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natsaffection · 12 hours ago

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Crush and conquer. | N.R

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap, vibrator use, oral, restraints, multiple orgasm

Word count: 4,5k

A/n: I love my brain at the night.

The safe house is one of those bland, government-issued safe spots S.H.I.E.L.D. always has on standby, outdated furniture, mismatched mugs, a flickering lamp in the corner. But it’s warm, it’s safe, and for tonight, it’s theirs.

Outside, rain drums gently against the windows. Inside, the four of you, Natasha, Wanda, Steve, and you, are sprawled around a battered coffee table littered with empty snack wrappers, half-drunk mugs of tea, and a bottle of cheap whiskey someone found in the pantry.

It’s late. You’re all exhausted from the mission that landed you here, bruised but triumphant, adrenaline fading into that restless, giddy energy that always comes after danger.

At some point, Steve, the eternal Boy Scout, tries to suggest cards, but Wanda just laughs and says, “Why don’t we play something more interesting?” Which is how you end up here: legs folded on the couch, knees bumping Wanda’s, Natasha sprawled on the armrest beside you, Steve cross-legged on the floor like a schoolboy, all of you tipsy enough to agree to Truth or Dare like you’re teenagers at a sleepover.

You’re trying to focus on the game, really, you are..but it’s impossible when Natasha is so close. She’s barefoot, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and sweatpants that hang loose on her hips, hair pulled into a messy braid that keeps slipping over her shoulder. Every time she shifts, her thigh brushes yours.

It doesn’t help that she keeps looking at you, sideways glances that make your stomach flip, your pulse hammer at your throat. You’ve hidden this crush for years. Years. You know it’s ridiculous, she’s older, intimidating, untouchable. She flirts with everyone. It probably means nothing.

You chew your lip and pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants, pretending you don’t notice how she keeps playing with the end of her braid while she watches you. Wanda rolls her eyes dramatically when Steve picks ‘Truth’ for the third time in a row.

“You’re so boring.” she says, flicking a piece of popcorn at him.

“It’s strategic.” Steve deadpans. “Unlike you two.”

Natasha snorts. “What’s the fun in playing safe?” Her eyes cut to you, just for a second and your breath catches.

A few rounds pass. You admit embarrassing stories, Wanda has to prank call Tony (he doesn’t pick up, unsurprisingly), Steve has to do ten push-ups with Wanda sitting on his back, which he does without breaking a sweat, the show-off.

You think you’re safe. The warmth, the laughter, Natasha’s leg pressed against yours, it’s dizzying. You’re halfway through your second glass when Wanda’s grin turns wicked.

“Natasha.” she says sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “Dare, obviously.”

“Good.” Wanda leans forward, conspiratorial. “I dare you to kiss someone in this room. But not just a peck..really kiss them.”

Your stomach drops. You’re about to take a sip but your hand freezes halfway. Natasha doesn’t even hesitate. She tilts her head like she’s thinking, but her eyes are already on you.

“Alright.”

She slides off the armrest and shifts closer. You’re about to say something, maybe crack a joke, but then she swings one leg over yours, straddling your lap with the easy grace of someone who could break your neck or kiss you breathless, depending on her mood.

Your brain short-circuits. Her thighs bracket your hips. Her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your T-shirt.

“Comfortable?” she murmurs, close enough you can feel her breath on your lips.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. A laugh bubbles in Wanda’s throat. Steve awkwardly clears his throat and looks very interested in the ceiling.

And then Natasha kisses you. It’s not soft, it’s possessive. Her mouth moves over yours like she’s been waiting for an excuse, tongue sliding in before you can react, stealing the breath from your lungs. One hand slips up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place. Your hands fly to her waist, unsure whether to pull her closer or push her away, not that you could push her away.

When she finally pulls back, you’re gasping. Her lips are pink, parted, she leans in and presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, almost sweet, like an afterthought.

You don’t even realize your hands are still gripping her hips until she shifts, sliding off your lap, leaving you warm and buzzing and trying desperately to act normal.

Natasha settles back beside you, closer this time, her thigh pressed firmly against yours. She drapes her arm along the back of the couch behind you, fingers brushing your hair, like she owns you now.

Wanda’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. Steve tries to hide a smile behind his hand. You force out a laugh, cheeks burning. “That’s…one way to play the game.”

“Oh, come on.” Wanda teases. “Look at you! She’s red all over.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. Natasha just hums in amusement, thumb brushing the back of your neck, an innocent touch, but you feel it everywhere.

The game goes on. Wanda has to read Steve’s last text out loud (it’s boring, Steve’s always boring). Steve gets revenge by daring Wanda to prank call Clint (which works, Clint threatens to come crash the safe house and everyone groans).

You try to focus, but Natasha keeps her hand resting at the nape of your neck, sometimes her fingers drift, toying with your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. Every now and then she leans in, whispering a comment that makes your breath hitch. Your heart hasn’t slowed down since she kissed you.

At some point, Steve excuses himself to check in with the exfil team (bless him) and it’s just you, Natasha, and Wanda, sprawled out on the floor now, lying on your stomach beside Wanda while Natasha sits cross-legged by the couch.

You think the worst is over? The kiss was the peak, right? Ha, you are so, so wrong..

Natasha pushes herself up with a little stretch, shirt riding up to flash a strip of pale skin. She pads over to a battered dresser in the corner, you don’t think much of it at first. Maybe she’s grabbing her phone, or more snacks.

She pulls open a drawer, rummages around and when she turns back, she’s holding something small and unmistakably not a snack. A sleek, black vibrator dangles from her fingers.

“Who wants to make this more interesting?” she says, her voice light, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

Wanda lets out a bark of laughter. “Nat! Where the hell did you even stash that?”

Natasha shrugs, lips curling into a smirk. “Always be prepared.”

Your mouth goes dry. Fuck.

She swings it lazily by her side, eyes fixed on you, like she’s enjoying every flicker of panic that crosses your face. “What do you say, detka?” she purrs. “Wanna play?”

“Nope.” you squeak immediately, burying your face in the blanket you’d dragged off the couch. “No, no, no, no. I’m good. I’m fine.”

Natasha laughs, low, delighted, cruel in the best way. She tosses the vibrator to Wanda, who catches it and cackles like she’s just been handed front-row seats to the best show in town. You peek at Wanda through your fingers. “Wanda. Help me..”

Wanda just wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m definitely not helping you.”

You groan, trying to sink deeper under the blanket, but Natasha is already moving, crawling across the floor like a cat stalking her prey. She plucks the blanket away, ignoring your pathetic attempt to cling to it, and tosses it to the side.

You’re flustered, cornered, and she’s loving every second of it. You’re still on your back, half on the rug, half pressed against the foot of the couch, heart drumming so loud you swear Wanda must hear it. Natasha is above you on her knees, loose braid falling over one shoulder, eyes glittering like she’s a cat with a mouse pinned under her paw.

Wanda’s still perched by your side, idly twirling the vibrator in her fingers like she’s weighing how much chaos she wants to encourage. The worst part is..you can feel how warm your face is. Your neck, your ears, your chest, everything flushed, your skin prickling like static where Natasha’s thigh brushes yours.

You try to sound playful, like you still have any control left. “You’re not serious…” you half-laugh, but your voice cracks right in the middle.

Natasha tips her head. Her grin is slow and deliberate, a silent oh, I’m deadly serious.

Wanda hums. “She’s serious, dorogaya.” She nudges your side with her knee, teasing. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Live a little, hm?”

You bury your face in your hands again, it’s childish, but it’s all you’ve got, only for Natasha to gently pull them away, fingers curling around your wrists, peeling your shield away so she can see every inch of your wrecked expression.

“Look at her.” Wanda coos, voice warm with mischief. “She’s gonna melt before you even touch her, Nat.”

“I know.” Natasha’s eyes flick down to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your borrowed T-shirt riding up where you squirm. “That’s half the fun.”

Your breath catches, because it’s true. You are melting. It’s humiliating how easy she makes it look.

Natasha’s hands drift down your arms, warm and solid. You feel her fingers brush the waistband of your sweats, casual, like she owns this. And then, with a soft click, you hear metal.

Your eyes snap open. Natasha’s holding the cuffs she unclipped from her tactical belt, standard SHIELD issue, sturdy and cold and so very real in this dim light.

“Nat…” you whisper. It’s meant to be a protest, but it comes out sounding like a plea.

Natasha’s smile softens, just for a heartbeat, then sharpens again into something dark and hungry. “If you’re gonna keep fighting, kotyonok, I’ll just have to make sure you stay put, won’t I?”

Wanda laughs, a bright, delighted sound that echoes off the bare walls. She flicks the vibrator on for a heartbeat, just to hear it buzz, then switches it off and tosses it onto the couch like she’s leaving a loaded gun on the table.

“Oh, this I have to see.” Wanda leans over, brushes your hair off your forehead, her touch strangely gentle. “You okay, honey?”

You manage a strangled nod, but your eyes dart to her, desperate. “Wanda. Please. Help me.”

Wanda’s grin turns wicked. “Oh no. I’m definitely not helping you. She’d kill me.”

You think you see an opening, a window to slip away before this goes too far. You twist under Natasha’s hands, trying to wiggle out from beneath her, breathless with a nervous laugh.

“Nope, no! I’m done. I’m gonna go check the perimeter, or-“

You don’t get far. Natasha’s faster. In one smooth move she shifts forward, thighs bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head as she presses you back down, her weight pinning you to the floor. Her braid swings forward, brushing your collarbone. You can feel the warmth radiating off her thighs where they squeeze your hips.

“Going somewhere?” Her voice is low, velvet over steel.

You’re trembling. You can’t help it. You try to twist your wrists but she catches them easily, pressing them into the rug above your head, the cold bite of metal brushing your skin as she fastens one cuff, then the other, clicking shut with a finality that makes your pulse spike so high you swear you could blackout on the spot.

“Natasha-” You’re begging now, but you don’t even know what for. For her to stop? For her to not stop?

She leans closer, nose brushing your cheek, lips ghosting your ear. Her breath is warm, her voice velvet-wrapped danger.

“Do you really want me to stop?” she murmurs. “Tell me, detka. Right now. Do you really want me to stop?”

Your mouth opens but the words stick in your throat. Because no..of course you don’t. You want this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. You can feel it, slick and hot between your legs, shame blooming under your ribs because you know Natasha knows too.

Her hips shift, pressing down just enough for you to feel how easily she could grind you into the floor, helpless and pinned.

Wanda makes a soft, knowing noise, pushing herself to her feet like she’s seen all she needs to see. “I’m gonna give you two some privacy.” she teases, but there’s warmth under the mockery. “Try not to break the safe house furniture, please.”

You catch her sleeve with your eyes, a last, useless plea. “W-Wanda-!”

But Wanda just winks, stepping over your tangled legs and slipping through the doorway with a mischievous hum. The door clicks shut behind her.

Natasha doesn’t move. She hovers over you, her knees pressing into the rug on either side of your hips, one hand braced beside your head, the other draped casually over your bound wrists.

Her eyes flick between yours, so close you can count every fleck of green, every dark ring around her pupils. Her thumb brushes your pulse, slow and deliberate, feeling how your heart slams against her touch.

Your wrists strain against the cuffs, a useless reflex, but the steel holds tight, digging gently into your skin, a sharp reminder that you’re not going anywhere. Natasha notices, of course she does. She notices everything.

She’s still hovering above you, her eyes half-lidded, mouth so close you can feel the ghost of her breath on your lips. For a second you think she might kiss you again, but instead she drifts lower, dragging her lips down the corner of your jaw, brushing the soft line beneath your ear.

Your breath catches, a quiet, broken sound you fail to swallow down. Natasha hums like she’s pleased with herself, her nose nudging your hair aside as her mouth finds the soft, sensitive spot at the hinge of your jaw.

“G-God-” you gasp, and she doesn’t stop. Her lips part, teeth grazing your pulse point before she soothes the sting with her tongue, sucking gently until you know she’s leaving a mark- hers, right where you can’t hide it later.

You squirm, reflex again, instinct, your hips shift under hers, but she follows the movement easily, pressing her thighs tighter around you, pinning your hips to the rug so you can’t do anything but feel.

You test the cuffs again, half-hoping they’ll give, half-terrified they might. The metal bites your wrists, a cold contrast to the heat that’s gathering low in your belly.

Natasha pulls back just enough to look at you. One hand drifts up, fingers brushing your throat, tilting your chin higher so your neck’s bare to her.

“Trying to run again?” she murmurs, amusement curling under every word.

You open your mouth to answer, to beg, to protest, to do something, but then her lips are back on your skin, lower this time. She kisses the hollow of your throat, drags her tongue along your collarbone, teeth grazing sensitive skin just to feel you tense under her mouth.

“Please-” you gasp. It’s not even clear what you’re asking for anymore, her to stop, her to keep going, her to ruin you so thoroughly you’ll never get free of her again.

She hears every contradiction in that one word. Of course she does. Natasha’s free hand drifts lower- her palm slides under your borrowed T-shirt, her knuckles brushing the curve of your ribs, making your stomach jump.

“Say it, malyshka..” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Say you don’t want it.”

You try, you really try. “I- I don’t-”

But your hips betray you, shifting up into hers, seeking friction that makes your face flame. The cuffs rattle as you twist again, desperate to anchor yourself to something, but there’s nothing. Just her. Just her weight, her warmth, her mouth dragging fire across your skin.

Natasha laughs, soft, dark, pleased. She kisses your jaw again, then pushes herself up just enough to reach over you. For one insane heartbeat you think maybe she’s done, maybe she’ll be merciful.

But then you hear the familiar buzz.

Your eyes flick sideways, wide, startled, throat dry. She’s got the vibrator Wanda left behind, her fingers curled around it like she owns it, like she’s been planning this all night.

“Natash-” you whisper, a last, futile plea. She hushes you with a finger pressed to your lips, her eyes dark, hungry, merciless.

“If you really want me to stop, tell me now.” She drags the buzzing toy down the center of your chest, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

Your mouth works, but the words don’t come. Your wrists flex in the cuffs again, another useless fight you’ve already lost. Natasha smirks, that wicked curve of her mouth that makes your heart flip and your thighs clench.

“That’s what I thought.”

She shifts lower, bracing her weight on one arm while her free hand guides the toy lower, lower, dragging it over the soft plane of your stomach, the waistband of your sweats.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes wide, trembling under her as the reality of it hits, the buzzing warmth so close, Natasha’s weight above you, the cuffs biting into your wrists every time you tug.

She watches your face as she drags the toy lower, the soft buzz filling the heavy hush of the safe house. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe groans, the storm outside rumbles, but in this small pocket of warmth, there’s only her. Only the way her eyes drink you in like she’s reading every secret you’ve ever tried to hide.

“Look at you.” she murmurs, voice soft but edged with steel. Her fingers skim the waistband of your sweats, tugging it down inch by inch, just enough to bare the swell of your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. “So shy a minute ago. Now you’re so quiet. Where’d all that protesting go, hmm?”

Your breath stutters. You try to twist your hips away, not really trying to escape, just an instinctive, helpless squirm. Natasha’s palm presses flat against your lower belly, holding you still like she’s pinning a butterfly to glass.

“Stay still.” she warns, voice lower now, a rumble that slides right down your spine.

You whimper, the sound half-caught in your throat, but you obey, your hips frozen under her hand, your wrists flexing uselessly in the cuffs as you feel her shift the toy closer, the faint buzz so loud it drowns out your heartbeat.

She watches your face, waiting for the exact second your eyes flutter wide. Then she lowers it, just enough for the tip to brush between your thighs through the thin fabric of your panties. The contact is feather-light, maddening, a spark that makes your legs jerk.

You choke back a sound, biting your lip hard enough to hurt. Natasha smiles. “Good girl.” she purrs, the praise slipping from her lips like honey. She circles the toy, dragging it side to side, gentle at first, making you squirm, your legs twitching under her.

Your hips buck once, an involuntary plea for more pressure, more friction, and Natasha laughs under her breath, the sound warm and wicked at once.

“What’s that?” she teases, tilting her head. Her braid slips over her shoulder, brushing your collarbone like a promise. “Thought you didn’t want this…”

You can’t speak, your mouth opens but nothing comes out, just a soft, strangled gasp that makes her grin widen. The vibration sinks through the thin fabric, hitting that sweet, sensitive spot that’s been throbbing ever since she kissed you. Your whole body arches, your breath catching in your chest like you’ve been punched. A quiet, desperate moan slips free before you can bite it back, high, soft, humiliating.

Natasha’s eyes spark. Her hand tightens on your hip, her thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like she’s comforting you while she ruins you.

“There it is.” she murmurs, voice so low it makes your toes curl. “Don’t hold back, malyshka. Let me hear you.”

You shake your head, some small shred of pride making you try to swallow the next sound, your teeth catching your lower lip so hard it stings, but Natasha shifts, drapes herself lower over you, her mouth ghosting your ear as the toy hums harder against you.

“Don’t you dare hide from me now.” she whispers, every syllable brushing hot over your skin. Her free hand drags the waistband of your panties just enough to press the toy directly where you’re throbbing, the sudden bare contact making your whole body jolt.

Your moan breaks free, helpless, cracked, too loud in the quiet safe house. Natasha’s answering grin is pure sin.

“There’s my good girl..” she purrs, her teeth grazing your earlobe. The toy circles slow and deliberate, the rhythm steady and merciless, her palm keeping your hips pinned when you try to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure.

Your wrists strain against the cuffs again, metal biting your skin as you fight the impossible urge to grab her, to pull her closer, to do something. But there’s nothing you can do, she has you caged, your thighs trembling, your breath spilling in broken, high sounds you can’t swallow anymore.

“You want to come so bad, don’t you?” she whispers, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot and dangerous. “You wanna come on this pretty toy while you’re cuffed up and helpless for me?”

You can’t form words, just a strangled moan, your back arching so hard the cuffs clink against the floor. She hums in satisfaction, her hips rocking into yours just enough to pin you fully when you try to squirm away from the pleasure that’s already too much.

“No running, detka.” she murmurs, her tongue flicking the shell of your ear. “You take what I give you. Every second of it. Understood?”

“Please-!” you gasp. It’s not even clear what you’re begging for, more, less, mercy, ruin, all of it tangled into one desperate, broken sound.

You bite back a sob, a soft, helpless noise as the toy circles faster, the pressure building until you’re trembling under her, thighs twitching, your body begging for release.

Natasha drags her mouth to yours, kisses you slow and deep while her hand works the toy harder, just enough to push you right to the edge. Her lips curve into a smirk against yours when you break, when your moan rips free like you can’t hold it anymore.

“That’s it.” she growls, her tongue slipping into your mouth like she wants to taste every sound. “So fucking pretty when you break for me. Come on, sweetheart, come for me. Come now.”

And with her mouth devouring your cries, the toy pressed hard and perfect where you’re already so close, you shatter, your body straining against the cuffs, a helpless wreck beneath her as you moan her name like a prayer you’ll never stop whispering.

Your climax crashes over you so fast it nearly knocks the air from your lungs, heat coiling tight in your belly before it snaps, wave after wave wracking your trembling thighs. You’re gasping, whining, the cuffs clinking above your head with every shudder that runs through you.

Natasha hears it all, the wet, desperate sound of you falling apart, the high cry you fail to swallow, and she chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your throat where her lips brush your racing pulse.

“So easy for me..” she murmurs, voice dripping dark praise that makes your core clench even harder. She drags the toy away, but before your breath can steady, her hand slips lower, her palm warm, fingers slick from your arousal as she strokes you through the last waves.

You flinch, too sensitive, hips jerking away, but Natasha just laughs again, soft and predatory, pressing her weight down to keep you pinned.

“Sensitive already?” she teases, her nose brushing your jaw, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Too bad.”

Then she slides lower, so fluid and lethal it makes your breath catch, trailing kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Her fingers hook your panties, tugging them down your legs with a rough impatience that makes your thighs quake.

“N-Nat- wait-” you gasp, your voice cracking around the plea.

She ignores you. Of course she does. She kneels between your spread legs, palms braced on your hips as she nudges your knees wider with her shoulders. She dips her head, warm breath ghosting over your slick heat, so close you feel the whisper of her exhale where you’re soaked and throbbing.

Your whole body arches when she licks you, one slow, claiming drag of her tongue that makes your hips jerk off the rug. You try to twist away but her hands slam you back down, strong fingers digging into your hips so hard you know she’ll leave bruises.

“Stay still.” she growls, voice muffled against your dripping core, words vibrating right through your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And then she devours you. There’s nothing careful about it, no slow teasing now, no mercy. She licks you like she’s starving, tongue flattening to lap up every bit of slick you’re spilling for her. The wet, obscene sounds of it fill the small room, louder than the rain hammering the windows.

A strangled moan rips from your throat, too loud, too raw, and you slap one hand over your mouth on instinct, wrist twisting in the cuff so you can half-smother the sounds she’s tearing out of you.

Natasha notices. She hums, the low vibration sparking right through you, her eyes flicking up, glinting dark and wild under her lashes. She pulls back just enough to bite your inner thigh, sharp, possessive then licks the sting away before dragging her tongue back up to circle your clit again, harder now, more ruthless.

“Move your hand.” she orders, voice rough, her breath hot against your slick heat.

You shake your head, whining into your palm, your hips bucking under her mouth like you’re trying to run from the pleasure burning you alive.

Natasha growls, an actual growl, low and feral, and hooks her arms under your thighs, hauling you impossibly closer. Her shoulder digs into your hips, pinning you down as her mouth seals over you again, tongue flicking relentless circles that have you seeing stars.

Her hand slides up, two fingers sliding into you in one slick, smooth push that makes your vision shatter white at the edges. You cry out, the sound cracking under your palm as her fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your back arch clean off the rug.

She pulls back just enough to speak, her voice hoarse, wet, hungry. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. I want every fucking sound. Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And then her mouth is back, tongue pressing hard against your clit while her fingers pump into you, slow at first, then faster, each thrust timed perfectly with the swirl of her tongue until your hips are stuttering under her hold.

Your thighs quake, your free hand clamped over your mouth, head tossing side to side as you try and fail to stay quiet. But it’s useless, Natasha works you open like it’s her mission, each flick of her tongue and curl of her fingers pushing you higher, faster, until your muffled moans break free anyway, wrecked, begging, shameless.

Natasha moans into you, low and filthy, the sound sending another shockwave straight through your core. She pulls back just long enough to hiss against your inner thigh: “Come for me again. Messy this time. Let me taste all of it.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, heat coiling sharp and tight, then snapping like a live wire as you shatter around her fingers, your moan raw and loud, echoing through the safe house while Natasha devours every drop, every twitch, like she’ll never get enough.

And when you finally go limp, trembling and ruined under her, she doesn’t stop, her mouth still wet on your skin, her fingers lazy inside you, coaxing every last shudder while you gasp her name like a prayer you’ll never stop whispering.

Your hips twitch when Natasha’s tongue flicks one last lazy circle over your oversensitive clit, and she hums a soft, amused sound at the way your whole body shudders under her hold. She kisses the inside of your thigh, her lips warm and gentle now, each soft press chasing away the edge she carved into your bones moments ago.

Slowly, she pulls back, her fingers slipping free with a slick, obscene sound that makes your cheeks burn all over again. Your legs want to close, but they’re trembling too badly to obey.

Natasha wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, but she doesn’t look away, her eyes drag over you, heavy, hungry still, but softer now too. She traces one thumb over the bruises blooming on your hips from where she pinned you down.

“Easy, detka..” she murmurs. Her voice is rough, warm in a way that makes something in your chest ache. “Look at you. So fucking pretty like this.”

Your wrists are still cuffed above your head, a dull ache that you’d almost forgotten under the ruin she made of you. You flex them weakly, the metal biting into your skin, and she sees it immediately.

Natasha shifts up your body, graceful even now, a cat stretching over its favorite spot. She straddles your waist, her knees bracketing your sides. Her fingers find the cuffs and for a heartbeat she just holds them, thumb brushing your pulse point where it flutters wild and soft under her touch.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, and her voice isn’t teasing now, isn’t mocking. It’s careful, threaded with something raw that settles in your chest.

You shake your head, a tiny, exhausted movement. Your throat feels raw, your mouth wrecked from the way you bit back moans that tore free anyway. “N-no. I’m, I’m okay.”

She clicks the cuffs open one at a time, the cold metal slipping free, her touch instantly there to rub small soothing circles into your wrists. She lifts them to her mouth, kissing the red marks left behind, her lips soft, reverent where her hands had pinned you down moments ago.

“Good girl..” she murmurs, her mouth brushing your skin between words. “So good for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, warmth pooling in your chest that has nothing to do with the heat between your legs. When you open them again, she’s looking at you, really looking. Her eyes softer than they’ve been all night, a half-smirk playing at the corner of her mouth that can’t quite hide the fondness in her gaze.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, your noses brushing, her breath warm on your cheek. She tastes you on your own lips when she kisses you, slow this time, no edge, just her mouth moving over yours like she’s sealing you up, gathering all your broken pieces and fitting them back together in her hands.

“You did so well for me.” she whispers against your mouth, her thumb stroking your cheek, brushing away the damp warmth you didn’t realize was there. “So sweet. So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers- free now drift up to tangle in her braid, weak but needing her closer anyway. She lets you tug her down, lets you hide your burning face in her neck while her hand drifts over your side, your hip, gentle now where she was ruthless before.

“Easy, moya lyubov.” she murmurs into your hair, lips pressing to your temple, your jaw, your throat like she’s tasting you all over again, softer this time. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You try to speak , to tell her something, anything, but all that comes out is a shaky little laugh that breaks into a sigh when she tucks you tighter under her body. She shifts, rolling you both to your sides so she can spoon you against her chest, one leg hooked protectively over yours, her hand splayed warm on your stomach where you’re still trembling under her touch.

She kisses your shoulder, a slow, soft thing that settles the last wild flutter in your chest. “I’ve got you.” she says again, a promise this time, soft and dark and sure. “Mine now, mm? No more hiding.”

Natasha holds you steady while your breath evens out, her mouth brushing your hair while her fingers trace lazy circles on your bare skin, a warm, quiet worship that says you’re hers now, and she’ll never let you forget it.

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spurbleu · 2 hours ago

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smoke break.

a short fic about smoking that got away from me. all of them want you, so 141 x reader.

it’s like clockwork.

it’s 9:43 PM, with an early autumn breeze that still smells like summer breaking through poorly sealed windows. the sky is blooming in violets. there is barely anyone left in the office. it’s silent.

and then four pairs of heavy footsteps break it.

its always the same order, too. johnny’s first, hands in his pockets. his shoulders shrug as he braces for the cold. kyle follows. he always itches his knuckles before holding the door open for simon, who walks behind him silently. price, unsurprisingly, brings up the rear.

his hand always digs into his back left pocket before the door closes.

and you, every time for the past 2 months, have ignored them. but curiosity is a ceaseless, immortal creature, isn’t it?

it got the best of you, today.

it’s 9:41, you’re out for some air. stretching your legs on the balcony, that has a much less depressing view than your cubical. a city beginning to sleep. a sky that is bigger than feels right, even if it’s beautiful. keeps you company.

that, and your anticipation.

it bites when the door creaks open.

there’s a pause. you breathe three times, white clouds hissing from your teeth before you hear the first boot plant.

1 pair. 2, 3. a longer pause. two breathes. the 4th walks two short steps, before you hear the door close.

you finally turn. kyle speaks first.

“needed air?”

you nod. you’re at an awkward distance, that no one moves to close. all four of them stand a couple of paces away, like startled animals. “I needed a break.”

johnny nods. “aye, tats what we’re oot ‘ere for. seen us come’up- yeah?”

“no. didn’t know it was you’re spot.” you lie.

johnny smiles. he’s letting you. “mm, tat’s alright,” he glances over his shoulder to the men, who have not stopped looking at you, “we can share.”

you swallow as they turn away from you. you see price pull out a cigar, and kyle with a lighter. theres a click of steal on butane followed by the smell of expensive smoke. you turn around.

what else would it be? of course it was a smoke break. their 10 minute respite from cement sweat and checking their six. paperwork and chairs they don’t fit in. from you.

you’ve stepped on sacred ground. invaded territory. walked into their carefully crafted den to, for selfish reasons, figure them out.

the dynamic no one else can crack or join. a wall of force by interlocked arms. a brotherhood. a blood bond. a loyalty. in life, in death. in this brief moment, where they share a cigar and say nothing.

you’ve done the office equivalent to spitting on an altar. you should go. you need to g

“ever smoked?”

suddenly, you’re aware of how warm everything feels. how it smells like tobacco that belongs to luxury. how when you look forward, broad shoulders are in your periphery. you don’t move.

“s-sorry?”

its price, he’s next to you. “i asked if you’ve ever smoked, darl,” you look at him, with all your doubt and confusion and vulnerability, and he cracks a smile, “probably not, then.”

there’s pressure on your shoulder. you give in and turn around. simon stands in front of you, and between his fat, gloved fingers, is a cigar that looks above your pay grade. and your tolerance.

“open.”

“oh i-“ you shake your head, looking to any of them for a bit of leeway, “I don’t- I wouldn’t want to waste any-“

“price is offering, love,” says kyle, who is to your far left, “your chance to take it is now.”

initiation. welcome mat, made by smoke and grime and all the things that make them who they are. all the things you are not. at least, not now.

not without that cigar in your mouth.

you do as simon says and he places it to your lips.

“inhale.” he says.

you’re doing as your told until it itches. something in your throat burns. then your lungs. then it’s lingering in your chest until-

you’re coughing. you see grey cloud around your vision, and catch how white they’re teeth look when they smile.

strangely white, for smokers.

“good girl.” says price, “learning how to manage. takes a couple of times,” and his hand is on your chin, you aren’t coughing anymore but you’re certainly flushing, “but you’ll get there.”

“aye, we all got t’ere.” say johnny. he’s smiling too, next to simon, who is not. but he’s looking at you, and that feels more intimate.

“and we’ll help you get there, too,” price says, voice like his presence- warm in the way a fire burns, iron formed in its wake. it’s a middle ground between unsettling and comforting- a strange, dangerous place to be with your boss, “that right, boys?”

you didn’t even notice until now, but kyle’s hand rests on your lower back. it keeps traveling down.

they speak in unison.

“yessir.”

#hey im back #whatever this is you can have it #call of duty #cod #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #141 x reader #141 x you

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24hrssofnea · 3 days ago

Text

𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁

pairing: morgan cheli x fem!oc

warnings: school, a certain someone not wanting to share their chick-fil-a

post it note: this is the first chapter. hope you enjoy it.

🎧: after the storm — kali uchis ft. tyler, the creator

intro 🔜 playlist 🔜 chapter 1

CHAPTER 1 Alayshia POV 💐

“the sun'll come out, nothing good ever comes easy, i know times are rough, but winners don't quit, so don't you give up, the sun'll come out, but we've been struggling endless days, someday we'll find the love, 'cause after the storm's, when the flowers bloom” — KALI UCHIS

School was boring as hell. Like, not even a little boring. The kind of boring where the second you walk in, you start counting down the hours until lunch—and you already know lunch probably won’t be that good. That kind of boring. I walked to first period with Ayanna because, well, I had to yap to her about something. Anything. I was bored and nosy and needed chaos to stay awake. Plus, she’s my ride, my cousin, and my unpaid therapist, so… she kind of signed up for this the minute I was born.

“So you're really not gonna tell me what happened with you and what’s-her-name?” I asked, slinging my bag over my shoulder and side-eyeing her like I already knew the tea.

Ayanna didn’t even flinch. She just raised an eyebrow and kept walking, which meant one of two things: either she actually wasn’t going to tell me, or it was something deep, and she needed me to keep poking until she cracked.

“I’m not doing this with you today, Laysh,” she muttered, brushing her backpack over her shoulder. She always used my nickname when she was pretending to be chill but secretly annoyed.

“Oh, we are doing this today,” I said, fake-gasping like I was offended. “You didn’t text back for like six hours last night. That’s suspicious behavior. And you smelled like someone else’s perfume when you came home—”

“Okay, first of all—”

“I know your usual scent. That was new.”

She cut me a look but didn’t say anything. Which, again, only made me more annoying.

We finally reached the building, and she pushed the door open like she was trying to shut me up with force. But please—this mouth doesn’t stop just because someone opens a door. I’m built different.

Right as we were heading to our lockers, Aubrey came walking by with a Chick-fil-A bag in her hand. Her edges were laid, her UConn sweats were cuffed at the ankle just right, and her little walk had that “I lift weights and break hearts” rhythm. But more importantly—she had fries. And I smelled them before I saw them.

“Oh, so you’re not gonna share?” I said, immediately stopping in front of her like a traffic cone in the hallway.

Aubrey smirked but didn’t slow down. “I love you, Laysh, but not enough to give up my fries. Try again next lifetime.”

“Wow. And here I was thinking we were family.”

“You’re literally Ayanna’s cousin. That doesn’t make us cousins by default.”

“Yes, it does. It absolutely does.”

Ayanna snorted behind me and opened her locker like she wasn’t lowkey enjoying the whole back-and-forth. I reached out and tried to grab a fry from the bag, but Aubrey dipped out of reach like she was dodging defenders.

“Gotta be quicker than that,” she said, heading down the hall with her smug little strut.

“God don’t like greedy,” I called after her.

“And he don’t like thieves either!”

I turned back to Ayanna, who was still chuckling under her breath. “You letting your teammates disrespect me like that?” I said, pointing a finger at her like I was about to fight on principle.

“Girl, you did that to yourself.”

I sighed dramatically, like I’d just been personally victimized by Chick-fil-A and UConn athletes everywhere. “This school is full of snakes.”

“Then why do you keep coming?”

“Because somebody keeps telling me I need an education,” I said, squinting at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t squint at me like that without your camera.”

“I will cry in this hallway.”

“You always say that, but never do.”

“One day, it’s gonna be real. I’m gonna just break down and sob in front of the trophy case. Watch.”

She laughed again, softer this time, and for a moment, it was quiet between us. Comfortable. We’d been like this our whole lives—me talking, her pretending not to care but secretly listening. It’s how we worked. She was the stoic star athlete; I was the emotionally unstable girl with a soft spot for sad R&B and pastel gel pens. Balance.

After I shoved my stuff in my locker, we started heading to class. That was when I noticed a new face by the gym entrance. Brunette ponytail. Long sleeves. Backpack half-zipped like she didn’t really care if her binder fell out or not. She was talking to Coach B, nodding like she’d heard whatever speech she was getting a thousand times before.

I paused, just slightly. Enough that Ayanna noticed.

“Who’s that?” I asked, nudging her.

She didn’t look up. “That’s Morgan.”

“Morgan…?”

“Morgan Cheli. Freshman.”

“Like…I’ma see her later at practice?”

“Yeah. She’s on the team. So you gon have to clear some storage .”

I looked back at the girl—Morgan—and caught her glance for a split second. She looked away just as quickly, but something about it stuck with me. Like she wasn’t trying to make friends. Like she was just here, existing, untouchable. Mysterious. Unbothered.

“She don’t talk much?”

Ayanna shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d probably get her to.”

That made me smirk. “Oh, so now I’m charming?”

“You’ve always been annoying. But sure, let’s go with ‘charming.’”

The bell rang, but I was already thinking too hard about that girl with the blank stare and loose laces. I had no business being curious. I knew that. I was just the manager. The background character. The girl with the clipboard and the gum in her mouth.

But still—there was something about her. Something that made the hallway feel a little less boring. And yeah… maybe I’d find a reason to talk to her.

Eventually.

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blessedbucky · 14 hours ago

Text

ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕏𝕀𝕀

pairing: autistic!satoru x suguru x autistic!reader

word count: 12.2k (still yapping)

summary: jealousy is a hell of a thing

tags: autistic!reader; autistic!satoru; and featuring...autistic!megumi! (because like he is literally the most autistic coded of the show); ANGST...ish?; and mentioned sex pollen (a curse made them do it) so i guess kinda dub-con adjacent; jealousy jealousy (olivia rodrigo style); ahhh yes and how can we forget the autistic urge to think things can only be done exactly one (1) way

beautiful people who asked to be tagged 💕: @ichikanu, @iceheartsice, @anders-is-being-a-simp-again, @lexlibrary, @ziggy0stardust, @svntsbunnie

author note: so anyway i take back what i said last chapter and am now like just doing moments of 2010 and 2011 (which is when the prologue is set). this chapter focuses on reader FINALLY figuring it out. next chapter is gonna be FUCKIN. like, pining hardcore yes, but the FWB deal getting established. and the BABY MAKING. and the first five months of pregnancy hehehehe c:<

Story Masterlist

[but i'm gonna stay, 'cause i'm your broken dog]

[JANUARY 2010]

Soy sauce soaks through the fabric of your socks. Glass is shattered on the floor all around you. Nanako and Mimiko are in the other room. A part of your brain acknowledges that you should probably clean up this mess before they make their way in here for dinner, but that part is quiet. It’s drowned out by his words that repeat in your head over and over like a broken record. Your lips are still parted in shock. You should…set your face right. You’re going to make him self-conscious, but…

“What did you say?” Satoru asks before you can. Your eyes flitter over to the kitchen table where he’s paused in chopping vegetables. There’s a blank expression on his face. Too neutral to not be on purpose. He only does that when he wants to hide how he really feels.

“Is it really that shocking that I have a date?” Suguru deadpans. “Thank you both for your faith in me.” He mistakes what you’re upset about…

But…but…why are you upset? Why is your chest so tight with panic right now? This…this should be good news. Logically, you know that. Doesn’t this mean that Suguru is healing? He’s moving on. Moving on—the thought of that alone makes you break out in a cold sweat and the hand clutching at the counter tremble. “But what about your birthday?” Yes. That…that must be what it is. “We always spend it together,” you point out weakly.

“That’s not changing,” he reassures you as his face softens in understanding. “I’m going out for dinner. We can still spend the whole morning and afternoon however you want.”

“We spend the whole day together,” Satoru insists as he puts the knife down on the table forcefully. “What about the girls?”

“I was going to ask you two to watch them, but if you don’t want to then I can always ask Shoko,” he explains with a casual shrug. How can he be so casual? Wait. No. Why…why are you not being casual?“And, yes, I know we usually spend the whole day together on birthdays, but it’s not like we ever have anything planned. I’ll only be gone a few hours.”

Satoru’s got this pinched expression on his face now. “What if I was planning on us taking a trip?”

Suguru sighs in exasperation, knowing that Satoru is being stubborn for no reason. But it’s not for no reason. Because, clearly, Satoru feels the exact way you do right now. That’s why he’s voicing the things you can’t without you two having even talked about it yet.

Suguru crosses his arms over his chest, raising a brow at Satoru. “Have you?”

“No,” you whisper. Satoru’s gaze snaps over to you, eyes burning hot. You immediately look away. This is a good thing, you insist to yourself, desperately trying to believe that. “It’s…um…I’ll watch them.” Foster his healing, foster his healing. “I—” I hope you have a good date, is what you should say but can’t force yourself to. The words are lodged in your throat with all the other emotions. “I…should clean this up…”

You need to do something to keep yourself busy because, right now, you want to cry. Not that you understand why you want to cry so bad. Is it the change of routine? It must be. And you’re being childish, aren’t you, with how you want to stick to this little childhood tradition that you pulled Satoru into. People grow up. They…find dates. It’s what you did. Technically. You can’t keep selfishly clinging to Suguru like this.

“Thank you,” Suguru breathes out with such sincerity that your chest gets tighter. He really wants this. You feel guiltier for being upset about something he’s excited about. “Be careful with the glass,” he warns when you turn around to grab a dish towel to soak up the soy sauce. “Here. Let me grab the broom. Let me get you a wet towel to wash your feet off. I know you hate anything sticky.”

“Okay,” you mumble. If another person comes into his life, will he still know you? Or will those intimate details be replaced with those of another? You shake your head, thankfully out of sight of Suguru. You’re being childish. Greedy.

Your face isn’t right because Suguru comes back in the kitchen and frowns worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you blurt. Too forced. Too rushed. He’ll know something is wrong and how are you supposed to explain it without coming off as a bad friend? “I…I feel bad because…is this your only bottle?” Yes. Yes. “I’ll go get some more.” Good. A little time away will give your mind some time to settle. “I’m so sorry.”

“Squid, it’s fine. Don’t cry.” Wrong thing for him to say! That makes you want to cry more! “I’ll get it—”

“I’ll go with her,” Satoru says.

Suguru eyes him skeptically. “You just want to get out of cooking.”

“You got me.” Satoru raises his hands in mock surrender. Giving up too easy. That’s not the reason at all. “But I want sugar. I need lots of sugar. More than you’ve got.” He stomps over. Stomps. Even without the use of your technique, you can literally feel the irritation rolling off him. You squeak when he grabs you by the hips and lifts you up on the counter with ease. “Stay here. I’ll get you another pair of socks.”

“Oh—” he’s gone, Suguru and you watching him go, “—kay…”

“What’s with him?”

You swallow. Duck your head so that Suguru can’t look you in the eye when you lie, “I don’t know.” It’s…half-lie, anyway. You have a suspicion of why Satoru is upset. It very well may be for the exact same reason that you are. “So…um…who’s the lucky person?” It’s an unbelievably tough question to ask. You don’t want to know, but you…feel…obligated to ask. Is that not what you as…his…best friend…is supposed to ask?

“Ah.” His smile is shy, embarrassed. There’s a flush on his cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck. A wave of irritation rolls through you. Why does someone else make him feel like that? No. Damn it, you’re not supposed to think that way. “It’s a funny story, actually. You already know her. It’s…Kuronuma Suzue.”

If you were even remotely smiling, it’s falls away from your face immediately. “Nanako and Mimiko’s…teacher…”

“She’s never been their teacher, so there’s no conflict of interest or anything!” Suguru defends himself. “I…just wanted to meet her since she’ll be watching over the girls while they’re in elementary school and we…sort of hit it off from there?”

It’s hard not to feel betrayed by Kuronuma. It’s only because of your initiative that she’s in the position that she is. A pilot, a role model, a bridge between those active in the jujutsu community and those who are not. Also, double the pay—a check from the school system and a check from headquarters.

The proposal from last November was tentatively accepted. Start small and add more people if it proves beneficial. You want more people in schools. Non-sorcerer schools. Because, contrary to what you were made to believe in high school, there are actually a lot of people who can see cursed spirits and they’re all kept track of by jujutsu headquarters. It’s the responsibility of active sorcerers to report anyone they find to be able to see and interact with cursed spirits.

Satoru has said before that a person has to be a special type of crazy to want to do sorcery as a profession and most people are not born like that. Even becoming an auxiliary manager has risks. But why can’t headquarters try to utilize those people who don’t want to be a sorcerer or manager? Why are those the only two options?

Mimiko and Nanako…if there had been more sorcerers in their lives, they wouldn’t have been so hurt. If there had been anyone to say I see you, things could have gone so differently. It’s impossible to have a sorcerer in every tiny village, but you want to fucking try, damn it. Your ultimate goal is to have a jujutsu representative in every prefecture, but you need proof that that’d be beneficial.

So, to start, you’re putting more sorcerers in schools—first in Tokyo and Kyoto before slowly branching out to other major cities in the country. You told the higher-ups that it would be good for recruitment. If an adult is there to comfort a confused child, it makes them more open to becoming a sorcerer when they’re about to graduate middle school. Also, it prevents incidents with non-sorcerers getting hurt by a child losing control of their technique.

Kuronuma was so enthusiastic about the idea when you called her. You started with sorcerers that were teachers already. She’d just graduated with her degree. She’s passionate about helping children and was excited to be able to impact even more lives of people like her. When you interviewed her, she thanked you for coming up with this idea because it meant there would be less lonely children in the world like you and her had been.

You…shouldn’t feel betrayed. Kuronuma would be good for Suguru and the girls. A sorcerer involved more with non-sorcerers would help with their pain. She’s a nurturer, always bringing extra food for you when she reports in with you because she knows you often forget to eat when you’re working. This is perfect. You should be enthusiastic right now. You’re being childish instead, being terrified that she’s going to steal Suguru away from you.

“She’ll be a good match.” You hope you’re being as encouraging as you need to be.

“A good match?” Suguru laughs. “What? Are you a matchmaker now?”

Thankfully, that’s when Satoru marches back in the kitchen, pair of socks held high. You don’t have to force this pretending that you’re okay right now. “Got the socks!” You’re not even given the chance to put them on because Satoru bends down and starts doing it for you. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s get a move on. I’m starving.”

“I can always just make something that doesn’t require soy sauce,” Suguru suggests while putting a hand on his hip.

“Blegh!” Satoru sticks his tongue out. “I want sugar.”

Suguru sighs in exasperation, giving up on a lecture and instead focuses on cleaning up the mess.

It’s a silent walk to the konbini.

There’s a tension in the air between you and Satoru, but you’re afraid to address it. You really don’t want to talk about Suguru’s date, but Satoru is…agitated. You should check up on him. What are you supposed to say, though? Any reassurances from you would be hollow and Satoru would pick up on that in a heartbeat.

People brush against you as you’re both walking, instinctively making you shy away from the foreign touch. You never realize you’re doing it until you finally press against Satoru, but that doesn’t happen tonight. Because Infinity is there to meet you and that is when you figure out that something else is wrong with Satoru. Infinity being up around you is a conscious effort on his part and the biggest red flag that he’s not okay. It’s him practically screaming that he doesn’t want to be touched by anyone at all.

So, you zero on him, watching him carefully for other signs. He still hasn’t noticed that you touched Infinity. How can he when he keeps rubbing at his eyes the way he is? His teeth are gritted—you can tell by the way his jaw is clenched tight. In his peripheral, you see him blinking rapidly between his rubbing them.

It’s dark already. Snow is gently drifting down. Just ahead, the fluorescent light of the konbini spills out onto the street. Infinity suddenly shoves out further, sending you and everyone else around Satoru stumbling to the side. “Satoru!” Either he ignores you or doesn’t hear you because he keeps on walking, shoulders hunched with his tension. You have to dash right in front of him, arms spread out to block his path because you clearly can’t grab his hand. “Satoru!”

“What?” Satoru shouts.

You try not to shrink under his anger. It’s just more proof that he’s overstimulated. How can you control your emotions when your entire body is betraying you already? “You nearly knocked me into traffic with Infinity,” you explain calmly as you drop your arms. “You need to check in with me right now.”

Satoru briefly glances around, realizing the wide berth he’s been unintentionally keeping around himself. “Oh,” he whispers. His brows furrow and you sense Infinity shrink. See it in the way that people shuffle closer. But he flinches with his entire body at the closeness of those strangers. “I’m sorry,” he grits out.

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper. “Are you getting a migraine?”

“No,” he lies. You know he lies because his body immediately turns around and shatters the false bravado. He clutches at his head with a hiss. The pain must get worse because then he sinks down into a crouch, clutching at his head with both hands, groaning in agony.

“Shit,” you curse. You should’ve known sooner. How can you be so stupid? Looking back now, all the signs of a migraine have been there since you went to Suguru’s. “Satoru—” Infinity keeps you back when you try to rush toward him. You can only crouch down at the edge of it. It’s for the best, anyway. Infinity is trying to block out as much stimuli as it can. “Do you not have your blackout glasses on right now?”

“I do,” he whimpers. “Not enough.”

Fuck. This has been happening more and more. Usually, the only thing that helps him are the blackout curtains in his room and slipping under a blanket to further block out any lingering fractals of light in the room. He can’t possibly focus enough to warp if he’s immobile from pain, but you don’t want him to be tortured further. If only you had something to cover his…

Your fingers brush against the edge of your scarf. Worth a shot, you think frantically before you’re yanking if off, almost choking yourself in the process. “Drop Infinity for a second,” you order softly. He does. When he understands what you’re doing, trying to wrap it around his head and eyes, he quickly helps you finish up. You let him take over, knowing that Infinity could shove you away at any moment. “Better?”

“Little bit,” he whispers hoarsely. He’s still clutching at his head, though.

People are starting to slow down and stare. If he’s going to teleport, it needs to be now before there’s a crowd. “Can you focus enough to warp yourself home?”

“Don’t wanna.” The stubbornness is undermined by the pain in his voice. “Not without you,” he adds. And, yes, that’s very sweet, but he’s suffering. “I can handle it. Got to. Just have to learn how to deal with it.”

“You are not doing that around me.” What are you doing? There’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. You pull out your cell phone to immediately call Suguru, thoughts of earlier pushed away by your growing anxiety. You don’t give him the chance to greet you, instead rushing to explain, “I’m so sorry. I’ll be late. I have to take Satoru home—”

“What’s wrong?” Suguru interrupts you to ask worriedly.

“Migraine,” you answer. “Just…I can drop him off and grab a bottle near me, but it’ll be later than expected. I don’t want to leave him like this. This one is bad. We didn’t even make it inside the konbini, he’s so sensitive to light right now.”

“No, what? Why are you apologizing to me? It’s fine, Squid. Don’t worry about coming back. I’ll cook something else.”

You hesitate. “Are you sure? The girls—”

“The girls will be fine. They’ll understand. They’ve seen him with migraines before. They’ll be more worried than anything else.” They have? Just how fucking often is Satoru having these migraines? This isn’t sustainable. “I don’t want him to be alone right now, either. Stay with him. And keep me updated, please.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll text you when we’re home—”

There’s not enough time to end the call on your end. Satoru snatches your wrist, and the world falls out from under your feet. It always feels like a gut punch when you teleport with him, no matter how often you’ve done it. You don’t know how Satoru stands it. And you hate the way that no matter how much you brace yourself, you always, always stumble. But there’s no stumbling tonight because you land square in the middle of your mattress, chest thumping against Satoru’s. Toru and Gato barely manage to dodge out of the way of your bodies, screeching in surprise and protest.

“Why are we here?” Is it so bad that he can’t even control his warping? You’re frazzled and panicked. “Satoru, I still haven’t gotten your blackout curtains yet.” He ordered them for you. Specially made overseas, insisting that anything you buy in the city isn’t dark enough.

“You said warp home,” he mumbles as he kicks off his shoes. He grabs mindlessly for a pillow. Before he shoves it over his face, he adds, casual as can be, “Home is you.”

Home is you.

You stay there, sprawled out across his chest, staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Your heart flutters. It’s only his muffled groan of pain that pulls you from your swooning. You can’t believe he would drop something so romantic in a time like this. Then again, Satoru never realizes how awe inspiring some of the things he says are.

Scrambling off the bed, you rush to turn on the lamp light. It’s the same process as always—grab an extra big, thick blanket from your closet and grab the chair from your desk on the way to the window. You climb up on the chair, hauling the blanket over the curtain rod. Even the dim glow of the streetlights is too much. You hope that this migraine doesn’t last until morning.

You switch off the lamp before you sit on the edge of the mattress. Satoru is already moving the pillow off his face. Your hand hovers over his forehead, waiting for permission to touch. He bumps his head against your palm in a silent go-ahead, and you guide him back, running your hands through his fingers when his head is on the pillow.

Mindful of your volume, you ask him, “Do you want a washcloth? I can stick it in the freezer for a few minutes to make it extra cold.”

“Too scratchy.”

It’s that kind of night, then. “Do you want me to sleep on the futon?”

“Want you.”

His answers are short and clipped. You don’t want to keep him talking for too long when he’s struggling to do it, but you don’t want him pushing himself, either. “Infinity kept me away. Don’t force yourself.”

“Too many people around earlier. It’s okay now.”

“Fine.” You’ll know if it’s too much for him, anyway. “We’re sleeping in our underwear, then.” It’s less fabric that he has to deal with. “What about food? Do you think you can manage something?”

“No.”

You lean down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Okay. Let me feed Toru and Gato and find a snack.”

“No. Eat real food.”

That’s rich coming from the person whose meals consist of nothing butsugary snacks. “And have whatever I cook stinking up the place? No. I’m not doing that to you. I’ll be okay until morning.” You reach down to squeeze his hand. “Be back in a bit, but don’t wait up for me. Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t.

When you slip into bed after you’ve fed the cats and gotten ready to go to sleep, his arms are open and waiting for you. He sighs when his cheek settles in the valley of your breasts and the tension bleeds out of his body. You don’t even think about it before you start threading your fingers through his hair again.

“Thank you,” Satoru whispers when you’re starting to doze.

“I love you,” you mumble sleepily. “Don’t thank me for taking care of you.”

“Love you, too.”

Just before noon, Satoru comes stumbling into the kitchen, squinting despite the day being overcast with snow. Still sensitive, but not in agony like he was last night. You hand him his sunglasses, a parfait that you ran to the konbini to buy, and the soda that he’s currently obsessed with. He wordlessly takes it all before going to drop down at the table with a weary sigh. He doesn’t eat, instead putting his arms on the table and resting his cheek on them.

“I think you have to figure something else out,” you suggest softly after you’ve sat down at the other chair. You reach over to rest a comforting hand on the back of his neck. “It was dark, and your sunglasses still weren’t enough.”

“I know,” he agrees irritably. “I can try making the lenses bigger, I guess.” He sighs loudly, brows furrowing, and bottom lip jutting out. “I hate having to get rid of the glasses you got me.”

“You don’t have to get rid of them. You just need to stop wearing them,” you point out with a chuckle. The smile melts away, replaced by worry. “But what I really meant was that I think you might need to get rid of sunglasses altogether. It seemed like there was still too much light coming in.”

“Yeah, but what the hell else is there to use? The scarf helped a lot, actually, but I can’t go around wearing a scarf around my head all the time. People already stare at me enough as it is.”

“I thought you liked the attention,” you tease. You lean back in your chair, thinking.

The thing is that he’s right. With his height and white hair, he already sticks out like a sore thumb. People already stop him to ask if he’s a model. He hates to be stopped needlessly like that. He needs something that turns people away. A mask when someone is sick deters others, but there’s nothing like that for eyes…or is there?

“What about bandages?”

Satoru lifts his head, blinking. “Bandages?”

“People will think you’ve got a medical issue, so maybe they won’t bother you as much. And you can use as many bandages as you need to keep the light out.”

“Hey, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Also,” you glare at him, “you’re going to tell me when you feel a migraine coming instead of pushing through it like you were doing last night.” His mouth opens and you shake your head. “No. I’m not letting it get that bad again. I can’t stop the missions, but I’m not letting home be miserable for you, too. If I’m allowed to be overstimulated, then so are you.” You jab a finger in his direction. “Got it?”

Satoru gives up trying to argue pretty fast because he just grins dopily at you. “Got it.”

[FEBRUARY 2010]

The morning after Suguru’s birthday, he shows up at your door with your favorite breakfast and an apologetic smile. It takes everything in you to not childishly slam the door in his face.

He spent the night with her.

You’re not sure who you’re angrier with right now—him for fucking her or yourself for telling him that you’d keep the girls for the night, basically giving him permission to do it.

Guess the date went well, you don’t say because you’re not sure you could keep the bitterness out of your voice.

While he’s back in the guest bedroom, waking the girls up, you’re in front of the counter, continually trying to force yourself to smile. You need to ask him how it went because that’s what good best friends do. You have to insist to your body and mind that it has no logical reason to feel betrayed. You shouldn’t feel sick to your stomach like this.

You cannot keep clinging to Suguru like this.

You and Suguru are no longer on the same path and that’s…fine. It’s supposed to be fine. On your path, you’re hand-in-hand with Satoru. And on Suguru’s path, he’s going to be hand-in-hand with… Kuronuma. He confirms it before he leaves, that they’re officially dating. But your paths are still within sight of each other. Parallel lines.

It’s a terrible fucking morning.

[APRIL 2010]

“Don’t be mad,” is the first thing that Satoru says when you pick up the phone one afternoon.

You immediately sigh because that always means you will be mad. It’s really a matter of how mad you’ll be at him. And it’s been a really shitty day for you. As soon as you stepped outside and squinted despite it being overcast this morning, you knew how things were going to play out. Satoru knows this. So, that he still got himself in trouble when he’s supposed to be with Tsumiki and Megumi only further irritates you.

“Depending on how bad this is,” you start slowly through gritted teeth, “you should probably not come over.”

Satoru sighs sadly. “Yeah, I knew that was coming. But I really, really, really need your help!”

You have to pull the phone away from your ear with how high-pitched his whine gets. “Volume,” you warn when he’s done.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, quieter. “So, um, look…” You tap your foot impatiently. It must be bad if he’s trying to figure out the best way to say it. “Megumi…sort of kind of maybe…ran away?”

“Megumi did what?!” Forget angry! Well, no, don’t, but you’re freaking the fuck out more than anything else! “Why the fuck are you talking to me, Satoru?! Call Suguru! We can use some of his spirits to help search for him! What the hell happened?! You told me you picked him up! Satoru, what if the Zen’in kidnapped him?! Why are you calling me?! Go look for him—”

“Sketch!” Satoru interrupts with a laugh.

“Don’t Sketch me! Stop laughing! Satoru, this is serious!” The volume of your screech sends Toru and Gato running. You’ll have to apologize later with treats.

“Baby, did you forget who you’re talking to? I still got eyes on him. Getting a migraine from how far he’s getting, but I probably deserve it. Keep forgetting he’s got those shikigami to ride on. Hope there’s no normie around because they’ll freak when they see a kid in the air like that—”

“You’re rambling,” you interrupt harshly, “when you should be going after him!”

“Right, right. Well, I’m calling you because you should probably be the one to get him.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a few deep breaths. It’s days like this one that make you want to go back in time and make your past-self rethink the decision to take him as your boyfriend. Damn him and his stupidly sweet face when he’s being romantic and vulnerable. It fooled you.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I’ve been hanging out with Tsumiki! Here, talk to her. She’ll be my witness.”

Before you can protest because you should be talking to the adult in this situation, there’s a shuffle and then Tsumiki is greeting you. “Hi, Miss Sketch.”

Alright, alright. This might actually be beneficial since Tsumiki is with Megumi all day when they’re not at school. There’s no point in talking to the Gojo caretaker since they rotate and the kids aren’t all that close to them, either. “Hey, Tsumiki,” you greet, hoping there’s no leftover anger in your voice. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I know you’re really worried, but it’s okay,” she tries to comfort you. “Megumi does this every year.”

Your brows furrow. “Every year?”

“Um…since he started school, yeah. I mean, he’s done it more. But he always, always does it after school starts. I’m sorry that I forgot to tell you!”

That…is not the issue here. You don’t know how to explain that to her. There’s so much that’s wrong here, and you really hope that Satoru is listening because the Gojo caretaker should not be letting this happen. The sole purpose of them being there is to make sure that Megumi and Tsumiki are safe, sound, and taken care of. They shouldn’t be letting Megumi roam without at least knowing where he is.

One issue at a time, you remind yourself. “Does he always go to the same place?”

“I don’t know. He never talks to me about it and gets really mad if I ask too many questions. He hates school a lot.” Guiltily, she goes on to admit, “He told me and Satchan to be quiet, but we got loud by accident while we were playing and making dinner. I think that’s why he ran away.”

The start of a new school year is pretty stressful. Before high school when there were only three of you, you always dreaded that first day back, whether it be a new year or after a break. You always clung to Suguru’s hand, preparing yourself for walking into the bright fluorescence of the building, getting smacked in the face with so many smells, and being bombarded by the excited chatter of everyone catching up—

Wait.

Could it be that Megumi…

“Don’t blame yourself,” you soothe. “I think there’s a lot happening to Megumi right now. I’m going to see if he’ll talk to me about it, okay? We might need to talk tonight, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Don’t worry. Can you give Satchan the phone back now?”

There’s an abandoned house near the Fushiguro siblings’ apartment where four missing children were found last year. They all swore that they’d been kidnapped by a monster that insisted on becoming their true mother. One of them, a little girl with messy blonde hair and green eyes, recounted how she’d been led out of the house by a fluffy white dog. Thankfully, no one else was hurt when the police went inside to collect the other children because the monster had already been taken care of.

Satoru and Megumi were already gone by the time the police arrived.

There’s been no cursed spirit activity since then. It’s the perfect place for someone to hide out that’s desperate for escape from the world. Megumi has always been a sensible boy, not running headfirst into danger because he understands the limits of his strength. The Divine Dogs are always with him whenever he leaves home. Sometimes, to hone his control over his cursed energy, he’ll keep them summoned even at home. Everyone has taken to calling them Kuro and Shiro, they’re so familiar now.

Shiro is out on the rundown stoop, barking to catch your attention, as if you haven’t already sensed him. You rub the top of his head in greeting. His tongue lolls out and his tail wags furiously. Knowing that someone stronger is here to protect Megumi, he follows after you as you slip inside the house, no longer needing to stand guard.

Megumi is off in a side room, away from the dreadful scent of rotting food. There’s probably more, little bits of the children who didn’t survive the spirit. Messy eating comes with the territory. No one bothered to clean up the scene after their investigation. A sign outside warns of the house’s impending demolition. Megumi is going to need a new spot to hide in.

Megumi works his jaw as you spread out a big blanket across the dirty floor to sit on across from him. He glowers at the Divine Dogs when they immediately go to curl up beside you, one on each side. You give Kuro a stroke along his back in greeting before pulling out your sketchbook to pass the time with drawing. You promised Tsumiki that you’d sketch Megumi’s dogs to show her what they look like in detail.

“You don’t need to talk to me if it’s hard to do that right now,” you explain, voice purposely quiet to keep his peace. “I brought a notebook for you to write in.” You pull the aforementioned notebook out, flipping to a clean page before placing it in front of him with a pencil. His brows furrow before he picks the notebook up only to browse previous pages, scattered with conversations of the past. “I use it myself. Some days, it’s a lot of work to talk.”

“I can talk,” Megumi mutters after working his jaw again. You’re not sure if he realizes he does it. For a long time, you didn’t. It was always the biggest indicator to everyone else that you were having a day where you didn’t want to talk. “Don’t lie to me to make me feel better.”

“Are you saying I wrote like two different people to lie to you?” Your logic has his scowl deepening. “I was only offering.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

“Tsumiki said you asked her and Satoru to be quiet. You ran away here because there’s no noise, right?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Weren’t you worried?”

“I was, but that doesn’t mean I need to yell at you. I hate when people do it to me, so I try not doing it to others.”

If you didn’t have a suspicion of what’s going on, Megumi’s growing frustration would hurt. But you notice how he’s blinking rapidly. In the dying light of the afternoon, what streaks through the shuttered windows, you see the shine of unshed tears. “Stop treating me like a kid!”

“But you are one, Megumi,” you point out gently. “I know you’ve felt like you need to be strong for Tsumiki for a long time, but you don’t have to be that anymore, okay? I want Tsumiki and you to be able to be children.” He doesn’t have to be so defensive anymore. He’ll probably always seem more mature for his age. You can’t count how many people told you that when you were growing up.

“It’s not like that,” he hisses with flushed cheeks.

“Okay,” you accept while holding your arms up in surrender. If you push too much, he’ll shut down completely. “I actually want to talk to you about something else, anyway.” You tap the blunt end of your pencil against the page, trying to figure out how to best navigate this conversation. He doesn’t want to be coddled. You think that even asking him outright might put him on the defense because it might seem like a weakness he doesn’t want to admit to. “Satoru has the Six Eyes. He told you that, right? He said that’s why he wears sunglasses inside?” Megumi nods hesitantly, probably confused where you’re going with this. “Do you know why I wear them inside?”

“Thought it was because you have a weird technique like him,” he mumbles.

“No, no. It has nothing to do with my technique at all.” You pull off the pair with you from where they’re perched on the top of your head. “For me, there are days where it’s way too bright everywhere. It was cloudy this morning, but that was still too much for me, so I wore my sunglasses.”

Megumi shifts, his anger replaced by confusion. “Okay…”

Right. You should be more open. “It’s been like this all my life. My brain has always worked different than everyone else, and I mean sorcerers and non-sorcerers. It was a rough morning for me, too. I was in my closet for fifteen minutes, trying to figure out what to wear because all my shirt just felt wrong on my skin. Then, I didn’t have breakfast because I was out of the cereal that I always eat, and I couldn’t stand the thought of eating anything else when I went to the konbini. I have a way that I want my day to go and if it doesn’t, it makes me so upset that I could cry.”

Slowly, his eyes widen. You turn your head away just as he’s turning his toward you, knowing he’ll shy away if he sees you looking right at him. It’s scary, at first, to be truly seen. “That’s normal…” His voice trails off, unsure.

“Sure, people can shop and not like how a shirt feels, but it doesn’t make their skin crawl if they wear it. It’s not the first thing they shop for. For other people, they think about how it looks before they ever think about how it feels. The same goes with foods, too. They don’t like how it tastes. I have to worry about how it feels before the taste. I hate octopus. The way it feels in my mouth makes me want to throw up every single time I eat it.”

In your peripheral, you see his head drop. He’s staring at the notebook in his lap, fiddling with the pages. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I want you to know me,” which is true but not the whole truth. “That’s another thing about me. It’s hard for me to get to know people and the other way around. Being around so many of them at the same time is hard. Riding the train when it’s packed—” you shudder. “I hate being touched by strangers. Actually, there are some days where I don’t want to be touched at all. And I always feel like I’ve got to…wear a mask. My teachers always scolded me because I wasn’t following the rules and when I asked what rules, I was expected to know societal rules. Unspoken rules. It’s like I’ve been trying to learn a language that everyone else but me knows how to speak.”

His bottom lip quivers. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Do you want me to call Suguru? He’s been with me all my life. He can confirm. And I’m thankful I had him. I followed his lead a lot to learn how to interact with people. If I needed space, even from him, he never made me feel bad about that.” Megumi’s shoulders climb up, almost at his ears. “Suguru’s always been my person. Someone I feel safe to be myself with without having to act like everyone else. But there are times where I just need to be alone because it’s too much. I’m an adult now, so I don’t have a teacher telling me I can’t do things to make myself feel better. I can listen to music on the train when my brain can’t filter noise out. I can wear sunglasses without a teacher telling me to take them off. I don’t have to wear a school uniform that’s stiff and clingy.”

He grips the cuffs of his pants. “Don’t brag.”

“I’m not bragging. I’m telling you that I feel the same way you are. I want you to know that you don’t have to go through this alone.” You dig your MP3 player out of your little backpack, carefully placing it on the blanket between you and him. “I like to listen to this on my way to and from work. It helps muffle things, helps me calm down after the stress of work. I wore sunglasses, too. I can’t make things better at school, but I can help it so that you don’t have to feel so bad all the time. Home should be a place where you feel safe and yourself.”

“But Tsumiki—”

“I can talk to her if you don’t want to. I can explain that you need space sometimes. Tsumiki loves you. She’s the kindest person we know, right? She’ll know that you still love her, even if you’re not around her all the time.”

The tears plopping down on his pant legs make your heart cleave right in two. His shuddering breaths shatter the already broken pieces of your heart. “She’ll…” Both his fists clench. “She’ll be lonely,” he manages to say, though his voice trembles.

“She won’t,” you disagree, “because you two have us now. If you’re scared that she’ll be too lonely without you, all you have to do is call one of us and we’ll be there. Satoru, me, Suguru, Shoko—we’re here for you. But no more running, alright? She tries to be brave for you, but I know Tsumiki worries when you disappear.”

“Okay,” Megumi agrees softly while roughly wiping at his eyes.

“Okay,” you repeat with a nod and soft smile. “Do you want to borrow my MP3 player while we walk home?”

Megumi’s cheeks are dark, but he nods. You pass it over and, as he settles into them, you stand up and start gathering your things. He does the same. You follow him out of the room and when you’re at the front door, something slips into your hand. A smaller hand. Megumi’s hand.

“Just so I don’t get lost,” he mumbles under his breath. “Don’t make it weird.”

You have to bite back a smile. You want to drop down on your knees and wrap your arms around him. You don’t. You simply squeeze his hand really hard to acknowledge that you’ve heard him.

There is something so incredibly special about being trusted like this, but, for now, it has to be your little secret.

[MAY 2010]

May comes and turns the world upside-down.

It’s a deceptively calm start to the day.

Just as you’re about to walk into a meeting with some fresh-faced auxiliary managers, Satoru calls. You excuse yourself with an apologetic smile and brief bow before darting out of the room and answering the call. “Are you okay?” Satoru never calls when you’re at work unless it’s an emergency. He’ll text, knowing you’ll get to it when you do.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing. “I have a meeting.”

“It’ll be quick, I promise! I have something really, really important to ask you!”

“Fine. What is it?”

“Do you want a lusty cursed spirit?”

This is going to be a conversation that needs to be had in private, so you duck inside a restroom, locking the door behind you. “A what?”

“Man, it’s like you’re never nosy and peeking at my assignments!” Once you were introduced to his clan last year, word quickly spread through the rest of the community that you and Satoru were in a relationship. Because of that, you’re not officially allowed to interact with his work. “Anyway, I’m at some abandoned love hotel!”

“Is that all? How do you know it’s a lusty curse then?”

“Eh? Aren’t you the one that’s been studying how locations impact a curse’s shape and abilities? Oh, and all the poor suckers get chewed on while they’re fucking. I forgot to mention that.”

“The reason I’m doing research is because it’s a theory.”

“Well, this’ll be more proof!”

Ugh. You know he’s right. It’ll definitely be a sex-themed curse. It might be the only emotion that you’ve never run across. You want to study it. You crave to dig further into what about love hotels make them more resistant to cursed spirits. But there’s a big problem. “I can’t get away from work right now.”

“That’s fine! I was gonna bug Suguru to come gobble it up so you can see it later.”

“He’s in class. Y’know, that place where you should be trying to get back to as soon as possible?”

“Yeah, but he’ll definitely want to ditch when I ask him to come over here. He’s been talking about how bored he’s been with just working out. I might even let him do the work for me.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” you deadpan. Suguru is only to be pulled for extreme cases where Satoru isn’t available to handle it himself. Satoru isn’t allowed to invite just anyone without clearance. Not that clearance has ever stopped Satoru before, but you need some plausible deniability.

“What? Who said that? I didn’t hear anything, either.” You laugh. “So, if we don’t get back in time, can you please, please, please pick up the dynamic duo? I know he’s going to ask, so I’m getting to it ahead of time.”

His excitement is infectious. You can’t blame him. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone with him on a mission. It helps break the monotony of work to have someone else there. You miss the rush of being out in the field, too. There’s such a rush when you’ve got a curse pacified and get up close, knowing that they could break free at any moment. Sometimes, you just want to crack something open…

Okay, you might be a freak.

“I’ll pick them up.” He gives a loud whoop of triumph. “Be safe, have fun, and I’ll see you tonight.”

“Best girlfriend ever. See you tonight, Sketch.”

Out on the street in front of your apartment building, you sense Satoru’s presence which makes you feel…a little frustrated. You texted him all day, asking for updates, and he never responded. Not him or Suguru. You weren’t worried, per se, but a check-in now and then wouldn’t hurt. You assumed they took time to play around with the spirit and spent the rest of the day playing hooky from classes, but it’s getting late now.

You glance down at your hands—one clutching the high school photo album that Shoko found and shared with you and the kids and the other with a plastic bag full of leftover takeout. You debate on if you should turn back and grab Satoru something from the konbini but decide that he’s a big boy and can get his own food.

The closer you get to your door, the more worried you get. The anxiety is half-yours and half-Satoru’s, you realize. It’s so potent that his cursed energy is fluctuating wildly and his emotions are radiating out to you. No one was hurt. Headquarters would’ve called you since Satoru and Suguru have put you as their emergency contact. Suguru didn’t go off the rails, clearly, since you’re alive and kicking.

Did they play too hard and cause some property damage? No, that can’t be it, either. Satoru never worries much about those kinds of things. Higher-ups give you a lecture to pass down to him, but he’s never nervous about those. He’ll worm his way back into your good graces instead. So, really, what could it be?

Toru leaps from his cat tower into your arms as soon as the door opens, causing you to drop the photo album with a grunt. You should’ve known better to have your hands full. He chirrups when you greet him by nuzzling your face against the top of his head. Cradling him with one arm, you bend down to pick up the album, then head to the kitchen to drop everything off—Toru included.

“No treats until you’ve eaten all of dinner,” you tell him seriously after glancing at their food bowls. Gato’s is gone, but not Toru’s. He gets up on the counter like right now, yowling for a treat. “No,” you say sternly. You point over at his bowl. “You need to finish dinner first.” Another yowl, but you ignore it, instead opening the cabinet to grab a box of Pocky. Ironically, it’s in the same place as the cat treats. A small kitty and a big one.

You caught a glance of Satoru on the couch. “Tell me what you did that’s got you feeling that way, and I’ll give you Pocky,” you announce loudly as you’re leaving the kitchen. You stop when you really look at him. He’s staring at the wall blankly and leg bouncing fast and aggressively. His blazer is torn open, shirt untucked from his waistband, hair a wild mess, bandages torn a bit and hanging loosely around his neck, and there are marks along his neck. “Satoru!” You sprint over and drop down on your knees in front of him. He flinches when you touch his knees, making you throw your hands up. “Satoru, what’s wrong? Where is Suguru? What happened? Are you both okay?”

“He’s…he went to…” His wide eyes drop down to you. You can’t figure out the emotions behind the blue. “He had to confess to…her…what happened…”

Her, meaning Kuronuma. Satoru refuses to call her by her name. He hasn’t taken to the change in routine well. Besides, it’s always been hard for him to really warm up to people. “Confess? Like…as in…a love confession?” The thought of that has your panic rising. Is he moving too fast? It feels like it’s moving too fast. “What—”

“We fucked!” Satoru blurts.

You rear back, blinking in shock. “Yes? We did? What does that have to do with anything?”

“No, that’s not—” he hunches over, holding his face in his hands, groaning. “Me and Suguru fucked, Sketch.”

You can’t quite hold back the sigh of relief. Why is Satoru and Suguru sleeping together a comfort compared to the panic of Suguru possibly confessing to Kuronuma? “Okay.” You take a calming breath. “Okay, that does explain what those red marks are.” They’re hickeys. You should’ve known. Satoru loves to leave them on you, after all. “Alright, calm down. Explain what happened.”

Satoru finally pulls his hands away, staring at you in disbelief. “You hear that, and you’re calm?”

“Satoru,” you start patiently, “I know you. You’ve been in love with me since high school. You’ve seen the worst in me and still stuck around.” He bites his lip, looking away guiltily. “And you look like you could die from the guilt right now,” you add. “I know Suguru, too. He’d probably tear your balls off if you even thought about cheating on me, let alone be the person you cheat with.”

“You have a disgusting amount of faith in me,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Well, you have a disgusting amount of love for me,” you shoot back fondly. “You underestimated the curse, didn’t you?” He nods slowly. Sighing shakily, he leans back against the couch. “Is it okay for me to get in your lap? I really want to hold you right now. You look like you need it.”

“I do.” You slip up into his lap when he opens his arms wide, shoving your face in the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin instinctively before you realize that…Suguru also kissed Satoru here. That fucks with your head a little. It sends a little shiver down your spine. It’s only Satoru speaking that pulls you back from thinking too much about that. “And, yeah, we really underestimated that thing.”

“Did you exorcise it?”

He jostles you in his lap, huffing in offense. “Now is not the time to nerd out.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You lean back, taking his cheeks in your hands, examining him critically. His lips are red, swollen. He blinks, but his pupils dilate as they normally should. Kissing him like that, getting in his lap—it usually makes him start to chub up, but he’s soft right now. Not even a twitch. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was gross,” he starts with a shudder. “It was spewing this…like…liquid everywhere. I didn’t understand until it was too late that that’s how it was infecting victims. It would slip its spit, I guess, in their drinks—”

Your nose wrinkles in disgust. “You swallowed it?”

He nods miserably. “It pissed me off, so I blew it into pieces. It was like this…tentacle monster.” You raise a brow, and he flushes. “Shut up. You watch it, too,” he hisses. You shrug. Guilty as charged. “But the…aphrodisiac…it was already taking effect. We didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. That doesn’t sound right. “You exorcised it, and the poison was still working?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, uh…that…wasn’t just spit that it was throwing around.” His face goes a deep shade of red, and he touches his belly. “What I thought was his dick started squirming.”

“Ooh.” You understand now. That’s fascinating, not that you’ll tell Satoru. “It’s like those Alien movies. A parasite. While the victim is busy fucking, they don’t notice the thing growing inside them. Or…maybe it’s actually like an octopus. They have brains in their arms. Maybe it feeds on the energy then moves back to the main body.”

“You’re getting distracted again,” he points out wryly.

“Oh. Sorry. Carry on.”

“I’m never letting Suguru go on another mission ever, by the way. He had to use the piece inside me because he couldn’t find it mixed in inside himself and all his arsenal.”

“Use…oh.” Your eyes widen. “Oh, Satoru.” You move some hair away from his face. “You tasted it when you threw it up?” He nods. “I’m shocked. No one but him is able to touch them normally. That must’ve been rough. Did they taste as bad as he says they do?”

“Worse.”

You cup his cheeks again. “Are you okay? Be honest with me.”

“Am I okay? I fucked Suguru, cheated on you, and you’re asking how I’m doing?”

How can he not understand? “It’s not cheating. You were under the influence of a curse—”

“We were halfway home,” he interrupts. “We could’ve…we should’ve waited—”

You place your hand over his mouth to silence him. “I am going to be very clear about this,” you start slowly, carefully. “You did not cheat on me. I—me, myself—am telling you that I do not consider it cheating. You shouldn’t, either. You were with Suguru who, other than you, is the person I trust the most. Do you understand?” He’s conflicted but hesitantly nods. “Good. Now, I am going to ask you again—are you okay? This thing…it made you do something you didn’t want to—”

Satoru yanks your hand away so he can blurt, “But what if I did?”

“Yeah, of course you did. That’s the problem. The curse made you want it.”

“But—”

The ringing of your phone interrupts what he’s about to say. You rush to pull it out of your pocket because it could be Shoko calling about the kids or, hopefully, Suguru. It’s not him, exactly, but it’s the next best thing—Kuronuma. You flash him the screen, showing the name so he understands the importance of you taking the call.

“Is Suguru with you?”

“Hello to you, too,” she says through her sniffling. Her voice is wobbly and thick with tears. “And, no, he’s not. I made him leave. Do you want to come over and be miserable together?”

You pull yourself away from Satoru’s lap, standing up, and nearly shouting, “You made him leave?”

There’s a pause on her end. “Did you not make Gojo leave?”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Kuronuma says your surname softly. It doesn’t help calm you down. You’re furious already and your anger spikes when she adds, “They cheated.”

“Did you even listen to him explain what happened? A curse made them do it.”

She scoffs. “Right, because people don’t lie to justify their bad choices.”

You press a thumb against the center of your throbbing forehead. “Except there’s proof. You’ve been dating him for months and you still don’t understand that he’s not that type of person? If you stopped to think then you could’ve asked him to summon the spirit,” you spit.

“They could have waited. Gojo told you that, too, right? They spent hours together. Hours where they could’ve been with their partners. Hours where they could’ve talked with you, the expert.” Ugh. Why is she not getting it? She’s punishing Suguru and for what? “You can’t be that naïve. You don’t understand it, do you? They wanted this. I’ve always been uncomfortable with how they act around each other. Do you not see it?”

You groan in exasperation. “You just don’t get it. They’ve always been like this. They act that way around me, too.” You shake your head, disgusted. “I’m sorry, Kuronuma, but I have to go. I’m going to find Suguru. Someone needs to be there to take care of him.”

“Go ahead,” Satoru encourages as soon as you hang up on her. “I’ll be waiting.”

Thank goodness that you remember where Kuronuma lives, even if she’s only invited you over once before. Suguru has already made his way away from her place, but his massive energy is like a beacon when you’re in the area. He’s at a small park, the aforementioned cursed energy relatively calm compared to how Satoru’s had been. Seated on a bench, arms spread out across the back of it, his head is tilted back, and an unlit cigarette is dangling from his lips.

Relief floods through you and the sprint that you’d taken up since you got off the train slows to a brisk walk. He’s trying to quit smoking, you know that, so you grabbed some gum on your way out the door. You’re fumbling to pull it out of your bag and shove it right in his face when you shout his name to grab his attention.

Suguru’s eyes cross, the packet of gum is so close to his face. You breathlessly explain, “For getting the taste of curses out of your mouth and because I know you want to smoke.” His eyes lift, staring at you with an unreadable expression. There’s a bitter twist to his mouth. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “I don’t care about what happened,” you rush to assure him because he must feel even guiltier than Satoru. “I only care if you’re okay.”

He ducks his head down, laughing in disbelief and shaking his head. “You don’t need to force yourself. I can take care of myself, okay?”

This is a very familiar situation. Déjà vu. Him below you, on his knees, slipping your shoes off. “In all our years together,” you start to repeat his own words back with a meek smile, “has it ever crossed your mind that I like taking care of you?” Slowly, his eyes widen. You wonder if he remembers. He does and you forgot how the rest of that day had turned out, how you’d went on to fight with him in the shower later until his eyes and smile are laced with pain. “I mean it! I want to take care of you, too!”

“I know you do,” he whispers and carefully takes the gum. “Even when I’ve betrayed you.”

“It wasn’t betrayal,” you shoot back angrily. Shit. You shouldn’t take out your anger on him, but your tone is wrong. “That was unbelievably cruel of her to blame you like that.”

“No, she was right. We should have waited.” He pauses before looking away and admitting, “She was right about a lot of things.”

“If you hadn’t been around, Satoru would have a hole in his chest.”

His face goes as flat as Satoru’s. “We’d been at it for a long time before we noticed the things inside us.”

“I do not care,” you stress furiously. “Me blaming you two for how you acted under the influence would be like…like blaming a poisoning victim throw up on my shoes or something! It’s stupid and wrong!”

“You’d have been able to figure out the problem as soon as you saw us. If you saw Satoru in the state he was in, you would’ve immediately known something was wrong.”

“Right, and I would’ve had to wait for you, out of your mind, to make it to us in time,” you point out dryly.

“You could’ve pacified it until I got there.”

“That’s a pretty bold claim to make about my technique. Who knows if I would’ve been able to reach that thing through Satoru’s cursed energy? I’m not even sure that I could control it if it kept feeding off Satoru’s energy. I imagine it was probably like a fucking buffet to that spirit.” You reach out to grab his chin, force him to face you, fingers digging in deep. “Stop trying to find ways for me to blame you, damn it. I’m not changing my mind about this. Just tell me how the fuck you’re doing right now. Are you okay?”

There’s a comforting mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’ve fucked Satoru before. I’m sure you know that I am very okay.”

You pull your hand away and flop down on the bench next to him, knowing that he’s…somewhat okay. “Well, considering that I don’t have a dick, I actually don’t know how it feels to fuck him. Getting fucked by him, that I do know.”

He hunches over, putting an elbow on his knee so he can hold his cheek with his hand, facing you with a little pout. “Why are you immediately assuming that I fucked him?”

“Because he’s asked me to put my fingers in his ass,” you answer bluntly.

It gives you the reaction you were looking for—a stunned laugh. “Sometimes, I worry about how little everything affects you.”

“False. I am super anxious.”

“About the wrong things, sure,” he teases. “What if I told you that I wanted to fuck Satoru?”

“He is very handsome, and he does have really good dick game.” You scrutinize him. “Not that you’d know, I guess. I mean, you could’ve had him fuck you. Did you?”

His cheeks turn almost as red as Satoru’s had. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Pity.”

After a moment of silence, Suguru asks, in total disbelief, “You’re really not mad at me, are you?”

“No! How could I be? I’m only freaked out because this stupid curse controlled you.” You breathe deep and it shudders when you exhale. “I’m so happy that you’re both okay. And…” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it. “I…I can talk to her more, if you want. I can’t say we ended our call on the best terms, but if you pull out the spirit to show her and I break out the cursed spirit expertise—”

It hurts. To even force those words out, it hurts. It shouldn’t. Just like it should hurt to know that they could’ve waited to come back to you. No, wait, that’s not right, either. Because only Satoru should’ve come back to you. None of this is right. You hurt in the places you shouldn’t, don’t hurt in the places you should.

“No,” Suguru interrupts softly. Gaze set on the horizon, sky an explosion of oranges and yellow as the sun sets, he laughs. “No, it’s honestly okay. I don’t think things were ever going to work out with her, anyway.” He turns to you, then, and your eyes widen when his face cracks into a smile. “If she doesn’t have my best friend’s approval anymore, why bother? The only opinion that’s ever mattered to me is yours, Squid.”

Something happens.

It starts with a simple thought—Suguru’s smile has never changed, has it? You remember those pictures from high school, but then your memory stretches back further. Plucking at random times like snapshots, it’s only more confirmation that it truly has never changed. His eyes closed and arched like little crescent moons, smile stretched so wide and white teeth on display. He gives you that grin, that…

This is that carefree smile that he once swore he would never wear again and that’s just when everything finally clicks into place.

No. That’s not quite right, either. It’s the catalyst, maybe. The first thought of many more that keep falling into place, completing a puzzle that you’d never taken a step back to examine the full scope of.

Did she see this, too?

The state of your heart is truly a mess right now. Fit to burst with emotion yet bleeding out because there’s been a razor wire locked around it with his name on it. Even the thought of someone else getting this from him makes you feel like some kind of rabid animal. Flashing sharp teeth at outsiders, greedily clinging to him, claws sunk in deep. If you could bury yourself inside his chest, could curl yourself around his delicate heart, you would. Who else will protect it?

It’s more than that, though, you’re realizing.

I don’t want anyone else to have this.

I want to keep you all to myself.

All your happiness, all your sadness, all your anger, all your regrets…

I want it all.

Satoru’s voice rings in your head, clear as a bell—I want every single part of you, even the ugliest ones.

You have that kneejerk reaction. I shouldn’t think that way about Suguru. Because it’s not supposed to be the same. Satoru is in love with you. It shouldn’t feel the same…but it does. And that is when you finally understand the truth that’s been there in plain sight for so, so long.

I love you.

Every high and low of his life, every little thing about him, every habit, every single version of him—you love it all. You love him. You’re in love with him. It’s always been this way. That’s why the revelation doesn’t feel like such a punch in the gut like it had with Satoru. Just like Suguru, this epiphany is gentle as a rolling wave. You have always walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand with this reality, with this love.

How could this not have dawned on you sooner? All the wasted years…

…but what about Satoru?

Reality comes crashing in like a freight train. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth and hide the dawning horror. You’re in love with Suguru. You’re in a relationship with Satoru and you’re in love with another mani. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The one that should be feeling guilty is you. You’re the cheater!

“Squid?” Suguru’s worried voice reaches you through the rising panic. You flinch when his hand touches the corner of your eye where a tear slipped out. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You’re crying because your heart is breaking. You’re…you’re going to have to tell Satoru the truth. He’s been through so much and you’re going to make it worse. But you lie. Because you’re a terrible fucking person. “It…that was really sweet.” You force a smile. You start scrubbing at your eyes. “It hit me how lucky I am to have you!”

Suguru laughs, leaning forward to bump his forehead against yours. “You’re so silly, getting emotional at the most random of times.”

Why did you make me love you?

I was never supposed to fall in love with you.

“…eh?”

It would eat you alive, this secret, so you blurted it out as soon as you got home and saw Satoru there in the kitchen, a Pocky stick from that pack you brought him in his mouth.

“I said,” your voice is trembling, along with every other part of your body, “that I’m in love with Suguru.” Satoru’s mouth parts, the Pocky falling to the floor, and his shock makes you burst out into ugly sobbing. You have no fucking right to be crying right now. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m the worst person—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Satoru carefully guides you over to a chair, getting you to sit down despite your pathetic blubbering. He drops down on his knees in front of you, a mirror of earlier when you were trying to comfort him. You’re the worst person, the scum of the earth. He was feeling so awful when the true betrayer was right in front of him. “Sketch, darling, you gotta calm down for me so we can talk.”

“Be angry at me!”

He gives a lop-sided grin. “If I do that, you’ll cry harder, and we won’t be able to talk even longer.” He then coaches you through taking deep breaths to calm down, having been on the other end of your breakdowns before. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he tries to soothe.

You wail, “It’s not! I have to break up with you! That’s not okay! I don’t want to!”

“Why not?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Why don’t you want to break up with me?”

“Because I love you!” The most baffling thing happens—Satoru smiles. Actually grins. Just like Suguru had, this is Satoru’s truest smile. “Why are you smiling? This isn’t funny! I’m in love with Suguru! I’m a cheater!”

“Too.”

“What?”

“You’re in love with Suguru, too,” he stresses. “You’re in love with me and Suguru…right?”

“…yes?”

“Okay.” His expression is no longer so silly. He’s serious. Is the gravity of the situation finally hitting him? “And tell me if I’m wrong here, but it sounds like you want to be with me and Suguru, too. Is that right?”

Oh. Well, that goes without saying. Obviously, you would love that, but there’s a problem. “That’s not allowed?”

“Who says?”

“Uh…” Your mind goes blank. “…society?” That’s a pitiful answer. There’s nothing better, though. All your life, there has only been romantic love between two people. If someone falls in love with another person, they’re cheating. There are a lot of people who say that me liking girls is wrong, Shoko had told you once. So, if everyone cares about everyone else involved, then what’s wrong with more than two people in a relationship?

“Since when have we ever cared about that?”

Your brows furrow. “We?”

“Jeez, you’re such a space cadet, Sketch. You haven’t figured it out yet?” Figured what out? “Think about it. You told me you’re in love with another man, but I’m not mad about it. Actually, I’ve been walking you through understanding your feelings. Why would I do that?”

I’ve always been uncomfortable with how they act around each other. Do you not see it? You hadn’t understood what Kuronuma wanted you to see, but you think you’re starting to get it now. Or…maybe…subconsciously, you had. After all, you’d responded with, they act that way around me.

When I say you, I mean you and Suguru. You’re like a package deal inside my brain. You’re both equally the most important people in my life.

“You’re…” He nods eagerly, encouraging you to go on. “…in love with Suguru, too…”

“Yes,” he breathes out. The breath leaves him with a whoosh and his shoulders sag, as if a great weight has been lifted from them, and you suppose it has. Shoko is going to be insufferable when she finds out that she’s been right about everything since the start. “You figured it out. Finally.”

Finally? Finally?! “You were in love with another person the whole time that we’ve been together?!”

“So were you!”

“But I didn’t know that!”

Satoru snorts, hunches over to press his forehead against your knee, and laughs. Loud and free. And you laugh right along with him. It’s such an insanely ridiculous situation that you’ve found yourselves in. And, yeah, it’s a little freeing, too. There’s no more confusion, no more policing your own thoughts, flinching away from anything too taboo. Your laughter dies down as a deep, deep sadness takes root inside you.

You think that you’ve been in denial for so long. There have been so many things that you were hung up on. Maybe that’s why you never let yourself go there. You thought yourself a burden to him and by the time it got through your thick skull that Suguru needed you as much as you needed him, you were both too broken to even worry about things like love.

“Satoru,” you call out softly. He tilts his head up, chin on your knee, humming in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

“Uh…for what?”

“I’m a little sad…that I went all these years and never figured it out. It feels like so much time was wasted. But…I honestly don’t think that I ever would’ve felt ready to love him if I hadn’t met you,” you admit. “You’ve helped me so much. I needed to see you being yourself, open and unashamed. I needed to accept your love because, otherwise, I’m not sure I’d ever figure out how to love him right. I’d always be doubting myself without you.”

Satoru stares at you with wide eyes for so long that it makes you feel self-conscious. “Are—” his voice cracks. “Are you thanking me for my shitty personality?”

“You’re a little more than the shitty parts of your personality.” You grin playfully. “Just a little.”

Suddenly, he’s full of determination. It’s written all over his face and he straightens, chest puffed out. “I’m fucking you right here on the floor.”

“No, you definitely are not fucking me on the floor! Not unless you’ve cleaned it!”

“Ugh, fine, on the table!”

“We eat there, you animal!”

“I’ll douse it in bleach!”

“But it’s knowing that we did it there! One of the kids will be sitting at the table and I’ll just be thinking about how my ass was right where their plate was!”

Satoru starts laughing again, joyful and beautiful. There are tears in his eyes. “I hate how much I love you. I really, really do.”

#jjk fic #jjk angst #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #jjk x reader #my fic #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk geto #autistic gojo #autistic reader #autistic megumi

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bintheredreamedthat · 1 day ago

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i got a bad case of yeonjunism

based off this clip. OH.MY.DAYS

You were just doing your job.

Camera in hand, moving between stylists and open wardrobe racks, getting the usual pre-show coverage for the behind-the-scenes reel. It’s a routine at this point—capture the candid stuff, keep it natural, nothing too staged. Fans like the chaos, the energy. The closer to real, the better.

Soobin was laughing at something Beomgyu did. Taehyun was adjusting his mic pack. You zoomed in a little, catching the curve of a grin as he mocks his older members about something they had said.

Then you felt someone watching you.

It wasn’t unusual. The guys were hyper-aware of the camera, especially when it was this close to showtime. Still, something about it made you pause. You turned the camera just slightly. Slow and casual, just enough to glance over your shoulder—and that’s when you saw him.

Yeonjun.

His expression was unreadable. No smile. No wink for the camera. Just... looking. For a second, you assumed he was doing a bit. You knew how he was—dramatic, always camera-aware. He knew how to get good footage, ones that get clipped and reposted a lot. Maybe he wanted to be mysterious today.

However, this felt different. He kept walking, not daring to break eye contact. Not once had he glanced at the lens the way he usually does when he knows he’s being filmed.

He just looked. First through the camera, then past it.

At you.

You told yourself it was nothing. Probably just a moment you’d trim out in post. Still, you stepped back—reflex, mostly—to avoid bumping into him with the rig. You didn’t expect the table behind you, and you certainly didn’t expect him to close the space anyway.

He stopped just before the lens could brush his face. No words. No real expression. Finally, he looked into the camera, then quickly flashed a tiny smirk, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Without uttering a single word, he walked off.

He had left you there, your camera still rolling, wondering whether that footage was ever meant to be captured at all.

—

The show ends in chaos.

Loud laughter, members bouncing off each other, shouting over one another as they flood into the dressing room. You trail behind them with the camera, catching wide grins, breathless comments, and confetti stuck in hair. Beomgyu flashes a peace sign. Hueningkai yells something incoherent whilst you pan around the room like a pro.

You’re filming Taehyun once again. He’s talking about his favorite moment from the set list, looking directly at the lens, when a shadow passes behind you.

The air shifts. You don’t even have to look.

A second later, you get a tap on your elbow, light, casual. You lower the camera just a bit and glance to your side.

Yeonjun tilts his head, still in full stage makeup, hair pushed off his forehead now and sticking slightly from sweat. He doesn’t smile.

"You always get that close with the lens?" he asks, tone light, but there’s an edge buried somewhere underneath.

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t play dumb. You know you’re playing favorites."

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Yeonjun—”

“No, seriously,” he says, stepping in a little. “You're on him for like, minutes at a time. Do I need to start acting cute when you walk in just to get your attention now?”

“You were literally across the room,” you argue, trying not to laugh. “You think I ignored you on purpose?”

He tilts his head. "Did you?" You don’t answer.

The silence stretches, thick and humiliating. Someone coughs. Hueningkai whispers “wait, what is happening right now?” like it’s an episode of some drama and he missed the first ten minutes.

Yeonjun doesn’t look away. Doesn’t break.

“You’re lucky I didn’t say something on camera earlier,” he adds, voice low. “You would've had to cut the whole thing.”

“Right. Because your little ‘I’m-suddenly-jealous-and-mysterious’ bit wasn’t dramatic enough?” you snap before you can stop yourself. You felt instant regret as you crossed the line. You’re were staff. He was the talent.

A few people glance at each other. Taehyun raises an eyebrow. Beomgyu is already mouthing “dramaaa” across the room.

But Yeonjun?

He doesn’t even flinch.

“That wasn’t a bit,” he says, causing the whole room to go silent.

Your smile falters. Your camera dips in your hand. Every part of you is begging for the earth to swallow you whole. Yeonjun just stared, serious yet still so sure of himself.

Then, mercifully, he turns. Walks off with that same cool indifference he always pulls on post-stage, like he didn’t just cause an entire scene in front of everyone. Someone breathes out a loud, shocked “bro??”

You can’t even respond. You just lift the camera, hands shaky, and the red light is still blinking.

You're going to have to edit all of this out.

#yeonjun #yeonjun x reader #choi yeonjun #tomorrow x together #txt #tomorrow by together #choi yeonjun x reader #choi yeonjun imagines #choi yeonjun txt #yeonjun txt #yeonjun fic

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lubdubology · 2 months ago

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Do we know what his deadlift pr is? 🫣

435 pounds, that absolute beast of a man

#hugh jackman #he could lift me no problem #probably one handed without breaking a sweat

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dittolicous · 1 year ago

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Also, like, if they do eebie Blue, you have to realize how much of a BIG DEAL that would be in the Pokemon World. Cuz ok, Anabel didn’t really leave anyone behind, no canon family and she even got to keep her mons. Ingo left behind his brother Emmet and his team, so that's more distressing of course. But Blue?

Blue wouldn't just leave behind a sister but also a GRANDFATHER. Y'know, motherfucking Professor Oak. AKA possibly the Biggest Name in canon, THE quintessential Pokemon Professor. And for all we joke about him forgetting Blue's name, lbr, he definitely loves both his grandchildren deeply. So if one suddenly went missing, there's absolutely no way he wouldn't cash in every favor and pull every string to bring them home safe.

And that doesn't even touch on Blue's connection with the Kanto League as both a former Champion and Gym Leader, his legendary friendship with Champion Red, and of course their work in the Battle Tree.

Blue Oak disappearing would be a National fucking Emergancy across numerous regions, the likes of which we have yet to see in Pokemon.

#pokemon #pokemon legends za #pokemon legends arceus #rival blue #blue oak #green oak #professor oak #and ok sure they could eebie red instead #but cmon no one would ever realize something was up and red would conquer any Pokemon region without breaking a sweat #that would be an average weekend for him #blue in the other hand would probably be cool for a few days b4 going 'actually this fucking sucks' and returning to his brat routes #as he bitches and angrly tries to find a way home #regardless of memory loss #not even a total mind wipe could rob him of his brat sass core #complaining the entire time as he tries to reinvent the wheel which has been un-invented

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tojifiles · 2 months ago

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༯ warnings. mature content, fem!reader + toji fushiguro, unprotected sēx, piv, pwp. minors do not interact, please and thank u.

wc. 1.7k (not proofread 🥸)

toji fushiguro is a nice guy.

not in the annoying “i’m a nice guy why won’t women date me” way, but in the “i’ll fix your sink, walk your dog, and probably kill a man for you if you say please” kinda way.

the ex-assassin (and your next door neighbor) is always doing something for someone— mowing the lawn for mrs. takada across the street, teaching the neighborhood kids how to patch a flat tire like he’s not patched gunshot wounds with duct tape before. probably hand-knits blankets for stray cats behind closed doors too.

so when he sees you wrestling with a massive ikea box on your porch that you honestly never stood a chance against in the first place, he doesn’t even hesitate.

“fuck is in here, a whole corpse or somethin’?” he jokes, like he didn’t just pluck the box from your arms, like it was filled with feathers and not the broken promises of swedish furniture.

you give him an airy laugh, wiping sweat from your brow as you tell him it’s your new bed from ikea.

“ikea?” he repeats, like you just told him it really was a corpse in that god forsaken box. “yeah, nah. you’re not building that.”

you blink. “i’m not?”

“uh, did i not just say no? i’ll handle it. don’t want a pretty lil’ thing like you losing a finger over some overpriced planks and an allen wrench.”

and listen. you could’ve argued. you could’ve said you’re an independent woman, with your crappy youtube tutorials and a rusty ol’ hammer.

but instead you just say,

“. . .do you want water or beer?”

god, you swear your bedroom has never felt this small.

toji’s presence takes up space like he was built for it—one knee down, the other bent, thighs straining against those well-worn jeans like they’re one bad movement from tearing right at the seams. his tank is drenched, clinging like it’s got a personal vendetta, outlining every broad inch of him like a glove.

he’s hunched over the partially assembled bed, brows furrowed, scarred lips parted in quiet concentration like he’s studying scripture, not step six of some swedish-coded nightmare.

and it’s filthy, the way your brain strayed, drinking in the way he moved—tight, efficient, obscene without even trying.

every low grunt, every flex of his arms, every time he shifts and that heavy chain around his neck clinks against sweat-slick skin—it’s like you're watching the start of a bad porno.

your gaze drops, uninvited, right to the swell of his chest—broad and heaving—and lower, past the way his shirt clings to his dreadfully slutty waist, all the way to the waistband of his jeans.

the way they sit, low and loose, slung across those hips like temptation incarnate—

“you good over there, sweetheart?” his voice breaks through the haze, all casual and smug. “been eyein’ me reeaall hard over there.”

you choke.

“oh, uh—i was…” you mutter, blinking like an idiot, “just… making sure you’re not screwing m- it up.”

he hums, not even looking at you, allenkey twisting slow in his grip.

“mm. real thorough inspection you’re doing.”

your a/c is blasting, full arctic tundra, and yet here you are—skin flushed, thighs clenched, your mind absolutely nosediving into the filthiest trenches imaginable.

you open your mouth about to retort back, but he cuts you off with a simple, expectant:

“wrench.”

just that. hand out. palm grasping. not even looking at you.

you pass him the tool, and your fingers brush his. his hand is warm, rough - those thick, ragged fingers that have probably shot bullets into yakuza leaders skulls, probably broken bones, lingering just a beat too long.

and suddenly you’re not thinking about this stupid swedish furniture anymore.

you’re thinking about those same fingers digging into your hips.

gripping the back of your neck.

pressing into your thigh as he—

“you gonna let go, or you just like holdin’ my hand?”

you snap out of your. . trance, retracting your hand like the wrench had transformed into molten lava and burned it. “just um, didn’t wanna drop it. s-safety first, right?”

“riight, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

even though it’s your bed, he hasn’t let you touch a single piece of it.

not one panel. not one sad screw.

and it’s not like you didn’t offer to help—you did, multiple times!

yet every single time, he just waved you off like you were a gnat.

“jus’ sit n’ look pretty. this ain’t a group project,” he utters, dead serious. you open your mouth once more to argue, and all he sends you is a glare— playful, yet still warning.

and after three long, sweaty hours,

you—

no.

he is finally done.

toji leans back on his heels, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand “there,” he grunts, satisfied. “all done miss.”

you glance at the bed. it does look good. solid. intimidatingly so.

“looks sturdy,” you murmur, and toji hums in agreement. thick fingers drag slow over his stubbled chin as he leans back, marveling at his piece of work.“mm. might wanna test it out first, though.”

you blink. “…test it?”

he nods, rolling his shoulders, towering and terrible, that glint in his eye nothing short of criminal.

“how ‘bout i help ya out, yeah? call it uhh, ‘mandatory safety inspection’ .”

ᥫ᭡.

“ngh, to-tojiii,” you mewl, nails grasping helplessly at the cushioned mattress beneath you, your glossed dolly eyes fluttering back with each filthy fuckin’ thrust. his strokes are relentless, sharp, each one leaving a raucous snap from his toned v-line on your poor sore thighs.

for such a ‘sweet’ and ‘beloved’ guy, his dick game sure was mean as hell.

“atta girl, look at that,” he grunts, “takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

your swollen bottom lip is caught between your teeth, an embarrassingly desperate attempt at concealing these lewd noises toji is managing to string out of your chest.

but with the way he’s fucking into you like this, those calloused, worn palms spreading the fat of your ass to give him a front-row view of how his cock is sinking in and out of you, before raising his hand to give it a nice hefty spank—

it’d be damn near impossible to not stay quiet.

your body feels so hot, practically melting as your spine arches further with each roll of his firm hips. the pads of his fingers are digging into the plush of your waist, burning against your skin like he’s trying to brand you with his hands alone.

toji sloows his pace, not enough to give you a break, but enough to make sure you feel all ten inches of him, that evilly thick stretch making your walls stutter. his chest dips down your spine, peppered stubble scratching at the nape of your neck as his full weight sinks over you.

“uh uh, shhh,” toji croons hotly, his breath warm as he leaves a wet kiss along the shell of your ear, “you hear that?”

“h-huh?” you hiccup, and he’s got you soo dumb off his dick that your surprised your still coherent.

“girl. listen.”

and you do. or try to, atleast.

your breathing slows just enough to catch it, between the wet slaps of skin and your pulse bursting in your ears—

creak… creak… creak….

“looks like she’s startin’ to talk,” he murmurs. “guess i forgot to tighten all the screws. oops.”

haha. you'd roll your eyes if they weren’t already damn near in your skull.

toji’s body shifts, swole chest hefted on your back as his beefy arms cage you in. he’s got one hand curled around your wrist, pinning it to the matress, while the other bruisingly grips your waist.

your plushed thighs quiver, ass rippling back with each fluid snap of his hips. he’s so deep, his entire length bottoming out in your sobbing cunt. landing countless blow after blow on that poor spongy spot of yours.

“f-fuuck,” it slips out breathy, caught between a gasp and a whine, your voice cracking with each draaag of his cock. “s’too much— i can’t—”

“yea you can,” toji huffs. “already are.”

creaking turns into clattering, death rattles now, and he’s still not stopping nor slowing. every hit leaves the mattress screaming, legs of the frame wobbling as it lurches underneath the weight of you both.

and your bed isn’t the only thing ready to give out eithet.

“ ‘m gonna, hnnghh— m’ gonna cumm, toj’ ” you sob, shuddering as your core tightens.

“shiit, thaaat’s it,” he pants as your pussy swallows him oh so snugly, and you can feel him start to throb inside of you. “ let ‘toj’ feel you cum ‘round his cock, baby.”

toji’s strokes sloppen, grinding now, likes he’s trying to engrave each and every inch of his cock into your unforgivingly tight cunt. your hips begin to spasm as your pretty glossed lips sputter out mindless, repetitive catches of his name.

he sends one more thrust, mean and s—

crack!

that poor lil’ ikea bed of yours sinks beneath you with a jarring snap, the headboard dipping rudely as one stubby leg snaps completely off— making you and toji slip forward with it.

you yelp, yet it slips into a broken moan as splotches of white fill your blurred vision, body jerking as your saccharine juices spill out onto him.

you let out a pouty whine, lashes fluttering as toji groans, gutturally, his posture stiffening, jaw hanging slack before you feel him begin to spill into you—sticky hazed shades of white rudely painting your insides like his own personal canvas.

the scent of sweat and sex hangs heavily in the air, the only sounds being you and toji left panting. he stills momentarily, assuring his sticky load is plunged deep enough inside of you before easing out with a sharp hiss.

“guess she, uh, failed the inspection,” clicking his tongue as he breaks the silence, acting all disappointed despite the way he’s grinning like a fucking fool— as if he didn’t just knock all you and your beds screws loose.

“you’re buying me a new bed.” you mutter, voice hoarse as your shooting him a mascara stained glare over your shoulder.

“ ya’ gonna let me break her in too?”

and it’s not like you decline— it’d be rude if you did. .

because toji fushiguro is a nice guy, after all.

@ssorenz™ do not, copy, repost or translate anywhere without my knowledge.

#‘ 𝐬𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐳 ୨𝑒.#annual ssorenz post this is insane #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk toji #jjk smut #jjk #toji x reader #jujutsu toji #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #anime smut

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yukioos · 2 months ago

Text

being on katsuki’s back while he’s doing push-ups

when you received a text from katsuki telling you to come over, you sat up in your bed without hesitation. you texted a quick reply and walked to his dorm, then knocked. he quickly opened it with a small grin, then placed his large, rough hand on the back of your head, and kissed your forehead. you closed the door with your foot and placed your lips against his, then pulled away with warm cheeks.

he walked to the center of his room, only wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, then crossed his arms. you asked, “why did you text me katsuki? you made me think there was an emergency, but there’s not.”

he huffed and averted his gaze, “i need to work out. lay down on my back and tell me about your day or whatever. wrap your arms around my torso if you need to.”

you tilted your head at the sudden command but didn’t think much of it. he probably just needed some extra pressure during training. the truth was, he just wanted more time with you.

so once he lay on the ground and propped his hands up, you lay down with him and kissed his neck, emitting a hum from the blonde. he began to go up and down, lifting you with him when he did push-ups. you began to giggle, loving how he felt a little odd on your body.

“did you do anything fun today, katsuki?” you asked, laying your cheek against his muscular back, arms comfortably against your sides.

he did many push-ups without difficulty, not even breaking a sweat until you began to talk to him. he replied with another question, “didn’t i tell you to tell me about your day?”

you grinned and nodded, “yeah, but i wanna see how long you can last while doing three things. push-ups, carrying me, and replying to my questions. if you can’t do that then it’s fine, it may just be too hard for you.” you teased him at the end, and he felt your lip twitch.

katsuki frowned and mumbled, “damn brat,” before going off about how he beat shoto when they were training together. you knew he saw him as a threat to his climb to be the number-one hero, so you applauded him.

you praised, “good job, katsuki. i’m really proud of you, you know?”

his focus faltered and he staggered with his movements. the tips of his ears turned pink and he mumbled something under his breath, almost too inaudible. you always knew how to catch him off guard, and he loved that about you. the blonde tried to keep the smile from forming on his face but failed, and let out a nervous chuckle.

he tried to flaunt his talent and rolled his eyes, “icy-hot’s real good but i beat him. took a while though, you know?”

you nodded, “is that why i heard screaming and crashing for around an hour?”

he nodded and tried to muffle his groans and pants, wanting to not make any noise besides words. you smiled and decided to tease him more, “you’re doing great, katsuki, just a little more.”

“s-shut up,” he groaned, making you blush at the sounds.

after you giggled once more, he gently slid you off his back. he claimed that was the one and only time he would let you lay on his back during training due to your reaction. of course, that was a total lie. you became part of his daily routine.

sorry if this wasn’t as fluffy or anything i js had this idea idk! i’m trying so hard to make this not too suggestive

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mariasont · 5 months ago

Text

A Puddle in Running Shoes A.H.

summary: your boyfriend finds out you have a praise kink and is having way too much fun with that information

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: some suggestive content, hotch being a menace, reader having a praise kink, end suggests something may happen but nothing explicit in this one folks im getting my libido under control swear, also count how many times r refers to hotch's face as stupid im crying

wc: 1.9k

You hated running. No, correction, loathed it. Detested it. Despised it with every fiber of your being. If there was a stronger word, one that captured the burning, irrational rage you felt whenever someone suggested going for a jog, Spencer might have known it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to ask. Simply put, running was not your thing.

But when Aaron, your boyfriend and somehow the most persistent man alive, asked you to join you on a run, you couldn't exactly say no. He didn't beg, Aaron Hotchner did not beg, but his version of asking, that soft it'd mean a lot to me paired with an encouraging smile, was close enough to begging in your book. Besides, you figured there'd be some sort of reward when you got back home. Aaron was good at those.

So here you were, contributing absolutely nothing to your marathon-obsessed, fitness-loving FBI boyfriend's training. Sweat coated every inch of your body, your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned with every ragged breath you managed to suck in. The sun blazed overhead, making you feel more like a roasting chicken than a willing participant in this so-called fun activity.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he'd stepped out of a fitness ad, shirt clinging to him in ways that felt outright scandalous. Even the sweat on his face somehow made him look even more attractive.

He was at least ten paces ahead of you and every few steps, he'd glance over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure you hadn't spontaneously combusted or snuck off to find an air-conditioned cafe. Honestly, both were real possibilities.

Aaron's pace slowed until he was running beside you, throwing you a smile so unfairly handsome it made your legs feel weaker than they already did.

"How are you feeling?" The question felt retorical, anyone, profiler or not, was sure to be able to read you like an open book right now. "Still alive, or do I need to start figuring out the best way to carry you home without breaking any traffic laws?"

"I think I'm alive," you managed between gasps, wiping sweat from your brow. "But if carrying me is on the table, I'm not above playing dead to make that happen."

"Not necessary, I'd carry you anyway, if only to reward you for keeping up this long. You're doing great."

You foot caught a crack in the pavement, nearly hurling yourself into it, but Aaron's hand was there quicker keeping you upright as you tried to ignore the terrifying way your body had reacted to his compliment.

"Okay you can't just say stuff like that while I'm trying to run," you blurted out, avoiding his gaze. "You're trying to kill me, I swear."

You planted your hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath, secretly relieved to have a break, even if it almost involved a face-first meeting with the sidewalk.

"Stuff like what?" He tugged at your ponytail and you swatted his hand.

"Nothing," you said way too quickly, shaking your head like you could physically toss what you said aside. "Forget I said anything. Let's just... keep running."

You quickly realized your mistake as soon as you started jogging again. You would never willingly suggest to keep running. Unfortunately, Aaron was actively aware of this, moving to come up beside you. You didn't need to look at him to know he had the stupidest smirk on his face.

He didn't say anything at first, to your immediate relief, just kept jogging beside you. The silence stretched on, his calm breathing only seeming to make your wheezing sound worse.

"You're breathing too shallow," he said after a moment, his tone completely casual like he wasn't even winded. "Try to take deeper breaths, match them to your strides. It'll make it easier."

You glanced towards him out of the corner of your eye before attempting his suggestion. You had no intention of letting him know that it worked. His ego was far too substantial for that.

"See? You're a natural," he said, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Atta girl."

Your brain flatlined and you almost tripped over your feet again, every rational thought replaced by static. What was wrong with you? You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people with unresolved daddy issues were prone to developing praise kinks. Was that what this was? Whatever the reason, hearing Aaron talk like that shouldn't make you feel all gooey inside, but here you were, a puddle in running shoes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yup, fine!"

You stared at the ground so intensely, it was a miracle you didn't bore a hole into the pavement. Your voice had betrayed you, far too shaky and way too rushed, and you knew Aaron was probably filing away every bit of your reaction.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as he spoke. "Stop staring at the ground. You'll run better if you keep your head up, it'll open your chest so you can breathe easier."

His hand lingered for a second too long than what your body could handle, leaving you completely flustered and fighting every urge to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

"There you go," he murmured, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "That's good, honey. Just like that."

His voice, his god forsaken voice, was like lightning to your system, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was a good way, which was the problem. It was bad enough to hearing it out here, on the jogging trail, but your brain decided to replay it in an entirely different inappropriate context: one that involved you, him, and a bed.

Your face burned, and you couldn't tell if it was from the exertion, or the very real possibility that your body was too receptive to those words. And now, not only were you fighting for every breath, but you were trying to figure out if the dampness between your legs was entirely from sweat. Surely it was sweat. Right? Gods, you hoped it was sweat.

You stopped so suddenly that Aaron jogged a few steps ahead before he realized you were not longer beside him.

"Okay, I'm calling it. I'm done. Can we please go home now?"

He jogged back to you, an easy smile on his face, and placed his hands on your shoulders as he reached you.

"Alright, we can be done," he teased, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones. "You survived, and you did great. I'm proud of you."

He leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips that made the ache in your body a little easier to ignore.

When he pulled away, you barely managed to keep standing.

Aaron let out a low laugh, his hands squeezing your shoulders. "Alright. What's going on? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said over your shoulder, practically power walking towards the car.

Aaron's laugh deepened and you ignored the funny feeling curling in your chest.

"Sweetheart," he said, gently tugging your elbow to slow you down. "Come on, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine!" You avoided his eyes as you tugged your elbow free. "I'm just tired, and, uh, need a shower."

A cold shower, your brain screamed, but you shoved the thought down.

"I know, I know you're tired," he said, lips curving into a smile, "but that's because you actually pushed yourself. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

You were pretty convinced you were you were about to go up in flames. Your obituary would read death by too many unnecessary compliments. When your heart inevitably gave out, Aaron would have to explain to Rossi and the others how his dumb smile and sweet words had resulted in second degree manslaughter.

But then you saw it, the smirk. The one that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

"Oh my gosh, you know!" You groaned and threw your hands in the air. "You know, and you're enjoying this!"

Spinning away from him, you stormed to the car, and slammed the door like it might shield you from his stupidly smug face.

You barely had time to exhale before the passenger door swung open, revealing Aaron, casually leaning against the car.

"You know," he said lightly, his tone far too casual for your liking, "slamming car doors isn't a great habit. You could hurt yourself."

"And you know," you snapped back, pointing at him, "torturing your girlfriend isn't a great habit either!"

He leaned in slowly, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he grabbed your seatbelt. As he clicked it into place, his face lingered close to yours.

"I wasn't trying to torture you, baby. Just wanted to give you the chance to admit it, that you liked it."

Before you could muster a reply, Aaron's hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb moving along your cheek. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was so deep, leaving you no choice but to sink into it, even as the faint remnants of your annoyance tried to surface.

By the time he pulled back, you felt like you were under his spell. Then, without another word, he shut your door and headed to the driver's side.

"That's not fair," you muttered, crossing your arms and pouting as you stared out the window.

Aaron's hand found the back of your neck as he backed out of the parking spot, rubbing gently into smooth circles.

"I don't mean to be unfair," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to hear it, because sometimes people don't even realize what they need until they say it out loud. And I wanted to make sure I didn't misread anything, though I'm rarely wrong, as you know."

"Trust me, you remind me every chance you get." Your tone was dry, but you were well aware that the twitch in your lip was giving you away.

"Alright, smartass," he said, chuckling as his fingers pressed a little firmer into your neck. "Now tell me, how does it make you feel when I say those things to you?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I don't know, okay? I just... like it! Do I have to explain it?"

"You don't have to explain it if you don't want to," he said, "but I'd like to know what it is you like so much."

Aaron's hand moved from your neck to your hand, his fingers sliding between each of yours while his eyes stayed glued to the road, a thing that only came from months of familiar motions.

You let out a long breath. "I don't know. I just like hearing it. It makes me feel good. Special, I guess."

"You are special, sweetheart." His eyes flicked to you before returning to the road. "You're my best girl."

Your stomach flipped violently. You shifted again, trying to disguise the way your thighs pressed together tightly as your face burned hotter than ever. The debate earlier in your head was officially over, absolutely not just sweat, you thought miserably.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Something I said?"

You swatted his shoulder, your glare losing all its bite thanks to the flush all over your body. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I can't help it," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to get you on edge. "But don't worry, I'll take care of my best girl once we're home."

You slumped in your seat, muttering something unintelligible that made Aaron chuckle again. And even though you wouldn't admit it, you found yourself smiling, already dreading and anticipating whatever he had planned when you got home.

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#aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #fluff #criminal minds fluff #🌺 maria writes

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illyrianbitch · 5 months ago

Text

Are We Still Friends? — Part Five

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

Warnings: training, sparring and weapon use, severe overthinking, longing, brief use of recreational drugs (lovely 'mirthroot')

Word Count: 7.1k

Part Four | Series Masterlist | Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Even in the early hours, the heat was suffocating.

You’d been half-tempted to cancel on Mor, to crawl back under the covers and enjoy the blissful cool of your room. But you knew better. Mor would’ve winnowed straight into your bedroom, dragged you out of bed, and reminded you that you’d made a promise.

So now, here you were, on the training grounds, sweat already collecting at your brow, watching Azriel and Cassian spar on the far side.

Both of the males were dressed in their usual head-to-toe leathers, though Cassian seemed just as bothered by the weather as you. You’d noticed he’d trained shirtless more often lately, something you attributed to the presence of his mate, but today he was fully covered. It probably had something to do with the steady, focused gaze Az held. Something to be cautious of. Wary.

Unlike his brother, Azriel’s expression was detached, as if the sun didn’t touch him at all— like he was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. His wings shifted slightly against the back of his leathers, but that was the extent of his discomfort, if any.

You’d never visited Illyria in the summer months, never experienced the full brutality of its heat. Perhaps it was there, under that oppressive sun, that Azriel had learned to manage heat in such attire. But, then again, Az was entirely too skilled at masking what he actually felt.

Something about him, now before you, made you want to continue staring—his wings, the way his body moved with the smoothness of a predator, the effortless strength in the curve of his form. Lately, everything about Azriel had been doing that— distracting you. Overwhelming you. Calling to you like a siren song. His voice, his smile, the way he moved.

A laugh from Mor pulled you from your thoughts.

"It’s a shame the healing balm worked so well," Her voice teased from behind you. You turned at the sound, watching as she tossed a sword from one hand to the other with an ease that was almost poetic. "Seeing you turned me into a softie, you know. All those bruises and that pouty face— I had to go easy because I felt bad for you.”

You snorted, catching the blade she tossed your way. "Oh, so that’s the only reason I beat you last week? Because you were going easy on me?"

Her grin widened. “Yeah. But Runa got too many hits on you. You’re rusty. So maybe I’m not doing you any favors by going easy." She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Cassian’s been going too easy on you, too."

“Or maybe,” you shot back, stepping into the ring, “I was just going easy on a citizen.”

Mor’s laugh was loud and unapologetic as she followed you. "You’re saying that like you didn’t know exactly who she was when you threw the first punch."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you squared up to her. “Okay, can we maybe stop reminiscing over my recent regrettable actions? Please?”

“Never.” She slid into a stance with ease. “But if you beat me, I’ll stop laughing about it for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“That’s all you’ll get, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, lips still curved in a grin. “Fine. Deal.”

And then, without hesitation, Mor lunged. Your blades collided with a sharp ring, the sound vibrating up your arms. You let the adrenaline of the fight pull you out of your thoughts, focusing on the female in front of you.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that before anything else, Morrigan was a warrior. Graceful, clever, and impossibly skilled. The kind of fighter who didn’t rely on brute strength but on speed, precision, and an uncanny ability to read her opponent. Skills she’d learnt to outmaneuver and beat males that may have been twice her size, twice her age. And if you looked hard enough, past her glittering makeup and the plethora of gold jewelry she adorned, you’d notice the scars scattered across her body, small slices from knives and swords that didn’t have enough time to heal during the first war.

Mor didn’t hold back, her strikes coming faster, sharper, until your muscles burned from the effort of keeping up.

From across the ring, Cassian’s booming laugh carried over, followed by what sounded like a gruff remark from Azriel. You glanced over almost instinctively, your eyes following the movement of Az’s shadows. They twisted around him, stretching into the shaded spaces between Cassian’s body and the ground, curling around the general’s feet in an attempt to constrict his movements.

Mor’s grin widened as she caught your sword mid-swing. “You’re distracted,” she said.

You twisted to break free, stubbornly meeting her gaze. “Am not.”

You tried to return to the rhythm of the fight, but Mor was right. You were distracted. Every glance in Azriel’s direction made your heart race, your mind spiral. Even from across the yard, you could feel the heat of his presence. It threw you off balance. And before you knew it, Mor disarmed you, sending you crashing to the ground with a grunt.

“Like I said,” she hummed, smirking as she extended a hand to help you up. “Distracted.”

“Maybe a bit.” You winced, rolling your shoulders as you stood straight. “I have too much on my mind. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mor tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, wiping at the sweat on your brow. “That’s the last thing I want to do, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you before she nodded. “Well, we just got some new weapons last week—I’ve been dying to test them out.”

You raised a brow. “What kind of weapons?”

Mor shrugged. “Not sure. Rhys says they’re lighter. I think you’ll like them.” She grabbed your discarded sword, tossing both it and hers onto the rack with ease. “You’re too cautious for a regular sword anyway. You don’t like getting hit.”

“No one likes getting hit.”

“True,” she said, laughing slightly as she bumped your shoulder. “But you’re smart about it. Always letting them exhaust themselves first.”

“Go get them,” you nodded to her. “I want to try them out.”

Mor grinned. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass with them, too.”

She turned to leave, and you watched her go, ready to grab some water. But then, just as you were about to turn, you felt it—a presence behind you. You knew it in your bones, from the soft breeze you swore his shadows danced in, that it was Azriel. Still, when you turned and saw him standing there, you felt unprepared, like something in your chest tightened, hot and sharp, like heartburn. You shoved it down, burying it deeper, just like you had been doing all week.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re really gonna let her beat you like that?”

You ran a hand over your face, trying to settle your racing pulse. “What can I say, it’s been an off couple of weeks.”

It was hard not to notice how close he stood, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, pushing the air around you in a way that made it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” Azriel glanced at you, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Are you okay? I mean, now?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just hot. Overwhelmed.”

He studied you, his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something else behind it. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” you said, gesturing at his leathers. “Aren’t you boiling alive?”

Azriel tilted his head as if considering your question, then replied evenly, “I’m alright.”

“You’re lying,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “You have to be.”

That earned you a faint smile, a quick twitch of his lips that you might have missed if you weren’t already watching him too closely.

“You’re welcome to try them on,” he said smoothly. “See how they feel.”

You blinked, a small flutter echoing in your chest at the teasing edge in his voice. You frowned and said to him, “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”

“Mine are different.” His smile tugged again. “They’re cooling leathers.”

“Really? That's a thing?”

The look he gave you— a mix of amusement and something else— told you everything you needed to know. You scowled at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re messing with me.”

When your eyes met his again, they were practically glowing in amusement. He shrugged, and his shadows seemed to dance with the motion— still clinging close to him, hiding from the sun, but seemingly content despite it. He gave you a quick, warm smile— as if he were afraid for the rest of the public to see.

“I am,” he replied, leaning closer. “My leathers are, sadly, just as basic as yours.”

The sunlight caught in his hair when he stood like this, painting it with faint golden streaks. Along with your growing frustration at the heat, your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of him. You fanned your face with one hand, trying to ignore the ache building in your chest. You blamed the sun for making it tight.

You suddenly became aware of your presentation—of the disheveled way you must have looked. Your hair had fallen loose during the sparring with Mor, strands clinging to the sweat at your neck, a messy halo around your face. You reached back, gathering it in both hands, attempting to tighten the hold of your hair tie. As you twisted it around, the elastic snapped, the sharp sting of it flicking against your skin.

“Shit.”

A quiet sigh left you as the broken tie dangled uselessly from your fingers. Of course. As if you didn’t already feel like disaster enough. You pushed your hair back again, fingers combing through the tangled strands, debating whether to leave it down or try to secure it with something else.

You realized, quickly, that perhaps this small inconvenience was a blessing in disguise— a reason to walk away from the conversation, to regain control of your scattered thoughts. You opened your mouth to excuse yourself, to say you needed to go put your hair up, but before you could, Azriel spoke.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back toward him as he reached into one of the hidden pockets of his leathers. When he pulled out a hair tie, your eyebrows shot up.

“What—”

Azriel’s expression was uncharacteristically sheepish as he handed it over. “You always wear the same one. I noticed the band was wearing out. It was only a matter of time before it broke.”

“You… noticed that?”

His shadows shifted around him, curling between you two, and he subtly gestured toward them with his chin. “They did.”

Your fingers closed around the band as you stared at him. “So you’ve been carrying this around just in case?”

He nodded and you blinked at him, unsure if you should laugh or melt into the floor. “That… is very considerate of you.”

Az glanced at you, quiet for a moment, before he replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to snap and pick a fight with someone because you're overstimulated with your hair clinging to your skin. I’m just trying to protect the public.”

You rolled your eyes at that, though the thought of your family endlessly reminding you of your actions over the past few weeks made the corners of your mouth twitch. The infamous calm you’d prided yourself on—gone. You’d be hearing about your fight with a citizen for at least the next century.

“Shut up,” you said, but your heart still stuttered painfully. “But, also, thank you,” you added, focusing on twisting your hair into a knot to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Better?”

Your throat felt tight as you looked up once more, meeting his molten gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “Better.”

Azriel nodded, stepping back to give you space again. But you caught the faint curve of his lips, the small, quiet smile that made your chest ache.

You felt some relief as the wind ruffled your now-updo, but your thoughts circled.

Azriel had proven to be a male of his word. He’d spent the past two weeks showing you, in every way he could, that he was sorry. It wasn’t loud or showy—Azriel never was—but his apology seeped into the small, thoughtful things he did. Helping with reports, lighting your room’s fireplace when it got too cold. Nothing demanding, but everything that proved he was trying.

It almost felt normal again, like you and Azriel had fallen back into your usual rhythm. Your routine.

Almost.

“Good luck,” Azriel said, nodding toward where Mor was returning with the new weapons. He leaned in slowly, his shadows drifting between your shoulders, curling in the pocket of shadow created by your closeness. “And, if you want… we can go flying afterward. To celebrate you beating Mor.”

The idea of being so close to him, of having him hold you to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against yours as he carried you, made your stomach churn, made you feel nauseous. Nervous. But you nodded anyway, smiled like it was just another plan, like old times. It felt tight. Diplomatic.

“Okay,” you managed to say.

Azriel smiled, and you heard Mor’s voice asking what you were conspiratorially talking about. You didn’t answer, didn’t bother to pay attention if Azriel answered, either. The new, sleek steel weapons she’d returned with felt different in your hands. Lighter, faster. Mor had been right—these suited you better. But it didn’t matter. You were too lost in your head, too tangled in your thoughts.

Even if Mor had kept her eyes closed, she still would’ve won the next fight. You weren’t focused enough to stand a chance. There was a brief, confused look in her eyes when she realized how easily she’d taken you down once again. But she didn’t press, not even as you yielded for the day and ran home, slipping into a cool bath with the hope that it would clear your mind of everything that tainted it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You stacked the last of the reports on the living room table, smoothing your palm over the top page before grabbing a scrap of parchment.

Rhys—went through the latest proposals and highlighted the ones most viable. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stuck the note on the pile and stepped back, scanning the work you’d spent the past few weeks compiling.

Rhysand would be by later to go over them with Azriel—discussions about Hewn City’s reformation efforts, the best way to bridge the centuries-old divide between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams. You’d done your best to outline a path forward, to present the grievances of its citizens in a way Rhysand could use to negotiate.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge of the table before you caught sight of your wrist. The small hair tie sat there, snug against your skin. And although it was nothing, just a simple band, it felt as if it were burning. You weren’t sure why you were still wearing it—why it wasn’t in a pocket or left in your room, ready to be summoned when needed. You ran your fingers over it, jaw clenching as frustration rose in you, sudden and sharp.

At what, exactly? You didn’t know.

You did know, however, that it was likely related to Azriel.

You’d been avoiding him since the other day at training. Since he’d given you the small elastic now circling your wrist.

It wasn’t intentional, not really, but you’d been thinking too much. Feeling too much. Uncomfortable in your own skin, hyperaware of yourself and Azriel in ways that made your stomach twist. Like pressing against a tender bruise.

The anger you’d been holding onto—the indignation that had burned hot and bright in the aftermath of your fight—faded much faster than you’d expected. You still wanted to be angry, to hold onto the grudge that felt like armor, but Azriel made it impossible. His kindness had chafed against you, rubbing away at the edges of your resentment till all that was left was an overly aware sense of him. Of his presence, his care. His devotion to something as simple as your forgiveness.

You’d forgiven him within a week, had taken all of his baked goods with open arms, had expressed appreciation for the times his shadows brought you snacks during your late nights with Rhys and Feyre, going over negotiation plans for the reformation efforts.

But Azriel was being too nice now. Too thoughtful. Too much. And it was starting to wear you down.

You were noticing him in ways that felt deeper, heavier, and far more dangerous. It was overwhelming, this shift in perspective—like seeing him in a new light that illuminated details you’d never thought to look at before. The slope of his shoulders, the way he always seemed to be aware of you, even when he wasn’t looking at you. You felt blinded, too rushed to adjust to this new, backlit version of Azriel.

It stressed you out— made you want to sit down and create a list, sort through the pros and cons like some sort of strategy meeting. Analyze the feelings bubbling in your chest until you could pin them down and find the most equitable, profitable, and logical path forward. The right direction to take.

Realistically, you should wait it out. Let the feelings settle and fade before they could complicate the beautiful, solid friendship you’d built over centuries. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling. You couldn’t risk something so vital over emotions you didn’t fully understand.

The front door clicked open.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes falling on Azriel’s figure as he stepped inside. His hair was a little mussed, dark strands sticking to his forehead like he’d flown through the midday heat. A faint flush tinted his cheeks, and for a moment, you wondered if the sun was still blazing in the midsky—if the warmth on his face was from exertion or simply the sun pressing down on him.

He took two large strides before his hazel eyes landed on you. His expression shifted, then, brightened, as if he hadn’t expected to find you here. The soft tug at the corners of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite, was enough to send your pulse into a sharp, erratic rhythm.

“Hey,” he said, lightly. “You’re home.”

“That I am.” You smiled and met his eyes. “Hi.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped farther into the room, something small and wrapped in plain paper in his hand.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have something for you,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, glancing between him and the package. “What is it?”

“Some tea,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “For sleep.”

“For sleep?” you repeated, taking the package carefully, his shadows greeting you with a gentle circle around your wrists.

Azriel nodded, his hand falling to his side. “I noticed the other day. When you were sparring with Mor. You were leaning more on your left. You do that when you’re tired.”

Your chest tightened, your fingers curling instinctively around the package. “It was that noticeable?”

“Yeah,” he said. “ To me at least. I thought this might help.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, the simple thoughtfulness of it wrapping around you like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You opened the package carefully, revealing a small tin filled with pouches of tea. You swallowed, staring down at the item in your hands.

“Thank you. This is…” You trailed off, your voice failing you. “This is really sweet, Az.”

“Let me know if it helps,” he said, shifting his weight slightly, his wings twitching behind him. “If you like it, I’ll get more.” He gave a small, almost tentative, smile. “Or maybe I’ll try it myself.”

You nodded, clutching the package tighter. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. You turned, intending to step away, to put some distance between you and the sudden awkwardness settling in your chest. But as you moved past him, Azriel stepped closer, just enough that the space between you disappeared. For a moment, you were not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of night-chilled air and cedar.

And then his hand caught yours. When you glanced back at him, his expression had softened, a sense of concern flickering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. Like he was sharing a secret despite you both being the only ones in the room.

Your breath caught. You could see the faint crease in his brow, the way his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find his answer there, in your features. “Yeah,” you said quietly, even though your heart was pounding.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. His thumb brushed over your skin absentmindedly, as it usually did when he soothed you on bad days. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt now, how aware it made you of his touch. “Are we okay?”

You blinked, frowning at his words. “Yeah, of course. Why would you ask that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I just…I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied quickly, but the excuse felt hollow even as you said it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, but something in his tone made you think he didn’t believe you. After a moment, he added, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” you said after a pause, and it was the truth. You weren’t angry at Azriel, not anymore. It had completely faded, morphed into something else entirely.

You felt guilty about how you'd been acting, how you'd resorted to avoiding him in an effort to make yourself feel better. Because, despite you telling him otherwise, you knew Azriel was interpreting your distance as proof that you were still mad.

Azriel nodded, but his expression didn’t quite relax. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “But you’d tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course.”

His gaze softened further, his eyes almost pleading. “Because I always want to know,” he said quietly. “If something’s wrong. I want to know.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand was still on yours, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You were going to vomit. You were going to be sick. You had to leave. You had to get out of here before you did something reckless, before you said something you couldn’t take back.

“I know, Az. But, I should… I need to go,” you said, stepping back and gently pulling your hand from his. “I have a lot of errands to run.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Oh. Okay.”

You clutched the package tighter to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you backed toward the door. “Thanks again for this. Really.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stopped, nodding instead. “Let me know if it helps.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a tight, polite smile before slipping out of the room.

When you made it upstairs, you grabbed a coat, barely paying attention to which one, and were out of the townhouse before you had the chance to run into Azriel again. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it needed to be away from him.

For a strange, fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing you were angry at him again. Wishing he was being stubborn and unfair instead of sweet and thoughtful. It had been easier then, even when it hurt, because at least you’d known how to deal with it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Velaris buzzed with midday energy, alive with movement and the sounds of life. The streets teemed with couples strolling hand in hand, children darting between legs, their laughter woven into the hum of conversation. You wove through it all in a haze, your mind spinning like a top. For a brief moment, you scowled at the love surrounding you—wondering if it had always been this prevalent, this visible, this... everywhere.

You hadn’t come up with a plan since leaving the townhouse, still unsure of where you were going—or if you even wanted to go anywhere at all. All you knew was that you needed to keep moving. Moving meant you were occupied. And being occupied meant you could at least try to ignore the noise—both the loud thoughts and the feelings twisting inside you. But no matter how fast you walked, how hard you tried to lose yourself in the busy streets, the fluttering in your chest wouldn't let you forget.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant, even as you fought with everything you had to deny it. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe Selene had gotten into your head and now you were overthinking everything—reading too much into Azriel’s kindness, his care. You’d seen it before, convincing yourself of something that wasn’t true, spiraling until you couldn’t trust your own judgment.

You didn’t see the person you bumped into until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking yourself from your thoughts, but when you looked up—

“Oh,” you said, startled. You blinked at the male before you. “Hello.”

The golden light caught his hair—a rich, burnished brown that framed sharp, handsome features. Made them seem almost celestial.

Adrin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, two small dimples forming at his cheeks. “Y/n. Hello.”

“Adrin,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he said easily. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of concern as he studied your face. “Are you…doing all right? I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “It's a long story. But everything is okay.”

Adrin tilted his head, and although the smile was still there— that warm welcoming smile— his brows drew together slightly. “You seem…bothered. Long day?”

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing absentmindedly at your chest. “Something like that.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I know the feeling. It’s been one of those days for me, too. I was about to try and make it better—clear my head a little.” He hesitated, then added, “You could join me, if you’d like.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your plans—”

“You wouldn’t be.” He was quick to shake his head. “Really. I’d like the company.”

You hesitated. Thought through the idea. You liked Adrin. And while you wanted to run—hide away, retreat into the quiet of your own mind—you knew it would only make your thoughts spiral faster. But being around your family, or anyone who might see through you immediately, made you itch with unease.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. The chance to be with someone who wouldn’t pry, someone who seemed genuine in his invitation.

“Sure, yeah. What are you thinking?”

Adrin’s lips twitched into a small grin. “I might have just the thing we both need.”

An hour later, you found yourself at his apartment, stretched out on his balcony overlooking the city. The air was cooler here, quieter, the noise of the streets below softened into a distant hum. The smell of mirthroot curled in the space between you, something so distinctly warm and earthy.

You breathed it in, already feeling lighter, like you were melting into your chair—but in a good way, not like earlier, when the heat had pressed against you relentlessly.

You took a slow pull from the rolled mirthroot stick Adrin had handed you. For the first time that day, your shoulders eased.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly, watching the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. A soft laugh escaped you.

“Oh yeah. I kind of forgot how much I like mirthroot. This is dangerous.”

Adrin chuckled, and you glanced over at him, watching as his lips curved into a lopsided smile—only one dimple visible now. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You tilted your head, studying him further. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” you said, gesturing to the rolled stick in your hand.

His brows furrowed. “Why's that?”

You shrugged, still smiling, your face warm—not from embarrassment, but from the pleasant haze settling over you. “I don’t know. You’re from the Dawn Court. You’re a healer. You just seem disciplined. Like, above this.”

Adrin let out a full, rich laugh, the sound making your grin widen. “Please. Let’s go through that again. I come from Dawn. I’m a male healer. A pacifist, even.”

You paused, letting his words replay in your mind before it finally clicked.

“So it makes total sense,” you said, correcting yourself.

Adrin nodded sagely, and another small round of laughter followed, easy and unhurried. You realized how much you liked that about him. That his presence wasn’t demanding. That he let things be light. Maybe that was why it was always easy to converse with him whenever you’d stopped by Madjas.

You inhaled again, letting yourself sink further into the feeling, into the rare quiet of your thoughts. Even now, though, even floating, something tugged at you. Some part of you that refused to be fully untethered. The rational side of your mind begged for a break from the relentless circling of your thoughts, but you shoved the worst of them away, opting instead to focus on the ones that didn’t hurt.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. “Can I ask you a really weird question?”

“Sure.” Adrin straightened slightly, tossing you a quick glance as he brought his mirthroot to his lips.

You hesitated, but the mirth haze had worked through your nerves, made you bolder, more loose lipped. “Do you have a crush on me?”

He choked on his next inhale, coughing before looking at you, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. That was weird. Sorry,” you said quickly, looking away, waving it off. “Forget I said anything.”

But he shook his head, smiling faintly as he leaned in slightly. “No, it’s okay. I’ve always appreciated how forward you are. Honest. It’s refreshing.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

He nodded. Then he paused for a moment, contemplating. “If you’re asking if I find you attractive, the answer is yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t say I have a crush on you. That feels… shallow. I don’t know you enough to call it that. It would be liking the idea of you. I don’t like doing that.”

His honesty was just as refreshing as he claimed yours to be. It loosened something in your chest—some small guilt that had settled when Mor first suggested you go out with him. Guilt at the idea that someone you’d grown to enjoy might want something from you that you couldn’t give.

If only everyone was this articulate. If only Az—

You shoved the thought away and exhaled slowly. “That’s… a really nice answer.”

Adrin smiled again, but this time, it was smaller, softer. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head. “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have no expectations here. I enjoy the friendship we’ve built—if you’d call it that.”

“Of course I would,” you said softly. A small chuckle escaped your lips as you raised your rolled mirthroot and nodded toward the one between his fingers. “And if I didn’t consider you a friend before, you’re definitely one now.”

Adrin’s laugh rang out, warm and melodic, filling the space between you. It was soothing, like the sound itself carried the calm of his healing touch.

You settled into a comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of conversation lingering between you as you both watched the city below. But then, without warning, your mind wandered once more.

This time, it drifted toward the upcoming event Rhys was hosting—a formal gathering to show appreciation for allies and those who’d supported him. At his own home, too. A gesture of humility. You could already picture the glittering decorations in the River House, the couples dressed to the nines, gliding together in effortless, practiced harmony.

Usually, those scenes didn’t bother you.

You’d never minded attending events alone, enjoying the freedom to slip in and out of conversations as you pleased. But now, the thought of walking into that hall, of watching so many people in love around you… It grated. And you knew exactly why. Azriel’s words, his reasoning for changing while dating Selene—how everyone was falling in love, moving on—echoed in your mind, and you hated how tightly they clung to you.

They’d made you feel like something was wrong with you for not actively seeking out love. For being content with being single. Alone.

You glanced at Adrin.

“Adrin,” you said, clearing your throat. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“There’s an event—Rhysand is hosting. It’s an appreciation for those who help him. I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. Considering everything you’ve done to help Madja… and us.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his expression before he smiled. “Really?”

You nodded, waiting and watching him as he thought through his answer.

“The company of a friend is always nice for events,” he said finally.

Your heart stilled at his use of the word "friend.” It felt reassuring. Safe. A reminder that he truly didn’t hold any expectations, just as he’d said only a few minutes prior.

“Yes,” you replied softly, a small smile curling your lips. “It always is.”

“I’d be honored to go. Thank you for the invite, Y/n. I’ve never been to big events like that.”

You laughed lightly. “If you keep letting me smoke your mirthroot, you can come to every event with me forever.”

He grinned, shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead in an effortlessly charming way. “Is that what I’ve become now? A drug dealer and a friend in one?”

“Yes,” you teased. “A breath of fresh air, really.”

You both fell into another comfortable pause, settling into the easy rhythm of each other’s presence. You wondered what was going on inside Adrin’s mind. His eyes had grown distant, like he was retreating into his thoughts. He had mentioned having a long day too. You hoped he was feeling better now, just as you were, that perhaps your company had offered him what his had offered you—a reprieve.

Adrin reminded you of someone else in your life. Someone with teal eyes and the same easy, friendly humor. You smiled at the fleeting thought that crossed your mind, something quick and bright, like a shooting star.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel’s meeting with Rhysand had taken longer than expected, forcing both males to venture to the Hewn City itself. By the time he returned home, the city of Velaris was already asleep.

Azriel felt conflicted as he passed by your door, his shadows lingering just long enough to confirm that you were safe and asleep in bed. He was relieved, glad that you were finally getting the rest you needed, but a deep, quiet disappointment gnawed at him.

He was planning to catch you one last time today—to talk, even for a moment. To tell you about the meeting with Rhys and how brilliant your plans were, how he was praising them despite you not being there to bask in the compliments. He knew you loved the feedback, knew you loved hearing how your hard work paid off. It always did.

But Azriel knew, even then, the conversation would feel off.

Things had felt off since the night he apologized—and even his shadows had confirmed it wasn’t just in his mind. That he wasn’t simply overthinking.

You’d said you weren’t mad anymore, that you two were okay. But Azriel still felt, still knew, that something was wrong.

Things weren’t normal. They weren’t hostile, and Azriel was beyond thankful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. You seemed to be hesitating around him. It gutted him to think that he had made you wary, made you overthink how you acted around him. He’d stripped himself of his own comfort.

Azriel stepped into his room slowly, feeling the weight of the day begin to catch up with him the moment he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the frame as he let the quiet settle around him.

The familiar emptiness of the room greeted him. His dresser was bare, the surface wiped clean once again. Mor had, strangely excitedly, offered to clear it out for him when she first learned about Selene’s betrayal. Despite the anger simmering inside him, Azriel had made her promise not to take any drastic measures—he didn’t want her to engage with Selene at all. Mor had reluctantly agreed.

Azriel took a few more steps into the room, and with each movement, the exhaustion that had been nagging him all day seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders—his body was sore, his mind buzzing with a thousand half-thoughts.

His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands moving to rub his face, fingers dragging through the mess of his hair.

Azriel hadn’t placed all the items Selene moved, the minimal decorations he owned, back where they belonged yet. But he opened his bedside table and grabbed the one thing he was thinking about—the strange clay creation of him you’d made.

His mind wandered to the night he cleaned your wounds and apologized.

He’d traced the change back to that moment.

Azriel didn’t know why he felt disappointed, why he had expected something different from that interaction. He’d apologized, finally, as he’d intended to—though too late, he told himself, because you’d gotten hurt. But you had accepted it, had looked at him with that same softness he’d come to admire, and accepted it. You’d cracked a joke. You both laughed. It had felt simple again, natural, like Azriel had finally found his way back to himself. But something in him sank when he’d said that one line—when he said he didn’t know why he’d entertained the idea that you’d ever have feelings for him.

He wasn’t sure why, but it tasted so wrong—sour, like something rotten.

He let himself sink further into his thoughts.

Azriel had never seen himself as lovable. At least, not in the way everyone else was.

From the moment he was thrown into that dungeon as a boy, he’d believed he deserved every punishment, every scar, every moment of suffering. The people who should have loved him—the people who were supposed to care—had only taught him he was a burden, something broken and unwanted.

When he left that darkness behind, it followed him, reshaping him into something sharp and unrelenting. A weapon. He became what was needed, what a High Lord required, committing acts that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He wore those deeds like armor, each one another layer of the male he thought he had to be.

Love, he assumed, had to be just as hard. How could it not be? He was unworthy of the softness others found so easily. While Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, and Mor managed to find it, to hold onto it despite their own sins, Azriel had only ever known heartbreak.

So he told himself that love—for him—would never be simple. It would require blood, pain, sacrifice, and suffering. He thought love needed to ache in his chest, leaving him hollow and desperate, clawing for scraps of something he couldn’t quite hold. That it had to be fought for with every ounce of strength he had. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Something had changed, though, regarding how he thought about love.

His fingers brushed the rough edges of the clay figure in his palm. It was uneven and messy, painted in smudges that bled into each other. The proportions were laughably off—the wings crooked, the body too long—but it fit perfectly in his hand nonetheless.

He held it carefully, turning it over as his chest tightened. You’d made this for him, drunk off your ass and laughing with the others, your hands coated in clay. You’d sculpted a miniature version of him without a second thought.

And though it wasn’t a gift, though you hadn’t even mentioned it after that night, Azriel kept it. Kept it somewhere safe, somewhere he could easily grab it and remind himself that if someone as kind as you could love him, care for him the way you did, then he must not be as awful as his mind often tried to convince him he was.

You’d seen the worst of him—all the jagged edges and dark, unspoken parts. He was the softest with you, a side of himself he never showed anyone else, but somehow also the worst. You’d heard the things he’d done, seen him caked in blood that wasn’t his, and still, you had sculpted him. Still, you thought of him when you were having fun.

Azriel had begun to realize that, in reality, love seemed to be… patient. Gentle.

The love his family had found was hard at times, yes, and needed to be fought for, like everything important. But it was kind. Natural.

And so Azriel thought long and hard, the clay figure resting warm in his hand, his shadows curling and twisting softly around him. They whispered your name, over and over, like a quiet, delicate prayer.

And that was when everything clicked into place.

That deep longing he felt to see you, that comfort he found in your presence, the ability to be open, bare, seen, and unafraid—

That feeling was love.

He was in love with you.

And he suddenly couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: hey yall.... how we feeling?????

so like im invested. and also i kinda love Adrin like yesss gimme a stoner healer man who respects a persons boundaries and doesnt crush on the idea of them before knowing them!!!

and yesss for azriel being in love!!! hes gonna be struggling with this new realization, fighting the Voices in the corner of his room and being jealous over things he doesn’t need to be jealous over. mmmmmm delicious

i do believe….there may only be one (1) part left 🫢

as always— thank you for reading 🫶🏻

and don’t forget your daily clicks for palestine !

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered

@feyretopia @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier

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worlds-we-write · 2 months ago

Text

The Weight of It All

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.

WC: 3.8K

tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending

My Masterlist

You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.

It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.

You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.

Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.

Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.

You make it to the bathroom just in time.

You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.

It’s not the first time this week.

And still, you haven’t told him.

By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”

You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.

Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t question you.

He never does at first.

Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”

You nod. Lie.

He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.

“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”

You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”

He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.

You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.

By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.

The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.

It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.

But you find it now.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.

You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.

You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.

The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.

You wait.

Two minutes feels like an hour.

You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…

You glance at the stick.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.

You’re pregnant.

You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.

It’s not that you don’t want a baby.

It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.

You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.

He hasn’t said her name in months.

But you see it in his eyes.

You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.

And it does.

Terrifyingly real.

But you don’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.

You keep pretending.

Keep hiding.

Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.

Because you love him too much to ruin this.

And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.

You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.

Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.

And it’s eating you alive.

You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.

By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.

“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He gives you a look.

You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.

“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”

His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.

He kisses your forehead before he leaves.

You cry as soon as the door shuts.

You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.

No one follows.

No one knows.

You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.

You fish the test out of your coat pocket.

You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.

Two pink lines, clear as ever.

You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.

But you don’t.

You sit.

And you hold it.

And you cry again.

That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.

“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Just been tired.”

“She said you should stop by.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”

You freeze.

He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.

You want to tell him. You do.

But fear clamps down hard on your throat.

What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?

What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?

What if this is the thing that makes him leave?

You force a smile. “I know.”

Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.

And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.

The nightmares come next.

You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.

You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.

Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.

You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.

“You’ve been distant.”

You say nothing. Your throat tightens.

“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”

That’s the moment your heart breaks.

Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.

But you’re still not ready.

Not yet.

You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.

“Love you too.”

A week passes.

Maybe more.

You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You think about telling him every night.

You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.

Until finally… it does.

You don’t plan to tell him that night.

It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.

The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.

After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.

You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.

You lie there stiffly.

Heart pounding.

Stomach twisting.

“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”

You tense.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”

Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

And then—

“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.

“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”

You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.

Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And finally—finally—you say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.

Just… silence.

You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.

You don’t look at him.

“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“To me?”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.

He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.

“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”

Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”

Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.

“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.

You flinch.

“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”

You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.

Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.

But he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then Joel shifts.

He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.

He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.

When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.

“I was scared.”

“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”

You blink. “You?”

Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.

“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”

“Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”

Your breath catches.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You close your eyes.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I do. I really do.”

He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time, you believe him.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.

Maybe he does.

He hasn’t moved all night.

You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.

It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.

Something that feels a little like hope.

Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.

You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.

He looks soft.

His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”

“Hi,” you whisper.

His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better.”

He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”

Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”

There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.

“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”

Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”

You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”

You nod.

“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”

You blink fast. “You sure?”

“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Your eyes sting again.

He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.

Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.

He talks as he works.

“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”

“Mmhm.”

“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”

You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”

He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“What?”

“You’re nesting.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”

You nod.

“No more secrets,” you whisper.

“No more secrets,” he echoes.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.

“You ever think about names?”

Your heart lurches.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”

You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”

“I already do,” he says.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”

Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”

You press your forehead to his.

And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.

A future.

That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.

He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.

Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.

You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.

And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.

They’re full of names.

And tiny hands.

And sunlight.

tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago

2K notes · View notes

kthologue · 3 months ago

Text

date crasher — dick grayson

synopsis. dick grayson swears he’s not in love with you. he just happens to find an unreasonable amount of joy in ruining your dates. purely for entertainment, of course.

contents. fluff, lowkey manipulative dick? he’s weird, theyre both whipped but they’re also both equally dense.

notes. inspired by that one smallville scene.

Despite what everyone says, Dick does not have feelings for you. You’re annoying, bossy, and frankly, rude. Definitely the opposite of his type. Or so he tells himself as he trudges to your apartment, cursing every step like it’s some great inconvenience instead of an excuse to see you.

You open the door with a glare so sharp it could cut glass. “You again?”

“Shower’s broken,” he says like it explains everything.

You blink. “And?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me use yours.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth. “Oh, sure, yeah. Let me just roll out the red carpet for Gotham’s most dramatic orphan.”

“Would it kill you to be nice to me for once?”

“Probably.” You cross your arms. "You literally live in a penthouse, Grayson. Call a plumber like a normal rich person. Or better yet, go use one of Bruce’s fifty extra bathrooms.”

Dick sighs, already tired. “First of all, Alfred’s out of town, and I’m not about to let Bruce nag me about home maintenance. Second, I’d rather take my chances with you than with Jason. You want me dead? Because he definitely does.”

You hum, considering. “Tempting.”

“Oh, come on, it’s just a shower.”

You squint at him, like you’re searching for the catch. “Fine. But you better not take forever. Some of us actually have social lives.”

Dick steps inside with a smirk. “Right, those thrilling Friday night plans of yours. What is it this time? Reorganizing your bookshelf? Watching true crime documentaries and judging people’s bad decisions?”

You scowl. “For your information, I have a date.”

His smirk falters. Just a little. “Date?”

“Yes, Grayson, some of us are desirable. Now hurry up so I don’t have to explain to him why my apartment smells like a stray I let in out of pity.”

Dick rolls his eyes but heads to the bathroom before you can catch the way his jaw clenches.

The bathroom door shuts behind him, and the moment he turns the water on, Dick sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. Being around you is exhausting and the hot water does little to soothe his irritation. You always have something to say about him. His stupid smirk, his messy hair, his tendency to throw on whatever shirt is closest without looking in a mirror.

Fine. If you’re going to be so obsessed with his hair, he’ll just use all of your expensive shampoo out of spite.

He squeezes way too much into his palm and lathers aggressively, enjoying the petty satisfaction. But as the steam fills the air, the scent of you clings to him. Vanilla. Something floral. Something undeniably you.

His nose scrunches.

It’s nauseating.

…Nauseating, he swears.

But he doesn’t stop sniffing.

Damn it.

Dick groans, pressing his forehead against the cold tile, letting the slowly cooling water run down his body in a weak attempt to regain his composure.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath. He’s a trained vigilante, a disciplined fighter raised by one of the greatest strategists in history. He’s faced warlords, assassins, and intergalactic threats without breaking a sweat.

So why does his stubborn mind keep circling back to the fact that his shower isn’t actually broken? That he’s here, in your bathroom, standing under your showerhead, using your shampoo, because he was bored enough to come bother you?

Now he sounds like a complete loser.

The thought barely has time to settle before..

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“GRAYSON, YOU BETTER NOT BE RUBBING ONE OUT IN THERE.”

Dick jerks upright so fast he nearly slips. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been in there forever! I can feel the steam coming through the door!” Your voice carries through, laced with that whine. The one where you drag your words out just enough to send shivers down his spine. He hates it. It’s infuriating. It’s…

“Don’t make me send you my water bill,” you huff.

Dick sighs, turning the water off and grabbing a towel. “I’ve been in here for, like, ten minutes. What’s the rush?”

“My date’s here, genius, and I left my purse in the bathroom.”

Dick pauses, towel in hand. His grip tightens around the fabric as an unexpected weight settles in his stomach. His frown is instinctive, but he masks it with a quip before he can dwell on it.

“Purse?” He tuts, stepping out of the shower. “The guy’s making you pay? Wow.” He whistles lowly. “You have awful taste in men.”

Silence.

Then, barely audible through the door.

"Trust me, I know."

Something about your quietness shifts the atmosphere. The usual fire in your voice dims just enough for him to recognize it. Hesitation, maybe. He doesn’t know why it makes his chest tighten.

An idea strikes him. One that he’d know would definitely rile you up.

With his towel slung low around his hips, he heads for the door.

You sigh in relief when he finally exits the bathroom, but the relief is quickly replaced a glare.

“The hell are you doing?” Your voice is suspicious, but he can hear the shuffle of your footsteps behind him.

Dick smirks. “Relax. I just wanna meet the poor guy who’s stuck with you for the night. Give him a warning and all that.”

“Grayson, don’t you dare—”

But he already has his hand on the doorknob. And the way your eyes widen in actual panic makes a sick part of him swell with amusement.

“Are you crazy?!” You lunge for him, but Dick is faster— or maybe you let him be faster. Either way, it’s too late.

The door swings open.

Your date stands frozen on the other side, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he takes in the sight of Dick Grayson dripping wet, shirtless, towel hanging just low enough to be scandalous.

“…Uh.”

The poor guy looks from Dick to you, eyes flickering down to where your hand is still gripping Dick’s bicep, peeking out from behind him like some kind of guilty party.

The silence stretches.

“Hey,” Dick says easily, leaning against the doorframe like he’s in his own apartment. “You must be the guy.”

Your date blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to compute the situation.

Dick grins, because this is too easy. “So… you treating them right, or should I be worried?”

But Dick isn’t stupid. He knows the guy isn’t right for you. No, he doesn’t know how you take your coffee in the morning, or that you have this annoying habit of leaning on the nearest person, him, of course, when you’re tired. And he definitely doesn’t know how your voice gets all breathless when you two play fight, like you’re trying not to smile even when you’re pretending to be mad.

You shove him. “Grayson, I swear to—”

But the way your date’s expression shifts, how he suddenly looks a little less sure tells Dick everything he needs to know.

And if that knowledge makes his smirk widen? Well.

He’ll chalk it up as a win.

thank you for reading! :3

#kt.writes.·:*¨��#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson/reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x female!reader #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #nightwing/reader #batfam x reader #batfam fanfic #dick grayson fluff #batfam imagine #batfam x you #batfam fluff

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loveanddeepsecrets · 4 months ago

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Domestic + Intimate Headcanons Pt. II

An impromptu two parter of me just spitballing (Pt. I for reference). This started out as a cutesy mini headcanon post for Raf’s bday, but quickly grew into hyper specific romantic scenarios and wishful thinking. It’s still probably clear who my mains are 😭 but I did my best to showcase the humility in all LIs

⤠ Disclaimer: I’m quite happy with the intimate headcanons from my initial post and truthfully couldn’t expand too too much without basically repeating myself from last time. So with the exception of Caleb, there’s a bit less spicy bullets this go-round :/

⤠ Tags: 18+, MDNI, *slight spoilers depending on affinity level or personal progress in main story +myths, fluff, mostly gender neutral, but written with an afab + fem!reader in mind

⤠ Word count: 2.1k (mostly proofread)

Xavier

SFW

✧ Eats the raisins you pick out of the trail mix

✧ Always draws stars next to your name when writing you letters/cards

✧ Bookstore dates. At every visit, you pick one of your favourite books to read for each other

✧ After begging him tirelessly to teach you a song, *any song* on the piano, he mischievously chose ‘Heart & Soul’

✧ Saves every voicemail/voice note. He often replays them to stay sane on dangerous solo missions

✧ On top of that, he made a bunny plushie version of you at one of those 'Build-A-Bear' type shops and used one of your voice notes . He sleeps with it on nights he can't sleep with you

✧ Sprays more cologne on his hoodies knowing you love the scent. He also thinks the extra spritz of fragrance will ward off other men since he knows you borrow his clothes. It’s his silent way of marking what’s his

✧ Loves making you blush. He didn't get enough time to court you in the past timeline on Philos, so he seizes every opportunity to (quite effortlessly) rizz you up to see your flushed expression

NSFW

✧ [canonically makes bolder moves to see how you’d react —secret times lvl 165]

✧ Game head. He gets a bit of an adrenaline rush if you do it while he’s online

✧ Doesn’t give not one shit about how loud you guys are. He probably prefers sex on the couch on the off chance Charlie might be passing through the hallway

✧ Though I still think he’s pretty quiet, he becomes a bit of a whiny mess when you’re edging him

✧ A gripper. Grabs on your ass during cowgirl, your chest during missionary, your hips/thighs during doggy, etc

✧ Sprained his neck from holding your hips down and guiding you when you sat on his face. It left him smirking throughout his recovery. Every painful twitch was a pleasant reminder of a job well done

✧ Has the fastest pace ot5. He moves at lightning speed when batting wanderers, so he probably moves at a back breaking break neck speed while inside of you

✧ After rewatching the 'No Restraint' card on YouTube… *sweats* he’s got magic fingers. I’ll put it like this and move on: firm, tiny circles 🫠

Caleb

SFW

✧ 10+ hours long face time calls

✧ Would actually be pretty decent at the claw machine if he wasn't such a massive cheater

✧ Utility man. He's your personal chauffer, home chef, alarm clock, umbrella, trainer, handyman, and so on. He strives to be the perfect emergency contact

✧ Has definitely seen those videos of couples trying to recreate yoga poses and had you try with him (would probably cheat using his evol)

✧ Bounces his leg if you scratch that one spot on his head when you play with his hair

✧ You always end up sitting on his lap when cuddling watching tv or reading peacefully together

✧ Holds pinkies more often than holding hands

✧ Super athletic and adventurous dates i.e. zip lining, skydiving, paragliding, kayaking, hiking, etc. He’s patient, encouraging, and talks you through the scariest parts of the activity and rewards you with several kisses in between telling you how brave you were

NSFW

✧ Hands down has the roughest sex regularly ot5

✧ Mile high club

✧ Orgasm denial + overstimulation

✧ LOUD, TALKATIVE, and MESSY

✧ Sloppy eater

✧ He expects a sloppy eater in return. Is probably the type to grab your head and start guiding you when he’s close

✧ Ik I said Xavier was bossy, but this man? His gravity evol? His colonel position? CONTROL FREAK

✧ Likely has the biggest “Sir” kink

✧ While I do think he aligns slightly more with booktok Sylus, I can’t see where degradation would fit with their dynamic. You’re the very thing he wants to shield and protect. Why would he degrade what he cherishes?

✧ On the softer side, he’s the type to melt into your touch. There’s true devotion in his eyes (and heart) when you’re making love

✧ On the days where he’s not rough, the sex is more sensual and almost tantric

✧ Will always find a way to be physically closer to you during the act. Whether it’s putting his forehead on yours, burying his face in your neck, hugging your waist, or simply holding hands

✧ You both probably cried (happy tears) after your first time. Being intimate felt like a confirmation from the universe that you knew each other more than words could express. There was no trial and error, you just knew

Sylus

SFW

✧ Hot air balloon rides

✧ Monogram matching robes

✧ Secret fan of game shows. He thinks they’re hilarious— or in his words “highly amusing”

✧ Bought you a birdhouse + birdfeeder for your apartment after he noticed you birdwatching on the last date

✧ Purposely chooses horror films on movie nights on the chance you’ll hold onto him and hide your face in his chest. He’ll laugh and make some remark about being hurt that you’d use him as a shield, but will hold you tighter and soothe you later in the night when you’re too scared to sleep

✧ Random slow dances. In the kitchen on the nights you make dinner together; in his study while music emits from his record player; in the bathroom, sleepily swaying side to side while lazily brushing your teeth

✧ Whenever you're holding hands, he often aimlessly draws random shapes on your ring finger

✧ I think all the LADS men have a default position they fall into when getting close or snuggling up. For Sylus, it’s resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s the perfect place to capture your scent plus, he can hear and feel your heartbeat. Of course he’ll playful bite or nuzzle into your neck, but he rests his head there because it’s most familiar and comforting to him and his old dragon form

NSFW

✧ Road head

✧ Mile high club

✧ Eye contact

✧ Has a secluded sex dungeon even Luke & Kieran don’t know about

✧ Due to the nature of his job, I don’t think he’d engage in explicit sexting. Too many people on his case and has probably dealt with his fair share of hackers. If one of your messages/photos/videos leaked anywhere, it would be the end of the N109 zone and the world as we know it

✧ That being said, if he wants to make home movies, it’s done with a vintage film camera to ensure the utmost privacy

✧ More of a grunter and groaner than a moaner. The few times he does moan, is when he’s buried between your legs

✧ I actually think he’d be into role play. He likes how you always keep him quick on his feet in your relationship, and will often humour and indulging in the change of pace. He’d like this even more in the bedroom

✧ Chuckles to himself and humours you whenever you suggest 69ing bc he knows you’ll inevitably just lay there with his dick idle in your hands, while you whimper on top of him

✧ Stamina coach. His methods for overstimulation are twofold. While he loves the state of you withering and coming completely undone, he also does this to help you expand your limitations and enjoy each other for as long as he can go. I already said he’s a pleasure dom, but he’s a pleasure dom with a purpose

Zayne

SFW

✧ Botanical garden tours

✧ Couples ice skating during the holiday season

✧ Uses his surgical skills to patch up injured plushies [x]

✧ He may or may not have added an extra rest day or two in your doctor’s note to Jenna so he can spend more time with you. He’ll deny it and insist you need the additional rest, and who better to take care of you other than your doctor?

✧ There’s something about the way he holds your hand that’s sickeningly sweet. Gentle, slightly cool to the touch that warms up quickly, with loving caresses

✧ Surprised you to a dessert degustation for your anniversary. Each dish is a highlight of the standout desserts you tried over the year

✧ Occasional late night strolls along the river. He passively recalls scenes from the western dramas you watch and (successfully) tries skipping rocks

✧ Enjoys exploring artistic outlets with you. Often suggests different workshops to try i.e. stained glass studios, culinary classes, candle making, terrarium building, etc

✧ A bit needy nowadays. To experience a love he never knew he could have, makes him hold your hand a little more tightly, hug you a few seconds longer and kiss you twice as many times as he did before

NSFW

✧ Much like Sylus, he’s also big on eye contact (when he’s in control)

✧ Literally the cutest thing ever when you go down on him. He’ll keep his composure, and lustfully tell you what he wants, but gets so flustered and stuttering as the pleasure builds and he gets close

✧ Truthfully, I don’t like to compare Zayne and Caleb all that much, but the love making between you two is also very tantric

✧ If you listen to the way he kisses you, it’s pretty similar to how he eats you. When completely drunk off your juices, it’s like he’s breathing you in. There’s a desperation to his licks and kisses, feening for the taste of your nectar

✧ He’s also the type to spell out his name with his tongue over and over again. Think of it as a spell. He needs to hear you call to him

✧ Incredibly patient. Foreplay isn’t some tit for tat curtesy thing, it’s important to him. He’s less of a tease and more methodical. "Relax into my arms. No, I'm not bullying you. I need you to come for me again. You should always warm up before stretching, and I don't want to hurt you so please, come for me love. Can you do that for me?"

✧ A stickler for clear communication. You must speak in full complete sentences. It’s not enough to say just say “Please.” What exactly are you pleading him to do?

✧ Slight exhibitionist. He’ll never allow you to get caught, but likes the challenge of finding the quickest ways to cover your mouth— using his hand, tie or lips to stifle your moans

Rafayel

SFW

✧ Hates going in hot springs, saunas, or jacuzzies. He’ll say he feels like a boiling crab

✧ Asked to keep your first completed sketchbook that are filled with many one on one art lessons with him

✧ Can’t sleep if some semblance of you isn’t with him. Will literally drag or carry you to the couch so he can take a nap. You don’t have to nap with him, just lay next to him and stroke his hair

✧ Apart from Moments, you’re the only one he’s following on all socials

✧ Always responds with a stream of texts in all caps and several emojis when you send him a selfie

✧ His biggest artistic aspiration is to find just the right pigments/colours that encapsulates you. Next is finding a colour palette that encapsulates both of you

✧ Used to think you were mocking him when you took him on aquarium dates

✧ Your pearl engagement ring was made from the tears he cried while drafting his proposal speech [x]

NSFW

✧ Next to Sylus, he’s a comfort king. Making sure you have enough pillows underneath you during missionary; repositioning you when he notices your head leaning off the edge of the bed; several consent check ins; "my hands aren't too cold, right?"; taking over when your legs start to tire out from riding him, etc

✧ Unpopular opinion, I think he’s the most into period sex out of the five. You really think a MERMAN is scared of the red sea???

✧ Speaking of which, he’s extra sensitive to your scent and the way you feel when you’re on your cycle. Though he won’t necessarily initiate anything

✧ Has you take the week off for Ebb Day. You’ll need the extra down time and he’s more than happy to spend the rest the week caring for you till you're back in good health

✧ On particularly intense— passionate rounds, he starts swearing/speaking in Lumerian

✧ Pretty gentle with you when you go down on him. He’s usually holding your hair back, softly running his fingers through your strands or caressing the back of your neck

✧ The biggest tease when he’s eating you out and MEAN about it too. Giggling when you mewl. That annoying "mmm?” when you start to get louder. "Speak up, cutie."

✧ Best stroke game. Ik I said this last time, but I’m dying on this hill. Dizzying backshots, frontshots, sideshots— literally whatever position you’re in, his hips are steady, fluid, and unrelenting

ꨄ︎ A/N: Thanks for reading 🤍 these lists were a bit harder to make this time ngl. Quite a few bullets from pt. I are now canon— which I’m happy about ofc, but it made it harder to bounce around new ideas since there’s fewer “what ifs”. It’s probably best to end this series here tbh. But I’m definitely open to different content suggestions to post next!

[x] - denotes credit for headcanon inspo.

⤠ dividers by saradika-graphics & anitalenia

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hollyoongs · 2 months ago

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𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚's 𝗩𝗘𝗥 !

prólogo Heeseung loved you, but he can't deny how good you make him feel when you clench around him while you praise (he won't admit the last one, but his moans just gives him away) [MASTERLIST]

elenco lee heeseung x f!reader

género smut with little plot

antes de leer mirror sex, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it), praise kink (both), breeding (plus mentions of having his babies), dirty talk, clit play, pet names (baby, princess, sweetheart), squirting, multiple orgasms, Heeseung loves reader, reader los Heeseung, mentions of hickeys, thigh riding/grinding, facial, cum eating (please let me know if I missed something)

# palabras +2.3k

Heeseung's eyes were so pretty when they were captivated by the adrenaline consuming him.

The second day of Coachella finished, hence why you were in your bed watching the fancams that were already out on probably all social media while your boyfriend showered.

Your phone screen lit up with the thumbnail of a close-up fancam—to be specific, a 'Paradoxx Invasion' fancam of today. Your finger was quick in tapping the video immediately. Your heart thudded while looking at the way his body moved; he was confident, and he knew he was the moment alongside the members.

The trail of sweat tracing his jawline as well as his neck, his neck a little red due to the hair dye that went along with his sweat, he was showing his presence, and it was impossible to look away, whether you went there or not. You held your breath when the camera zoomed in on the moment of the hip thrust, head back and his movement sharp, just to give a teasing smirk after.

The soft thud snapped your attention away from your screen; the bathroom door creaked to show him—towel slung low on his hips, another running through his damp hair.

"Did you catch me again?" he asked in a tone that made you roll your eyes. You block your phone to stand, grabbing the towel he was using to dry him properly.

Water still clung to his chest, his collarbones glistening under the warm light of the hotel room you were staying in, and his eyes were on yours. "Yes, I was watching you. You look hot and did amazing up there."

The small dominant facade he had briefly shattered a little bit, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he looked away in a shy demeanor, "Then why are you watching on your phone when you got to watch it today?"

"Because I could never get enough of you." You gave him the towel after finishing your job; his eyes were tender on yours. He reached out, the towel falling carelessly to the floor as his arms wound around your waist, drawing you in close until your body was pressed flush against the heat of his.

For obvious reasons, his skin was still warm, the citrusy and soft scent of the body wash he used lingered in the air, and you could hear his slightly fast heartbeat. "How can you say all this stuff in such a nonchalant way?"

Your fingers curled lightly against his chest, tilting your head to meet his gaze, that damn smile that made your heart also jump. His lips hovered close to yours, eyes searching your face again. "Because it's true."

Your nose brushes against his as your hands slide slowly around his back, making him chuckle under his breath. "I want to reward you for a successful Coachella." His eyebrow raised, intrigued, your waist getting subtly tightened by his hands.

“Really, what kind?” Without breaking eye contact. Your fingers decided to slowly trail down his back, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath your touch until the tips of your fingers lay on the towel, taking it out from his hips completely to have him fully naked in front of you.

You made him sit in the bed with a fake innocent smile on your face. His cock was slowly getting hard. You began to strip in front of him, slow enough to see his hand beginning to ghost on his base, eyes glossy in need.

You turned around after taking your bra off your body, getting a view of your tits with an almost vanished hickey he gave at the top of one, your thumbs on each side of your panty, and pulling them down, clearly hearing a moan from him when he saw the wetness that was already creating in your entrance. The soft sound sent a rush of satisfaction through your body, making your little performance a success.

You turned again, this time facing him and grabbing his face with your hands, your thumb caressing his left cheek tenderly. Once again, his eyes—now slightly hooded—were glossy, neediness written all over your face, silently begging for your touch once and for all, but you could also see his dominance shine through it. One hand was moving up and down on his cock while the other one was on the matter to generate support; he was manspreading the whole time, which made it easier to get closer.

“How do you want to start, baby? You decide.” Your word out, he was fast enough to manhandle you to sit on top of his naked thigh; you couldn’t contain the whimper that left your mouth at the delicious friction, soon being cut by his lips in a passionate kiss. A type of kiss that he was always eager to give you.

Both of you lost yourself in the moment; his hands went to your ass as yours were messing his hair from the back. The kiss deepened—sloppy and hungry, your lower lip getting sweetly bitten by him—as your hips instinctively moved, grinding slowly against the firm muscle of his thigh. The mere sound of your soaking cunt and the soft moans that ended directly on his mouth made him groan, his head throwing back as he was slowly ascending to heaven.

Your kisses went from behind his ears to his jaw to end up on his neck, smiling wickedly at an idea that popped out. Heeseung hissed at the sensation of skin getting sucked, but soon smiled at your sweet attempt at revenge. He looked to his left, noticing the full-length mirror your room had that protected the filthy scene they were creating.

The pretty view of you starting to desperately grind against his thigh harder with your head hiding on the crook of his neck, coating it with your juices, and his hand on one of your ass cheeks, a quick spank landing on it, and he could swear he saw strings of your arousal when you jumped in surprise.

“Fuck, you look so hot.” You lifted your head and followed his gaze; the scene was hot, indeed. The knot was generated very quickly, especially when Heeseung’s fingers joined to finally touch your throbbing clit.

“God, you know how to make me feel so good, Hee,” you moaned. Heeseung's lips curled into a smirk as your praise washed over him, his fingers drawing slow, tight circles over your clit.

“And I’m not even close to being done.”

You whined softly, your forehead falling to his shoulder one more time as your hips chased his touch, grinding deeper into his thigh while his fingers worked you with precision, one that only came from knowing your body like second nature. His free hand moved to your waist, holding you firmly, grounding you while your body threatened to lose control.

"Such a messy princess, and I haven’t even—" He cut himself off with a sharp exhale as you rocked against him harder, your moans growing in volume.

Heeseung groaned against your lips, lifting you effortlessly as he laid you back onto the bed, spreading your legs with a look so intense it made your breath hitch. His cock was tall and proud; grabbing it by the base, he slapped your cunt, the tip of it teasing your entrance and laughing at your pathetic attempts to finally have him inside you.

“I love how she’s so eager for me.” A sloppy slap landed right on your entrance, provoking more arousal to generate.

“Please, Heeseung. Fuck me already,” He didn’t wait for more begging; he didn’t even actually want to wait any longer. He slid himself in with ease, hips going back and forth with a controlled pace to not hurt you. The face of full bliss was a perfect mind picture.

It was raw; you could feel every vein, how he twitched the moment your tight walls hugged him, and how your broken moan made him smile cockily. His hands gripped your thighs, pushing them up to keep them wide open for him.

“You said it’s whatever I want today, right, baby?” He whispered, and you simply nodded, your voice only being available for moans and whimpers. “I want you to look at me; I want to see how good I make this pussy feel.”

“You always know how to treat this pussy, baby—fuck.” Your eyes shut close briefly before opening again, obeying him by locking eyes with him despite the haze of pleasure that was clouding your mind at that moment. The praise made him go faster, his cock dragging perfectly against your wall and his tip touching that sweet spot that only he and his fingers could reach. “God, Heeseung—” your voice broke into a moan, hands reaching your own breasts, you played with your nipples for extra pleasure. He leaned down enough to suck one of them.

He pulled back to admire the way you arched beneath him. “Can’t wait to paint you with my cum.”

“After you get me pregnant, baby,” you could see how that threw his head into a spiral; now your legs went around his waist, screaming at the sudden change of pace, hips snapping harder into yours, the dirty sounds of the skin slapping echoing in the room mixing with muffled words.

One hand slid between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit again, adding more pleasure. You could feel yourself close—so close—you started trembling under him, your eyes rolled as you felt your orgasm coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna cum in your cock.” He leaned close to you, lips hovering right above yours.

“Go on, princess. You behaved so well that I will give you all the babies you want.” You could barely hold on at the thought of it, your nails digging into his back as you cried his name like a mantra, your climax crashing over you in intense waves that made you even think if ecstasy was possible. Your walls pulsed around him, milking every inch, and he let out a strangled groan, pushing deep, chasing his own high.

With a few more rough and sloppy thrusts, he spilled inside you, burying his face in your neck, his breath ragged. A few minutes passed, and he took his cock out, but the break was over as soon as you didn't feel the mattress below you.

You two were now standing in front of the mirror, you in front of him as if you were bowing at the mirror with your hands on each side of the frame. You were weak, but you won’t deny how turned on you got after seeing him putting all his cum back inside you as it started to drip from your cunt, holding it in with his fingers for a couple seconds before standing again. “Eyes on the mirror, baby.”

He slammed his hips, a high, broken moan ripping your throat as he touched your spot right away.. “Fuck, Heeseung!”

Heeseung groaned low and deep behind you; you couldn’t even think straight, you could only focus on the reflection—your body trembling, legs barely holding you up, his hands gripping your hips for dear life, arms flexed due to the effort. All of this while watching you—his gaze was burning through the glass, almost like a hungry focus that only you ever got to see.

His hand travelled to your throat, holding it up with a little bit of pressure, his free hands touching your body from your breasts to your clit, rubbing it relentlessly. “That’s mine, all of it.”

You whimpered, your knees threatening to give out with every thrust. The mirror wobbled slightly under your grip, your skin flushed and shining with sweat, hair stuck to your neck, lips parted around the cries you could no longer hold back. Heeseung's hand gently wrapped around your throat was still holding you, just enough to make you tilt your head, eyes locking in the mirror again.

“All yours,, baby—fuck!” He adjusted his grip, pulling you tighter , hips meeting yours with bruising intent, “Heeseung, i-it’s too much.”

“Give me another one, sweetheart—I earned it, remember?" he said, his cocky smile still shining through his wrecked facade.

“Yes, you did. Fucking this pussy good.” The heat built again—way too fast to the point that the overwhelming sensation also started to be overstimulating—and the second he slid a hand back down to your clit, your body reacted on instinct. You came harder than before, stars dancing behind your eyes as your legs shook and your forehead fell against the mirror, the cool glass basically supporting you.

You felt the liquid falling from your thighs to the floor, your squirt also reaching his legs and coating his dick clean. “Oh God—I’m going to cum.” Heeseung pulled back, and you took a moment to kneel in front of him. Breasts touching each other, tongue out, and your tired yet begging eyes looking right at him.

His dick was red, thighs completely flexed, announcing how he was going to give you a good facial, head thrown back, and hand on the frame of the mirror to keep him standing.

The first warm strand landed on your tongue, followed by another, then another—marking your skin like a painter finishing his masterpiece. Heeseung moaned loudly, hips jerking slightly with every wave of release as he emptied himself onto you. His fingers dug into the edge of the mirror for support; the image of you on your knees, panting and flushed, will definitely be on repeat when he goes alone on tour.

When his breathing finally slowed, he looked down, eyes softening at the sight of you—messy, beautiful, radiant in the afterglow. You blinked up at him, licking your lips with a satisfied smirk, and he chuckled, a breathless sound that melted into the quiet of the room.

"You're going to kill me one day," he whispered, reaching down to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You giggled, voice raspy. "Worth it."

TAGLIST (OPEN): @heesexual74 @vixialuvs @riqomi @beomgyus11 @starry-eyed-bimbo @rawrrxan @veilstqr @k1ttyjwon @fancypeacepersona @kittympirty (COMMENT TO BE ADDED)

─── DAY TWO HELL YEAH i know it was supposed to be posted yesterday (i'm posting this at 11:11 p.m) but my laptop is my main hater, hope i can bag some hee stans with this one 💗‼️

#𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗹𝑦𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠! ৎ ˚⋅#enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen heeseung #heeseung smut #lee heeseung smut #enhypen coachella #enchella

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