#Gear of Night Trick

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF movie Vanessa sucks at “flirting” with Mike

[dominicdelagol2]

0106 Pumpkin Bucket

It's in the "Horror" genre because it can hold a horrifyingly large amount of candy. Nomnomnom!

[hoshigray]

𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 | toji fushiguro

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Your ex-husband bringing the kids over for trick-or-treating is one thing; him wanting to spend the night at your place is another. But it's just for the night. There's no way one night can rekindle some old feelings...right?

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: ex-husband! Toji x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - the reader is around their mid-30s - Tsumiki (age 11) and Megumi (age 9) - mutual pining - kissing/makeout sessions - unprotected sex - Daddy kink - breast sucking + nipple play - fingering (f! receiving) - oral (f! receiving) - spooning + mating press - cervix fucking - breeding kink - praise - clitoral play (pressing and grinding) - pet names (baby, good girl, mama, princess, sweetie, sweet thing) - you and Toji have been divorced for five years - cameos: Gojo, Utahime and Mei Mei - mention of drool/spit and tears - humor bc I'm [not] funny.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨��𝐧𝐭: 7.6k (....dawg.)

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: happy Halloween, everyone!! so, randomly missed writing ex-husband! toji bc it's lowkey my favorite, soooo yeah, this is what we're doing to celebrate the end of the month! anywho, happy October, beautiful ppl, and tysm for reading my works!! Alsooo, ty for 2.8k!!!

“Trick-or-treat!!”

“Gasp—Oh my goodness!” 

“We came to celebrate Halloween! Also, Megumi forgot his toothbrush here again.”

Opening your door to children at the sunset of Halloween day isn’t out of the ordinary or anything special. However, it’s always a pleasant surprise when it’s two kids you hold dear to your heart. You greet them with a hug, two siblings you know too well to say you’re acquainted with. If anything, you’re practically family. 

The raven-haired brother, referred to as Megumi, speaks up. “It’s not my fault! Dad was rushing me last time.”

“Because you had to bring your stuffed animals last time, holding us back for your baseball practice.” Tsumiki, the older sister, snapped back. The two argue amongst themselves in front of you as you try to mediate. It’s no avail until another voice comes to the fray.

“All right, chill out, you two.” The voice belonged to the person approaching the porch stairs, your eyesight capturing the familiar figure walking up with two duffle bags. The one standing tall before you was the father of the children, Toji Fushiguro. Who’s also known as your one and only former husband. “Get inside and finish y’r homework, or else we’re goin’ back home.” 

The siblings stop bickering and head inside, taking off their shoes at the foyer and walking upstairs. Now that they’re gone, you turn to the man with the jet-black hair, his viridian orbs focused on you. The weather was chilly, so the man wore his usual dark denim jacket over his plain black sweatshirt, matching his jeans. “You look good, big guy. What’s in the bags?”

He greets you with a curled lip, and the scar on the side of his lip lifts. “Picked them up from their after-school sports, so it’s their sports gear and costumes for tonight. Mind helpin’ me here?” 

“Hmmm,” you merge your facial expressions to that of faux pondering, turning your back to Toji. “Nah, can’t. Got dinner to finish making.”

“Hmph, should’ve known.” He makes his way through between you and the front door. “Wouldn’t wanna break your pretty nails carrying heavy shit, huh, princess?” 

You glare at him using the nickname, hating his patronizing gaze. “From what I remembered, you would never let me carry the heavy stuff because you thought I was too fragile and easy to break. So how about that, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor?”

“Really? I don’t remember sayin’ all that before. You must’ve put me in a spell.” 

“Probably, I’ve been told I’m quite cute~.”

“Mmm, nah, more like an old hag of a witch.” Toji barks a laugh at your offended reaction, and he immediately ducks and heads for the stairs when you throw a sandal at him.

“At the very least, say I’m a cute witch, fucker.” You say the final word under your breath, grabbing the sandal you threw and heading back to the kitchen.

To say you and Toji were acquainted with one another would be the biggest understatement of the century. The two of you met a decade ago, fell madly in love, and married within a year of the relationship. When you tied the knot, Tsumiki had to have been two years old, and Megumi just turned one year old. You two had been together for four years after that, and you could confidently say those were one of [if not THE] best years of your life. You often second-guessed yourself being in a relationship with someone who had children, fearing that they wouldn’t like you or ignore you.

However, those worries were blown right away as the days went by. Every time you spent time with the children brought you three closer than ever; it was to the point that they saw you as their mother. How sweet! And there’s no denying that Toji loved you. The man would break someone’s nose for you  — yes, it happened before, and it wasn’t pretty — for you were his sweet little thing that kept him going.  

Well, if it was so great, why the divorce? Let’s just say you weren’t Toji’s first love. That title would have to be awarded to the Megumi’s mother. Even in her unfortunate passing, you can tell that Toji loved that woman like no other. It didn’t make you jealous or anything, seeing the man you love still mourn for a dead woman. Hell, you’d probably do the same if you were him. But, you can’t lie; it felt like you were cast over a “shadow” when it came to her influence. It was damn near suffocating to bear, especially in those four years of marriage. So, for your sake and his aching heart, you pulled him aside and suggested a divorce. And Toji didn’t fight you on the proposition, signing the papers and setting you free from the thick air.

Although things ended between you two, that didn’t mean things stopped being what they were. If anything, it was as if nothing happened at all. Even if you still don’t live under the same roof, you still make time to hang with the Fushiguros, whether invited to some occasion or exchange phone calls or texts to check up on them. Even now, five years after your separation, it warms your heart knowing that you get to interact with the people you care about. 

There are moments you find yourself missing living under the same roof with all three of them and living alone can be pretty lonely. But all in all, as long as they’re comfortable and trust you enough to be around, there’s no need to change things up again. Like right now — the four of you sit at the dinner table eating before the kids go off trick-or-treating.

“Are you going to trick-or-treat with us, Y/n?” The brown-haired child sitting next to you asks while finishing up her dinner. 

“Sorry, not this time, gotta be at a Zoom meeting for my job in a few minutes. But I do have someone else to take my place. Gojo will be here at around—Why are you two making that face?” You stop mid-sentence to notice Megumi and Toji at the other side of the table, displaying disgusted facial expressions at the mention of the white-haired other’s name.

“Why him?” They said in unison.

“Why not??” You question their irritation.

“He’s so annoying…” Again, in unison. Proof enough that they’re father and son.

You sigh as you get up to take your plate to the sink. “Oh, come on, you two, it’s not like he’ll be with you guys the entire night. He has a party at a friend’s he’s going to later.” 

“Isn’t he too old to trick-or-treat?” Tsumiki questions, noting that Gojo is way past his undergraduate years. 

“He is, but whatever gets that prick any free sweets,” Toji answers his daughter before getting up to put his dish in the sink. 

You exit the kitchen, head into the living room, and sit on the couch. The laptop you had placed there was ready to open and unlock, and you clicked on applications and windows to look through before your meeting started in the next three to two minutes. He should be here about—

DING-DONG!!

Now.

Right on cue, you motion for Toji to grab the front door, and he follows your command. “Kids, Gojo’s here!” You shout out to the two kids who still sit at the table. “When you’re done eating, you can go upstairs and put your costumes on. But whoever finishes last has to do the dishes.” You can hear commotion from the table as the brunette rushes to put her dish in the sink and dash for the stairs. Megumi groans to himself; you giggle when you hear him mutter an “Aww man…”

You pull out your headphones to connect to your laptop, put them in their respective ears, and prepare yourself for the meeting. Ignoring the faint passive-aggressive tones of your ex-husband when greeting Gojo at the door…

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Your eyes flutter open, noticing the lighting change around the living room. The orange sunlight no longer decorated the space, substituted with the gradual darkness that overtakes you. The only source of light you can figure out is the flashing from the television screen.

Aside from the TV, there are no other signs of life. There aren’t any signs of Tsumiki or Megumi around playing or causing a raucous. It could only mean the two are still trick-or-treating with Gojo. 

One blink, two blinks. I must’ve fallen asleep after the meeting… You hum while sinking to the couch, burying your face into the pillow. 

But…since when did your pillow act like it was breathing with a heartbeat? And…I smelt that cologne before…How?

“Ya awake now?”

You raise your head, realizing you are not lying on your couch. Technically, you were; however, you were lying on something else on the furniture with you – more like someone. 

It’s then you realize that you were lying on Toji during your entire slumber, him leaning on the end of the couch, one leg spread to make room for you to sleep on him while you sit on the other. And you can guess that you had your head on his chest, snuggling up to his warm figure. He looks at you with his green eyes now darkened by the room, yet you can see their glow from the television light. And that small smile he gives you, the scar on the right side of his lip lifted upward. The familiar butterflies in your stomach flutter like before. Like old times sake…That must be embarrassing, huh?

You frantically try to get off of him, “Sorry about that, I thought—“

“No, no,” Toji places a stern hand on your back, keeping you from moving further. “You were comfortable.” 

You stare at him for a few seconds until your face contours to a look, and a smile starts to creep up while you situate yourself back to your original position, pressing your face back on his chest to listen to the beats of his heart again. “I recall having this couch all to myself not too long ago, so where’d you come from?”

“Well, I wanted to watch some sports highlights, but I figured you’d kick my ass if I pulled you off and had you sleep on the floor instead.” With the click of your tongue, he chortles. You bet your ass I would. “So, I decided to have ya sleep on me while I watch TV.”

“What’s wrong with the other side of the couch? It’s quite vacant and enough for a big guy like you.” 

“True,” his hand rubs circles on your back, an old habit he did when he used to have you like this. “But then I’d be lonely.” 

You titter. “That’s big for someone who said he thrives on being alone.”

“I thrive being alone when I’m working.” You’re glad he can’t see your eyes roll; he’d probably grab you by the cheeks like a child. “Besides, why would I wanna be alone when I have you for myself.”

And there it is, your cheeks begin to warm up. Or was it because you’re so close to him that his heat is transferring to you? That’s probably it, yeah. Let’s change the subject…”How long was I out for? I remember the kids left around 7:30-ish.”

“Mmm, it’s going to eleven right now.”

Three and a half hours? Damn. “It’s past their bedtime.”

Toji scoffs. The abrupt motion of his chest rising is satisfying in a way that makes you even more comfortable. “You still think they’re gonna sleep with all that sweet shit they got?” He snickers some more as you shake your head.

“They know better. When you guys get home, be sure to put their candy bags on the top shelf of the closet for the morning.” 

“Still traumatized from that one time?” 

“Uhhh, yes??” The memory flashes to you for a quick moment, but the dread from before still haunts you. Megumi was six years old and Tsumiki seven, returning home from trick-or-treating and immediately tasting their labor from that night. However, what you didn’t expect was for them both to eat almost half their bags. Let’s just say, thanks to their sugar rushes, they didn’t drop dead until the hour hand touched two of the morning. “Unless it’s the weekend, never again.”

The way the older man chuckles is so therapeutic — it nearly makes you want to fall asleep again. “You weren’t the one chasin' Megumi all over the place tryin' to get him to sleep. Little squirt gets his speed from me.”

“Awww, poor you~” You can sense the glare as you respond in a condescending, sing-song tune. “You and him are always butting heads. Like father, like son.”

“Tch, hate that sayin’ so fuckin’ much.”

“Why? ‘Because it’s true?”

“Shut up.” The hand he used to rest his head comes down to pinch your nose. You wriggle out of his hold with giggles, but he happily keeps you grounded to him with his stronghold and a leg wrapped around to prevent yours from moving. “He only listens to you. Such a sweet lil’ baby to you, huh? Puttin’ my own son against me.”

More giggles prompt out of tiny guilt, and you bring up a hand to rub on his chest. “He’s such a bright boy now. Growing up so big and fast.”

“Miki, too. That girl is way too smart fr' me to catch up. And she’s becoming so kind and strong, crazy to think she made me play teacups when she could barely go down the stairs by herself.” Toji hums, the vibrations felt on the pads of your fingers. “Think she gets that from you.” 

You shook your head. “They’re your babies. They do amazing things because they have a big guy like you to catch them if they ever fall.”

“Hmm, fair…But let’s not pretend I’m the best dad in the world. Fuck, never in my life did I think I’d be a dad, especially with two kids. I didn’t know shit back then — still! I still don’t know shit.” You don’t say anything, just listening to him voice his thoughts to you. Because he knows you’d listen – you always do. “If you weren’t there for them, I don’t think they’d be shining like this. Y’re definitely the thing that brought us up together. They look up to you so much. Ya did so well with them.”

Nodding aimlessly, his black sweatshirt grazing on your cheek. “Thank you. Same to you. Didn’t do so bad yourself, big guy.”

“Mmm.”

Nothing is said between you two after that. The only thing that makes noise is the voices coming from the television. The volume lowered, an initiative you could guess from Toji wanting you to get some rest. The silence was too awkward that it might torture some, but it was fine where it was. There was no need to change it, especially when you were comfortable in each other’s embrace.

That is, until Toji asks, “Do you miss it?” The rubs on your back go slower, his fingertips drawing a ticklish sensation.

“Of course I do. All the time.” You answer honestly, turning your head to rest your chin on him. Your eyes glimpse directly at his, giving him a tiny grin. “Why ask? I know the kids miss me being around; what about you? Miss me nagging and putting you to work all the time?”

He sneers at your comment. “Every day.”

It was such a simple answer, yet it had the power to wipe that smirk right off your face. Your eyes locked in his sight, and your heart tuning to an irregular rhythm. Oh, come on, Y/n, get a grip! “Ahem—Toji, I hope you know that I never stopped missing everything we had — I never will. Those years that we shared were probably the best I’ve had. We had happy moments, others sad, of course. But, God, do I miss it all. I miss it so much. I miss having you guys here. Miki and Gumi and—“

“Me?” Good Lord, if this man doesn’t stop looking at you with those goddamn eyes of his, such captivating orbs that say more than he lets on. Your breath hitches, and so does the hand on your back. “Hmm? Ya miss me, baby?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why’d you have to call me that? And it gets worse when he places his free hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin while the forefinger teases the lobe and tragus of your ear. Goddammnit…

“...Yes,” your voice was down a whisper, which could easily be mistaken with the television. But you know Toji heard you, loud and clear. “Especially you, Toji.” You said it. The words that he wanted to hear from you. They felt so forbidden to say, yet it was the truth. You avert your gaze away from him. But you knew that wouldn’t work, not right now. Toji taps your cheek with his thumb, and your eyes sheepishly return to his.

He doesn’t say anything, and that makes your heart beat at an unbearable rate. It’s all you can hear when you stare into his deep emerald eyes, the sound of it ringing your eardrums as if you could puke. Your throat running dry, so you gulp to ease the uncomfortable bob. If something could just happen to end this anxious torture, that would be great. 

And then your prayers get answered: something does happen. Toji slowly brings his face closer to yours — your body goes rigid, and you instantly face away before the inevitable happens. No, I didn’t mean that!

“Aht aht, don’t do that, baby.” His hand slithers from your cheek to your chin, forcing you to face straight at him. “Lemme see you.”

“Toji, wait,” your voice travels out in a shaky breath. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We can’t cross this line anymore.”

He listens to your pleas, but his body does otherwise. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead while the hand on your back snakes downward. “Why not?” His gruff voice dialed down to a whisper.

“Because—Mmmm…” Toji interrupts you by licking the helix of your ear. Oh, you slick bastard. “We’re supposed to be done…” 

“That’s not stoppin’ me from takin’ care of my sweet thing.” Jesus Christ, you almost melted from the way he whispered that to your ear. He’s pulling out all the same old tricks, and it gets more hellish by the second as you try not to give in. “So, y're gonna let me take care of you like I always do, right, mama?”

Both his hands now rest on your ass, groping it while your hips sway as if they have a mind of their own. The leg between yours comes up slightly, making you ride on it. The heat on your cheeks has already blossomed to your ears, making it hard to think straight. Gripping his sweatshirt, your hips ride his thigh to ease the throbbing sensation that grows with every motion. Good God, you shouldn’t be doing this. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. However, it’s been so long that you felt wanted like this — wanted by him. It’s all the same – his voice, his hands, his words, his body, and the names he calls – yet here you are turning into putty. 

“Haaahh, Mmmfff…Toji, please,” Toji withdraws his face from your shoulder, leaving him to examine your expression. You must look so dumb right now, with your hooded eyes and shivering lips. But, at this point, do you even care? “Please…Treat me right.”

One moment, you see his gaze narrow with a devious glint. Next, you’re taken aback when Toji slams his lips on yours, kissing and sucking your bottom lip until you give him access. With a moan, you open your mouth for him and sink deeper into the kiss. Your hands come around his neck, keeping him focused on you and you alone. Not that he would have it any other way.

His strong hands continue to knead your asscheeks while you hump and grind on his thigh. Nibbling on your lip, you whimper helplessly for him. It strokes his ego, knowing he’s making you like this, the fucking bastard. He takes in your tiny cries happily, shoving his tongue to play with yours. You give in to him, almost losing your balance riding his thigh, yet Toji’s lips never leave yours.

You break the kiss to get an imperative breath, panting loudly and sweetly for him as Toji kisses and licks your ear. The sounds make your lower region twitch. “Hnnmm, fuck…That’s my girl. So fuckin’ good fr’ me always, Y/n…” You can feel him slide a hand up to the hem of your leggings, forcing it inside for his thick fingers to brush up on the bare flesh of your butt. You gasp sharply. Him squeezing your butt has you biting down on his sweatshirt. “—Hahhh, Oh God, Toji,” With every squeeze, he inches closer to your panty-covered chasm, where you know he’d find a damp spot. Please touch me. Please, please, plea—

CLACK-CLINK!!

The two of you are frozen stiff when you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, the foyer lights turned on. “Alright~, we got you guys home. See ya later!” That was Gojo’s voice, indicating everyone was finally back from trick-or-treating. This means that Tsumiki and Megumi are about to see you on top of their father, his hand in your leggings and smacking lips with yours. Your eyes shoot wide with horror — immediately remove yourself from Toji and stand up from the couch to pull your bottoms up. You barely had the chance to peek at Toji because the kids already run to the living room to find you two.

“Y/n, Y/n, look!” The brunette was the first to greet you with her adorable pink Barbie cowgirl costume. She and her brother, dressed as Sasuke Uchiha, cheerfully showcased their pillowcases full of candy. “Look at all this candy we got!”

“Wooow, you guys really went on a haul,” you can only hope they can’t see you sweating bullets through your fake reaction. “Wh–Where’s Gojo?” 

“He dropped us off here a few seconds ago and left for the party,” The raven-haired boy answered while scanning his pillowcase.

You only nod along until you frantically wipe your mouth, realizing the tiny trail of spit from the corner of your mouth. “Umm—Ahem, well then, I’m glad you two got all that candy. Now, let’s hurry up and get you guys home so you can get ready for school tomorrow!” 

But the children didn’t move an inch. Actually, they looked like they were going to tell you something. You lift a brow. Oh no, they’re going to look at each other. They looked at each other and then glanced back at you. Oh, God, no. “Uhhh, Y/n, we were thinking.” Big sister Tsumiki is always the one who asks the following question. “Can we stay over?”

You inhale a massive breath, yet you do your best not to exhale a heavy sigh. “Kids, you promised to keep the overnight stays to three at max per month. This will be the fifth!” 

“Yeah, but it’s dark out. Plus, it’s way past our bedtime.” The younger chimes in with a tiny pout. “We’ll be asleep by the time Dad gets us home.”

And here comes Tsumiki with the tag-team response to add on. “And that means he’ll have to make continuous trips back and forth from the car. Picking me and Megumi up, getting our bookbags, the bags full of candy, the whole thing! We already packed up our PJs just in case.” 

You stood there staring at the two in astonishment. There’s no way they thoroughly planned this out. There’s just no way… And to make it worse, they were making valid arguments. You open your mouth to say something, but the two give the best puppy eyes they can. The wave of guilt hits like a train, internally cringing. You turn to Toji, who still sits on the couch, and the motherfucker only gives you a shrug. Wow, what a helpful father he is.

You groan into your hands, shaking your head while looking at the kids who wait for your verdict. “…Alright, you can stay as long as you PROMISE to put those candy bags in my bedroom closet. Deal?” The happy smiles and aggressive head shakes should answer your question. “Good, now go ahead and take your showers before you head for bed.” They rushed to the stairs by the time you finished that sentence, so enthusiastic about staying the night at your house, and you can’t help but smile hearing their footsteps run up the stairs. 

With that being said, you turn to the older man again. Your brows are trenched down, but your smile is still present. “So, you legit just sat there and let those two tag-team me like that? In my own house?”

Another shrug with a dumb smirk on his handsome face. “Told you: too smart fr’ me to catch up.” You shake your head before exiting to get the kids and guest rooms ready, leaving him with the television. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The midnight hour has finally danced its way into the darkness of the night. Halloween is finally over, and the month of October is no more. The pitter-patter sound of the rain cleanses the neighborhood of its merits and festivities that partook hours ago, ready for a new phase of the year to take over.

After having the guest room ready with sheets and sleepwear for Toji and kissing the kids goodnight, you rinse your stress off with a nice shower and put on your pajamas to get ready for bed. After you turn the lights off, you drape the comforter over your figure as your body sinks with the cozy sheets and pillowcase. Your eyes close while focusing on the curtains of your window, the only light piercing inside being the lampposts by the street. 

…Well, at least that’s what’s supposed to happen. But that’s not the case because you’re not the only one lying comfortably on your mattress. Instead, Toji is here with you, in your room, on your bed, his chest to your back, and his hand roaming inside your oversized shirt. Your lips are now connected with his, sharing your erotic moans with his enticing groans, and you get a little louder as his fingers cup and play with your breast.

“Mmphh…Ahhhh, I thought I told you you’re sleeping in the guest room—Nmmff!” He tweezes your nipple with his forefinger and thumb roughly.  

“And I thought you’d be smart enough to know that wasn’t gonna happen.” Toji kisses the crook of your neck, drawing near your ear for him to whisper. “Besides, look at you. Still sleepin’ with no underwear on?”

“Hmph, only when I have a man around the house.” That answer got you another rough tweak on your nip and a purposeful gnaw to your ear. You knew he’d react like that, never liking the mention of another man leaving your mouth – especially during an intimate time like this.

“That so? What man you know that can handle all this?” Toji then moves from his side to be between your legs, pulling up your shirt to fully expose your chest. And your breathe hitches while his free hand travels down your abdomen to your bottoms.

“Ahhhh, no one. Just you...” You look at him with half-lidded eyes, taking in his reaction to what you said. The salacious grin on his face becoming broader should entail that he greatly loved that retort.

He brings his face to your other unattended nipple, “Good answer, princess.” The nub of your breast enters his mouth, and the wet warmth of his tongue greets it with lapped motions and grazes from his teeth. Despite that, it doesn’t distract you from the fact your bottoms are pulled down with ease and are thrown to the bedroom floor, leaving your cunt out for him, your erotic fluids seeping and glistening from the outside lights. 

Toji plays with your folds until he can stuff his pointer finger into your chasm, the insertion resulting in your body’s jolt. It’s been a long while since you had his thick digit inside you, playing and scraping the inner walls to evoke whimpers. God, it felt so good, this satisfying feeling returning to awaken your body to his touch. He interacts with your body as if he’s the only person who knows how to get you going – and it’s the truth. No one can put you in a blissful haze quicker than this man. And you’d prefer to keep it that way. 

The addition of his middle finger into your leaky entrance startles you, the thick digit making its way in with such vigor that he uses both fingers to scrape the velvety texture of your walls. Your eyes are now screwed shut at the growing commotion between your thighs, and the heat within your body flourishing all around gets to your head. “—Khmm, Oh fuuck, Toji. Please, don’t stop.” 

With a soft ‘pop’ noise from his lips, Toji replies to your demands. “I’m sorry, what’s my name again?” You giggle with trenched brows. Of course, how could I forget?

“Nmmph, D-Daddy, pleaseee, I’m so clo—Ahhhann!!” He puts his thumb to your clit, grinding down on it unexpectedly. “I wanna cum, pleaseee…”

“Hmmm, good girl,” he teased, laying down kisses, nibbling on the skin of your stomach and inner thighs until he arrives at your leaking slit. Your body jerks up from the bed when you feel the cold, wet muscle slowly lick on your clitoris before ravaging your folds. The sounds of his mouth on your cunt are so lewd to the ear, slurping noises from his lips with the lapping motions of his tongue claiming your come are too much for you. And when he uses his hand to swipe and pinch your clit? Oh, it’s a wrap. Your release comes out without control, biting down on your bottom lip to make sure your cries don’t leave this space for the kids to hear. Their room is on the other side down the hall; tonight isn’t the night for too many risks.

When your trembling body calms down and subsides, Toji withdraws his face from between your thighs. Your essence paints his mouth, and he wipes his chin clean while licking the remnants that coat his scarred lips. “Hmph, missed tastin’ you like that.” You open your eyes when your high finally evades you, watching your ex-husband pull down his sweats. His erection springs out and hits his stomach, your mind going rampant with thoughts as you ogle at his freed limb. Shit, it’s been so long. Will that shit even fit me again?

“Don’t think it’ll fit, baby?” Damn him, he loves teasing you. Toji then discards his black wife-beater, at long last revealing his well-built, brawny physique that has you drooling for him. He uses his hands to maneuver your legs—your knees pushed to your chest as your legs propped up on his shoulders. A position you’re all too familiar with. Your eyes don’t leave Toji’s cock as he aligns his cock to your slick-coated folds. “Take some breaths fr’ me, sweetie. Can’t take care of you when you’re all tense.”

You take up on his advice and begin taking deep breaths, reminding yourself to maintain the steady pattern as he pushes the tip of his dick between the lips of your cunt. Every inhale is where he nudges into the hole of your inner cavern, and every exhale gives you time to breathe out the pain that comes in for a split second. This carries on until the cockhead wedges itself perfectly into your vagina, along with the inches of his girth that stretches until the base kisses your lips, the tip of him kissing your cervix. Tears swell up in your eyes, taking more deep breaths to prepare yourself for what’s about to come. 

“Oooh fuuuck…Heh, yeah, that’s my baby right there. Fittin’ so perfect fr’ me, mama…” He puts his weight on you, keeping your figure unmoving under his bow. 

“Nmmmf, Daddyyy,” you’re forced to take in all of him, and drool trails down your lips with no hope of taking care of it. “…I’m so full, you’re too much…”

“I know, sweetie, I know.” He wipes your spit after kissing your forehead. How gentle compared to what you’re about to go through. “Gonna move now.” His thrusts start slow for the two of you to adjust to each other; the feeling of his length’s veins coming in and out of your chasm is so euphoric, and the kisses to your cervix want your body to writhe and squirm. But you’re bent into this position for a reason: forced to submit to him no matter what. So you do just that.

Yet your horny haze gets more potent once he picks up the pace, rutting into you with increased speed. Your slit, still sensitive from earlier, gets overstimulated with the constant grazes on your gummy walls and jabs to your tender cervix. It takes everything in your power not to come so early.

“—Hahhhh, Nmmph. Oh, shit, shit, shit…” Toji groans above you, the thrusts of his pelvis increase to an irregular rhythm, grinding deep into your cunt to the point of uncontrollable babbles escaping your lips. His bullying on your insides results in you gripping his length hard, causing the older man to hiss and moan at your contractions. “—Ohhhfuuuckk!! Jesus Christ, baby. Y’re gonna make me go crazy.” 

As if that wasn’t already happening now that he pistons his cock into your wetness, your brain turning into mush from the onslaught of ruts to your puffy wet chasm. Tears stream down your face, and more drool follows down with more precise hits to your delicate canal. The pounding in your head makes it hard to think of anything else, the squelching noises and paps of Toji’s balls hitting your cunt making it worse. 

“D-Daddyyy, I’m—Ohoooo!! Oh, Jesus, ohhhshit!” You can’t formulate a proper sentence, too engulfed with the electrifying sensations coursing through your body. 

“Damn, you feel too fucking good—Hnngh!!” Toji places his forehead on yours, resting his entire weight on you while his hips have a mind of their own. “‘Bout to make me knock you up…”

Oh, good Lord. The mere thought of having a child is the last thing that should be on your mind. But in a time like this, who in their right mind would be thinking straight? “Nnnfff! Oh God, pleaseee, fill me up, Daddyy!” Green eyes narrow with trenched brows. “—Pleasepleasepleaseee!! I want you to fill me up so bad, I want it, I want—Hyaaaaa!!” 

How can he deny your desperate, teary pleas when you’re urging him on like this? “Heh, you’re so fuckin’ sexy, mama.” Toji captures your lips with his, your mewls taken by him as you sink further into your pleasurable thrill.

Sporadic thrusts of his pelvis produce more raunchy noises in the joining of your sexes, his heavy balls smacking on your cunt as he drives the base of his cock straight into you. Your slit is now a puffy mess, come and slick form a soapy mess that Toji now harbors a milky ring around his girth. A few rushed, sloppy thrusts heighten your high once more, and then Toji presses his pelvis down to the hilt on one final, harsh thrust, unloading his seed into your aching folds. And your climax follows in a few seconds, the walls of your cunt fluttering on his pulsating dick as your essence soaks him. Your muffled shrieks are received by him, quivering under him until the aftershocks wash through your body. 

Once you two breathe at a steady tempo and the nerves of your sweaty bodies fall still, the kiss is broken with heavy pants and a string of spit that links you two together. Toji buries his face between your neck and shoulder, licking and kissing your skin as you’re allowed time to experience your clarity.

“Hmmm…You know I’m not done yet, princess.” Toji mumbles to your ear before stationing your legs off his shoulders for them to rest.

“Yeah, I know, big guy.” You tease him with a breathless laugh, kissing him on the temple. “Always wanting more…”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“…So, you’re telling me you had your ex-husband spend the night? Not just the kids?”

“Yup, that’s what happened.” 

This morning was different from your usual routine – well, you can’t say it’s different if you have done it before, huh? After five years of divorce, you thought you’d be so used to waking up and getting ready for work without worrying about others.��However, this morning proves otherwise.

It felt natural walking into the kids’ room and lightly shaking them awake, telling them to get ready while you whip up something quick for them to eat as Toji showers (using your bathroom, by the way). Watching the kids run down the stairs and eat breakfast puts a smile on your face, reminiscing about the good old days when they were younger and teenier. It sometimes feels surreal doing the same thing for them now that they’re getting older and taller. But seeing them bicker and interact with each other in your presence never fails to warm your heart.

When Toji’s finished freshening up and loading his kids’ stuff in his truck, it’s time to bid them farewell for their departure for school. You give them final touch-ups on their hair and outfits, reminding them to be safe and not get into trouble (especially Megumi, now that the boy’s been getting into fights). And before they rush to the car, you hug them and give each a kiss on the cheek. Here is where the warm feeling inside your heart begins to deteriorate, not wanting to let them go. Yet, for their sake – and education – you release them and hope for the best.

The last to leave was Toji, who came from the kitchen to the front door with a paper plate wrapped in foil in one hand. His name is written boldly by a black Sharpie. “This fr' me?” 

“No, it’s for Shiu Kong, for dealing with you all the time.” You stick your tongue out at Toji as he glares at you, not even moving out of the way while he exits through the door. “You better eat that when you get to work, you have a terrible habit of skipping lunch.” 

“Whatever ya say, mom.” He pesters you with the title, knowing you’re technically not a mother anymore. Yet it only makes you smile knowing he notices your maternal side. 

“Don’t forget to text me when Tsumiki’s soccer game is next week.” You watch him go down the porch stairs. 

“Will do.”He whistles. 

“And Toji?”

The man stops walking to turn to you, his forest green eyes fixed on you so quickly that you almost forget what you want to say. Or what you wanted to do. You place your fingers on your lips and blow a kiss with an outward gesture. It was an old habit you did whenever he left, something you can’t seem to get out of practice with. It’s embroidered in your mind at this point. 

And when he catches the kiss with his free hand and places it on his chest, it makes your heart skip a beat. Toji grins, “I’ll be damned if that was fr' Shiu, too.”

You snicker with a shaken head. “Drive safe, Toji.” Closing the front door, you stand there for a while. Your smile doesn’t falter; it gets bigger as you replay the moment instead. Thinking about him, hearing him, seeing him, it all drives you crazy. And that’s a good thing…right?

“I don’t know, sounds like you still kinda care about the guy.” 

“Of course I do,” So here you are, sitting in your living room enjoying the rays of the sunset decorating the space, in a video call with your best friends, Utahime and Mei Mei. You reply to the former’s comment. “Just because I don’t have the ring on my finger doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care about him. I mean, he’s the father of two lovely children.”

“Shoot, you’re better than me, then.” The dark-haired woman admits. “But you’re kinda proving my point, Y/n. Even when you don’t have the ring on, you two act like the same old couple, and it’s definitely not just for the kids’ sake. Let’s be real here.” 

You try to interject, but the pale-blue-haired other, Mei Mei, intervenes, “I agree. It’s one thing if you let the children stay over, but he also wanted to spend the night. Sure, he could’ve been tired from driving all day and such. However, if you’re still seeing a man for the last five years – while legally unbound – and he says he wants to spend the night under your roof, which is rare, that should ring some bells at least.”

“I know, it did…” you nod along with what your friend is saying, throwing your head back with a heavy sigh. “But it’s not like he’s never spent the night here before, nor is he banished from stepping inside.” 

“Oh? Then why is this time different from the others?”

Utahime jumps in after Mei Mei’s chirp. “Yeah, you’re telling us about all these nostalgic lovey-dovey feelings as if you’re falling in love with him all over again. What, did you two have sex or something?” 

An open mouth, yet no words come out, leaving you in a predicament. You could’ve just lied or swerved the subject to something else. But you didn’t. And the two women on the screen lift their brows with hooded eyes, a look meaning a thousand words. You couldn’t even explain yourself either because a sudden knock on your door captured the attention of all three of you. 

You stand up and walk towards the door, your friends still on call on the phone at hand. Opening the door, you’re almost stunned to see in front of you. Tsumiki and Megumi with nervous smiles, and their father at the car collecting the same duffles bags from last night. You’re kidding.

“Hey, kids.” The two of them gulped from not calling them by their names. You bring up the phone to face the screen to them. “Say hello to Auntie Mei Mei and Utahime.” The women on the line smile and wave at the children, who sheepishly wave back.

“Hi, aunties.” Megumi greets them, and then his eyes drift back to you. “So, Y/n—“

“What did you forget this time?” Straight to the point, no room for excuses.

“It was Miki this time! She forgot her soccer cleats.” The older sibling gawks at her younger brother for calling her out.

“Tsumiki, I know you have cleats at home.”

“I do, but these are special! You bought them for my birthday, and I’ve been wearing them to every game ever since! So, I was scared when I couldn’t find them at home.” The brunette was quick to defend her stand. “Also, Dad doesn’t feel like driving up here and then back. So…can we…”

You close your eyes and bring the phone to your face to shield your vexation. Twice in a row, the sixth time this month. You can hear the giggles of your friends from the other side of the phone, adding more fuel to the fire. You don’t look up until you hear heavy footsteps on the porch, seeing Toji holding both duffle bags with a hand and shoulder. He stares at you as you stare at him, a silent conversation on how to handle this situation. And when he shrugs with lifted brows, you realize it’s no use and release the long-awaited sigh.

“….If I see one more thing being left behind here, you guys can’t come back till December, understand?” It wasn’t anything serious, but enough for the kids to know you weren’t joking. They nod their heads in unison while you roll your eyes. “Okay, get in here.” They rushed inside with gleeful laughs, the shuffling of their backpacks following along with them. Your eyes then drift to Toji as he walks up to you. “Did you forget something here, too?”

“Yeah,” you lift a brow when he drops Megumi’s bag to the floor. Before you can register his hand on your chin, you squeak when he brings his lips to yours. It lasted for seconds, but the kiss was sweet and tender, sucking on your lip before letting go with a playful bite. “Meant to give you that when you woke up. Thanks fr' the food, mama.” 

Toji picks the bag up and walks inside your home to put the bags in the rooms, leaving you standing on the porch with an astounded expression. You couldn’t appropriately calibrate your thoughts until you heard faint laughs from the phone. Then, you realize your best friends witnessed the entire scene that transpired. 

Utahime, with the slyest leer, was the first to say something. “Oh yeah, he laid that pipe on you good, without a doubt.”

“Mhmm,” Mei Mei agrees with a chuckle. “And I'm guessing he’s gonna do it again tonight. Isn’t that right, Y/n?”

You end the video call with a heated face. “Sh-Shut your damn mouths!!” Again, you groan into your hands before returning inside. Thank God I still have those birth control pills...

♱ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 – reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header art by rororogi mogera + dividers by the amazing @/cafekitsune!!

[enviedear]

JASON TODD has never gotten sentimental over his weapons or gear. gloves can be patched, a broken knife can be replaced, and his helmet is always bound to have a few gashes—but his gun—that’s where jason gets sentimental.

it’s not about the make or model, not about the way it handles, or how much kickback it gives him. he’s gone through too many guns to actually care about shit like that. but this one—it’s different—and not because of the way it fires, or the way it sits against his hip—simply because of you.

you—pressed beneath the grip of his pistol. a sweet smile on your face, other features hidden by a halloween mask. he thinks back to the night he took that picture whenever he peers down.

jason tells himself it’s practical. just an old soldier's trick to keep his mind steady—a cue to keep it together, to walk away before a fight gets too messy, a reason to come home in one piece.

he doesn’t tell you about it, but you find out anyway.

it’s late and the pair of you are lounging about in your apartment, simply sitting at the kitchen table as he cleans his guns. you’re watching absentmindedly, half-distracted with your phone until something catches your eye. the edge of a picture, just barely visible beneath the grip.

“what’s that?” you inquire, hands already reaching.

he doesn’t answer fast enough, instead lazily watches you. you grab the pistol, turning it in your hands, and your breath catches.

a picture of you, smoothed beneath the panel, worn soft at the edges like it’s been there for a while.

“jason.”

“don’t.” he huffs, blush on his cheeks.

“you keep this on you?” you sound surprised, a little amused too.

he shrugs, takes the gun back, and snaps the magazine home with practiced ease. “helps me aim,” he looks back at you, a soft almost indecipherable smile on his lips, “and keeps me thinking about what i’ve got waiting here.”

writer’s note .☘︎ ݁˖ got an anon abt this concept and i had to write it lol—hope i delivered nonnie !!!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[flowersforthemachines]

Some facts about Lucanis (and also Spite and the Crows) gathered from the banters

I went through all companion banters on DanaDuchy's channel after playing the game to write down all facts about companions/the world that I haven't seen brought up anywhere in the game as a writing reference (and for funsies).

Note: This list may not be exhaustive. I might have missed some something or didn't write it down because I considered it common knowledge. If you have anything to add, please DM me or send an ask! (do specify what banter the information is coming from, though)

Note 2: Posts from this series (mostly) don't include information from banters specific to quests or between companions and faction members. I plan to do another playthrough to capture more of those and will add any relevant info to the character posts.

Other characters' posts: Bellara, Davrin, Harding, Emmrich, Neve, Taash. I'm also planning a post about just the Lighthouse some time later

About Lucanis: 

Family and the past:

Lucanis learnt to cook while helping the kitchen staff at the villa when he was a little boy. One of his motivations was learning how to make churros

Side note: Lucanis mentions that cioccolata calda was his favourite drink when he was a baby, and he serves churros to a romanced Rook who picks cioccolata calda as their favourite drink. It’s all coming together! 

Lucanis wanted to be a Crow when he was a child (at least most of the time)  

All of Lucanis's relatives were Crows as well, and all of them were killed by a rival Crow house

Lucanis says Caterina would be proud of Illario hiding his plans well, as well as killing her 

Lucanis says that the hard part about setting Illario free would be convincing Caterina 

Lucanis says that nightlife was more of Illario's thing, and he never got out as much

On Crows and Antiva:

Viago still stares daggers at Lucanis for throwing his (Viago's) pet snake out of the window in a dream

Lucanis doesn't like it when people confuse murder and assassination ("Murderers are hobbyists, we are professionals")

Lucanis has taken contracts in Orlais

Lucanis doesn’t know Treviso as well as he once used to 

Heir didn’t train Lucanis

Lucanis says he has never killed an innocent “by his count” (other people may disagree) 

Lucanis doesn’t think of the Crows as a “big organisation” (unlike the Inquisition) because they stab each other too much

Lucanis became a mage-killer at Caterina’s behest (she wanted to tap into new markets)

The nickname “The Demon of Vyrantium” came from Tevinter news-sheets, though Lucanis thinks Viago started it

Lucanis says that there aren't any special tricks to killing mages. Though, if nothing else works, you can try pissing them off, as that could attract a demon that would eat the mage

Lucanis once killed half a dozen venatori while stuck inside an elevator 

Lucanis doesn’t consider himself a gentleman assassin, manners are less important than getting the job done

Lucanis sometimes spares his targets. He mentioned letting go of a servant who killed her master, as well as a 14-year-old boy. He thinks it’s wrong to kill people so young because they still have time to change

Lucanis doesn’t accept contracts without merit, and the merit is decided by the talon of the house

General:

Lucanis can make bread

Lucanis has never been to Ferelden

Lucanis isn’t interested in killing wyverns, just looking at them :)  

Lucanis has a pet snake 

Lucanis stays awake at night by cleaning his gear, exercising, studying Orlesian and knitting ("it’s just another kind of blade work") 

Lucanis doesn’t understand a lot of things people find attractive

(In a conversation with Harding) Thinking about cooking was one of the things that helped Lucanis stay sane in the Ossuary (the other was thinking about killing his enemies) 

(In a conversation with Davrin) Lucanis survived the Ossuary by shutting down and not thinking about anything except escaping

These two points sort of contradict each other. Either an inconsistency or Lucanis describing his experience differently to different people. 

The Wetlands ruined at least one pair of Lucanis’s boots

(If Rook chooses to save Treviso) Lucanis offers to pay for any supplies the Shadow Dragons may need 

Lucanis doesn't get a better bed because he's afraid of accidentally falling asleep 

Lucanis can identify the killer’s weapon and the height difference between them and the target just through the blood splatter left at the scene

Lucanis considers Grey Wardens dangerous 

Lucanis doesn’t like necromancy, because bringing people back to life is a waste of hard work

Lucanis finds the ice coffee from Minrathous offensive (Harding describes it as “snow, but made of coffee, sweet, and with cream and toffee sauce on top”)

Lucanis had never been in a romantic relationship before Rook/Neve

Relationships with other companions: 

Lucanis gets into reading Bellara’s serials (very passionately - they chat about it a bunch)

Lucanis is outraged that the Veil Jumpers don’t get paid for their work and offers Bellara his contract negotiator

Lucanis made biscuits for Assan

Lucanis is sceptical that the griffons will be safe with the Wardens

Lucanis think that Assan shouldn’t go soft (referring to the time he took care of a halla) because he is a predator at heart

(If Emmrich becomes a lich) Lucanis offers to hold a funeral for Manfred

Lucanis and Harding talk a lot about dreams (mostly silly things like showing up naked for the job, getting chased by someone/something etc.)

Lucanis thinks Harding is deadly with her bow

Lucanis offers to pay Harding for being his lookout/aide at the rate of 6000 gold per contract

Lucanis offers the help of his contract negotiator to Neve after he finds out she doesn't have one

Lucanis made deep-fried peppers for Taash

About Spite: 

Emmrich can hear Spite even when he doesn’t take over Lucanis’s body (at least from a close distance)

Spite is impartial to Emmrich, believing him more than Lucanis

Emmrich says it’s impossible to separate Spite and Lucanis without killing them

Emmrich encourages Lucanis to read to Spite to bring them closer. Lucanis agrees to let Spite pick a book

(If Emmrich becomes a lich) Spite asks if he and Lucanis can get rid of their skin too 

(If Manfred is revived at the Necropolis) Spite asks Emmrich to teach him how to use fire magic. Lucanis isn’t thrilled by the idea

Emmrich sets up wards to prevent Spite from leaving the room when Lucanis is asleep

Spite no longer sleepwalks after “Inner Demons” because he apparently understood the concept of space

By the end of the game, Spite has agreed to stop sleepwalking completely

Spite controls the wings (confirmed in banter with Harding) 

Spite wants to try swinging off the astrolabe at the Lighthouse

Spite is very excited about Manfred having hands and feet (Curiosity. Has. Feet!)

Spite finds the wisps in Neve’s room unnerving (as do Lucanis and Neve)

Spite likes to play with whetstones Bellara got for Lucanis (Bellara got them from the Irelin who supposedly got them from somewhere in Arlathan) 

Spite wants to try eating self-lightning candles at Blackthorne Manor

About the Crows: 

Crows frequently visit Nevarra and have received 20 contacts to assassinate the king. The King has been poisoned 7 times

Crows get a lot of contracts for Divine Victoria

Some seers in Rivain are powerful enough that there are contracts on them as well

Caterina once killed a man with a thimble

When Crows kill someone, most of the time they want others to know it was them (rather than presenting the death as an accident) 

The crows buried six different Eight Talons and rarely take contracts in Ferelden after the Zevran fiasco

[ilovejb]

| Offside |

Pairing : Aitana Bonmatí x female!reader

Summary : A nude photo from Aitana Bonmatí landed on your phone. Now, playing on the same team feels different.

Warnings : slow burn, mature but not really smut

authors note : around 6k

You weren’t expecting anything unusual after training.

It had been the usual grind — two hours of nonstop drills, ball control, pressing under pressure, and movement between lines. You had a slight ache in your calves, a stain of grass on your thigh, and a knot forming at the base of your spine from all the pivoting and cutting.

You’d shared the pitch and locker room with the likes of Cata, Patri, Ingrid, and, of course, Aitana Bonmatí — the legend. The midfield queen. The tactical brain in cleats. She was the type of player who made you raise your level just to survive in her orbit.

Your interactions with her had been limited. Professional. Respectful. Polite nods, sharp passes, the occasional murmured “nice ball” or “watch the press.” Nothing more.

That’s why when your phone buzzed — walking home with headphones in, still in your training gear — you barely glanced at the notification.

Unknown number. Image attachment.

You should’ve deleted it.

You should’ve ignored it, assumed it was spam.

But you tapped it anyway.

And then you stopped walking.

Because it wasn’t spam.

Your breath caught. The street sounds fell away. The photo glowed on your screen — skin, lines, ink. A nude. Intimate, artful, confident.

You knew those tattoos. You’d seen them in passing, glimpsed them in the showers, on the edge of her hip, down her ribs.

Aitana.

Your heart thundered. You stared at the image as if it might morph into someone else. Some trick of the light. Some bad joke.

But it didn’t. It stayed exactly as it was.

The muscles in your stomach clenched. A strange wave of heat swept over you, crawling up your neck, blooming in your ears.

You locked your phone and stood there for a long moment.

Your fingers hovered over the screen.

What were you supposed to do?

Pretend it never happened?

Text her and confess you saw it?

Ask… why?

Was it a mistake? A wrong number? An accidental send?

Or — and here’s what made your brain spiral — was it on purpose?

And then you made an even bolder decision.

You texted back.

You: I think this was meant for someone else…?

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

You stared at the bubble, watching for a reply that didn’t come.

Finally, when you’d almost convinced yourself to delete it again and let it vanish from your memory, your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Oh my god. I’m so sorry.

You read it. And then read it again.

She knew. She knew you’d seen it. She knew it was her.

And she was texting back.

You hesitated, fingers hovering again. Then typed:

You: It’s fine. Really. I just… wasn’t expecting that.

Another pause.

Then:

Aitana: I didn’t mean to send it to you. It was supposed to go to someone else.

That hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting her to say. That she’d been thinking about you? That she’d hit “send” on purpose?

Wishful thinking.

Still, there was something about the way she texted — careful. Uncertain. Like she was trying not to scare you away.

Your thumbs moved before your brain caught up.

You: Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.

She replied quickly this time.

Aitana: Thanks. I mean it.

You almost left it there.

But then you added one more message.

You: You looked… good. Really good.

Aitana didn’t reply.

Not that night.

But the next morning, something shifted.

You could feel it in training — the weight of her glance when you received the ball, the extra second she looked at you during rondos, the strange electricity that buzzed every time you stood too close.

Whatever this was… it wasn’t over.

You hadn’t expected anything to change, not really.

But from that morning on, it was different.

The pitch still looked the same. The drills hadn’t changed. The staff gave out the same tired instructions. But your skin felt more alert. More alive. Every movement felt watched — not by the coaches, but by her.

You caught her eyes more often than you should have. And when you did, she didn’t look away.

It wasn’t obvious. Not enough for teammates to catch on. But you knew the difference between indifference and awareness.

It wasn’t nothing.

After training, while you peeled off your shin guards and sat on the bench beside your locker, she passed by behind you. Close enough that her arm brushed your shoulder. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t flinch.

You didn’t either.

Then came the team flight that weekend — an away match in Valencia. You always hated these. The hours of prep, the packing, the weird hotel rooms with bad curtains and one working outlet. But this time, it felt charged.

She sat diagonally across from you on the team bus. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. But you could feel her watching you from behind the lenses.

The match itself was a blur. A choppy 1–0 win. You got subbed on in the 70th minute, didn’t touch the ball much, but covered ground like your life depended on it. And Aitana? Aitana was her usual self — elegant, brutal, clever, always a step ahead.

After the game, the team celebrated quietly in the hotel lobby. Then slowly trickled into rooms, exhausted and sore.

You were halfway into your pajamas when your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Room 814. Don’t feel like sleeping yet.

You stared at it.

Not a question. Not an invitation, either. Just… a breadcrumb.

And you followed.

You found her sitting on the edge of her bed in a tank top and shorts, hair damp from a quick shower, a water bottle dangling from one hand.

She looked up when you entered. Said nothing.

So you closed the door and leaned against it, not moving.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“Hi,” she said finally, voice low.

“Hi.”

Her eyes dropped to your shirt — a Barça tee — then flicked back up to your face.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“Liar,” you said.

And she smiled.

The conversation that followed wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t charged. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t even particularly flirtatious.

It was… nervous.

She told you she hadn’t meant to send the photo. That it was stupid, careless. That she never did things like that.

You listened.

She told you she wasn’t seeing anyone. That she wasn’t out to most of the team. That she didn’t know what she was doing.

You told her it was okay.

You told her you weren’t looking for drama either. That you respected her. That you liked her, honestly, even before the photo.

That made her blush. Really blush.

“You did?”

You nodded.

“How could I not?” you said, smiling softly. “You’re kind of… impossible not to notice.”

She looked down. Fiddled with the cap of her water bottle.

And then she said, almost shyly, “I notice you too.”

The air in the room shifted.

It wasn’t sudden, but it was definite.

You moved first — slow, giving her time to stop you. When she didn’t, you crossed the floor and sat beside her on the bed.

Her shoulder barely brushed yours.

“Okay?” you asked.

She nodded.

And then your hand found hers.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just there.

She squeezed back.

And then she leaned into you, cheek against your shoulder, like she’d been waiting all day for the permission to rest.

You stayed like that until your backs ached and your eyes burned from yawning.

You didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just sat there, together, and let the moment stretch.

The next few days were a strange mix of normalcy and tension.

Training was the same — long, demanding, relentless. But every time your paths crossed, there was an extra awareness in the air. A subtle tension that hummed between you both, like static.

It wasn’t awkward, per se. It was… something else.

She was more present than usual, more attentive, but in a way that didn’t draw attention. A glance here. A fleeting touch of your arm during drills. The smallest of smiles that felt different from all the others.

You caught her looking at you more often than before. And when you met her gaze, she’d just… smile. Not nervously. Just knowing.

It was maddening, the way she made you feel so seen, even when she said nothing.

But you didn’t talk about it. Not yet.

You couldn’t.

The day after the away match in Valencia, you found yourself alone in the hotel lobby. It was early — too early for anyone else to be up — but you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t feel tired. Not really.

Aitana had already checked out, you noticed, but you weren’t surprised. She always had this quiet, steady energy, like she was always a few steps ahead of everyone. You liked that about her.

It was then that you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned, and there she was, appearing almost out of nowhere.

She was wearing the same hoodie from the bus ride, her hair still damp from the shower, but now she had a quiet air of self-assuredness that you hadn’t seen before. It was like she’d decided something, made up her mind.

“You’re awake early,” she said, standing just a bit too close.

You smiled, a little embarrassed. “Can’t sleep.”

“You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I…”

She was quiet for a second, eyes catching yours, soft but intense. “I think about it too,” she admitted.

There was no hiding it now. She was here. You were here. And the moment was ripe with possibilities.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head. “I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand. The softness of her touch made your breath catch.

“I know what I want now,” she said, voice steady but with an underlying vulnerability that made your pulse race.

You swallowed, your mind racing. “What do you want, Aitana?”

Her answer came in the form of a kiss — sudden, but gentle. A soft press of her lips against yours, testing, waiting for your response. And when you kissed her back, everything shifted.

The world seemed to fall away. The bustling hotel lobby. The pressure of training. The uncertainty that had been hanging in the air since that photo.

For those few seconds, there was only the quiet, consuming connection between you.

You pulled away first, but you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against hers as you both caught your breath.

“I’ve wanted that,” she admitted quietly, almost like a confession.

“I thought it was just me,” you said, smiling softly.

She chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

The kiss was just the beginning.

The next few days were a blur of mixed emotions, lingering touches, stolen glances, and conversations that felt like they were building toward something you couldn’t quite define.

But one thing was clear: this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. Neither of you were content with it being that.

It was hard to describe what exactly changed between you two.

It wasn’t the kind of change that drew attention. No public declarations. No sudden bursts of passion that left the team gossiping. It was more subtle. A quiet shift, like the calm before a storm.

During training, your connection was undeniable. Every pass you made felt charged, every glance lingered just a little longer than usual. She was always a step ahead, anticipating your movements, helping you when you needed it, and when the play would slow down, she would look at you with something more than just professionalism.

When the team gathered for post-training meetings, Aitana would often sit beside you, her arm brushing yours in casual moments, and every time it happened, you could feel your pulse racing. You’d glance over at her, only to find her already looking at you, the corner of her mouth turning up into a soft, secret smile.

It was the little things.

She’d send you texts late at night, messages that weren’t about soccer but just about how your day was. And you’d reply, maybe a bit too quickly, but the conversations felt easy. Natural.

And yet, despite all the moments that felt right, you were still both dancing around the elephant in the room.

There was no discussion about what this was. No label. No “are we seeing each other” conversation. It was as if you were both comfortable with the unspoken connection, but the silence felt like it could burst at any moment.

It was late one evening after training when the air in the locker room seemed to thicken. You had just finished stretching, the usual post-practice exhaustion settling into your bones. You were almost done packing your things when you felt her presence behind you.

Her voice was low but clear. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

You turned to face her. She was standing a little too close, eyes searching your face, waiting.

“Of course,” you said, swallowing slightly, your heart picking up speed.

She hesitated, taking a step forward as she closed the space between you. The whole room seemed to fall away as she looked at you, the usual buzz of the locker room and chatter from teammates fading into the background.

“I need to know if this is something we’re both just… letting happen,” Aitana said, her voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t heard before. “I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care. Like this doesn’t mean something to me.”

You blinked, unsure whether your heart was in your throat or in your stomach. You felt suddenly exposed, as if she had stripped away all the layers you’d carefully built around yourself. She was waiting. You could feel her gaze on you, waiting for you to make a choice.

You could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Would you continue this — whatever this was — or was it just another passing moment?

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you finally said, your voice steady, but your heartbeat still racing. “It’s not just something… I want to be real too.”

The words hung between you for a second. And then she closed the distance completely, cupping your cheek with one hand. Her thumb brushed across your skin, her touch soft and hesitant, but you didn’t pull away.

She leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “I’m glad you said that.”

The kiss that followed was unlike the one in the hotel. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t a spark of electricity. It was slow. Deliberate. A quiet promise that neither of you had spoken aloud but both understood.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far. Her forehead rested against yours, breath mixing with yours in the still air of the locker room.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

You nodded, your hands finding their way to her waist. The thought of telling the team, of exposing this growing connection between you, made the edges of your mind feel blurry. There was no rush.

“I just want this to be ours,” you whispered back.

She smiled then, a real, full smile. And for the first time, you felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by something lighter. Something… easier.

And it felt good.

Keeping things quiet wasn’t easy — especially not on a team like Barça.

Everyone was close. Too close. Teammates noticed everything: who lingered in the hallway too long, who sat next to who on flights, who shared extra looks in the locker room. You weren’t foolish enough to think no one had noticed the shift between you and Aitana.

But no one said anything.

And maybe that was part of the code. As long as you didn’t make it a problem, no one would call it one.

The moments you had together were short, but they meant everything. A quick glance across the pitch before kickoff. Her fingers brushing yours when passing a water bottle. Late-night texts that made your stomach flip. And once, after a particularly tough game, you’d both ended up in the gym late, saying you needed to stretch. The second the door closed behind you, she pushed you gently against the wall and kissed you until your knees gave out.

You didn’t say a word the entire time.

After, you both sat on the floor, backs against the wall, flushed and breathless, giggling like kids with a secret.

“Are we crazy?” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned her head against your shoulder. “Maybe.”

But you didn’t stop.

One afternoon after training, Aitana asked if you wanted to go to her place — not for anything, she promised, just to rest, maybe eat something, watch a movie. The team had a free evening and you hadn’t had time together outside hotel rooms and dark hallways.

You agreed. And maybe you should’ve known.

Her apartment was quiet. Minimal. A little cold, like she didn’t spend as much time there as she wanted to. But there were books on the shelves and a guitar leaning in the corner. The small personal details made you smile.

She handed you a hoodie — one of hers — and you pulled it on without thinking. It smelled like her. You caught her watching as you did it, her mouth curling slightly.

“You look better in it than I do,” she said.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

But she walked closer. “I’m serious.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. You just knew that within seconds, her lips were on yours again, and it felt different this time — slower, deeper, filled with everything you hadn’t said out loud. You sank into it. Into her. Into the quiet space you were building together.

It didn’t go further than that — not yet — but it left you both breathless. Touch-starved. Wanting.

You sat curled up beside her afterward on her couch, her arm around your shoulders, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. You watched a movie neither of you paid attention to.

At some point, she kissed the top of your head and whispered, “You don’t scare me.”

You looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

She met your eyes, her gaze soft. “What I feel. With you. It’s not scary.”

And in that moment, all you could think was: Me neither.

But nothing could stay secret forever.

It started small. Mapi raised an eyebrow one day in the locker room when Aitana defended you during a tactics meeting a little too hard. Then Patri asked why you always sat together on the bus. You played it off. So did Aitana. But the team was beginning to notice.

One afternoon, during a water break at training, Ingrid leaned close to you and murmured, “Just so you know… we’re not blind.”

You almost choked on your drink. “What?”

She smiled, not unkindly. “You two. It’s cute. Just… be careful.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. You already knew.

You were two of the most visible players on one of the most dominant teams in the world. Anything personal could become public in seconds.

And still, you couldn’t stop.

It was supposed to stay simple. Private. Yours.

But everything changed after the Atlético match.

You’d both played brilliantly — connected on the field like you had a telepathic bond. Commentators mentioned it. Fans noticed it. There was even a clip going around online of a moment after your assist to her goal: the way she ran straight to you, the way your foreheads touched for a beat too long.

The team had won 3–0. Spirits were high. Everyone was buzzing.

But the moment you walked into the tunnel, your phone vibrated with a message from Aitana.

“Come to the hotel terrace. Alone.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The terrace was quiet, the city lights twinkling below. She was already there, standing by the railing, arms crossed, hair damp from her post-match shower. When she heard your footsteps, she turned — and you knew something was different.

“You saw the clip, right?” she asked.

You nodded.

She sighed, turning her gaze back toward the city. “They’re starting to talk.”

“The fans?” you asked, stepping beside her.

She nodded. “And the press. Maybe even the club.”

You leaned against the railing too, shoulder brushing hers. “Do you regret it?”

That got her to turn toward you again, her expression sharp. “No. Do you?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

She exhaled, something easing in her shoulders. “Then I don’t care.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been sure about you since that night you texted me back. This… whatever it is, it’s the only thing that’s made sense to me in a long time.”

You didn’t answer — not with words. Instead, you reached for her hand, laced your fingers with hers.

That was answer enough.

You stayed careful, but the closeness between you was no longer deniable. The team didn’t say much, but the teasing increased. Alexia made a few jokes in passing. Lucy called you “the power couple” once during dinner. Even Pere had started giving you double glances during film sessions.

But it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t mocking. It was just… real now. And strangely, that made it easier.

For a while, everything was good.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a leak.

A blurry photo. You and Aitana, on a bench near Ciutat Esportiva. She was leaning against you, head on your shoulder. It wasn’t scandalous. It wasn’t anything dramatic.

But the headline made it worse: Barça Stars Closer Than Ever — Romance Rumors Heat Up.

The comments flooded in. Some fans were supportive. Some weren’t. The media picked it up. The press asked questions. The club didn’t say anything, but there were whispers.

You and Aitana sat on her couch in silence, both staring at the same photo on your phones. You could feel her body tense beside you.

“I knew this could happen,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

She turned to you, eyes wide. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because this is my fault. I leaned in, I let it happen—”

She shook her head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make this something it’s not.”

You looked at her. “Then what is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and took your hand again, grounding you. “It’s us. And I won’t let anyone make me feel ashamed of that.”

Your throat tightened. She was so steady, so brave — and you wished you could be like that too.

“What if they try to split us up?” you asked quietly.

“They won’t,” she said, fierce and certain. “And even if they did, I wouldn’t let them.”

You nodded, but your stomach still felt heavy.

This wasn’t just a secret anymore. It was a spotlight.

And the light could burn.

The following days felt like walking a tightrope.

Training resumed, and so did the pressure — not just from the media, but from within yourself. You felt eyes everywhere. Every glance from a coach. Every hushed conversation you weren’t part of. Your mind twisted it all into suspicion.

You weren’t sure if it was real or if the anxiety was just that loud.

Aitana was calm on the outside, but you could tell it was getting to her too. The jokes from teammates slowed. The mood shifted slightly — not cold, but cautious. As if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what happened next.

You didn’t sleep well that week.

Neither did she.

One night, after a win in the league, the team went out for dinner. Spirits were high again. The energy was lighter. You sat next to Aitana at the far end of the table, your legs touching under the tablecloth, though no one could see.

She leaned over after dessert and whispered, “Come home with me tonight.”

You nodded.

It wasn’t a question.

Her apartment was warm. Dim. Quiet. You toed off your shoes, threw your jacket on the couch, and turned to find her already watching you from the hallway.

The way she looked at you — like the only person in the world who mattered — made your heart stutter.

Neither of you said a word.

She walked toward you slowly, deliberately, and you met her halfway. Her hands found your hips, your arms wrapped around her neck, and she kissed you like it was the first time.

But it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say.

She kissed you like she needed to make you believe you were safe. That you were wanted. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

You moved toward her bedroom without planning it. Her fingers trailed along your wrist, your shoulder, your waist. You fell onto the bed together, tangled in each other — breathing, pressing, touching.

You undressed slowly, helping each other out of your clothes like you were peeling back armor. Every inch of skin revealed was a confession. Every whispered word, every sigh, every shaky breath — a promise.

She explored you gently, learning every part of you like she was memorizing it. Your back arched, your hands gripped the sheets, and her mouth was everywhere — your throat, your chest, your stomach — until all you could do was feel.

And then you returned the favor. Not out of obligation, but because you wanted to. Needed to. You wanted to make her fall apart, just like she had done for you. You wanted her to know that whatever this was — whatever was growing between you — you weren’t running from it.

It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just release.

It was care. Intimacy.

Afterward, you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on her chest, her fingers stroking your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

But you didn’t need to.

The next morning, she made coffee. You wore her hoodie again, padding around her apartment barefoot while she scrolled through her phone.

“Bad news?” you asked.

“Not really.” She glanced up, eyes scanning your face. “They want me to do a press thing next week.”

You nodded. “You’ll be great.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They want to ask about… off-pitch things. Personal things.”

You froze. “You think they’ll bring this up?”

“Maybe not directly.” She set the phone down. “But they’ll circle around it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your heart picked up.

“What are you going to say?”

She walked over, wrapping her arms around your waist. “Whatever I need to. I’m not ashamed.”

You nodded, burying your face in her shoulder. You wanted to be brave like her. But you also wanted to protect what you had. You weren’t ready to lose it.

Not now.

Not ever.

The press conference came faster than you expected.

You weren’t there, but you watched it live from the players’ lounge, nerves making your stomach twist. Aitana sat calmly at the podium, her hair tucked behind her ears, expression composed and unreadable. Journalists asked the usual — tactics, recent matches, Champions League hopes.

Then came the question.

“Some fans have noticed you seem especially close with a teammate this season. Would you care to comment on that?”

There was a pause.

You stopped breathing.

Aitana smiled — not wide, but sure. “I think chemistry on and off the pitch is important. If people see something between me and a teammate, that’s because we care about each other. We all do. That’s what makes this team strong.”

Smooth. Vague. Safe.

But her eyes flicked toward the camera in a way that felt deliberate — like she was looking right at you.

Your heart squeezed.

Later that day, when she walked into training, everyone gave her a wide berth. Not in a bad way — in a respectful way. Even Alexia clapped her on the shoulder and murmured, “Well said.”

She caught your eye across the locker room. You nodded.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

Still, being careful became second nature.

You timed your exits. Sat apart during team meals. Didn’t share rides anymore. You still trained the same, played the same, felt the same — but everything had an invisible layer now. Like you were constantly performing.

One evening, after a Champions League match, you snuck into the showers after everyone had left. Aitana was waiting, leaning against the wall like she belonged there. You didn’t say a word. Just kissed her. Hard.

Later, breathless and wet-haired, you stood wrapped in towels, your forehead pressed to hers.

“This is getting harder,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“We can’t keep hiding.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do?”

She looked at you — steady, unwavering. “We win. Together. And we keep loving each other. Quiet if we have to. Loud if we can.”

You exhaled, tension breaking like a wave.

That was the plan. Simple. Powerful.

And then came the final.

The Champions League. The biggest stage.

You and Aitana were both in the starting XI. The pressure was unlike anything you’d felt before — not just for the club, not just for the fans, but for each other.

You could feel her eyes on you during the anthem.

Her fingers brushed yours during the huddle.

You played the game of your life.

Assisted the opener. Ran until your lungs burned. Held your line when it mattered. And in the 86th minute, with the game tied and the world watching, Aitana received a pass, cut past two defenders, and scored the winning goal.

The stadium exploded.

You ran toward her without thinking. She met you halfway. Arms wrapped. Bodies crashed. And this time, it didn’t matter who saw.

Her forehead against yours.

Her voice in your ear: “We did it.”

That night, in the chaos of celebration, no one stopped you when you pulled her onto the balcony of the hotel. No one cared when you kissed her under the stars. No teammates interrupted. No fans peeked. No coaches questioned.

It was just you and her — alive, victorious, seen.

No more hiding.

The photo that broke the internet wasn’t blurry.

It wasn’t from a distance or taken in secret.

It was you and Aitana, arms around each other on the pitch, cheeks pressed together, laughing like idiots with confetti tangled in your hair. A kiss hadn’t been captured — but somehow, it didn’t need to be. The closeness was loud. Obvious. Undeniable.

By the next morning, it was everywhere.

The hashtags trended. The fan edits multiplied. Headlines called you “Barcelona’s new golden duo.” Commentators praised your chemistry, your impact, your connection.

And though some voices online remained cruel or suspicious, they were drowned out by the support. You’d expected backlash — feared it.

Instead, you found freedom.

For the first time in months, you held her hand on the way to the team bus. No one flinched. No one stared.

It was real now.

Out loud.

Back in Barcelona, life shifted.

You started staying at her place more often. She stocked your favorite snacks. You left your cleats by her door. You learned her morning moods and her nighttime silences. You shared playlists. You fought over laundry. You kissed in grocery store aisles when no one was looking.

It felt like normal.

Or as normal as it could be, when your faces were still plastered across sports blogs and post-match interviews.

Pere sat you both down one afternoon at the training ground. Not for punishment — just to talk.

“As long as you don’t let it affect your performance,” he said, “I don’t care who you’re dating.”

Aitana looked him straight in the eye. “It won’t.”

He nodded. “Good.”

And that was that.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect.

There were still rough days. Games lost. Articles speculated. A few opponents made comments on the field that turned your blood cold. You learned quickly how to shield her — how to step in when her jaw tightened and her hands balled into fists.

She did the same for you.

There was one evening when you came home, silent and shaken after an ugly match. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

She just pulled you into bed, wrapped her arms around your waist, and let you cry into her shoulder.

Later, she whispered, “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

“I want to,” you said hoarsely.

“Then let me be strong for you, too.”

That night, you made love without urgency. Without the rush of secrecy or the thrill of stolen time.

It was slow. Unspoken.

Her hands mapped every part of you again — not searching, but remembering. Your sighs were soft. Your bodies moved like puzzle pieces fitting together. And when you fell apart, it wasn’t with a cry or a moan — it was with a whispered name and a breathless laugh.

Afterward, you curled into her chest, fingers drawing circles on her ribs.

“I think I love you,” you said quietly.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I know,” she murmured. “I love you too.”

You thought it would feel scarier.

It didn’t.

It felt right.

Summer break came like a warm exhale.

After months of matches, media, and emotional tightropes, you found yourself waking late in Aitana’s bed, tangled in sheets and sunlight. Some mornings she made breakfast, wearing nothing but your oversized tee. Other days, you took walks around quiet Barcelona streets, disguised under caps and sunglasses — not to hide from the world, but to keep the peace you’d earned.

No more secrets. But still, something just yours.

One afternoon, she took you to her childhood home. Her mother welcomed you in with a smile that said everything without words. Aitana showed you old trophies, old photos — her room with books stacked against every wall. You lay on her bed, flipping through photo albums while she sat beside you, face pink with embarrassment.

“You were such a nerd,” you teased, pointing at a picture of her at ten, clutching a soccer ball and a science trophy.

“I am a nerd,” she replied, grinning. “You just like that about me.”

You kissed her shoulder. “Yeah. I really do.”

Pre-season came too fast.

Your bodies were sore again. Drills resumed. The weight of competition returned. But this time, it wasn’t heavy.

The team noticed a shift — not just in you two, but around you. The chemistry wasn’t forced. It was fluid. Passes that found each other’s feet without looking. Celebrations that ended in shared grins. Arguments that ended in trust.

There was a foundation now. Something unshakeable.

One evening after training, you sat on the rooftop of Aitana’s apartment, the city stretching out below you.

“You know,” she said, “a year ago I didn’t even know if I liked you.”

You snorted. “That’s fair. I was kind of a ghost.”

“You were intense,” she admitted. “Quiet. Hard to read.”

“And now?”

She turned, brushing hair from your face. “Now you’re the easiest part of my life.”

It hit you then — all of it. What had started as a slip of a photo. A mistake. A moment out of context.

And how it had slowly, carefully become the best thing that ever happened to you.

You thought about how close you’d come to ignoring it. To pretending nothing happened. To walking away instead of leaning in.

You thought about everything you would’ve missed.

You leaned back on your elbows, smiling softly.

“So what happens now?”

She shrugged, playful. “We play. We win. We annoy the hell out of our teammates with our gross couple energy.”

You laughed.

“And?”

She kissed you, slow and sure.

“And we keep loving each other. Loudly.”

The stars blinked above you. Barcelona hummed below.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You were exactly where you were supposed to be.

With her.

Always with her.

[whateveriwant]

I know you already did the 141 boys when their wife gives birth (which was fantastic btw) but maybe if they missed the birth because of a mission or whatever else your brilliant mind can think of!

Don't give me compliments because then I'll follow you home like a cat and you'll never get rid of me 😖

Price

(This goes for all the men, really) but he's absolutely gutted to not be with you as you're giving birth

Honestly, if he had the choice, he would've rather lobbed off his own arm than miss such a momentous occasion in both your lives

It’s nothing less than the literal fate of the world that's keeping him from you, and he makes sure to reiterate that over and over again

The only thing that gives Price a bit of peace of mind when leaving you at a time like this is knowing you have a strong support system to help you through it

And boy oh boy does he put those friends and family members to use by having them constantly text him with every update imaginable

What time your water breaks, how far apart your contractions are, how much you've dilated, so on and so on. He wants to know it all

While he has to remain focused during the bulk of the mission, when he's able to, he's whipping out his phone to scroll through the literal hundreds of messages that await him

The updates are so plentiful and detailed that if he tries hard enough, he can almost pretend like he was right there beside you all along

And once he gets to the pictures of you holding your little one for the first time, well… he's not afraid to admit that he sheds a manly tear or two at the sight

Soap

He kicked up quite the storm at work when he realized he was going to be missing the birth of his child

He did everything in his power to try to get out of the mission – to try to get back to you – but, ultimately, he had no other choice than to go

But he's not just going to go gently into the night. No, he has a few tricks up his sleeve to make it as if he's still there with you in some capacity

Like Price, Soap takes comfort in leaving you with a huge support system to help while he's away

And also similarly, he's recruiting your loved ones (more so their phones) into letting him video chat with you whenever he gets the opportunity

(Does that mean he snuck his unauthorized smartphone into the middle of a battlefield? …. Yes. Yes, he did. .……....… Don't tell Price)

You'll be in the midst of a call with him and a bullet will fly right by his head and embed itself in the wall behind him

Of course, this has you incredibly concerned, worrying over how you're distracting him when he should be focused on his mission

But he assures you there's no need to fret, dear. He's perfectly safe and everything’s completely fine

(Oh, and just disregard that sound in the background, hun. No, it wasn't a bomb. Heavens, no! It was a… a… piano falling out a window)

Gaz

Even when he's away on mission during normal circumstances, he's calling home all the time to check in with you

But given your current state, now he's checking in twice as much as he usually does

Expect a minimum of three calls a day just to ensure things are still all hunky dory on your end

It's during one of these calls that your water breaks, and as you fly into a state of panic, forgetting everything you're supposed to do, Gaz has to calmly walk you through the steps of what you'd planned

He's able to talk you down and make sure you get yourself to the hospital in one piece, but then after that call, weirdly, you don't hear from him again

It's not until several hours later when you've already delivered your child that you're awoken by the feeling of someone beside your bed

You look to see who it is and it's none other than Gaz himself – still dressed in his full gear, covered in all sorts of dirt and grime, a hushed apology pouring from his mouth

He's so sorry he couldn't get there quick enough, beautiful. He left as soon as he could once he'd pulled a few strings with Price

But you don't even care about the excuse because you're quickly enveloping him in a hug. With tears in your eyes, you assure him it's alright. He's here now, and that's all that matters to you

Ghost

When he was informed he was being shipped off to a remote location less than a month before your due date, he was livid

No phone, no radio, no communication of any kind with the outside world and he was supposed to be okay with that? He very much wasn't

The higher-ups had to really hammer home the whole “safety of the world” thing to convince Ghost to go, and even when he did, he did so grudgingly

He finds that as he sits in this shoddy shack halfway across the planet from you, all he can do is keep a mental tally of everything he’s missing

Going with you to your final check ups, helping you pack your hospital bag, holding your hand as you begin to push, etc. etc. etc.

But what about things he might not know about? What if something's gone wrong while he's been away?

He can't let himself think on it too much because he'll end up putting his fist through the drywall, and he needs at least one good hand to hold his child with when he meets them for the first time

Seven weeks, four days, and nine hours after he shipped out, Ghost is on a plane back home

He doesn't stop to talk to anyone when he touches down at base (not even to report to his superiors). He just gets into his car and books it, not letting off the gas until he's parked outside your home again

And when he finally reaches the front door, an unexpected tremor passing through him as he grabs for the handle, he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and walks inside, beginning the next chapter of his life

[witherby]

Part 7 of mer!reader?🫣🫣🫣

Of course! I think it's time to get you and Damian back together.

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader Part 7

Masterlist with all parts Here!

Content features upsetting Mer behavior and unsafe diving practices. Wear your protective gear, people!

It takes another month for your routine to settle back into a semblance of normalcy. The specialists Bruce told Damian about had spent three days observing your behaviors and drew up a detailed care plan to help you recover as best as you could, which the facility follows with great enthusiasm.

You wake up and swim to the entrance of the tank to receive breakfast from Jon. Afterwards, he and Clark gently roll you out of the tank to apply weird-smelling salves to the patches on your tail, encouraging it to heal correctly and for new scales to grow. You sit and wait for the salve to absorb, then you get back into the water to play a little, and then it's Attention Time.

You swim all the way to the bottom floor of your tank, where visitors come admire you through the tunnels under your tank for several hours. Sometimes you have the energy to do a trick or two.

Then, it's back up to the top of the tank for dinner, more playtime, and then you get to sleep until tomorrow where you do it all again.

But the lethargy remains. The stinging, empty space in your chest only seems to grow the more you see Damian dispassionately leading tours and refusing to look at you. Of all the people that come to admire you, the one person whose attention you actually want, you cannot get.

Jon, bless him, is trying so hard to keep you happy. He talks to you every day, he gives you tons of treats, he swims with you as long as you want him to, and he's given you so many new toys that they've overtaken your cute rock collection. His effort is why you're doing your best to hide how bad you still feel.

And his company does help! It does. You can comfortably call him a friend, and mean it. But you are so tired. You miss Damian so much. You feel drained, and the urge to remain inside your little hideout gets stronger every passing day.

Every night, in the comforting darkness of your castle spire, the old bricks pressing against your body and shielding you from the rest of the world, you allow your thoughts to drift back to the boy with beautiful, emerald eyes without fail.

You think of the first time you met him, and how he looked at you as just another dumb animal in the aquarium for him to care for. You think of the first time you made him realize you were so much more — how you'd done every trick he commanded with such attitude and even mocked him back that he actually cracked a smile. You think of the first time you pulled him into the water to show him your favorite parts of your habitat, and then how he reassured you it was fine that you almost drowned him by accident because he knew you hadn't meant to. You think of all the times he snuck in after hours to spend just a little more time with you, to play just one more game, to ensure you didn't feel like another part of his job he had to do but someone he genuinely looked forward to seeing.

You think of the pretty blush on his face when you mustered the courage to give him your scales.

You think of all the gifts you left him afterwards, and how you didn't get any back.

You think of his dispassionate expression as he leads another group of visitors into your enclosure, day after day after day.

Your chest burns. You weep into the water and succumb to fitful slumber.

--

"I need a dive team to the Mer tank please! Right now!"

Damian furrows his brow, momentarily pausing his work. He's in the dolphin exhibit currently hand-feeding them when the announcement comes over the speaker system. He wonders what you're doing to have freaked Jon out, but it's not his place to care anymore, so he tries to push the curiosity from his mind and refocus on his task.

One dolphin in particular is pretty bad about taking food from a handler. It's also just food aggressive in general, bullying its pod-mates out of the way to get to the food first. Damian can't help but compare how much smarter you are to these animals. He sighs.

"Doctor Kent to the Mer exhibit!"

Hmm. Did you breach your tank again? Or maybe you bumped your body against the spire you like to sleep inside. Damian tried to tell his father that the rough brick texture could hurt your more vulnerable top half if not careful, but Bruce was certain you'd be alright. He wonders what kind of fuss you're kicking up today, if it's a real issue or if Jon hasn't been around you long enough to realize that sometimes you fake a problem because it's funny.

"All divers to the Mer exhibit please!"

Tim rushes through the door into the dolphin exhibit, startling Damian into dropping the bucket. He quickly backs up with a gasp as the dolphins swarm to the food and start gobbling it up. He faces Tim with a glare.

"Does nobody know how to follow protocol anymore? You're supposed to knock before you —"

"You need to get upstairs," Tim says, holding up an access key to your enclosure, "like right now. Vitals on our mer are really bad, we can't extract them from the spire and —"

Damian doesn't stick around to hear him finish that sentence. He snatches the key and sprints through the aquarium like the devil's on his fucking heels. His heart is racing and not from the exertion. He forgoes the elevator and starts rushing up the stairs three at a time, climbing floor by floor by floor to get to you as fast as he can.

It was a real emergency, then? What had happened? Jon was supposed to be taking care of you now. You were supposed to be recovering. You were supposed to be happier without him, now.

What was wrong with you?

There's no time to head into the locker room and get a wetsuit on. He jams the key into the exhibit door and throws it open, rushing into the room with single-minded focus.

Jon is in a wetsuit and treading water, relaying information to his dad with a worried frown. Clark is kneeling next to the tank and giving him instructions on how to get you to the surface. Dick is sitting on the lip of the tank and wiggling into a suit of his own, very unfamiliar with the gear as he doesn't dive with Mers. Bruce is on the phone and standing by Clark, looking more and more concerned as the situation develops.

When Damian bursts in, Dick startles and looks up at him, fumbling with the clasp on his flipper.

"Dami, go ahead and get a suit on. We need you to — DAMIAN!"

He doesn't think. Doesn't stop to listen to whatever Clark's rambling on about. Doesn't wait for permission before he kicks his shoes off, takes a running start, and dives into the tank in his plainclothes. He pedals his arms and kicks his feet as hard as he can and goes down, down, down, deeper into your vast tank and towards your favorite resting place. The effort is tremendous without the slim, hydrodynamic suit to aid him and a rebreather to allow him to stay down here for long periods of time. He pushes past it all and keeps going. You are in trouble and he is going to help you.

When he makes it to the spire and swims around to the entrance, he immediately sees the issue. Your body is curled into the mer version of fetal position; your arms are locked around your waist in an embrace and your tail is coiled underneath you in a tight spiral, twisted around itself and wedging you deeply into the cramped space. The angle of your body, coupled with the tight spacing of the hideaway, make it nearly impossible to pull you out.

In the wild, a mer found in this position is an almost universal signifier that they are near death.

If there's no intervention, you are going to die today.

Damian climbs into the spire with you, squeezing his body inside with a low grunt. A burst of bubbles escape from his mouth. If he can't pull you out — a dangerous move which would damage your tail and break your fins if they tried — he has to unfold you.

His back scrapes against the bricks and pain rockets down his spine. Another bunch of bubbles fly out. He grits his teeth and starts carefully pushing at you, gingerly moving your upper half, then your lower half, around and around and around to create enough space to safely push you free.

His chest is heaving. Damian is exhausted and quickly running out of breath. He cannot stop. If he stops, you won't make it.

He jerks when something jabs his ankle, arms wrapping protectively around you as his head snaps down to see what happened.

Jon is hovering just by the spire opening, holding a rebreather in his hand and shaking it insistently at him.

Damian reaches around you and makes a few grabs at it, finally curling his fingers around the device and pushing it into his mouth. He clicks the button to turn it on and almost coughs when oxygen starts to flow into his lungs. He slumps against you briefly, taking in your closed eyes and face twisted into agony.

What happened, he thinks. How did this happen to you, Princess?

His ankle is jabbed again. Damian looks back at Jon, who has his hands out in an offer of help. Damian gently starts to maneuver you around again, slowly but steadily unfolding your body, and when Jon catches on, helps do the same thing from your opposite side.

It is painstaking work. Dick eventually gets into the water to join in, but there's no room for him, so he hovers to the side ready to help carry your body to the surface when you're finally free.

It feels like it takes hours, but can't be more than twenty minutes. Twenty minutes too long in Damian's opinion. Eventually, your body is unwound enough to ease you out of the spire without injury, and the three men rush you to the surface where Clark and four other vets are waiting to take you. It becomes a flurry of activity after that.

Damian spits out the rebreather when his feet are back on solid ground. He pants and doubles over, limbs shaking from exertion, and watches the medical team assess your condition and fret over you. You're loaded onto a special stretcher and whisked from the room, and he's about to follow suit when a hand clasps over his wrist.

"No," he rasps, already gearing up the breath to scream at his father, but Bruce just shakes his head and presses a towel into his hands.

"Here," he says, voice soft and knowing. "Here, Tadpole. I just want you to get dry before you follow them into the medical bay. You can't help anybody if you get sick."

Damian clutches it, staring at his father with no small amount of trepidation. Bruce just sighs.

"I'm sorry, Damian. I am. We'll talk about it later, but I won't separate you two again. You have my word." He jerks his head toward the doors. "Go dry off and change in the locker room. I'll call Medical and tell them to let you in when you're done."

Damian throws his arms around Bruce, uncaring about how he's soaking his dad. Evidently Bruce doesn't care either, if the fierceness in which he hugs him back is any indication.

"Thank you," Damian whispers, then pulls away to head to the lockers.

[bluerasbunny]

Well, it is that time of year I suppose!

Brought to you by my mind and scouring the DCA's voice lines for key words for way longer than expected,

2024's DCA PROMPTOBER !

Please tag any works for this list under #dcatober24 ! No need to ping me, though you absolutely can (I'd love to see what comes from this list)!

Thank you to the DCA Palooza for the idea for this!

Prompt list in text under the cut!

Best Friend

Paper Pals

Googly eyes

Bells

Artistic license

Hues

Glitter glue

Trouble

Off-Limits

Lights on

Naptime

Carousel

Night

Knock

Hide

Naughty

Found

Phobia

Ruin

Trapped

Gears

Nightlight

Duality

Error

Balloons

Scorch

Stalking

Time-out

Reboot

Birthday

Trick or Treat

[miniwheat77]

Stalker. (Slasher!Ghost x Reader.)

!nsfw, SENSITIVE MATERIAL, stalking, Stockholm syndrome sorta?, smut, unprotected p in v sex, dark!ghost, no minors, blood, murder, proceed with caution!

You don’t notice it. Not at first.

The dark presence looming over you. Eyes burning into your every move.

Nothing feels out of the ordinary. You don’t feel like anyone is watching you, but wise words echo from that all too familiar news reporter.

“It’s too late if you see him, you’re dead already.”

He’s been terrorizing your town for the past few months, stalking and killing people. His very first victim is the only person that lived just long enough to tell the tale, but he bled out on his way to the hospital. Telling about the chilling look of his skull mask and skeleton gloves. How he seemed to be wearing some kind of tactical gear, before he attacked.

He said he knew it had been going on for weeks, how he’d ignored him looking at him through windows and cracked doors, thinking it was his mind playing tricks on him, until he’d confronted the ghostly man.

That’s when he attacked.

Reports said that if you saw him and acknowledged him, you’d be dead before the sun would rise. It was terrifying and your town reflected the horror. No one was out past dark. Six pm sharp, the streets were empty. Doors were locked, windows locked and covered. The stores were still recovering and replenishing their stock of cameras and house alarms, alarm companies hadn’t made so much money from this small town ever. Locks were bought and replaced in mass amounts.

It was terrifying, the death toll had gone up to double digits at the hands of this mysterious man.

They called him a Ghost. A ghost of the night, because it’s the only time he came out.

The first time you saw him, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you. The shadowy white skeleton jaw, you did a double take and then shook your head. It was just from the news. It was gone before you saw it again.

The second time, you were getting suspicious. Bright blue eyes peering at you from doorways, you started seeing them in your dreams.

But the third time, you couldn’t deny it. You were his next victim.

Your eyes were parted enough you could see him, but he didn’t know you were awake. The door cracked and his skull mask came into view. He pushes through the cracked door, loud. He didn’t try to be quiet. You stayed completely still, letting out airy breaths like you were still asleep. Not wanting to give away that you had seen your stalker.

“It’s too late if you see him, you’re dead already.”

The reporters voice plays through your head, so you shut your eyes.

He’s not there, not like this.

So you stay comfortable in the unknown. Pretending that you don’t see his dark six-foot-something figure at the end of your bed each night, tightening his fists together at the thought of killing you.

Ghost doesn’t catch on. He doesn’t realize you had known about his looming presence. He wonders why it’s taken this long, how you could be so naive to him standing just right there. How had you not noticed? Were you this gullible?

He got closer and closer each night. Sitting at the edge of your bed as you slept, hand caressing your soft skin. Other times he’d sit in a chair in the corner of the room, usually where you did your reading. It was weird, but eventually you got used to his presence, and you knew you should probably seek out help. Because it wasn’t only that you got used to it, but you liked it.

As long as you weren’t acknowledging him, he wasn’t killing anymore people.

And he wasn’t hurting you.

His hands on you, they should make your skin crawl. They should terrify you beyond belief.

But they don’t. They make your skin hot. His hands are strong and rough. Calloused.

But when they’re on you, they’re soft.

What you were doing, it wasn’t a good idea. It was a terrible idea. You didn’t even read it, you bought it and set it down on the small table by the chair in your room where you read books. You’d seen him pick up your books before and take a look at them.

You set it there, unopened. No bookmark. It was brand new.

‘Stockholm Syndrome.’

He saw you place it there, thought that you had just gone out and purchased another book. It wasn’t until that night when he sat in the chair to watch you sleep when he took a look at it. For once in his life, his stomach dropped. The terror he feels, realizing that you had known of his presence this entire time. He had the pocket knife in his hand, standing over you before he could even think. Hand drawn back.

But his features softened when you let out a mewl, lips parting.

He took a step back. You were still asleep. “Ghost- please!” You whine.

“M-more!” You squirmed. His eyes widened. Realizing what this was.

Your breaths picked up in your sleep, hands gripping the bedsheets. Your voice is low, a whisper almost. “Yes- yes. I’m-“ your lips part and you hiccup in your sleep. He can’t believe you haven’t woken up.

You relax after a second. It’s clear what had just happened. He gives you another few seconds. Closing the knife on his pants and tucking it back away. He sits down on the side of your bed, caressing your hair.

“Poor girl..” he mumbles. “Don’t even know what you’ve just gotten yourself into.” He whispers.

He moves his left hand down, his right still brushing your hair down. Resting it on his thick shaft, hard and pulsing against his jeans. He rubs it uncomfortably through them. It’s been a long time since Ghost had gotten aroused.

Too long.

It took 3 more days for him to come back after that. You feigned innocence and he knew what game you were playing. Instead of wanting to hurt you, he watched with lustful eyes and a hard dick. Ghost was a killer but he was never a pervert.

He felt fucking pathetic, stroking his cock as he watched you through windows. As he sat in the chair and watched you squirm. Cumming in his hand and not even staying quiet as he finished. He knew sometimes you watched him, but he wanted to try your game. Because his wasn’t working.

He came back, but this night was different.

Ghost was eager, more than usual. Not to kill you, surprisingly. But to get his cock in you.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He sat in the chair, you were asleep. He could tell this time, by the deep breaths. Your dreams would start soon and he was going to spoil you. He wondered why you hadn’t called the police but your obsession had only gotten worse. Leaving bookmarks in the book. Highlighting the parts that he knew all too well.

He stood up, unzipped his jeans and tugged his throbbing dick through the hole. Stroking himself as he approached you. He drew a hand through your hair, caressing it.

But when he grabbed a handful and tugged hard, you woke up.

“There we go.” He laughs. “Now I’ve got your attention hm?” He tugs you forward by your hair, you cry out, he forces you onto your knees. Your hand wrap around his wrists to try to offer some relief to your scalp but he doesn’t relent. Hand still in your hair. “Your fucking brain should be cut out and studied with how pathetic you are. Stupid, stupid slut.”

He grasps his cock with his free hand, stroking it. The blushing tip brushes against your nose. He’s close to you. You swallow hard. “Go on. Suck my fucking dick little slut. I know you’ve been dreaming about it.” He laughs. He makes you feel small. Your eyes snap up to his, making eye contact. A ping of arousal rush through him at the eye contact, the look in your eyes was nothing but lust. He laughs, shaking his head. “Not an ounce of fear one in those eyes.” He whispers.

He slaps your cheek with his hand, hearing you gasp. Your head moves to the side but he tugs you back to look up at him with your hair. He cuts off your gasp by pushing his dick between your lips. He forces you back into the side of the bed with a hand in your hair. Wrapping his other hand in your hair as well, pulling tight. He pushes you into the bed and starts fucking your throat. Holding your head completely still.

He doesn’t care to let you have much air. Tears stream down your cheeks and the sounds you’re making are pathetic. Saliva spills down your chin. The squelching sound is lewd, and your pussy is dripping between your legs. He’s right. You are pathetic.

He doesn’t last long, not even a few minutes before he’s cumming down your throat. You swallow it down, looking up at him as you do. He cuts off your air completely and you keep eye contact with him and your face reddens. You swallow hard, keeping his gaze. He pulls away from you slowly. Cock sliding out of your mouth, strings of cum and saliva from your mouth to his dick. This used to gross you out. It usually would.

He steps back. You stay right where you are. Not moving. Even when he disappears, you stay still for another few minutes before getting up to clean yourself up.

He watched you through the window, you’d thought he was long gone. Sucking at your fingers and fucking your pussy with them. Sprawled out on your bed and crying out for him when you came.

A fucking murderer.

He was right. Your brain did need to be studied.

You’d seen the Ghost, in person. You’d encountered him in the night.

And lived to tell the tale.

You kept your mouth shut and he was sure of it. Because without his mask on, you had no idea who he was. He watched you close and you never spoke a word to anyone about what you had seen for the past few months in your room. You kept it a secret and it was a dirty one.

You worked at a coffee shop, an online order had been placed. Plain black coffee. Something you didn’t see too much of anymore. But when the man came to pick it up. Over six feet tall.

His brown hair, didn’t stand out to you. His height didn’t either. But when his blue eyes caught yours, you froze. His face was still as stone. He smiles when he sees you stiffen up. The courage and confidence you had before had been stripped away. He was huge, seeing him in the daylight terrified you. The reality of what’s been going on is setting in, completely. He’s watching your every move, not just at night.

“See you tonight, Y/N.” He takes his coffee as he says it. It’s barely above a whisper. You stand there, still frozen. You know you should tell someone. You know you should.

You glance down at the mobile order before pressing ‘complete’ but stop yourself, seeing the name. Simon Riley.

“It’s been five months since the killer has killed. We recommend you stay inside your homes and keep all of your windows and doors locked.” You scoff, shaking your head. They had no clue.

You should call the cops, have them waiting there.

But you don’t. Instead, you wait for him.

Awake, on your bed. Only an oversized shirt on. Nothing else. Your door cracks open, your eyes dart up to his. The same ones from the coffee shop. He closes the door behind himself.

He tugs his mask off, you swallow hard. He throws it down on the chair. Only now do you see that he’s covered in blood. Your eyes widen.

He laughs. It’s deep and dark. “I hope you didn’t intend on calling the police anytime soon. Because darling.” He takes slow steps toward you. Using his thumb to transfer blood from his vest onto your chin.

“You’ve just made yourself an accessory to murder.”

You clench your eyes shut. What the fuck!

“How about you get on your knees for me again.”

You do it.

Why does he have this effect on you?

He caresses your hair once more, wrapping a hand in it and grabbing another handful. Pushing your head back into the bed once more. He hears you whimper. He laughs. “So fucking pathetic. How about you beg me for it, hm?”

“Please..” you pant. His cock is already pulled through his zipper. The tip right in front of you. “Please fuck my throat, Ghost. I want it so bad..” you whine. He laughs. “Open your mouth.” You part your lips immediately.

He’s got blood smeared all over you before he realizes it. He pushes his cock into your mouth again and starts thrusting his dick into your throat. It feels good, but it’s not as good as what he’s going to get. He growls, it’s deep and low. The rumble from him has arousal pooling between your thighs.

He draws his hips back, before he’s finished this time. You look up at him. The look you’ve got in your eyes is pure lust. “Get on the bed.”

You obey him right away. Standing up and sitting on the edge. He grasps the hem of your oversized shirt, pulling it over your head. He bites his lip as he looks at you. “Lay back.” He pushes your chest slightly. He pushes you up the bed further, lowering himself to one knee. He runs his tongue up your slit and you shudder at the feeling. Finally stimulated from him, after all of this time. “Oh god…” you mewl, clutching at the sheets and spreading your legs wider. He doesn’t waste anymore time, devouring you. Tongue sliding into your hole and flicking your clit. You wrap a hand in his hair and whine as he eats your pussy. Better than you’ve even felt before.

He sucks at your clit and you nearly fall apart, it leaves your lips before you can’t stop yourself. “Oh Simon!”

He freezes up, pulling away from you. “How do you know that?” He presses his hand against your throat. He’s panicking.

You’re panting as you look up at him. Heart racing from how close he’d gotten you. You stay silent. Toying with him. “Y/N..” he warns. You hear the click of the pocket knife, the blade shining in the lamp light. He runs it along your inner thigh. “Tell me. Don’t make me hurt you.”

You whine. Eyes fixed on it. How he’s juggling your life in his hands, he can take it anytime he wants but chooses not to. “Focus.” He presses it into your skin. “Y-your mobile order… for the coffee.”

“Fuck…” he mumbles. “I’m gonna have to kill you, aren’t I?” He breathes. You’re still fixed in the trance he’d put you in with his tongue. You stay with your legs spread on the bed. “I.. I won’t tell. I haven’t, I won’t. But you do what you have to do.” You mumble.

He shakes his head, getting a good look at you with blood smeared on your stomach and tits from his hands gripping your body. “Just shut the fuck up.” He mumbles through gritted teeth, lowering himself back down. “You’re such a stupid fucking girl, obsessed with me. Glorifying me the way you do with those eyes. You’re pathetic.”

You mewl when he takes your clit between his lips again, sucking at it. He laps at your entrance with his tongue, feeling just how wet you’ve gotten since he pulled away. He pauses to look at your abused pussy, how red and blushed it’s gotten since he started eating you out. He pulls away one final time, grasping your thighs and tugging you up to the edge of the bed, pressing his tip right against the entrance to your cunt.

He pushes his cock into you and you swallow him up. He draws back and thrusts into you, the squelch is unreal, how wet you are. He unzips his vest and shrugs it off, throwing it down. Tugging his shirt over his head. You whine out as you look at him. He’s toned, clearly a huge man. He makes you feel small.

He slides out of you, forcing you up the bed once more, crawling onto it. Hovering over the top of you. He wraps his hands in yours, entwining his fingers into yours. He forces them above your head, guiding his cock into your blushing hole once more. He lays over you completely, resting his entire body on yours. He’s a little heavy but you love it. You love being smothered by him. You’ve never been more aroused in your entire life. He hammers his hips into yours, your bed slams into the wall which each hard thrust he takes into you, you cry out.

“M’gonna fill this pussy.” He shakes his head. He hovers over you, holding onto your bed frame and staring down at you. “I’m gonna fill you up and fuck it deeper, knock you up.” He laughs, his white teeth bright in the moonlight. “Huh. How does that sound hm? You want to carry around my baby? Maybe he’ll turn out just like his daddy. A killer too.” He laughs.

You cry out, pussy clenched around him. “Oh you like that? You like the idea of me filling this pussy, don’t you?” His thick accent has you falling right over the edge, your thighs shake and you want to squirm but he doesn’t let you. He pins you down as you cum around him. Shaking and crying.

“There you go, cum on my cock. Such a pathetic girl.” He talks you through your orgasm. Talking down on you.

He whines when he feels you getting tighter on him. Overstimulated but somehow your body takes more of him. He’s fucking you hard, the thought of him filling you has you reeling. You go quiet, watching his cock disappear into your pussy. He’s deep, spreading you apart. His cock is huge and you’re surprised by your body, what just a little bit of arousal can do. “Ah fuck! Gonna cu-“ he gasps, his voice cracks and it’s whiny as he cums, deep inside of you, right to the hilt. Just like he said he would.

You’re panting, looking up at him. “Fuck.. fuck you’re tight.” He mumbles. He stays still, relishing in the way you feel around him. After a few minutes, he pulls away. Hearing you gasp at the feeling of his cum pooling back out of you.

He stands up, tucking his cock back into his jeans. He’s still panting slightly.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. If I find out you take something for that, I’ll kill you.” He breathes. He grasps his mask, sliding it on. Your eyes follow him, shirtless with his mask on. He slides his shirt back on, vest following after.

He leaves through the door he’d come in, closing it behind him. Leaving you there.

When you click your light on, you see that there’s blood smears everywhere. A pool of his cum that had leaked out of you on the bed. You would have to clean it up before you could sleep.

What the hell was wrong with you?

[dominicdelagol2]

0105 Ghost Bag

Happy Halloween!

[specialgradefckr]

Heatwave: Day 6

tw: explicit content. 9k+ words. Satoru/Reader. female!omega!reader, alpha!gojo. mutual pining, light angst, YEARNING, so much yearning, PIV, heat/rut sex, minor breeding kink, choking, reader and gojo are switches, gojo is kind of a masochist. intense bickering. you and gojo are both pathetically whipped and in love, and i do mean pathetic

Prompt: Mating cycles are as violent as they are horny, intent to kill is high.

It took some convincing to get you a position as a teacher at Tokyo Jujutsu High School – plenty of traditional fools in charge who thought omegas were better as childbearers than sorcerers.

But you got there. After ten years teaching in public schools, teaching at Tokyo Jujutsu High was what you'd always wanted: small classes with dedicated students who you could form real bonds with.

As a sorcerer, you had the potential to become a special grade – but your true passion was teaching, and it was a far better use of your talents to help the newest sorcerers improve.

Other teachers weren’t quite as gifted in the art of passing on knowledge. Like the special grade sorcerer no one ever shut up about, Satoru Gojo.

He was seven years younger than you – practically a student himself. But somehow, here he was, a teacher alongside you. Nepotism, maybe, combined with how obviously alpha he was – freakishly tall, well-built, and unnervingly confident, used to getting his way.

You’re not certain of his credentials as a teacher. If he has any at all.

If you were forced to guess, you’d assume Gojo had at least a PhD in pissing you the fuck off.

“Awh, c’mon now,” He’d snickered at your implication. “Like it’s hard?”

You could kill him. Actually, cross that out – you will kill him, just as soon as you’re finished riding his stupid big, fat knot to absolute oblivion.

Alphas, for all their pride, are even dumber and hornier than omegas in heat once their rut kicks into high gear and they lock their knot into someone.

You’ll choke him out then, you plan – if that doesn’t just make him roll all six eyes in exaggerated pleasure.

Gojo’s just that kind of complete and utter brat. Even if he is an alpha.

Constantly stalking you from behind, ready to throw his arms around your shoulders in some lazy half-embrace. Lording his stupid height over you, his seemingly endless youthful energy.

“Hey~” He’d drawl, leaning into you, knowing exactly how much the action exposed his scent, “How’s it going with the students? Teach ‘em any new tricks?”

You weren’t some early-twenties dewy-eyed omega; his scent didn’t have any more effect on you than a nice cologne would have. “Yes, I think today went well. They’re bright kids, I’m proud of them.”

“Oho! We should celebrate your success!” Not pleased with your response, he’d squeezed your shoulders close, enough that you couldn’t walk away. “Drinks on me! Let’s head out~”

“Hitting on older women?” You’d returned, shrugging him off so you could walk away, “What, have you successfully repulsed every potential mate of your own age group? Quite a feat, even for you, Gojo.”

“Awh, don’t be like that. I’m just trying to show my support! I know ladies your age tend to get a lot of flak these days, especially from the higher-ups…”

It had been a pretty low blow from him, considering how much he disliked the higher-ups and tradition as a whole. Looking back, that was probably him getting desperate for some kind of reaction.

Like a fool, you’d given it to him.

Spinning, whipping around to tuck your finger beneath his chin, just tickling at his neck, inches from his scent glands.

“Ladies my age don’t go for boys like you, Satoru-kun,” you purr, snatching his chin and pulling his pretty face closer to yours, “And I’ll have you know, I have no interest one-night stands.”

He grins that awful, gorgeous grin with those pretty sparkling eyes. “Now when did I say I wanted anything like that? You’ve got a dirty mind there. I just wanted to get drinks.”

“When did I say you did?” You hold his gaze like you would the leash of a particularly disobedient dog. “I was just letting you know. But since you just want to get some celebratory drinks, I’ll ask Shoko and Nanami to come along.”

Heh. Transparent disappointment flashes across his face, like he’s bitten into a lemon, but he’s quick to brighten up.

“My mistake, I got a little too excited~” He follows alongside you with his stupidly long stride, hands in his pockets, “I was just soooo~ happy to hear you don’t do one-night stands. I’d get super jealous!”

This he says, right after taunting you for suggesting he wanted one? What a little shit.

“Do you also recall the part where I said I wasn’t interested in little boys?” You mutter, texting Shoko and Nanami about the meetup.

You can still feel his presence behind you. Pheromones drifting through your awareness. Gojo’s got such a weird scent for an alpha. Artificial and sour and sweet. Blue raspberry. Electric, just a whiff of it tingles. You lick your lips.

“Yeah, I heard you. Good to know my darling kohai Nanami is safe from your clutches~” He sings.

Fucking insufferable.

-

The thing about alphas was that they got aggressive when their ruts came around.

From experience you’d known his limitless could be turned on and off at will, and he could allow his scent to drift through it.

Not only was Gojo nearing his rut, he wanted you to know that he was nearing his rut. The air is oozing with his stinging, cloying scent that makes your mouth water. You have to swallow your spit a few times.

So when Gojo insisted that you spar with him, you just knew it was going to fucking suck.

He was going to use it to force unnecessary contact, shove his scent in your face, taunt and tease you while he physically prevented you from leaving.

Then, the million dollar question. Why the fuck did you ever agree to it?

Deep down, you tell yourself it’s to shut his stupid ass up. Because it’ll make for good practice, and that’s not even a lie. Or even just because he’s got a pretty face, and you want eye candy.

You tell yourself it has nothing to do with the heat you know you’re just on the verge of.

Nothing to do with the rut that has him smelling absolutely delectable.

The adrenaline that bursts through your veins as he races towards you is purely from the thrill of combat.

The exhilaration of watching his strike swing through empty air, the slight shock on his face; that’s because you’re proud of your skills.

You’re not panting, teeth bared in an awful grin, arms tightening back to grab him and hold him down, make him yours yours all yours – this is a combat stance.

Not that you wanted to fight him that badly in the first place. Feel his strikes against yours, touch that infinity for yourself. See what he’s offering, that he likes to throw it in your face so much.

It’s not any of that, and you whip out a denial for each thought as it rises like you dodge Gojo’s strikes with increasing desperation. Fast. Fast, so fast, like a blink. Here one moment, there the next.

Focus. On him. White hair, black tracksuit, that little flash of blue you’d see anywhere. You pin your senses on him, on the scent that dances in the air, tempting you. Put every fiber of your being into matching his strikes, which come faster, and faster, until eventually even you can’t dodge them.

White hair. Blue eyes. Pink lips. Pretty, pale face. Pressure down against you, breath, scent, hot in your face. Focus, focus.

Anything to take your attention from the way your thighs want to clench together when he pins you down, nose brushing against yours.

Close enough no infinity could stop you if you wanted to lean forward into the neck showing under his collar and bi-

“You goin’ easy on me?” He practically purrs in your ear. Infuriating.

So you let yourself purr back. Take in his pheromones for just a second, lean into it, relaxing underneath him as you let off an answering scent, laced with the arousal you’re already feeling. Tongue darting between your lips for a moment as you let your eyes linger on his pretty mouth, pretty face.

Gojo’s eyes dilate as your lashes flutter, tilting your lips to –

SLAM

“No,” You sing to his crumpled form, hunched over from the blow to his middle, “I think you’re easy, Gojo. Come back when you’re not a horny little beast about to rut.”

A breathy chuckle comes from him as he situates himself to sit back on his heels, catching his breath.

Unnerving. Everything about this bastard is unnerving. The way he looks up at you, face flushed, grinning with delight – you know for a fact your strike hit hard enough to bruise. Maybe he could heal it, but he was still winded from the impact. It had to hurt, still.

Instead, those too-blue eyes seem to glow at you.

“Easy, huh?” He says, and you pretend he said it to himself. “Actually, I’m pretty hard.”

(You try very hard to pretend you didn’t hear that. To pretend you couldn’t smell it the moment you struck him.)

He licks his lips, taking in a deep breath, like he caught the scent of something he can’t let escape him. Eyes staring after you.

You walk away, before he can catch on to how slick you’ve become, just with this little interaction. What are you, a teenager? Maybe you’re close to your heat, but not that close.

Gojo lets you walk.

You think he knows.

(He definitely knows.)

-

He loves to taunt you. Alphas love posturing, looking for fights, as soon as their ruts come around. But an omega nearing their heat would snap at anything that so much as breathed wrong. Ready to see everything as a threat, demanding and critical even of those closest to them.

Both secondary genders had… attitude problems during their mating cycles that led to them lashing out. But due to stereotypes, alphas were seen as being dominant and argumentative, whereas omegas were seen as…

“Awh, needy, are we? Must be your heat coming up, huh?”

“Still hitting on older women? Your rut must really have you acting like an animal. Why don’t you do us all a favor and find someone to fuck it out with?” God, just talking about it is fucking annoying.

“Not very mature of you to say, ma’am!” The look you gave him must have spoken volumes, because he immediately responded, “It’s okay, I know how it is. You don’t have to be so shy about admitting it! What omega wouldn’t want a strong, handsome alpha like me to take care of them~?”

“Kill yourself.”

Satoru Gojo had pried words from your mouth you would otherwise be horrified by. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst of it was he would try to pamper you, just like he claimed you must have needed.

And the worst of that part was that it fucking worked.

He knew all your favorite drinks, snacks, meals. Had things delivered to your desk when even his own moronic self could understand you did not want to see him – always with traces of his scent lingering on the gift.

Papers to grade? Coffee from your favorite café, just the way you liked it.

Indoor from a long training session? Something iced and fruity to sip on.

Back from a stressful mission? A dessert so delectable you double-check to see if Gojo hadn’t already taken a bite out of it himself.

“A little pick me up after all your hard work~ The students always talk about how much they love you. Trying to steal my thunder, huh? Good job, sensei!”

The words are irrationally pleasing to read. And he smells good, it always smells too fucking good, refreshing at the first hint and then invigorating the next. Sweet and sour, just like the bastard himself.

There’s little bits. A ribbon, a traditional little lunch wrapped in a handkerchief, one time he even just shamelessly sets his coat down next to a drink with another note.

“By the way, my favorite jacket got stained while getting you this. Since it’s your fault, you can dry clean it for me, right? Make sure to give it back, I’d miss it so much!”

Awful. Awful terrible man. Giving you every excuse in the book to hoard his scent and pretend you hadn’t. You could be throwing these away, for all he knows. Out of pure spite.

(He knows. He must know that you can’t throw them away, your instincts scream at you, your heat aches and burns. Each little article you get to squirrel away allows you another night of easier rest. He knows it. You know he does.)

It’s infuriating. It’s absolutely fucking infuriating because you know Gojo doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just using this to get to you. Doesn’t want anything more than to fuck the closest and most convenient hole because his rut is coming up. He isn’t pursuing a relationship with you, this isn’t courting, just teasing.

It’d amuse him, too, after. To tease you about it, probably try some weird shit in the classrooms or on missions – he’s got that air about him. Slutty. Down for anything.

It’s infuriating and it’s fucking hot. And devastating, because you meant it when you said you don’t really do one-night stands.

He’s just so unreasonably pretty that you’d thought about it when you met him. The attraction is there, on both ends, but the more you’ve gotten to know him the more certain you are that it’s a bad idea.

Gojo’s a menace already, and as fun as it was to taunt him, having sex with him would just give him more ammunition. He made everything weird.

All the teasing, the uncomfortable chemistry, the not-courting shit, and you’re in heat. Sure, you’d had casual sex before, but during your heat? Fuck that shit.

Because unfortunately, Gojo is right. You get needy.

Not because you’re an omega. It’s because you’re you.

When you spend your heat with a partner it’s like you can’t stop everything from spilling out.

The desire to know and be known in your entirety. To feel and touch and cherish every inch laid bare, to gift yourself like a sacrament to someone who you know will worship you –

See? Unbearably romantic. And you love it, you eat that shit up. It’s deep in you, a wanting you don’t even wish to deny.

The thought of waking up to an empty bed during your heat drove you mad with loathing and heartbreak. Seeing the person you’d allowed to have you in your heat touching someone else? You’d be out for blood.

Alphas get territorial. If an alpha sees someone with their partner, they’re liable to rip the interloper to shreds.

Omegas get possessive. An omega wouldn’t care about someone coveting what's theirs, but they’ll rip that partner to shreds if they suspect they have eyes for another.

It’s funny, how all that nurturing and devotion can turn so easily into equal parts cruelty and violence. To love deeply is to hate deeply, and adoration is so intrinsic to your being that you can’t help but fall hard whenever desire takes you.

You’re a needy little monster, craving love, gentleness, affection. You wouldn’t survive whatever he did after, you might not even survive baring yourself to him, letting the extent of your desire be known.

Gojo would rip your poor, tender, beating heart from your chest. Chew it up and spit it out like trash.

And he’s so, so pretty, and he smells so good, and you love the excitement of your back and forth – you adore him, this Satoru Gojo. You want him so bad you can taste it. But Gojo doesn’t feel it like you do, like a need deep in his bones that aches all the way to his dreams.

You’re seven years his senior, have no exceptional qualities, and he’s got all the options in the world. Gojo’s still so young. There’s no reason for him to want to be tied to you. If he fantasizes at all, it’s about fucking you, knotting you, not of your teeth on his neck or his own on yours.

And you shouldn’t even entertain the idea of him fantasizing about you. You shouldn’t entertain any of these thoughts, because for all the violence your love can inflict on him, Gojo is the one who would emerge unscathed. You’d be left in tatters, and he wouldn’t even have the decency not to step all over them.

You can’t sleep with him. You’ll die, you’ll surely die, it’ll absolutely feel like you’re dying to see that pretty face smile sarcastically, or sneer and turn away. You’ll awaken without his warmth beside you and it’ll feel like your heart is missing from your chest and you’ll have to be reminded of that every time you see him because you work with that fucking nuisance. At your job.

You can’t do it. You can’t. Off limits, no way.

But you’re (regrettably, unfortunately, miserably) needy when you’re in heat. And Gojo is a horny little beast in his rut.

And he knows, he knows he fucking knows. He’s there whenever you turn a corner, walk up to a vending machine, sit down to grade papers. He’s got that awful million watt smile that lights up his entire stupid pretty face when he flirts with you, trades barbs back and forth.

He’s touchy, too touchy, gets too close. Asks to spar with you again and again until you say yes. Leaves you more treats, more drinks, more little gifts the whole while.

Your hands get dry because your heat wakes you up in the middle of the night, you have to touch yourself constantly. Gojo brings you lotion that smells like raspberries (like him).

You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t fucked around and filled the bottle with lotion that’s also laced with his cum. You use it anyways. His reaction makes it obvious that he can tell you have, and he’s pleased by it.

You hate him. You hate him, and you want him. You want him so fucking bad.

You can’t do this. You can’t do it.

Gojo looks at you like he wants to eat you. Like he’s tracking every little twitch, every movement, like a predator and his prey. Like he’s waiting for you to bolt off so he can give chase.

You can’t do this.

You’re not fucking prey. You’ll bite him back, doesn’t this stupid man know?

And he spars with you again and you’re left breathless from dodging him –

(you refuse to be touched by someone who is himself untouchable)

And he smells so so so good up close when he finally tackles you, seizes you, locks your arms up from behind you –

(you love to be held, you dream of being held, in the depths of your heat it’s not being filled that comforts you it’s the thought of pressure like a vice grasping you so close, unwilling to let go)

And his face is so devastatingly beautiful up close, those terrible, magnificent eyes like a sea of stars, staring at you like he’s enraptured –

(god, he’s so pretty, just looking at him has a little dose of glee shooting through you)

And his lips taste as good as he smells –

(sweet and sour, can it really be that bad if the sting is all washed away with the tingle of sugary, electric tang on your tongue)

And he holds you so so tight so close so warm –

(you’re pulsing, aching, throbbing, and you’re so fucking tired of your own fingers and he’s grinding against you so good)

And then you’re in your room, at your door, inches away from your nest with all the shameful little bits and pieces of his scent you’ve stolen away.

(you can’t do this. this man will kill you. he will be the death of you.)

Teeth on your collarbone, huge hands clawing at your shirt, pulling it up. You look down at him, meet his fevered eyes and lust-filled gaze.

His breaths ghost over the skin he’s left wet with kisses and nips. Hungry, so hungry for you. So pretty. You grasp his pretty face with both hands and pull him up into a kiss that’s more teeth than lips.

(You’ll go out fighting.)

When his tongue darts into your mouth you nearly moan at the taste of him. Gojo groans, and he does it openly, hands wide over your ass and clenching at it. You close your teeth against his tongue, not hard, not biting. Just to feel it. Measuring the give.

Gojo nicks himself on your teeth to pull away, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Knew you wanted me.”  He pants, licking over your lips, “Wanted this. Could smell you.” Lick, lick. “Taste you.”

Fuck. His eyes are wild and eager and you can smell his arousal already dripping free from him. Slotting one of your legs between his lets you press up and confirm his hardness. He moans at it, purposefully loud.

Massive. He’s massive, hard, and aching for you, so much he nearly howls at the pressure. Clawing your clothes off of you. You’re no better, yanking off his jacket, tugging his shirt up – and he lets you – tossing them into your bed.

“Look at you,” Kiss, kiss, he steals the words between presses of his mouth on your skin, like he has to breathe you and not the air, “Look at that sweet little nest. Helped you with it, didn’t I? Aren’t I just the greatest alpha?”

It’s hard, so fucking hard, to ignore how delight laces through your chest at his words. This nest, this place where you’ve languished for too long already in your heat, now an alpha (your alpha) is here and happy to fill it up (fill you up), curl up in it with you.

“You’re talking too much,” is all you dare to let yourself voice.

You seize his pants and underwear by the waistband, dragging them down his hips. Gojo stumbles, undignified, towards you, but even then, he’s tall enough to press you to fall back into the strategic mess of blankets, pillows, and your hoarded pieces of his offerings.

He’s still grinning as he pins you down. Arms on either side of you. Tall, so tall, so much larger than you. Larger than life. Your beautiful, ferocious alpha, all hard and excited just for you.

“Too bad. I love talking.” Gojo’s eyes stay trained on yours as he mouths over a breast, sucking as much of it as he can into his mouth.

“No, really? Would never have guessed.” the grumble escapes you, and he giggles.

He watches you still, tense, and try not to lean into the sensation as he plays at your nipple with his tongue, teeth. Pulls away with a pop.

You hear him kicking off what remains of his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to look down.

“I can smell your slick from here,” A hand tracing up the inside of your thigh, “Mouthwatering.”

So wet you can almost feel yourself gushing. His hands are inches away from it. Heavy, warm form bearing down on you as he moves to suck at your other breast. Teasing fingers where your leg joins to your body.

“Is that all your mouth’s good for?”

His laughter had been far too mocking to be endearing, just like his grip on your hips had been just a bit tighter than pleasant, his grin wide enough to be smug instead of sweet.

Wretched and traitorous, your heart lurches at his beautiful face, anyways.

“If you wanted me to show you,” Those blue, blue eyes never leave yours as he trails his face down your body, “You could’ve just asked, babe.”

Your hand finds its way into his hair, which is naturally as soft and pleasant to the touch as you’d dreamed it was. You clench tightly and he rumbles in approval.

“Like it rough, do you, omega?” His breathes, right over your drooling cunt. “Me, too.”

“You’d be so fucking hot,” You pant, “If you kept your damn mouth closed.”

When he laughs again, it feels a little better, but he’s always got to dig in. Pressing kisses to your clit that leave you fighting the urge to kick your legs.

“I’m always hot, baby,” God, it feels so sinful, so good, to have his exhalation ghosting over your slickness, “You’re just all antsy ‘cause of your heat. Let me make you cum, calm you down.”

This has the opposite effect of calming you down and he knew it would. Probably expected you to wrap your legs around his waist while he buried his face in your cunt, digging your heels hard into his sides, like spurs.

“Would be the first useful thing your mouth has done all year.” Gojo snickers against you and it’s annoying how good it feels.

And then he closes his lips around your clit, tongue tracing swiftly all over it, and you couldn’t stop squirming if you tried. Can’t stop the noises that come out of your mouth, spilling out, overflowing, like how the slick just pours from your clenching hole.

He fingers into you, two at once, and it’s embarrassing how little you feel it at all. Two, in and out, then a third, stretching inside you. Spreading them apart inside you. Making these awful wet noises – it doesn’t help that Gojo likes to smack his lips while he eats.

“Tasty. So wet. Did you stretch yourself for me?” He asks between laps at your clit, pressing himself closer to you while you whimper and teeter on the edge, “Got some knot toys to prep?”

“Fuck – Gojo!” Even when you’re trying to snap at him, he makes it fucking impossible, suckling at your clit before you can get the words out.

You cum with a light, airy cry. Short, shallow gasps as your other hand darts down to grasp his shoulder. Clinging.

“I will, I will,” Gojo takes a deep breath, over the wetness of you, making you shiver.

Eyes like blue flame look up at you. Sinful tongue hanging out of his mouth like a dog. Licking sticky lips. “Must’ve been hard, all that time you spent waiting. Don’t you worry, I’ve got a nice big knot ready just for you.”

And god, it’s fucking terrible, how you have to suppress a shiver of delight at his words, as he crawls up your body to be eye-level with you. His cock rubs along your sex, wetting itself so easily it should be embarrassing.

It is big. It’s so big and the knot swelling at the base of it is even better, thick and pulsing and throbbing.

Your stupid horny omega brain wails at the prospect of finally, finally being filled up by something hot and pulsing and living. Strong enough to hold you down and breed you. He’d give you the prettiest kids.

Oh god, oh fuck. Omega brain is seizing the steering wheel right now and you’re fucking terrified of where it’ll take you. You have no idea what you’re going to do when he knots you.

And he WILL fucking knot you if you have to mount and ride him yourself.

He’s grinning. Your instinct screams at you to bite. “I could smell it on you just now, you know. You want me to knot you soooo bad.”

You return his smile with bared teeth, “You want to knot me so bad, Gojo.” You’re still oversensitive when you grind your cunt against him but it’s worth it to see his stupid jaw drop open, “It makes you look fucking stupid.”

Pretty, pretty. He’s so pretty you could cry, and his cock is twitching against you, wet and burning and ready.

“Shut up,” Gojo breathes, close enough for you to smell his tingling scent on his breath, “And take it.”

A snarl builds in your throat, climbs on your lips – only to be knocked away thoroughly by the feeling of his fat head nudging, hot and swollen at your entrance. You’re so slick it feels almost gummy against you.

He drives himself in and you bite back a scream. Instead you let your hands claw down his back, and when they’re far enough down you just reach up to his shoulders again and dig your nails in harder.

The scrape at your fingertips, the way the smooth flesh of his back yields to yours – rough and savage enough to leave his eyes wide and gleaming.

His cock driving into you is like velvet, warm and wet and welcoming, filling an ache that makes you want to cry out.

There’s a stretch, because he’s big, of course he’s fucking huge but it’s the delicious type of stretch, a tight pinch that makes you shudder and clench and pull a moan or two out of him in return.

“See?” He nips at the underside of your jaw. Close, too close, inches away from your scenting glands, licking like he wants a taste, “Just needed some cock to calm you down. Poor – poor little omega, your heat must have been really bad, huh?”

You want to kill him. You want him to fill you up up UP more and more of his cock drives into you, it’s like it’s fucking endless, his knot urges forward at your entrance and the stretch –

“This – hhgh – coming from the beast in rut,” You snarl through strangled moans, “Who’s been throwing himself at me like an animal?”

Your hand in his hair trails down, over the back of his neck, and his whole body jerks at the touch. You’re no better, straining beneath him, talking out loud so you don’t lose your mind as his knot slides home.

“Did you think of me while you fucked your hand, Gojo?”  Dangerous territory. Dangerous thoughts. “Did you think about what I’d do to you? About me putting you on your ass while sparring because my scent turned you into a slut?”

He groans, long and laborious. You feel his knot lock in, his head thrown back (neck bared, pretty, pale, so empty and open) as he whines out his release.

It spurts inside you, hot and swelling and heady enough to bring you to a second release as his pelvis grinds against your clit.

“So what if I did?” There’s a challenge in his eyes, bright and sky blue and heart-rendingly beautiful in his blissed out state.

Something churns in your chest, something feral and wanting and you should know better but you can’t stop it now –

“Always think of me,” the demand leaves your lips before you can think of it, “You’ll always think of me when you touch yourself now, Gojo, you won’t be able to cum without it.” Before you know it, you’re purring, both from the afterglow and the words you’ve spoken with such misplaced confidence.

He thrusts lightly into you, a short useless movement which just makes you both more aware of his fat, swollen knot as it pumps his cum into you. Gojo purrs back at you, a warm rumble you can feel all throughout his form pressed against yours. His face against your chest, rubbing it – scenting you.

Your arms curl around him. Hold him close. “Never think of anyone else. Only me.”

The only response is louder purring. It’s painfully pleasant, comfortable, with the length of him pressed against you, his knot buried inside of you.

His eyes are half-lidded, dragging his parted lips over your skin. It’s too lazy and slow to be called a kiss, but the intimacy of It burns a trail across your skin. He licks at your neck in broad strokes and you mindlessly loll your head to the side, baring it for him.

Both of you content in the silence, sated by your climaxes. The first of many. A lull where you lie locked together so perfectly, enjoying the sinful trickles of his cum filling you up while his knot slowly deflates.

Naturally, Gojo can only let a good thing last so long.

“Never think of anyone else, huh?” His voice is unbearably smug, and smooth, and all things lovely. “Possessive and needy. What were you going to do if I hadn’t pounced on you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, disgruntled, “Next time you made an ass of yourself while sparring I would’ve just bitten you.”

A laugh; breathless and light. “I thought you didn’t like younger men?”

“A knot is a knot.” You clench around him a bit, just to drive your point home. It makes him spurt a little more into you, scalding hot. He hisses, face flushing.

He’s pretty like this. Then again, he’s always pretty.

“Yeah?” He leans in with glittering eyes, already recovered. “Bet you like my knot best. Bet you won’t want any other after this.”

You already don’t. You love the feel of him inside you, how he fits like a glove, how his knot fills you to bursting. It’s still inside you and you already want to feel it again. You already want him to be yours. All yours, only yours and yours forever.

But this is your asshole coworker who bickers with you, not your fucking boyfriend.

“I want another alpharight now,” You roll your eyes, like saying it would make it real, “A quieter one.”

“Heh.” His smile is as loud as his eyes. “No, you don’t. You wouldn’t let me so much as lick you if you weren’t already thirsting your brains out for me.”

God, are you that transparent? Or can he see through lies with the six eyes, too?

You push yourself upwards – not easy because Gojo’s laid his uselessly long torso against your chest – and the knot’s still mostly lodged in you but there’s enough give for you to push him back until you’re sitting on his lap.

Gojo is leaned against you, resting his body weight against you as he purrs like a careless, cuddly cat.

He doesn’t even flinch when you cup his face between your hands. Lazy, relaxed, content inside you.

“You have a lot of cheek for a brat who got hard after I knocked the wind out of him.” You tilt your head to the side. “Or maybe that’s what you’re hoping for on round two?”

And oh god. This guy can’t be for real. His knot has barely gone down enough to pull out and you feel him twitch inside you, hardening again. You pull him out with a twist of your hips and he actually whines.

He licks his lips. “What do you think?”

His cock flops against you again, hard, ready to go. You let out an incredulous laugh. “I called you a horny beast, I didn’t think you were actually some kind of – breeding whore.”

“Mmmh,” Large hands dart to hold your ass, pulling you closer, “Maybe I am. You’ll let me fuck you, though, so I must be doing something right.”

As dirty talk goes, you could do way better. But it looks like Gojo is just that easy – his scent deepens with excitement, electric on your tongue.

Mouthwatering. Stinging. It reaches deeper into you than you’d like, pulls out an answering tug of longing that spills over your lips before you can stop it.

Hands on his shoulders, over those pretty collarbones, shoving him back. It’s so easy; he falls back for you without resistance. Staring up at you through lowered lashes like an actual seductress.

Satoru Gojo is heartrendingly beautiful, above you or beneath you. It drives you mad.

“Tell me,” You want you want you want, “Tell me how badly you want to fuck me.” Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you’re mine and you’ll never be anyone else’s.

“You said it yourself,” Gojo breathes, “I’m a whore, yeah? A beast in rut, throwing myself at you.”

“Why me?” Tell me I’m the only one who could ever satisfy you. He might be a dumb horny whore of an alpha, but your omega brain is equally delirious for feeding into this delusion. Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me.

His smile is lazy, eyes glimmering, and you get a terrible intuition that he knows exactly what you’re asking, exactly what you want. And he’s not going to give it to you.

“Knew you could keep up.” He answers with a distinct ring of mockery. Fucking brat.

Wrong answer. Wrong. Answer.

Your hands jump to his throat. Squeezing instinctively. Like you can rip the words out of him, the voice that lights every fiber of your being on fire, in all the worst ways. And his neck feels so perfect under your hands. Like it was always meant to be there.

"Wanna bite?" He mouths, somehow smirking at you before his mouth drops into an "O" – you’re grinding against him, hard and careless of his overstimulation.

Those pretty blue irises shrink and dilate wide, shimmering with tears. His face is so pale, lashes such a pretty white that the red on his cheeks stands out all the more painfully. A moan of pleasure ripples under your fingertips, squandered in your grasp.

God, he really is a whore, isn’t he? So eager in front of you, dick out, lashes fluttering, throwing himself at you. Teasing you with his scent, his little gifts. Letting you see him like this. How could he let you see him like this, if he didn’t want to be yours?

Would he be so pathetic and needy for anyone? It sends rage through you, white-hot and yearning. All you can see is him, him, Gojo in all his debauched glory beneath you.

Ruin him. Ruin him for anyone else. Yours, yours, all yours. So much that he can never think of anyone else, like you can only think of him.

You squeeze harder, like you can pull his treacherous, perfect voice out if you can just press hard enough into his singing pulse. Close, close, so fucking close, the pull inside you draws you over his cock, up and down, rubbing against your throbbing clit.

His cock twitches in time with it as you grind away. Blood rushing in your ears, pounding. You’re close. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum outside of you.

Just as Gojo’s eyes squeeze shut, his cock jumping against you – you pull your cunt off, leaving no more stimulation. You don’t release your hold on his throat, hips guided purely by instinct, slotting him against your entrance.

“Don’t you dare,” You hiss, feeling his pulse flutter, “You don’t cum unless you’re inside me. Never.”

Eyes shooting wide to look up at you. His lips part, desperate, passionate, heavy with words that he doesn’t have the air for.

You don’t want to hear it. He’s said enough.

You ride him like you hate him - to be fair, you kind of do.

Slamming down on his dick, just short of his knot. Hunched over him so you can still choke him while you fuck him, see his stupid face contort in shock and bliss as his cock is suddenly enveloped.

His sweet-sour scent practically stings your tongue, heavy with arousal, with lust, with want –

He fills you up so fucking good, he’s infuriating, he’s huge, he’s perfect and why isn’t he yours? Everything inside you screams and all you know is the stretch in your core, the burning need.

So close so close you're almost THERE –

Panting, gasping, you bear yourself down on his knot with a wail, squeezing his neck like a stress toy. It makes him pulse and throb inside you.

Fuck fuck FUCK -

The STRETCH, it fucking burns, Gojo is writhing underneath you. It's like he's bigger than he was last time.

His hands aren’t at his throat but on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, adding to all the weight that pulls you against him. Tight, hot, so, so fucking big.

“My knot,” You pant, half-feral with desire, “This is my fucking knot, Gojo, my dick, you don't put this in anyone else, do you hear me, ALPHA?"

There’s a rumble in his neck where he might be trying to answer you, but you ignore it in favor of bearing down on him. It's like all your breath leaves you in one big gasp, a whine escaping you as you finally pop the knot in.

You squeeze yourself, impossible, tight, feeling your whole cunt scream with the effort, the delicious stretch of a muscle pushed to its limit. You have him, you have him, you have him in you, all yours. Your core finally surges towards release at the feeling of being filled.

And then you look down at what you’ve captured, your alpha, teary-eyed, red-faced, eyes glazed over in bliss as his lips part to take a breath he can’t manage.

Cock burning inside you, hips bucking up, hands clutching you like a lifeline. Hands so uselessly large that his thumb can reach to roll over your clit.

All at once, you let go. Climax overwhelming you both, his first gasping breath painted with the sudden release.

You want to see his face while you do it, collapsing forward as your breath is stolen from you in waves of white-hot pleasure. Gojo lets out a high pitched noise that he probably shouldn’t be capable of, choking, crying.

“F-fuck,” He half-chokes, half-sobs, racing to clutch you to his chest.

You’ve never seen him so uncomposed, so helpless, your name on his lips, the six eyes blown wide and unseeing. Heat floods your insides as he releases, knot swelling impossibly larger. A squeak escapes you, and you press the side of your face into his toned chest as he holds you close.

You’re smaller than him – most people would be. It’s funny, feeling smaller in his arms. All the fight and fervor trickles away, slowly, like it’s making room for his cum.

Something terribly dark and feral inside you wants to rut against him and make him whimper more, now that he could hear it, but you don’t have the strength.

“Surprised you didn’t bite me,” He muses while he traces mindless patterns over your bare back.

“For what conceivable reason would I have bitten you during that?” His chest is warm, so warm. You’re not paying much attention to what you’re saying, just lazily snapping back at him for stating the obvious. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I literally choked you.”

“Hell yeah you did.” He rubs his cheek against your hair. “It was super hot. Do it again.”

Idiot. You try to ignore the hunger his words ignite inside you, the stupid glee you get from the thought that he likes it just as much as you do. “What, do you want me to bite you?”

“As hot as it would have been to see you take what you want,” God, his grin is just so annoying, and it makes your heart skip a beat, to see that fire in his eyes, “You’d probably feel all bad about it later or some crap. Like you trapped me or something. Which would be super hot, by the way. You have my permission to trap me at any time, especially if I’m sticking my dick in you.”

“Well, now I don’t want you at all,” You lie, blatantly, like a liar.

Satoru snickers, which really isn’t good for your heart. “What, because I’m such a kinky whore, you think I’ve been all used up already? Should I give myself some bruises and hickey sometime to really sell the fantasy?”

That gets an eye roll. “I didn’t degrade you enough while we were fucking, is that it? Had to pick up some slack yourself?”

“Heheh. You sure liked calling me a whore and a slut.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, “What can I say, I’m just that good a lay. Always give the lady what she wants.”

“Sure.” And yet you still don’t have what you want from him.

“You’re the only person I’ve fucked like this, you know.” He says, more softly than he should.

It’s just so unfair. How he makes your heart stumble. How his little admission sends a trill of hope through you.

“Fucked how? During your rut?” He didn’t seem like the type to grin and bear the suffering.

“You know,” He shuffles again, “Like this. For fun.”

“What, I’m the only person you’ve let call you a whore? Choke you? Be more specific, Gojo,” The name tastes bitter in your mouth, “All the other times you just had to lie back and think of England?”

“Well, you’re the first person who’s fucked me that also called me Gojo, for one.”

He really has to ruin everything. “Just shut up. Nothing you say makes me feel better.”

Arms wrap tighter around your waist. “I mean it, though. I was looking forward to this. I never look forward to it. Letting down my technique, fucking some omega until I knotted them.”

You want to bite him, take a chunk out. Pull his hair and rip some of it out of his stupid empty skull. “Gojo –”

“No, listen.” And that’s a tone you haven’t heard before – low, commanding, an alpha’s demand. He hadn’t spoken to you like that once.

“I used to hate it, dread it. The long wait for my knot to go down before I could finally just leave and put everything back up again. Being stuck with some stranger in such an intimate position, feeling them touch me, it was the worst. The absolute fucking worst.”

He nuzzles his head into your neck, like he’s basking in your scent. “This, though? This is the best. I want to do this for every rut, forever.”

Another skipped beat, and that’s it. Your foolish, graceless heart can only drag you through so much humiliation and pining before you rip it out and stomp on it yourself.

“So what?” You lower your voice in return, hard and cutting, “Who says I want to spend all your ruts with you, Gojo?”

“Thought you didn’t do one-night stands.” He smirks at you. You want to punch him.

“What did you think this was?” Did he think you were pining for a relationship while he was just fucking it out? Sure, you were pathetic enough to want it, but you weren’t pathetic enough to expect it. Not on your fucking life.

But then.

There’s the answer, the “A public service for needy omegas~” or some other witty retort. You can already hear his voice ringing in your ears, playful and taunting.

But the sound doesn’t come. Nothing comes at all. Complete silence.

Gojo’s lean, muscled form has stiffened, now rigid against you where it had been relaxed. You can feel his hesitance rippling through the air. His scent is more sour than sweet. Spoiled.

“I thought… you wanted me.” You’ve never heard him sound so uncertain, so afraid. You’ve never heard Gojo sound afraid, period. “I was courting you, and you accepted my gifts, so I – ”

“When were you courting me?” You snap, even though you make the connection instantly. He had given you gifts. He’d spend time with you, given you something with his scent. Paid attention to your needs.

“This whole time?” He sounds like he’s starting to panic, now, “What did you think was happening? We’ve been flirting literally since the day I met you! I might not be the most traditional guy, but I got the important parts down!”

It doesn’t sound real, for Gojo to be freaking out like this. He turns you around so you can see his blue eyes, wide and wild with frustration, “Why did you think I gave you things with my scent and spent every spare hour in close quarters with you?”

“Because they were always accompanied with snarky remarks? Because you taunt me at every opportunity?” You say it straight to his face. “We literally insult each other every time we meet.”

“You like it, you tease me back!” He grouses, “You’re super into that, you fucked me anyways!”

“Yeah. I thought that was all you wanted.” You swallow. “You’re supposed to ask someone to court them, Gojo.”

“Of course you wanted me to court you. You seduced me when I pinned you down and then knocked me on my ass!”

You’re upset with him and all, but he’s just got this infuriating ability to make you laugh no matter what. “Most people would take that as a no.”

He’s smiling back. Beaming. His scent is clean, like just hearing you laugh made it all better, “But your answer isn’t a no. You li~ke~ me.”

“Not so much right now.” You look away. “So, what? I’m just a fool for not knowing what you wanted, when you never even told me?”

“I thought it was obvious.” You can hear the frown in his voice. “You’re a pretty proud person. What did you think I was doing when I gave you all those gifts?”

“You literally told me I was being needy. I figured you were mocking me.”

“But then why did you accept them?” His tone, laced with something awful in his scent, brings your gaze back to his face.

He looks kind of… heartbroken.

You can’t look at him long. “Because… I am needy.”

His arms reach up from your waist, cradling your back, pulling you against him. Chin tucked where your shoulder meets your neck. Face buried in your scent glands, just where he’d put a bite. If he – if he wanted you.

“When you finally admitted it, I thought I’d feel glad.” He sounds like he’s complaining, but your neck is wet. “You just have to steal away all my victories, huh? Can’t even let me win this one.”

Why is he acting so pathetic, like a wounded puppy, when you’re the one who admitted to being down so bad you’d accept even mockery from the person you wanted to get with?

And then he sniffles, like some teenage girl who just got dumped. “I thought you knew I liked you. I thought we were having fun. Teasing each other.”

“It was fun, that’s why I did it. I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t think it would mean anything more for you. You know by now that I – I like you a lot. Way more than normal. There is nothing normal about how much I want you. I didn’t think you wanted me the same way.”

“That’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever heard. You didn’t know I wanted you back?” There’s more wetness on your neck, but this is warm. The familiar touch of his tongue dragging over your scent glands.

Gojo takes a shuddering breath, and it occurs to you that he must be taking in your scent. “How could you even think that?”

“Why are you so upset?” His whining brings you back to life, just a little. Enough to be angry. “For – for fuck’s sake already, Gojo. Say it in as many words. I told you, the whole reason I thought so was because you never told me what you meant outright.”

Another sniffle. “You’re so mean. You know what courting is. You just like bullying me.”

His sniveling revitalizes you further. It’s easier, knowing he can be pitiful for you, too. “Say it, Gojo, or you’ll be just another notch in my belt.”

“And call me Satoru! How are we supposed to date if you don’t even call me by name?!”

“We’re not dating. Say it, say it right now,” You’re getting sick of his crap, “Or I will rip your dick off.”

You can hear it, again. Is that a promise? Just wait until I’m hard to do it.

And you can see it, actually, how it physically pains him not to say it.

Gojo says your full name, out loud, and you’re helpless at the sound. “I have romantic feelings for you. I would like to court you with the intention of marriage. Mating. Whatever.”

He just can’t let you win one, can he? And yet, you’ve never heard a better sound. It feels like a massive burden has been lifted from your shoulders. Your chest.

“Two full sentences of formality,” You muse, “Impressive.”

“Right?” He preens, “Lots of things about me are impressive. You’ll see while we’re courting.”

“You never fail to impress me with how much of a dumbass you can be, Gojo.”

“Satoru. And that’s not a yes. Hurry up and say yes! I know you wanted to bite me back there, you’re totally crappy at hiding it.”

You sigh. “I did. But you didn’t want to bite me, did you?”

A pause. You’re suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close his face is to your neck.

“I always want to bite you. Ever since I met you. Smelled you.” His tongue runs along your throat, so hot it almost feels like it burns. “You can’t tell because you’ve never seen a version of me that doesn’t want to sink my teeth into your neck.”

You swallow, and he purrs, kissing over your pulse.

“It’s okay, though. I can be generous.” And his voice is back to being annoying again. “Even when you’re so demanding. I can only jerk off to you, I can only stick my dick in you – gosh, you said not to cum unless I was inside you, right? You really signed yourself up for – ”

“Oh, fuck off, Gojo – ” You interrupt yourself, “ – Satoru. Are you sure you want to… I mean. I’m older than you, you know? By a lot. I don’t have some kind of pedigree, and – well, I mean. You know.”

You flush despite yourself, “I’m… demanding, I guess. I like to bully you, if you want put it that way.” He laughs. “I’m sure you have better prospects.”  

“Yeah,” A hand reaches up to stroke your hair. He pulls you so your face is pressed into his chest, so you can hear him purr for you. Loudly, now. “That’s why I’m courting you, first. Until you’re sure you’re my best prospect. Then I’ll mark you. Then you can mark me, and not even feel a little bit bad about it, after.”

It’s scary, you think, as the darkness creeps into your vision – just how accurate his prediction of you was. “You don’t think I’m… too needy?”

“I love that you’re too needy.” A kiss to the top of your head, “You look at me like I’m the thing you want the most you want in the whole world. Makes me crazy, how much you want me. I want you to bite me. Eat me whole. I want to open up my chest and shove you inside.”

A breath leaves you, mostly because he’s holding you too tightly. Just tight enough. “So you like that I’m obsessed with you. But do you like me?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, rubbing his cheek into your hair affectionately, “So much it’s kind of scary. You’re all I can think about most of the time. I would look forward to slipping you a little present all day. Then I’d get hard after watching you open it, and I’d have to rub one out. You have no idea how happy it makes me, just being near you.”

You’re quiet for a bit. All you can hear is his gentle purring, rumbling through his body and yours.

One of your hands finds one of his. “…you’ll be mine? My one and only? You won’t ever want anyone else?”

He squeezes. “Just you. You should be more worried about becoming my one and only. If I can’t jerk off or fuck anyone else, that’s all gonna be on you, baby.”

“I’m not particularly worried,” You yawn, “If you get to be too much, I’ll just choke you out again or something.”

You feel him start to twitch inside you, knot still stuck in your entrance – no way. He can’t be hard this soon, not when he hasn’t even finished –

“Hehe. Shouldn’t have said that unless you wanted to go again~!”

“Satoru!!”

[thewitchblue]

"My vigilante days are over!"

Dick pouted to you dramatically. You shook your head and smiled at his melodramatic exclamation while helping him through the window, but quickly, you began to worry about him. What does he mean? Is he quitting being Nightwing? You asked worriedly,

"Honey bunny, what happened?"

Dick hissed in pain as he went to sit on your shared bed. He didn't even get hurt on patrol. It's just his age catching up to him. His back ached, and his joints creaked like a broken door hinge. He dreads becoming Bruce's age.

"I'm old, honey bunches. My knees cracked when I stood up, and I fell off a rooftop in pain."

He continued to pout. You snickered softly as you gently laid him down to check him for actual injuries. Dick gave you a look of betrayal, so you kissed his forehead as an apology for laughing at him. You told him gently,

"Honey bunny, you aren't old."

You said, amused by the notion. Dick is only in his 20s. Where is this coming from? Dick whispered as existential dread began to worm its way into his mind,

"What am I going to do when I'm Bruce's age? Or when I have to take the cowl?"

You gently ran your fingers through his hair in a soothing motion as your eyes continued to scan him for injuries. There really were no outward injuries that you could locate.

Bludhaven was very quiet tonight, so you weren't surprised. You haven't even heard a gunshot with your superhearing tonight.

Dick is going to spiral if you don't guide him out of his own head, however, so you geared your focus on him. You peppered his face with kisses as you spoke,

"You. Will. Be. Fine. I'll be the one pushing your wheelchair, hun bun."

He pouted, so you gave him a sweet kiss. You loved him dearly, and he knows that, but all he's thinking about is his alarming age and how quickly he's going to deteriorate if he keeps this up. How does Bruce manage his aging pains? Is this why he has a heater in his suit? For his muscle aches?

"How does he do it? Keep going like this? My body can't keep up like it used to."

He asked as if you had the knowledge to help him through this problem. You frowned in thought before saying calmly,

"I'll buy some Deep Heat in the morning, and we can see if that helps with your muscle stiffness and aches. For now, I'll get the hot water bottle, and we can cuddle."

Dick smiled softly and made grabby hands as if to ask you to cuddle now. Screw the hot water bottle. Your warmth should be enough to soothe both his anxiety and his muscles.

You caved into Dick's pleading eyes and grabby hands. You climbed into bed with him and kissed his cheek. Dick immediately pulled you to him but groaned as his shoulder felt a throbbing ache.

"This is why Jason cracks his knuckles, isn't it?"

You laughed and shifted to face him. He looked like he made a revelation he hadn't considered. You shrugged and said while taking his free hand in yours,

"Probably. It seems to be a nervous tic for him with the bonus of joint relief."

Dick seemed to look into the distance as he whispered to himself,

"He's so smart..."

You kissed his forehead with a smile. His eyes turned to you as if you had all the answers in the world. He took your conjoined hands and kissed yours. You said warmly,

"You are smart, too, hun bun. We can ask Alfred tomorrow if he has any tips to help minimise the pains."

Right, Alfred would know. Alfred was the one who patched Bruce up every night. Alfred had to know some tips or tricks. You smiled as you finally made it through to him.

"I'll search for ways to help with muscle and joint pain, and I'm sure we can get you a multivitamin to help with muscle and joint support."

He gave you a relieved kiss. Dick is back as he wraps you in his loving embrace. You made yourself comfortable cuddled into Dick's side, content to be surrounded by him. Dick kissed the top of your head and gave you his usual bright smile.

"I love you, my bumblebee."

You smiled back at him and rubbed your noses together. He's adorable with a small pout still present on his face and blue eyes that has seen far too much. You softly said,

"I love you too, honey bunny."

You love everything about him. You love his small head tilts when he grins at something silly you do. You love the way he melts into your touch instantly. You love the lazy kisses after patrol and the morning cuddling when he doesn't want you to leave for work. He is your other half.

He adores when you slide your hand into his own and swing them together. He loves the way you drag him into your arms instead of asking to be held with a grin. He always smiles when you rub your nose against his while cuddling as if to silently tell him you love him and to reinforce the bond you both share. He loves how you comfort him when he has a breakdown and how you always know exactly what to do when he needs you. It's as if you two are in perfect sync, and you can read each other's minds.

He was, quite literally, glued to your side whenever he can be, and the same can be said for you. You move as one unit, and it shows. Where one goes, the other isn't too far behind or hasn't even left the other's side sometimes.

Everybody found out about the relationship when Dick dragged you into the cave as "emotional support" while they were studying a gruesome case. None of the family was ready to meet you and some of them were even in the middle of changing to their suits, but Dick wanted to be by your side and he was stubborn enough to convince you with his begging eyes and eventually victorious grin.

His beautiful blue eyes looked at you, and he knew he needed you in his life, and you need him. You're his, and he's yours, so he'll keep enjoying your loving support for however long you stay by his side.

[deerlyinheadlights]

the approximation of true desire

sidney crosby x teammates daughter!reader cw: NSFW, 18+, smut w/ plot, younger reader, age gap, sidney is lowkey a bad person, implied power dynamics, alcohol but neither parties are drunk, degradation, corruption kink, dumbification, loss of virginity, virgin! reader, innocence kink, unprotected p in v sex, oral (m receiving), dacryphilia (if you blink you might miss it), overstimulation wc: 8.6k plot: after sidney gets denied a hat trick he felt he very much deserved by who else other than his teammate: your father, a serendipitous encounter at a hotel bar leads to a very enticing night.

Sidney was not a particularly malicious man. Good tempered, mild mannered, methodical if given time, well rounded: all of these applied when off the ice. But anyone who knew anything knew his temperament changed when facing Hockey. What many considered a game, a hobby, meaningless was namesake to him. His humbleness went as far as his arms could reach.

In media; the press; fans, and to teammates, even: he would present himself as a good natured all canadian boy, sure! But when push came to shove: he lived, breathed, slept and reveled in his own rotted greatness. Captaincy was second nature to him, it streamed red, coursed in his blood. Prevented him from the pleasures of life: of a wife, of a family, of retiring 35: rich and dumb. He knew it was no one else’s fault but his own: but was it? A team without him was as good as hopeless. Worse than hopeless: Dead in the water. 

Which is why as calm and as collected as Sidney likes to think he is: he did not take lightly to his teammates— your father’s— pathetic, measly, sloppy grievance of a goal: the final goal of the match: what could’ve been Sidney’s third of the night. Hat trick territory.  When he set up that goal: pushed that black disc right into your father’s overpriced stick’s hook, in hopes for it to be passed right back to him: to take it home for the team, to get another record across his belt. And when that record never came? Sidney swore he wasn’t mad as the goal horns blared, hurting his plastic-clad ears. Sidney swore he wasn’t mad when your dad took that goal right off him with his sweaty mitts. He swore it didn’t make his blood absolutely boil to watch your dad celebrate like he had earned anything.

No. He wasn’t even that mad. Not really. He was kind in the locker room. In the post-games. To the rookies’ precious face. His fists weren’t clenched because he was angry. What a ridiculous assumption.

He told himself he was sitting against the metal of the locker room benches, white-knuckling the wooden slates because he could, because he had been feeling out of it lately. Not because he could snap someone in half. Sidney was regulated like that. Top half of his gear off; his boutiqued muscles facing the rest of the team. Palming away at his skates like it was his job to take them off with care and intent. Like keeping his blades pristine would unsour his mood. And when the room of men let out nasally roars, howling cheer when he came in: still in full gear, bouncing up and slapping the top of the doorway like it owed him something. Sidney released a disgruntled whisper from the back of his throat. Not a chance of fixing Sid's attitude now.

Sidney had began to pray for maybe the first time in years: Please, shut the fuck up. 

“You guys see me out there?” A call to arms to the rest of the team. Sidney keeps his head down to his skates to avoid participation in the circle jerk about to commence, eyes rolling into oblivion. Half dressed men from every corner of this dark, mildewed Away locker room begin to bark compliments. 

And for a moment in Sidney’s exceptional career, he wishes he weren’t Captain. He wishes with every fibre in his taught muscle that he didn't have to reward every lousy, snobbish oaf a pat on the back for any old goal a kid on juniors could hit. The irony is not lost on Sid. He set up that goal, it was his. 

“What about you, Sid, huh? I was on fire out there.” Your father chews out, mouthguard pliant between his lips. Sidney lets the world melt away for a second: he watches as your old man settles in front of where he’s located, wringing out spit from his own mouth guard with nothing but contempt and anger running rampant in his mind. 

“Yeah, man. You did good tonight, for sure.” Soft, barely a tone above happy, forced from the deepest parts of Sid’s diaphragm. A good job. 

“Whaddya think? Me, Rusty, Letang and a few of the other boys are gonna go out for drinks?,” A toothy grin comes down at the captain. He forces one back. One that appears, tugs at the corners of his mouth, suggests something with haste and then fades back into normalcy. “...Celebrate the win with us!” He continues, using the end of his stick to poke at Sidney's nude shoulder. He hates that. He hates it so much he can’t bear to think. 

“Nah, not for me, boys… Thank you, though. Gonna rest up, head back to the hotel, we still have a game tomorrow,” The righteousness returns to him, finds itself in his veins, Sidney forgets himself but is always quick to remember, projecting his voice to the boy-splattered room.  “I actually– I remind you all that the responsible thing to do is have an early night. Treat yourself well. Be up early and prepare for tomorrow.” And with boyish charm, like clockwork, the room explodes with groans, scratching at him. Predictability is one of the few things he actually respected from his team.  “Nah, nah. You guys have fun, okay?” Pushing himself up off the bench using your fathers shoulder as anchor, pushing down slightly harder than necessary while making his hockey-patriotic, holier than thou lecture an excuse to leave. Finally, get out of everyone’s sight. His sight. 

And when Sid sits in that hotel bar, he replays the scene. That moment where he launched himself off your father, analysing at how your dad winced at the pressure. Pressure only presumed as innocent collateral to Sid’s strength. Sidney imagines it all. Imagine how badly he could've chewed him out if he wanted to, how publicly he should have shamed and blamed him to the post game reporters.  It is not unlike Sid to be in his own mind, in the past. Picturing how good the hurt would’ve felt to afflict. And then, he spots you. God, you. Unbrushed hair that falls down around your face with no pattern yet seemingly with intent, you look young. Hell, you probably are. You are in the remainder of something half nice. You scream of similarity, you ache and itch at the back of his head. He has seen you before. Maybe, the rookie’s girl? Another washed up WAG? Probably so. You seem nervous though, you falter around, eyes dancing over him. Placing your weight on your left leg and switching it to your right, making eyes at Sid. Does he know you??? 

You look at him, like he’s letting you down, like you need him to pull you out of a crash of waves. Like you’re stuck in inner turmoil in front of him and he’s your life boat. And when he does: when he finally extends that hand: you jump. Jump like you’re afraid of him. 

“Do we know each other?” It comes off harsh, harsher than expected. But; Sidney’s intent was also to be harsh. Last thing he needed is someone he doesn’t know acting like he was on their borrowed time. And when you flinch, he cannot help but absorb the power you unwittingly just handed to him. 

“Oh! Sorry, Sidney..,” You begin your sentence like you’re so sure of yourself but halt in the middle: you’ve remembered yourself and you’ve remembered who Sidney is, haven’t you? “Just wanted to say hi,” your awkward tooth heavy smile begins to fade, the way you smile claws at Sidney: so, so, so familiar yet so, so, distant, “We met a few years ago?” you realise you’re an idiot: Why on earth would Sidney Crosby remember you? His head tilts at your words, eyebrows furrowed highlighting what few wrinkles he wears on his forehead, he’s hurrying you, he’s letting you know with minimal politeness that he couldn’t care less to try and remember.  Your lips make an awkward shape, your full name falling off your tongue like you’re embarrassed. You should be. Oh! It’s you! He remembers you! 2 years ago,  your dad played on your 18th, and with that badge of honour your old man finally allowed you in the pens lockeroom where you weaseled yourself into Sidney’s vision of sight, pleading with teen awkwardness, a fucked up haircut, and painted fingernails if Sid could please, please sign your jersey! He smiles, his eyes lighting up at your reminder of identity: repeating your name back to you a few times, you have your father’s last name, what a pretty adornment. It was like a gift, a present with a ribbon on top: kind of like your dad was saying ‘Here, Sid, from me to you!’

“Ah, yes! It’s you, of course, it’s you! I cannot believe I forgot.” Sidney feigns innocence, pushing the barstool adjacent to him with the rubber-soled tip of his shoe open wide enough to suggest ‘c’mon, sit down with me, I won’t bite’ and who are you to deny the captain of the pittsburgh penguins? 

“What are you doing out this way? I thought you guys lived in pittsburgh” He prods at you verbally, examining you like roadkill.

“Ah! I’m travelling with my dad for roadies.” “Do you travel with him often?” He knows this answer. No, you don’t. There’s not a lot his team can get past him.

You shake your head, hair tusseling around you. “No, I wish. This is my first time, actually,”  You continued on with your reasoning, you’re talking too much, but you’re too oblivious to even know that. Sidney eyed you as you effused, nursing down his overpriced health drink. God. Sidney liked to play innocent, sure, but you are. He knows you are.  

“Ah! Well, first roadie! That’s a serious deal in the hockey world. You enjoying it?” Sid cuts you off, interpositioning you. He controls the conversation, not you. 

“Mhm. The travel’s crazy though. Feeling jet lagged, a bit.” 

“Tell me about it? I have 20 years on you and it doesn’t get any easier,” He banters, entertains you, keeps your mind at ease. You giggle, a forced giggle, ‘I want you to like me so i’m gonna giggle’ giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. “Didya watch the game tonight?” 

“Mhm. I thought you played really well.” 

“Really?” Sidney simulates interest. Like your compliment meant the world to him. “Thanks. I thought I played well too.” 

And with no warning Sidney lands on his feet, collecting his jacket off the back of the chair, punching his arm through the sleeves. Oh, is the conversation over? You panic. Your face turning, eyes scrambling to meet him, bending in an unnatural way to meet his gaze. But you just sat down. He knows this though. He knows you’re oh, so worried that your five minutes with him is over. His head tilts again, oh that dreaded head tilt. But this time: there's no longer a feeling of animosity, he’s guiding you. He’s telling you to follow. Ohh.  And you do so: you don’t say much. You don’t even let your throat muster up a sound of shock. You just trail behind him. Like a sunflower to the sun, like a duckling to its mother. You follow him with cloudy eyes. More in your head than in the reality of the situation. You don’t even realise it when he thumbs at the elevator, watching the tinny mercury light up a big metallic button that reads 15, that you’re going up with him. You don’t even feel yourself following behind as his plastic card buzzes you into what you must have felt like the holy grail of hotel suites, until you’re there. And then you’re really there. In your body. In Sidney Crosby’s hotel room. 

Sid walks in, taking his layers off near the door. He doesn’t even say anything. Doesn’t show you around. Disregarding you at entry with his eyes like he would a jacket or a watch, leading you without motion to the small table hidden in the furthest corner of the room. He’s asking you to sit there and watch: watch as he prepares himself for whatever.  You take your time to catch on: still overcompensating from lack of belief. And if you were anyone else: that would be fine. Sure. But Sidney’s resolve with you was quick to burn. His eyebrows lift as you loiter, sit down. 

You realise and scramble: placing yourself politely on the fabric-wearing armchair, not quite sitting right; worming under the tension, tucking your legs underneath yourself. Sitting in silence but you watch in awe. The man in front of you begins to unravel himself. Placing his coat on his bed: along with whatever expensive watch he had thrown on. Your presence meant nothing in the face of routine. Stretching his back as he lets the day fall off him: his black shirt lifts to expose his mid-drift, you eye the elastic of his boxers, beginning to have a staring contest with the few and far in between hairs that lead upwards. When he cracks his knuckles it brings you back to life: your eyes shoot upwards as you find him to your left. At the minibar: searching for something, anything that interested him. 

“You drink?” Clearing his throat, slamming the already heaving pressure back into your mind. 

You begin to mumble, looking for words. God, this is so embarrassing. How do you explain to an icon that you haven’t even touched the side of drunk? He faces you, something remorseful yet not quite nurturing in his eyes. “Have you ever drank? You’re in college, no?” 

“Yeah. I’m 20.” You choke out.

“Yeah?” Sidney laughs a little, like that means anything. “When I was your age, drinking was like— The only thing I did.” Batoning the transparent neck of an aged whiskey into his left from his right, he is a left shooter, after all. He lets the maple coloured liquid fall into a crystal cup: you’d never been allowed near the glassware your father had. His calloused hand brought the finery to his lips. He sips, delicately, like someone who knew the procedures of drinking would. He pulls away with wonder on his face. He liked this one: for a hotel’s choice, at least. Sidney approaches, approaches with meaning: bringing himself to your eye level, squatting. A glint in his eye you had not seen all evening. The distance between you was closer than you had ever been to a man. So, so close. Your air is now his, and the reverse for him. 

He puts the glass between your faces, to your perfectly pink lips, and through half lidded eyes he tells you: “Drink.”

You let it in. You let him in. The amber travelling down your tongue, burning you on its way down. Tears being brought to your eyes: Jesus, why does anyone like this shit? It claws at your throat, it is not easy on its way down. It is poignant and it hurts with purpose. Sidney knows this, he knows the alcohol content is strong, even for him. He watches as you squirm, as you try to run from it without hurting his feelings. He finally relents, he finally allows you to pull away from the glass. Coughs begin to fall out of you. His hand finds the skin between your shoulder blades, rubbing it better.

“Aren’t you a big girl?” He coos. “All grown up now, huh. But you can’t handle one drink.” His shift in attitude alarms, shocks you to your core. But also awakens you, he sees it in you. Makes you buzz, a firefly vibrating itself into oblivion. He sees you shift your weight, aligning the seam of your pants perfectly. Your thighs are trying to simulate what only he has. 

He leaves your vision: he’s punishing you, you aren’t allowed to look at him anymore. 

Taking the crystal with him in his webbed hands. He absorbs you, drowns you in silence, he is your lifeboat but: maybe, he doesn’t wanna share the space with you just quite yet. Sid leans against the same dresser he poured your elixir on, feet crossing over each other, he begins to mutter your age, a million ‘20’s’ falling from him, like it would change the facts of the situation the more he let it leave his mouth. 

“20, huh? 20 but can’t hold a drink” He pouts, the pink of his lip facing you, his falsities dripping off him. Palpably trying to tear you at your seams: like you were an unaged doll, made of cotton and he was, well, himself. “Can’t imagine you’ve ever been to a party,” widening his eyes at you, furrowing his brows, he’s not asking. He's telling you. “You popular with boys?” 

You shake your head, eyes full of glass, words becoming void, still working yourself through the burn of the drink and the strangeness in your core. “No.”

“No? C’mon. Seriously? I’m shocked, truly. Guys love girls like you, small, innocent, could hold you in their palms if they wanted to. You’re kinda, what's the right word? Mouldable, aren’t you? I mean 20, you can’t even look me in the eyes, tell me what you want, what you’re feeling: or why a big girl like yourself can’t make use of whatever she’s feeling?” He smiles now, showing you his beautiful manicured teeth, his tongue sliding over his canines: eyes reaching for the roof. “..Do you even know how you’re feeling? Or d’ya just feel and wait for someone like me to come along and tell you.” He’s waiting for a response, your heart blinking red at you like a warning sign. You cannot muster a single word, just a sound, an exasperated suggestion of air leaving your mouth: he cannot help but venerate you, you almost weaken him. “Yeah, I bet guys love you. And you don’t even know it.” It comes from him like a sigh, like of course, you don’t know that. You are too yourself. 

“Tell me. Do you want something from me, huh?” He propositions you. “Seriously, you can tell me anything as long as you use your grown up, big girl words. Which might be hard knowing you.” You double back for a second: he cannot help the hockey inside of him. Chirping, even when trying to coax something deeply wrong out of you. 

Your jaw falls slack, do you want something from him? “I-, Uhm–” 

“Can’t get it out, can you? No. No, you cannot.” Sid answers on your behalf, fills in your blanks. “Come here.” He commands you like he’s training you, his eyes falling to the floor: he’s suggesting that maybe in this moment, you don’t walk. This is your call to action, and you don't want to waste it. You don’t want to be uncool, and surely you don’t want to let Sidney down. This is the first step of many, the first word of a prologue from a book with a million chapters. You let yourself find your knees, palms touching ashen carpet, hair falling in your poor heated face: hiding your glowing cheeks, your sense of direction sullied but yet you seem to manage finding Sid: standing firm, like a lighthouse holds itself strong for a passing boat. The burn of your kneecaps is only remedied by the feeling of Sidney's body heat, the thinnest skin of your leg finding the cap of his shoe.

His thumb finds your chin, rubbing small abstract circles: “There you are.” The rough sides of his hands sweeping strands out of your face, his composure thin, jeans getting tighter, look at you, his teammate's daughter, who crawled over on his whim for no reason other than he said.  “Let’s get a good look at that pretty face.” 

“Do you? Do you want something from me?” He prompts you a final time. Your eyes begin to cloud, it can be overwhelming, can’t it? “I want something from you.” Sid’s thumb finds your lower lip, the same one that shares your father’s pout, a stark reminder of who you are to him, one that cannot help clawing at his boxers, tapping idly. Your mouth falls open, you don’t know why it does that but it does, and there he finds jubilation. Sid’s thumb rests on the small divot on your tongue, and what makes him all the harder is that he didn’t even have to suggest anything: you just rode Sidney's approval like a high and the high like instinct. You close your mouth, going limp like the only thing holding you up were his index and his pointer, feeling like a thousand bricks were laid in your head and that Sidney was the only thing stronger than the never ending cement. 

To Sid: the way you look is as close as something can be to perfect, besides maybe a good wrist shot, the weight of the stanley cup, a thousand metals. You are enclosing on perfect going dumb at the taste of the salt on his fingers. He curls his wrist: gaining leverage to maneuver his fingers in and out, just subtly, just enough friction for you to feel like you’re doing something useful. You’re not good at what you're doing, your passing oral fixation is not apparent. His breath jumps, he is awfully reverent to your uselessness for someone who wrings out his team of all weakness. Your eyes flutter towards him, upwards, uncomfortable for you. More than easy for him. 

“You’re not really good at this, are you?” Sid coos,  aiding you in the learning process. He pulls his fingers into a hold in your mouth, and you cannot help but let a small whimper leave your incredulous lips, “No, you’re not. But, that’s okay. You’ll learn.” Sidney uses his right hand to brush your jaw, cleaning up the drool you’ve painted yourself with. 

He grins at you, a knowing smile. Like he just got the greatest idea, a thought that almost made up for making that god-awful pass that cost him a hat trick.

“You ever given head before?” Once again, he knows this answer. But he wants to hear you say it, wants it to come from you. “Huh?” Sid goads, ripping his fingers from your mouth, delicate strings of spit connecting your lips and his fingers. Faux disgust drips off him, yet he remains enamored at the mess you’ve made. A scoff falling from his lips.

“We can’t have that, can we?” musing at the disarray you’ve left behind. He tuts, disapprovingly. The pads of his index and his pointer find your cheek, rubbing your saliva into the round of your face. A sensory nightmare for you, usually. But you can’t feel anything but the overwhelming lack of stimulation in your hips. He fists at your hair, a whine escapes you: you tried your hardest to keep it stuck in your stomach, you try your hardest to seem more experienced than you are. 

He looks at you, his most perfect sacrificial lamb. A kicked animal at his feet (almost literally). “Go on,” a smile returns to Sidney “Give it a go, why don't ya? We all start somewhere.” You almost forgot: silly you, he’s doing this for you. To help you, to get you all ready for your final, most tumultuous year of college: not so he can scratch that perverse itch, not so every time your father fucks him over he can think ‘your daughter gave me head and you can’t do shit about it’. His fingers tap at the side of your temple, encouraging you to begin. 

Your manicured nails claw at the metal of his belt, invigorated to please, you struggle to get past the leather, excluding you from what you already shouldn’t have. You should consider this a sign, but your mind can’t process left from right at this moment. Your cheeks begin to redden, do guy’s belts usually take this long to take off? You finally manage it, a smile presents itself. Sid can’t help but coo, you’ve not even begun to do anything of worth yet you’re preening at slipping a belt from the band of his jeans. 

Your eye’s meet with the hardness in his boxers, black fabric covers what you so badly sought. Your hand ghosts over it, the warmness of your palm making contact with his length. His resolve has yet to snap, he understands the newness of this to you. You travel up and down against the cotton once or twice, exploration. One small step for mankind.

You pull at his underwear, desponding at how they cling to the roughness of his jeans. After fidgeting with the fabric, his cock springs free, nerve wracking in its existence. You feel dizzy at the sight, you weren’t an invalidate, by any means, you had watched porn (in rarity), when desire overcame you, when you felt you were gonna burst at the seams, when you longed to be touched by anyone or anything, but here it was: here Sidney was. Grown, erect, unadulteratedly himself. A whole different thing, not anything like you could’ve imagined. 

Your tongue licks at his tip, precum meeting you in your efforts. You don’t know what you’re doing, you try and act in confidence, you know he can probably sense your fear: like most apex predators so often can with their prey. You accept your fate and bite the bullet, taking his weight in your mouth with as much grace as you can manage. You don’t do any of the stuff he likes, what he usually expects from a partner (whoever that may be, in their lack of significance), you don’t swirl your tongue around his cockhead, you don’t play coy and kiss around it, or thumb over the slit. You just take him in your mouth. Medieval. Torturous. Erotically naive. 

Cocking your head back and forth, in what you can only assume is the correct way, moving from base to tip: and then repeat, over and over again. Wincing when your nose brushes against the fuzz that adorns his pubis. Sidney stares at you, drinks you in, if you would take a moment: unfocus yourself, you would see a light in his eye many have not seen since 2009. He has never been harder, this is what his wettest dreams are made of. Albeit, your actions aren’t driving his libido. It’s the situation. Sidney believes this to be, as most things in his life tend to be, a showboating exercise, holding the girth of him in your jaw. It’s not what you’re doing to him, it’s what he’s doing to you. Breaking what’s most delicate, the feeling of pleasure, as euphoric as touching art in an art gallery and never getting caught. The power you have relented to him. How he stands over you, looking at you with pity. Taking what should be a special moment between you and a boy your age and making it his: a moment of pure, guttural release. That’s what's truly getting him there, not whatever second guessed blowjob you’re giving him. 

He grips onto your skull, like if he pressed any harder, maybe just maybe, his hands could slip right through the blood and muscle and get his fingers in the folds of your brain. Leveraging what he can, taking control in this moment, he’s using you. Pushing you into his pelvis, cushioned by a bed of curls, choked gags being released into nothingness, falling upon deaf ears. God, this is perfect. 

Sid made a vow to himself that he would use self control, that if he knew anything, he would know to prolong this: but your unsure kitten licks, your nails digging into his thighs for support, the way you scramble for breath when he lifts you back for fresh air. Sidney wants nothing more than to paint your tongue with himself. There is no point prolonging the inevitable, he gives in, speeding up, hips bucking to meet the back of your throat. For every time you feel like he’s bruising an already open wound, he’s pushing himself closer into completion. And that final time you gag, your eyes meet his, looking for a sign, for anything. He withdraws from you, taking over, pumping himself to mock your motions. You don’t even know you’re supposed to get yourself all pretty and present yourself with cheeks hollowed, mouth open. Poor girl. He grips your jaw to correct you, thumb digging into your buccal fat: iron grip forcing your mouth open. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your presence at this moment, doesn’t ask if it’s okay if he finishes in your mouth. That’s not how this is going to work, not between you two anyway. He just continues rubbing himself over you. The way you look at him, the way you buzz in his hands even though he is treating you so poorly: he can’t handle much more. “Tongue out.” a command from Sidney you are so obliged to follow. You watch with awe, with excitement: as he bolts his eyes shut, blissful groans escaping him gruffly, it all hits him. A snap of what you can only assume has been building up within him for a while. White hot lines of cum landing on your tongue, a jackson pollock of himself.

His mind's eye captures this moment, he catalogues this: stores the situation, your vacant eyes, the flatness of your tongue, the stiff coldness in the air, everything in the forefront of his mind. 

“Swallow, yeah? That’s what big girls do.” Grasp loosening from your jaw, allowing you the independence to do so. You shut your mouth, letting the flavour sit with you for a second. Nothing you’ve ever quite tasted, not as bad as you imagined: but there was a certain Sid-ness to it. An aphrodisiac in itself because of its association with him.  

You drink it down, swallow every last drop of his seed. You’ve learnt this time. Your tongue falls out against your chin, proof that you’ve followed his bodiless task. “Good girl.” Sidney purrs, like it has no weight on him, like it means nothing, condescending and full of air: he says it but you know he thinks you are full of filth, filth that he needs to pressurise into perfection. “It tastes good, huh?” poking at you once more. Trying to get you to bubble over. 

“Uh huh.” you choke out, the most you can manage over your state of mind. You should’ve known that wouldn’t have been enough for Sid: “Mm?” “Yeah. It tastes good, Sidney,” searching for any sign of approval on his face, your brain going into overtime trying to figure out what you’re missing. “Thank you.” Your continuation seems to be the final piece. Now, he’s satiated, pride flaring in his chest.

You cannot forget your manners. You were raised better than that. 

“Yeah. I bet it did. I bet it felt good to finally have some purpose, huh?” The meanness in his tone has grown familiar, and although your ego bruises as your eyes shoot away, Sidney watches as your thighs cling to each other, clenching around nothing, in hopes for something. “C’mon. Don’t act all shy. I see the way you react when I treat you the way girls like you should be treated. ” 

He points at the taboo, what you hoped so deeply he would ignore. But you liked it, he knew on your behalf that you liked it, you liked being under Sidney’s knife, a mental game of pulling you open and looking at all your blood and mental entrails: the rawest, most erroneous, unkempt part of you, and fucking it into completion. 

“I bet you’re wet right now.” Sidney has you to a point, you can feel your panties, dampened, sticking to your folds. “What do you do in situations like this, huh, pretty girl? Play with yourself?,” His head shifts, wordlessly telling you to get off your knees, and sit on the bed. “Do you wait around like you are for me, now? Or do you fuck yourself on your fingers?”

“It’s not rhetorics, answer me.” A low growl.

“No, Sidney.” A pathetic mewl from your lips, your voice not quite one you recognize, high pitched and a bit unsteady. 

“‘No, Sidney’ what? ‘No, Sidney’ as in you’re so fucking dumb that you don’t even know how to get yourself off? Or ‘No, Sidney’, I’m just so greedy, I feed my pussy at her every whim?” The truth was that you were at odds with your body, every time you felt one way: your body would betray you with a crueler reaction, a wetness in your hole to your posture being manhandled into conformity by your golf coach, a small moan every time you were pushed around by your romantic literatures professor. You knew your body like you knew calculus, taught the bare minimum: enough to get by. You seldomly touched yourself, and when you did, you placed nervous, unrehearsed circles on your clit, bumpily getting yourself where you needed to be. 

With a misplaced grunt, Sidney pushes you into the sheets. Hair spilling around you. 

“No, Sidney,” A heady cry more than a sexy, calculated, performed response. “I don’t touch myself.” You continue. Sid almost swore the way you said it was a most-formulated call to action.

“D’aww. Poor, poor girl. Must be so horny. Dumb girl. Want me to fuck it better?” This he offers, this he craves, this you’ll share. It’s just like all the fantasies he’s palmed himself, in the dead of cold, hours of the night, to. 

The calloused pads to his most overworked fingers catch themselves in the elastic of your waistband. He waits for you: it’s your turn to add lines to this stanza. “Yes, please.” Whining now. You push your eyes up to him, lip pouting, creases forming on your chin. You know that Sidney can’t say no when you ball yourself into your smallest, most inconsequential self. “Sidney, please.”

“Oh, with good manners and everything, huh? Must need it bad.” Sid assists, taking off your pants in the process. Leaving you in your underwear. Sopping wet, in their proclamation. ‘They’re nice’, you had thought a million times before as you stared at the way the fabric cupped your ass in the bathroom mirror. Polka dotted, navy and white. You had bought them from wherever, so long ago. “Aww, these are cute, aren’t they?” Sid ridicules, snapping at the hemline of your panties. The sting makes you yip, as the fleeting pain spreads through your hips. 

And once again, you feel embarrassment heat the tip of your ears. You turn, trying to hide your face in your display of hair, something Sid deplores, you can tell by the way he pinches at the delicate skin above your thighs like he has the right to do that, like that is something he is owed. God, Sidney Crosby is calling you cute. You would’ve been honoured if you were still standing at that bar with him. But ‘cute’ isn’t exactly language you used for a fucked through femme fatale you just wanna sink your teeth in. Cute is a teddy bear for valentine’s day, cute is a baby duckling. Cute is a little thing, small, aloof, helpless, embedded in its behaviour, yet insecure in exactly that. Cute is you and your polka dot, not lacey at all, panties. And finally, he reaches down and pulls down that final layer that protects what he has been eagerly waiting for so, so, so long. For a moment, he spaces out. 100 different ideas of how he plans to fuck you begin to materialise in his head as he seemingly stares daggers at your cunt, he places a powerful swat at swollen clit, drowned in your own slick. Shutting your thighs as your pitiful hole clenches around emptiness, a pit in your stomach revealing itself. 

“Please.” You wail, please no more? Or please, cause you can’t wait any longer and just need him in you? 

“Patience. Jesus Christ. Did your dad ever tell you ‘no’, or ‘wait’ or ‘shut the fuck up’ at all in your childhood? Or did your piss poor attitude get you everywhere?”

You liked this colour on him, the colour that belittled you, that held your neck to his pointed heel. He spoke to you like you were to be broken in, fixed. Like maybe, at the end of the day: you were just the virgin highschooler who eventually became the virgin college student that no one would dare touch with a 10 foot pole. But he saw past that. He would touch you. And in his infinite wisdom, he should be making all your choices for you. Maybe what was best for you was being split open on his cock until you cannot form words cause you’re so pretty for him: you don’t even need words anyway. You can just be his toy. His plaything for when the world of hockey eventually lets him down. An approximation of what he truly desires, but yet is just out of reach. His most exquisite collateral to a breakdown 20 years in the making.  

Sid pumps himself back to life, your legs being held open by his non dominant. A deep breath in, like he’s preparing himself. Nervous for what this implies, even though you couldn’t list one way this affects him. Rubbing his leaking tip through your folds, jumping every time his cockhead briefly adjoins your clit. You squeak in response, more than audibly. 

“Relax for me.” The kindest he’s sounded all night. You untense for him the same way you clumsily splotter water onto a stain in a shirt you’re already wearing, only so you can look presentable, but the shirt’s not truly clean. And you are certainly, not really, relaxed at this moment.

You breathe deep as he lines up his cockhead with your poor, weeping, tight hole. And when Sid pushes in, the gasp you let out is loud. You almost wish you could’ve had it caught in your hands, but they are balled up trying to wring the pressure out of your head vicariously through the sheets. 

Sid is heavy within you, it isn’t porn, he isn’t damaging your insides with his largeness, but this is also no easy feat. No prep, just your slick as far as you have hope. And to your credit, he is having very little issue traveling through you, slowly approaching half way through his length as you squirm beneath him, the entire time his eyes searing hotly into yours. If he wasn’t trying to make this moment absolutely fucking terrifying for you, he would be telling you how hard it gets him that he gets to see the unknown vacancy in your eyes as he takes your virginity. But Sidney knows the limits, and Sidney knows that makes him come off scarier than intended. Sidney will tell you that during a future escapade. Maybe in a year's time, when you two retrace this memory.

As Sid bottoms out, the pain becomes a bit more apparent. It’s a lot. Your moans are less so moans, more so a confused mixture of wet cries, and overstimulated mewls. For every feeling you get that it’s too much, that your insides are hurting, a wave of pleasure will water it down. You don’t even know what you want, right now. You are swimming in a body of ocean you never thought you’d be allowed in and the waves are more daunting than you had imagined. 

Tears forming, big, splotchy in your waterline. “Sid-” “Shh. Sh. It’ll be okay.” He’s quick to comfort, but more because he’s played this game before. Years ago, before you even existed. He knows this drill. He doesn’t need you crying. Not now at least.

His palm finds your bare navel, exposed at your shirt which is lifted around the dips of your breasts, you can see him focusing, his hand moving downwards as he mumbles. Ah ha. He’s found it. At least, around there should be right. He presses right down like he’s digging for something. You hiss at first, but it falls out of your mouth lazier and lazier as it goes on, you understand now. He’s searching for himself.

“You feel that, kid? Feel my big cock inside you?” You’re just holding him now, blabbering blissful praise incoherently at him as he dangles pleasure in your face. The pressure becoming sweeter. He’s not even begun to thrust, this scene is lazy. Almost domestic, if you squint. Sidney would enjoy playing house with you, after all. 

“I know after this, you won’t be so cockhungry and maybe finally we can get you acting good. Yeah. Just needing me to fuck the stupid out of you. Is that it, baby? Are you so dumb that you needed me to take your virginity so you can finally get your act together?” Your pussy flutters at his words, which only feeds his ego more, if you looked hard enough, if your eyes could focus, you swore you would have seen his head getting bigger in real time. “Or will it make you worse, a dumb little clockslut who likes it when I’m mean to her cause for once in her life she’s being seen for what she is? Am I gonna have to fuck you often for you to be good?”

You just claw at him, not sure enough of yourself to respond, your arms beam down his bare chest, trying to cling onto something, but nothing sticks. Your grip finds his bicep as finally, he begins to move. Slow, lethargic as his hips withdraw, leaving you for the first time in your life: feeling hollow. You had never before in your life been full, but what ached you all the more, is you had never been so close to empty. And you had begun to realize, it was not a feeling you liked. You sob as he withdraws to his tip.  “More. Need more, please.” You choke out. “Jesus. Fucking needy. Obviously, you need more. Nothing’s ever enough for greedy little girls like you, just take, take, take." The crudeness of his words punctuated as he slams back into you, like he would’ve been kinder, slower, sweeter, more intimate if you hadn’t overstepped. A cry ripped from your throat as the white hot pain morphed into uglier, unfamiliar pleasure.  

“There you go, you like that, don’t you?” His movements unrestrained but also, strangely aware of your limits, any boy your age wouldn’t’ve known this was an appropriate pace, but it was. Sidney knew. God, you were so glad Sidney knew. Strong, consistent, fast, but not aggressive. You felt like every bone had been ripped out of your body, like you were jello, to be molded. Like you were melting into the sheets.

Pleasure being ripped through you every time his pelvis met your cervix. Every time, his fuzz meets yours, stimulating your engorged clit just that little more. You were so drunk on it. Drunk on it all. 

“Look at you. Learning so quickly,” His right hand digging deep into your sacrum, Sid feels dizzy at the way he can feel himself, and it doesn’t help it only feels better for you. His left finally meets your bundle of nerves, flicking it back and forth with reliable spirals. “I know you love it. Even if you wanted to pretend you hated it, you couldn’t. Crying like this is the first time you’ve ever eaten. Fuck. You’re drooling. Literally drooling.” And for every time you try to retaliate, you try to stand your ground: He lands another swipe at your clit, it makes you jump, hips bucking to try and run away, even though it's apparent that's the last thing you could want. And all he can do is laugh. Laugh in your face like it hurts you, like it doesn’t make you clench harder and harder on his length. Like you’re trying to pull him in and swallow him whole. 

A line of spit falls from his lips, falling down into your pussy to be fucked into you. It’s a new type of sensation, a new kind of warm to every other warmness you’re feeling. You begin to shake, shake like a leaf being encouraged through the air by a summer breeze. You’re so close, you realize. It’s all so in your stomach. You might cry if you come right now. 

“Gonna- Gonna cum, Sid.”

“Of course. Of fucking course you are, baby.” An exasperated sigh that falls out of him right onto you like a weight: like oh, of course you’re gonna cum cause you’re some insatiable beast with a high sex drive that he needs to squander before he can focus on important stuff, like oh of course you’re gonna cum, I’m Sidney fucking Crosby. I could be spending the night with a super model, my dick is as big as a red oak and I fuck like a rabbit on ketamine and yet I choose you, lucky you! You’re gonna cum! “Cum, then. Show me. Since that’s all you know how to do, apparently.” 

And god, do you ever. Wide, expansive, white hot pleasure blinding you as you bolt your eyes shut. Attempts to squirm away from him, hips bucking themselves tired. Beautiful, arousing tears fall to your jaw like you’re a sculpture to be marveled. Sid helps you ride out your orgasm, finally, malleable, truly relaxed for him; as your body limpens under his touch. 

Your heart beats like a drum in your chest, loud and consistent, unsuccessfully attempting to ground you in your less than mindful state. It would be working if Sid wasn’t still driving into you. You're conscious enough to know that you’re too sensitive for this. Too much, you assume. Your pussy’s still fluttering, taking new life. Hips still bucking, electric with aftershocks.

“One more.” He asks from you. One more, he promises himself.

“Can’t,” 

“Can.” He rebuts. Well. He does know what’s best for you. 

Sidney speeds up, grabbing your legs and throwing them over his right shoulder, pinned together at the ankles, the tension of being held together digs into your clit. This one is more for him, as much as he liked to give, he wasn’t coming out of this unsatisfied. He pushes into you like he’s trying to knock something loose in you, like he already hasn’t. 

He listens to your gasps and moans, as he tries new angles, fucking up into you, or to the right. Trying to find that sponge in you, that sweet spot that makes every girl squeal. He just needs to find yours, and then he can revel in the squeals, revel like he does in arenas full of hungry desperate fans and their screams, but he much prefers the prior. 

And when Sidney finally finds it, finds that spot in you that squishes underneath his tip like it is clay in his hands, makes you yelp, scream, like if you don’t scream: he won’t know to never stop. The mix of it, the pain that transforms to pleasure, the squeezing, the presence of weak aftershocks, and the suppleness of your g-spot. You are so close, He is so close. You two are close. 

Still weak from your first orgasm, your second hits you hard. Powerful. Clenching around Sid’s dick like you might never have it again if you let go. Twitching in  his hands. He pulls out quickly in fear of what will happen, which is met with a loud involuntary moan. 

“Quiet, Slut.” He hushes, running his fist from base to tip like he might lose this moment. Might lose the opportunity to come all over you as you short circuit, as you worm, as you twitch. Teeth digging into his upper lip in concentration. He squeezes the pink head of his cock, and as if a command was given: cum spits itself all over your stomach. All over. Painted in his remnants.

Well… there you two are. Messes of each other’s making. Sidney takes deep breaths as he stands over you. Taking recon of what he’s done. This must’ve been how it felt when temptation was offered to Eve, although he is unsure if he is Eve or the serpent, if you are the great temptation or if he is? 

Sid approaches the bathroom, wetting a towel, holding it underneath the sink, the cloth becoming oversaturated as his eyes go void, he closes in on his own mind again. 

He comes back, silent. Like he’s planning. Like there’s more in store for you two. He makes delicate lines around your stomach, a wet trail following, cleaning up his mess to his dismay, a small tut coming from his pursed lips as he does so. He then examines your pussy, blood intertwined so closely with your slick, you wouldn’t have known if you weren’t looking for it. Sidney did always take very good care of his things, to be fair. He wipes you down, one final sense of pleasure shoots up at you as the rough of the towel touches your pussy. Reactive even in your most dead state. He lets you rest for five minutes before prompting you again. “Not bad for your first time.” He forces out the kindness almost, like he’s not done stripping you of your worth, not done fucking his resentment into you. A long sigh falls from him, like he has to remind himself he’s not finished playing with you, there will be a next time. It, unfortunately, can wait. 

Sid taps at your thigh, encouraging you to get up, even in your limpness. You do have to return to your father before he believes you to be missing. “I’ll help you get dressed.” Offered half heartedly, your sweat soaked palms rest on his shoulders as he steadies your dizzy body, as your shirt falls back into its correct position, as he pushes your ruined panties up your thighs, hitting you with a little slap to your mount after the fabric returns, just cause it makes him smile, just because it reminds you that you are subjected to his every whim. He helps you step into your pants. “Shame you gotta put your clothes on, cover up everything nice about you.” Brushing hair out of your face, it’s weird. He just helped you get dressed, took your virginity, he has you by the small of your back as he walks you to the door, intimacy bloomed around you two, yet he’s still picking you apart. And, you still love it. 

“You know how to get back to your room?” “Mhm.” “Okay, good.” He smiles, a full smile. “I’ll get in contact with you when I can, okay?” Sidney already has this down pat. Already knows you’re gonna wanna see him again. And, he is more than happy for that to happen. You know that. You both do. But, it’s gotta be on his terms. Like most things— like all things in his life are.

So, no. Sidney was not a particularly malicious man, not in his head. That’s not how he would choose to describe it. But when he walked into the locker room, the room beginning to chirp at him because obviously they heard your high pitched, lustful, yelps. When they made him describe the experience in detail. When Sidney got to smile and look at your dad, when he asked “Was she hot?” and Sidney gets to gloat: “Yeah. Like you wouldn’t believe.” That deep, satisfied, full like he just ate the feeling he got from that certainly didn't help.

Your dad was patting him on the back, celebrating him, howling at him, begging for more details of how Sid ravished his little girl. And he doesn’t even know. So, maybe, If you consider that malicious? Then maybe he was. But maybe, he just wasn’t one who took kindly to wounded pride.

fawn's notes: FIRST OF ALL: apologies for the formatting, the small text just wont stick for some reason ???? AND SECOND OF ALL : hi!!!! hope u loved!!! THIS IS DEF getting a part two, i rlly wnana give brad marchand some love next cause.. duh/??!?? but then after that. or maybe. before. TAOTD is gonna get a chapt 2even if u all hate it. BUT YEAH. NEXT ON MY LIST. IS THIS OR MARCHY!!! anyway give birds UPL WORK SOME LOVE !!! BOOOOYAAAAHHHHHHH ALSO!!!! one last thing i swear but if u feel so inclined please give love in the replies if u liked it...... i love tohear ur ideas and also compliments cause who doesnt

Please do not copy, translate or repost my works.

[nylqnder]

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 | 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐒

— cozytober masterlist !

summary: your first halloween spent in your new house together becomes unforgettable after a trick-or-treater brings unexpected joy for you and jack

warnings: literally so much fluff it's crazy, jack kind of having a revelation

word count: 1.36k

notes: tenth and final fic of cozytober! hope you enjoy i thought this was such a cute idea.

As October settled in, the air grew crisp, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves. Your neighborhood began to glow with an eerie charm — orange and purple lights strung along rooftops, spider webs draped haphazardly over bushes, and grinning jack-o'-lanterns perched on porches, their flickering candles casting shadows on the pavement. It was your first Halloween in your new home, and excitement buzzed in the air. You and Jack had spent the last few weeks transforming your house into a Halloween wonderland, determined to embrace the spooky season in full.

“This is going to be such a good Halloween,” you said, standing in the kitchen surrounded by packages of candy. You poured another mountain of treats into the bowl, feeling like a kid yourself.

Jack, lounging against the counter, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You know we’re probably gonna be that house, right? The one that gives out so much candy the kids talk about it all year?”

You grinned back, unbothered. “Good! We never got to do this in the apartment. We’re going all out.” You tossed another bag of chocolates into the mix, the bowl overflowing now.

Your previous apartment building didn’t have many kids, and handing out candy was never part of your Halloween traditions. But this year, nestled in a family-filled suburb, it felt like you were finally getting the Halloween you’d always wanted — the decorations, the costumes, the eager trick-or-treaters. You could hardly wait.

When the doorbell rang for the first time, you practically leapt off the couch. “They’re here!” you squealed, racing to the door like a child on Christmas morning. Swinging it open, you were greeted by a group of tiny witches, superheroes, and a very tiny dinosaur with a tail too long for his legs. Their eyes widened at the sight of your candy bowl, and you couldn’t resist giving them extra, their excitement contagious.

You watched them scamper off down the walkway, their candy bags bouncing, before collapsing onto the couch next to Jack, who had Ghostbusters queued up on the TV. “There was this little dinosaur, and his tail kept dragging behind him,” you laughed, snuggling under his arm. “It was adorable.”

“Is that what happens every time the door opens? You’re going to give me a recap of all the costumes you see?” Jack smirked, pulling you in closer.

“Absolutely,” you grinned, poking him playfully. “I don’t want you missing out on all the cuteness.”

And that’s exactly what you did. Each time the doorbell rang, you bounded up, eager to meet the next batch of trick-or-treaters. After every encounter, you’d return to Jack, excitedly recounting the different costumes — witches, zombies, fairies, and one memorable kid dressed as a very squishy marshmallow. Jack would laugh at your eagerness, but you could tell he enjoyed each one of your recaps.

Between the rounds of doorbell dashes, you and Jack sank into the movie, the Halloween vibe settling in like a comfortable blanket around you. The evening was perfect — the glow of the porch lights, the hum of neighborhood excitement, and Jack’s arm wrapped around you, making it all feel just right.

As the night began to slow and fewer knocks came, the doorbell rang one last time. You jumped up, still full of energy. “I’ve got it!” you called, already halfway to the door.

Opening it, you were greeted by a sight that made you freeze — a kid fully decked out in hockey gear, pads, helmet, gloves, and all. But what caught your attention was the jersey. The black, white, and red jersey stood out in the dark, the 86 on the sleeve glimmering under the porch light.

“Trick or treat!” the small voice squeaked from beneath the helmet.

Your jaw dropped as you let out a small gasp. “Oh my gosh, you look amazing!” you gushed. “Hold on—there’s someone who has to see this.”

You darted back into the living room, grabbing Jack by the arm. “Come on, you’ve gotta see this!”

Jack, confused but curious, paused the movie and followed you to the door. The second he saw the mini-hockey player in his own jersey, his eyes widened in surprise. The kid looked up, eyes shining as he recognized Jack.

“You’re Jack Hughes!” the little boy said, his voice filled with awe.

Jack crouched down to the kid’s level, smiling. “Looking good out there, bud,” he said, adjusting the boy’s helmet so it wasn’t covering his eyes.

The kid's dad, standing at the end of the walkway, waved his phone. “Would it be alright if we got a picture?” he asked, clearly as excited as his son.

“Of course,” Jack grinned. He knelt beside the kid, who raised his hockey stick proudly. You quickly snapped a few photos, capturing the pure joy on both their faces.

Before they headed off, you grabbed two fistfuls of candy and dropped them into the boy’s sack. “You get some extra candy for having the best costume we’ve seen all night,” you told him, smiling as he skated on his roller blades down the walkway.

Jack stood there for a moment, still processing what had just happened. You could see a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched the boy skate off.

“That was seriously cool,” Jack admitted, sliding his arm around your waist.

You nudged him playfully. “You’re a little stunned, huh?”

Jack chuckled, his eyes still lingering on the street where the kid had disappeared. “Yeah, I mean, it's one thing to see people wearing my jersey at games, but that little guy was really into it. He looked like he was having the best night of his life.”

There was a warmth in his voice, a mix of pride and disbelief. “It’s gotta feel pretty surreal seeing a kid look up to you like that,” you said, guiding him back into the house, his eyes still going back to the kid who was far down the street now.

Jack nodded, his smile widening as you took your places on the couch once more. “It just… it reminds me that this whole hockey thing is bigger than just me, you know? Seeing him so pumped, dressed as me for Halloween… it kind of makes it all feel worth it in a different way. A way that’s not just for me.”

You could tell that moment meant more to him than he let on. His eyes glinted with that same spark he had when he was passionate about something, and you loved seeing him like that.

As you both settled back onto the couch, you leaned your head on Jack’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of the moment settle in. “You made that kid’s night,” you said softly, glancing up at him.

Jack’s arm tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I think he made mine too,” he replied, his voice filled with a contentment that made your heart swell.

As the credits rolled on the movie, you sighed happily. “Best Halloween ever,” you murmured, smiling to yourself.

Jack chuckled, resting his chin on your head. “You always say that,” he teased.

You laughed, looking up at him. “Well, this time I mean it.”

He grinned down at you, his eyes twinkling with affection. “Good. Because I kind of want to make this our new tradition. Decorating, handing out candy, watching you light up with every costume… I could get used to this.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly, feeling that familiar, comforting warmth between you. “Me too,” you whispered. “Me too.”

As you both sat there, the last remnants of Halloween fading into the quiet night, you couldn’t help but think about how special this first Halloween in your new home had been. It wasn’t just the decorations or the candy or even the costumes — it was the moments, big and small, that made it unforgettable. Moments like Jack seeing a kid in his jersey, or the way you both had embraced the evening together, fully present and happy.

And you knew that no matter how many Halloweens came after this one, this would always be the one that set the bar.

[kxsagi]

blue lock x cyclist user.. doesn’t even have to be the professional ones could be the street cyclist ykyk

And pls she'd be so baddie like overtaking opponents gyatt

“𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞”

a/n: hey siri, play vroom vroom by charli xcx

lavender lamborghini, roll up in a blue bikini

suggestive content inside! (sorry i’ve been slacking with that recently, but shidou is always suggestive honestly…) 

ft. isagi yoichi, mikage reo, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

he thought he had good stamina. 

nah. you took him on one of your “light” rides and homie was praying to god on the fifth hill. 

“yoichi, you good?” 

“mhm just. catching. my soul. it left my body back there.” 

he admires you so much. like he will literally pull out his phone mid-convo and be like “btw, look at my girlfriend” and show everyone a video of you overtaking five dudes uphill like it’s nothing. 

“baby slow down you’re gonna hit a poth– OKAY NEVERMIND YOU JUMPED IT.” 

is also your #1 mechanic. watches bike maintenance tutorials just to help you. he’s just a little guy in love. 

blushes so hard when you ride past him and slap his ass like a demon on wheels. 

mikage reo

no one was ready for how obsessed reo became. 

spends 10k on a custom gold-accented fixie bike just to “ride with you,” only for you to pop a wheelie and leave him in the dust. 

“you didn’t say we were racing!!” 

“i wasn’t.” 

all jokes aside, he funds your entire cycling wardrobe. aero suits, racing shoes, visors. you’re his little tour de france princess. 

and when you ride past random dudes on the street and they try to catcall you? vroooom. 

reo’s already catching up like, “say it again i dare you, she’ll run your kneecaps over and i’ll sue your family.” 

holds your thigh in his lap when you’re sitting. stares at it like it’s a work of art. 

makes out with you every time you “win” a street race. “congrats, babe. now come here.” 

kaiser michael

when you met, you were biking uphill, he was jogging downhill, and you blew past him like a gust of wind and yelled, “move it, pretty boy.” 

he’s been chasing you ever since. 

your thighs haunt him. every time you pedal hard in front of him, it’s a spiritual experience. 

“you’re seriously so hot when you almost get hit by a car.” 

he also thinks it’s funny when you’re lowkey feral. like he once saw you bark at a car that almost cut you off. 

he tells everyone “my girl could outpace your sports car in a school zone.” 

buys a scooter just so he can legally ride next to you and hold your hand. 

and when you stop in front of a crowd in your helmet, shades, and biker fit? 

he just goes, “you guys wish you were her.” 

itoshi rin

he hates how attracted he is to you. like he didn’t ask to be whipped. 

every time you ride past him in full gear, he just stares. 

“you look stupid.” 

“you’ve been staring for ten minutes.” 

has no idea how to act when you pull up to his games with your helmet under your arm, your thighs all defined and glistening, and you go, “score a goal and i’ll give you a ride after.” 

cue him scoring a hat trick. 

tries to train with you once. just once. 

“we’re going how far?” 

“rin, we barely started.” 

also he 100% acts unbothered when other people check you out, but you can feel the silent murder vibes from behind his bangs. 

you once told a guy off by overtaking him on a tight sidewalk. rin was so proud he kissed you on the spot. 

karasu tabito

no thoughts head empty just: “babe, do the spinny leg thing again.” 

he takes 100 slow-mo videos of you pedaling and sets them to dramatic music. 

“LOOK AT HER QUADS.” 

absolutely wears one of your old cycling jerseys like a boyfriend hoodie. 

calls himself your water boy. shows up to your rides with snacks and says “hydration is sexy.” 

y’all do dumb dangerous races together at night just for the thrill. one time you both almost ate it trying to bunny hop a pothole. 

his love language is matching biker gloves. 

and he always stands behind you when you stretch because… reasons. 

“i respect your athleticism.” 

(he’s staring respectfully.) 

bachira meguru

street biking duo from hell. 

he doesn’t even have a real bike. it’s some janky monster-energy-themed BMX and you’re riding a $3k carbon fiber beast. 

but somehow he keeps up??? 

“it’s all in the legs, babe. and the chaos.” 

your dates are late-night races through the city where you both scream at random birds and laugh when you beat red lights. 

he draws goofy graffiti of you on buildings: “cyclist demon queen <3” with hearts and flames. 

he is genuinely obsessed with your power. like claps when you take off your helmet and your hair flips in slow-mo. 

wants pegs on your back tire so he can ride standing behind you like a badass sidekick. 

“go, my beloved velociraptor!!!” 

“meguru that’s not even the right animal–” 

nagi seishiro

he has no idea how you do this for fun. 

“you want me to... move my legs?” 

absolutely would rather be hit by a car than bike for more than five minutes. 

but he watches you ride like he’s watching a goddess in a music video. 

you once leaned down to adjust your shoe mid-ride and he was never the same. 

when you pull up to his practice to pick him up, he hops on the back like a sleepy little princess. 

“wake me when we get there.” 

falls asleep with his arms around you while you're riding 30 mph through traffic. 

he tells people, “my girlfriend’s thighs are stronger than my will to live.” 

and if someone tries to flirt with you while he’s riding behind you? 

he just peeks around and goes, “she’ll run you over.” 

shidou ryusei

this man fell in love the second he saw you hop a curb, cut off a car, flip the driver off, and speed into the distance like a neon blur. 

“nah. that’s the one.” 

his love language is biking recklessly with you. weaving between traffic, racing through yellow lights, giggling like a maniac while almost dying. 

if someone dares catcall you while you’re riding, he bikes up next to them, stares into their soul, and just smiles. 

“wanna lose your kneecaps, dumbass?” 

has definitely gotten arrested once or twice for following you into illegal races just to cheer you on. 

“baby you looked so sexy eating pavement on that last turn.” 

has a shrine in his notes app of all your biker fits. especially when your thighs are peeking out. 

and when you call him after a ride, breathless and flushed and laughing? 

he’s immediately feral. “pull up to my place. helmet on. nothing else.” 

also tries to show off by biking with no hands while texting. hits a trash can. 

“worth it.” 

itoshi sae

was absolutely unimpressed at first. like, “okay, you ride a bike. i walk.” 

then you pulled up in black cycling shorts, slick sunglasses, and passed a speeding car while eating a protein bar. 

he literally short-circuited. 

he’s not dramatic, but he hasn’t shut up about it since. 

“she’s fast. scary fast. and her legs–" 

he doesn’t even care about soccer anymore when you’re around. the second you text, “wanna ride?” he’s out the door like, “say less.” 

he doesn’t even try to race you. he just watches. 

he’s your groupie. your number one simp. the king of “you see my girl?” 

“oh, you drive a porsche? my girlfriend rides a bike and could smoke you on a roundabout.” 

casually films your sprints and slow-mos your thighs in post with royalty-free music like a whole fan cam. 

and when he sees guys stare too long at you mid-ride? 

he goes full “i’ll take your eyes out for free” mode. calmly. menacingly. 

“look away before she breaks your spine with her calf muscle.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢