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merelydaydreaming · 1 month ago

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the teeth you know | dick grayson

Summary: The war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. When you fled Gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the Vampire King and the love of your life, Dick Grayson. You were wrong.

Pairing: vampire king!Dick Grayson x fem!reader. based on the dc vs vampires comics

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings/tags: smut!!! 18+ only. oral fem receiving, manipulation, romantic dick, me retconning whatever smarmy little bastard they wrote in dc vs vampires bc that is NOT my dick. dick is literally so gone for you, vampire king or not. themes of death, war, vampires killing humans. if i missed any warnings lmk!

happy almost halloween! follow your dreams and fuck that superhero turned vampire. it'll definitely fix them this time.

the divider

If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡

Tonight, you dream.

You don't usually have good dreams. Not since this whole war began. Your dreams are filled with red. Always red, always terrifying.

Except when he's in them.

The first few times it happened, you yelled at him for intruding on your subconscious. For warping your emotions and making you miss him. He'd laughed at that.

You should look at yourself a little harder before blaming me. I just appear. You do all the dirty work of missing me, my love.

You're in Gotham in tonight's dream. The old Gotham, of course. Before any bastard undead creatures could suck the life out of your city. Before Dick Grayson haunted your dreams.

You're on a rooftop ledge, legs dangling. You stare at the harbor. The city's wet from the rain and alive. So alive. You start to cry.

"Oh, honey," he says, and you cry harder because he sounds exactly like the Dick you knew.

He keeps his distance, sitting a few feet away. You refuse to look at him, because this is exactly how he gets you to miss him. Dick makes a soft noise when you scrub at your face.

"Have you been eating enough?" he asks, and he almost sounds tender. But you know better. "I'll track down a produce shipment, tell my men to intercept the boat for you."

"Fuck you," you say. "I don't take food out of people's mouths."

Dick edges closer. He feels big in your dreams, looming over you.

"You wouldn't take food out of anyone's mouth. There's no longer a faction on the planet that requires all that food."

Because the vampires have all but wiped humans out. You snarl.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" you snap. "I know you're cruel, but the least you could do is let me dream in peace."

"Have I been cruel to you? I don't mean to be, sweetheart. I visit to check on you."

"Bullshit, Dick." Saying his name makes you shake. "You visit to manipulate me. I'm not going to give up my location, I'm not going to turn against my team, and I'm definitely never going to be your queen."

Dick is next to you on the roof ledge, now. He leans in and you stiffen at his eyes. You still aren't used to the absence of blue.

"Of course not. I wouldn't make you do anything you don't want to," he says, hand slipping across your jaw. You immediately slap him away. He makes a displeased sound.

"Why don't you find someone else to manipulate? I'm sure you've got countless minions who'd leap at the chance to be with you for eternity."

"I don't want anyone else," he murmurs. "I've thought of nothing but you since we parted. I wish you hadn't run, my love. Things would be better if we were together, you’d see.”

"Hah. You used to be so much better at compartmentalizing, Grayson. Guess vampires aren't so good at controlling their own desires."

He laughs, tosses his head back. His fangs glint. Dick's smile is deceiving; underneath the charm, there's unimaginable power. Vampirism has treated him well: he's always filled out, lean with muscle, carrying an easy strength everywhere he goes.

You, on the other hand, suffer from poor nutrition. You didn't sleep well before this mess; now, it's nearly impossible.

(Except when Dick visits, you feel rested the next morning. You'd never admit such a thing to anybody, but it's the truth.)

"Oh, sweetheart, but why would I bother controlling my desires now? There's no one stopping me from having what I want."

You stew in silence, turning away from him. Dick sighs.

"What do you want, hm? Tell me. I'll give you anything."

"I want you to free every human you're holding captive," you say. "And I want you and your people to stop this war."

"Such a golden heart," Dick says. "That's what I love about you. Always so good."

"You used to be good too," you shoot back bitterly.

"No, I used to be obedient. There's a difference. I used to be Bruce's little, golden cow."

“He treated you well.”

“When I fell in line,” he says.

You fall quiet again. Dick scoots closer. You scoot away.

"You know I've already let a few of the humans go. For you, honey. As a sign of goodwill. I'm not totally heartless, you know."

You roll your eyes.

"Right. Well, us cattle don't find it merciful when we're sent out on our own to die, so you'll have to excuse me if I don't thank Your Highness on my knees."

"You are not cattle," Dick says fiercely. "Don't talk about yourself that way."

"My life is no less human and no more important than theirs," you say, temper flaring. "So, yes, I am."

"That's—"

You fall off the roof before he can say any more. Your stomach swoops similarly to how it would if you were awake. But then the stars bleed into the skyline, and there's a flash of golden light.

And now you're in a bedroom. It's not one you recognize, richly decorated with golden accents and silk sheets and curtains. You'd almost mistake it for a room at Wayne Manor.

"Now this is much better, don't you think? You're wearing my favorite color."

You look down and see that your pajamas have been swapped for a long, blood red, chiffon nightgown. It hugs every curve and dip of your body, the sleeves and collar trimmed in soft fur. The neckline is somewhat modest, but the fabric is totally see-through past your thighs.

It's something a queen would wear.

"Beautiful," Dick murmurs, voice rough. "Fuck, honey. This is the sort of thing you should wear all the time."

"Change me back," you demand. "I am not a doll for you to dress up, Dick."

"No, of course you're not. This is just a taste of how you'd live if you were with me, my love."

"I will never live with you. I'd rather die."

Dick hums, then draws closer. You back up until your legs hit the edge of the bed. He prowls further, eyes sharp like he's hunting prey. Your pulse quickens and you have to remind yourself that this is just a dream.

"What happened to us?" he asks softly. "I know that, at one point, you loved me."

"Yeah, that was before you turned into a monster. I loved a man."

"I'm no more monster than any of the men you've known," Dick says.

You scoff. "God, where'd you get that one? Jason?"

Dick smiles, and it almost looks human. "No, that was a Grayson original. And it's true. Man has never been good. You don't like me because now I drink a little blood?"

"I don't like you because you used to be good, and now you're not."

He hums. "I'm not all bad, my love. I can be subdued, tamed. You want me to be tame? I can be good for you. I can give you anything your heart desires. Our wants are the same.”

Dick eases you backwards onto the bed. You shouldn’t let him. Shouldn’t like the cold press of undead flesh against your heat. Shouldn’t like how he holds you, how convincing he sounds. You know your wants aren’t the same, that Dick is playing you, and you’re being easy.

But… but it's not like you'll ever see him for real again. No one will know.

And God, it's been so long since anyone touched you. You pined for this, what seems like forever ago. Dick Grayson wanting you had felt impossible, until it wasn't… but by then, he'd become the very thing you'd sworn to hate.

"This–” You swallow. “This isn’t right.”

But your legs part for him to kneel between.

"Tell me to stop and I will. I serve you first."

Dick hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head. You're getting wet. You ache in more ways than one.

"This is cruel," you whine.

"I don’t mean to be cruel,” he says gently. “Do you want me to stop, my love? My beautiful queen, who hasn’t been touched in so long. You’ve needed me, haven’t you?”

“Not–not your queen,” you say, panting, but you let him in, let him settle above you.

“If you say so, my love," he says, nuzzling your neck. You tense even though he can't actually bite you.

His fingers thread with yours. The position is unbearably intimate. You’d forgotten how romantic Dick was. How loving. Briefly, you wonder if he kept that through the shift.

It’s impossible, you insist as he kisses your jaw.

"You're a dream in red," he purrs. "I might prefer it to you in blue, but it's a close call."

"Your ego is ridiculous," you say, and Dick unlinks one hand to pet the apex of your thighs with two fingers. You're still clothed, and you're still dreaming, but the heat and pressure and slick feel so real.

"The sounds you're making certainly don’t keep my ego in check," Dick says with a proud grin, fangs on display.

Then he rips your underwear off, ducks between your legs, and licks you until you cry.

You arch off the bed, and even in the dream, his strength is easy, one hand keeping you pressed to the bed. Dick pushes one of your legs up to get a deeper angle, moaning into your cunt. Your leg goes up easily even though in real life, it would pinch. You’re not as flexible as he is.

"Dickie," you cry, tears slipping down your cheeks because it's so good, it feels real, you wish this was real, wish you had him back.

He nips your thighs, groans into your sex. Dick ruts the mattress, the first loss of control he's shown. It makes you wetter, knowing that he's so gone for you. It's sick to like such a thing, but you never stopped loving him, not really. You can't seem to reckon the man from the monster.

You come hard on his tongue, and he keeps licking until you push him away.

"You haven't been touched in ages, I bet," he says, lips shiny with your arousal. His eyes are a brighter red. His chest heaves. He looks hungrier than before he started.

"Been a bit busy,” you say when your brain comes back online. “End of humanity and all that."

His eyes go soft. You hate that he can still make that look.

"Why are you so stubborn? Why won't you let me take care of you? You belong at my side."

You scowl. "I don't belong anywhere, Dick. Certainly nowhere near you."

His eyes glitter and he grabs you by your hips and kisses you. You let him, because you're absolutely pathetic and because you haven't been touched in ages.

Dick laughs against your mouth and peppers kisses on your throat before pulling away.

"I'll send your team food. They won't even know it's me," he says, half-lidded. "My beloved queen. You'll never starve. I didn't know it was so bad."

"I am not your queen and I don't need your charity. In fact, you know what? I'm waking up. Right now."

Dick smiles, and kisses your hand. Then he gets off of the bed, and fixes his collar. He must be aching in his slacks, dream or not, but he straightens up like he has all the time in the world to fuck you. Like he knows you’ll be back.

"Of course, my love. Whatever you want. Till next time."

The dream fades from a golden bedroom to your dark, tiny hole of a room you've camped in for a few months.

You turn your head and look at the clock. It's still late.

Your thighs ache. Your mouth tingles where he kissed you.

You swore to never pledge yourself to the Vampire King. But you never made any such promises about Dick Grayson.

#god i wish there was more #🚫: not anime recs #📓: dick grayson #📖: fic recs

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merelydaydreaming · 1 month ago

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nsft, afab!reader x jason todd. uhhhh size kink, breeding kink, jason todd kink. me waxing on about what a big boy jason is. reader enjoys being held down. clueless jason (at first). get him inside of you!!!

thinking about how absolutely flabbergasted jason would be at your reaction the first time he's fully on top of you and holding you down.

he was trying to be playful, climbing onto you while you were on your stomach on your phone. he meant to kiss your neck a little and ask what you wanted for dinner. but as soon as he's on you with his weight and warmth, you're soaked. and jason... well, he senses that something's different because you get unusually quiet and limp, so he starts to get off and that's when you choke on a whimper because his hips are pressed against your ass and all you can think about is his fat cock inside of you while he holds you down.

and jason doesn't remind you very often of your size difference but it sneaks up on you sometimes, when he pulls you closer like it's nothing or when he leans down to hear you better. but you've never been fully confronted with jason's size and strength like this. jason's always been very careful to avoid that sort of thing, never wanting to scare you. he knows he's big and stocky and can do a lot of damage with his brute strength. and then on top of that, jason's highly competent and skilled in different types of combat. he doesn't take it personally if it's crossed your mind just who exactly you're dating and how offputting that might be. he gets it. that's why he tries to make himself as small and gentle as possible.

well, fuck that. your pussy throbs so hard it hurts. you're dizzy from how quickly blood rushed down to your clit. if jason's dick hardens against you like this, you're going to start whining. and if he pushes into you like this, chest to your back, legs trapping yours, mounting you inch by inch, you might black out from how hard you'll cum.

you're getting wetter just thinking about it, how jason's got a huge cock and fat balls and all you've got is a gushy little cunt that's so easy for him. so easy indeed that whenever he pulls your panties down and pushes the tip in, you start whining and gushing even more. you get lightheaded when jason pulls you flush to his chest and fucks you like that, molds you to his body so he can be as close as possible. when he's got his mouth by your ear, moaning and kissing you, it's the peak of your bliss. you'd let him do anything he wanted.

this is that except now you feel like prey, like you let yourself be caught. your breath is a little thin from being trapped against the floor and your ears are hot from the pressure. you want more.

and jason doesn't get it! doesn't get that he could mount you like a stud and empty his balls into you for hours and all you'd do is brace yourself on your knees and spread wider and let him. doesn't get that all he has to do is enter you from behind and keep you pressed against him and you'll squirt and squeeze him while he takes what he wants from you. he's always so damn gentle, even timid at times, wary of hurting you. you want him to turn his strength onto you.

you think of the time jason maneuvered you without a hitch from a sitting position on his dick to fucking you very tenderly on your back. the thrill of his strength rushes back to you and you imagine him trapping your arms against your sides and lifting you however he wants like you're a cock toy. just a vessel for him to dump all his cum.

"y'okay? should i get off, honey?" jason asks, and why the fuck is he still soft? you're about to cream your shorts and jason's still soft and careful, stuck and confused by your reaction.

"get hard," you beg, trying your best to wiggle around and help the process. you need jason hard. need his fat dick pressing into you. jason can't hide it when he's hard, and that embarrasses him, having a cock and balls so big that he can't hide when his body is aroused. you can picture it now, jason swelling up in his sweats, straining against the fabric. he'd leave a wet spot if you rubbed against him for a while, too eager to stop himself from leaking through his briefs. he's always so flustered when you grind on him and let your pussy catch on his dick, let him know how badly you need him inside of you.

"huh?" he asks, genuinely bewildered. "wait, baby, wh—"

"c'mon," you whine, dragging out the word. you're desperately rubbing against his cock while he's on you. "my clit's hard. want your dick inside. hold me down and stick it in."

and it works. jason's hardening against your ass, blood swelling him up. it takes a minute and you're relentless as jason gets bigger and bigger. you're panting now, gagging for it. jason slides a hand under your stomach, unsure. you rut against him, so eager to be fucked.

"a-ah," he hisses, wondering how it got to this point, how there's friction from your wet panties rubbing against his sweats. now he's dizzy too. "hold you down?"

you practically purr.

"yeah," you say, blindly wrapping an arm around his neck so he knows not to go anywhere. "yeah, yeah, hold me. fuck me." you wiggle under him, impatient. why isn't he grabbing your hips and breeding you already?

his pubic bone is pressed against the slope of your ass, chest to your back. he's so goddamn big, all muscle and fat and strength. you test his weight on you and you can't move. the realization makes you whine, high and long.

"hm? want me to let you up?" jason asks, sweet as always.

you shake your head. "no, no, fuck me. stay on me. make me feel it."

slowly, jason rests more of his weight on you. you whine, arching against him as much as his weight allows. you bump his cock with your ass and he groans.

"fuck, what—how'd you get like this? what'd i do?" he asks, breathing hard.

you whine. "nothing. that's the problem! start fucking me, jason."

so he does, because if there's anything jason is good at with you, it's doing what he's told. what a good dog.

he pushes in slowly, carefully, and you yowl like you're in heat, fingernails scraping against the carpet. as soon as he's in all the way, you're thrusting back and forth a little, your stomach to the floor, legs bent and spread as far as they'll go. it's like a nice little yoga stretch, except you're stuffed full with a cock that was made to breed. if it was up to you, you'd keep jason tied up and hard, ready for you to sit on him whenever you want.

and then you start to feel it. his fat balls are slapping against your cunt. you get so wet when you spot the imprint of them in jason's sweatpants or through his towel. how he walks around without a second thought, you don't know. if you had a horse's cock like his, you'd be pushing it into a drippy little cunt whenever you could.

maybe that's what's so good, the fact that you know jason's pleasure is overwhelming, that it's hard to think when he's straining against his zipper and he's cupping himself in desperation, humiliated by his obvious arousal yet unable to do a thing about it. and yet he always shows self-control. he won't even mention how hard he is to you unless it's you pushing against him like you are right now, cunt hot, mind cloudy, your body throbbing at the idea of jason pushing into you.

jason starts whimpering, moans clenched tight. you know he's embarrassed about liking you under him so much. he's supposed to be this hulking mass of control and intimidation and sharp wit, and then you start rubbing against his dick, and all of that goes out the window.

jason's still holding back. you know he can do more.

you drag his hands to cup your tits. jason whines like this is the first time he's getting to touch you.

"see how big you are?" you say. "i can't do anything, you're so big. all i can do is take it while you get hard and fat and hold my tits and fuck my pussy. how does it feel, being this strong, knowing you can knock me up whenever you want?"

"don't–don't wanna take you," jason pants. "just wanna give ya what y'want—"

"what i want is for you to give in," you snarl, squeezing jason. he keens, babbling for mercy. "stop holding back."

his breath is hot on your neck. he grunts as he adjusts himself, bracing his legs. big hands fondle your tits, flicking the nipples with his thumbs. you're his.

"'kay, baby," he says, your shoulder blades pressed to his pecs. "gonna give you what you want. anything. give ya anything."

and then jason starts to fuck you. and he doesn't hold back. you scrabble for purchase with your hands but it doesn't matter because soon, jason shifts so one arm is trapping your arms to your front. his other hand goes to your clit, rubbing ferociously. you're gasping and jason's breathing hard, his teeth resting on your neck.

you wish you could see yourself in a mirror right now, getting bred by your boyfriend. you wish you could see the sweat on your face, the way you're dwarfed by him on you. you imagine the visual of your helplessness; all you can do is let jason give you your pleasure while he takes his in the process.

"c'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon," he's saying, muscles rippling with effort. you can feel his stomach on your back, his legs on either side. you're completely engulfed by him. your tits are squished under his arm, and every other part of you is sandwiched between him and the floor.

"c-close, close," you choke out, and jason makes a low, satisfied noise.

"good. wanted this so bad? got wet and soft thinkin' about it?"

you nod, eyes squeezing shut. the pleasure is so acute and sharp, it almost hurts. your body pulls tighter and tighter until—

jason growls when you go limp from your orgasm, like you're prey that's been bitten into submission. he isn't far behind, and when jason comes, it leaks out of you like it always does, always too much. your cunt is thick with his cum and yours, messy and so relaxed, you can't control how it spasms as jason shifts inside of you.

he kisses your jaw, giving you both a moment to breathe and come down from your high. "wassit good?" he asks, genuine as always.

you laugh like the breath has been knocked out of your lungs.

#unhinged and unwell #well fuck me good morning indeed #🚫: not anime recs #📓: jason todd

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merelydaydreaming · 1 month ago

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super fan | jason todd

Summary: Three months into your relationship, your boyfriend Jason Todd finds your Red Hood poster. You're mortified. But Jason? Well, you've got his face in your room and your lips on his... truth be told, Jason maybe likes it a little too much that you're a super fan of his.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings/tags: bf!jason, you find jason and RH hot and that crosses some wires. jason takes advantage of your crush (in a hot way), competency kink, cocky jason, identity porn, minor violence, motorcycles, reader has a crush on RH but doesn't know jason is RH so it's a little complicated but NO cheating!! implied sexual content but NO explicit smut.

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Tonight, you're staying at Jason's place. You've only been dating three months, but it's going well enough that you're comfortable enough to stay over. Jason has hinted more than once that you can leave clothes at his place, but you insist on keeping all of your stuff at your apartment, just in case things go south. What's that rule? Six months and you’ll know whether he’s the one? Three months to go, then.

Call you crazy, but you think you might already know. Jason is fantastic and you’re sure you’re in love with him. Not that you're going to tell him that any time soon. But you know enough not to put all of your stock into a three-month relationship. Who knows what secrets Jason Todd might be hiding.

"How come you never invite me to your place?" Jason asks as he pulls up in front of your building. He'd offered to drive you both to his apartment on his motorcycle, and it's officially weird if you refuse him. He might think you're hiding something. And you are. Something mortifying.

"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.

Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."

"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”

"That doesn't matter to me, baby."

When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor.

"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.

"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"

"Jason..."

"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"

"You being less paranoid?"

"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"

You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.

"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.

"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."

"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."

"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"

You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"

Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.

"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.

"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"

You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.

"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.

Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"

"Um... because... because my room is a mess."

"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."

You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.

"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."

"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"

"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."

You sag. "You don't believe me."

Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"

You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."

"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"

"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."

"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"

You swing open the door. Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.

And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.

"Wow," Jason says.

You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."

You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.

But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.

Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.

But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now.

"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"

You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."

"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."

You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.

But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.

"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."

You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."

"Mm, I know it."

You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.

"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."

"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."

You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."

"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"

You hesitate, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"

Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.

"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"

"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.

"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"

"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."

You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.

"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"

"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.

"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."

You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"

Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.

"Evening."

…Maybe you should've let him know.

You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.

"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.

"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.

"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"

You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."

"Pretty late for the bus."

"It's June."

"It's Gotham."

You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."

"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"

You wince. "Well, not plenty—"

"Nobody to pick you up?"

You shrug. "No."

"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.

"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"

"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."

You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."

Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.

You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.

Hood pauses. "Everything okay?" he asks carefully. "Your heart rate spiked."

"Oh," you say breathlessly. "Yes, I'm okay."

You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"

You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."

Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."

You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."

He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.

"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."

"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."

He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"

"Uh-huh."

"Kinda crazy of ya."

You shrug. "Maybe."

"Hmm. We goin' home?"

"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.

"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."

"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."

"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.

"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."

"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."

"My-?"

"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."

"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"

"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"

You nod. "Okay. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"

You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.

"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."

"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."

He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.

Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.

"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.

Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.

"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.

"My boyfriend's."

He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"

You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."

Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."

You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."

"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."

You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.

"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."

You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.

"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."

For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?

"I'm okay," you say.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head. "No."

"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."

"I do."

Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.

Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.

"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.

"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first, then helps you off. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.

"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."

You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."

"Good. Have a good night."

He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.

"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.

"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"

Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.

"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."

"Hang on."

You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—

"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"

"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."

You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.

You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.

"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.

"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."

"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.

"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"

"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."

You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.

"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"

You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."

"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"

Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. He always runs a little cool and it feels good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.

"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."

"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."

"Two centuries ago, maybe. Please don't be jealous. Nothing happened, Jay."

You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.

But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."

You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"

"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."

"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.

"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"

"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.

"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."

"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."

"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."

"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"

"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."

Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."

You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."

Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."

"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.

Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.

"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."

You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"

"Yeah. That okay?"

"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."

Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.

Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.

You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.

You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.

Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?

"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."

"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.

"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."

Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"

"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."

"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."

The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor.

Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"

"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"

You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.

"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."

He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.

"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"

"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."

"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"

Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too.

"You'll go with me?"

"Always," you say.

He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."

Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.

"Your bike, huh?" you ask.

"My other bike."

"Uh-huh."

Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?

Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.

"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"

Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."

"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.

"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."

You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.

"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.

"Not better," you hiss.

He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."

"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."

"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.

"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.

"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."

"Listen, Dickbag—"

"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."

Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.

"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.

"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."

"Alfred?"

You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...

"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"

"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.

"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"

"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."

You frown. "Still..."

"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.

"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.

"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."

Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."

"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.

Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"

Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.

"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.

"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."

You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."

Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.

Maybe you'll put your poster back up.

#i wanna die #this was soooo good #i haven't read a good jason fic in sooo long!#📖: fic recs #🚫: not anime recs #📓: jason todd

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merelydaydreaming · 1 month ago

Text

This could be us - Matsukawa

for @xoxojisu and @sillyootori - words: 4,8k

Ahead of you, a boy and a girl are holding hands.

Issei nudges you and nods in their direction.

"This could be us, but you're playing."

You kick him in the shin.

- - -

“Oh, this is amazing!” Matsukawa-san cheers, snapping away. Your own mother stands with her hands folded in front of her chest, like a prayer.

“No, don’t let go,” Matsukawa-san demands when you try to pull your hand out of Issei’s grip. “This is too cute.”

You’re four years old and it’s your first day of kindergarten. And of course, Issei is coming along.

Your parents - your mothers, to be specific - meet in one of these ridiculous pregnancy prep courses, where you learn how to breathe properly and spend too much money on multivitamins. They bond over all those things women tend to bond about - the brand of their shoes, the fact that this is going to be their first and only pregnancy, or the seemingly sweet idea of not wanting to know your baby's gender until birth.

Only that they both know exactly what they want their baby to be.

The Matsukawas are hoping for a girl. The nursery has already been painted a pale pink, and princess dresses arrive in every gift from every possible family member or friend. They believe in manifesting their dreams, so they do.

And your parents, well, your parents own a Funeral Home, or rather, your Dad does, like his Dad and others before him. He doesn’t consider the possibility of having a daughter, because why would he? It’s not going to happen.

Only it does.

- - -

“No, Issei, don’t drag your hands through her hair, your hands are dirty.”

“Sweetie, don’t bite Issei, that’s not nice. I said no biting!”

- - -

Kindergarten seems nice. Lots of children your age, with a playground outside and rooms filled with toys inside.

It seems fun enough that you can tolerate having to hold Issei’s hand on the way there, the way he makes too big steps, and drags you along, or the fact that Matsukawa-san takes pictures of you every single morning.

She’s obsessed with putting you into cute little dresses.

But Kindergarten is only nice until you have to start sharing those nice toys.

“No,” you hold onto the doll you’d picked out, her hair short like you want yours to be. “I’m playing with this one now.”

“But I want it!” The other girl is bigger than you, and meaner too, tugging on the doll with all her might. “Give it to me!”

“She said no!” Issei points out from your side, smacking her in the face with what you later learn is one of his shoes.

He gets detention for that.

You save him half of your dessert.

In here, where your parents aren’t constantly trying to force you to play with each other, Issei is not half bad.

He lets you join him and the boys when they’re playing ball - you’re really fast and you’ve got a good aim - and when he gets bored or the weather is bad, he sits next to you and keeps the mean girls away, making up stories for all the dolls.

But you can’t have any nice things with all those adults around.

“They are getting along very well,” your teacher explains when your parents visit. “I’d call these two best friends if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your mother clutches her pearls, and Matsukawa-san wipes away a tear before it can destroy her perfect makeup.

“Is that true?” They ask in unison while your fathers share a knowing look.

You lean in as if to hug Issei… and bite his arm as hard as you can.

- - -

“Please, Hanamaki-kun, could you sit in between these two?” Sensei asks a tall, gangly boy with pinkish hair. “I can already tell they’re going to be trouble.”

You scowl. Issei pulls a face. But Hanamaki perseveres, slipping into the chair between the two of you.

“What’s the matter?” He asks when Sensei’s back is turned. “Are you siblings?”

“Separated at birth,” Issei nods. “No,” you hiss, “We were switched at birth. Switched.”

“That’s the same,” Issei drawls.

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“You two,” Sensei turns back, glaring. “If I hear one more word from you, you’ll get detention. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sensei.”

Hanamaki is like a leech. But a nice one.

He’s impossible to get rid of and impossible to ignore. He’s as tall as Issei, which you hate, but he knows more jokes than you’ve ever heard. And he never snitches.

“So,” Hanamaki pulls three Chuupets out of a mixed bag and offers one to each of you. “Do you guys hate each other or not?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Issei asks, biting into his sweet and slurping it up.

“Yeah, I thought I made it clear.” You add, knocking your knee against his in the hopes of making him choke. “Also, why did you get pineapple? I wanted pineapple.”

“You hate pineapple.”

“I don’t hate it,” you disagree, “I just didn’t want it the last time.”

“Every single time we had Chuupets, you didn’t want pineapple,” Issei points out. “What am I supposed to do, throw it back up like a mother bird?”

“You could have asked,” you argue, knocking your knee against his again. “He could have asked, right, Hanamaki?”

Hanamaki makes a face as if he’s thinking about it. “I think you should throw it back up,” he decides. “It would be gross, but also kind of cool.”

Issei’s face falters next. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“I can!” You tell them, not sure of it at all, but you won’t let them best you in anything. “It’s not that hard.”

“You can’t.”

“Can too.”

Hanamaki isn’t the only thing new about Elementary School.

It’s a little further away, and a bus takes you back and forth, one that your parents can’t ride with you.

One ride takes twenty minutes, which makes forty glorious minutes each day where you and Issei can sit right at the back, hide behind the backrest of the row ahead, and just… talk.

“I like Hanamaki,” Issei declares on the ride back home that first day, offering you a Chuppet he must have kept for later. It’s pineapple flavored.

“Me too,” you agree, pulling a chocolate from your own backpack to share with him. “He’s funny.”

Issei considers that for a second.

“Funnier than me?”

“No, just different.” You take a bite of the pineapple-flavored Chuupet and grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Issei grins. “Told you.”

- - -

“A Volleyball Camp?” Your mother asks, looking surprised. “But isn’t that too boyish for you? Matsukawa-san has found some really great camps for girls, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” you nod, bowing your head a little. “But we’ve been playing it in school, and I like it.”

“I don’t know,” your mother says, drawing out the syllables. “I will have to talk to Matsukawa-san about that. She really wanted you to go to this one camp. What was it called? Something about modelling, I’m sure.”

“I thought you’re my Mom,” you point out, and the flush in her cheeks tells you you’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

“We’re paying for Issei’s camp,” your mother tells you primly, clinging to her pearls. “So it’s only right that Matsukawa-san has a say in your holiday plans as well.”

“But Issei’s going to Volleyball Camp too.”

“Oh?” Your mother's mood switches terrifyingly fast. “Is that so? Well, in that case, I think I can allow it. You two really are close, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s not it! We just happen to both like the same- Mom!” You protest when it becomes clear she’s no longer listening.

Volleyball Camp is fun. There are not many girls there, but you’re too talented to be kept to the side as a manager, so they let you play along with the boys.

You make the most of it. Hide behind the changing rooms with Issei and Hanamaki to plan out pranks. You get caught pretty fast, but not after making an ass of the star player, pretty little Oikawa Tooru.

- - -

Junior High

“Here,” Iwaizumi offers you half his chocolate. “I still owe you for back in camp.”

You glance at the sweet. You remember him from Volleyball Camp, but not what he owes you. “Why?”

“No one dares to make fun of Oikawa. It was hilarious.”

“Thanks,” you take the offer. “But aren’t you his best friend?”

“So?” Iwaizumi shrugs. “I guess we’re like you and Matsukawa.”

“In love?”

He blushes a feverish red. “What? Yuck! No! Are you-?!”

You laugh. “Relax. I hate him and I don’t hate him. I was just teasing you.”

“That was mean.”

You shrug. “Maybe a little.”

With Iwaizumi and Oikawa around, you’re sure Junior High isn’t going to be half bad.

“What’s going on with you?” You ask Issei on the way home. The bus route has gotten longer, but neither of you minds.

“Nothing.” He knocks his knee into yours. You knock yours back into his.

“You’re an awful liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too. Don’t try to distract me.”

He pouts. Looks out the window.

“Your Dad,” he finally offers as an explanation. “He wants me to start working with him. Just once a month to get training in.”

You sit up straight. “WHAT? I have been asking him for ages to teach me!”

Issei cringes. “I know. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” you hesitate suddenly. “What if you ask if I can join?”

“He’s not your Mom.”

“Right.” You sigh. “I wish your Mom had a cool job like my Dad.”

Issei cringes. “I wish my Dad would let me help him with work. But it’s always ‘You’re not good with numbers, Issei.’”

“He’s a dick,” you say emphatically. “You are good with numbers.”

“Thanks.” Issei leans his head against the window. “But he’s right.”

It’s unusual to see him this down. Rare enough that it shakes you out of your jealousy.

You lean in, the familiar scent of him washing over you.

Your mother washes Issei’s clothes. It’s a stupid thing, really, but it all started with Matsukawa-san’s obsession with pretty dresses. And it didn’t seem fair for her to do your clothes and Issei’s at the same time, so now your mothers meet twice a week to swap laundry baskets, chatting over your respective growth spurts.

It’s why he always smells like your mother's laundry detergent, the softener she uses for your father's clothes, like home and yet, not home, because Issei always smells like himself too.

You lean in a little further, until your chin rests on his shoulder and your cheek presses against his.

Issei is warm and solid, trustworthy despite his sometimes awful attitude.

Seeing him hurt hurts you too, in a way you don’t want to think about, not now, not ever.

Overwhelmed by that strange buzz in your chest, that fuzzy feeling in your stomach, the warmth in your veins, you open your mouth and dig your teeth into his cheek.

Issei yelps.

And then he fights back.

They kick you off the bus less than five minutes later.

Ahead of you, a boy and a girl are holding hands.

Mattsun nudges you and nods in their direction.

"This could be us, but you're playing."

You kick him in the shin.

“Hey,” Issei drops into the seat on your right, his shoulders heavy with a burden only you know about.

“Hey,” you nudge his knee with yours, but do nothing against him sinking into you.

“You look like hell, man,” Iwaizumi points out. “Are you sick?”

Issei shakes his head and closes his eyes, falling asleep with his head on your shoulder.

You could shake him off. Kick him in the shin. Bite him. But you don’t quite dare when you know he’s feeling like hell.

“What’s going on?” Iwaizumi asks, whispering over the sound of pens scratching over paper, pages being turned. “Do you know something?”

“He’s started working for my Dad,” you whisper back. “They had to burry a kid this weekend.”

Iwaizumi pales.

You wonder if he, too, needs comforting now. Like Issei did, late last night, sneaking into your bedroom through the open window.

It’s hard work, you know. Your Dad never made it look easy.

But you wonder, not for the first time, if this is where it stops being fun and games.

They can’t keep switching you around forever. Not when it breaks Issei in the end.

You give him another week.

Not because you want to, but because he asks you too.

One week of him slipping into your bedroom at night, your bed too short for his long legs, his arms always knocking against something as he tries to get comfortable.

In the darkness, you can admit that you like this.

The shared warmth, giggling when his breath tickles your neck.

And he’s always gone in the morning, way before your heart can kick up the dust that has settled over your anxieties.

“I want to continue working there,” Issei tells you on Friday, looking over the school grounds from his perch on the rooftop ledge. “I’m sure it will get better.”

You grimace. “What if it doesn’t?”

“What?” He grins. “You think I’m scared.”

“It would be okay if you were.”

“You just want the job for yourself.”

“Yes. And?”

He laughs, the sound unexpected and not less sweet.

“And here I thought you began to like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t lie to yourself.” But you let him pull you into something like a hug, wondering if he, too, misses the scent of his mothers laundry detergent.

You start working for his Dad the very next day.

- - -

High School

“And then I dared him to kiss Emi,” Oikawa finishes, waving his hands around. “Now we wait what will happen. Hanamaki is with him to make sure he does it.”

You stare at him. Oikawa laughs awkwardly. “What? It’s funny.”

Iwaizumi scowls low under his breath. “You idiot. Don’t you-”

You get up before he can finish his sentence. “I think I wanna make sure he does it, just as much as Hanamaki. Where did you see them last?”

“The Gym,” Oikawa helpfully supplies and off you go, your hands shaking with a rage you didn’t know yourself capable off.

It’s not like this is the first step into the foreign land of dating. Not for you and not for Issei. Even Iwaizumi has gotten confessed to already, although he’s still working on the “accepting the confession” part.

But- But-

You spot Hanamaki first, his telltale head of hair. You slip your left shoe off, aim and nail him in the head with it.

“What the f-” He ducks when he sees you aim the next shoe, and that’s just as well, because he’d been standing in the way.

Issei catches your other shoe, blinking in surprise. “What did I do now?”

“You know exactly what you did!” You shriek, stomping over. “A dare?!”

“Oh,” Issei blinks once more. “That. Oikawa told you?”

You’re still shaking with rage, unable to get the words out. There are no words for what you’re feeling, this kind of betrayal that runs red hot through your insides.

“Are you jealous?” Hanamaki asks, and he’s lucky Issei knows you better than the rest of them, that he’s not afraid to step in and pull you back by your shoulders when you’re already launching yourself forward.

“Let me go!” You hiss, trying to break free from what could have been a hug but feels more like a straight jacket. “I’ll kill him.”

“You wouldn’t survive in jail.”

“Try me.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna leave now.” He salutes you, or maybe rather Issei, before turning away.

Issei’s still holding you, though his head rests now on top of yours, as if keeping you contained is no work at all.

“You’re dead to me,” you tell him, trying to sound as mad as you feel.

“Mhm,” he makes in the back of your throat. “For what? For eating dirt.”

“No, you know what for.”

“I’m not sure, because I ate dirt before and you didn’t react like that then.”

“You didn’t eat dirt just now.”

“I did,” he sounds actually proud of it. “But now I won’t get to see Oikawa’s face when Makki tells him. Shame on you.”

All fight leaves you. Issei still keeps a hold on you.

“You ate dirt? But Okaiwa said he dared you to-”

“Kiss Emi or eat dirt. And wouldn’t you know, the ground behind the Gym tastes just like last time.”

“Let me turn around!” You whine when he keeps you firm in his hold. “I need to look you in the eyes so I can smack you over the head.”

“Nah,” He curls around you a little more, tightening his hold. “I think I prefer it this way. I’m your straightjacket now.”

You’re pretty sure you could fight your way to freedom. You’ve done it before, during pillow fights and other times.

But Issei’s warm. He smells good. And he didn’t kiss Emi. He didn’t kiss anyone at all.

“Issei?” You slip through his bedroom window, hissing when you step on the buckle of his belt on the floor.

He grunts sleepily and you make your way to his bed, the room familiar from all the times you were forced to visit as a child.

It’s been a while since he snuck over. A while since he had nightmares from working at the funeral home.

His back is warm when you slip under the covers, his bare skin as familiar as if it were your own.

“I had a dream just now,” you admit into the quietness of his room. “But I’m not sure if I was dreaming or if I was still a little bit awake.”

“Hmm?”

Your heart races as you press your face into the crook of his neck, willing yourself to talk.

But the words won’t come.

You can’t tell him. Unshed tears burn, but these won’t come either.

“What did you dream off?” Issei asks, turning. His chest is even warmer, his hands familiar with the shape of you, pulling you in.

“Was it me?”

“Mhm.”

“Was it a nice dream?”

“Mhm.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Did we kiss?”

“Mhm,” you’re almost unable to make the sound. But he must have known, right? How else could he have guessed.

“Funny,” he yawns as if he doesn’t care at all. “I had the same dream before you barged in here.”

Quiet settles as you process his words. One after the other after the other.

His skin is warm against yours. His breath washes over you.

“Want to try and see if it’s like we dreamed?”

In the end, you’re not sure who said it. Sometimes your voices sound too similar to keep them apart.

- - -

There’s always been a part of Issei only you knew.

You know the depths of his anger, and how easy it can be for him to cry.

You know the pranks he’s pulled as a child, some that will never be mentioned ever again, and you know that he prefers to sleep with his socks on.

You know which color lipstick he likes best on you. That he’s ticklish on his sides. That his eyes flutter shut when you kiss the side of his mouth, or the curve of his brows.

“Where are you going?” Your mother asks.

“Out,” you slip into your shoes. “I’m going on a date.”

She gasps. “A date? With who? Does Matsukawa-san know?”

You still and stare up at her. “Why should she know?”

The angry red flush on her cheeks tells you that you’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

“After everything she’s done for you, it’s only fair-”

“She’s not my Mom,” you point out, that rebellious streak never leaving you. “You are. And I’m telling you that I’m going on a date.”

She’s pale now. Shaken.

“Do I know him?”

“You do,” you nod. “Someone from my school.”

“And?”

“And I’ll be back in time.” You lean in to kiss her on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me.”

“I told my Dad I’m out with Makki,” Issei says when you meet him at the end of the street, your hand finding his like it was always meant to be.

“And Makki?”

“Makki knows I’m with you.”

You grimace.

“Makki doesn’t snitch.”

“He might.”

“He wouldn’t.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s your sorry ass if he does.”

“You like my ass.”

You roll your eyes even harder. “You wish.”

Life is good when you’re with Issei. When it’s just you and him. When you can forget about the anger inside you and the unfairness of the world around.

But sometimes it still manages to intrude on your moments.

“Sometimes I think I should run away,” Issei admits one evening, the two of you huddled up on a swing set meant for smaller children than you are, pretending that the city lights below you are a worthwhile exchange for the stars you cannot see.

“Yeah?” You rest your head on his shoulder. “Where to?”

“Not sure. Europe, maybe. Oikawa is talking about going to Argentina. And Iwaizumi is applying to some College in America.”

“You couldn’t survive without Makki in the same country as you,” you tease him, your heart beating double time trying to catch up with your head.

But Issei’s always been quicker at this than you are.

“Could you survive without me in the same country?”

You purse your lips. The words are hard to come by. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you’ve learned how dangerous it is to be honest.

But Issei’s got weapons that he knows how to use. The depth of his gaze and the warmth of his hold. It eases the truth from you every single time.

“No,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how to be myself without you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the way he leans into you, heavy and warm and himself in every way, you know he feels the same.

“What if we applied together?”

“Europe?”

He grins. “Three picks each. Better chances.”

Issei gets accepted to a College in Scotland. You can’t pronounce the name properly and he teases you about it, counting down the days until your own letter arrives.

You know he wants to go. You can see it in his eyes, in every single movement he makes.

But your letter doesn’t want to come. You hear from Germany first - they won’t take you. Spain arrives next, a thick envelope filled with papers and brochures, the letter heavy with promises of the future. It sits heavy in the first drawer of your nightstand.

You want to go. You want to leave this life behind, be yourself and nothing more… but not without Issei.

The letter is too thin. You know what it says without opening it.

So you don’t. Put it in a bag with the others, slide it into your backpack and race down the stairs.

“I’m going out,” you tell your mother in the kitchen, don’t wait for a response.

Issei hasn’t yet stepped out of his house so you race down the street, your heart beating double time to make up for it.

He catches you just in time, slides onto the bus right beside you.

Issei’s heavy against your side, leaning into you with everything that he is.

You wonder if he could burry you, if he tried.

Neither of you talks until you have to step off, cross the street and get onto the train.

Makki waves from where he’s saved both of you a seat. You sit on his left and Issei on his right.

Makki chatters away, swaying into you or Issei everytime the train takes a little turn, but the things he doesn’t say weigh heavier.

“I can’t do it!” Oikawa declares with his usual flair, thrusting his letter forward. “Someone else do it for me.”

You pick the letter from his hands and rip it open, ignoring his dramatic whining as you start to read out loud.

“Dear Oikawa Tooru. We are happy to tell you that we welcome you to our team- Wait, team?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa beams proudly. “I’m not going to College. I’m going to become a Professional Athlete instead.”

You stare dumbly down at the paper in front of you. “In Argentina.”

“In Argentina! Iwa-chan, you’re next.”

“I already read it,” Iwaizumi waves his paper about. “I got accepted. California.”

“And you’re going?” You ask. He blinks back at you. “Course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Issei and you share a look. Makki’s quiet for the first time since you’ve met him, all those years ago.

“I got accepted to a College in Spain,” you admit, pulling the colorful brochures out of your bag. “But I’m not going.”

“You’re not?” Oikawa asks, clearly confused. “Why not?”

“Because someone needs to take care of Makki,” you point out. “And I’ve already got a job offer from Issei’s Dad.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re just worried about Makki. Sure.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Because I’m a good friend, unlike you.”

“That’s not-”

“I’m staying too,” Issei interrupts Oikawa. The brochures in his hands are slick with sweat. “I got a job offer as well. What’s in Scotland that I can’t have here?”

“Girls,” Oikawa offers, squeaking in pain when Iwaizumi hits him over the head.

Makki’s still quiet. Your eyes meet Issei’s over his head and your heart leaps when an idea forms in your head.

“We could move in together. After school.”

- - -

Adult Life

“No,” you stare at the blinking numbers. “NO!”

The door opens. Issei blinks at you, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

“The washing machine isn’t done yet!” You point at the offender. “It said ten minutes left thirty minutes ago!”

Issei grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you out of the room.

You put up a fight but he’s stronger than you, and soon you find yourself on the other side of the door.

“What’s it now?” Makki asks from the kitchen table. He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces .”The milk went bad.”

“I told you to buy some two days ago.”

“I know,” he pours his coffee down the drain. “But I told you not to tell me what to buy while I’m sitting on the toilet. Have some respect, will you?”

“I-”

Makki turns to glare at you. “I pretend I’m sharing a room with Issei everytime your parents come over. You can let me have my toilet time in peace.”

“Fine,” you huff. “Did you at least buy Cereal?”

“What about toilet time and groceries did you not understand?”

Your parents wouldn’t have let you move out on your own.

So when it became clear that you’d do it anyway, they sat down with the Matsukawa’s and offered you a compromise.

They’d pay half of your rent if you’d be willing to take in Issei as a roommate.

You whined and Issei bargained. Now they’re paying half the rent and Makki’s name is on the lease as well.

They come over every second weekend. So far they still have no clue you’re dating.

“Look at you,” Issei meets you at the front door half an hour later, his breath minty fresh as he leans in for a kiss. “You look like a proper office bee.”

You grimace. “That doesn’t sound sexy.”

“It is to me.” He presses another kiss against your temple. “Now tell me I look sexy in my suit.”

You give him a once over. “You look decent.”

Issei grins. “Is that supposed to be a compliment.”

“I’ll get you a better suit once I get my promotion.”

“Now we’re talking.” He takes your hand as you head on down the street, toward the subway station. “Do you want to get a drink after work? Spend some time without our annoying roommate?”

“I heard that!” Makki points out two steps behind you. “I’m coming with!”

- - -

The door to your room opens.

You sit up, ready to yell at Makki for waking you early on a Sunday, only to come face to face with your mother. And Matsukawa-san right behind her.

“No one was opening the door,” Matsukawa-san points out politely. “And we have a second set of keys for emergencies.”

Your mouth is dry. On your left, Issei wakes, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he sits up as well. He’s barely wearing any clothes.

“Oh… Well…” Your mother squeaks. “I always knew you two got along well.”

Issei looks at her, slowly registering her words. He looks at his mother, at the impatient curve of her mouth. When he looks at you, you catch a glimpse of a time past.

Of fights during photo sessions and biting him to make sure everyone knew you hated him - even though you didn’t. Of him sitting on top of you or pulling your hair.

You’re not sure who raises the pillow first. But you both try smothering each other at the same time.

“You two are hopeless,” your mothers say, slipping out of the room. “We’ll be in the kitchen, cleaning up. It’s a mess.”

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#i enjoyed this #it was really good #i couldnt wrap my head around the step mom ish feeling of mattsuns mom #but still a good read #📖: fic recs

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merelydaydreaming · 2 months ago

Text

"You have the patience of a saint."

You glance up at Natsuo just in time to watch as he slumps into the seat across from you at the dining table, your attention momentarily diverted from the stack of papers in your hands: a few tasks you had to bring home from the office because you have a deadline looming, a bill that needs to be paid, and a report from Hotaru's schoolteacher all jumbled together in a disorganized pile for you to get through by the end of the evening. The dishes from dinner are still unwashed in the kitchen, resting in the sink under the tap that started leaking again last week. The kids' toys need to be tidied up. You're not sure if Touya remembered to do the laundry today, so that might also require your attention.

And that's to say nothing of the bedtime routine you know is drawing dangerously near, though your children show absolutely no sign of tiring yet—not with their uncles still hanging around the house, riling them up.

You laugh a little, mostly to yourself, as you mull over Natsuo's comment.

"I really don’t."

On the other side of the room, Touya and Shouto are locked in (what you presume is) their fiftieth round of Mario Kart of the evening. Your son, Hotaru, sits square in his youngest uncle's lap; nestled comfortably in the cradle of the man's much longer legs, their socked feet overlapping. Your daughter, Aoi, bounces on the balls of her feet as she watches the race raptly from behind Touya's back. She's squeezed into the narrow space between his body and the sofa, with a hand on her father’s shoulder for balance—little fingers twisted into the soft cotton of his ratty old t-shirt.

“PAPA’S CHEATING!” Hotaru cries, an accusatory finger pointed towards the screen, though you're not sure what exactly he's trying to highlight.

“Am not!” your husband answers the charge with equal indignation—though he is, almost assuredly, guilty.

Aoi joins in to their squabble shortly thereafter, at the age where frankly she's always happy to argue, and soon even Shouto has gotten involved—probably just to be included (though from the bits and pieces you can make out in the chaos, he seems to be trying his best to keep the peace.)

Contrary to Natsuo's earlier remark, you've never considered yourself very patient. At least not any more than the average person. Maybe you've mellowed out a bit over the years, maybe you've gained a bit of perspective as a consequence of living, but of all the virtues you might possess, your patience is surely not the most remarkable.

"Ow! Aoi, did you just bite me?" Touya howls dramatically. "I thought you were on my side!"

At least she's biting something, you think to yourself—her plate was left almost entirely uneaten at dinner as recently she's decided she hates all food that doesn't come in a pouch and taste like fruit. You reach for that bill you need to pay.

Across the room, you hear the sound of squabbling give way to laughter: the kids giggling, warm and uncontrollable, as Touya snatches Aoi up in his arms and then goes chasing after her older brother.

"C'mon, you little runts. If you're not gonna support your own father's racing career, you're sentenced to bedtime."

A harmony of little Noooo!-s peals out between giggles as Touya wrestles the kids in his arms. He totes them directly over to you at the table.

"We've raised traitors," he says huffily as he stands at your side with Hotaru tucked under his arm like a duffle bag and Aoi perched comfortably on his hip.

"No betraying Papa," you chastise your children without an ounce of sincerity, and Hotaru giggles again. His face is close to you since you're seated and he's level with his father's waist, held mostly horizontally. You lean over and brush your nose against his, then press a kiss to his cheek.

"I'll come say goodnight once your jammies are on," you tell him, and Hotaru nods dutifully (still horizontal.) Aoi is the one you're more concerned about—known to resist bedtime with all the ruthlessness you'd expect from a kid willing to sink her teeth into her own father over a round of Mario Kart to which she was only a spectator—but to your surprise, when you glance up at your daughter, you find her with her head resting against Touya's shoulder. Her eyes are barely winning the war against sleep to stay open.

You smile a bit to yourself.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," Touya grumbles, hitching Hotaru up slightly under his arm and turning towards the hallway leading to the kids' bedrooms. He pauses momentarily, glancing down at the paper in your hands.

"Oh, I paid that one this morning," he remarks, swinging your son idly at his side, his little arms and legs swaying as they dangle. "Meant to put it in the other pile, sorry."

You nod, setting the bill off to the side of the stack of papers (now one page shorter than it was before) and Touya heads off into battle with one of your kids in either arm and a pair of novelty printed slippers on his feet that shuffle as he goes.

You're not patient.

It's not patience because you know how hard Touya’s trying. You see it. Every day, in all that he does, in every way he changes and grows.

The Touya you met all those years ago was selfish by basic instinct, as a means of self-preservation. He acted in his own interests because life had taught him that no one else was going to. That part of him isn't entirely gone—all the good things in you and Touya's life together hasn't just wiped away the things that came before it. He still cheats at video games. He doesn't always know how to put what he's thinking and feeling into words. He lashes out sometimes when he's frustrated, or tired, or overwhelmed.

But it's not patience that keeps you at his side.

Because even though Touya doesn’t always get things right, he never stops trying. He wants to be good. He is good. To you. To your kids. To his siblings. Not perfect—but as good as he can be that day, and better still the next. You can’t ask for more than that.

"Shouto, we should get going soon," Natsuo says, pushing himself up from the table beside you shortly after your husband has left the room.

"Do we have to?" Shouto asks, curled up on your sofa with one of Aoi's plush toys under his arm. "I was gonna challenge Touya to a rematch."

""He's gonna kick your ass again," Natsuo scoffs, shuffling over to the sofa and plunking down beside his little brother. "Let me at least get a round in while he's outta the room."

"Hotaru's probably gonna want one of you to read him a bedtime story," you remind them without looking up, busy signing off on the report from your son's teacher. Lines like collaborates well with his classmates and curious and eager to learn filling your heart with a little swell of pride.

You hear a little scuffle across the room and look up to see the two youngest Todoroki brothers scrambling over each other in their haste to dash down the hall.

"You read it last time!" Natsuo laments.

"Hotaru likes me best," Shouto counters simply, hopping over the ottoman in the centre of the room and skittering off towards your son's room—his brother close on his heels.

You laugh a bit to yourself as you watch them.

It's quiet once the room is empty, just the distant sound of the dripping kitchen tap and the looping audio from the screen of the video game left forgotten on the television on the other side of the room.

There are still toys strewn across the floor. The dishes still need to be taken care of. You still don't know if Touya did that laundry.

But down the hall your children are tucked up in their warm beds, with (mostly) full bellies, in clean pyjamas, being read bedtime stories by the uncles who adore them under the watchful eye of their father—who you're sure is pretending like this isn't his favourite part of the day, even though it is.

The house will get clean. The tap will get fixed. The bills will get paid. The laundry will get done. Maybe not tonight, but eventually.

No, you're not patient...

"Hey," Touya's head pokes around the corner. He's got a sparkly clip in his hair you're sure is courtesy of Aoi. His gaze is soft. "You gonna come say goodnight before they knock out?"

You close your laptop, standing from your seat at the table and wincing a little at the stiffness in your limbs—reaching your arms out in front of you in a stretch. Touya catches your hand before it can fall, twining your fingers together.

... you're lucky.

#sighs papa Touya #i love him methinks #📖: fic recs #🧷: dabi

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merelydaydreaming · 2 months ago

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scarlet ink — blue lock, yakuza boss!itoshi sae x f!reader, arranged marriage, estranged childhood friends, aged up characters, mentions of violence typical for yakuza but nothing graphic, smut, piv sex, oral f!receiving, virginity loss for f!reader, (unrealistic) first time sex, squirting, alcohol consumption, semi public (car) sex, reader is referred to as "my wife" and "greedy girl" and "good girl", honestly a pwp that ended up having some plot, 10.1k words

collab fic for cherry velvet run by @iwaasfairy

Itoshi Sae may be a high ranking member of the yakuza, but you have a foolproof plan.

Step 1: marry him.

Step 2: kill him.

Perfect. Genius. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

"You can drop the act, now," Sae says mildly, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up his forearms. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his irezumi, at the indisputable fact that he belongs to the underworld. Cold teal eyes meet yours and you swallow.

This is not the same man you grew up with.

"Will we consummate our marriage before you try to kill me?"

"Haha…" you laugh weakly. "What do you mean?"

He raises an eyebrow. Drags a hand through his hair. You can't help but stare at his face, his hands, the way his shirt flexes with the movement. At least your new husband is hot.

Sae has always been attractive, but the years apart and… everything in between have made him hotter, somehow.

Too bad he has to die.

"You want to kill me," Sae says evenly. "So you forced your grandfather to offer your hand in marriage, to tie our families together. Once I die, you'll be able to seize control of my assets and reputation. But to do that —"

He takes a step forward, tilting his head so that he looks down at you with those cold, blank eyes. "To do that, we'll need to consummate our marriage. So what will it be?"

Well. Okay. Maybe you've fucked up.

How the hell does he know all of that? Your conversations were always behind closed doors — did someone spill the beans?

But — no, he doesn't know everything.

What are your options here? Deny it, and keep acting like you're deeply in love? Or do you — admit it, and see what happens? He knows your plan and hasn't hurt you for it. In fact, he even went along with it.

… But why?

"You still married me," you say carefully. It's not an admission to the plan, but it's close. It's kind of nice, having it all laid out. You've held these secrets for so long. Even your own family was kept in the dark. "Why?"

Sae pauses in the act of loosening his tie, lithe fingers still caught in the knot. It comes undone at his next tug, the expensive silk trailing down his chest. "… what about it?"

You splutter. You can't help it. Infuriating man.

"Aren't you — I dunno, worried about getting murdered or something?"

"If I took every threat to my life seriously I wouldn't get anything done," Sae says. "I'm aiming for the top. Anything else is irrelevant."

Heat floods your cheeks at the casual statement. It's annoying, but his confidence is… hot. You watch wordlessly as he undoes the top few buttons of his shirt.

"Well? I can still make this good for you, you know."

Ugh. It's a sudden, unpleasant reminder for what comes next. You've heard the stories from your friends in college — the pain, the fumbling hands, the discomfort of losing your virginity.

You raise your chin and meet his eyes. He suspects, but he still married you. Maybe you can drop the act, and his overconfidence will be his downfall. Maybe you can go back to your usual self. "We'll see about that."

Sae looks at you for a moment, those summer ocean eyes unreadable. For a blink, you think you catch the ghost of a smile on his lips, and oh — your heart does something traitorous at the sight.

He almost looks like he did all those years ago.

And then he's close, and his fingers grip your chin, holding you still as he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

Sae kisses you and it's warm. You thought he'd be cold like his eyes, but his hands and lips are warm, and soft, and carefully coaxing, until you can't help but kiss him back. Matching the movement of his lips and his tongue as he tilts your head, as you open up for him, reluctant to give in but forgetting your protests with every warm press of his lips and breath against yours.

He tastes like the sake you shared earlier during the ceremony.

The band around your waist loosens and you suck in a breath of surprise, but Sae keeps kissing you, both hands now working open your kimono until it hangs on your frame. You make a quiet noise of protest when he smirks into the kiss, but before you can object he's removed your hands from his shoulders — when did that happen — and the heavy fabric pools to the ground.

"Is that all it takes?" he asks, eyes half lidded. The way he looks at you makes you feel hot and shivery. "You're behaving already."

Asshole.

"Shut up," you bite out, stepping into his space and releasing a breath at the dense, solid muscle that meets your hands. Sae isn't as tall as other yakuza members you've seen, but he's sturdy, and still taller than you. It should make you feel small, being dressed in your underclothes like this while he's still fully dressed, but the sight of him just makes you want to ruin his stupid suit.

Sae lets you push him to the bed — your new bed, your marriage bed — and you almost think he'll let you get away with it, but as he gets close to the frame he turns, leans down to kiss you again, follows you as your back hits the mattress.

"Play nice," Sae murmurs, lips drifting to your ear. You shiver as he nips at the sensitive skin by your jaw. "You know how this works."

You do, in theory. But you're inexperienced. It was hard finding the energy for boyfriends when you were busy working all the time, trying to keep your family's debt at bay.

Besides, Rin and Sae always stared down boys who would approach you, offering cutting remarks within earshot until boys just stopped trying.

Sae makes you scoot up the bed, until your head rests on the pillows. The movement drags at your sheer under robe so that it hangs off your shoulders, open at the front, exposing your bare skin. You shiver.

He leans down to cover you immediately, lips pressing hot at your throat, your collarbones, the curve of your breasts. A funny sound escapes your mouth and he does it again, lips skimming whisper soft along your skin until he abruptly sucks your nipple between his teeth.

Your back bows as sensation crashes through you. "O-oh!"

Sae tugs your under robe the rest of the way off your body, exposing more of your skin to his touch. He huffs when you squirm, pins your hips still with his own. Your eyes widen at the hard outline of him pressing into your thighs.

"Be good," he murmurs.

"There's no way," you say, ache swirling in your gut. It's so hot. Sae clamps a hand on your thigh and guides your legs open, settles himself between them. The clear difference in strength makes you dizzy. "I-Itoshi-san…"

"Yes?"

What the hell. "Are you going to keep your clothes on?"

Sae raises an eyebrow. "Look at you. Begging already?"

You groan and roll your eyes. If this is how he's going to be, maybe you will ruin his stupid suit, after all. A glimmer of amusement lights up his eyes and he leans down to kiss you again. His breathing is steady and even, and you'd be offended except you can feel his fingers trembling slightly as they skirt the edge of your panties.

"Itoshi-san, this isn't going to work," you gasp, hips fidgeting against the hardness pressing on you. There's no way, right? How is he — even just like this, with your hips aligned — it just doesn't seem possible that he could — fit.

Sae huffs and his fingers catch at your waistband. "It will," he promises. You blink as he sits up to pull your panties down, shivering at the delicate grasp on your ankles as he maneuvers your legs up to slip them off you without moving from his spot between your knees. Your legs drop weakly back to the bed on either side of him. "You can hold on to me."

"Wh-why would I need to?" you ask, voice cracking as he slides a finger through your folds. Oh.

His gaze flicks up to yours as he does it again, something in his expression hungry and smug. You feel frozen, muscles tense, as he touches lightly at the bud half hidden beneath its hood and your curls, but the jolt of pleasure is so strong and sudden you cry out in shock.

Sae hums thoughtfully. You want to wiggle free, to get away from this touch that's driving you to madness, but he clamps one hand firm on your hip and pins you there. Heat rushes through you.

Beyond the sounds of your harsh breathing, you distantly hear the wet squelch of his fingers tracing leisurely patterns through your folds. Your thighs feel tight, your core wound up. You want — something.

Sae sinks down before you can protest, teal eyes steady on yours as he licks a stripe up your pussy.

You choke.

He seems to take it as a good sign, because he does it again. And again. And again — with a careful circle around your clit, his fingers leaving wet messy streaks as he pulls at your skin to expose the hard bud.

Once your clit is uncovered he pays special attention to it, careful about the pressure and sensation and heat. You squirm and wiggle and moan, unable to help it, wanting to escape and get closer all at the same time.

You can't even tell if you're saying words at all, but you know Sae hears you when he slides one finger into your tight walls.

He exhales, hard.

"Itoshi-kun, Itoshi —"

You feel full and empty all at once. Sae keeps his attention on your clit as he fingers you open carefully, reaching spots inside you that you didn't even know existed. You've never brought yourself to completion before — always too scared by the pleasure, too self conscious to fully let go.

But Sae is relentless and unforgiving, and your thoughts unspool into white noise. You whimper when he adds a second finger, but you moan when he adds a third.

Finally — full. Slick and wet and tight, but you're full, and your nerves are singing, and your core feels stuffed with lightning. Sae fucks you with his fingers, careful to graze that spongy bit that makes tears prick from the corners of your eyes. It feels — so good.

Good and scary. A rapidly rising wave of something so good it makes your head spin. You recognize the feeling vaguely and panic starts to set in, makes you grab at his wrist and dig into the delicate bones there.

Sae keeps going. Ignores your weak grip, keeps pressing up into that spot inside you, keeps sucking at your clit as you sob. He somehow manages to get your legs up over his shoulders, keeps you from wiggling away as he lays flat against the mattress.

"S-stop, Itoshi — Itoshi-san, please, stop," you gasp, voice wavering.

He doesn't listen. And then his other hand moves from your hip to your belly, presses down just as he fucks his fingers into you again, and you — crash.

Oh.

You go weightless. Pleasure courses through your body, and from the distant hazy reaches of your mind you hear Sae groaning.

He keeps you from collapsing and lowers you carefully back down on the bed, but you can't think. You barely remember to breathe.

The sheets are soaked.

"What the…"

"You've made a mess," Sae says, but he sounds… hoarse. You squint blearily as he wipes his chin with his forearm, your cheeks heating in embarrassment at the clear evidence that you've ruined his suit.

And the sheets. And your under robe, bunched up beneath your back.

He raises an eyebrow. Stupid stoic man and his stupid suit. You're glad it's ruined — who wears a suit when his bride is in a kimono?

"You can take another," he says, and he catches your ankle when you jerk and try to flail away.

"No, I can't, Itoshi-kun," you yelp, squeaking when he drags you effortlessly back towards him. Your muscles feel like jelly. He pauses, his face unreadable, but you squirm in discomfort. "Ugh, the sheets."

"I'll change them later," he says, and you stop struggling briefly to blink at him. Why would he do it when he has people taking care of his house? "Move over to this side."

Sae moves you himself, when it becomes clear that you're still recovering from whatever he just did to you. The easy way he lifts and maneuvers you shouldn't be hot, but you can't deny the simmering heat in your blood.

"It'll feel better if you cum again," he says quietly. There's no way you can let him do that again. You'll die.

You reach for him. Maybe if he's distracted with kissing you, he'll forget. Your thighs are still trembling.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, his lips. Sae huffs with amusement and nips at your lip when you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. "My wife," he says, and the phrase curls hot in your gut.

He breaks the kiss to undress, efficient and methodical. You stare, wide eyed, as the intricate designs of his irezumi come into full view. They start at his forearms, curving around to his shoulders and back. The heavy ink stands stark against his skin, and you shiver.

Sae pauses once he's in his briefs.

"Look at you," he murmurs, grabbing your thighs and forcing them apart. "Still so wet for me."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It's been ages since you last saw him, and it's like your silly teenage crush has burst back in full force. That, and he keeps rubbing circles into your ankle resting by his lap. It's distracting.

"Will you…" You can't say it.

Thankfully, Sae doesn't seem to care. He sheds his briefs and you swallow hard at the sight of his cock, leaking and heavy between his legs.

"Hold on," he says. You watch, entranced, as the dense muscles of his torso move as he reaches past you for the nightstand. You hear the distinct sound of crinkling and then Sae is back, gripping the base of his cock to roll a condom on.

He keeps his hand there as he leans over you. The head of his cock brushes against your folds and you suck in a breath, heartbeat rattling in your chest. "Itoshi-san…"

Sae keeps going, guiding his cock along your wetness until you can see the sheen and evidence of your arousal coating him. You're aching again, clenching around nothing, sensitive to his touch.

"Hold onto me," he instructs, and you reach up to loop your arms around his neck, biting at your lip with nerves fluttering in your stomach.

You brace yourself for the pain.

It just… feels funny, at first. Sae nudges the head of his cock past the tightness of your entrance and then stops, breathing out slowly. You squirm a little at the unfamiliar feeling, clenching hard at the pressure, and Sae pulls out.

He pushes back in before you can say anything, sliding a few inches deeper. You gasp at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders. Sae doesn't make a sound, merely fucks into you slowly, carefully, his hands bunched into fists by your shoulders.

He bottoms out.

"Oh!" You slap your hand over your mouth. How embarrassing.

Sae looks down at you, his expression blank, his jaw tight. His hips nudge yours, and the stretch to your thighs burns but it's nothing compared to the strange foreign feeling of being so full inside. His fingers earlier helped, but this is… different. "Does it hurt?"

"N-no…"

"I'm going to move," Sae murmurs.

A muscle in his jaw feathers as he begins to thrust. You get used to the feeling slowly, and the discomfort blends into pleasure, into sparks flickering behind your eyelids. Sae shifts and hits a different spot inside you and you gasp, dizzy, the ache in your gut intensifying with every wet smack.

"Nghh —" It's overwhelmingly good. You can't help but try to meet his thrusts, your hips shifting sloppily in search of that mind numbing heat.

"Greedy girl," Sae huffs, his tone still unnervingly even, but undeniably fond. You yelp when he grips your ankles, but the sound melts into a moan when he settles your legs over his shoulders, bending you practically in half. You can't move anymore — you can only take it, fingers twisted in his hair, holding on for dear life as he angles his hips to hit that spot over and over.

"I-Itoshi-kun I think I'm gonna — I'm — oh, fuck — please, please, please —"

You don't even know what you're begging for, because he's fucking you in earnest now, heavy, hard thrusts like he wants to mold your insides to the shape of his cock. You can feel your pussy squeezing around him, bearing down on the hot, hard length of him. Sweat drips from his face and lands hot on your cheek.

"Does it feel good?"

You're going to kill him, just as soon as you can form a coherent sentence. Sae slows down, his hips rolling languidly so that you can feel every inch of his cock dragging through you. It takes effort, but you manage to open your eyes against the onslaught of pleasure.

His eyes flicker over your entire face, as if he's memorizing every expression he wrings out of you. When he meets your eyes, he raises an eyebrow as if he has all the time in the world.

"Can you just — oh, you — bastard —"

Amusement lights up his eyes and he shifts, bracing himself on one elbow so that he can reach down to rub filthy wet circles around your clit. You choke on a sob, thighs burning at the stretch as he presses you down. "Is this what you wanted?"

Stars burst behind your eyelids as you cum.

"Hah — shit."

Sae's thrusts grow sloppy as he cums. You can feel him swell and throb inside you, but it only makes you squeeze harder around him, desperate to feel him lose it. After a long moment, he manages to remove your legs from his shoulders and leans down to kiss you.

It's more like breathing into each other's mouths than kissing, but he keeps close, close enough that you can feel the fast, thumping beat of his heart against your own skin. It's surprisingly romantic, to kiss right after cumming together, but you're too hazy and fucked out to think about it.

After what feels like ages, Sae reaches down to keep the condom in place and pulls out. You squint sleepily at the thick, milky liquid inside, watching with mild interest as he ties it off and rolls off the bed to toss it. You feel boneless, your muscles melted into the mattress, a steady, unfamiliar soreness between your legs.

"Come on," Sae says, but he scoops you up before you can figure out what he wants.

"Itoshi!" you yelp, arms coming up around his neck so you can hang on for dear life. Sae seems unbothered, carrying you to the suite's bathroom as if you weigh nothing.

How he can walk, after all that, is beyond you. If you try to stand right now, you'll definitely collapse like a newborn deer.

Sae sets you down on the wet bath's stool and puts the detachable shower head in your hand. You stare down at it, bemused, until Sae hums. "Want me to bathe you, too?"

"Fuck off," you mumble, suddenly bone deep tired. Getting clean feels like the hardest thing in the world.

Sae disappears once you start to wash yourself off. The warm water is soothing to your aching muscles, and you take deep breaths as you rub soap into your skin. That unfamiliar ache between your legs is still there, but you slowly start to come back to your senses as you wash up.

You nearly drop the shower head when Sae reappears. He doesn't say anything, merely takes it from you and turns it towards his body. You stand on shaky legs with an exhale and exit, snagging a towel along the way to dry off.

He made the bed. He even left a clean pair of underwear and a large shirt for you to pull on.

You stare at it. The house is big for the two of you, even with some of his men staying in the detached buildings dotted around his property. Still, you don't want to go wandering for a spare room right now — who knows which men are out and about — and drowsiness washes through you in waves.

You pull on the clothes, climb into bed, and snuggle beneath the covers. It's a big bed. Even if Sae joins you, you won't even notice.

Besides. The marriage is consummated now. Divorce is out of the question. Your life is forever entwined with his, like it or not. You can handle sharing a bed.

He'll be dead soon, anyway. Just as soon as you figure out the easiest way to kill him. You sigh. You secretly have your doubts that it'll be possible, but you have to hold on. For the sake of your family, and for the sake of Rin.

Then this big bed will be yours, and you can take the house and his money and your family will never have to worry again.

You sense it when he pauses by your side some moments later. "Itoshi…? What're you waiting for?" You yawn widely and snuggle further down. "Come to bed."

The room is so quiet you hear it when he sighs. Is he annoyed that you took his side of the bed or something? Well, tough luck. You're way too comfortable to think about moving now, so he can either join you or find another place to sleep.

The mattress barely dips when he slides into the space next to you. You'll figure out the rest of your plans tomorrow. You still need to get ahold of his financial records to make sure your name is on everything.

You clutch the blanket and sigh. He smells like citrus and sea salt, sharp and clean.

The next morning, he's gone.

Gone. Days turn into weeks. Then… months.

You wander the grounds and snoop around the rooms of the house, hoping to find something good. But the rooms are bare of anything important — clearly he conducts his business somewhere else.

You find evidence of other things, though. Framed paintings on the walls from all of your favorite artists. Your favorite snacks stocked in the kitchen pantry.

You get a delivery every other week of a selection of the newest books and manga volumes you've been keeping track of getting for yourself. It's… weird.

Sae clearly remembers your shared past, and he's kept track of your current interests. Your courtship was short, and you didn't spend much time together before donning your wedding kimono and trading sake cups — but he remembers.

It would be sweet, maybe, if you didn't feel a bit like a tamed wildcat stalking his grounds. It's unsafe for you to wander the city freely, so a couple of his men are always around, but being followed is so creepy you end up spending most of your time on his property or at a nearby river walk.

The men never talk to you, though, and it makes you feel a little invisible. You call your friends, but they were friends of proximity, and you can't exactly tell them about your new yakuza husband. It's a little strange, a little lonely. You spent one night with Sae, but it was real, and you didn't have to hide anything about your circumstances because he knew it all already.

Besides, you'll never be able to murder the man if he's not around. And it could be better this way — if one of his rivals took him out, it would save you the trouble — but you still need to make sure you're the one controlling everything when he dies.

Where the hell did he go?

You stare at your phone and the dial tone droning through the speakers. Your husband won't pick up his phone, he won't come home — there's only one thing to do.

Your friends are delighted at your call, and they're especially excited when you tell them your plans for the night. Sae had given you a black credit card the day you signed your family registration papers, and you tuck it into your wallet before heading out on your mission.

"Hey — oh, are we supposed to call you Itoshi-san now?" Your friends laugh and welcome you back into the group. "Is this dress new? You look hot. Your husband lets you walk around like this?"

A few drinks later and you're on top of the world.

The club pulses and shimmers with light and sound. You can hardly hear yourself think, but that's good. There's no chance for conversation, so you bat your lashes and smile pretty and join the throng of dancers in the middle of the floor.

Your dress is more of a glittery scrap of fabric held together with string and dreams. It clings to your body, the hem resting just below the curve of your ass, the high neckline accentuating the slope of your bare shoulders.

It's almost funny, how quickly he finds you.

"Having fun?" His voice is low and even in your ear, but his grip on your waist is hard. "You should be doing your best not to piss me off."

"What're you talking about?" you ask, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. It's dizzying, being so close to him again so suddenly. Citrus and sea salt cuts through the haze, makes your thighs clench at the reminder of the last time you were so close to your husband.

Sae sighs, and then he spins you to face him properly.

It's so easy for him to move you. A shiver runs down your spine.

Sae narrows his eyes. "Don't play stupid."

"Dance with me?" You tilt your head and run your hands up his arms, swallowing at the shift of his muscles beneath your palms.

It's unfair, but now that you've remembered, you can't stop remembering — the feeling of his hands on you, of his tongue and fingers dragging you to the peak of pleasure. That feeling of fullness is the worst thing to recall, because now all you can think about is how empty you are.

A fizzle of pleasure washes down your back. Your plan to lure him out worked. And now —

Sae is dancing with you.

He's — no, he's not dancing, he's — bending over and hauling you off your feet, tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

"Ah!" you yelp, and the sound is lost to the dance beat. "What the — let me down!"

Sae wraps a firm arm around your thighs, keeping you balanced as he starts to walk. The crowd doesn't exactly part for him, but he moves smoothly through, and soon you're bursting out of the club and into the crisp midnight air.

"Put me down," you demand, slapping at this back. Your voice sounds loud in your own ears after the heavy beat of the music, but you can still hear Sae clearly when he snorts.

"No."

"I'll throw up on your suit," you threaten. Your stomach protests against the pressure of his shoulder, the alcohol you consumed earlier sloshing around alarmingly. Squirming doesn't do anything — his grip is too strong. "Or I'll — I'll scream for help."

"You can try," Sae says, and he sounds vaguely amused. "But I'm giving you what you wanted."

That makes you pause. A brisk breeze whips through and you shiver, suddenly hyperaware of how short your dress is, and how it's riding up steadily as he walks.

At this rate, you'll moon the whole city. You know you've sunk low, but fuck. You still have some pride. "Put me down!" you wiggle harder, but Sae just huffs. "I'll cut your balls off, Itoshi Sae, if you don't put me down right fucking now!"

Sae readjusts his grip on your thighs, his hand landing so high up you can feel his fingers nudging against the curve of your ass. He tugs your dress down. Heat shoots through your body like a lightning bolt and you feel your cheeks get hot.

"There you go," he says evenly. "Now keep still."

"Watch your hands, you pervert," you hiss. You can already feel bruises starting to form where he's holding you, his grip so tight it's now safer not to move.

"You're my wife," Sae says. There's a tinge of amusement in his tone that makes you flush. "Isn't it a little too late to act shy now?"

"You're the worst," you mutter. "Where are you taking me, anyway?"

"Somewhere private," he says. "Watch your head."

You yelp as you're suddenly tossed into the backseat of a shiny black car, scrambling backwards as Sae enters and shuts the door behind him. The overhead light glows for a moment, illuminating the leather interior and Sae's bangs, gelled back as usual.

Then the light clicks off, and your senses abruptly shift to focus on every stuttering breath leaving your lungs. You hear the shuffle of fabric rustling as he presumably takes off his jacket. "Did you hit your head?" Sae asks.

You can't see him yet, but you feel his fingers trail lightly up your bare legs. You are undeniably sober now. "Where have you been?"

"It's none of your business," Sae says, hands stopping at the edge of your dress. "Do you have a lot of clothes like this?"

You scowl in the darkness and shift to sit up more, dragging your legs away from his warm hands. He clamps a hand around your ankle, stopping you from turning to sit properly in the backseat. "Let go of me."

"You know exactly what you were doing," Sae says. He sounds bored. "Behave."

"Or what?"

Sae's grip tightens on your ankle. "Do you want me to show you?"

Your eyes widen in spite of yourself. The windows are tinted, but you're still in public. He can't be serious.

"Right here?"

"It's not much of a dress," he says. You flinch in the inky darkness, because his voice is much closer than you expected.

His lips graze your cheek. "What was so important that you went out dressed like this?"

"You were ignoring my calls," you mumble, shrinking into the seat and door. He moves with you, and in your slowly adjusting vision you catch a flash of teal before his lips are at your neck. "You disappeared for months! What kind of husband are — hey —"

"Did you really expect me to stick close to someone trying to kill me?" Sae asks, and his tone is so dry it makes you snort in spite of yourself.

"Who says I'm trying to kill you? And besides, I thought you didn't have time to pay attention to murder plans," you say. He sighs and nips at your skin a second later. You yelp. Pleasure sparkles down your spine. "How did you even find me so fast?"

Sae pulls back and you miss the warmth of his body immediately, catching at his shirt before he gets too far. He wraps his fingers around your own, the callouses rough, but — his touch is gentle. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Right. Of course his men told him.

"If I answer my phone, will you stop causing trouble?" Sae asks.

It would be a step in the right direction. But really… "I want to go with you. Wherever you're going."

You don't want to get left behind again.

Sae releases your hand and grabs your waist, lifting you onto his lap with ease. You squeak in surprise, your dress riding up obscenely as your legs spread to accommodate him, until it's practically rucked up your waist. "Itoshi!"

"Is that really what you want?" he asks. Your vision has adjusted enough now to catch the way he raises an eyebrow in quiet judgment.

You have to lean towards him to keep from hitting your head on the car's ceiling, but you brace your hands on his shoulders so you don't collapse too far forward. "Yes," you say, heat rising in your face as he sweeps his hands down to your butt.

"Even when I'm handling business?" Sae's fingers slip beneath your panties and you squirm at the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin. "When I'm dealing out punishment?"

"I want to be with you," you say, fighting for an even tone to match his own. His touch is driving you crazy. "I'm your wife."

"You are," he allows, and he leans forward to brush his lips across yours. "My wife."

Sae kisses you languidly, as if he has all the time in the world. You melt into it, already soft and buzzing with warmth from the alcohol earlier. You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss this, even though he's only touched you once before.

He licks into your mouth and you whine a little, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he pulls back with a huff.

"Fine."

You blink your eyes open, dazed and hot beneath your skin. "Fine?"

"Come along, if you want," Sae says. His voice is low, but in the inky darkness of the car everything feels magnified. He brushes a finger along your soaked cunt. "But don't run away scared at what you see. I won't run after you."

"I know what I've married into," you huff. You can't help your hips sinking, chasing after the feeling. "Why would I want to run?"

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the amusement is so clear in his voice you lean forward to kiss it away.

You forget you're in a car, parked who knows where in public, and that the windows may be tinted but that doesn't mean they're soundproof. You kiss him eagerly, slipping your tongue into his mouth and licking at his teeth, forgetting everything except that this is Itoshi Sae. Everything is hot, your core aches, you want something desperately.

Sae lets you take the lead for a few moments, swallowing down your gasp when he sinks two fingers into you without preamble. You're so wet he slides in easily, and his breath escapes in a huff.

"Ride my hand," he orders quietly, lips catching at your ear. You make a funny noise, heat and lightning twisting in your core.

He helps — his thumb catches at your clit and his fingers stretch open every time you roll your hips, the ache and drag of your soaked panties clinging to your wet folds only adding to the build up of pleasure.

You're clumsy, but you chase after it, quiet little gasps and moans falling from your lips as you press your face into his neck. Sae keeps fingering you, his other hand roaming up your back to tug at the little strings holding your dress together.

He tugs a little too hard and abruptly the front of your dress falls open, exposing your breasts to the rapidly warming air inside the car. You whine as your nipples graze the firm muscles of his chest, pressing closer to him as every nerve ending sparks with the movement.

"Look at you," he breathes, and his hand returns to grip your hip, guiding you firmly into riding his fingers in rhythm.

Fuck. It's unfair how easily he moves you.

The wet squelch of every thrust of his fingers sounds loud in the confines of the car. The leather seats creak with every rock of your hips, your breaths hot against his neck as you clench your eyes shut tight.

"I think — I'm gonna —"

Sae slides a third finger in.

And you cum. Waves of pleasure crash through you, whiting out your vision as a strangled moan tumbles from your lips. Sae keeps his fingers inside you as your pussy clenches hard around him, the ache in your core lingering even as you sob in relief at the release.

You collapse into his lap. Sae kisses you back when you seek his lips blindly, warm and firm and with a quiet little noise that almost sounds like surprise.

Now that you're pressed up fully against him, you can feel him, the hot length of him hard against your thigh. You can't help but grind on it weakly, giggling a little when Sae grunts.

"Behave," he reminds you, pulling his fingers out and watching you with half lidded eyes as he sucks them into his mouth. You flush at the sheen of wetness dripping down to his wrist.

"Don't you want to…?" You clench down around nothing and frown.

Sae raises an eyebrow. He finishes licking his fingers clean and reaches back down to adjust your panties to cover you up fully again. Your cheeks heat.

"We're in public," he says blandly.

Oh, you're going to kill him. "You just — but we just —"

Sae leans over and knocks on the window. "Take us home."

Embarrassment floods your system as the front door abruptly opens. One of his men slides into the driver's seat and turns on the car, punching a few buttons to begin defogging the windows.

Sae wordlessly pulls your dress back together but keeps you in his lap, deft fingers tying the strings together along your back as you hold the pieces up in the front. Then he grabs his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders, tucking you into it and wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you from climbing off his lap.

You remain silent during the car ride home, merely shooting him glares every time he catches your eye with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. You can feel him, still solid and hard and hot against your thigh, but he makes no move to adjust and lets you keep pressing against his cock.

Sae keeps you wrapped into his jacket once you arrive, merely settles his hands on your ass and carries you inside with your legs wrapped around his waist like a koala. You keep your face tucked into his neck to hide from meeting the eyes of any of his men, inhaling the citrus and sea salt scent of him as your fluttering heart fights to return to a normal rhythm.

"You've ruined another suit," Sae says evenly, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him. You blink, lashes tickling his neck. "Do you always get this wet?"

"I don't know," you huff, irritation furrowing your brows. "I've only ever been with you."

"Hm."

Sae leaves the lights off and carries you over to the bed before dropping you unceremoniously onto the mattress. You bounce a few times with surprise, scrambling to sit up. "What the hell?"

"Did I say we were done?" Sae asks. You blink quickly, trying to get your vision to adjust. Moonlight filters in through the windows and bathes him in a silvery glow, lights up his teal eyes like stained glass. The mattress dips as he climbs after you, and then you feel his fingers wrap around your ankle.

It doesn't scare you, though. Sae has had plenty of chances to actually hurt you, and he seems intent on making you see stars instead.

You aren't complaining.

"Are you… going to fuck me now?"

"Do you want me to?"

You want to shake him by the shoulders until he bites his own tongue or something. What an irritating man. You bite your own lip instead.

"You've been gone for a while," you say. In the darkness of the bedroom, with his lips trailing kisses up your thighs, it feels easier to admit this. You're not — repressed, exactly, but you grew up with no time for boyfriends, no space to experiment, to learn what feels good. And then you married Sae, and he makes you cum so hard you can still feel the echoes of pleasure sinking deep into your bones. Of course you're chasing this feeling.

And in spite of yourself, you trust him.

It's hard not to. He abandoned you and Rin while you were teenagers, showing up only once with the beginnings of his irezumi climbing up his forearms. After that, you never heard from him again, not until you forced your grandfather to make the offer.

He stayed away to keep you all safe. You understand that, now.

"And?" Sae's lips move against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh and you squirm. "Answer the question."

"Don't you want to?"

Sae sighs, like you've disappointed him, and you can't help but clench at the bolt of arousal that shoots through you. He doesn't answer, but he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pauses.

"Itoshi-san?"

"Did you ever wonder why I accepted your grandfather's proposal?"

"Huh?"

Sae rips your panties apart and you swallow hard at the rush of air over your soaked folds. "I could have married anyone," he continues conversationally. "Someone with better ties in the family, someone whose name would create a better alliance. But I accepted your proposal."

"Because… you think I'm attractive?" you guess. Sae snorts and leans down to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. You turn your head, chasing him, frowning when he pulls back.

"Guess again."

"Because…" You're distracted. Sae undoes the ties of your dress and pulls it off your body, leaving you bare, skin prickling with goosebumps as he sits back to pull off his own clothes. You blink, mesmerized, as his cock comes free of his briefs, slapping against his pelvis. He's so hard, and leaking at the tip.

"Too slow," Sae murmurs, and then he's grabbing your ankles again and wrenching your thighs apart. You yelp when he leans down to suck your clit between his lips, hips jumping at the sudden sensation.

"A-ah! Hey!"

Sae ignores you, slips two fingers in and curls them upwards. You choke on your next gasp, fingers clutching at the blankets in desperation. You're still soft and wet and hot from your earlier orgasm, greedy walls sucking at his fingers every time he thrusts. Your thighs clench around his head.

Sae eats you out like he's never tasted anything so good in his life, his tongue tracing along every dip and fold, his fingers pumping into you and forcing you to face the onslaught of pleasure. It's messy and wet and hot, overwhelming and too fast.

It's too much and not enough. You cum on his hands and tongue two more times, until your thighs are shaking and your brain feels like mush. Every inch of skin feels sensitive, wired and wound up tight.

Sae crawls over you to grab a condom and you try to remember how to breathe.

He grunts as the head of his cock breaches your entrance, his head dropping into the dip of your neck as he bottoms out. You clench around him, teary eyed and trembling, feeling like you're going to burst with how good it all feels.

"Itoshi, will you — kiss me?"

Sae hums and leans up to kiss you, rolling his hips just to swallow down your moans. You've abandoned all of your sensibility, lost in the haze of his touch. He's so big and hard and you're so full, you feel so good, you can't help sinking your fingers into his hair and keeping him weakly tucked against you, just so that you can keep kissing him while he fucks you deep.

He still smells like sea salt and citrus. He smells like home.

You moan into his mouth and his lips curve against your own. It's been so long since your wedding night, even longer since those late nights growing up together watching the ocean waves, but it all rushes back and you cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

"I'm — I think I'm —"

"Go ahead," Sae's voice is even, if a little rough.

You sob, voice wrecked, back bowing off the bed as you cum. You lose track of time, everything collapsing down to your pulsing core sending out shockwaves through your body. It's so good you can't help the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, your moans echoing through the room.

Sae is still unnervingly hard when you come to your senses. You squeeze around him, breathless. "Seriously?"

"One more," he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the corner of your eye.

"You're going to kill me," you say flatly. Sae's lips tick up in the corners and he presses another kiss to your cheek.

"You're my wife," he says, like that's an answer.

He rolls his hips again and you sigh. "Missed you," you murmur, because — in spite of yourself — you did. It's been years since he left, but you never forgot the pressure of his shoulder against yours. And the house was filled with things he thought you'd like, but you had nobody to talk to, nobody to needle.

He pisses you off, and you know he needs to pay for what's happened, but you still missed him.

Sae pulls out of you abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. "Sae!"

He flips you over without a word, pressing down on the space between your shoulder blades to make your back arch. You let him manhandle you, his hands hard on your hips as he angles them up and presses into you from behind.

"Oh, fuck —" you squeeze your eyes shut at the new angle, stars dancing in your vision. Sae huffs, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and then the headboard creaks and he begins to fuck you.

You're going to die. That's what it feels like — an overwhelming pleasure, dangling you teetering over the edge, your body wound up so tightly it's a minor miracle he can even bully his cock back into you at all.

Sae fucks you hard, with deep steady thrusts that rattle your insides, his cock pushing insistently at that spot inside you that drives every thought out of your brain. The headboard keeps creaking but you can't see why — you can only feel his cock dragging at your walls, your face buried in the pillows as the wet slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

"Sae, oh — fuck," you gasp. "I'm gonna cum, Sae, oh please I'm so close —"

"Go ahead," he says, and his voice sounds rougher than before. "Let go."

You shoot off the edge with a cry, this orgasm somehow sharper and brighter than the rest. You barely hear it when Sae groans above you, but you feel his cock kick inside you, warmth flooding your insides as he fills the condom with his release.

You have the briefest moment of regret that you didn't get to feel it all inside you before you pass out.

This time, when you wake up the next morning, you find Sae standing at the open window, gilded in sunrise gold.

"You stayed," you whisper. You clear your throat and duck beneath the blanket pulled up to your chin, only peeking out with your eyes. Sae turns to face you, wearing only his briefs.

"I have work to do today," he says, eyeing the lump of your body beneath the blankets. "Are you going to come along?"

You nod, still watching him. He doesn't seem to care, turning back to the open window and giving you a clear view of his side profile, of the dips and ridges of his muscles on full display. His irezumi is stark against his skin, but you can see faint red lines along the swirling ink on his back from where you dug your nails in last night.

It's unfair. He's so hot.

Even with his bangs down, his hair sticking up slightly in the back — he's so attractive it makes you squeeze the blankets in your hands.

"Do you need me to carry you to the bathroom again?" Sae asks, crossing his arms over his chest to look at you. Amusement flickers in his eyes and you snort.

"No, I can walk."

At least, you hope you can. Your muscles still feel weak, like jelly. Sae must have cleaned you up last night, because you're wearing a clean pair of panties, but you can still feel the bruises and soreness lingering along your body.

You roll out of bed and groan, tossing the blankets aside to stretch your arms over your head. It crosses your mind a moment later to be shy, but Sae is your husband, and the way his gaze darkens at the sight of your breasts perking in the chill morning air makes you grin to yourself.

It feels like you've crossed some invisible threshold with Sae. Like the night before was a test, and you passed it, and now things will be different.

You manage to get to the bathroom and sleepily get ready for the day, brushing your teeth and staring at yourself blankly in the mirror. It's only after you've spit your toothpaste into the sink that you realize the marks on your skin aren't a figment of your imagination or a sleepy hallucination.

"What are you, Itoshi-san, a vampire?" you grumble, poking at the hickeys blooming along your neck and grimacing at the ache.

"It's too late for that," Sae says evenly as he enters the bathroom. He meets your gaze in the mirror as he wets his toothbrush. "I'm your husband."

"And husbands get to do this?" you wave your hand vaguely at your marked up skin.

"Itoshi-san," Sae says, pausing with his toothbrush by his mouth. He raises an eyebrow. "That's not what you called me last night."

You blink. What…?

Oh.

Heat floods your body and you take a step back, frowning as Sae begins to brush his teeth. He still manages to look smug and it makes you want to throttle him.

You retreat to the bedroom instead, getting dressed like you're preparing for battle. Sae said business, so you pull on something similar to what he usually wears — a button up shirt and nice pants and a suit jacket.

Sae gets dressed and meets you in the kitchen, where you've gotten started making breakfast. Rice and miso soup and rolled eggs and crispy fish — it's simple fare, but you fidget nervously as you set out the plates, suddenly hyperaware that he'll be trying your cooking for the first time since high school.

"It's good," Sae says, pausing after his first bite. Warmth fills your bones. "Thank you for the meal."

"You weren't worried about poison?" you ask halfheartedly, hoping it'll hide your nerves. Sae raises an eyebrow at you and pointedly gulps down his soup.

"Were you planning on poisoning yourself, too?"

"That would be way too much work," you say before you can stop yourself. Sae snorts and brings his cleared dishes to the sink. "Oh, Itoshi-san, you can leave those. I'll clean them — I'm almost done eating."

Sae just flicks on the sink. "Hurry up, and give me your plates."

You finish eating and hand them over, hovering nearby as you marvel at the vision of Itoshi Sae, yakuza boss, washing breakfast dishes. He wipes off his hands with a towel and turns, catching you before you can escape. His fingers are firm as he purses your lips together.

"Are you going to keep calling me that?"

You can't really talk with him holding your jaw like that. You shrug helplessly instead.

Sae watches you, but his teal eyes are sun warmed and careful. "Do I need to remind you how to say it?"

Heat blooms beneath your cheeks, and you know he can feel it because the corners of his lips twitch. "Are you always going to be this shy?" he adds, tilting your chin up so that you can't escape his gaze. "You'll get eaten up."

You pout. Sae huffs and captures your lips with his own, kissing you breathless until you melt into his arms. "Say it again."

"Sae," you mumble, dazed. You blink up at him and he kisses you again, pushes you back against the counter to press lingering kisses to your lips, your cheek, the edge of your jaw.

"Good girl."

You attempt to gather your wits together as he herds you out the door, but he keeps his hand resting on your lower back. It draws your attention like a magnet.

Luckily, your driver is a different man from the night before, and you settle into your seat with a fluttering heart.

It's finally happening.

You'll see him at work, you'll get a chance to find his records and files, you'll be able to secure the safety of your family.

And you'll watch him beat a man senseless.

The crack of bone meeting bone echoes in the cold, dimly lit room. Sae pulls back, flexes his gloved fist and swipes at a drop of blood on his cheek. "Explain."

His voice is so cold. You repress a shiver and stand firm against the wall, hands tucked into your pockets to hide the trembling. You thought you knew, but —

"You had three chances, you piece of shit," Sae says evenly. "Three chances, and you still fucked up something a monkey could have done. Explain."

"I'm s-sorry, Itoshi-sama! I really thought I —!"

You wince as Sae takes a step back. One of his men jumps in at his nod and launches a punch at the man groveling on the ground. You keep your gaze on your husband, tuning out the sounds of the man getting beaten to a pulp. Sae watches impassively, those teal eyes that had been glowing this morning now cold glacial pools.

"Take him away," Sae orders, finally turning towards you as the man whimpers. He gets dragged out without preamble, and Sae raises an eyebrow as the room empties. "Are you cold?"

"No," you shake your head, holding still as Sae hums and brushes his knuckle along your cheek. "Are you hurt?"

"No," a glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes and you breathe a sigh of relief as the cold teal warms into sunlit ocean. "You still haven't answered me, you know."

You blink. He pulls his gloves off with his teeth and you blink again, face warming at the sight.

"Sae?"

He tilts his head. "Let's go upstairs."

You follow him through the halls of the building, passing men in suits and armed with weapons along the way. In spite of the environment, you feel safe. Everyone bows respectfully as Sae passes with you, and nobody seems surprised to see you.

"What's this?" you ask, wandering into the office. Sae shuts the door and goes over to the heavy wooden bookcase set into the wall.

"This is why I married you."

You stare blankly at the thick ledger book he sets on the desk. He flips open the cover.

Inside is a polaroid photo strip, one you remember — the three of you had just finished exams, and you were itching to do something fun. You dragged the Itoshi brothers into a sticker photo booth and forced them to pose with you, making silly faces while they scowled.

"I thought I lost this," you mumble, fingers lightly tracing your younger faces. "What's this?"

You read the numbers and item descriptions on the next page, and the next, and the next. Sae waits, leaning idly against the desk.

"Sae?"

"What does it look like?"

It looks like — an impossibility. You blink a few times, as if that will clear everything up.

It looks like your family's debts have been wiped clean, little by little, through Sae's work. It looks like Rin's university fees, and also —

"He was targeted?"

Your voice comes out hushed. Sae looks bored. "They accepted me, instead."

"Sae."

"When you proposed, I thought it might be a trick," he says, his voice careful and even. "I was going to say no."

"Why did you say yes?"

Sae looks at you. "Why did you choose me?"

He's right. You could have picked any member of the yakuza to clear your family's debts — you know there were other options, other men who would've been thrilled at a young virgin bride.

"I trust you."

And you do. After all those years, you knew that at least — at the very least — Sae knew you. Yes, you were planning on killing him, but that was just to gain control of his assets. To protect your family.

To do the same thing he had done, all those years ago. He's been protecting you and Rin this entire time.

With the proof in this ledger, it's all over. You have no reason to kill him — and your heart feels light.

"Even after what you saw downstairs?"

"I trust you," you say firmly. "Sae."

"I've murdered people," he says flatly. "I'm not a good man."

"You're my husband."

Sae pauses, and then he shrugs, as if it doesn't really matter. You reach over and pinch his cheek, forcing him to look at you. A glimmer of amusement shines in his eyes, and you laugh.

"Sae," you sigh, releasing his cheek to rub your thumb along the smooth skin instead. There's still a little bit of blood on his cheek, so you wipe at it. "Why did you agree to marry me?"

"You chose me," he says simply. His gaze burns into yours, pulls you into summer ocean memories. "I was never going to let you go if you did."

He tugs you close and kisses you, hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head the way he likes. You sink into the warmth of him, fingers clutching at his shirt, reaching up to tangle in the sunset red of his hair.

Sae pushes you back against the desk and shoves his thigh between your legs, forcing you off balance so that you cling to him. "My wife," he murmurs, breaking the kiss to nip at your neck. You shiver as he sucks gently at the sensitive skin there, core aching at the memory of the night before.

Someone knocks at the door. "Itoshi-sama!"

Sae sighs against your skin. His fingers squeeze your waist once, and then he releases you and steps back. "Back to work."

You hum, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You've been working hard this entire time."

He tugs his gloves back on and nods towards the ledger. "You can stay here to look at it, if you want."

"You never told Rin."

Sae pauses at the door, his hand resting on the handle. "It's better that way."

You wrinkle your nose. "Sae, he hates you."

"Do you?"

You look at him. From this distance, his gaze is sharp, like glass. No longer worn smooth with time and affection — a mask as he prepares to work. "No. I'm your wife."

The air feels fresh and clean and bright, as you step back into your shared bedroom, where everything seems to come undone.

Sae shuts the door behind him and pauses. "You want to redecorate?"

"Yeah," you nod firmly. "This house feels like a showcase. Where's the stuff you like? We need to go on some dates and take photos together. Are you free next weekend?"

Sae comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, his lips resting on your neck as his hair tickles your ear. "I can't go to the beach anymore."

Right. His tattoos.

"Haven't you ever heard of skin cancer? It's important to wear protective shirts with long sleeves."

You think you feel his body shake slightly as he laughs into your skin. "You're really my wife."

"Yeah, and you're going to tell Rin everything, someday," you say. Sae's grip on your waist tightens briefly.

"Anything else?"

"You'll only be with me."

"No mistresses?"

"Only if you actually want to die."

Sae's lips curve against your neck. "Never. I can't die — I need to take care of my wife."

You have a new plan. This one is absolutely foolproof, and there's no chance an annoying childhood friend will sacrifice himself to save you all.

Step 1: fall in love with your husband.

Step 2: get him to fall in love with you.

Step 3: live happily ever after.

It doesn't matter that he's a member of the yakuza. Sae's eyes glow like sea glass, fond and warm, every time he looks at you.

Yeah. The plan will come true. You're already done with step one.

#a literal dream #i liked this one way too much #i don't even go here #📖: fic recs #⚽️: itoshi sae

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merelydaydreaming · 2 months ago

Text

Cowboy always sniffs the air and tells you when it's about to start downpouring with crazy accuracy.

"Is that a wolf thing?" you ask, and he gives you a bemused look.

"That's an old man thing," he says as he stands, groaning a bit as he straightens his back out, a sliver of scar peeking out from the hem of his shirt. "Feel it in my joints."

#god im LIVING #mint im on my knees #i usually dont like ocs but i would die to read more oc stuff always #📖: fic recs #also his name #i will always ride with you and anything you write mint

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merelydaydreaming · 2 months ago

Text

imagine bein’ loved by me

JACK ABBOT x F!READER

Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.

wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)

Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love

A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~

He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him.

Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC.

However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble.

Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks).

That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift.

He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him.

He isn’t angry, just curious.

Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work.

So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side.

Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes.

“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”

“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”

Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy?

“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers.

“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way.

It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime.

As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck.

Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention.

“I wanted to ask you the same question.”

You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further.

“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”

No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face.

“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”

It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused.

If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing.

Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile.

So, that’s what it is.

Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”

A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them.

“Right.”

Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders.

He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours.

“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”

You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament.

It all makes sense now, he thinks.

You’re not nervous; you’re smitten.

How sweet.

•

You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you.

A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up.

<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights?

You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get.

>> Is it not on Teams?

Damn.

<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone.

That seems believable.

It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response.

>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks

There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC.

>> Miss day shift?

<< Maybe.

<< Yes.

You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua.

>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now

Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach.

Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you.

And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his.

The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment.

From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him.

He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture.

And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little.

He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting.

In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly.

Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down.

It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude.

The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours.

It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further.

He wouldn’t.

(He does.)

•

The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that.

He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel.

In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works.

Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless.

It’s cute, your little crush.

Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute.

Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it.

Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”

Then, she’d let him in on another secret.

“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”

“My eyes?”

“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”

She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan.

It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right.

“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears.

He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves.

You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night.

Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares.

Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though.

The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier.

So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good.

“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough.

If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie.

You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up.

“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond.

Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”

“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”

He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?”

So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station.

That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”

You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around.

“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull.

•

Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked.

You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible.

And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you.

It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch.

With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday.

“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted.

You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes.

Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face.

“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”

“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots.

Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot.

Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away.

An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up.

You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at.

Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction.

He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head.

You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.

You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop.

“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out.

With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.

“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”

It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles.

“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether.

Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away.

When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw.

“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”

About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you.

The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist.

“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger.

Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip.

“We were just talkin’, man.”

“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”

“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”

Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.”

His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep.

This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you…

“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip.

You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise.

You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down.

“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”

Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”

You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy.

Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief.

What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat.

The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands.

“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”

Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”

He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time.

You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building.

“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.

“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”

“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl.

Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time.

“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”

Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission.

That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem.

•

Jack’s little game has backfired horribly.

He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC.

It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will.

It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now.

And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him.

Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him.

The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well.

The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it.

He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly.

He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often.

He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body.

He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back.

Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient.

He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him.

So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient.

Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him.

Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term.

Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out.

Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest.

Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it.

“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub.

Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”

“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort.

Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers.

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes).

“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles.

“What are you saying then?”

He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully.

“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”

Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried.

“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”

His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief.

He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—

“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”

And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides.

You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it.

But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what.

He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”

You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again.

“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue.

Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist.

“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes.

You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong?

You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead.

“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.

It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face.

“I…”

“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”

Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”

“What?” He’s breathing too hard.

“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”

Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class.

He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure.

“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut.

“And, how would you put it, Jack?”

“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”

You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake.

Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure.

Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”

•

Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest.

You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago.

Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long.

“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort.

When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”

Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe.

You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers.

You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.

All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been.

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”

He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”

You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”

“What a dick.”

Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.

“Can I shower before we lay down?”

He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”

His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.

Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is.

“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”

“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”

Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”

It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding.

You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm.

You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe.

Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable.

The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous.

There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him.

The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway.

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot.

Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin.

Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not.

With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements.

“Uh… probably should have told you…”

You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”

Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”

You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware.

“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”

Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”

“Do I need to file an HR complaint?”

With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him.

He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation.

“Do you want to file an HR complaint?”

He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver.

Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are.

His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper.

You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you.

Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away.

“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”

You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”

His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip.

“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?”

It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?

“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up.

“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”

And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder.

He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again.

And, again.

And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back.

It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely.

His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation.

You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt.

Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”

Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way.

Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again.

Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little.

The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy.

Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit.

“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”

His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again.

His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more.

“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”

And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress).

He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life.

But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him.

As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”

You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him.

You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open.

It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies.

“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone.

Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours.

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it.

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down.

Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head.

“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”

But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis.

He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be.

The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm.

Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock.

He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy.

You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot.

Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.

No. No.

He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him.

Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it.

You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it.

In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies.

You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest.

He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it.

“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless.

Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”

“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that.

Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”

He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”

“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?”

You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”

His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs.

“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”

Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life.

“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”

His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle.

“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”

He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs.

“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple.

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”

You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be.

With you.

As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face.

#jesus #screeeeeeeeee #📖: fic recs

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merelydaydreaming · 2 months ago

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cw: Itoshi Sae x F!Reader. vaguely arthurian setting. period-typical sexism. written tipsily in airport.

Sae was the first born son of the Itoshi family, a long and honorable line that could be traced back to the ancient kings, who are all long forgotten now except for their might and magic. The Itoshi family had a long memory; though few others did, they remembered without knowing the time when their fathers walked with mages and elves as equals.

His more recent ancestors were better known in their times for bankrupting the ancient coffers, for their fondness of game and drink. The Itoshi name still held weight across the land, but he and his brother turned to war to restore their family's honor and legacy.

You had never thought much of the eldest Itoshi boy. Battle was an edge too distasteful for the likes of you, meant to remain a fragile rose that wilted in heat and burst in cold. The eldest princess, your sacred duty to your family was to marry an aristocrat who would certainly have soft hands without blood on them. Surrounded by court politics, you knew the unnamed, faceless man in your future was the kind of man who ordered other men to kill and never saw the carnage himself.

Still, Sae belonged to your father and it was impossible not to hear of his foreign exploits, done (in the most technical way) in your name. He was known for being particularly heartless on the battlefield, a touch too fond of his work, a master of siege. He was not a merciful opponent; he was sent to obliterate thanedoms and raze castles to their foundations. He had endless patience, said the gossiping lords and ladies, the latter group fluttering their fans and giggling with an implication you did not care for. Less amused, the former men insisted that he had no passion, no fury, only a cold flame that overtook nations. He was not legendary in his rage; rather, he needed no anger to do what a thousand men seeking revenge could not.

Hearing this, your skin prickled beneath your long sleeves. You were a girl burning beneath her skin. The garb of the consummate princess strangled you, expected both to play politics and to do it with the air that you had no idea of any of it.

On a jewel-studded night at the end of a long campaign that had lasted over the warm season, you forgot yourself and your place. In the mead-hall, a few goblets past your limit, you cut into the men's conversation, frustrated by the unnecessary length of the campaign when too few bodies had been at home to harvest what had been grown before it rotted off the branch.

"A better strategy could have cut the crusade by a month," you said, your lips turned down, your eyes sparking beneath your lowered brows.

The vassals around you laughed. Some found inspiration in that passionate spark for lewd comments and bawdy poems about the king's daughter who would be a pleasure to tame; others struck you from their marriageable eligibility lists.

"How could her husband care for such a sharp lady?" Said one of the courtly ladies to another, the glass beads hanging from her girdle clinking as she tittered behind her palm.

"I would raise my future lord higher than any of your houses," you said, looking directly at her, forgetting to avert your eyes from mockery as a princess, shy and demure, should. Your gaze was sharp indeed, her hand shaking beneath its weight and sending her goblet crashing to the stone floor, a thousand crystal pieces commemorating your mistake.

"You will do so by the purity of your blood,” your father’s voice rang above the laughter and lutesong. You inclined your head and fell silent, declining any more wine through the night. Order was restored, all power resting in the hands of the man who sired you. The musicians played till the early morning and a good time was had by most.

No one forgot that the glittering gaze of a snake peered out of your face anyway.

The next day, when your father summoned you to his hall—the page who fetched you inexplicably sweaty and pale—you assumed his mood had soured with fermentation and you would be made to repent publicly in a series of feminine labors to prove your docility.

Instead, you found Sae Itoshi, clad in mail and armor. His teal eyes, the cold gaze of a snake’s reminiscent of yours despite their unique coloration, peered from beneath his helmet, serene and beautiful even as he held a blade to your father’s throat. Around him, the kingsguard stood unmoving, men whose brothers and cousins had fought by Sae’s side.

The consummate princess, you sank into a pretty bow and begged for your father’s life. Sae looked at you, hard and cold, and he saw that no tears shone in your eyes.

“The hand of a woman too high for my dirtied bloodline,” he said, and before you could be disappointed by this lukewarm response, he stepped to you, his sword still at the ready. Your father remained unmoving, eyes darting frantically from traitorous knight to traitorous knight. Sae removed his helmet to speak directly into your ear, bending at the waist to do so. His face was more delicate than you might have assumed and yet the bones were strong and stood out under his skin.

“Or, to put it in terms only you can understand: a queen for a kingdom not yet won.”

#yes #⚽️: sae itoshi

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merelydaydreaming · 3 months ago

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your partner (f/o, whatever) asks you suddenly not to bring a friend over as often. prior to this, you have observed their interactions and realize that your partner seems to be slightly attracted at least physically. however your friend seems to have noticed and very likely has zero interest in your partner.

when you probe why, they seem embarrassed by the question and avoid answering outright.

*not a lot of prescribed options on this one ik but i wanna hear thoughts

*if you’re asking questions, what questions are you asking?

#i like to emotionally hurt myself so id cut them both out of my life

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merelydaydreaming · 3 months ago

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The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

#this was a ride #i love all the versions of pope that you write #i will never stop reading all your pope fics #such a good read #📖: fic recs #🚫: not anime recs #⛔️: pope cody #📺: animal kingdom

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