Your conditioner mixed in, drifting into his space as your hair brushed his jaw. 

You hadn’t noticed, too tipsy and busy laughing. You were so happy that night.

You loved to dance. He liked to watch, fond and protective. 

He wishes he would have joined you on the dancefloor that night, taken your hand and followed your lead. But he didn’t, too afraid and too embarrassed.

Regret. Regret might as well be his middle name, engraved on his tombstone. 

Bucky doesn’t remember dozing off, but when he next opens his eyes, a nurse is checking your vitals. 

His head snaps up, his eyes squinting through the dark room. A single light over your bed illuminates the space enough for the nurse to read your chart. “Is she okay?”

The woman jumps, her gaze snapping to Bucky. “Oh-” she blinks down at the man. “Yes, everything’s fine. I’m just monitoring her.”

“Oh,” He slowly sits up, glancing back down at where your hand is clutched in his. “Nothing new?”

The woman shakes her head. “Nothing as of now,” her voice is soft, practiced in the art of bad news. “But no change doesn’t have to be bad, it means she’s not getting worse.”

Bucky nods solemnly, his hands absently playing with your fingers. “Right.”

“I’ll let you get some rest, someone will be back to check on her in about an hour.” She says on the way out. 

Bucky says nothing, his disappointment too heavy. A part of him quietly wished that the next time he woke up, you’d be there blinking back at him. But that was too hopeful. Instead, you lay there motionless. Silent, hopeless.

Bucky has handled a lot of bad news in his lifetime. He has dealt with some of the worst shit humanity could throw at a person. But this is different. Waiting like this? It’s killing him. 

It’s only been a few days and there's already no end in sight.

He doesn’t know what’ll happen to you. He doesn't know what tomorrow may bring. He just knows he’ll be with you when it comes. 

Days pass without change. 

Bucky stops hoping for good news. Instead, he hopes for the lack of bad news. Your condition fluctuates, every day something new worries your doctors, only for you to pull through. But nothing substantial changes.

You’re still unresponsive. Still sleeping.

Eventually Bucky eats. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he finally makes the trip to the cafeteria. The smell of food makes his cheeks sour in disgust- the kind that only comes when you’re starving. 

A grief only partially underway comes in pieces. It makes everything you do feel bitter and poisoned. 

It makes chewing and swallowing feel wrong, knowing you may never get the chance again. Bucky stares down at his sandwich blankly, his body heavier than it was that morning. 

So he chokes down a few bites and makes the trip back to your room. He knows there will be no change when he gets there, but there's still that dying hope you’ll be awake when he returns.

Instead, what he finds makes his stomach drop. “What are you doing here?”

Tony glances back over his shoulder, his brow twitching up. “Morning sunshine, I was wondering where you were-”

“What are you doing here, Tony?” Bucky repeats himself, his body stiff in the doorway.

The other man sighs, his hands tossing up in defeat. “I wanted to see how she’s doing. Doc said there wasn’t much change, huh?”

Bucky’s jaw flutters, his teeth clenching shut. His stomach turns, and suddenly the rest of the wrapped sandwich in his hand sounds a lot less appetizing. He silently returns to his chair at your bedside, his knee bouncing anxiously.

“Not gonna say anything?” Tony’s voice is grating to his ears.

“Got nothing to say.” He mutters, his gaze falling heavily to your hand- which he scoops back into his. 

“Right,” Tony mutters. “Look-” He sucks in a heavy breath. “I wanted to say you’re right.”

Bucky huffs, his lip twitching wryly.

“You warned us, and we should have listened to you. We-” Tony looks off to the side. “We should have had her back.”

The words feel like a kick to the gut. Nothing he didn’t already know, but god did it hurt to hear him say it. To acknowledge just how preventable this all was.

Bucky doesn’t respond, his silence toxic enough to send the message. Tony makes a quiet noise, then moves to the door. But then he’s speaking again- this time not to Bucky. 

“Good luck with him, he’s not exactly in a chatty mood.”

Bucky doesn’t have to look back to know who it is. He can tell by the quiet hum and careful footsteps. Then he’s watching Sam approach your bed side, a solemn look on his face. 

Neither men say anything at first. Sam just watches you, his hand hovering carefully above your shoulder. His frown curls deeper, and then he’s glancing at the other. 

“People are worried, you know,” he mutters, glancing at where Bucky cradles your hand in his.

“They should be,” he whispers, his fingers slowly playing with yours. 

“I mean about you,” Sam sighs heavily- in that knowing way he does.

Bucky frowns. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m Betty White,” Sam huffs. “You’re not fine, man. You haven't left this place since she got admitted.”

Why would he leave? What’s the point? And if he did- what if something happened? What would he do if you slipped away, and he wasn’t here?

“Got nowhere else to be.” He whispers, his thumb tracing your nail beds. 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, instead just lets himself stare at the both of you. At your yellowing bruises, your spikey stitches, your intubation tube. Bucky’s dark eyebags. The wrinkle forming between his brows. 

He notices the blanket in the corner, where Bucky tossed it aside nights before, frustrated and pacing. 

He notices the imprint in the blanket by your hip, where Bucky’s been laying his head- dozing off at your side. 

“She could pull through, you know. Crazier things have happened.” Sam mutters.

“People have died from smaller things.” Bucky responds bitterly. “People die every day.”

“And people survive every day too,” The younger responds, his voice strong. “You need to get it together, man. You’re not helping her if you can’t even believe in her.”

Bucky’s head snaps up, horror and injury flashing in his gaze. “I haven’t given up on her.”

“Sounds like you have. Sounds like you’re just waiting for her to die,” Sam responds, his frown battling the others. 

“Fuck you-” Bucky spits, his fingers mindlessly tightening around yours.

Sam doesn’t take offense to his venomous words. He knows he’s just angry at himself, at the situation. “I just mean, don’t give up on her yet. I’ve survived a lot of insane shit, and I’m still standing. Don’t count her out just yet.”

“She’s not-”

“An Avenger?” Sam lifts a brow. “I haven't taken any serum either, Buck. Neither has about eight billion people. And everyday people survive the impossible. Just give her time.”

Bucky’s lips press together, words dying on his tongue. He hasn’t given up on you. 

He’s just never been good with hope. 

With positive outlooks. 

He’s not used to things turning out well for him. For anyone.

Sam rounds your bed, his hand dropping to Bucky’s shoulder. “I know how much you care about her, Buck. So just hold on for her, okay?”

Bucky wakes to the sound of panic. 

His body shoots up right, his neck pinched from the awkward angle. A garbled noise drags his attention up your body. 

His pulse spikes, his eyes snapping wide. 

You make a choked noise, your throat constricting around your intubation tube. Your lashes flutter, your body twitches. Your hands are moving, your fingers twitching around your neck. 

Bucky is shouting, his hands trembling around the emergency control remote. He barely hears the words spilling from his lips, all he knows is he’s calling for help.

A nurse comes rushing in, shoves past Bucky and heads straight for you. “What’s-what’s happening?” He stammers, stumbling to the foot of your bed. Another nurse jogs into the room, her hand dropping to Bucky’s forearm. 

“Sir, just give us a minute-”

But he can’t hear her. All he can see is you, tears streaming down your bruised cheeks. Eyes rolled back. Saliva dripping down your chin. The other Nurse is quick with her hands, steadily pulling the tube from your throat. 

You choke on a gasp, your busted lips falling open.

Bucky’s swaying, he realizes. He has to grab the root of your bed for stability, a shaky breath of air stinging in his chest. Everything blurs together as your eyes roll open. It’s like tunnel vision sets in, and all he can see is you. Your chest rising on its own, your lashes fluttering, your brows pinching together.

He’s too scared to blink- afraid you might slip away. Afraid it might be a dream. 

But then the nurses brush past him, whispers of encouragement and reassurance on their tongues. Then the door clicks shut. 

You’re alone. 

A gasp slips from his lips the moment your eyes meet. He’s stumbling to your side, his hands hovering hesitantly over your body. Your lips shift, but only a wince climbs up your throat.

“Hey… hey…” he whispers, his voice hitched up a careful octave. His heart is thrumming in his chest, blood rushing through his ears- almost too loud for him to focus. “It’s okay- it’s okay, don’t speak…”

You whine softly, your expression melting into a grimace. 

Calloused fingers brush your cheek, a graze, too scared to touch you fully. A cold tear slips down your cheek. You blink up at him, your head rolling towards his hand. He has to swallow the choked noise that begs so climb out of his chest. 

“I don’t-” he carefully cups your cheek, your spikey stitches scratching his palm. “I don’t know what to do…” He whispers, almost to himself. Your fingers brush over the back of his hand, your movements sluggish and weak. You whimper softly, making his pulse spike. “It’s okay…”

Your eyes roll shut, and then your hand is falling away. For a moment, Bucky’s heart sinks to his feet. But he can feel your steady breath against his fingers. He can hear the slow beat of your heart monitor. You swipe your tongue over your lips again, wincing quietly.

“You’re here…” You whisper, your voice raw and chapped. Bucky nearly flinches from the sound. 

“Yeah…” He swallows, stroking his palm down your cheek. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

Your eyes roll open, staring up at him. You lean into his calloused hand, your face numb. “What…happened?” The words sound more like a whimper, your lip wobbling with emotion.

Bucky almost flinches at the sound. He’s never heard you sound so weak, so small. A pain blooms in his chest as he recalls the details of your accident. “You were spotted on your mission…” He starts, barely whispering as his gaze flickers over you. “You were attacked, you- you went through a wall on the second floor.” He blinks back tears, not wanting to scare you with his emotions. 

“You fell, landed on a car.” He has to clear his throat, his body coiling tense. As the words leave him, he can’t help but marvel at you. At how impossible it seems for you to be here, to be alive. But you are; you stare up at him, tears slipping down your temples, your eyes clear. 

You press your lips together and turn your face away from him, trying not to sob. Humiliation floods your system, and suddenly all you want to do is hide. 

You failed, so so painfully. You couldn’t do the one thing asked of you. And now? You don’t dare look down at your body, don’t dare wonder what you look like. You can only imagine. And the shame those images bring you is all consuming. 

You choke down a dry sob, your cheek pressing into the pillow. Bucky’s hands hover above you now, helpless of what to do. “Hey, hey,” he whispers, his fingers shaking. “It’s okay- You're-” He stops himself; he won’t lie to you. He has no idea if you’re okay, or if you ever will be again. 

You drag a bruised hand over your face, wiping salty tears. You gasp when your nails catch on spiky stitches and swollen bones. Your panicked gaze snaps to Bucky’s. The look in his eye is harrowing; something you’ve never seen from him before. 

The dread building inside you spikes, swelling in your chest, stopping your lungs from expanding. You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, your heart pounding against your ribs. Your fingers press a little firmer to the sealed gash in your cheek, making you wince.

Bucky snatches your wrist away quickly, panic building in him. “Don’t-” he blurts, his hands circling yours, encasing it. Sharp blue eyes snap between yours, eyebrows pinched and shot to his hairline. “Please don’t do that…”

You whine, wanting to turn away from him again. You don’t want him to see you like this. You don’t want his image of you to be stained with weakness and failure. 

You can barely grasp the thoughts floating through your head, barely keep yourself from hyperventilating. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

Your teeth sink into your lip, smothering the sob building in your throat. But you can’t keep it down this time. Bucky’s careful voice, his strong hand trembling against yours, his unwavering gaze fixed on you- it hurts. All of it.

You can’t breathe, you realize, as your mouth falls open around a cry. Bucky winces above you. He leans over you, one hand falling to your shoulder, the other cradling your head. “Hey, look at me,” he whispers, his gentleness potent.

You blink up at him through tears, your eyes burning. Your chest rattles with each sharp gasp, your ribs aching. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he pets your hair out of your face. “Just breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” he guides you, taking a dramatically slow breath to guide you. 

He’s recycling actions used on him in his darkest moments, trying to follow the steps offered to him long ago. Because he has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to help someone, especially not you.

You, who was like a rock, every time he saw you. You, who always made him feel safe and calm. You, who always knew what to say. 

He’s never seen you like this. He doesn’t want to. But he refuses to leave you like this. 

You try to listen, try to calm down, but the pain in your chest only spurs your panic on. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus on the sound of his voice. 

“Just like that, there you go,” he quietly encourages, stroking your tangled hair back. You focus on the feeling of his warm hand, the feeling of his fingers tracing your hairline. “Doin’ so good,” he whispers, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder.

You breathe out a slow puff, your lips falling open. Bucky’s nails scratch gently at your scalp, then resume petting your hair back. Your eyes roll open, your body relaxing when your gaze meets his. 

His frown tugs deeper. The calloused pad of his thumb strokes the tears from your cheeks. You don’t flinch, don’t move. You just watch him, and the way he carefully frets over you. 

You take another slow breath, your chest aching a little less. Bucky continued thumbing at your tear tracks, his touch feather-light. Your brows twitch together in confusion, your fuzzy brain slowing down enough to make sense of your situation. 

There’s no one else here, no one but him. 

He looks exhausted. He looks distraught. He hasn’t stopped touching you since the moment your eyes rolled open. 

“How long since…?” You whisper, your throat dry as your swallow. 

Bucky snaps out of his daze as he blinks down at you. “A little over a week,” he mutters, frowning at his own words.

“How long…How long have you been here?” Your lashes flutter in a slow blink.

His thumb twitches against your cheek, his palm resting against your jaw. His throat bobs awkwardly, but he doesn’t turn away. “Since the accident.”

The words leave him easily, but the weight they carry is unimaginable. You stare up at him, unblinking, as you swallow everything unsaid. Your silence eats at him, spreading shame beneath his skin like a poison. 

He never once thought of leaving your side. Never once wanted to. He couldn’t- not you. 

But maybe this wasn’t his place. Maybe this was too much, maybe he was overwhelming you. 

Just as his hand begins to pull away, your fingers slide around his wrist. “Don’t,” you blurt. Bucky pauses, his brows twitching up. “Don’t leave.”

He swallows, his hand sliding back around your jaw. Your cold skin heats beneath his touch. Beneath his affection. 

“‘M not goin’ anywhere…” he whispers. 

You squeeze his wrist a little tighter. “Promise?”

For the first time since you woke up, his lips twitch in a soft smile. “I promise.”

A/N: Let me know if yall want more of them. Had some fun with this.

If anyone in the requested tag list wants to be tagged in all my upcoming Bucky fics, let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the regular taglist.

Requested to be tagged in this work:

@splooshdooshploosh @saucysasha2035 @vicmc624 @ordelixx @fadingcollectivenightmare @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @the-once-and-future-bitch @cherryandsugar @thefandomplace

Regular Taglist:

@a-world-with-pure-imagination @frog-fans-unite @1967barracuda @akkklys @cherryheairt @lonelyghosts-stuff @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @devilslittlehelper @miss-chuchu @dollface-xoxo @natalia42069 @thuul-box @local-crazy @justachillgirllui @pleasecallmeunhinged @cookies-and-music @fallen-w1ngs @unicornqueen05 @bloodmocha @sleepysongbirdsings @fadingcollectivenightmare @hosshihusshi @sharkylalala @overwintering-soldier

[phyrestartr]

PR Stunt (Only, Right?) | Sukuna/M!Reader

W/C: 6.9K (oh god lol) #NSFW, fingering, implied fucking, bottom!reader, top!sukuna, angst, fluff, smut, happy ending, Sukuna owns a body shop, reader is an actor, kinda meet cute, ABO dynamics, mpreg, yes there are always babies involved because i love dad sukuna, surprise baby, sukuna is a dickhead (what else is new), Gojo is an actor, Getou is a manager/agent, Toji is a stunt coordinator, Jin is a teacher tags: @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @watyousayin 

“Did you sleep with (L. Name) (F. Name)?” 

The question caught Sukuna off guard; normally, Uraume didn't inquire into his personal life in regards to who he had and hadn't slept with. They were a friend, yes, but moreover they were the bookkeeper and helped with securing clients and arranging meetings–celebrities and their managers were fucks that Sukuna didn't like negotiating with. Best to leave the yapping to someone with a cooler head.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Sukuna asked as he rolled out from under the newest commissioned vehicle. 

Uraume walked to him, iPad in hand, and turned it to him, stone cold. 

Sukuna sat up straighter and squinted at the screen, annoyed. You’d probably just made up some salacious rumour and spread it throughout your friend circles; or worse, you wanted revenge on him for something he probably definitely did. In that case, Sukuna could somewhat understand. But still–

(Name) putting on weight? What’s happening to the former bombshell babe of Japan?!

Pregnant with a baby boy?! The secret's out!

(Name) returns to the stage after giving birth to a baby boy–but who is the father?

(Name) driving a Ryoumen Sukuna rescue vehicle?! Could he be the deadbeat dad we've been looking for?

Sukuna sucked his teeth after skimming over the article titles presented to him. 

“...No proof.” 

“Ah. Then please explain this,” Uraume requested, still polite as ever, as they flicked to an additional few images the scumbag paparazzi had caught of you. 

One was the car mentioned. Sukuna remembered it like it was yesterday–the joy of restoring a Porsche 911 back into its former glory was unmatched. You happily paid for all the parts and too often swung by to see the progress being made on the old thing. Obviously, Sukuna was more than happy to oblige. 

The next was of you holding a little nugget of a baby against your chest as you walked down a street in Shibuya. Nothing too damning, nothing too inspirational. 

But the last one–

“The fuck?” Sukuna mumbled as he snatched the iPad from Uraume’s hands and zoomed in on the now-toddler sitting with you in that damn Porsche, grinning brightly beside his mum while you ruffled his hair. His very, very pink hair. 

Sukuna took a breath while he thought. He didn't have to think too hard, though, not when he still dreamed about you and the short-lived fling between the two of you. 

“A Porsche 911, huh?” Sukuna grinned as he looked over the rusted beater of a car. He could still see scraps of its former glory, of the beautiful thing she used to be. Heaven knows she would've become an irreparable hunk of junk if you hadn't bought it from a scrapyard. 

“Yep.” You beamed. “So you think you can make her pretty again?” 

“You kidding? I'd pay you to let me fix this thing, baby.” Sukuna caught sight of your security stepping forward, but you waved them off without a second thought. 

Sukuna smirked. “But it’s not gonna be cheap.” 

You nodded. “Well, do what you have to. I'll pay whatever you need, handsome.” 

“Yeah?” Sukuna asked, looking your neatly-manicured appearance up and down; you were dressed like you were meeting someone of great importance (and you were, obviously), with your hair groomed perfectly, outfit fit for a premiere, skin flawless. 

“Mhm. And I tip well.” you looked him up and down in kind, grinning as you bit at the nub of your sunglasses.

“Done.” 

Every time you came to check on his progress, genuine excitement flooding in your motormouthed words, you'd go home with him and fuck him silly. 

And now, you were the momma to his baby. Allegedly. 

“I–so what the fuck does this have to do with anything?” Sukuna ran a frustrated hand through his hair after Uraume took the tablet back. “Bitch isn't asking for anything, he's not asking me to be his public fucking baby daddy, not asking me to pay for nothing?” 

“No,” Uraume conceded, “But he and his PR managers have reached out concerning this.” 

The man groaned and stood. “Fucking hell. Can't stand fucking PR teams. The fuck did they want?” 

“They want to make a statement about Touma's father.” 

Sukuna froze.

“Touma's a good name for a boy, right?” 

You asked the question so suddenly, so out of nowhere in the quiet of the afterglow. The city lights sparkled and winked at you both through the towering windows keeping you safe from the outside world. In hindsight, Sukuna would wonder if the city was excited for him. For you. 

“What, for a mutt?” Sukuna drawled, puffing on a blunt while he played with your hair and drowned in the tingles left in the wake of fingers drawing circles on his bare chest. 

“For a kid,” you chastised with a laugh. “I like Touma. Or Touka for a girl. Ayato's nice, too. Maybe Kazue.” 

“You better not be pregnant.”

“I'm not, I'm not. I'm just getting baby fever, I guess.” You hummed and left a sweet kiss against his tan skin. “I guess being around a big, bad boy like you's got me feeling domestic.” 

Sukuna laughed, dazed and happy. “You wanna ruin this pretty lil’ body for a fucking kid? Be my guest. Just don't come looking for a booty call after you've ruined yourself like that.” 

“Oh, don't worry,” you cooed. “I won't.” 

Man. Man. 

“A statement.” 

“In other words–”

“I'm not the fucking father.” 

“This might be a good way to get Yorozu off your case,” Uraume suggested, and Sukuna perked up. 

“Right. She fuckin’ hates kids.” 

“So, if you were to have a son, and it's revealed you've been quietly trying to make things work behind the scenes with (Name), then hypothetically–”

“I'll take the runt.”

Truth is out–Ryoumen Sukuna is the father, (Name) tells fans on social media!

Sukuna hated seeing that shit. The circus celebrities had to dance through used to be funny until he somehow got swept up into it. Until he suddenly had a baby boy that looked so much like him and so much like you. 

He spent too much time on your socials, scrolling through promotion posts and photos of you at red carpet events and premieres–and then he remembered you had a private account. One that you said he could follow. One that he never followed.

Sukuna rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as he sulked in bed. Was he really about to sacrifice his pride for this? Was he seriously gonna request to follow your personal account just moments after articles dropped and tweets were sent about him being the baby daddy? Could his pride take it? 

Fuck me. This shit is highschool. 

He requested to follow, and not even a minute later, you approved it. 

That had him interested. Did you want him to follow? Did you want him to be part of his little guy's life? Were you feeling a rush of anxiety and excitement like he was right now? 

“Get over it, you fucking idiot,” he mumbled to himself before scrolling through your photos. 

There was so much more here. So many photos of you pregnant, of Touma when he was so ridiculously itty bitty, of when you were recovering in the hospital, looking worn out and exhausted, but still beaming as you held your little boy. 

There were photos of his first birthday and the cute…rustic cake you'd apparently made yourself. Your agent, Getou, was there, as was one of your fellow agency mates, Gojo, along with some other folks Sukuna did and didn't recognize. 

Of course, his boy–your boy lit up the centre, eyes glittering with the reflection of sparklers and the warmth of a good, safe home. He was happy. The boy–his boy–your boy was happy. 

Then he called you. He couldn't help it, not anymore.

Sukuna paced around his penthouse, sipping on his spiked coffee and trying to desperately control his…nerves? Alpha instincts? Excitement? Fuck, he didn't know. But he was full of whatever it was, and it drove him nuts.

“Hi!” You answered as you picked up, so full of life as usual. “Been a while. How're you? What's up?” 

Sukuna felt so, so old suddenly. Why were you so awake in the morning? 

“Think you can spare some of that pep in your step for me?” Sukuna asked. He smiled when he heard you laugh on the other line. “Dunno how the hell you're so awake in the morning.”

“Well, I don't party or work on cars until the crack of dawn,” you purred back, so sweet and teasing. Sukuna almost got hard. Ugh. Ugh. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Hah? What, you sayin’ I'm irresponsible ‘n make shitty choices, babe?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Tch. Omegas.” 

You snickered again before cutting to the chase: “So, you're calling about my Touma?”

Sukuna swallowed. “Yeah. Gotta say I'm pretty fucking confused.”

“Yeah, I get it.” He heard you shift in bed, triggering a rumble of grumpy noises from your little one. You hushed him gently and apologized before the small, crackly purring resumed faintly in the background. The thought made Sukuna's heart ache.

“What do you wanna know?” 

Sukuna inhaled deeply. “Why'd you keep it?” 

“I wanted him,” you said. “Next question.”

“...When did you know?” 

“Mmh…I guess about a week or two after we stopped hooking up.”

“And you didn't say shit?” 

You went silent for a moment, and Sukuna felt his nerves tingle and prick. He wasn't anxious. He wasn't feeling betrayed. It wasn't any of that. Absolutely not. 

“I guess I got cold feet,” you admitted. “I don't--I know how many baby daddy accusations you get, y'know? I didn't want you to think I was just trying to get you to pay me out or something.” 

Oh. Okay. That made sense, actually. 

Too many omegas and women Sukuna fucked around with pointed the finger at him if they caught some sort of STI or fell pregnant; even if it was months after fucking, Sukuna would be suspected of fathering the pregnancy of a newly-pregnant, ex-partner he hadn't seen in eternities, and the media would run to the ends of the earth with it. He was the infamous bad boy the media circuit loved to prey on. And Sukuna didn't really care for it–not until now. Not until those fucks ruined his opportunity to be a dad. 

“Fucking–” Sukuna sighed and put his mug down to rub his face. “Shit. Shit. Fucking media bastards. Fuck.”

“I need to get my car tuned,” you said.

Sukuna deadpanned. “Read the fucking room, babe, we're not–”

“Do you want me to bring Touma?” You finished, undeterred by the alpha's grouchiness. “So you can meet him? I think he'd like that.”

Oh. Oh. Ouch. His heart–was Sukuna about to die? Why'd his chest hurt so much? What the fuck? 

Sukuna cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “I–yeah? Yeah. Alright.” 

“Okay, cool. When's your next–” 

“Tomorrow.” He cleared his throat again and scratched at the back of his neck. “Any time.” 

You stifled a laugh poorly. “Don’t be nervous, Sukuna.” 

“M'not. Fuck you.” 

“I can do tomorrow. Let's saaay…1pm?” 

“Yeah, sure. 1pm.”

You rolled up at 12:59pm. 

Sukuna had the garage open, everything tidy and ready to go like he actually gave a fuck about tuning your car when his literal fucking son was about to be in his presence. But he was so not nervous. Definitely not fucking nervous. Nope. Nuh-uh. Never. 

You stepped out of the car and Sukuna felt his heart jump; you looked the same as you did last time he saw you. You were dressed more casually, though, done up in joggers and runners with a university hoodie to top it all off. Clearly, you didn't care to impress today. 

You threw Sukuna an easy smile before pulling open the back door and taking care in plucking your chubby bunny from his car seat. All the while, Sukuna wandered closer and closer, but maintained a respectful distance just in case your momma bear came out to bite. He knew you had an impressive temper when your easy-going self got pushed too far, and he would rather not bring that out right now. 

“Pa!” Your son yipped as soon as he got up into your arms. “Puh Pa!” 

You melted immediately, punching Sukuna in the gut with your happy scent of maple syrup and cardamom as the little one nuzzled up to you, repeating variants of “pa!” as he rubbed his chubby cheeks and snotty nose against your neck and face to get that perfect scent onto him. 

“You're so sweet, bunny,” you cooed and adjusted him in your arms as you met Sukuna the rest of the way. “Hey, hey! So, did you want to meet him first, or–?” 

Sukuna didn't know what the fuck to do, honestly. 

“I, uh. Car shit first. What needs tuning?” He drawled, watching the pup clinging to you with rapt attention. 

Admittedly, Sukuna didn't really pay attention to what you were saying and what you were gesturing to; he was too captivated by the faint wisps of scent he caught from your little one. He smelled of smoke and syrup–a perfect combination of his parents’ scents. 

And he just looked so much like the both of you. Touma's skin tone tilted more your direction, but the glowy, bronzey quality that Sukuna brought to the table still shone through in its own weird way. His eyes were almond-shaped like his own, but bore the same, welcoming colour of yours. And, fuck, his hair was just a perfect match to Sukuna's. If the little shit got Maori tattoos too, he'd be a tiny carbon copy. 

Damn. Speaking of–would his mom wanna meet the little shit? Her grandson? Would she ever bother leaving Hawaii to–

“You get all that?” You asked. 

Sukuna stared at you. “Get what?” 

You pursed your lips like you so often did and turned to the big, bad alpha. 

“Maybe we should do the meet ‘n greet first, huh?” You swayed a little and kissed Touma awake. “Baby, you wanna meet a friend?” 

“Buh!” Touma exclaimed. You gently guided his little face to look at Sukuna, and the boy looked star struck staring up at the absolute unit that was Ryoumen Sukuna. 

“Touma, this is Sukuna.” You closed the gap between the two of you a little more, and Sukuna leaned down to look at the little one. His little one. 

Sukuna twitched a smile as he looked over the little thing. “You sure this thing’s mine? Looks a little small.” 

You laughed. “If you were born as big as you are, I’m so, so sorry for your mother.” You nuzzled Touma’s little cheek and bounced him a little. 

“Wuh!” Touma’s little arms flew up towards Sukuna, and the towering man looked a little more than nervous, looking at the tiny pudgy hands like they were deadly weapons. 

“Come on, don’t look at him like that.” You took Sukuna’s hand and delivered it to Touma. “He’s curious. He hasn’t met anyone as big and tall as you, y’know?” 

Sukuna huffed, but let the little one grab at his fingers and hold his hand. “What, you don’t have another alpha looking after you? Hard to believe that. You're the neediest little bitch I know.” 

“Stop. I'm not Yorozu,” you huffed, and Sukuna cringed at the name. “He has alphas around, sure. But not big ones like you–security excluded. It's not like other men want to play nice with another alpha's pup.” 

Sukuna caught the hint of a frown on your face, and his hackles started to rise. 

“Some dumbfuck giving you grief?” Sukuna asked, voice rolling with thunderous promise. He'd kill whatever moron fucked with you and his pup. You just had to drop the name.

You sighed, light-hearted. “You know what the rich and famous are like--we're the worst.” 

Sukuna growled, and Touma mimicked the noise as best as he could with his pathetically teeny tiny crackled voice. Fuckin’ cute as shit. 

“Tch. Don't sell yourself short.” 

“I'm just trying to say I don't need that around my boy, and I sure as hell don't want it around me, either.” You nodded and stepped closer as Touma reached up for Sukuna again. Apparently just holding his hand wasn't doing it for the boy anymore. 

“Good. Don't need those pathetic fucks around the runt–oi, wait, what the fuck're you–” 

“Wup, wup!” Your son shrieked as you helped bully Sukuna into holding him.

“He wants uppies.” 

“Uppies,” Sukuna balked.

“He wants you to–okay, you're bad at this–don't hold him like that! Here, do it like–” you cut off as you helped Sukuna get a comfortable hold on Touma while the littlest one squirmed and squeaked in delight, trying to climb up onto Sukuna's shoulder but failing miserably. 

Sukuna twitched a smile as you sighed, exasperated by the ball of energy trying to scale the mountainous man. But he got a hold of him, tucking his arm under his butt and holding his back to make sure the little shit didn't go plummeting to the floor. 

“You give your ma hell, huh? I can get behind that,” Sukuna hummed. His son's little hands papped at his face, grabbing at his nose and jaw–specifically over the dark tattoos streaking along the curves and cut of his features. 

And you smiled the entire time. You pursed your lips tightly to hide it, but you did it so poorly. You always did. Maybe it was on purpose. 

“So, can I tell you about my car problems now?” 

Sukuna held onto his runt while you explained what flaws, either cosmetically or mechanically, were bothering you. It mostly consisted of slight dents from other assholes not knowing how to park, paint scratches, and more of that sort. As a fellow car guy, Sukuna could understand the anguish of having a favourite baby get all dinged up. 

“Not hard to fix,” Sukuna decided. He held the hood up with one hand and looked over the motor–everything looked clean and well-maintained. He was almost impressed. “But, well, it'll cost ya. Uraume can send the details.” 

You nodded. “Sure, sure, sounds good. I'm never taking this thing on the road again after it's fixed. Too many fucking idiots out there with piss poor driving skills.” 

The mechanic smirked. “Ho? So beating up your car is what makes you start cussin’, huh? Noted.” He let the hood fall closed and adjusted his hold on the now-sleeping tot. “Couldn't even get you to do that in bed.” 

“Psht, don't say that in front of the baby, Sukuna, jeeze,” you sighed and rubbed your face. “Babies remember more than you'd like to know.” 

“Huh. You think he'll remember when he got–” 

“No, he won't remember his inception.” You laughed and shook your head, but paused when you saw smears of concealer on your fingers and tutted. 

“How long's the car gonna take? Should I get a rental?” You asked before the man could comment.

“Probably, if you want me to detail this thing right,” Sukuna mumbled. He reached out and turned your chin back to him, looking at the spots concealer missing, hinting at dark circles under your eyes. 

Your face grew hot, but you nodded and cleared your throat. “Yeah, okay. I'll, uh. I'll call someone to pick us up–” 

“I'll take you home.” 

You brightened the slightest bit. “Yeah? I–okay.” You pulled his hand from your face and smiled. “I'll grab the car seat.” 

Sukuna liked your house. It was a nice mix of traditional and modern with large stretches of woodgrain and bamboo. A neat outdoor garden and pond decorated the front, but a bigger, more lush collection of tropical plants greeted guests. It was beautiful, if one was desperate to be in nature. 

“I'm just gonna get him to bed, be one second.” 

Sukuna nodded and pocketed his hands as he pretended to not watch you trot upstairs with the sleepy cub melting in your arms. You still had a nice ass even after popping that little melon out. Huh. 

He looked around your space more, wandering with slow, lumbering steps. The house wasn't huge by any means, but it was cozy and warm, quiet and hidden away from the city's gaze. That was probably why you chose it–here, you could be honest with yourself. You could shield your babe from the brutality of your career and keep him safe from leering eyes. Honestly, one of the leaves on your giant monstera could hide him from the whole universe. 

Guy's too obsessed with growing shit. It ticked him off, but he didn't know why. 

Maybe it was all the photos of you and Touma. Maybe it was because he wasn't in them and too many other men were in his place, lining your walls in the protection of cheap IKEA frames–but Sukuna didn't want you. No, no, Ryoumen Sukuna did not want anyone. He didn't want you. He didn't need to settle down and–

“You want a glass of wine?” You asked when you came back down the stairs. “It's plum wine. Don't really have any scotch or anything, but I–” 

Sukuna scoffed before a mocking laugh slipped out of him. You paused, looking at him with bleak attention as he shook his head and pocketed his hands. Your request for him to stay pissed him off; clearly, you expected something more from him.

“Whaddaya think is gonna happen here, huh? You think we're gonna fall in love, pick up where we left off, have a happy little fuckin’ family to tell the tabloids about?” 

“What?” You asked. “I never–”

“Didn't have to. Gotta admit, you did a better job than the rest of the whores that tried wrangling me in to–”

“All I asked,” you cut him off, voice quiet but firm, “Is if you wanted wine. I’m not proposing, Sukuna.” 

Sukuna didn’t like that. The whole…not-being-into-him and not wanting him to stick around after he just shut you down. He sucked his teeth and took a breath, about to say something, but you spoke first. 

“I know this is a PR thing. I know how the whole media circus works–you want your ex to stop bothering you, and I want people to stop asking questions about who the fucking father of my son is.” You paused, staring Sukuna dead in his eyes, a quiet, simmering rage boiling just beneath the surface of placid control. 

“Call my manager when the car’s done,” you decided, sounding beaten down and exhausted. “I’ll send someone for it. Thanks for the ride home.”

Next thing the man knew, he was ushered toward the door and stood in the doorway, stuck on the idea of being kicked out of his omega’s–no, no, out of an omega’s house like he was trash. 

“Fucking–wait, just–” 

“What?” You snapped.

“I could–glass of wine doesn’t sound too bad–”

You shoved the bottle into his hands and slammed the door. 

Sukuna tried to sleep it off–as in, he slept around to forget about the crushing weight of rejection collapsing down on him, shattering his chest, spearing his heart with shattered bone. 

You still kept being so fucking nice to him, too. You never slandered him, never spoke ill whenever he was asked about in interviews–you spared his reputation with a kind smile every time you had to talk about him or to him. 

And he was grateful for it, even if he didn't return the favor. It's not like he was on a smear campaign, no, but anytime a hook up would ask about you, he wouldn't give a glowing review, per se. But it wouldn't be scalding either. Just sheer indifference tainted with drops of bitterness stemming from unripe guilt.

It went on like that for months–until you did your parental duties, and set aside your feelings about Sukuna for the sake of your son.

“Uraume, get that,” Sukuna called as his phone rang. He was too busy fucking around under the hood of his latest project to wipe his hands free of grease and pick up himself, obviously.

But Uraume was there for a reason. They picked up the phone with a polite hello before their sharp frigidity melted into rounded edges. 

“(Name)-san,” they hummed. “It's good to hear from you. Do you need to talk to Sukuna-san?” 

Sukuna started wiping his hands off so unbelievably fast. 

“He's working on a car right now. You know how he can be when he's focused.”

“Fucking–piece of shit–what the fuck–” somehow, he got even more grease and oil on his hands thanks to that stupid fucking rag. God, what a nightmare.

“Sure, I can take a message.” 

“Fuckin’ shit fuck, fuck.” He wiped his hands on his designer jeans before running to Uraume and gesturing for the phone.

Uraume's brows raised, and they actually smiled. 

“Ah, hold on, Sukuna-san's here.” 

Sukuna snatched up the phone, ignoring the knowing look glimmering in Uraume’s eyes. Ugh. Ugh. Betas.

“Hey,” Sukuna said after clearing his throat. 

“Hey! Ume said you were working on a car? You didn't have to stop to talk.” 

“Yeah, well.” Sukuna shrugged to himself and kicked a scrapped car part, sending it skittering across the ground and clanking into other parts. Jesus, when did his shop get so messy? “Needed a break anyway.” 

“Ah. You work too hard, you need to take breaks more often,” you laughed sweetly. “So, listen, Touma's birthday's coming up–”

“Shit, seriously?” Sukuna grinned and kicked another chopped part. “Fuck. How old's the little shit turning?” 

“Two! He's growing up so fast, I wish I could slow down time and–” you paused and laughed, suddenly sounding unsure and a bit nervous. “Sorry, sorry, was about to go on a tangent. Anyway, there is a little get-together, but you don't have to come. Satoru and Toji'll be there. But your brother and his son'll be there, too, so it won't suck completely.

“Otherwise, if you want to come see him earlier or something, that's fine, and–and you're not cutting me off and I didn't think I'd get this far so I'm losing the plot.” 

Sukuna huffed. “What, you don't want me to fuckin’ listen, huh?” 

“I know you will since I have such a pretty voice, but I'm surprised you're being a good boy for once.” 

The mechanic rolled his eyes and rubbed his face. Who knows if it was to wipe away embarrassment or fatigue. 

“You’re exhausting.” 

“And you’re a dick.” There was a special brand of teasing bitterness behind those words, but the vibes were balanced perfectly; seemed you were still cranky about what he said, but you were willing to let it slide.

Sukuna chuckled, relaxing the slightest bit. “Alright. I don't know what the fuck kids like at that age, but I'll figure somethin’ out. I can at least show up Jin.” 

“Wow.” 

“Text me time and place. I'll be there.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll bring some plum wine. Fancy shit.”

The hidden rumble of a purr snuck its way out from your side, and Sukuna did everything he could to suppress his alpha's reciprocation.

“Sounds good. See you then, Sukuna.”

Toji answered the door. 

“Hah. Why the hell are you here?” The fuckhead ex-Zenin asked with a stupid, shitty smirk on his dumbass face. 

Sukuna strained not to throw the first punch. He really shouldn't murder someone at his--your son's birthday party. Murder is bad. Murder is bad. 

“Fuck you.” Hey, at least it wasn't murder. “‘M here for my fucking kid.” 

Toji crossed his arms and suddenly looked beyond bored as he leaned against the doorframe. 

“Your kid? You mean (Name)’s kid?” He wondered, putting on a show of thinking. “Weird.”

“You're one to talk. You forgetting what you did to your own brat? You fuckin’--”

“Sukuna!” Your sweet voice called, instantly changing the atmosphere. “Glad you came. Do you–oi, Toji, move, stop bodyguarding. You're not a bouncer.”

“Eh?” Toji stayed in his spot as you smacked at his arm and tried to push him away. “I'm just standing here. Not bodyguarding. Minding my business.” 

“You’re so full of shit.” You wheezed and squeaked as the man suddenly gave way, nearly making you crash into him and plummet to the floor. But you caught yourself and hissed at the dark-haired menace until he whistled innocently and waltzed away. 

“Fucking--why’s he here again?” Sukuna grumbled as you let him in. He leaned down to nose at your cheek with a grumpy, quiet grunt--typical greeting procedures for an interested individual or bonded pair. But the way you choked on whatever you were about to say meant he must've caught you off guard. 

“He's uh–we work together. We've worked together? He was the stunt coordinator for some movies I've been in.” You cleared your throat and took the present bag from Sukuna to place with the others. “And I babysit Gumi sometimes.” 

“Gumi? What the fuck is a Gumi?” 

“Megumi? His son?” Oh. Oh. “I babysit Yuuji too, so. Thick as thieves, y'know?” 

Sukuna nodded a little, thinking hard on the lore. He liked that Yuuji was taken care of by you, but surely that wretched Gumi could go somewhere else. Toji was probably just leeching off of you. 

“Oi, Momma, get in here,” Toji crowed from wherever all the baby giggles and excitement bubbled from in the house. “Your boys need some maternal guidance–” 

“Toji, don't make it weird!” Jin whisper-yelled before going on a long-winded rant about this and that, about proper behaviour and attitudes in front of children (not that the kids were paying attention to anything Toji did). 

You gave Sukuna a tired smile. “Come on. It won’t be that bad, I promise.”

Sukuna sighed, but let you drag him to his demise, bottle of wine in-hand.

But it wasn’t that bad. Not really. 

Your other boys, Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru, showed up and showered tiny Touma with way too much praise and far too many gifts, but the little shit looked so pleased that Sukuna couldn’t get too annoyed. Shoko and Uraume came by, too, much to Sukuna’s surprise. Uraume brought with them a whole fucking confectionary cake they’d crafted themselves at home. Gojo obsessed over it and Getou tried to reign him in to no avail. 

And the night went on. No one talked shit, not unless it was in good fun, no one got fucking hammered, no one talked about work–it was all about the kids. Nothing else. No one else. 

Sukuna could never guess just how far that truth went.

When everyone left for the night, the alpha could start to see the edges of your smile fraying. But you held on, thanking everyone for the gifts and for showing up for Touma, and especially thanking Jin for offering to let all the little ones spend the night at his place (you and Toji would forever be in his debt). 

Then, when the door closed and all fell silent, he heard you cry. 

Sukuna didn't know what to do about people crying. He never had. Even when he was a kid, he had a hard time trying to comfort people with hugs and words of reassurance–he just couldn't do it. 

“It's okay,” he heard you whisper. “It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. It's okay. I'm okay.” 

Sukuna got up and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. “Sure about that?”

You jumped and clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle your scream. Sukuna barked out an ugly, reedy laugh while he defended himself from your petty smacks and pinches. 

“You scared the fuck out of me–why're you still even here? Go home! Shoo!” You wiped your eyes once you were done harassing him and turned away, busying yourself with cleaning up dishes and wrapping paper left in the aftermath. 

Sukuna followed you idly, a shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. What could he say? He loved seeing you get all petty and riled up. But he didn't love seeing you cry. He didn't love seeing you try to stealthily wipe tears away, to try and steady your shaky breathing. 

“What’s going on with you, babe?” Sukuna asked as he settled beside you at the sink. 

“It's nothing,” you said with a snuffle. “It's seriously nothing. Sorry, I--you don't need to stay. Or anything.” You sighed and rubbed at your eyes with your sleeve. “You've done your fatherly duties. You're free to leave.” 

“Yeah? ‘N what about my baby daddy duties?” He wondered, voice so horribly low and comforting, like the buzzing crackle of a campfire. 

You laughed, watery and shaky. “You already did everything you needed to, Sukuna.” 

“Come on, don't cockblock me like that.” He gently tilted your Chin his way to catch your eyes just like he had back at the shop all those months ago. “Look at me.” 

You did. Your eyes were red and irritated, whatever pretty boy make up you wore was wiped off and smudged, and those heavy, dark bags met the light in front of someone else for the first time in a long time. 

You still had the gall to laugh it off and pull Sukuna's hand from your face with a small, “I'm fine,” though. 

“Then why the hell are you crying?” He asked. 

You squeezed his hand with both of yours. “Things are just…hard. Overwhelming.”

Sukuna nodded a bit. “That why Jin took the runts tonight?” 

“Yeah. Needed some time, I guess.” You snuffled and wiped your face with both hands before finishing up with cleaning. “Makes me sound like a shit parent, I know.” 

Sukuna couldn’t disagree more. “Least you're not flipping out on the kid. That'd be way shittier, yeah?” 

“I don't know. I guess, but–yeah. I don't know.” 

Sukuna sighed and scooped you up like a new bride. “You're driving me fucking mental.”

“Sukuna–!”

“Quiet.” Your omega indeed piped down at the grouchy command, and you shyly let the man carry you up the steps to find your bedroom. “You're getting some damn rest. You look like shit.” 

You grumbled something Sukuna elected to ignore in favour of tossing you onto a bed the way one might lob a stone into a pond. You landed with a warbled squawk and looked at Sukuna with horribly accusatory, baffled eyes. 

Sukuna quirked a brow as he looked down on you, gladly using his broad build and tall stature to secure your submission. And it worked; the aggravated spark in your eyes curled up and fell silent after a few long seconds. Your head lowered just the slightest bit, too, but your passive gaze remained stuck on him, waiting for his next move. 

“Fine,” you grumbled. 

Sukuna raised his brows and eased onto the bed, caging you underneath him with his solid frame. Your scent flickered with shy playfulness, and Sukuna relished in it. 

“How do I know you're gonna obey, omega?” 

“I guess you don't. Not for certain,” you admitted begrudgingly. 

“Tch. Someone's gotta keep you accountable then, huh?” He nosed at your neck, nearly letting his lips touch your neck but refusing to do so in the same instance. “Make sure you're doing the right thing, make sure you're behaving.” 

One of his hands squeezed at your soft thigh before inching up little by little. Your hands found themselves in his hair as he teased at your joggers’ waistband, pulling the elastic taut before letting it go. 

“Sukuna,” you laughed, sounding a little breathless. “I, uh–I thought you said–”

“Changed my mind.”

“But–”

“Forget what I said and let me make you cum on my fingers, brat.” 

Oh. Well, hard to argue against that. 

You swallowed but gave a meek nod. He ripped your bottoms off and felt up your blazing skin with rough, calloused hands, groping and grabbing in the same spots he liked back when you were hooking up: your thighs, your hip bones, the squish of your stomach. As much as the man harped on about not wanting “damaged goods,” he sure worshiped your body like it was brand new, untouched. 

Sukuna brought his fingers to your mouth, and you took them with utmost compliance. Your tongue worked against his digits thoughtfully and thoroughly for your own sake–a lack of starter lube wouldn't end well, after all. And Sukuna was not the most patient man in the sack.

“See?” Sukuna crowed into your ear as his hand traveled south and a finger sunk into you. “It's not so bad to just behave, now is it?” 

You already felt like you were about to explode, and Sukuna savoured It. He liked being the one to do this to you–the only one for a while, considering how tight and sensitive you were. Any little push or prod inside you brought sweet sighs and soft moans to the surface–and a second and third finger had your hips bucking and your nails digging into his shoulder and back as he finger-fucked you to oblivion while still caging you in. 

“Good omega,” he cooed. “Gonna cum already, huh? Tch, you shoulda said no one’s been taking care of you; I would’ve taken my parental responsibilities more seriously.” His lips and teeth landed on your neck, as you curled up into him, body tensing, heels digging into the mattress, panting and gasping getting louder and faster. The sound made his pants strain even more. 

“Fuck, you smell fucking good. Better than when I fucked you the first time.” 

“I-I forgot you talked so much in bed,” you managed out. “Could you just–shut up?”

Sukuna growled, and you whined. “You want me to shut up, huh? You wanna listen to your slick fucking hole getting spread open, plowed into? You miss me that much, omega?”

“No.” You hissed and clung to his upper arm as he somehow managed to take it up a notch, slipping his fourth finger in and spreading you obscenely wide. 

“I think you did. Think you were hopin’ I’d come around, plow you into the bed again, stuff you full like no one else can.” 

“Sukuna–”

“I’ll fill this hole up all you want, baby–I’ll even stuff another pup in you. Twins. You want that, huh? You gonna be my omega from now on? Creaming on my cock ‘n fingers the way you shoulda been the day you walked your perfect, little ass into my life?” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up–” you choked on a gasp and bit into his shoulder, soaking his shirt with drool and shuddered mewls while your body tightened and ecstasy hit like the weight of Sukuna’s words–brutal, fast, honest. 

Sukuna moaned in sympathy, ignoring the way his hand and arm cramped and ached to keep pistoning into you and draw out your high. He couldn't help it–something about you drove him mad in that moment. It could have been how you made his ego swell, it might've been the way his greed needed your slick staining his and only his skin, perhaps it could have been a quiet yearning coming from his lonely, hollow alpha. He didn't know. But he didn't question it. 

Your body started to relax with the death grip you had on his shoulder as you came down from the sudden, electric high. Your hips still jolted with every slow, lazy push into your soft hole, though a haze of purring and cooing filled the spot where gasps and moans once did. Eventually, you melted off of him and collapsed onto your back, looking as content as a cat lounging in the sun. 

“Oi, oi, you're not done yet, sweetheart.” But if you said you were done, he might've listened. Just that once. 

You hummed something as you looked up at him, eyes doey and so egregiously lovey-dovey. 

“That's a nice face. Make sure you save it just for me,” Sukuna gently commanded, and you laughed. 

“Demanding. I thought you didn't like used goods.” 

Sukuna scowled. “Shut up.” His free hand traced the stripes of stretched skin left in the wake of bearing his baby boy. “I like ‘em when they're used by me.”

“Does that really make them ‘used goods,’ then?” You murmured as if speaking logic too loud would break Sukuna's entranced obsession of you. 

But maybe, maybe, you had a point. 

“Guess I'll have to think on that.” His fingers slipped out of you and he gave you a wet slap on the ass to wake you up. Your subsequent squeak sure as hell woke Sukuna up. 

“Ow. Gross.” 

“I'm not finished with you, brat. Don't get too fuckin’ content, yeah?” He smirked when you glanced at his crotch expectantly. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Please.”

Sukuna sighed and settled between your legs as he futzed with his belt and button. “Could put up a bit of a fight.” 

“Too tired.” You yawned and stretched with a pleased sigh. “No will to argue.” 

The alpha leaned down to bite at your knee, and you pulled your legs together to avoid his chunky, rude fangs. You knew he'd delight in making you bleed or leaving dark bruises. He was the worst. 

“Still got a little fight left in ya,” Sukuna said with a grin. “Let's see how much more we can find, hm?”

[ink-n-shadow]

BORED? HERE'S MY THIGH

𝜗𝜚 the one where you're bored and john's watching footy

𝜗𝜚 pairing: john price x gn!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: smut (minors—DNI), thighriding, subtle dom/sub dynamics, brief dirty talk, use of 'pet' as a petname (but no explicit pet play), fingers in mouths

john knows as soon as you clamber up into his lap with just one of his raggedy t-shirts on and nothing else that you're up to something. sure, you play it off by sleepily nuzzling your nose into the crook of his neck, but john can feel the sticky heat emanating from between your thighs.

“thought ya didn’t wanna watch footy w'me, sweetheart,” john mumbles lowly into your hair and presses a gentle kiss behind your ear, body relaxing comfortably into the leather of his recliner as the weight of your body comes to rest completely against him.

a snorted laugh leaves his chest at the breathy jumble of words you offer in response, one hand coming up to curl around your waist at the way your hips wiggle side to side to wedge one of his thick thighs directly between yours. once you settled yourself down on his thigh, that's when he noticed the sticky mess that waited for him between your thighs—'course you weren't wearin' underwear.

john bounces his leg up in a feigned attempt to sit up straighter in the recliner, smirking at the choked mewl that leaves your lips and shushing you with a hand cradling the back of your head.

“easy, pet. just relax fer me. c’mon—sit down on my thigh,” john croons sweetly in your ear, using the hand he has perched on your hip to ease your hips back down until your bare arousal is flush against the warm, hairy skin of his thick thigh. “take what ya need, sweetheart.”

which leads to you rutting eagerly against the pudgy corded muscle branching up john's thigh, hiding your teary face into the crook of his neck to avoid the humiliation crawling up your spine. sure, hiding away in the crook of john's neck let you avoid his the condescending cock of his brow and the mocking pout he gives you, but it doesn't do anything to stop the absolute filth from pouring out of his mouth. it doesn't stop his hands from slithering up your oversized t-shirt, the calloused tips of his fingers immediately finding your peaked nipples and groping the flesh there.

"if ya needed me t' fuck ya, could've just asked me, y'know?" john mutters with a few clicks of his tongue as he uses one hand to push the hem of your shirt up and over your head, exposing more of your now naked skin and giving him more places to sink his teeth and nails into. “all y’had to do was say please—would’ve filled you up ‘til you were leakin’.”

and when you're a blubbering mess in the crook of his neck, warbling out broken apologies and begging for john to just go ahead and fuck his cock into you, he’s hushing you by shoving his middle and ring finger between your teeth, nestling them at the back of your tongue. he uses the other hand to grip at the flesh of your asscheek, pinching and dimpling the fat between his fingers in an attempt to get your hips to move quicker.

“shhh, shhh—y’ made your choice now, pet,” john explains to you slowly so your melting brain might be able to comprehend. “keep goin’, then. m’not gonna play with ya ‘til yer cummin’ all over me.”

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[luvfae]

DEVOURED

summary: your big brother’s best friend offers you a helping hand… and tongue.

parings: brother’s best friend!thanos x f!reader

warnings: swearing, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering

You've known Choi Su-bong since you were fourteen.

Back then, he was just your brother's loud, cocky best friend — all muscle and buzzcut, always stealing beers out of your fridge and playing fight videos too loud in the living room.

He used to ruffle your hair. Call you kid.

Never looked at you. Not really. Not like a girl. Not like anything he wanted.

That was years ago.

Now you're grown. Quiet. Still live at home, sure — but you're not that girl anymore.

And Su-bong?

He's still around. Still close with your brother. Still sleeping on your couch after late-night parties and showing up for dinner uninvited.

But the way he looks at you now — when your brother's not watching —

It's different.

You don't act like you notice.

But you do.

It's late when it happens.

You think the apartment's empty — your brother gone, Su-bong out with him, probably drinking or gaming or being loud somewhere else.

You lock your door. You think you lock it.

The lights are low. Your phone is face-down.

You're on your bed, curled in soft sheets and nothing but a tank top and panties, legs parted just enough.

You're not even thinking about anyone.

Just needy. Quiet.

Fingers brushing slow between your thighs, breath catching with every press.

You roll your hips, toes curling, your free hand fisting the sheets.

You're just getting there—

Click. Creak.

The door opens.

Your head snaps up. You freeze.

And there he is.

Su-bong.

Framed in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, his dark eyes catching the full scene — your knees bent, panties pulled to the side, fingers wet and glistening under the soft light.

You gasp. Scramble.

"What the fuck—!"

You yank the covers over yourself like it's going to undo what he saw. Heart hammering. Face on fire.

His eyes are still on you. Heavy. Unmoving.

And he doesn't shut the door.

"Are you kidding me?" you snap, breathless with humiliation. "Do you know how to knock?"

He doesn't answer. Just steps inside, slow.

"Su-bong, I swear to god—"

"Relax." His voice is low. Careful. Smug. "Didn't mean to catch you like that."

You clutch the blanket harder. "Get out."

But he's already leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Smiling like the devil.

"Didn't know you got that needy when no one was home," he murmurs. "Pretty little thing like you, moaning into your own hand."

You flinch. "Don't say shit like that—"

"Why not?" he cuts you off, voice soft and dangerous. "'Cause I caught you?" His eyes flick down. "You weren't thinking about me, were you?"

You glare. "No."

He smirks. "Shame."

You sit up straighter, the blanket clutched to your chest. Your skin is still buzzing — from the near-orgasm, from the shock, from him standing there with that look in his eyes.

Then, casually, he nods toward the bed.

"Well. You look like you could use some help."

Silence.

You blink. "You're disgusting."

"And you're still wet," he says, already stepping closer. "So I'm guessing you didn't mean stop. You just didn't wanna get caught."

You should scream at him. Tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs are still warm.

Your pulse is still thudding.

And when he gets close enough to touch — his voice low in your ear — you don't pull away.

"C'mon," he murmurs again, voice hot against your cheek. "Let me help you finish."

You should say no.

You do say no. Almost.

But then he leans in, mouth brushing the curve of your neck, and breathes—

"Bet you taste better than you sound."

Your breath catches. Your pulse stutters.

His lips touch your throat—soft at first, then rougher, open-mouthed, hungry—and he kisses down, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring it.

And you panic. A whisper of clarity through the heat.

You tilt your head away, whisper:

"My brother would kill you."

Su-bong laughs against your skin.

Not like it's funny.

Like it's nothing.

"Don't give a fuck." His teeth scrape your collarbone. "Should've knocked, huh?" Another kiss, just below your ear. "Should've kept your legs closed."

Your whole body jolts.

"Stop," you whisper, but it's breathless. Weak. "Su-bong, I—"

He cuts you off with a quiet hum, hands moving.

One drags the blanket down, slow and mean.

You clutch at it instinctively, but he's stronger. He peels it away like it was never yours to hold.

You're bare under it—barely clothed, panties damp, tank top rumpled, skin flushed with shame and want.

He looks down at you like he's already won.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke. "All that attitude, and you're still lying here with your legs open."

"I'm not—"

But you don't finish the sentence.

Because his hand slides down. Between your thighs. Fingers brushing over the soaked cotton of your panties.

You moan. Sharp and soft. Eyes fluttering shut.

He grins. "There she is."

Two fingers press against the wet heat, slow and teasing, rubbing lazy circles over your clit through the fabric.

"Thought you didn't want me," he murmurs. "Thought I was disgusting." He dips his head lower, mouth at your neck again. "But you're soaking through for me, baby. You really expect me to stop now?"

Your hand fists the sheets. You're not looking at him. You can't.

But your legs shift. Part wider.

And he sees it.

He hums again—low, satisfied.

"That's it." His fingers push harder. Just enough to make you gasp. "You want it slow, don't you?" His lips are at your shoulder now, warm and trailing. "You want me to make you feel good. Like you were trying to do all by yourself."

You nod.

Barely.

And his voice drops lower, almost reverent.

"Then look at me."

You open your eyes.

And his mouth crashes down on yours.

Hot, rough, claiming — his hand still pressed between your thighs, your body trembling under his touch. You kiss him back without thinking, whimpering into the way he sucks your bottom lip, teeth scraping, tongue deep and searching like he needs to know everything.

Then he pulls away. Just enough to speak.

His breath is warm against your mouth.

"Take these off," he says, fingers tugging at the hem of your panties. "Let me see what you were hiding under the covers like a good girl."

You hesitate. But not because you want him to stop.

Because this—

This is real now.

And he's looking at you like he's starving.

You lift your hips, shaky, and he slides them down slow. Leisurely. Like he's unwrapping something precious. Or dangerous.

The fabric sticks a little — slick from earlier — and he huffs a dark little laugh when he sees it.

"Look at that," he mutters, voice low, reverent. "You were making a fuckin' mess without me."

You bite your lip, embarrassed. Your thighs twitch, instinct trying to close.

He grabs your knees. Firm.

"Don't even think about it." He pushes your legs apart. Wide. Until you're bare and open in front of him, laid out like an offering. "You're gonna let me look. Gonna let me taste."

You moan. "Su-bong—please—"

"Please what, baby?" His voice goes soft, like mock concern. "Please don't stop? Please don't tease? Or please put my fuckin' mouth where it belongs?"

You whimper, hips lifting.

His breath ghosts over your inner thigh as he leans in.

"You ever been eaten right?" he murmurs. "Or you just fuck yourself with your fingers and hope for the best?"

You shake your head, overwhelmed, back arching.

And he grins against your skin.

"Good," he breathes. "Means I get to teach your pussy how it's supposed to be treated."

Then he kisses your thigh. Slowly.

Once.

Then again.

Higher. Higher.

But not where you need him.

Not yet.

His lips keep missing.

Kissing just beside where you need him. Featherlight brushes. A drag of tongue over your hipbone. A slow bite to the sensitive skin near your crease that makes you gasp, jolt, tremble.

You're soaked.

Thighs twitching. Stomach fluttering. Every inch of your skin begging for contact.

But he's patient.

A predator with his prey laid bare beneath him. Calm. Controlled.

His fingers stroke slow along your inner thigh as he presses another kiss to the curve just shy of your heat.

"Relax, baby," he murmurs, breath fanning over your slick cunt. "We're gonna take our time."

You squirm. Moan.

"Please, Su-bong—"

"Shhh." His hands spread you wider. Thumb brushing where you're wettest, not touching your clit. Not yet. "You've waited this long. Don't fall apart on me now."

Your head falls back. You want to scream.

But then—

He licks.

One slow, warm stripe from your entrance to your clit.

And your breath shatters.

"Oh—fuck—"

You barely register the way your thighs jump, the way your hips buck against his mouth. His hands slam back down on your waist, anchoring you.

"You stay still," he growls against you. "Let me eat."

And eat he does.

It starts soft. Methodical.

Little kitten licks, teasing the edges, circling your clit but never quite landing on it.

He's building you up. Watching you writhe. Listening to the breathless, broken sounds you try to swallow.

"You're fuckin' dripping," he says, voice raw and wrecked. "Did I do that? Just from talkin' to you?"

You nod, desperate.

"Words, sweetheart."

"Y-Yes. Yes. Please—just—don't stop—"

He hums. Licks again, a little firmer now. "That's better." A pause. A smile against your skin. "You taste like everything I've ever wanted."

And then?

He devours.

Tongue flat, lips parted, sucking your clit into his mouth with filthy, focused greed. He licks in patterns — circles, flicks, long strokes that make your back arch. Every movement sends you higher. Every second his mouth stays on you, the more your brain unravels.

"Fuck—fuck—Su-bong—"

You cover your mouth with both hands as the moans rip out of you. You're shaking. Eyes wide. Vision blurring.

He slides a finger inside. Then two.

Curling. Pumping.

Tongue still working your clit, flicking it mercilessly as his fingers fuck you deep and rough.

You choke on a sob.

"Gonna cum—oh my god—please—"

"Do it," he growls. "Right on my tongue. Don't fuckin' hold back."

You don't.

You can't.

You come with a cry so loud you nearly scream.

Legs shaking. Thighs clamping around his head.

And he doesn't stop.

He moans into you, keeps licking, keeps fucking you with his tongue like he wants to feel every twitch, every squeeze, every goddamn drop.

You sob into your palms, gasping for air. “C-Can't—Su-bong, I can't—"

He growls again. Drags his mouth lower. Licks up your release like he's starving.

His voice is low and vicious when he says, "yes you can. Give me another."

You try to protest, but he's already there again.

Tongue right back on your clit, mouth tighter now, sucking with obscene pressure while his fingers thrust harder, deeper.

"You wanna tell me to stop?" he pants. "Tell me. Say it. I fucking dare you."

You shake your head wildly, hips chasing every flick of his tongue.

"That's what I thought."

He licks you through another orgasm.

And another.

Your voice is gone. Your hands have gone limp. You can't even speak — just moan and twitch and cry out every few seconds as he breaks you open again.

You come four times before he finally slows. Mouth dragging soft now. Gentle.

But then—

A single kiss to your clit.

You sob. Nearly beg.

"One more," he whispers, kissing your thigh. "That's all I need. Then I'll stop. One more, baby."

You nod, barely.

And he makes it count.

Takes his time. Licks you slow and soft until you're begging him to finish it, until you're grinding into his mouth with everything you have left.

"Gonna make you forget your own name," he murmurs, licking slow and lazy.

You arch your hips with a soft, gasping sound, desperate for more.

And that's when it happens.

The door creaks open.

"Yo, have you seen—“ Your brother's voice cuts off like a blade. The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy.

Su-bong doesn't move. His mouth is still pressed against you. His fingers flex against your hips.

You turn your head just enough to see your brother — frozen in the doorway, bag of chips half-raised, expression curdling into horror.

"What the fuck?"

Your heart lurches.

You shove at Su-bong's shoulders, panicked and red-faced, trying to sit up and cover yourself, but his hands tighten around your waist.

He doesn't let you go.

Instead, he looks up at your brother — while still between your legs — and smirks.

"Close the door unless you wanna watch."

Your brother's voice explodes into the room. "What the actual fuck, man?! That's my sister!"

You're covering your face with your hands, mortified, the shame crashing over you in hot waves.

But Su-bong?

He laughs.

A low, dirty sound that vibrates through your skin.

"Why are you so mad?" he says, cool as anything. "I'm helping her out."

"Helping— you're—!" your brother stammers, rage crawling up his throat.

But Su-bong turns back to you like he's already forgotten the interruption. One hand slides under your ass, the other pins your thigh open again, and then—

He dives back in.

Mouth to your cunt. No hesitation. No shame. Just wet, filthy need.

You gasp. Arch. Try to muffle your moans as your brother groans somewhere near the door and mutters something like "fuck this," before backing out and slamming it shut behind him.

Gone.

But you can't even process the horror.

Because Su-bong is devouring you.

No teasing now. No gentle licks. He's tongue-deep, moaning into you, licking like it's his last meal. Long strokes from base to clit, messy and loud. His nose nudges your mound, his mouth locked around you.

"Su—fuck—Su-bong, we should stop—" you gasp, voice trembling.

He doesn't lift his head.

"We should," he growls against your pussy, the vibration making your hips jerk. "But you don't want me to."

You whimper. He's right.

Every word makes your thighs tremble harder.

"You're gonna get me killed—"

"Let me finish and I'll stop," he says, voice dark and cruel. "One more. One more and I'll leave you alone."

He licks you again. Sloppier. Deeper. Fingers now curling into your thighs as you melt back into the mattress.

You don't fight it.

You can't.

You give in, head tipped back, arms splayed out, moaning so loud your throat burns. He fucks you with his tongue until your legs shake, until you're crying out every few seconds, until you grab his hair and grind against his face like your body doesn't care who just walked in — it just needs.

And when you finally break, again—

It's like falling.

You come hard, shivering and wet, his mouth sucking every drop from you as you twitch against the sheets. His grip never loosens. He licks you through it, moaning into your cunt, tongue slow and greedy even as your body begs for mercy.

You're gasping.

Whining.

He finally pulls back — face soaked, lips swollen, smirk carved into his mouth like sin.

He drags two fingers up your slit, collects what's left of you, and sucks them clean.

Then leans over you, cocky and unbothered.

"See?" he whispers. "Helped you out."

You blink up at him, barely able to think.

And he grins wider. "Tell your brother I accept thank-you cards."

[sholiofic]

ME AGAIN - an alternate prompt/suggestion if you're in more of a h/c mood. maybe something where gurathin gets exposed to/drugged with some of the substances he used during his spy days? bonus points if MB, who i dont think knows about the addiction stuff, helps somehow?

(Slight references to physical illness, but nothing graphic.)

Update: Also posted on AO3 as Soft Reboot (1800 wds).

--

Okay, so I really did not expect Gurathin to be good at this spy stuff. I mean, I didn't have to do anything, I just had to stand around with my helmet sealed and look like a SecUnit with a working governor module, which I know I am good at. Gurathin had to do the talking. I knew what Gurathin was like normally when he was trying to talk to people, so do you blame me if I had doubts? And he didn't even have 13,237 hours (and counting) of entertainment to fall back on. (I should have loaded up some spy media beforehand. Actually, that's a good idea. I quietly circumvented the station's packet trace and downloaded some while I was standing around anyway.)

But the thing is, he actually was good at it. I was reading his biometrics, so I could tell he was stressed. But he did know how to talk to these particular people. Which is why I noticed immediately when his body language started going sideways and his biometrics got weird and -- shit.

I think you've been given some kind of substance, I sent to him over the feed. I was by the wall, standing with the other SecUnits belonging to those who had brought their personal security to the tech conference. (Show-offs.) He was down on the showroom floor. I was tracking him visually using the surveillance cameras that I'd hacked into, which -- as per usual for CR space -- were everywhere, but I wasn't close enough to hear him or easily get to him, which suddenly seemed like an even bigger security problem than I had realized before.

What do you mean? he asked, alarmed. I could tell that he also subvocalized it, which was worrying. Usually Gurathin was one of the few humans I'd met who could talk in the feed without giving himself away, and he wasn't slow on the uptake. (By human standards, I mean.) If I'd had any doubts before, I didn't now.

Drugged. You're drugged. Don't say anything else. Meet me by the door.

By the time he got to me, he had visibly deteriorated. He was sweating and shaking and his pulse rate was changing by the moment. Not good. I didn't see anyone moving in our direction, though, or security taking any notice of us.

"Damn it, damn it," Gurathin muttered as we went into the hall, stumbling and supporting himself on the wall, me walking behind him with my helmet up and looking SecUnit-y. I couldn't reach out to steady him because a SecUnit wouldn't touch their client without being told to, and I knew we were being surveilled from several angles in the hallway. "This is ... fuck. It can't be in the air. It must have been in my drink."

Or transferred via touch contact. Can you make it to the elevator?

"Yeah," he ground out. "I'll be okay. I'll have it under control in a minute."

Under control? But he was right, by the time we were at the elevator he was walking straighter and steadier, and clearly didn't need my help. 

Do you have augments for this? I asked him.

He shook his head. Through clenched teeth, he said, "Just used to it. I lost my, my .... forgot how to deal, I guess. It's coming back to me."

We got into the elevator. I immediately put its cameras on a loop and did a quick scan for listening devices, then put my helmet down. "We can talk here. What do you mean, it's coming back to you?"

His vital signs were still all over the place, pulse dangerously elevated, body temperature fluctuating, and his skin glistened unpleasantly with sweat. I could see him shaking slightly with the effort of maintaining control, shoving his hands under his arms as if holding himself in place. 

Still, he wasn't feeling too shitty to give me a swift sideways glare. "What did you look at when you were inside my head, anyway?"

His verbal filters had to be down by a good 50% for him to ask me that. We never talked about it. But I gave him an answer anyway. "I couldn't really understand what I saw. I had never scanned an augmented human before. It was a blur. Incompatible systems. Just -- flashes. What about when you had me in your head?" I retorted, because turnabout's fair play, augmented human.

That actually made him smile a little. "Same. Flashes. Incompatible systems." I wasn't sure if I believed that entirely (I was pretty sure he had some organic echoes of the experience, I just didn't want to think about it) but then he lost the smile completely and said, "I took substances like this when I was living in, and working for, the Corporation Rim."

"Oh," I said. It was all I could think of to say, and even that was on a delay of almost 1.2 seconds.

"They used them to keep me under control. If I haven't had this before, it was similar. So I know how to move and act normally when I'm using it." His teeth were chattering now; I could hear it now and then when he talked. It was why he was keeping his jaw locked.

"You mean," I said, "they drugged you against your will?" And then I felt stupid. I knew what he meant from the look he gave me. Most good shows, and a lot of the inferior ones as well, have a drug addiction plotline at some point.

"I wouldn't even be telling you this if I hadn't been dosed," he said tightly. "Inhibitions are down."

I had been afraid of that. "So stop talking."

We were at our floor anyway. I put my helmet back up, because I didn't yet have a good enough rapport with the hallway cameras to be sure they wouldn't record us. In our room, I already had the system on a fairly convincing loop, so I wasn't too worried about that. We went in, and Gurathin headed straight for the bathroom.

"If I ingested it," he said to me over his shoulder, "I need to get as much of it out as possible."

"Okay," I said a little blankly, and hoped he wasn't going to ask for help. He shut the door, so I guessed not. I promptly dialed the Sanctuary Moon theme song way up to cover whatever noises he might be making in there, and dialed down my helmet again. I generally didn't wear my armor in the hotel room, but I thought maybe I ought to leave it on this time in case we were going to be attacked. 

I went into the room's mini-kitchen, because I wasn't sure what else to do. Then I just stared at the various options, scanning them like that would make a difference. I didn't know anything about food and drinks except from shows (which were highly unreliable on this matter compared to how often humans ate in real life), and watching my humans eat (which I tried not to do if I could help it). So I had no idea if there was anything in the kitchen that would help or even if it was possible for an ingested substance to help in a situation like this, but most humans did tend to use food and drinks as an emotional soothing tactic. Did Gurathin? I wasn't sure. I did know that he didn't drink alcohol or ingest stimulants, even the mild liquid one that were common both in and out of Corporate Rim space. Nothing in Medcenter Argala was helpful here in the slightest.

However, even without guidance, by the time he came out I had figured out what to do, more or less. He looked even worse than when he had gone in, pale and sweaty, with his hair plastered to his forehead, but he wasn't shaking as much. He went to the couch and sat on it and stared at nothing.

"I made you tea," I said.

This seemed to take a minute to penetrate, and then he looked around. "What?"

"I made tea." I decided not to mention that I had never done it before, but Bharadwaj and Arada both made it a lot, and I had watched them enough times to have a general idea. "It's not the kind with stimulants. It's the other kind."

He huffed out a noise that I couldn't relate to a known emotion. "I don't think I want to drink anything right now. No, wait, you know, bring it over here anyway. I can hold it."

Humans liked doing that, holding food and drink items without consuming them. I wasn't sure why, it seemed pretty pointless to me, but it seemed to help them sometimes when they were upset. I brought the cup of tea, and he took it from my armored hands while looking up at me. I avoided looking directly at him, but I took the opportunity to read his surface temperature.

"You're chilled," I said.

He huffed that sound again. About 25% match on a laugh. "Drugging and forced purging will do that. Ask me how I know."

I couldn't think of anything else to offer, so I just stood there. Punching things and shooting things were my skill set. I had routines for dealing with injured clients, but that mostly involved getting them to a medbay or some other option that wasn't a SecUnit. "Do you need medical attention?" I asked.

Gurathin shook his head and winced like his head hurt. "No, I just -- I guess I need to get through this." A shiver wracked him, and I suddenly realized that there was something I could do after all. I turned abruptly (I heard him say "SecUnit?" behind me), got a blanket off one of the beds, and came back and dropped it on the couch beside him.

"Uh ... thanks." He pulled it over his legs. "You were in the camera feeds on the tech floor, right? I'd like to go over those, trace my movements, see if we can figure out what happened."

I wanted something to do too, preferably involving shooting someone. I reached out in the feed and began to gather in the data. "Will this make your headache worse?"

He looked up briefly, like he was surprised I could tell, or maybe surprised I had asked. "I don't care," he said. "I want to get the bastards."

I did too, so I could understand. I pushed a small part of the data at him in the feed. If he could tell I was keeping the much larger part, he didn't say anything about it. I sat beside him on the couch -- a normal, governed SecUnit never would, but he'd made it clear to me from the start that I could if I wanted to when we were alone, like I cared what he thought about it anyway -- and started sifting through the different camera angles. Beside me, Gurathin was obviously doing likewise. I made a shared workspace in our feed, tagged anything that might be relevant and put it in for him to look at too.

He stopped shivering after a while. He still held the cup of tea.

[theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming]

And we're back with...

Nicole Reads A Lot of Fanfiction (and she's gonna share it with you): Week 2

I really thought I read more Sterek this week.. it's because 2 of them were Big Boys™

Anyway: Buddie (11) & Sterek (4). Bone Apple Teeth.

tying you to me by rarakiplin (gmontys) | @hoediaz (2022•T•5.3K)

“Diaz?” The man — and it is Eddie Diaz, Buck can’t not see it now — blinks, and in a split second his expression shutters closed. “Buckley.” Buck wonders if he looks different without Diaz’s blood on his face. - or, eddie and buck meet each other at rock bottom

Wrapped In A Dream With You by lemotmo | @lemotmo (2025•T•35.7K)

“A snow globe,” Eddie said, staring in awe at the beautiful snow globe in his hands. It was absolutely stunning, with a red and green base and a complete snowy landscape embedded in the interior of the globe. Eddie studied it carefully. There were trees and little painted woodland animals hiding underneath them, and even in them. In the middle stood a beautiful little cottage, intricately adorned with tiny Christmassy details: miniature lights, wreaths of holly all around. “There’s a switch on the bottom,” Chimney said. He sounded excited. Eddie flipped it and suddenly the globe was a beacon of light, the tiny cottage lighting up in the snowy landscape. And— in front of the cottage there was a small figure. Something he had missed without the light on. It was the figurine of a tiny man, beautifully crafted and painted to perfection. This is a story about breakups, curses, attraction, loneliness, falling in love, finding happiness and joy, but most of all this is a story about a snow globe and how it changed the course of Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley's life forever.

Policy of Truth by Eros Heartache (Eros_Heartache) (2025•M•1.2K)

A game of truth or dare turns into a first for Eddie.

gentle cravings by saucerfulofsins | @saucerfulofsins (2024•E•5.4K)

“Fucking – ow,” Eddie complains, wincing at the pain. “You’re acting like a massage therapist!” “Well,” Buck drawls. “Not quite.” Eddie is silent for a couple of seconds before groaning. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve dated a massage therapist.”

there's nothing else I can do but love you the best that I can by disasterbuck | @disasterbuck (2025•GA•1K)

After losing someone on a call, Buck hides himself away; Eddie makes sure he isn't alone for long. - "Oh, Buck…" Eddie whispered, carefully crossing over to him and sitting down too. He ran his fingers through some of Buck's hair before wrapping himself around him, holding him securely. "I'm here," he murmured. "I've got you."

we could be lucky again by heartbeatdiaz | @lonelychicago (2025•T•15.9K)

“Can I help you?” Eddie asks cautiously. Christopher opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His mind blanks. All the scenarios he imagined—the ways this might play out—scatter out like dust. Finally, he manages, “This is gonna be hard to believe, specially for you, but— I'm Christopher. Your son. I, uh, come from the future?” His voice turns higher at the end of the sentence and it makes it sound more like a question than the fact he was trying to announce. Eddie freezes. “What?” His voice is sharp, disbelieving, and his posture gets more defensive. He can see a hint of anger simmering underneath. “Look, man, if this is some kind of sick joke—” Christopher swallows hard, forcing himself to stand straighter. “Dad. It’s me.” or; While working at NASA, an experiment goes wrong and sends Chris years back into the past. This might be the perfect opportunity to fix some wrongs.

when your heart releases, you won't fall to pieces by Daffi_990_ao3 | @daffi-990 (2025•GA•13.8K)

Eddie finally looks at Buck and the fear and sorrow that rages in the muddied storm waters of his eyes has Buck flinching slightly. He’s so used to Eddie’s eyes being sun kissed pools of rich coffee that draw you in with their warmth, making you feel safe. “They’re all dead, they’re all dead, they’re all dead”. Eddie whispers it over and over again and Buck doesn’t know what to do besides move closer and pull him into his arms. Eddie doesn’t fight him, just falls into the safety of Buck’s embrace, clutching tightly at his back as a broken sob falls from his mouth. Eddie continues to cry into Buck’s neck as Buck wraps his arms securely around him, a shield of flesh and bone attempting to protect Eddie from the horrors of whatever is haunting him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Buck murmurs into Eddie’s hair, his lips caressing the sweat soaked strands. “I’ve got you.” OR Buck supports the Diaz boys after Eddie's breakdown, realising along the way that home really is where the heart is.

The Handsome Man by DuoOfDiaz (TPCOTMW) | @smolfunpenguin (2024•M•13.2K)

E.B.Buckley grew up in Hershey, Pennsylvania. He spent a large portion of his childhood in and out of hospital after suffering some minor accidents. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise as even though he spent this time unable to socialise, he was able to turn to imagination and started making up stories and journaling his experiences, honing his skills to become the bestselling author we know and love today. E.B.Buckley is currently #1 on the romantic novel bestseller list, and lives in LA. - Taken from the jacket cover of the Special Edition Reprint of 'The Peruvian Man'

ode to a conversation with a friend by teenytinytomlinson | @littlefreakbuckley (2025•GA•4.2K) [Background Buddie]

“Eddie’s more like the older brother I never had,” May explains, because she knows Lauren well enough by this point to know that she most likely won’t let this go. Which is why when he’d texted her to ask if she could grab coffee one day this week she hadn’t batted an eye. Sure, Eddie’s older than her by a decade, but they’d become actual friends during their time together at dispatch. Not even coworker friends—you know the ones; you’re nice because your desks are next to each other and you share a break room, but you have no desire to see them off the clock. On mornings her word-of-the-day is particularly tantalizing; she'll open their text thread, and send whatever it is with no context. She considers herself a really good friend when Buck uses the word malodorous conversationally at one of Bobby’s barbeques, and she doesn’t say anything about it, just shoots Eddie a look that he pretends not to see as he throws a baseball with Denny. or, Eddie comes out to May.

everyone knows how much i love you by buckgettingstruck | @buckgettingstruck (2024•T•5K) [Part of a bigger domestic-verse but I read it as a stand alone]

“That’s Captain Diaz? Of the 133?” Cassidy asked. He stopped by the academy last week to drop off lunch for Buck — Cassidy got there early that morning, so she’d been one of the few who spotted him. It took everything in her not to laugh when she’d heard Buck flirtatiously yell “hi captain” across the room at him when he arrived. Eddie turned bright red. Buck grinned wide. “Yeah, we’ve been married for six years. We were partners on the job before I started here.” aka: 5 times Buck’s recruits see how obsessed Buck is with Eddie/his family + one time a recruit is completely oblivious

Next to your heartbeat, where I should be by rainbow_nerds | @rainbow-nerdss (2025•E•11.4K)

Eddie’s not a complete idiot. He knows this isn’t normal. He stands in front of a mirror in his underwear, the tightest pair he owns, and he poses for a picture at an angle he’s learned flatters his ass and the curve of his thigh, to send to his best friend. He knows this isn’t what most best friends do. He also knows most straight guys don’t spend extensive amounts of time staring at men’s thirst trap accounts, or thinking about how their best friends look half-naked, but… That’s not what Eddie is focusing on right now. He’s just focusing on feeling good, following the path that sparkles with joy, and refusing to overthink it. If happiness is Buck sending a meme of a guy with a nosebleed back to his shirtless selfie, then that’s what happiness is. Eddie has spent too long denying himself to let this be what stops his journey towards loving himself. It doesn’t need to make sense. It just needs to be positive. It’s not like he’s breaking any commandments, as Father Brian would say.

Twilight by Hedwig221b | @hedwig221b (2025•E•67.7K)

Derek. Stiles thought about him the most. Something told him that it wasn’t the last time, far from it. He thought about his softness and his open desire to kill. Stiles’ hands remembered the heat of his hands. His neck longed to feel the coating warmth of Derek’s breath. His lips burned from the kiss that never happened. Everything was so fucking complicated. Except one thing. It was the only clear thought in his head. The one that made his stomach clench from fear, his heart stutter from hope, and his lips stretch in a smile. He was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Derek.

Falling For You by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) | @isthatbloodonhisshirt (2024•T•37.2K)

Derek nodded once, reaching for it, all while reminding himself over and over again in his head to thank him with the pun. This was it, this was the moment for him. Stiles would realize he’d understood the pun from yesterday, and would laugh, and Derek would feel relieved, and everything would be great. His hand closed around the cup and he said, “Thanks for the latte.” Fuck. Fuck! Stiles looked startled, eyes dipping down to the drink Derek was now holding, and then back up. “Sorry, did you—I thought you wanted a coffee, did you want a latte?” “No.” Derek turned his back on him and walked away, resisting the urge to just head straight back to his car to drive off a cliff. Thanks a latte! The fucking pun was thanks a latte! Not thanks for the latte! Fuck! How had he messed it up so fucking badly?! It was three words! “That went well,” Boyd said, catching up with him. Derek just reached out to punch him hard in the arm without even looking.

Band Aids and Bouquets (I've known you your whole life) by thelostrocketeer | @ceruleancheckeredcars (2012•M•4.8K)

Derek is seven and his mother’s friend has just given birth. A (mostly) canon-compliant (canon also coming from the novel On Fire.) retelling of How Derek Met Stiles.

Drawn To You by mikatheseer | @mikatheseer (2024•M•80.1K) [Complete except for a possible epilogue]

Derek heads to a (nearly deserted) beach resort in desperate search of an anchor. There he meets Stiles, an artist and writer seeking inspiration for his next graphic novel. A Teen Wolf AU set 10 years after the fire, in which Derek and Laura Hale never returned to Beacon Hills.

[weirdoldstans]

He has to focus. He’s got to find a solution. He’s not slept the passed few nights and is running on empty, but he has to figure this out. He’s already got the shack Bill proofed, but he knows that won’t hold him back forever. He has to keep everyone safe. He can’t fail or everyone, the entire world will be doomed. Calculations run through his brain faster than any average mind could even begin to keep up with. But he’s not average. He’s Stanford Pines. He can save the world. He HAS to.

“Gah!” The pen between his teeth explodes as he bites down to hard on it, sending ink splattering down his face. He grabs the nearby waist basket and gags as he spits into it, trying not to swallow ink in the process. That seems to be his breaking point.

Tears finally start falling down his face as he grabs at a tissue box to finish cleaning himself. “Fuck. I can’t…” He grits his teeth as he starts sniffling in a way he can only find pathetic. He tries to pull himself together, but stress wins. He buries his face in his arms as he leans forward towards his desk as he just starts sobbing. It racks his entire body.

He tangles his fingers into his hair and gives a sharp tug trying to snap himself out of it. He has work to do. He can’t be crying like a…like a… A familiar feeling worms its way into his chest. No. Not here. Not now. It had been quite a while since the last time he…

Another sob tears from his throat and he reluctantly reaches into his coat and pulls out his paci. He glares at it as he turns it over in his hands. It was from a dimension of creatures far larger than himself that had mistaken him as one of their offspring. The whole ordeal had been humiliating, being forcefully diapered given a bottle and warm pjs and cuddles and… He whimpers in his throat. What he wouldn’t give to be back there right now, all swaddled up and kept safe. He had taken his paci with him when he had left, and maybe a few diapers as well. Just in case. But that had been a long time ago. He hadn’t been in a nice cozy diaper in far to long.

He pops his paci into his mouth. If nothing else, it helps quiet the pitiful noises he’s making. His mind starts to go fuzzy as he remembers something. Something he had hid in this lab after he had Bill proofed it when he first discovered his muse was a monster. His prized possession.

He goes over to the wall and finds the secret switch. Part of the wall goes inward before opening to reveal a scanner. He suckles his on his pacifier, still sniffling as he leans forward and lets it scan his retina before it opens to a small slot in the wall. He smiled just a little as the airtight lock opens and he sees his teddy bear for the first time in 30 years.

“Nikola….” He mumbles, reaching for the bear clad in a lab coat with glasses. He hugs it close as he nuzzles into its fur. He leans back against the wall as he slides down it, still hiccuping quietly. He does feel a little better. His mind is going blank. Part of him is telling him to get up and stop being so ridiculous, but it’s slowly dying out.

The lab door suddenly opens.

“Ford? Are you alright?”

He yanks the pacifier out of his mouth and clenches it in his fist. He blinks up at his brother from the floor. Tears still on his cheeks and teddy still being clutched.

“Hey!” Stan drops to his knee in front of him immediately. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” He snaps, wiping his face with one sleeve as he makes himself sit up straighter. “What the hell are you doing down here anyway.”

Stan glares at him. “Something felt off. I was worried you were hurt.” He bites back.

Ford just sneers, turning his attention to a spot on the floor. Stan just sighs and flops down next to him.

“What’s the matter?” He asks. “Don’t tell me nothing. You’ve got Nikola with you.”

Heat rushes to Ford face. Stan always knew about his teddy bear. Hell, he was the one that snuck out one night to retrieve it from the trash when their father had thrown it away. He knew how much it meant to Ford. He knew too much about Ford.

It was Ford’s turn to sigh. “I’m just…stressed.” He’d mentioned the threat of Bill, but hadn’t told him everything. He couldn’t. It was his burden to bear. He feels Stan lean towards him a bit, their shoulders touching, and he leans into it as well.

More tears threaten to come to his eyes, so he makes it a point to not look at him. Even as he sniffles some more. Even as he can’t stop the whimpers from bubbling up. He just hugs his bear tighter and leans against his brother.

Finally, Stan flings an arm around him and he breaks completely. He tightens his fist about his paci. If Stan would just leave he could use it.

“Hey, come one Poindexter. It’s gonna be alright.”

Except it wouldn’t be. Not if he didn’t pull himself together.

Stan reaches for his hands, both of which are wrapped around his bear, and he recoils. Stan can’t find out about his paci. He’ll think he’s a freak!

“Stanford!” Stan says a bit too loudly, more out of concern than anything. “Just calm down! You’re going to pass out if you don’t.”

“I’m fine!” He bellows, finally facing him. “I don’t need your-“ He’s cut short as Stanley yanks him into a hug. He physically can’t stop himself as he returns it. He smashes Nikola between them as he buries his face into Stan’s neck, hands coming up to cling to the back of his shirt as he drops his paci. His mind is a million miles away from it, so he doesn’t even notice. He just clings to Stan for dear life as he sobs openly, loudly, any semblance of pride or self control gone, while Stan holds him tight and lets him cry it out.

He’s not sure how long they’re like that, but eventually his mind goes completely blank and he’s back to just sniffling. Stan shifts slightly and pauses.

“Sixer?” He asks quietly. Eyes heavy lidded, he looks up to find Stan holding his paci. “What this?” His eye go wide and he’s about to start crying all over again. Stan sees this and cuts him off. “Hey now! It’s alright!” Ford jerks his head back as Stan brings it to his lips. “It’s okay! You can enjoy your binkie, Poindexter. I don’t mind.” Lip still quivering, he lets Stan push it into his mouth. “There we go.”

Ford goes to say something, but his mind is going fuzzy again. He wants so badly to stay in it. He vaguely hears Stan telling him to follow him as he gets them both up and leads Ford out of the lab, paci in mouth, Nikola in arm. He pauses at the top of the steps, nerves suddenly coming back.

“Kids are in bed.” Stan states simply. He is surprised to find just how dark it is outside. He’d been working for quite a while.

Stan leads him through the shack and to his bedroom where he lets Ford go and heads to his dresser. Ford follows, head tilted. He’s got a hand on a knob to the drawer and suddenly looks embarrassed.

“Uh, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself here, but…well…is this maybe something you’re interested in?” He opens it and Ford blinks, color coming back to his face as he stares wide eyed at the many cutely patterned diapers in front of him. Stan stands back as he takes it in. “Pick a pattern! Which ever you like.”

Ford’s at a loss for words. He never dreamed…

“Check it out!” Stan plucks up a pacifier from the drawer and pops it into his own mouth. He grins with it between his teeth. “I’ve got one too!”

To many thoughts race through his mind and embarrassment is still burning in his veins, but that wonderful fuzzy was still clouding his brain, making him want this more then anything. “…You first.” He says quietly.

“Hm?”

“You put one on first.”

Stan just snickers at him and lowers the waist band of his boxers a bit showing off the pirate themed padding he already had on. “I’m a step ahead of ya.”

His eyes flick back to the diapers and his heart flutters. Sucking harder on his paci, he reaches for a space themed one. Beside him, Stan grabs the powder and rash cream.

“Come on.” He says, gently, taking Fords arms again and leading him to his bed. “Let’s get you padded up.”

Ford feels like his head is swimming as his face burns the reddest it ever has in his life. Stan helps him lay down and he buries his face into Nikola as his lower half gets stripped. He can’t help but to whimper and whine and squirm as Stan slides the thick diaper under him and applies the cream and powder, being very thorough indeed. He can feel that familiar tingly feeling starting. God, when was the last time he got off? Stan tapes him up and pat the front of his diaper with a chuckle. He stands and goes to put away the cream and powder, pacifier still in his own mouth, as Ford sits up and looks down.

It was so thick. And crinkly. He brings a hand to the front of it, pressing it against himself. He all but purrs at the feeling, pressing against it harder. Fuck.

He half way glances at Stan when he clears his throat, but doesn’t stop touching himself. Stan looks embarrassed and quickly makes an excuse and leaves.

That doesn’t matter. Not right now. He keeps rubbing his hard dick. Just knowing his diaper is there, around his waist, keeping him safe and dry, makes him shudder. He’d missed this. He’s already so close. Tiny little whimpers pour from his throat. That soft crinkle sound is driving him mad. His hips are bucking into his own movement. It’s with a low whine that he throws his head back and finishes, coming hard. If he had been more cognitive he might’ve been embarrassed about how quick he was.

He lays on the bed, completely spent, snuggling his bear, when Stan comes back. He’s got a bottle with him. He wordlessly adjust them so Ford had his head in his lap while Stan pets his hair and coos at him while he nurses his drink, the pair each in their diapers, each with their pacifiers. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

X

Stan’s disappointed, but not surprised to find himself alone when he wakes up. Whatever. Story of his life.

“Stanley?” He jumps as Ford pokes his head into his room. “Oh good. You’re awake. The kids are in town with Soos. I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Of course. “Look, Sixer, I’m sorry if I over stepped.” He hadn’t been sure what else to do. He’s seem the look of Ford’s face. It was a mirror of his own. He knew that look of want and what it meant. “I just wanted to help you out.”

Ford was quiet a minute. “Why’d you leave?”

“What? I got you a bottle?” He doesn’t understand the question.

“When I was…erm,” he clears his throat and Stan chuckles.

“Touching yourself?” He snickers and Ford face turns red. “We hadn’t talked about it. Wasn’t sure you wanted me to stay.”

Ford slowly nods. “Well,” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “That was rude of me. I think it’s my tune to help you out.”

Was he…? Did he mean…?

“And maybe…” He’s look away again. “Maybe I could get changed in a bit.” He’s so cute when he’s embarrassed.

“Of course, Poindexter.” Stan just chuckles as Ford closes the door.

(Here’s 1 story!)

AHHHHH I LOVE IT!!!

FORD ALL STRESSED BC HE THINKS HE HAS TO SAVE THE WORLD...HE JUST NEEDS A LIL BABY TIME...

STAN COMFORTING HIM!! STAN SHARING WITH HIM!!

hhhhh ford jerking off in his diaper...yesss

THANK YOU I LOVE IT!!

[tightjeansjavi]

🌞WIP WEDNESDAY🌛

~originally I wasn’t going to participate this week, but considering I finished rewriting chapter one, I figured I could share a little snippet 🤭 hope everyone is having a good week!~

Et Auream: chapter 1

“Are you going to punish me?” Marcus spat.

“No.” Geta said with a slight shake of his head.

“I defied you. I deserve to be punished, so fucking punish me.” He snarled through gritted teeth and the emperor couldn’t help but let his mask fall briefly, a smirk crossed over his lips.

“And do you believe that your deliberate display of defiance will shorten your servitude and grant you your freedom faster than the rest?” He gestured with his hand.

“No.” Marcus said grimly and his eyes lowered their gaze back to the floor.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” Geta demanded.

Marcus glared up at him, his brows were pinched together and his lips were set in a harsh line. “He didn’t deserve to die. He fought just as hard as I did. That is why I chose to spare his life.”

Geta chuckled at this. “And yet your opponent is out there right now boasting that he won. Do you think that he is grateful for your mercy?”

“I do not care if he boasts that he won. I saw the fear in his eyes, Geta. He did not want to die. voluit vivere.” (He wanted to live)

“Everyone wants to live, Acacius. But you cannot save every person from their predestined fate.” He sighed and stood up and dropped his hands behind his back. “Do you remember the day that we met?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I asked you what you desired most in this life, and you told me that all you wanted was to be a free man, Acacius. Caracalla believed that you wouldn’t defy the odds that were stacked against you. He claimed that you wouldn't survive your first fight, but you proved him wrong. You showed strength, bravery, and resilience. Your courage has not gone unnoticed, and it is most admirable. I can make you a free man, I can turn your life’s legacy into something great—beyond your wildest dreams, but I require your trust and loyalty.”

Marcus wanted nothing more than to laugh in his face, but he wouldn’t give Geta the satisfaction. Instead, he steeled his expression and despite the pain in his shoulder, he sat up straighter, his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched, “you will never gain my trust and loyalty for as long as I live.”

npt: @syd-djarin @corazondebeskar @ovaryacted @beardedjoel @punkshort @javierpena-inatacvest @cavillscurls @kedsandtubesocks @strang3lov3 and anyone else who would like to participate 🫶🏻

[phyrestartr]

PR Stunt (Only, Right?) | Sukuna/M!Reader | Teaser!

#NSFW in full, bottom!reader, top!sukuna, Sukuna owns a body shop, reader is a performer, kinda meet cute, ABO dynamics, mpreg, yes there are always babies involved because i love dad sukuna, surprise baby, sukuna is a dickhead (what else is new), teaser not edited lmao

Note: This is just going to be a one-shot since it's already pretty much completed, just need to finish off the tail end and then go back and edit. Wanted a break from writing the other stories for a bit, so I hope you'll enjoy the full story when it's out

tags: @better-imagination-9 @better-imagination-9

“Did you sleep with (L. Name) (F. Name)?” 

The question caught Sukuna off guard; normally, Uraume didn't inquire into his personal life in regards to who he had and hadn't slept with. They were a friend, yes, but moreover they were the bookkeeper and helped with securing clients and arranging meetings–celebrities and their managers were fucks that Sukuna didn't like negotiating with. Best to leave the yapping to someone with a cooler head.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Sukuna asked as he rolled out from under the newest commissioned vehicle. 

Uraume walked to him, iPad in hand, and turned it to him, stone cold. 

Sukuna sat up straighter and squinted at the screen, annoyed. You’d probably just made up some salacious rumour and spread it throughout your friend circles; or worse, you wanted revenge on him for something he probably definitely did. In that case, Sukuna could somewhat understand. But still–

(Name) putting on weight? What’s happening to the former bombshell babe of Japan?!

Pregnant with a baby boy?! The secret's out!

(Name) returns to the stage after giving birth to a baby boy–but who is the father?

(Name) driving a Ryoumen Sukuna rescue vehicle?! Could he be the deadbeat dad we've been looking for?

Sukuna sucked his teeth after skimming over the article titles presented to him. 

“...No proof.” 

“Ah. Then please explain this,” Uraume requested, still polite as ever, as they flicked to an additional few images the scumbag paparazzi had caught of you. 

One was the car mentioned. Sukuna remembered it like it was yesterday–the joy of restoring a Porsche 911 back into its former glory was unmatched. You happily paid for all the parts and too often swung by to see the progress being made on the old thing. Obviously, Sukuna was more than happy to oblige. 

The next was of you holding a little nugget of a baby against your chest as you walked down a street in Shibuya. Nothing too damning, nothing too inspirational. 

But the last one–

“The fuck?” Sukuna mumbled as he snatched the iPad from Uraume’s hands and zoomed in on the now-toddler sitting with you in that damn Porsche, grinning brightly beside his mum while you ruffled his hair. His very, very pink hair. 

Sukuna took a breath while he thought. He didn't have to think too hard, though, not when he still dreamed about you and the short-lived fling between the two of you. 

“A Porsche 911, huh?” Sukuna grinned as he looked over the beat up, rusted beater of a car. He could still see scraps of its former glory, of the beautiful thing she used to be. Heaven knows she would've become an irreparable hunk of junk if you hadn't bought it from a scrapyard. 

“Yep.” You beamed. “So you think you can make her pretty again?” 

“You kidding? I'd pay you to let me fix this thing, baby.” Sukuna caught sight of your security stepping forward, but you waved them off without a second thought. 

Sukuna smirked. “But it’s not gonna be cheap.” 

You nodded. “Well, do what you have to. I'll pay whatever you need, handsome.” 

“Yeah?” Sukuna asked, looking your neatly-manicured appearance up and down; you were dressed like you were meeting someone of great importance (and  you were, obviously), with your hair groomed perfectly, outfit fit for a premiere, skin flawless. 

“Mhm. And I tip well.” you looked him up and down in kind, grinning as you bit at the nub of your sunglasses.

“Done.” 

Every time you came to check on his progress, genuine excitement flooding in your motormouthed Words, you'd go home with him and fuck him silly. 

And now, you were the momma to his baby. Allegedly. 

“I–so what the fuck does this have to do with anything?” Sukuna ran a frustrated hand through his hair after Uraume took the tablet back. “Bitch isn't asking for anything, he's not asking me to be his public fucking baby daddy, not asking me to pay for nothing?” 

“No,” Uraume conceded, “But he and his PR managers have reached out concerning this.” 

The man groaned and stood. “Fucking hell. Can't stand fucking PR teams. Thw fuck did they want?” 

“They want to make a statement about Touma's father.” 

Sukuna froze.

“Touma's a good name for a boy, right?” 

You asked the question so suddenly, so out of nowhere in the quiet of the afterglow. The city lights sparkled and winked at you both through the towering windows keeping you safe from the outside world. In hindsight, Sukuna would wonder if the city was excited for him. For you. 

“What, for a mutt?” Sukuna drawled, puffing on a blunt while he played with your hair and drowned in the tingles left in the wake of fingers drawing circles on his bare chest. 

“For a kid,” you chastised With a laugh. “I like Touma. Or Touka for a girl. Ayato's nice, too. Maybe Kazue.” 

“You better not be pregnant.”

“I'm not, I'm not. I'm just getting baby fever, I guess.” You hummed and left a sweet kiss against his tan skin. “I guess being around a big, bad boy like you's got me feeling domestic.” 

Sukuna laughed, dazed and happy. “You wanna ruin this pretty lil’ body for a fucking kid? Be my guest. Just don't come looking for a booty call after you've ruined yourself like that.” 

“Oh, don't worry,” you cooed. “I won't.” 

Man. Man. 

“A statement.” 

“In other words–”

“I'm not the fucking father.” 

“This might be a good way to get Yorozu off your case,” Uraume suggested, and Sukuna perked up. 

“Right. She fuckin’ hates kids.” 

“So, if you were to have a son, and it's revealed you've been quietly trying to make things work behind the scenes with (Name), then hypothetically–”

“I'll take the runt.”

[dothemindything]

==> Another shift over.

It's been a while, now. More days than you can keep track of, without the sun and moon to guide you. How long had it been in Houston, to become accustomed to the luxury of circadian rhythms anyway? Any stupid bitch would think you were pretending to be alive, again.

These days, every time you cross bubbles, there's a new star overhead, and a new climate to skew its glow. Total disorientation, total unpredictability. The environment ever shifting, and yourself in constant migration, yet somehow stagnant. Green screened into world after world, where you do your little song and dance, and then reset for the next dream.

This is how a ghost is supposed to be.

Or maybe just someone like you.

The others don't sleep. Somehow, you'd forgotten what that was like. But it's not as if it'd matter. You're not allowed off on your own anyway. The dressing room is the most you can negotiate- A small token of freedom in exchange for your power.

It's not much. You'd lose the infrastructure if you got too cozy and customized. Not sure it'd be able to fit into the warehouse of the week otherwise. All the same, it's yours. A little room where you can hide during your breaks, hunched over the table you call privacy nowadays. It's prettier than it was last time, the surface redone in black so that you almost can't see the claw marks texturing its finish.

At the corner, nuzzling the base of the mirror it's pressed against, sea glass glimmers. It's blue and green and oceanic, smooth around the edges like a marble. A miniature of the bubble that'd birthed it, where the waves are surely lapping even in your absence.

You wonder if he's gone there.

One claw trails the grainy underside of the piece, flexing an already chipping layer of nail polish against the mineral base. You'll have to redo it before the next opening, but your paint's been going quicker than most. Wouldn't be surprised if the son of a bitch was splitting costs on your ass, sharing with one of the higher blooded workers. And like clockwork, it'd be another cut out of the 'paycheck' you never see, as illusory as the watery memory your worry stone hearkens back to.

Distantly, your gut pulls you towards the cot you'd scrabbled together earlier today. It's barely a pile, but it's better than nothing. Still, you resist- If only to spare yourself the wallowing. Is he eating well? Is he sleeping, without you there? Is he

It's stupid how little you've learned. Did you ever miss Jacobi, this much? Surely so, but..

Her name feels surprising when it hits your pan, fizzling with unfamiliarity. You suppose you haven't thought of it, lately. For better or worse, she's safe in the locker. Safe from you, and anything else that might hurt her. The absence.. doesn't sting like it used to, even without a companion to split the panic. Here, you can almost forget you should be panicked. It's.. not like anyone's hurting for your departure. Not with him, taking care of everything. Always.

She's close enough to feel, at least. That's more than you could ever wish for prior. No time to think past the catch of a crevice under your index, where a fracture nearly split the formation. Force of a lightning strike.

You're busy reliving everything that came before it.

..Dreaming of everything that came after, rolled between your fingers. A stupid pebble's matrix. Stupid fucking rock you could've picked up anywhere, could've washed up on any goddamn shore, but it had to be yours. With him, it always is. With him, it's always..

Teeth ache. Wish you could fucking chew something-

"Kid."

.

That's your cue.

Eyes drift towards the door, open in spite of your best efforts to bar it with the stool you'd dragged in after you. Somehow, it'd been reduced to splinters without you even hearing. Have you always been this distractable?

The troll in the doorway doesn't seem to have any pleasantries in mind. So you sit a little straighter, and let your thigh loll a little looser; Noticing, with a ripple of disdain, the way it eases that hulking posture.

Disgusting.

Set the stone down. Listen up, get ready to pack, and fix your damn makeup, your mascara's smudging.

The insulator in your stem seems to pulse every time those horns turn themselves from view, begging to pop out with each throb that laps at your nervous system. Waves on the shore. Waves in your hand. The most you'll ever hold again.

Disgusting.

So are you, for wishing.

[medicus-mortem]

   Law won’t be able to convince this kid to leave him the hell alone, will he? Straw Hat will continue to be insufferable and try to bludgeon his friendship into the Surgeon of Death. The doctor gives a heavy sigh, hand rising to rub at a temple and the headache he can already feel growing. How long until Straw Hat Luffy wears him down and Law is just too tired and confused by his open, happy go lucky bullshit that he just gives in? Yeah, maybe he needs to cut off this alliance faster than intended. Might keep him from having a stress induced heart attack because of this.

   Straw Hat compares him to Eustass Kid and instantly Law tenses, hand dropping and disgust taking over his features. He does not want to be compared to that metal head. They are nothing alike. For one thing, Kid is more like a metallic bull in all things. Unable to think any further ahead than any minor insult someone has sent his way. More about overt acts of violence than anything else. He has something to prove, a fragile ego to nurse. The guy is just a complete, thick headed asshole. And sure, Law is an asshole but one could never call him thick headed.

   And then comes the comment about Law leaving his crew behind to keep them safe. This time his anger and irritation are real. Law pulls himself up straighter, head shifting to shadow his features under his hat. Teeth grind, hands balling into tight fists. He’s so fucking sick of people criticizing him for that decision. So sick of his crew and these Straw Hats questioning him over that. Despite what any of them say, any of them believe, Trafalgar Law will never regret that choice. He made the right one, to protect his crew from Doflamingo’s manipulations and to protect them from himself, because he’s not sure he would have stopped his vengeance to save them.

   “I made the right decision,” the doctor grounds out. “And it’s not your right, or any one else’s, to fuckin’ judge me on it.”

   In that moment he almost turns away, almost storms off and decides he’s had enough of this kid’s shit today, but then there are whispered words and Luffy’s whole demeanor changes. It’s not bright and bouncy but it’s trying to be. He’s trying to hide the emotional shift behind his usually unshakable smile, but you can’t hide much from someone as observant as Trafalgar Law. Arms cross over his chest, head tilting. He’s still angry, will probably stay angry for a few days, but perhaps he’s once again seeing that emotionally vulnerable kid he saw after he reconstructed Straw Hat’s heart.

   A heavy silence settles over Luffy, Law’s golden eyes watching carefully. Then Straw Hat produces his vivre card. He rips off a piece to give to Law, adding that comment about needing Law’s help. Trafalgar Law can’t help but scoff. Something tells him Straw Hat Luffy won’t ever need his help again.

    “With how you’ve been gettin’ stupidly strong in a short amount of time I fuckin’ doubt you’ll need me again,” the doctor snarls but then comes a sigh and hands unwind. He snatches the piece of paper from Luffy’s hand and tucks it into his breast pocket. He turns, intending on walking away from this. “Sure, whatever. You got my snail frequency, so you can call me whenever.”

“You helped me.” That’s enough for Luffy. “Don’t take nothin’ to stand there but you didn’t.” Smile slants into a lopsided smirk. There’s little illusion that Law gets up to things Luffy wouldn’t but they’re pirates and he wouldn’t stand a snowball's chance in hell trying to change that, has no interest in it either. “You are ‘n that’s fine.” A shrug. “Then I won’t let it end, duh.” Just like Law didn’t punch him, the surgeon’s threats fall on deaf ears. Law can’t end him and expect to see what era he'll make; said as much on Amazon Lilly. 

Here Law goes again. Luffy groans loudly as the surgeon reaches the end of his ‘my crew’s all I need’ rant. “You ‘n Kid are so stubborn.” Of all the people he expected to be so similar in the worst generation, why these two? “Don’t need to, want to.” He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot, childish irritation simmering under his skin. “ ‘n when you leave them behind ‘cause ya don’t want them to get hurt?” The rubberman knows he’s not going to get any admission from the older pirate that he needs the Strawhat's or him but some acknowledgement that if Law would at least reach out— Luffy sighs, dark eyes pointily glancing away. They really aren’t getting anywhere with this conversation. 

“I’ll protect them too.” Finger slides under the bowl of his hat; the weight of Ace’s vivre card was imperceptible the short few months it was tucked safely under his hat’s red band and two years later it’s weight only grows. Maybe if he’d acted when the edges began to fray, when his crew was still together. Would it have made any difference? The back of his throat clenches painfully, smile fighting through a dry swallow and he’s thankful for the shade of his hat.

Silence slides between them for a moment, Luffy still fiddling with his hat. “Here.” Fingers pull the folded sheet of his own vivre card from under worn straw, other hand quick to pinch and tear off a small square before offering it to Law, eyes still shielded under his hat. “In case I need ya again.”

[smiley-babe]

princess of daydreams

knight!megumi x princess!reader

Warning: heavy pining, masturbation, corruption kink, implied virginity loss, implied unprotected sex (pull out method used).

An: this was only supposed to be a drabble ._. got carried away.

minors do not interact/ 18+ only

He’s always been stoic. A true rule follower to his core. He luckily hasn’t had to go out and risk his life for a pointless war that brings nothing but death for months only for the two kingdoms to come to a stupid truce. That’s the one thing he doesn’t see himself doing. Fighting to keep up with a king’s inflated ego. That’s why he was happy to be assigned under the royal guard. But that wasn’t the only reason he was content with his position.

Sapphire orbs drink up layers of ribbon and silks every time he sees you. He hated those huge puffy dresses on you, obscuring him from seeing your true frame. Makes him feel perverted when he thinks any of those thoughts and they’re so often. He sits up straighter every time you pass him. When your eyes meet he feels his throat dry and his hands clam up. Then there’s that sweet smile you always greet him with.

That moment always feels like sunshine beaming on his face. Like the air was sucked from his lungs and he has to take a gulp of fresh air. It gets to him so bad. That smile replays in his daydreams when his mind isn’t occupied with anything else. It’s even worse at night when his imagination really takes over.

Alone in his own chambers, he imagines what you look like in your night clothes or maybe even nothing at all. He feels so ashamed when he becomes aroused from the thought. Megumi always imagines what you would whisper to him if he had you here with him. He wonders if you would be hesitant in the case of keeping your innocence because of your status.

He thinks about corrupting you, convincing you to give him your first time under the idea that he’s helping you, showing you how to please your future husband. And you, so sweet and naive, give it to him willingly so you can be a good future wife.

Megumi shudders thinking about your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, instructing you not to use your teeth. Your mouth would be so warm and he wants to cum in it so bad and tell you to swallow it. He feels sick for thinking about kissing you afterwards.

Then he gets you under him, preps you so sweetly since it’s your first time and you need lubrication. Instead he just wanted to taste you. He thinks about how good you probably taste and how you would squirm from his tongue. He would make sure you finish on his mouth before trying out his fingers. He starts with one and soothes you when you cry, kissing away your tears. He would admire your beauty here and silently wish you were his. Then the second finger. By then you’re moving your hips in tandem with his fingers and you come undone again.

It’s so warm, with your bodies pressed together and nothing but the moonlight illuminating your guys’ features. With a couple sloppy kisses shared Megumi lines himself up with your purity. This is the part of the imagination where Megumi starts to touch himself.

Rough, calloused hands, used to holding a sword, grasps his hard cock. He sighs out, jaw slacking a bit and sapphire eyes closing. He smears the pre dribbling from his slit onto his cock. His hips rock to fuck up into his fist and he moans softly from the slight relief. He knows you would feel so much better wrapped around him.

His imagination runs wild with the thought of finally easing himself into you. He would shush you when you cry out to him that it hurts. “You want to be a noble wife, right? Then we can’t get caught. Quiet my lady.” He gets halfway before pulling out and pushing back in even farther. It starts to get easier for you to take him, your cunt opening up for him with every slight push of his hips.

Your nails dig into his strong forearms as you whine and keen for him. His lips mold with yours to shush you and he changes the position slightly to spread you even more open for him. The back of your knees rest in the crooks of his elbows and the pain returns again as he digs himself deeper into you. He wants to curse aloud and moan out your name so you know what you do to him.

“S- sir it’s deep,” you whisper to him as he keeps his pace slow.

“That’s the point,” he speaks in the dark. “Your husband is going to want to impregnate you the first night of your marriage. He needs to be close to your womb. Therefore this position is very common.” You don’t even question him because Megumi makes you feel safe. He’s supposed to. He’s a knight of the royal guard.

His hand speeds up and a hiss sounds from his lips as he imagines his balls clapping against against your ass every time he thrusts back in. He thinks about how well you would take it despite being a sweet little virgin. And all because you want to please your future husband, whoever he shall be. But in that moment you’re Megumi’s and Megumi’s alone.

You two try to stay quiet but it feels too good. Each other’s names whispered against your lips as you shared sweet kisses. A groan and a curse from Megumi and a shaky moan and whimpers from you. The bed creaks a bit from all the movement and Megumi can feel himself getting close. “I’m almost there,” he moans softly. You pull him in for another kiss, this one a bit messier and needier than the others.

It has him flinging to the edge and it disappoints him that he has to pull out. But he does, stroking his pretty cock over your body, cumming with a low, “fuck”.

He spills into his hand, some of it getting onto his lower abdomen. In his daydream though, he finishes on your bosom that he still wishes he could see with his own eyes.

Here comes the shame that approaches with these nightly thoughts. He shouldn’t be thinking about even doing that to you. But he always wonders if you would take him up on the offer if he ever asked. With a sigh he cleans himself up and takes himself back to bed, absolutely angry at himself for wanting to corrupt the princess.

Meanwhile he doesn’t know that you think of him, the pretty knight that fights with the fierceness of fire, when playing in your pretty cunt. Your nightly routine also included a made up scenario of him accompanying you to his chamber and filling you to the brim. Maybe one day you’ll order him to your room so you can enact your fantasy. But for now you two rely on your imagination to get you through these lonely nights.

______

tags: @luxekeyah @chosovixen

[duskholland]

Stuck With(out) You - Mob!Tom Smut

tom was having a really nice day until the metropolitan police decided to crash his date.            or, when the law finally catches up to london’s most notorious mobster, tom learns that nothing is fair in love and war.

word count ↠ 15k. warnings ↠ angst with a happy ending, alcohol, a car chase, extensive depictions of prison, violence (very minor injury detail), tattooing, pregnancy, bad language, smut! there are extended nsfw warnings below the cut but this is 18+ so minors please do not interact.  a/n ↠ this is a work of fiction and is not meant to be taken 100% seriously! similarly to every other fic I’ve written about mob!tom, I don’t condone any of the actions shown in this story and all depictions of the mob and prison are entirely fictional. please do not date members of the mafia even if they are tom holland !!!!! + this fic was conceptualised before the release of cherry, and there are no purposeful links to the content of that film! the image from esquire that I’ve used is what led me down this path lmfao...esquire I love/hate you. ++ the biggest thank you ever to the wonderful @uglypastels​ for helping me with the initial brainstorm on this one, and for just generally being so supportive as I’ve struggled with writers block :’) I wouldn’t have ever been able to think this up let alone have the motivation to write this without you, so thank you and ily z <3  +++ there is a pov change halfway through this fic! it is intentional and you should be able to see it pretty easily but I’m just flagging it so you don’t think I lost it halfway through ahahha. enjoy!

nsfw warnings ↠ car sex, soft!dom!tom ft minor sir kink, oral and fingering (fem-receiving), multiple orgasms with brief refs to overstimulation, minor pregnancy kink, unprotected sex ft cumshot. 

✧ *:･ﾟStuck With(out) You･ﾟ:*✧

There’s something wrong with you, and Tom can’t quite put his finger on it.

He wonders if it’s the wine. He’d spent hours debating the type of grape and ideal bitterness, scouring his memory in search of the perfect blend to share with you on your date. Eventually, he’d settled on the same deep red that he’d shared with you the first time he’d visited your flat, back when your love was just a small spark. Three years have passed since then, the nerves of early romance melted away and replaced by knowing and love, but the wine has recurred each time one of you has decided to treat the other, so what better blend to bring along to the picnic that Tom had so meticulously planned?

You haven’t touched your glass, and Tom—for all his confidence and charm—is deeply unsettled by this.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks for what feels like the tenth time, with brows furrowed so tightly his forehead aches. Tom reaches across the gingham blanket to join your fingers together, surprised to feel the clamminess of your skin as you gently squeeze his hand.

You hum. “I’m fine,” you say, voice devoid of any intense emotion. You sigh softly before bringing your eyes to meet Tom’s, and the man feels his heart constrict in his chest. You’re perfect, even with your hair messy from the light spring wind and the nerves that sit across your face. When you squeeze his hand again, and Tom glances down to see the engagement ring on your fourth finger, the ache in his heart sharpens.

He never knew love could be this fulfilling, nor so easy. Breathing is harder than it is to love you.

“Okay,” he replies. “Do you want to go home?”

You’ve been so quiet for the entire date, which is strange because usually, you match his energy effortlessly. Tom has been away for a few weeks doing business in Liverpool, and this date by the river is the first time you’ve been properly alone since he returned. He’d really expected you to enjoy the date—or, on a very basic level, at least look like you want to be here. With your quiet answers, avoidance, and nervous stares, he can’t confidently say that you do.

You shake your head. “No, no.” You fiddle with some of his rings before pulling your hand away from his. As you sit up a little straighter, you turn away from Tom to stare instead at the River Thames.

The river behind you is lit by the mid-afternoon sun and flooded with boats. It’s such a lovely day that Tom almost doesn’t notice the horrible brown tinge to the water. Lining the bank are small groups of people—families, friends, couples, tourists. They all stay clear of the two of you, undoubtedly wary of the security guards lingering near their boss. He rarely goes out so obviously like this, but you’ve always loved London, and he’d wanted to treat you. He’d wanted this to be a nice day.

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you?” he checks, voice catching slightly.

Your eyes snap up to his quickly. “Tom,” you say, voice wrapped endearingly around his name. Moving easily, you slip closer to him, carefully shifting around the food and the glasses until you’re close enough to reach out and touch his cheek. “I love you.”

Tom’s teeth graze his lower lip as he feels you pad your thumb across his jaw. “I know,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze. “I love you too.” He pauses for a few moments, savouring the closeness and the scent of your rosy spritz. He’d missed you so much that it almost hurts to have you so close again. “I know you have something on your mind, darling… Can you tell me what it is? I want to help you.”

“I…” A breathy exhalation follows. You bring your hand away from his cheek and rest it on the red silk material covering his shoulder. He’s in a loose designer shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned and showing off the silver-linked chain he has hanging from his neck. “Tom, I just…”

“What?”

A small smile twitches at your lips. “Not here,” you seem to decide, voice a little stronger. “I have something I need to show you.”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

Tom feels the weight rolls from his shoulders. It’s fine—everything is fine. You want to let him in, want to trust him with the cause of your anxieties. You still want him.

“Let’s go, then,” he decides, knowing he’s far too impatient to spend another hour laying by the river. Tom offers you a hand, and you take it. He tugs you away from the picnic setup with ease. He doesn’t need to bother with putting the things away—someone else will do it. Just one of the perks of his job.

“I missed you,” you say, smoothing your thumb over the back of his hand as you walk together towards the car. “It gets lonely without you in the house. Our bed is ridiculously huge without two people in it.”

Tom chuckles. “Good job I’m back now then, eh?”

The noise you release is stacked full of so much relief it makes Tom feel guilty for ever leaving to begin with. As he watches the bright, genuine smile flow across your face when you meet his eyes, he resolves to never leave for business again. Never. Not without you.

“A very good job,” you clarify. When you reach the car together, Tom holds the door open for you, ushering you in dramatically until you’re laughing and making fun of him for fussing. The only way he can stop you from your jovial whines is by leaning across the dashboard and pressing his lips to yours, so really he can’t complain. “This car is stupid, too,” you decide.

“Oh, that’s too fucking far,” Tom murmurs, glancing in the rear mirror as he peels away from the pavement. He’s glad the air between you has lightened. You seem happier now you’ve decided to spill your secrets. He rests his hand on the back of your headrest as he twists in his seat, eyes on the road as he reverses. “This car is a beauty.”

“This car is confusing,” you say, and Tom feels you staring at the flex of his bicep. “I tried driving it when you were gone.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Couldn’t even get it up the drive.”

“Well, not to be rude, darling, but it’s hardly fair to blame my beautiful car for the fact that you’re an atrocious driver.”

If looks could kill, Tom knows he’d be six feet under.

“Fuck you, Tom,” you seethe, but your voice is charged with laughter. “I take it back. I didn’t miss you at all. Go back to Liverpool, see if I care.”

Tom cackles. “Maybe I will,” he teases, “just to see how long it takes you to start begging for me to come back again.”

You grumble something incoherent at that, then the words between you lull into a comfortable silence. After a few moments, you shift your palm to rest on his thigh, your hand gentle, warm. Your fingertips trace tiny love hearts over his slacks.

“Don’t,” you say eventually, voice quieter. “Stay this time.”

Tom risks a quick glance to you, growing breathless in the depths of your eyes. “Of course,” he says, voice thick. Tom returns his gaze to the road, his chest feeling tight. “I’m never leaving you again.”

“I mean, you can leave sometimes if you want—”

“No. Never.” Tom’s cheeks ache. “I’m never leaving your side.”

“Alright, Tom.” You sigh lightly, feigning exasperation. “I guess there are worse things than being stuck with you.”

“I’m charmed, darling. So relieved you like spending time with your fiancé.”

You shift in your seat at that, and Tom doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re flustered. You’re always shyer around him when he mentions the fact that your futures are intertwined, almost unbelieving that he’d slipped that ring onto your finger. It doesn’t matter how many times Tom tells you that he cherishes you—you never quite make peace with the fact that he wants to chase the moon with you. That doesn’t mean he’ll stop telling you, though. You hang the stars in his sky.

“I love spending time with you, Tom,” you mumble. “And I hope that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t change how you feel about me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Wait— what?” Tom scrunches the tip of his nose up as he squints in your direction. “Y/N, what—” He pauses, concentrating on keeping his voice level. “Angel, nothing you could ever do would change the way I feel about you. Nothing.”

You smile quietly. “It’s not a bad thing,” you add, almost sensing his unease. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Perfect.” Tom sits a little straighter in his seat. “Then there’s nothing to worry about—”

Sirens cut into his words. Tom startles, glancing in the mirror to see a police car with a whirring blue siren perched atop the grimy vehicle.

“Tom,” you say slowly, voice filling with dread. Your tone sends shivers down his spine. “Did you do something?”

Tom bites his lip.

He’s been trying his best to stay above the law recently, but… Liverpool had been messy. Very messy. He hadn’t intended on things going quite as terribly as they had, but one thing had led to another, and he’d had to fuck a few things up. The crime is nothing as intense as he’s been booked for in the past, but he’d had to write a few irregularities into his taxes and business agreements to smooth over the waters. It’s not as bad as murder, but it’s tax fraud nonetheless.

Tom had thought he’d been fine. Apparently not. He’s been a hot target for the Metropolitan Police for years, and they’ve consistently unearthed every tiny discrepancy he’s tried to get away with. He should’ve been more fucking careful.

“Shit,” Tom mutters. As he brings his eyes back to the road in front of him, he realises the police car behind you has been joined by another two, closing in from side streets and boxing him in amongst the traffic. He swallows thickly. “I messed up.”

You curse. “Idiot,” you mutter. You sit forwards in the seat and start to point to a gap in the traffic, right across the square. “Go there,” you say, voice pitching higher. “If you go fast, you’ll make it.”

He could book it. Tom’s run away before, in situations of peril where the alternative had been the law and escaping would give him the chance to alter some books and clear his name. It would be easy to slam his foot on the accelerator and dive down side streets, dodging the thick London traffic.

“Tom!” you say again, voice stressed with desperation. “Tom, go!”

The gap in the traffic is narrowly closing, the window of time Tom has to zoom through and get to safety shrinking before his very eyes. If he was alone, he’d do it without a second thought, but you’re here.

You’re here, and that means he can’t be selfish. Tom couldn’t ever risk you, not with such a treacherous manoeuvre like the one that you’re suggesting, nor with the repercussions you’d face if he books it. You’d either have to come on the run with him, or you’d end up captured and grilled by the Met, and neither of those options is the types of things he’d ever bring willingly upon you. You would never deserve that, and he refuses to make it a possibility.

Tom slows down the car.

“Tom,” you say, shock filling your voice. “What are you doing? They’ll get you.”

He nods. “I want you to listen to me, very carefully,” he says quickly.

“But—”

“—Darling, please. Please.” Tom stops the car abruptly. He calculates he has mere seconds before the officers ditch their vehicles and start storming across the traffic to haul him from his seat. “Don’t say anything to them. They want me, not you.” He turns off the engine and grabs your hands, holding them close as he stares into your eyes. “Call Harrison. Whatever shit they’re bringing me in for won’t hold up for long. They’ve— they’ve done this before. They never win. We have backup plans for this crap.”

“Tom,” you whisper, eyes welling with tears, “but they—”

“I know. I know, baby. I know.” He presses quick kisses to your knuckles, clinging so tightly to your fingers it’s like he’ll drift away without your touch. “I’m sorry. I am so bloody sorry. I love you so much.”

His throat hurts. The sight of the pain in your eyes makes him hate himself for ever bringing you into this faithless way of life. He doesn’t give a fuck that he’s destined for a cell—Tom cares that he’s hurt you.

“I love you too,” you say. You lean closer, undoing your seatbelt and popping his too as you reach up to cup Tom’s cheeks in your shaky hands. “It’ll be okay,” you stress. “I’ll get you out of there, baby.”

You lean in closer to kiss him, and Tom aches. The scent of your perfume is overwhelming, and he feels fragile beneath the hold you have on his face. The kindness in your eyes makes it hurt even more. It’d be easier if you’d let fury consume you and spend these last sacred moments denouncing him instead of loving him, but of course, you’re not like that.

The car door opens, and Tom is hauled from the car the moment his lips touch yours. Before he can process it, he’s being pushed up against his car, stiff arms keeping him pinned in place. He closes his eyes, firming up his face and shoving down his feelings as he forces himself to dry up, become stoic. He won’t show weakness now he’s outside.

Tom hears you exit the vehicle a few moments later, the crash of the door coupled with a few scuffles. He drowns out the words of the officers whilst they reel off a list of fabricated crimes, smugness evident in their voices. Good for fucking them.

When they eventually release him, he’s cuffed and weaponless, his spirit bent in two. The metal of his car had hurt his face, but nothing breaks Tom’s heart more than the sight of you being held back by two officers, tears streaming down your face. You bring your hands into the shaky outline of a heart, and it’s the last thing he sees before he’s pushed into the back of a van.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tom’s day goes from bad to worse.

It’s clear that everyone at the station has been waiting for him to fuck up. He’s met with sly smiles and teasing comments as he’s reacquainted with some of his most despised wardens and guards. He’s held in a temporary cell for almost a day and quizzed on the shreds of ‘evidence’ they’d procured from his house during a raid, and though Tom declines to answer every single question they throw at him, their smugness never fades.

He walks into the trial already knowing he’s going to be locked up, and not even the sight of you beside Harrison and Harry on the benches soothes him.

Five years. He’s charged with five years.

Now, Tom isn’t worried. He knows he won’t actually be held in a cell for that long. He’s already had correspondence with Harrison, who’s assured him that he’s working on it, and there’s really nothing much to worry about. Tom has been in this situation twice before, and on both occasions, he’d been released in less than a month. The connections he’s built from his years heading up the mob are reliant and unwavering, and he knows he won’t have to serve even a fifth of his sentence.

The only difference between the times before and now is you, and Tom can only fucking pray that you don’t despise him for dirtying your name with his crimes. You’d been normal before him—a waitress, aspiring painter, an innocent. Despite your insistence that you love him with all strings attached, his guilt weighs him down. He doesn’t give a fuck about the law and whatever twisted loopholes the jury had bought, but he does care about you and what you think of him. That’s the hardest part.

Two weeks pass achingly slowly.

Prison isn’t that bad for Tom. He’s pretty fucking lucky, all things considered. He has friends here—blokes he’d met around town, most of whom are willing to welcome him in. A few of his old guys are locked behind bars with him, unwavering in their loyalty and more than happy to absorb him as members of their group. Those who don’t know Tom know of him. His reputation as a murderous, cold-hearted killer follows him inside, regardless of its falsity. Tom hasn’t taken a life in three years, but these men don’t need to know that.

“Holland! Get the fuck up. You’re in the gym.”

Tom glances up. He’s lying on top of his bed, one hand propped behind his head, the other holding open a book. He isn’t an avid reader like you, but you’d sent him a copy of your favourite book with scribbled annotations in the margins, and he’s been spending every hour since its arrival clinging to the pages.

He sighs as he puts the book down and stands from the lower bunk. He’s in with a young lad, Ollie, booked on a minor drugs charge. Why they’d paired someone on such a minimal sentence with a member of the mob, Tom will never understand, but the fear in the lad’s eyes every time he looks at him is enough to keep his wavering ego bobbing just above the waterline.

“Step away from the door.”

Tom does as instructed. A moment later, there’s a loud buzzer followed by the swinging of the heavy metal door.

In walks Luther, Tom’s archnemesis. If the inmates fear him, the guards despise him, and to be fair, Tom understands why. He’s a bit of a dick when he’s behind bars. Usually, when he’s free, he operates with a level of poise and charm that comes with his position as leader. He speaks to his men with a firm but kind hand, respects everyone he deems his equal and commands supreme authority without becoming a tyrant. However, when he has his freedom stripped away, and he has to bend to fit the system’s will, his attitude becomes… problematic.

“Holland,” Luther barks. A moment later, he appears in the doorway, coughing loudly, cheeks flushed a ruddy red. He snarls at Tom, his voice like jagged glass. “Come on.”

“You alright, mate?” Tom asks. “You sound fucking terrible.” He looks it, too, with a dripping nose and red-rimmed eyes. He looks ill.

Luther’s features sharpen. “Get over here now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom swaggers to the door and dodges a little as Luther cuffs him, the man digging the metal into his skin with extra ferocity. They start to march down the long, grey corridor towards the fitness suite, Luther prodding Tom forward with a hand digging into his back.

“How’s your wife?” Tom tries, tired of the echoing footsteps.

Luther sighs. “How’s yours?”

“She’s doing very well, thank you.”

The guard tuts. “Does she like having a criminal for a husband?”

“Does yours like being married to such a wanker— hey!”

Luther pushes him down the corridor with haste. “Quiet, Holland,” he mutters. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“Well, then it’s too bad you’re stuck with me,” Tom replies. “Did you know that if me being here annoys you so much, you could always let me go? That would sort out your problem.”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah? Let London’s most wanted convict escape?”

Tom raises a brow. “London’s most wanted?” he echoes. “Wow.” Pride seeps into his voice. “That’s an accomplishment.”

“Not a positive one. Self-absorbed bastard.”

It’s easy to laugh. Letting the comments bounce off his back is easier than admitting the jibe about you has irked him. Do you like having a criminal for a partner? Even Tom, for all the world has jaded him, knows no sane person would rest well with the knowledge that their significant other has lied, stolen, and killed. It doesn’t lie well with him, and he was born into this.

They reach the gym.

Tom sticks to the same workout regime he has at home. He does his cardio for twenty minutes on the wobbling treadmill, then sits around on the bench press and does curls with a few of the guys. He keeps quiet, his mind loud, only adding a few comments when necessary. His sullenness adds to his image, and he’s busy with thoughts of you. By the time he’s finished, he feels arguably worse than before. The endorphins from his workout are overshadowed by the guilt Tom feels, clawing at his heart, heavy and persistent in its certainty that he’s a lousy partner.

He can handle being a bad guy, but a bad man? A bad brother, bad friend, or bad lover? The opinions of the guards mean nothing to him, and neither does the law, but when it comes to the people he cares about, their opinions mean everything. Tom has let Luther get into his head, and whilst he knows that was the guard’s intention, the seed of doubt has been planted. As he pumps iron, he feels it grow, taking root, blooming taller.

“Holland. Time to go.”

He grunts as he stands. Sweaty and sore, Tom hobbles to the doorway, feeling considerably smaller than he had when he’d left his cell. The cuffs hurt his wrists as his hands are clasped back together, and the walk back feels even longer than before.

“You had a parcel delivered,” Luther says, breaking the silence. “It arrived last week.”

Tom’s eyebrows pull together. “Last week?”

“I thought I should hold it back until you’d settled in,” comes the patronising response. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with too many new experiences, Thomas. Not that being in here is anything out of the ordinary for you, though.”

He feels his jaw twitch. He flexes his hand, knuckles burning for movement. Not yet, not yet. He has to wait, has to play the long game.

“You’re a dick,” Tom decides. He doesn’t care that he gets thrown roughly into the cell. He trips over the floor and barely manages to scrape himself to his feet, but he throws out a smirking “fuck you,” before the door slams shut. He’d follow it up with more snide remarks, but he becomes distracted by the sight of the parcel sitting on his bed.

It’s neat, despite the obvious intrusion into its contents by the guards. He flops onto his lower bunk, glad his cellmate is absent as it allows him to drop the ruse. Lips sagging into a frown, Tom rips open the package.

He releases a fragile sound as the contents pour across his duvet. Polaroids fall across the sheets, glistening slightly, neat and pristine. A lump comes to the back of his throat as he shuffles through them, finding images of you, Harry, Sam, Tess… The list carries on. For every person he can think of, there’s an image captured perfectly in time. He even appears in a few of them, with his hand around Haz’s shoulder or his lips pressed to your temple.

He finds a note attached at the bottom.

Tom, I thought you’d want some reminders of home while you’re away. We’re all looking forward until the day you can come home to us. Love you forever, Y/N <3

As Tom traces the edge of his nail along the outline of your face, his eyes well with hot tears. You always know what he needs, even when he doesn’t. You know him, inside out, and you’re continuing to support him, despite it all. He is indebted to you, and he knows already that as soon as he’s let out, he’ll spend every second of his life trying to repay that.

The seed of doubt burns away.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Two weeks later, Tom finally gets to see you again.

The prison visiting room is fucking grim. Toned in sludgy shades of grey and brown, it’s about as ugly as it could be. There are window slits pressed high into the walls, but the primary source of light is from the musky bulbs set above each table. The chairs are uncomfortable, and the decor lacks inspiration. Tom often wonders if the room was designed to be as revolting as possible.

Despite this, as Tom shuffles into the room that smells suspiciously of plasticine, he couldn’t be happier. It doesn’t matter that his wrists ache from the cuffs, nor that the garish shade of orange clashes horrendously against his skin: you’re here, and that makes everything better.

You’re sitting at the table in the corner of the room, drumming your fingers pensively over the surface. His eyes catch on the glinting ring wrapped around your fourth finger, and the sense of longing that had settled in the hollowness of his chest is quickly burnt away. Sensing his movements, you glance up, and when your eyes meet with his, Tom feels his heart come home.

You raise a hand in greeting, smiling shyly, and he tries to look as non-threatening as possible. He knows the new buzzcut and the stupid get-up probably don’t help, but you don’t look at him like he’s any different.

As he draws nearer, Tom finds himself blinking a few times, questioning how long you’ve been separated. The version of you he has holed up in his memories pales in comparison to the woman that he sees before him now, but he can’t quite pinpoint why. You seem fuller somehow—vibrant, glowing, alive, your face doused in a heavenly glow and your skin bright with health. Your figure has changed slightly, and Tom can’t stop himself from running his eyes all over you, trying to memorise every tiny detail his memory had blurred away. You look so beautiful, every single part of your form enhanced and bright, and your chest—

Fuck, it’s been a long time.

“Y/N,” he exhales the moment he’s been pushed into his seat. His guard unclasps his cuffs, and Tom immediately reaches out across the table, almost moaning from relief when you wrap your fingers around his. Your skin is so warm.

“Tom,” you whisper. Emotion seeps into your voice, and he feels his chest crack as tears pool in your eyes. “Are you okay? I— I missed you.”

He hums, biting his lip. “I’m fine, baby. I’m okay. Are you?”

You nod quickly. “I’m okay too,” you say. “Things are strange without you, but we’re working around the clock to get you out of here.” You drop your voice slightly. “I think we’re near a breakthrough.”

Tom’s teeth brush his lower lip. “Good, good,” he says. “How’s Tess? And Harry, and the others? Are they looking out for you?”

“Yeah,” you say. You squeeze Tom’s hands tightly. “They’re all okay. Mainly just worried about you.”

He shrugs, trying to lessen the furrow in your brow. “‘M all good, darling,” he promises. “Don’t worry about me.”

Your eyes skate across his face. “I like your hair,” you say gently. For a moment, Tom thinks you’re going to try and reach out to touch the buzzed fuzz, but you seem to remember that anything beyond handholding is prohibited. You have to settle for a slightly suggestive smile. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks, lovie.”

Your smile is sad but it’s still hopeful. Whatever emotions you’re feeling, it’s clear that you’re trying to smooth them away and keep them to yourself. “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” you say, easing into the words with difficulty. Tom watches as you look away, doubt casting across your face.

“What is it?” Vaguely, Tom remembers how skittish you’d been the day he’d been taken away, the memory distorted from the noise of everything else that had happened. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You bite your lower lip. “Uh, just first… how are you holding up in here? Like, actually. Don’t bullshit me and play the tough guy.” Your eyes are wide and persistent. “How are you actually doing?”

Tom blinks a few times. “Fine,” he shoots immediately. He clenches your fingers tightly in his, clinging on for a moment until he exhales. “I wish I could be here for you properly, though. It worries me that I don’t know what’s happening on the outside…” He hates being left out in the dark, but it isn’t your fault. It’s his. “I wish I could be a better boyfriend to you.”

“Fiancé,” you correct, the word soft like it’d left your mouth without thought. “You’re already a good boyfriend, Tom. I knew what I was signing up for. I wanted this back then, and I still do now.”

“Still,” he grumbles. He tries to even out the heaviness of the conversation with a smile. “I think about you all the time, baby. And the others too, but… mostly you. I just hate that I’m missing out on our life together.” He has to stop for a moment as he recollects his thoughts. “I’m sorry that I did this to us, and I’m sorry I let you down.”

You crack a wry smile. “You can’t change the past, Tom. You can only affect the future.” You pause, your expression hardening. “I need to know that you’ll go slower when you get out. I know this is your life, but some things need to change. We— I need you to stay out of trouble. Do you understand?”

He nods his head immediately. “Of course, of course. I don’t ever want to get arrested again, darling.”

You drop your voice. “I’m not saying you need to quit everything, just… get better safeguards and be smarter. I love who you are, Tom, but this…” You break off to gesture around, pointing vaguely at his cuffs, the jumpsuit, and the guards. “This isn’t good for you or for me. And I love you, but I won’t stay if you don’t try.”

It’s hard to hear, but he knows it’s what he deserves to hear. He knows you deserve to stand your ground.

“I know,” Tom says gently. “I’ll get clean when I’m out, Y/N. I promise. I’ll be a good man by you.”

You squeeze his fingers tighter. “You already are,” you promise, “and I love you so much, even when you’re being an idiot.”

He laughs breathlessly. “Thank you, darling.” Tom tilts his head to the side. “What was it you wanted to say?”

Conflict briefly colours your face, manifesting itself in the arch of your eyebrow and the biting of your lower lip. You inhale sharply, only to exhale again a moment later.

“I’ll tell you when you’re out,” you say softly.

Tom scowls. There’s no anger there, just confusion. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

You shake your head. “I… Pretend I never said anything,” you say. You follow it up with a quick, “if I thought you needed to know, I’d tell you.”

He doesn’t want to push it, so Tom lets the topic slip away. You sit together silently for a few minutes. It’s hard to talk, difficult to express how much he misses you, how much he’s sorry. He knows that you understand—you always do, and you have similar tears wobbling across your eyes. Talking can come afterwards when he’s out and he’s free. All he needs now is the feeling of your hand back in his.

The visit is over far too soon.

Leaving you is difficult. Tom isn’t allowed to hug you or go any nearer than the linked hands on the table, but you tug at his fingers until he feels the imprint of your engagement ring rubbing against his skin. He even manages to kiss your knuckles a few times before he’s pulled up from the table and cuffed again.

“Be on your best behaviour,” you say, soft with your parting words. “The lawyer says the better you are, the easier it’ll be to get you out early.”

Tom has a bit of his spark back. Even as he’s pulled back, he manages a devious smirk. “When am I ever not on my best behaviour, darling?”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A few days later, Tom snaps.

To be fair, it isn’t really his fault. He’s pushed to the very verge of insanity, prodded at and provoked beyond the point of return.

It happens when he’s in the barber, huddled in the back corner of the room as he gets a new tattoo. Tom is used to the pain of the burning needles as he already has a few pieces on his arms and his hands, so he’s able to take the fresh marks to his knuckles as the ink stains black against his skin. However, he’s a bit on edge from the sharp buzzing, which is perhaps why he responds so negatively to the taunting he starts to receive. It comes from Toni and the rest of his snivelling gang. They’re all members of the East London mob, ruled over by Tom’s nemesis Gordy. Most of the time, they stick to their side and Tom sticks to his, but they’ve caught him in a vulnerable position, and Toni never seems to know how to pick his timing.

It’s basic teasing, instilled with a brutal hard edge that would phase him if Tom cared enough about their opinions of him. It doesn’t hurt him when people attack his character or his honour—Tom knows the truth about his life, and he couldn’t give two shits about an outsider’s opinion of him. However, he finds it a lot harder to grin and bear it when the man changes angle.

“Word is, a couple of our guys saw your missus out with Haz the other day,” Toni taunts. “He said they were getting real close if you know what I mean.”

Tom’s jaw flexes. The action is minute, but it doesn’t go undetected. Toni smirks.

“Eh, you don’t like that, do you?” The man steps a little closer and Tom tries to ignore him by looking down at the needle pressing into his fingers. “Don’t like the idea of your best friend hanging around your wife. Can you even trust them?” He breaks off, laughing coolly. “They think you’re so stupid, did you know that? You’ll get out of here, and they’ll have cut you out of everything—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tom murmurs. He flexes his right hand, shaking out his knuckles. With every passing day, he’s felt tetchier. He can feel his anger burning, churning deep within his stomach, growing brighter, harder. He knows he shouldn’t lean into it, but… He wants to. He craves that rush of the fight, selfishly so.

“But she’s not your wife, is she? You aren’t actually married. Have you ever thought that maybe she’s just using you? Maybe they all are? Look at you, Tom.” Toni breaks off to throw a disdainful hand in Tom’s direction. “You are so weak in here… How are any of your guys going to respect you when their leader can’t even stay out the slammer?”

The guy tattooing Tom’s hand finally pulls away, glancing up at him with knowing in his eyes. “You’re done,” he says. “Don’t do anything with that hand, though.”

“Thanks, man.”

Tom stands up, Toni mirroring him. The man looms in front of him, 6’2 and stocky. He’s larger than Tom in every respect, but he’ll never be the bigger man.

“Get out of my way,” Tom sneers.

“Make me, twat.” Toni smirks. “Or are you too much of a pussy to follow through on that as well?”

Tom sees red. Acting on the edge of adrenaline, he pounces, rushing the man and jumping with so much unexpected force that the larger man goes tumbling to the floor. Tom hears the shouts of the guards, but they pale in comparison to his need to straddle the man’s chest and make him pay. With each meeting of his fist with Toni’s face, Tom feels better. He’s never been an excessively violent person, but old habits die hard, and it’s so, so, so fucking easy to pummel the guy who dared breath an uncomplimentary word in his family’s direction. Tom would put the whole city six feet under if they so much as breathed wrong around his loved ones, so really, Toni had it coming.

The prison guards don’t agree.

He ends up in solitary, and when he’s put back into the normal population, Tom is given restrictions. He isn’t allowed visitors for a fortnight, and his calls are reduced to once a week. All other privileges he’d had are taken away again, and he’s relegated to the very bottom of the pecking order.

It’s still worth it.

When he’s finally allowed visitors again, Tom is surprised to learn that his next meeting isn’t with you or his lawyer. Things only make sense when he shuffles into the meeting room and sees his right-hand man settled in the corner, and if Tom had found the room drab before, it appears even more depressing with the addition of the blond man sitting in it. Harrison sucks the life from the room, any hints of happiness at being reunited with his friend overshadowed by the pinched expression on his face.

The guards don’t let Tom take off his cuffs. He has to sidle into the chair, falling into the heavy silence as he places his hands on the table. Metal links click, and Harrison just stares. He stares, and stares, and stares, his blue eyes almost black.

“So,” Tom eventually says. “Hello.”

Harrison’s jaw twitches. He brings his hands to rest on the top of the table, flexing them as he takes a moment to find the right words. “Tom,” he says, speaking very slowly. “You are a twat.”

He blinks. “Wow,” Tom mutters, chuckling slightly. “Okay. Good to see you too, mate.”

“Do you…” Harrison breaks off, groaning. His forehead develops angry ripples. “Do you understand how detrimental this has been to your case?”

Tom bites his lip, shaking his head slightly.

“You’ve been pushed to the bottom of the pile,” Harrison says, voice controlled but simmering with unspoken anger. “We were about to get your appeal passed for early release.” He sits back, crossing his arms as he shakes his head. “There’s been a penalty applied due to your stint in solitary. Your case won’t be assessed until it’s lifted.”

Tom feels his stomach drop. “Shit,” he mutters. “That’s not ideal.”

“No. No, it’s not.” Harrison sits forward, leaning on his hands. “You are a bloody idiot. Stop acting like a child… Why… Why did you even attack him? You must have known this would happen. Are you stupid?”

He doesn’t like the patronisation in his tone. Tom’s already beat himself up enough about this in solitary. He doesn’t need Harrison questioning his judgements, doesn’t appreciate his friend breathing down his neck so obviously.

“He deserved it,” Tom says firmly. “I would do it again.”

“You can’t. You absolutely cannot.”

“I think you’ll find that I can, Harrison.” There’s a stupid smirk on his lips now. Tom’s missed being a little shit to his friends. He knows it’s not the time, but he’s vibrating. The callous concoction of shame, anger and isolation make him volatile and abrasive. “I’m pretty sure I can do whatever the fuck I want, actually.”

The expression that mars Harrison’s face looks very out of place against his demeanour. The man is in a long black trench coat with a tight grey turtleneck layered beneath it. He has a few pendants hanging from his neck, the gold metal bringing out the warm tones in his curls, mussed in a way that screams of old charm and perfect romance. Harrison’s illusion of control falters only under the pressure of the anger that manifests itself so clearly on his face.

“Tom.” Harrison bangs his fist on the table. The ring wrapped around his pinky clangs against the wood. “You can’t keep this up. If you do, the case gets pushed further, and that is unacceptable.”

Tom scowls. “Well, Haz, last time I checked, I was the one who has to deal with the consequences of my actions. Not you.” He can’t stand the expression of condescension hanging over Harrison’s face. “If I want to throw a few punches, I bloody well will. You have no idea what it’s like in here. No idea at all.”

Harrison’s angered expression fades a little, but only for a moment. When Tom hardens the curve of his eyebrow, Harrison devolves into irritation again, almost snarling as he narrows his eyes. “Your actions affect everyone in your life,” he snaps. “Stop pretending you’re the only one paying for the things that you’ve done.”

“I’m the one with the cuffs, Harrison. I’d say I’m paying considerably more than anyone else.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah? Tell that to the men who had their property searched and their possessions seized. Tell that to your family, who continue to be pulled in for questioning. Tell that to Y/N, who—” he breaks off awfully quickly, cheeks flushing slightly. “Nevermind.”

Tom’s blood goes cold. “Y/N?” he repeats sharply. “What about Y/N?”

“Nothing.”

He sits up straighter. “What about Y/N, Harrison?”

“Nothing.”

Tom is angry now. “Tell me right now or god help me, I will find a way to kill you.”

Harrison rolls his eyes, then covers the movement with a sigh. “I can’t. It isn’t my place.” He seems regretful as he jumps in to add, “she’s fine. She just needs you. We all do.”

The guilt returns. It falls over Tom like a wet blanket, extinguishing his frustration and leaving him cold. “Does she… Does she hate me?” He’s looking down at his cuffs.

“What— no. No, Tom.” Harrison looks guilty for the first time, but at least he isn’t confirming Tom’s deepest insecurities. “Nothing like that at all. Just… Listen to me, alright? You need to behave. I know it’s hard in here, I know that, and I understand it must be frustrating. You just… You can’t let that rule you, Tom. You have to look at the bigger picture. You need to come home, and the sooner the better.”

It’s easier said than done, but he knows Harrison is earnest with it.

“Fine,” Tom grumbles. “I’ll behave.”

Harrison nods. “Thanks, mate,” he mutters. “We all miss you, myself included.” He glances up at him, eyes finally back to the cool blue tones Tom grew up beside. “It isn’t the same without you around.”

Tom manages a tight smile. “I miss you too.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS since Tom was taken away, and you are miserable.

Every day has been the same. You wake up, nauseous and alone, always on Tom’s side of the bed despite forcing yourself to fall asleep on your own. The mornings are a blur of paperwork and phone calls that follow you into the afternoon. You work around the clock, Harrison, Harry and Sam at your side as you go over Tom’s case, again and again, only stopping when night falls, and one of you throws in the towel.

You had been so close to springing him until he’d gone and got himself demoted to solitary, and there’s not a morning that you don’t think about that. You’d submitted the appeal, stacked full of so much evidence that there was no way the judge would deny him freedom, only for Tom to get into a fistfight the day before the hearing. Just like that, the floor had vanished from beneath your feet.

You’d taken it badly, the others too. Losing Tom to the judge’s gavel had been hard enough, but for his escape to be taken away by his own actions hurt a thousand times worse. You know it’s worse for him, being alone in a cell, but that doesn’t stop the bitterness seeping into your mouth every time you think about the lost chance. Harry and Sam had been incensed, their anger fuelled by the void of a missing brother, and you know Harrison’s frustration comes from similar veins.

Even now that Tom’s served his time in solitary, the frustration lingers on, manifesting itself in the way none of you could decide who should go and visit him first. Under normal conditions, you would’ve been there in a heartbeat, but… Things have been complicated, even without recent events, more so than they’d been when you’d visited two months ago. When Harrison had bitten the bullet and volunteered himself, all of you had been more than happy to let him go.

He’d left this morning, and the house has been quiet ever since.

You’re sitting up in one of the spare rooms as you wait for Harrison to return, your back aching and your mind spinning. You twirl the rings on your fingers as you think, taking turns alternating between your engagement ring and the silver signet rings you’d taken from Tom’s dresser. Keeping him close makes everything easier. You’d take any reminder of him you could get, be that his rings, his shirts, his cologne, or…

The baby.

You shift a hand down to sit on the swell of your belly. Tears prick your eyes as you let them close, a frustrated sigh tumbling past your lips.

You’re four months pregnant, and that throws a spanner in the works.

Sure, you would’ve tried equally as hard to get Tom released under normal conditions, but the biological countdown that has now been sprinkled into the mix has only given everything an air of desperation. Even if it isn’t you vocalising what everyone else is thinking, the fervour to get Tom out before it’s too late is there. You can see it in the way Harrison never lets you go anywhere unaccompanied, and Harry and Sam have been working nonstop to get their brother’s freedom. Everyone around you is aware of how vital Tom’s release is, even when the man himself remains oblivious.

Exhaling gently, you shift around on the cosy armchair. The nursery smells of fading paint, and as you move around, you glance at the messy borders of the walls. The sex of your baby is still a mystery to you, but a few days ago, the twins had freshened up the room with a shade of light green whilst you and Harrison were in court. Neither of them is particularly artistically inclined, but they’d done a pretty decent job, all things considered.

Tom’s family have all been good to you—very kind. You haven’t felt alone, even with half your heart locked away in the outskirts of London. It just hasn’t been the idyllic pregnancy you’d dreamt about with your fiancé.

Guilt falls across you as you look down at the rising swell of your belly.

It’s been hard trying to decide whether or not to tell Tom what you’d tried to come clean about three months ago, down by the Thames. You’d wanted to tell him when you’d gone to visit him, but you couldn’t find the heart to come clean and admit that he’s missing out on the one thing he’s waited for his entire life. Telling him would hurt him immensely, and he’s already hurting being away from you. You don’t want to tell him until he can be part of it, and with that uncertainty present, you’ve kept your lips sealed.

Visiting him today in place of Harrison is all you really wanted to do, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You’re vulnerable and explosive, and you want to come clean to Tom when the situation is better. There would be nothing worse than storming into that dingy meeting room, flaunting your obvious pregnancy but being too distracted by your anger at your fiancé to explain everything else. You won’t hurt him like that by taunting him with the one thing he wants but can’t have. You refuse to.

All you can do is hope that he forgives you for holding the information back, pray that he understands your motivations, and, above all, hold onto the hope that he’s there when your child comes into the world.

“Y/N? Where are you?”

Blinking yourself from your reverie, you look up through the open door.

“In here, Sam.”

A moment later, Tom’s younger brother appears in the doorway. The man looks as exhausted as you feel, deep shadows hanging beneath his hazel eyes. When he sees you, his mouth pulls into a small smile and he lifts his hand in greeting, and you can tell that he’s trying. You try to match him by sitting up a little straighter and smiling back.

“Hey,” he says. “I was just… bored, I guess. Thought I’d come and check on you.” Doubt briefly flickers across his face. “Is that okay? Are you busy?”

“I’m bored too,” you admit. You stand from the armchair and groan as you stretch your arms, your stiff back aching. “Do you want to do something?”

Sam grins. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “Can we try the mural?”

Wincing, you manage a smile. “Okay… But if it looks terrible, I will paint over it.”

“As if. I’m the artistic one here, Y/N. Just be glad Harry’s still away.”

“Did someone mention me?” Harry’s voice rings through the air, startling you. With a hand clutching your heart, you look to your side in time to see Sam’s twin taking his place at your side. Where Sam is in a shirt and tie, Harry is clad in a pair of deep denim dungarees. He offers you a rusty smile. “We’re just filling in these lines, yeah?”

Sam’s the one to nod. He gestures at the wall and you notice the faint outlines, scratched in pencil. “Be precise,” he informs, “it took me bloody ages sketching it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, shooting you a silent smirk. “Yes, sir,” he mutters. “Anything you want, sir.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry pulls a face. “Well,” he says, looking at you pointedly, “I hope you’re keeping a record of how many times Sam is swearing around the baby, Y/N.”

Brows furrowing, you pick up a paintbrush. “Why would I be doing that?”

The ginger grins. “Just betters my case for being the better uncle,” he says.

“Oh, what? Don’t you mean the boring uncle?” Sam chides, bristling beside you.

Harry laughs. “I will be the favourite uncle. I don’t care what you say, Sammy. Both of us know it.”

Rolling your eyes at the argument you’ve heard a thousand times before, you give them both a nudge. “Shh,” you plead. “Paint, don’t fight.”

Sam shoots you a soft smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

With a smile lingering on your lips, you watch as Harry puts on one of his playlists, then relax as the three of you get to work. None of you say anything, but the air is full enough—tickled to life with Sam’s quiet whistling and the sound of paintbrushes thick against the wall. You concentrate on the intricate details of the mural, like the outlines of the clouds and the spirals of the grass, and marvel at how wonderful it is to be so content in silence. It’s indicative of how tight your bond has grown, you think.

No longer despising solitude, you’ve found a comfortable middle ground around the men. You and Tom’s inner circle have learned to work together well, stringing together complex case files as you’ve organised accounts. Nothing you’ve been doing recently is legal, but you would’ve left a long time ago if you genuinely cared about the law. You can stomach a few fixed accounts if it means Tom gets to walk free—you can stomach a whole lot more than that, actually, for Tom. You’d set the whole world on fire just to see him smile.

Like the splotchy mural covering the walls, your team has got the job done. Your case for the court is watertight, if a little messy, but you know it’ll be enough to spring Tom. It has to be. You need him, and your child needs him. Everyone in the house needs him.

“Guys? Where are you?” Harrison’s voice joins the mix just as you’re stretching up to flick a few rays of gold into the sun. Harry is at your feet, crouching on the balls of his feet as he tries to paint a few red flowers to the sprigs of grass.

“Nursery,” Harry calls out.

A few moments later, Harrison joins you. You fail to meet his eyes as the focused man sweeps into the room, billowing coat swirling around his feet. His expression is terse as he jerks off his jacket and grabs a paintbrush, dipping the tip in a bit of sky blue paint before standing at the end. You don’t rush him. He’s vibrating with something, his face flushed and his eyes dark, so you give him space.

A few minutes pass, illustrated by Harry’s playlist and the colours of the rainbow. Just when you’re beginning to worry, Harrison speaks.

“Tom is an idiot,” he states, drawing a laugh from one of the twins.

You bite your lip. “Did you explain?” you ask.

Harrison nods. He glances at you, and you note the fleck of purple paint pressed into the pale arc of his cheek. “He said he wouldn’t do it again,” he tells you. “He was angry, though. I think he’s having a bad time.”

Harry hums. “It’s hard in there,” he mumbles. “Was he still himself?”

The blond nods. “Yeah,” he says. “As snarky as ever.”

Sam smirks. “That’s Tom, alright.”

“Good news, though,” Harrison adds. “I went to the courthouse on my way back.”

“Oh?” You look away from your cloud, your heart skipping a beat. “And?”

“And,” Harrison continues, a semblance of a smile twitching across his lips, “I submitted the appeal again. They said they’d probably process it next week. So, if things go according to plan this time, he might be out by next Friday.”

You almost drop your paintbrush. Eyes widening, you turn to face him properly. “Wait, really?”

Harrison’s expression softens. “Yeah.” He puts his paintbrush down, tugging yours from your fingers as if he can tell you’re close to dropping it. “He’s almost out, Y/N.”

Relief spills across you, uncontrollable and overwhelming. Closing your eyes before those easy tears can fall down your cheeks, you step closer and push your way into Harrison’s embrace. He’s ready and waiting for the action, eager to comfort his friend.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Harrison’s chest is warm, and though his hugs aren’t as good as Tom’s, you’ve come to rely on them. You’ve come to rely on all of them. “That’s amazing news.”

“Mhmm.” He squeezes you. “This nightmare is almost over.”

“Thanks, man,” Harry speaks up. You pull away from Harrison’s hold when you hear the quivering tones in his voice, quickly glancing to the man to find him glassy-eyed and flushed. Biting your lip, you extend a hand towards him.

A group hug unfolds, as it’s had the tendency to do since Tom was taken away. The first time had been stoic and cool, with frozen elbows and embarrassed shuffling, but slowly, each one of them has loosened. They’re tough men, burdened and hard, but love ties them to you, and at your request, you know they’d do anything for you. You also know that they all enjoy the physical comfort more than they’d ever let on.

It’s been hard without Tom, and you’d do anything to have him back, but if there’s anything his absence has taught you, it’s that his brothers have become your brothers as his best friend has become your own, and you’ve never really been alone.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tom’s release day comes quickly, hidden behind the retrial and the quick-paced days in court. It’s busy at the trial, and spaces are limited, so Harry and Sam attend in place of you and Harrison. You get them to take in a few letters for Tom and pass on your condolences for your absence, but you don’t allow yourself to get too hung up on it. When Tom’s release is announced, the weight that rolls from your shoulders is immediate.

As you wait outside the prison, you try to find solace in the rays of the mid-afternoon sun. It’s quiet in the car park, allowing you to ruminate in peace, and though you’re comfortable resting against the bonnet of Tom’s car, your thoughts are far from restful.

Anxiety weighs heavily in your chest, mixing with your excitement and creating a volatile concoction. You find yourself pacing, biting back your nerves as you try to reason with yourself. Draped around your shoulders is a long coat that obscures your bump, chosen as you’ve decided you don’t want to overwhelm Tom with too many things at once. You hope it does the job. The coat twitches in the wind as you walk, noisy and obnoxious.

Things around you are still until there’s a sudden, loud buzzing noise from the prison compound. You jerk your head around to see two men leaving the main building, small in the distance but gradually growing larger. They’re still enclosed in the fenced courtyard, but they’re on their way to the exit, and every rational thought you have flies from your mind as you see him. Tom. Your Tom.

He’s in the clothes he’d been arrested in—red shirt, black slacks, shiny shoes. Looped around his hands is his Rolex and his rings. Tom seems almost identical to how he’d been on that cursed day, just his head is buzzed and he looks a little smaller. He’s carrying himself with confidence, though, and when he looks fervently around the car park and spots you, his entire face swells with happiness. The sight of that large, lovely smile hanging from his lips brings immediate warmth to your eyes.

Every breath is easier now you have him in your sights. Overwhelming love gluts your insides, warm and emotive, choking you up. It takes everything in you to stay still as you wait for Tom to finish talking with his guard, a tall man you recognise from all of his stories, Luther. Tom’s smirking in a way that’s obviously infuriating, and the guard doesn’t hesitate to give him a light punch as your boyfriend saunters out of prison, leaving the compound with a swagger to his stride and a smile the size of Saturn.

The sight of Tom jogging towards you breaks you from your reverie, and you push yourself away from the car to meet him somewhere in the middle. Nothing matters until you’re colliding with his front, finding warmth in his arms, feeling his entire body shake as his tears fall into your hair. Nothing matters unless it’s him.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper. Your grip on the back of Tom’s shirt is hard, a violent sprawling across your knuckles, but you won’t let go. You’re giddy with love. “Fuck, Tom, I missed you so, so much.”

You pull away from his chest and look into his eyes, your lower lip wobbling as you note the fresh tears on his face. You use your thumbs to brush beneath his cheeks, flicking away the tears as you clean up his handsomeness.

“I missed you so much more,” he promises. Tom brings a hand to rest on the back of your head, breath hitching as he meets your eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He kisses you, and it’s so intense you end up pressed against the side of the car. Tom moans with relief as he strokes his fingers over the side of your face, delicately reacquainting his lips with yours as they meet again and again. You keep your hands gliding over his back, his arms, his shoulders, letting your tongues come together as tears flow down your cheeks. The kiss is everything and nothing, familiar and new. The kiss says I missed you. It says I thought about you every day. It says I would wait a thousand dawns if it meant I got to wake up beside you again, but thank fucking god you’re here right now because I missed you more than I ever thought was possible.

“Baby,” Tom murmurs. He pulls away but keeps your foreheads pressed together, the cool tip of his nose brushing yours. “You’re so perfect. I missed you so much that it hurt me.”

He tries to move closer, but you become aware of the pressure to your belly, so bring a gentle hand to push his shoulder away. Hurt immediately floods to his eyes, his expression twitching as Tom takes a few steps back.

“Tom,” you say, voice soft. “I need to tell you something.”

Tom’s jaw twitches. “What is it?” he whispers.

“A good thing,” you clarify. You reach up to wipe the residue of your tears away, then bring your hands down to the tie of your jacket. Biting your lip, you take a steadying breath. “I hope you aren’t angry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” you preface, “but I did it for you.”

Tom nods intensely. “Okay,” he says. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s fine. I’m… I’m here, okay? For anything. It’s me and you. Just… me and you forever.”

A smile flickers across your face. “Me and you, and…” You gently open the front of your coat, then reach out for Tom’s hands. Guiding them slowly, you bring the warmth of his palms to rest on the rise of your bump.

“Wait…” Tom shifts his hands around your belly before staring up at you, slack-jawed. He doesn’t try to hide the obvious tears in his eyes. “You’re…?”

Nodding your head is easier than trying to speak.

“Oh god.” Tom sniffles. “What?” He immediately drops to his knees in front of you, his fancy dress trousers getting dirty in the dust. “How— how far along?”

“Almost five months,” you whisper. “I found out right before you got back from Liverpool. I was going to tell you when we went on that date, but…”

“But I fucked up.” Tom sounds wrecked, his aching eyes fixed on the curve of your belly. “I fucked everything up. I… I left you alone for this entire time, and you had to do this all without me.” He rests his forehead against your bump, very, very gently, and you see him close his eyes. “I am a terrible partner.”

Rolling your fingers over the scruff of his hair, you guide him up to look at you. It’s second nature as you roll a thumb over his cheekbone, trying to instil the action with love and reassurance.

“I’m not angry,” you tell him. “You didn’t know, and you didn’t get arrested on purpose. If anything, you should be angry at me for keeping this a secret.” Your teeth catch your lower lip. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I thought telling you would only make things worse. I’m sorry.”

Tom shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t apologise.” He rests a hand on your leg, the other still on the curve of your front. “I’m sorry.” He drops his voice and looks at the bump. “And I’m sorry to you too, little one.” He nudges his mouth forward and deposits a soft kiss to your stomach. “I love you too.”

Digging one of your hands into your coat pocket, you pull out a photo. “Here,” you urge, handing it to your boyfriend. Tom takes it after a moment, his eyes slow to move away from your front.

He releases a noise somewhere between an exclamation and a choke, nimble fingers gripping the image from your ultrasound. His cheeks flush a brilliant rose.

“When was this?” he whispers.

“At three months,” you reply. You continue to run your hand over the top of his head, trying to soothe him as he absorbs so much information at once. “I went with my mum and Haz.”

“Haz?”

You nod. “Harry and Sam lost a bet.”

Tom hums. He looks between the photo and your bump, then nudges forward to kiss the rise again. His lips are so warm you can feel them through the material of your dress. “Have they been looking after you well enough?”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Yeah,” you promise. “They helped so much, Tom. It was hard at first… Really hard. Especially when we thought you’d be in there for five years, but… Things worked out.” You have to pause to gather your thoughts. “We converted one of the rooms into a nursery. There’s still stuff left to do, and we can do that together, of course, but… They were all really helpful.”

“Good.” Tom looks up at you, still kneeling, and your hand slips down to cup his face. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I wish I could’ve been here for all of this.”

Shrugging gently, you squeeze his face. “You can be here for the rest of it,” you promise. “And, I guess… If we have another one, you’ll be there for all of that, right?”

“Of course, darling.” You smile as Tom tilts his lips to knock against the side of your palm.

“So it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Chuckling softly, you nod. “Yes,” you promise. “I love you, and I’m so happy this has happened for us, even if the timing was difficult.” Feeling yourself well up, you exhale slowly. “We’re going to be parents, Tom. Isn’t that crazy?”

“It’s brilliant.” Tom’s eyes sparkle. “I’m going to be a father.” He blinks. “What the fuck.”

Laughing, you move your hands to the crown of his head. “Yeah, it’ll take a while to get used to that.”

“I’ll get there,” he states. Tom returns his attention to the bump. “Hey, little one,” he coos, voice all silk and amber tones, “it’s going to be the biggest honour of my life being your dad.”

Tom spends a while at your feet, speaking softly to you and your bump, and you keep your hand resting on the back of his head. He’s weary when he finally climbs to his feet but regains some of that spark when you step forward to kiss him. You don’t mean to make it as heated as you do, but it hasn’t only been your heart that’s missed Tom. You’ve craved him, constantly, during every single lonely night, and now that he’s here, you’re willing to take everything you can get.

“I love you,” you say, hushed against his mouth.

Tom’s teeth brush over your lower lip, and you moan when he tugs. There’s a fervour to it, hot lust burning through sensitive emotions. He releases your lip and pulls back to stare at you, his eyes rippling darker.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. He brings his hands to your waist, pulling you closer. “I love everything about you.”

Your mouths come back together, and it’s messier than before, your lips wettening as your kisses become wilder. Tongues dance and teeth clash as your body temperature starts to rise. Now you’ve moved through the emotional reunion, you’re left with an underlying pulse—a heat throbbing persistently between your legs. The fire builds as you hear Tom’s grunts and feel the desperation in his hands when they grab at your sides and jerk you closer, his mouth devouring yours until your lips are puffy and tender. You’re greedy, chasing more, desiring everything you’ve missed out on in the months you’ve been apart from your lover.

“Darling,” Tom murmurs, breaking the kiss to whisper hotly against your lips, “I missed you, but if you keep this up, we’re not going to get home.”

Desire takes hold of you. “Who said I wanted to go home?” You push in closer, shifting slightly until you’re able to feel the hardness of his crotch pressing up against your thigh. The familiarity of it all makes you inhale sharply. You drop your tone, trying to seem coy as you speak, “I don’t think you understand how badly I needed you whilst you were away, Tom. I missed you.”

The tips of his teeth glint as he arches his brows. “Well…” Tom mumbles. “I owe you about four months of lost opportunities.” He swallows, briefly breaking from the lust-filled headspace to look guilty. You smooth it away by reaching down to squeeze at his hands. “If my radiantly stunning fiancé decides she wants me to start repenting for that now, then who am I to stop her?”

Rolling your eyes, you step away from the car. “You’re a suck-up,” you taunt. You plant a light kiss to his lips. “C’mon,” you urge. “The car.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “The backseat?” he teases. “Shit, angel. You must be desperate.”

Warmth tickles your face. “Shut up.”

Tom smirks deviously. “It’s okay,” he soothes. He darts forward to open the car door for you, resting his hand on your lower back as you step forward. “I’m just as desperate as you, baby.”

“I hate you,” you murmur. Tom follows you into the car, shutting the door behind you both. You wait for him to sit before straddling his lap, your legs stretching until you have a shin planted on either side of his thighs. The position is comfortable, with enough space between your bump and his chest for you to breath, and you whimper as Tom bends nearer to ghost his lips over yours.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs.

You want to tease him, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You’re alright with too much adoration to even think about pressing it down.

“I really don’t,” you agree.

Tom makes a soft noise of vindication, the tip of his nose brushing yours for just a moment until he’s bearing down and bringing your lips together. You sigh, reaching up and urging him closer. His lips are lovely, and you enjoy kissing them for a while, but then you find yourself distracted by the open expanse of his neck. With his hair buzzed, you’re keenly aware of his throat, pale and sensitive, and if there’s one thing you remember about your boyfriend, it’s his affinity for lovebites.

You bring your lips to the side of his neck, nuzzling your mouth against the long, pale stretch of his throat. Smirking against his skin, you start to suckle deep hickeys against the side of his neck, revelling in the throaty gasps Tom deposits into the air in response.

“Fuck, darling,” Tom whines. He has a hand on your back, urging you closer. When you graze the tips of your teeth against his skin, he whimpers. “Shit. More.”

“More?” you tease. “Forgotten all your manners, Tom?”

He growls. The hand on your back shifts to the back of your head, and he jerks you ever closer. He’s still mindful, especially of the bump laying between you, but he knows just as well as you that you aren’t a piece of porcelain; you like being tugged around. You’ve missed it.

“Give me what I want, and maybe I’ll return the favour.” He says it like you’re oblivious to the desperation in his words. You decide to oblige him.

“Okay,” you murmur. You look up to meet his gaze, his honey-brown eyes full of appreciation. For a moment, it knocks you off balance. It’s so strange readjusting to having Tom back—almost overwhelming to be able to touch someone who had existed only in your memories for so many weeks. You drop your head and give him what he wants.

Tom’s skin tastes clean, and it smells distantly of pinecones. He groans, fisting at your hair and holding you close as you kiss and suck along his skin, drawing deep hues to the surface of his neck. He shifts in his seat, basking in the pain and whining every time you soothe a fresh mark with the warmth of your tongue. You keep your hand resting on his hair, the cropped length of his buzz prickly and coarse beneath the pads of your fingertips.

“Oh god yeah,” he murmurs, voice mingling with the wet noises coming from your lips. “Your mouth is so fucking good, baby. I missed it.” Grunting, he brings a hand to your waist, squeezing the flesh of your hips hard. “I thought about you all the time in there.”

Tom releases his hold on your hair and begins to stroke his hands over your back. As you continue to mark his neck, he starts to tease you, gradually dropping the heat of his palms lower and lower. You can’t stop yourself from bucking down into his hold, moaning against his neck as he grabs handfuls of your ass.

“Tom,” you break off to whimper, panting softly. You feel dizzy on the taste of his skin. “You’re being mean.”

“Mean?” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “How am I being mean?” Tom squeezes the curves of your figure, his slender fingers warm against your skin. You’re in a dress, the material thin, and he doesn’t hesitate to curve his hands beneath the hem and bring them to rest over your panties. “You’re the one who wanted to come in here and get your hands all over me… I’m doing what you asked.” He breaks off, chuckling darkly. “That’s not how things usually work, though, is it?”

The air between you shifts.

You pull away from Tom’s neck, your mouth inflamed and throbbing. You have to dig your teeth into your lower lip to muffle your whimper when Tom brings a hand to the front of your legs, gently brushing two of his long fingers over the front of your panties. He’s teasing with it, eyes alight with deviousness, jaw set in a determined line.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe I want to be in charge this time.”

Tom laughs gently. “Oh, yeah?” He rubs your cunt a little faster, causing you to suck in a sharp breath as you feel the delicate pressure on your clit. The contact makes your passage clench, growing wet enough to dampen the front of your panties. “So you don’t like this, hmm? You don’t want me to follow through on everything I have planned for you?”

“What have you got planned?”

He tuts. “Oh, I’m not going to tell you, angel. That’d be too easy. Either you want me to be in charge, or you decide to call the shots.” Tom smirks as he feels you buck down against his hand. Maybe if the circumstances were different, you’d find the strength to push back, but you don’t. It’s been so long, and your cunt is weeping already just from the husky tones in his voice.

“You’re in charge,” you whisper. The vindicated smirk he flashes in response is enough to send shivers down your spine.

“Damn right, baby.” Tom moves his hands away, pressing them to your waist instead. “Can you lay down for me, please?”

You shuffle across the car seat as instructed, Tom shifting until he’s kneeling in the footwell of the backseats. It’s a good thing the car is obscenely huge, otherwise, the already-cramped fit would be unworkable.

Draping your legs over Tom’s shoulders, he pushes the hem of your dress up, bunching it just above your bump. The hungry fire in his eyes fades slightly.

“Is this okay? Are you comfy?”

“It’s fine,” you soothe. “Are you okay down there?”

Tom nods. The scruff of his buzzed head scratches against your inner thighs. “I’m bloody perfect,” he responds. “Can I touch you?”

“Please do.”

The tip of his nose nuzzles against your covered clit. “Perfect,” Tom purrs, his breath hot against your panties. “I think it’s time I remind you who owns this fucking pussy… As hot as it was when you were trying to tell me what to do, it’s not on.” He brings his mouth away from your core, and you whimper as his tongue laps gently across your thigh, the muscle deliciously slippery. “I’m the one calling the shots.”

You’re throbbing, every inch of you aching for his touch. The burn is visceral—pulsing, wet. “Yes, sir,” you return. Tom’s eyes snap to yours. “Do whatever you want.”

“Say please.”

Swallowing the dryness in your throat, you add, “please.”

“Good, baby. You sound so pretty begging for me.” Tom easily pulls your panties down your legs, returning to push your thighs further apart. He brings both of his thumbs to your sensitive lips, humming when you whimper. Using the pads of his fingers, he gently parts your centre, groaning softly at the sight. “Say it,” he murmurs, entranced by the paradise between your legs. “Tell how badly you want me.”

He’s incredibly infuriating, but you play right into his hand. “Please, Tom,” you whine. “Please touch me.”

He hums. “Of course, lovie,” he murmurs. He glances up at you. “All you had to do was ask.”

The first touch of his tongue against your slit makes your eyes roll back. A breathless whine slips past your lips as his mouth envelops your clit, the strong tip of his tongue nuzzling over your sensitive skin in a way you’ve only dreamed of. You’ve been able to get off in his absence, but nothing can simulate the sizzling heat of his mouth and his tongue, nor the scratching of his short hair against your fleshy inner thighs.

The way he unravels you is obscene, toned with the sounds of spit and lazy lips, the sensations of desperation. Tom devours you, using his elbows to push your thighs apart as he buries his face as close to your centre as possible. You can barely see him over the rise of your belly, but you can certainly feel him. When you start to grind down against his face, things only escalate, your eyes fluttering shut as your spine arches in response to his feverish movements.

“Oh god,” he murmurs, voice thick as it vibrates across you. “Missed this… Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart.”

Your high rolls over you suddenly and without warning, manifesting itself in a silent cry as your body goes rigid. You hear Tom hum in surprise, then feel his hands lock around your thighs, holding back your legs as they shake in the face of absolute pleasure.

“Sorry,” you pant, recovering gradually, “I didn’t know that was going to happen then.”

Tom runs his tongue over your slit, still sensitive and throbbing. “‘S okay, lovie,” he replies, voice warm. He nuzzles in closer and brings two slender fingers to push against your entrance. Your hole is hot and pulsing, pooled with your arousal. You hear it pucker as he gently presses against your cunt, teasing your entrance with his fingertips. “I’m not done making it up to you, though. Is that okay?”

Exhaling, you nod quickly. “Fuck yeah,” you say, struggling to think. “Oh.”

He slips two fingers into you, your eager walls parting and welcoming him in. Tom removes his mouth from your heat and replaces his tongue with the pad of a thumb, and when you release a loud noise of strangled enjoyment, he begins to crook his fingers into you. He strokes his digits against your walls with poise and elegance, nudging up against your g-spot and stroking, again and again, chasing the noises you release.

“So pretty,” he coos. “My pretty baby. Making all those beautiful noises.” Tom smiles almost proudly. His chin is wet with your arousal. “I love your cunt… Look at how well it's taking me.” To prove his point, he feeds a third finger alongside the others. “So greedy for me, eh? Greedy little pussy. So hot. So wet. God…”

Tom drops his head again, disappearing from your sight of vision. You moan, body jerking as you feel his tongue move around his fingers, catching the arousal that seeps from your pussy as he works you open. He releases an obscene moan before dragging his mouth to your clit, stimulating you with his hands and tongue in tandem.

“Holy fuck,” you whimper. You feel hot in the best way, your skin becoming sweaty as you writhe over the leather seat. “Feels so good, Tommy.” It feels like heaven—especially when he bends his fingers and the tips of them stroke up against your sensitive spot. “‘M gonna cum again.”

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

Tom chuckles. “I’m so good at this,” he murmurs. “Go on, angel. Don’t hold back on my account… You’re so pretty when you cum.”

The tide breaks, and your climax rolls across you, legs trembling as Tom holds you in place. You writhe as you bask in the heat, your knuckles losing blood as you clench your hands into hard fists. The press of your nails against the soft flesh of your palms hurts, but you don’t care. It feels far too good to think about anything beyond Tom.

You ride it out, and Tom eventually draws his face away from your clit. He kisses along your inner thighs as you gasp for air, only removing his fingers when you start to whimper. As good as the climaxes have felt, panting for breath on the backseat, it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough by far.

“Get up here,” you say breathlessly.

Tom chuckles as he appears from between your legs. He gives your thighs a little tap before he closes your legs, wriggling out of the footwell as you sit up. Easily, like you’ve done a thousand times before, you swing a leg over Tom’s lap, straddling him when he sits with his back against the car seat.

“Are you okay up there?” he checks, bringing his clean hand to rest on the curve of your stomach. When you nod, his brown eyes darken. “Perfect…” he hums. “Clean off my fingers, will you?”

You nod, opening your mouth expectantly and moaning as Tom slips three of his fingers between your lips. Fighting your smirk, you maintain eye contact with him, your pride swelling as you see his cheeks darken. He gently fucks his fingers into your mouth, making you moan at the movements and the taste of your heat as it spreads across your tongue. He’s messy with it, and you feel your lips and chin grow heavy from spittle.

“Pretty,” he coos, “so, so pretty.”

Tom goes to move his fingers from your mouth, only for a detail to make you pause. Eyes straining, you reach up to catch his wrist, holding his hand in place just as his fingers pull away from your lips.

“What’s this?” you query, narrowing your eyes. You drag Tom’s left hand nearer your face, gasping softly as you take note of a new tattoo resting at the bottom of his ring finger.

“Oh.” Tom shifts around slightly, biting at his lower lip. “I got your initials tattooed… When we get married, the ring will cover them, but I wanted you with me—I want you with me—all the time, even without a bit of metal.” He hesitates. “Is that okay?”

You press a delicate kiss across the letters. “Yes,” you say. You feel shy as you meet the eyes of the man who loves you so immensely. “That’s really, really sweet, Tom.” You bite your lip as you look up at him. “Gone soft on me, baby?”

“‘M always soft on you,” he says gruffly, guiding a hand to your face. He brings you closer, encouraging you to lean higher on your knees. “Love of my life, angel. You know that… My wife.”

You shift on his lap, smiling bashfully. “I’m not your wife yet.”

“Soon, soon, soon,” he whispers.

Both of you come together, no words needing to be exchanged for you to know what to do. Tom loses his clothes as you sit up a little straighter, one of your hands curling around the headrest of a seat as Tom angles himself slightly. With the rise of your bump between you, you aren’t able to be flushed together like times before, but the man beneath you is quick to readjust so he’s laying further back, giving you plenty of room to move in a way that’s comfortable. He kisses over your knuckles as you run his hard cock through your slit, his interested eyes fixed firmly on the sight of his length as you finally begin to move down.

The moment the head of his cock pushes into you feels indescribable. The ache of the stretch falls away as relief pours over you, the closeness satisfying far more than just your arousal.

“Gentle, gentle,” Tom murmurs, hand resting on your belly. “Be careful.”

You chuckle, beginning to move but only slowly. “It’s okay,” you reassure him, “it won’t hurt them.” Your eyes roll back slightly as you bring your hand down to rest on Tom’s shoulder, moaning quietly. “You can move too… Please, move.”

“Okay, darling.” Tom gently starts to move his hips. He groans as he slumps back against the seat, beautiful face coloured light pink. You’d missed the expressions he makes, how emotive the slants of his features can be. His nostrils flare and his jaw tenses as you ride him, your cunt so wet the movements are almost effortless. “That feels… so good.” His voice is hollow, gutless. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been thinking about you. You, and your hot cunt.” He moans again, unable to sit around the words. Tom ruts into you a little harder, guiding you to move faster with the hand on your hip. “Taking me so well, darling. So fucking well. I’m not going to last at all.”

“That’s okay,” you murmur. “I won’t either.”

Tom manages a lazy smirk. He opens his eyes as he brings a hand to your clit, teasing the sensitive bud with his thumb. You jerk a little at the stimulation but start to ease into it, basking in the pleasure from the bud and Tom’s cock. He’s buried deep within you, pressing your walls apart, the curved tip of his head brushing deeper than you’ve felt in months.

“So tight,” he murmurs. Tom leans back, clearly enjoying the sight of you riding him. “My darling. You look so beautiful like this… I swear your tits are bigger, too.” The hand on your belly gently caresses the bump, Tom’s tongue briefly wandering out to wet his lower lip. “Look at how beautiful you are… I can’t wait to knock you up again.”

Stifling a moan, it takes everything in you to focus on your movements. “You feel so good, Tom,” you whimper, unable to hold back the praise he loves to hear. “I missed this so much.”

“I know, baby. I missed this too… Come on, now.” His voice hardens slightly. “I’m about to cum, but I don’t want to unless you’re right here beside me. So… will you be a good girl and finish with me? Please?”

Heat flushes through your system as you bounce your head quickly. Your eyes close, breath hitching as you feel your climax rise. It starts in the pit of your stomach, a coil pulling tighter and tighter until it bends and snaps, bursting wide and spilling pleasure across your body in warm waves of enjoyment. You cry out as you fall apart, holding Tom’s shoulder tightly as his hand clamps around your waist. You feel him mirror you, hear his loud groan as his cock pulses inside you, your movements unceasing as you ride it out together.

It ends, but you stay joined. Tom sits up, the distance put between you by your belly requiring him to stretch closer and seize your lips in a smouldering kiss. His hand returns to your cheek, yours to his, and the look in his eyes is dizzying.

“I love you so much,” he speaks, words soft like a promise. “Everything I do from here on out is for you, and…” He glances back at your stomach. “And our child.” Words thickening, you see Tom’s eyes well with tears again. He chuckles, cheeks flushing red. “Sorry,” he adds. “I get a bit choked up thinking about it.”

You stroke your fingers over the back of his hair, spiky strands smooth against your hand. “Don’t apologise for expressing your emotions, baby,” you whisper. “It’s been a very long day.”

Tom nods. “Love you,” he murmurs again. He nuzzles his head into the palm of your hand, his eyes closing.

“I love you too,” you say, words truer than they’ve ever been before. You bend down to kiss his forehead. “Do you want to go home now?”

He hums. “Y/N,” he whispers. Tom blinks up at you, eyes soft. He catches the palm of your hand with a few kisses as he sits up a little straighter. “I’m already home.”

Teeth grazing your lower lip, you hold back your smile as you marvel at how clichéd he’s become. You bend down and kiss him very gently. “Sap,” you murmur. “Love you, though.”

Tom pulls a face. He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice—only love. “Love you too,” he says. “Yes, though,” he adds, “I would love to go home.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

finis

yay

that’s probably a wrap on mob!tom ! i don’t have any more fic ideas for him :( that being said, this was a lot of fun to write, and i really, really hope you liked it :D ik the theme isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so if you read it all, i love you very very much

please let me know if you have any thoughts!!

masterlist through the link in my bio <3

[enbysiriusblack]

since ao3 is still down, have the next chapter of fistclenching, heartaching here <3

Queer Solidarity and Internalised Homophobia:

Slughorn and a few other teachers had fixed the dormitory quickly, they had to sleep in the common room for one night, but the next night the room was back to normal. Furniture belonging to the school was easily conjured back, and the belongings that were not destroyed were dried out. But there were a few personal objects that the giant squid had destroyed which the teachers were unable to fix. Such as Dorcas’ broomstick. Their beloved broom was reduced to nothing but mere splinters now. 

Fuck Mckinnon.

Dorcas made their way down to detention, a detention they got because of Mckinnon. The rich little princess. 

Dorcas had felt sorry for them for a moment, they felt sorry for Mckinnon. And all they got was a bruised fist and a broken broom. 

She would not be pitied again. 

Regulus was sat at the slytherin table, the entire quidditch team was up early to eat before getting ready for the match. Dorcas joined them. 

“This is shit.”

Regulus glanced up, “As assistant captain, we will win in your honour.”

They folded their arms, after grabbing a piece of toast, “I can’t believe they’d give me a detention at the same time as a match. I’m the captain! This is bullshit! And Marlene isn’t getting any sort of punishment after breaking my broom!”

Wilkes scowled, “I can’t believe there’s queers here.”

Another slytherin leaned over, “I mean what’d you expect? Haven’t you heard the rumours about Dumbledore?”

Dorcas gritted their teeth to stop themselves from speaking. Regulus narrowed his eyes, observing them. 

He turned to the two, “Wilkes, your father has been having an affair with that male model for years, you really don’t have a leg to stand on in this conversation. And besides, regardless of the headmaster’s preferences, which is eminently abhorrent and uncouth to discuss, it is against the current laws to punish a student for their sexuality. What we are fittingly discussing is the unfairness of Marlene receiving no punishment for the attack on Dorcas’ dormroom.”

Wilkes sat up straighter, “Of course”, he turned to the other slytherin, “Don’t be so uncouth.”

Dorcas held back a laugh, grabbing Regulus’ tea and downing it before grabbing their bracelet. Green and silver string woven together, made by them on Dorcas’ first quidditch match in second year. They had made it the morning of with Pandora, and they had won the match, Dorcas scoring the winning match. They had worn it around their wrist every single match since. 

They took it off and passed it to Regulus, “for luck.”

-

Sirius knelt in one of the hall window nooks that shone out to the quidditch field. It was Slytherin v Ravenclaw. James and them had a tradition when slytherin went against hufflepuff or ravenclaw, they’d stand in the gryffindor area, waving either yellow or blue and shouting swears and insults at the slytherin team as they flew past. They’d bring out some cans of beer, hiding them from the teachers. Sirius would borrow one of Marlene’s guitars and they’d sing stupid songs as they got drunk and made fun of slytherin. 

James had been looking for them all morning, but they had swiped the map and managed to avoid him and the others. 

They could see the match well from the small nook, the players setting off, the cheers dimmed in sound from inside the castle. Waves of blue and green glowed like mimicking the ocean. Sirius loved these days. 

“Sirius”, a voice called. The voice of the one person they wanted to avoid above all else.

Marlene sat down opposite them.

“Thought you’d be off watching the match, but James is running around like a headless Nick, trying to find you.”

They looked down at their own hands, picking at their skin, “Didn’t feel like going.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Sirius frowned. 

“That’s exactly as I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s something wrong with you.”

“Fuck off, Marlene.”

She narrowed her eyes, pushing her fringe back, “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Other than being a bitch, of course not.”

“But you think there’s something wrong with you?”

They didn’t answer.

She grinned, leaning back, tapping her fingers on their knee, “Alright so. What are the differences between us? Well, you’re from a much more wanker-y family than I am, you got chucked out of your family, you’re a little too into the drink, you are, I’ll admit, smarter than me, you act much more confident than you really are, and you’re uglier than me.”

Sirius laughed slightly, shutting their mouth straight after as if they hadn’t meant to.

“Now… our similarities. Well, we’re both into the same kinda music, we’re both from well off families, and we’re both homosexuals. How about that? So, if there’s nothing wrong with me, but something wrong with you, then the thing that’s wrong with you can’t be one of the things we have in common, right?”

Sirius glared at her.

“Which means your whole ‘I hate myself, I don’t fit in, no one will like me if they find out who I really am’ shit, is nothing to do with you being gay, and everything to do with all your insecurities and being messed up by your insane family.”

Their glare dropped slightly, “I’m sorry. For ignoring you and not helping you out with everything going on. I just thought- If I stick up for you, then people are going to think our whole relationship was fake and that I’m gay too and my brother would find out and my family would know and I’d somehow be even more of a disgrace. And Remus would start questioning every touch I gave him and try to let me down easily but I’d be heartbroken because he’s the love of my life and then he’d never want to talk to me again.”

Marlene’s eyes widened, “Man, you overthink.”

The two sat together in silence, staring out at the match in the distance. 

She turned to them, “Meadowes hit Nicola.”

They lifted an eyebrow, a small smirk on their face, “I heard about that.”

“Did you hear about the slytherin dorm room incident?”

They patted their chin in thought, “All that remained safe was a runaways poster… I wonder who did that?”

Marlene frowned, “What about the broom? I put a safety charm on that too.”

Sirius shrugged, “That was definitely destroyed, apparently Meadowes won’t stop complaining about now having no broomstick, and they've got detention during this match.”

“That’s shit.”

They leaned forwards, “So your mortal enemy defended your honour and in return you destroyed one of their most treasured belongings, and you just so happen to have a hobby of making that such belonging…”

Marlene’s lip quirked upwards, “I see what you’re saying.”

Sirius jumped off the nook, holding a hand out for her, “Well then, let’s go reconcile with our mortal enemies.”

She took their hand, “You’re going to go settle things with Snape?”

They snorted, “Course not. You’re going to reconcile, I’m going to find James and spend the rest of the match partying.”

Marlene knocked Sirius’ shoulder, “See you later then!”