#Neighbors AU

[eilidh-eternal]

“Single mom x Johnny” this, “single mom x Simon” that.

I want single dad Johnny/Simon and the single reader next door who is helplessly in love with them and their kid.

18+ MDNI

You never wanted kids. You’re convinced you would turn out to be just like your parents. That’s probably why you don’t have a ring on your finger or any sort of boyfriend or partner to speak of.

You never wanted kids.

Until Johnny goddamn MacTavish.

You’re in love with the man who always walks his little girl to school every morning, crooked pigtails flouncing with each too-big step she takes to keep stride with his long legs.

Madly in love with the way he smiles down at the tiny girl, even tinier hand held firmly in his as she dodges cracks in the pavement, and the shriek of her laughter when he lifts her by the arm, swinging her through the air to the next chunk of concrete.

Hopelessly in love with the broad shoulders he hoists her up on, little legs swinging with arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her chin resting on top of his head, blowing stray hairs of an overgrown mohawk out of her face.

Dangerously in love with the way he lets her cling to his front when it rains, like a little koala wrapped around this tree of a man who holds an umbrella in one hand and has a firm hold on her with the other.

Happy. He looks so happy with her. Like she’s the sun he orbits; the star that lights up his world.

You’re just a comet who occasionally passes them by.

——

Johnny never thought he would be doing this alone.

He’s so far out of his depth. Never even had the chance to dip his toe in the water before he was shoved into the churning ocean.

He still remembers every life-altering detail of that day. The phone call after the 16 hour flight back to base. The frantic drive to the hospital. The impossibly tiny, wailing little girl, all alone in the social workers office.

She’s all he has left of her. Of them.

His best friend. His partner in crime, for more years than he can remember. The person who understood better than anyone who he is, saw him through his darkest moments, and loved him with her whole heart.

Gone.

But he smiles for her. Because of her. Isobel is the light in the abysmal darkness that he’s drowning in. The buoy he clings to when he can no longer hold his head above the surface. She’s everything. His past, his present, and his future. And she’s sitting at the table refusing to eat her dinner.

“’s not right.” Her little nose scrunches, turns up at the meal, and she pushes the bright green plastic away, matching miniature fork sent skittering across the table by the force of it

Johnny lowers his own fork and swallows his frustration with a sigh. “‘s yer favorite. Wha’s wrong with it? ”

Her brows knit together as she studies the tray, little creases forming between them and she slumps in her booster seat. “Mommy didn’t make it.”

No. She didn’t.

Johnny was never the cook in the family. That was all her. She’d chased him out of the kitchen after he’d burnt one of her expensive pans and he was thus forth relegated to chopping, and occasionally peeling, duties.

“I know.” His chair scrapes against the floor when he pushes back from the table, moving to crouch down where she sits beside him so that he’s at eye level with her, and he pulls the fork and tray back towards her. “But mommy wouldnae want ye to go to bed hungry, aye?”

“I wan’ somethin’ else.” He watches her little bottom lip jut out, brows still pinched and face twisting into a stubborn pout.

“Wha’d’ye want?”

“Quesadilla.” She drags out the ‘ee’ sound, emphasizing her clumsy command of the foreign language in her already thick Scot’s accent.

He enjoys Mexican food. Loved the tacos Alejandro and Rudy shared with him and his team during his time in Mexico. She’d learned how to make them for his birthday.

Nowhere in Glasgow made anything like it. Not then, and not now.

“I cannae make a quesadilla, leannan.” Her little lip wobbles, eyes turn glassy, tears already welling up in the corners and threatening to spill down chubby cheeks. She sniffles, drags the backs of her hands across her eyes, and Johnny feels what’s left of his heart splinter, another little piece of it withering away to nothing with each fat tear that rolls down and collects at her chin. He unbuckles her from the booster and gathers her into his arms as he stands up, taking her with him to sit in his own chair at the table.

Her little shoulders shake, hiccuping with each muffled sob against his shoulder and tiny fingers fist the material of his shirt. “Miss ‘er,” she warbles, and his arms tighten around her small frame.

“Ah know, leannan.” More hiccups. More tears that seep through his shirt and brand his skin.

You should be here. You’re supposed to be here. With her. With him. With them.

“How ‘bout we go down to the shops? Ye can pick whatever ye want for dinner. Dinnae think they’ll have quesadillas, but I’m sure we can find somethin’ ye like.” She lifts her head from his shoulder, tips it back to peer up at him with bleary eyes and sniffles. Wipes her hand across her eyes again.

“Cheesy noodles?” It’s thin and reedy, poor little throat still tight and full of grief that he knows feels impossible to speak around.

“Aye, we can get cheesy noodles.” He brushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, tucking the unruly curl behind an ear where it probably won’t stay. Just like her mum’s. So much like her mum. She considers him, his offer, and toys with his shirt.

“And sticky pudding?”

“Whatever ye want, leannan.” She really shouldn’t have something so sugary right before bed but he doesn’t have it in him to deny her. Is just glad the tears have stopped. That she’s willing to eat, even if he has to bribe her with junk food and sweets. He sends her to put her shoes on while he cleans up in the kitchen and grabs his own shoes and keys.

——

He’s there.

He’s standing in the pasta aisle with his little girl in the buggy, smiling at the way she makes grabby hands at the dismal selection of boxed macaroni, and he pulls one down from the shelf to hand to her. She inspects it, turning it this way and that way, pointing to something on the packaging and saying something that makes him laugh.

You’re frozen in place, jar of pasta sauce halfway to the basket in your other hand, and you can’t move because the sound of his laughter causes something in your brain to misfire. Causes the electrical signals between neurons and synapses to jumble together and sets your nerves alight. You think you might really be frozen, body unwilling to move an inch away from where you stand now, by your beautiful neighbor in the middle of a goddamned Tesco, until a little voice is addressing you.

“Hi miss neighbor!” Johnny’s head whips around and when his gaze lands on you it feels like your stomach’s turned to lead. “We’re havin’ cheesy noodles f’r dinner!” She holds up the box in her hand and kicks her feet excitedly.

You’re currently kicking yourself for making what you’re sure is an expression closely resembling that of a fish out of water. Mouth agape, brows raised and eyes slightly widened in surprise. When your mouth finally remembers how to move you smile at the little girl waving her box of noodles and powdered cheese in the air. “Hello, Isobel. That sounds like a lovely dinner.”

His brows knit together, one of them quirked at a curious angle. “And how d’ the two of ye know each other?”

Isobel’s foot connects with his thigh and his head jerks back around. “She’s our neighbor. She gave me the tablet,” she whispers a little too loud, cupping a small hand in front of her mouth. He turns back to you with the same jaunty brows and a quirk to his lips.

“So ye’re the one responsible for the wee heathens late night sugar-induced marathon.”

“M-marathon?”

“Aye, she was bouncin’ round the house all night, the little devil.” He ruffles her hair and she swats at his hand.

“I- I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” You don’t really know what you’d been thinking when you’d given her the Tupperware full of sugary confections to take home after she’d spent the morning helping you root around in the flowerbeds in front of your home. She’d been watching out the window for hours until she was suddenly right next to you, asking what you were digging for.

“‘s alright. Ye’ll just have to make up f’r it.”

It’s your turn to pinch your brows and tilt your head in confusion. “Make up for it?”

His lips part in a full, genuine smile, like the ones he gives Isobel, and your leaden stomach suddenly feels like it’s lodged in your chest, full of butterflies and other fluttering things you don’t dare to name.

“Oh aye. Reckon ye owe us a dinner since ye’ve skipped right to dessert.”

Next>>>

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[eowynstwin]

the rain

previous - neighbors - next

You return home, and let John do to you what he's promised. cw: cunnilingus

The moment you ’re home, I’ll give you everything you want.

There’s a dangerous cast to the sky—dark, heavy, near-splitting at the seams. It’s not a night to have rejected a ride home from the station, not with those words ringing in your ears.

But when the ride was your ex, you’d rather risk getting caught in the downpour.

The pavement is hard and cold beneath your tired feet. Your whole body is sore from the long train ride home, spent stiffly across from Ben as you’d avoided his gaze, but you’d walk twice the distance home to even halve the time you’d spent with him. His sad eyes and kicked-puppy stare had been stuck to you the whole time, as if magnetized, and they weigh on you now as heavy as the suitcase you drag behind you.

This trip was a mistake. You should not have gone anywhere with Ben, professionally or otherwise. Not with how weird the energy has been between you and him, ever since you broke it off.

“Can’t you just try to be happy with me?” he’d asked you then. “I’m a good partner, aren’t I? I just want to make you happy, sweets, and it’s like you won’t even let me.”

Objectively, Ben had been the boyfriend everyone seemed to want when they talked about romance—interested and engaged, excited about a future together, sensitive and willing to talk about his feelings. He even knew where the clitoris was. There was nothing—no red flags, no warning signs—that should have scared you off.

It was just you. There was something wrong with you, because none of that made you happy—not the lunch dates, not the weekly flowers, and not even the sex. All you knew was that when he started wondering when you would introduce him to your parents, ice had run down your spine.

A bad gust of wind slaps you from behind, followed by a crack of thunder, too close for you to make it home dry. Indeed, there isn’t much time after finishing that thought before the deluge unloads, raindrops falling heavy and cold and fat as bullets.

You come to a resigned stop in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your face up to the sky. There’s no point in rushing now—thick, late-winter clouds spread low across Liverpool, slow-moving. By all appearances intending to linger as long as possible. You’d neglected an umbrella, and your coat is nowhere near waterproof. You think of the warm interior of Ben’s car and shiver.

You want John.

You struggle to understand it. He is nothing like what you’d assign yourself for a match—there is a wide gulf of difference between you and him, too wide for you to ever expect an easy crossing. He and you should feel disjointed, incongruous, as ill-suited as a war horse might be to a hummingbird. There shouldn’t be anything you could offer each other that either would have use for.

And yet, you do. It is easy. Breathable, in a way that feels unearned enough to make you nervous.

How are you supposed to navigate something that shouldn’t be working, but is anyway? How can something feel this good with barely any effort on your part? How can you go through with this, when you’re not even sure what it means?

The rain reaches its fingers down into your collar, pools around your feet. You close your eyes and try to hear John’s voice in your head again. Soft and low over the phone, coaxing. Inviting your fears out into the open to be soothed.

You’re walking again before you realize it—one cold foot in front of the other, heavy suitcase clattering behind you, familiar with the way home even through the sheeting rain. And what feels like mere moments later, you’re walking up the steps to his front door.

The window beside it glows a soft yellow around the edges. You can’t help but stand there, frozen again as this suddenly becomes real. John, and everything he’s offered you, is on the other side of the door. All you have to do is take it. All you have to do is knock.

But John opens the door before you can even lift your hand.

“Jesus, love,” he says, the moment he looks at you.

Time slows. Warmth pours from the open portal. He looks… comfortable. Soft around the edges in blue jeans and a knitted sweater—the same one he’d worn to dinner at the pub. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, even in the few days you’d been gone, but once your eyes land on his you don’t want to look away. The angle of his brow; the shape of his mouth beneath his old-fashioned mustache. Looking at him is like looking at your bed at the end of a long day.

“Hi, John,” you reply, smiling apologetically.

“Come on, get inside!” he exclaims, hurrying you in as thunder claps behind you.

In his flat, the lights are low. As you stand dripping on his entry, you take in an arrangement of somewhat retro furniture and sparsely decorated walls. It’s utilitarian in a way that probably isn’t meant to be; spare of anything particularly homey because the inhabitant just doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. You’ve never actually been inside before. It’s very much like John himself; tidy but old-fashioned, practical, hiding absolutely nothing.

You don’t think the candles, though, sitting on a few end tables and shelves and glowing soft gold, are his standard decor. Nor is the crystal bottle of liquor languishing in an ice bucket at the center of a small coffee table, attended by two whiskey glasses off to the side.

“When you said you were on your way I didn’t think you’d be walking,” he says, taking your luggage and setting it aside. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you? I have a car, would’ve been happy to drive you.”

“I—” and you laugh a little nervously, magnetized to the concerned slant of his brow, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

You’re not sure you would’ve asked him for a lift even if you had known.

He draws close, so close his warmth cuts through the chill of your wet clothes, his gaze moving across you like he’s drinking you in. He cups your face lightly with one hand, thumb tracing a gentle line across your cheek. The expression on his face is almost too tender for you to bear.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs.

There’s a tremble working its way through your chest. You feel desperately seen again, recognized in a way no one ever has before. “I’m a mess, I—maybe I should go and change, come back…”

“No,” he purrs, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’re stayin’ right here.” And quite easily, John kisses you for the first time.

His mouth is warm along yours. His free hand hooks your waist, pulls you closer as he moves to cup the back of your neck. You’re so surprised you don’t react for a moment, but that doesn’t deter him; he just coaxes you into responding, sipping at your lips, teasing at the seam with the tip of his tongue.

It throws you off balance. He kisses you as if he’s known all along how to do it; as if he’s studied you, all of those mornings, noting the way your lips touch the rim of your coffee mug and the way you look up at him when he talks to you. Calculating the angles, the ways your mouths could fit together.

He shifts, angling to kiss you deeper. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake you—your hands fly to his chest, which is broad beneath your fingers. You dig them into the cable of his sweater, a little whine escaping you, and John huffs a laugh against your mouth before greeting your tongue with his.

You have never felt as small as you do now in John Price’s hands, at the mercy of the way he holds you—like he’s planning to keep you in place until he’s finished with you.

When he finally pulls away, you have the opportunity to take a deep gasp as he chuckles again. He thumbs your bottom lip, almost playfully.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to do that the minute you walked into the pub that night.” You don’t have time to reckon with this confession—if you can even call it that, because once he says it you realize you’ve known the whole time—before he continues. “Come on, you must be freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

John helps you out of your coat, unwrapping you like peeling away a chrysalis. It exposes the thin, damp fabric of your dress to the warm air—and to his gaze—and you can’t help but feel suddenly naked in front of him. He’s revealed nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but irrationally, you want to cover your chest, or cross your arms over your stomach. Shield the most vulnerable parts of you from consumption.

John takes your hands in his and pulls you to an armchair—a comfortable, plush thing with a low back. He backs you into it so that your knees buckle, and you sit, looking up at him as he stands over you.

“First order of business,” he says.

He turns away from you to lift the decanter from the bucket, and pours a finger of liquor into a glass. You try to pretend your heart isn’t thrumming, like a bird’s beating wings behind your ribcage, as he turns back and holds out the drink, long fingers dwarfing the rim.

“As promised,” he purrs, “Balvenie.”

You accept it the glass; the scotch sparkles, amber-rich and glittering gold where the low candlelight catches it.

“It looks good,” you say, looking up at him.

There’s a pleased look on his face. “Give us a taste, then.”

Heat blooms across your face, spreads down your chest. You bring the rim of the glass to your lips immediately, still held by his gaze—

Smoke blooms across your tongue, heavy and soft, pricked with notes of honey and vanilla. You roll the scotch in your mouth, close your eyes as its warmth slides along your tongue, pressing it up into your soft palate, citrus appearing in a sudden, tangy splash. You let the drink flow into your throat and feel the smoke fill your head as you swallow.

You open your eyes and look up at John. “That’s really good.”

It shouldn’t surprise you, really, but it does: John bends over you, takes your chin in his hand, and kisses you again, dipping his tongue into your mouth as if searching for leftover drops of liquor. Your head swims; warmth suffuses you, waking up the nerves along the back of your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end as the world narrows to John’s mouth on yours and nothing else, the wet heat of his tongue, the prickle of his beard against your skin. It’s slow and molasses-sweet, rich and decadent. Thunder rumbles, far away.

“Mm. It is,” he says when he pulls away. Another brief kiss—like he can’t get enough of it, like he’s been saving up every moment he hasn’t kissed you, and is spending all of his chances now. “Promise me you’ll never drink Walker again.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, taking an unsteady breath.

The ends of his beard move against your face in a smile. “Enjoy that. I’ll be right back.”

He straightens, and steps away. The tug of his gravity is so strong that you list forward, toward him, until he leaves your orbit.

You look around his apartment again, helpless, as if to find some sort of anchor that isn’t John Price—he’s going to get you drunk on his presence alone faster than the liquor ever could. You catch sight of a bookshelf, sparsely populated with a short line of books; as you stare at them, trying to figure out what they are, you realize with a start that they’re all brand-new copies of what you’ve lent him.

Actium. Nafisi. Da Vinci. McMurtry. They’re all here. The textual foundation of your relationship aligned in a tidy, even row. Living here, in the center of his home.

You take another nervous sip of scotch.

John returns with a stack of clean towels, unfurls one, and drapes it over your head. But before you can tend to your hair yourself, he lays his big hands overtop of the terrycloth, pressing down into your scalp.

Your breath leaves you in a rush, depressurizing your lungs. Pure sensation dances up your spinal cord, suffusing the space between your ears, as he kneads with an even, firm pressure, massaging the water from your hair. Your eyes slide shut of their own accord. Your mouth drops open as he digs his fingers into the tense nerves down the back of your head.

The little sound that escapes the pit of your throat is utterly involuntary.

John huffs a chuckle. “That good, then?”

“Uh-huh,” you hear yourself mumble again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, obscured by smoke, you think you should feel embarrassed, ashamed of how naked your pleasure must be. But John gives you no time to ruminate.

He tilts your face upward and presses his lips to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, gentle, soft, to your mouth. Your mouth, over and over again, as calloused thumbs caress your temples.

It’s a gentle way of taking control. You have no need to reach out with unsure hands, or stumble your way through half-desires with no time to think about them. John has seen into you, divined your quietest, sincerest needs, and feeds them back to you now like he’s only been waiting for your go-ahead to do so.

The bird in your ribcage flutters nervously. Is this really alright? Should you be letting it happen like this? Shouldn’t you be…participating, somehow, in this, other than to take what he gives you?

“John,” you start, but you have no idea what you want to say to him. “Shouldn’t I…shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” he says. “You should let me take care of you.”

John squeezes your hair one more time, then sets the damp towel aside. With an expression you can only describe as beatific, he smooths errant strands of hair away from your face, and then lowers to his knees in front of you. He touches your ankles; nods toward the glass of scotch encircled by your nervous hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You hold his gaze, and take a sip. The satisfaction on his face is almost too much to bear.

“Good girl,” he says. He lifts the heel of your shoe onto his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down your shin. “You’re doing such a good job, letting me do this.”

He takes your shoes off as tenderly as he’d removed your jacket, tucking away the laces and setting them off to the side. With warm hands, he rolls your wet knee-high socks down your legs, exposing your chilled calves to his palms. After he folds them and places them by your shoes, his mouth and the warm scratch of his beard meet the top of one foot…move up your instep, and to the inside of your ankle, then to your shin…up your calf…to your knee—

“Is this—” you begin, and have to swallow the trembles in your voice, “what you talked about on the phone?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, kneading your other calf as he urges your legs to open for him.

Your breath is shallow in your lungs—as if any one too deep might startle John away from his quarry, convince him you’re not aching for this. John kisses inward along the inside of one thigh, keeping the other open with his kneading hand. The flesh molds like clay to his touch, extruding between the gaps of his fingers. He makes an appreciative sound, a hum, as he slides his hands further upward and under the damp hem of your dress, cresting the angles of your hips. Inexplicably, you go tight, anticipatory, like the skin of a grape exposed to a knife.

It isn’t like you haven’t been here before. Your sex life with Ben had been—while not particularly active—not nonexistent. And yet this feels new anyway; as if John is sweeping dust off a body long left unused. Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath.

But isn’t this new, after all? No one, not Ben or anyone else who’s ever touched you, has made you feel this way.

“Lift your hips, darlin’,” John rumbles, and for the first time you catch a hint of scouse in his accent—low, slung around his words and leaving off the hard edges. Like a vein of gold unearthed. “Bring ‘er closer to me.”

Heat blazes across your face. There’s a small end table beside the armchair; you take one more pull from your scotch glass and set your drink aside. Then you shift, edging your hips forward, tilting your pelvis—angling your pussy toward John’s face.

He kisses the crease of your thigh and groin. “That’s a girl,” he purrs, and then presses the bottom half of his face directly into your underwear, opening his mouth over the wet fabric and inhaling deeply. The panties are nothing fancy, simple cotton with a floral pattern, but his eyes slide shut in what you can only describe as ecstasy.

“It’s like you’re getting as much out of this as I am,” you say, trying to laugh, to make this feel like less than it is if only for the sake of your nerves.

“I am,” he says, rough around the edges, and pulls at the gusset of your underwear with his teeth. “I’ve thought about this every morning—” he runs the flat of his tongue along the outer seam, touching bare skin “—and every evening—” edging his fingertips into the leg hole at the top of your hip “—since I met you.”

“You barely knew me,” you whisper, trembling.

“I knew enough,” he says, lifting his face to meet your eyes—his pupils are blown wide, encased in a thin rind of blue. Delicately he takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers, eases it down. “Knew you were a good girl, who wouldn’t even fuss at mean old bastard for waking her up. Wanted to eat your cunt to apologize.”

Something flushed and hot radiates from your core, molten and liquid. “Every time you call me that I—I don’t know what to do, John, I feel…”

“Good,” he says. “Lift your hips again.”

You obey. You think you’d do practically anything, if he told you to in that voice, rough and commanding like far-away thunder. John peels your underwear from your hips, dragging it down over the swell of your bottom, closing your legs to pull them down and—you swallow—shoving them in his pocket when they’re off. Then, like opening the shutters of a window, he parts your legs again, and slots his face between them.

The first thing that strikes you is how hot his mouth. He eases a molten tongue into your folds and you watch his eyes slide shut, feel the soft groan he gives vibrate against your flesh. Your body heat blooms, sight going liquid around the edges—or maybe your temperature is just rising to meet John’s own, thermoregulating to avoid meltdown as he stokes a fire between your legs. Hot breath meets you as he opens his mouth, gets as much tender flesh between his lips as he can.

He’s slow. Exploratory. He tongues your pussy luxuriantly, indulgently, as he loops his arms under your legs to hook them over his broad shoulders, thick forearms dark with hair snaking overtop of your thighs. Holding you in place as he eats— savors . He maps your topography, delving and cresting the landscape like trying to discover every significant landmark, and finds a spot on your clitoris that makes your thighs seize up and your hips jerk under his mouth. He chuckles low against you, playfully flits his tongue across it at what you’d swear is the same rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

You look at him between your legs. The curls of his dark lashes are pretty against the pale hue of his skin, freckled with sun exposure. Fever pink spreads across his cheeks as his brow furrows in the middle, creasing as he laps at the beads of moisture pearling up from your entrance. You watch him, mouth hanging open to allow your shallow breaths to flow free—and he opens his eyes, sharp blue, meeting your gaze.

A sound escapes you, raw, rough in the back of your throat. He smiles, drags the flat of his tongue up your folds as if to show off, and strokes along the sensitive border of your mons and lower stomach with the rough callus of his thumb.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.” He kisses your mound and then takes your pussy, soft and slow, back into his mouth.

There’s a trembling behind your sternum. Something in you breaks open—seeps cloying and honey-gold—into your bloodstream. Your head lolls back as his tongue slips deeper into you, stoking pleasure, your old friend, your old enemy, like turning embers out of ashes. Your thighs relax over the ballast of his shoulders. They’re broad enough that even as your legs fall further open, they don’t slip off.

It’s like your body and his are dovetail joints cut long ago, yet still now slide easily into place. Your heels rest comfortably on the expanse of his back with plenty of room left over; his big hands, as they spread wide across your stomach, fit along its curves and dips like rain sliding along soft green leaves.

It soaks you to the bone, warm and deep into your marrow, filling your veins and blotting the spaces between your alveoli until John, John, John is on every breath.

You must be saying his name aloud, because John’s grip tightens around you. The flint-strike of his tongue against your clitoris, lightning-sharp, catalyzes the pleasure in your bloodstream into a tight, unfamiliar gnarl. You gasp hard, almost painfully—how long has your body been able to feel like this, somewhere beyond your reach?

Has this pleasure always lived at the end of John’s tongue, along the contours of his hands, draped over his body like a mantle?

(How can something like this be a fair exchange for books and clumsy conversation?)

Your hand flies to John’s hair as it grows—a trembling feeling that touches places inside of you that you’ve always been dimly aware of, but never have given much thought to. It loosens you at the seams, grinds the fault lines inside of you together, dislodges your inhibitions from their foundation.

“John, please,” you whimper, brows drawn together, “please, please—”

He growls against you. Grinds through your center and then sucks your folds into his mouth, grazing the hood of your clit with the edge of his teeth, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue—

Suddenly, it overtakes you.

Flying sparks finally catch along aching tinder. A single point of furtive, glowing heat blooms between your legs, unassuming except for that you’ve never felt it before. It only sits briefly in your folds before bursting outward, seizing every nerve ending in the immediate vicinity, blazing bright like fire spreads over paper. Then you tighten around nothing, the inside of you desperately grasping something that isn’t there, body snapping taut as you arch from the backrest, mouth hanging open as a sharp gasp dies in your throat. Sensation consumes everything. Your vision darkens; the air stills in your lungs.

The only thing spared is the heat of John’s mouth, the cords of his arms around your thighs, and the ballast of his shoulders hooked in the bend of your knees—he keeps you anchored, held together as you try to fly apart. The caress of his hands and fingers across your lower belly does not stop as his mouth continues moving over your cunt, moves until your whole body is shaking, moves as you finally gasp for air and cry out in overstimulation.

You collapse back into the chair, pushing now against John’s head even though you’re not sure you want him to stop. He resists—kissing your pussy, once, twice, three times as you come down—and then takes a wrist in one big hand and kisses your palm.

“That,” John rasps, “is a fucking climax, love.”

You swallow, throat dry and smoke-rough. Even in the aftershocks, the pleasure lingers, and you squeeze your inner muscles to hold onto it for as long as you can.

It doesn’t escape his notice. Of course it doesn’t. John’s fingers trek inward, gathering some of the wet slick between your folds and then lazily circling your clitoris.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “my poor girl needs more, doesn’t she?”

Ecstasy grips you again; you whimper as he manipulates your flesh. “John…”

“How long you been aching for it, love? Years? How long’ve you needed me, and I ain’t been there, mm?” He kisses the soft part of your lower belly. “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

You angle your head to look at him, running your dry tongue along your lips. What you see on his face steals the meager oxygen you’ve managed to pull in since your climax abated.

His face is flushed. Lips rosy and swollen from their work. The blue of his eyes has been eclipsed almost completely by black singularity—inescapable, unfathomable, a depth more vast than comprehension. Ready to swallow you whole.

This whole time, you’ve been afraid of John’s touch the way you are afraid of a hot bath on a cold night. There is a comfort beyond the first step into the water, languorous ecstasy waiting only for you to claim it, but the toll separating it and you—the shock of first contact, the split second of violent adjustment, makes you nearly content to remain in uncomfortable but familiar dissatisfaction.

Thunder cracks outside as you reach for him, as he reads your mind and surges forward to kiss you, hand catching the back of your neck to reel your mouth to his. You kiss each other hard and fast, over and over again, eager to end each one only so you can start the next.

Nearly content, in the end, is not content at all.

“John,” you murmur against his lips, as his hand still works your cunt, “I’m still cold.”

[hatecrimesmd-rests-my-soul]

visualisation of neighbours AU

[celestie0]

does anyone wanna be on taglist for this gojo x reader fic? 🧚‍♀️✨

edit: first chapter is out!!

HI BABES after much deliberation i am starting a new gojo fic series :””) I PROMISE I WILL STILL BE ON THAT KICKOFF GRIND but ugh i just had too many ideas and i just neeeeeeed to start this series rn

it's based on this concept idea i had (changed a few things though. also, if you commented on this post, i'm alr gonna tag you haha so dw ab commenting under this one too)

here’s a bit of info about it:

ᰔ title. TO BE DECIDED STILL

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader

ᰔ genres. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, lots of jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, suburban shenanigans; btw gojo in this fic is in his early 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

some side quests. your ex bf is a cop and is determined to prove your marriage is a sham because he's jealous, it appears gojo's love life history is not as simple as it may seem either, also there will be lots of secondary angst because of reader's mom's sickness :'') i will really be delving into a lot of the struggles of having a sick family member (in this fic, alzheimer's & cancer)

here is a little teaser.

and here's another lil teaser i posted yesterday

BUT ANYWAYS yeah please comment below if you'd like to be on the taglist!! tysm for your support :'') the first chapter will likely be posted tomorrow (4/19) if not saturday (4/20 eyyyy)

[gilbirda]

Here, have an assortment of Friendly Neighborhood Vigilante memes.

Some are for next chapter, and some are for the following one.

(chapter 27) (chapter 28)

More under the cut

[lizardboiii]

ANGER MANAGEMENT┃R. Sukuna

[Possessive!Sukuna x Fem!Reader]

・❥・

│Summary: Anger management was by no means your strong suit. No amount of lessons or prayers could change that. In fact, it feels like you’ve been doing a lot worse lately with the appearance of a new neighbor in your next door apartment.

“You're an insufferable bastard and I hope you move.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“Fuck you.”

・❥・

│cw: 18+, SFW, vulgar language, slight PTSD, blond man

│w/c: 3.4k

│chapters: (i) (ii) (iii) (iv) (v) (vi) (vii)

│notes: Blonds and therapy. Who's to say you can't have both?NeighborsAU!, AncestorsAU!

・❥・

│Chapter III : IRKED

WACK

You startled awake at the feeling of a foreign object smacking against your face. Snapping up from your position on the couch, you looked around wildly for the source.

“Wakey wakey, (y/n)~” Yuuji smiled down on you as he went to unleash another strike onto your perplexed form.

Recovering quickly, you violently grabbed the pillow before it met its mark and ripped it from his hands, “YUUJI!”

The pinkette only laughed your anger off as you chucked the pillow back at him. A tight knot formed in your stomach as you growled at him. Frowning, you took a deep breath. There was no need to flip out on Yuuji. He was just joking.

Shaking your head you checked your phone for the time, 11:46am.

“SHIT!”

You stumbled off the couch and stuffed your phone into your pocket. The beginnings of an adrenaline rush making you spin past a taken aback Yuuji.

Yuuji stumbled and watched you with confused eyes, “Huh? What’s going on?”

You raced for the door, “No time! See you later, Yuuji!”

Yanking the door open you were quickly stopped by a firm chest. ‘Stopped’ as in slamming into someone's chest face first. You grabbed your nose bridge in pain as you glared at the offender.

Sukuna loomed over you with bored eyes, “Leaving?”

You scowled, “Yes, and it’d be nice if you could move your fat ass already.”

Sukuna smirked, “Of course. But,” a large hand moved up from his pocket.

You flinched when he snatched the base of your neck. His thumb rested on the dip of your collarbone while the rest of his hand sat comfortably behind your neck. Slowly he traced the pad of his thumb across and up the crevasse of your neck before he landed on a spot.

Caressing small circles in your skin with his thumb, Sukuna’s stare bore into your neck, “You sure you don’t wanna cover this up first?”

Your brows tightly knitted together as you slapped Sukuna’s hand away in disgust. His smug smirk instantly reminded you of the brief conversation you held with him last night.

His rough voice asking you to stay.

Skillful wandering hands. 

A sharp yet sensual bite to your sensitive neck.

You shot a hand up to your neck to cover the rediscovered bruise. Sukuna’s eyes shone bright at your flustered expression.

“Of course,” He picked up a strand of your hair and twirled it, “I wouldn't mind if you're trying to show it off.”

Snarling, you gripped your neck harder, “Get your hands off me.”

You grunted when he suddenly tugged on your hair, “You weren’t complaining last night, rat.”

In an instant you swiped at him, just barely grazing his skin, “I’ll flay you alive, bastard.”

A dangerous smirk showed off his sharp canines, “I’d like to see you try.”

You let out a frustrated groan as you flung your hands up in defeat, “I don’t have time for this you pink haired bastard!”

You recklessly shoved past him while grumbling curses at him underneath your breath. Wicked laughter only mocked your late departure as you scrambled into your apartment.

Fucking bastard.

Taking a deep breath you quickly ran into your room and grabbed the first pants and shirt you saw. The colorful loose fitting sweats barely matched your poorly picked out shirt.

Running around your apartment like a mad woman you brushed your socks, ate your teeth, and combed a granola bar.

Wait- 

You brushed your teeth, combed your hair, threw day old socks on, then grabbed a granola bar as a quick breakfast.

Throwing on sneakers, you raced out of your apartment. As soon as your foot entered the hallway you internally groaned at the sudden need to glance over at a certain door. 

The expectation of Sukuna still standing at his door waiting for you wrapped around you like a blanket, suffocating you. Against your better judgment you took a hesitant peek over at Sukuna’s apartment. 

His door stood tauntingly still. The only indication of anyone else living on your apartment’s floor was the muffled noise of pots and pans clattering. Yuuji was probably making breakfast for the two of them.

You pressed your lips together. Why did you even think Sukuna would wait for you? It’s not like he had an obligation to speak with you. Yet, you couldn’t help the small prick in your heart at Sukuna’s disappearance.

Shaking away your thoughts you made haste to the elevator which took you down to your building's parking garage. The air was chilly as you stepped out into the concrete fortress. 

It was to be expected. The winter months were beginning to wrap up as the year moved along.

Hell, even March was closing in. 

The thought made you frown. Just a couple more weeks and you’d be visiting your parents for your scheduled family vacation. It was tradition to take a ‘family spring break’. 

Jumping in your car, you sighed at the thought. You hadn’t seen them in person since you first moved into your apartment almost a year ago… when your lessons first started.

You clenched your steering wheel hard. How disappointed would they be if they found out you still hadn’t even made it a month yet?

Checking your car's clock you cursed, 12:05pm. Your lesson started at 12pm. Anxiously, you pressed your foot down on the gas harder.

This was the third time this week you were going to be late to one of your scheduled meetings, and you knew they were catching on. You shuddered at what a certain blond would say to you.

Arriving at a quaint building you took in its familiar brick exterior. The place looked more like a college dorm facility than a professional rehabilitation center. Though, the building was next to the border of the local campus which explained its college look. 

You pressed your lips together tightly, your expression contorting to match your inner anxiety. The thought of being so close to the main campus made you queasy. Finding the courage to get out, you slammed your car door shut and trotted inside the building.

Signing in at the reception desk, you gave the old receptionist a forced smile. The elder lady beamed at you with a genuine grin in return, “Late again I see miss (l/n)!”

You let out a hoarse laugh, “Yep…”

Uncomfortably ending the conversation you eventually made your way over to the intimidating wooden doors that led to the group discussion room. 

Reluctantly, you ripped one of the familiar doors open. Upon entering you were met with spinning heads and speculating stares.

Silence filled the room as you stood awkwardly by the door, unmoving. You chewed on the skin of your mouth when a voice finally acknowledged you.

“Miss (l/n). I’m glad you could make it.”

You flinched at his stoic voice, “My bad, Sir. I had a late night.”

The blond man crossed his legs and pushed his glasses up with his pointer and thumb, “Just like the past few nights?”

You cleared your throat. The feeling of eyes on all sides of you bore into your soul.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Miss (l/n)?”

“Y-Yes.”

・❥・

You internally cheered when the meeting had finally adjourned. Stretching your stiff limbs you were quick to grab your stuff and get the hell out of there.

“(y/n).”

You turned around and forced a smile, “Nanami.”

The older man sighed, “Come into my office.”

You clenched your teeth, “Of course.”

Following behind the taller blond you frowned. You knew exactly where this conversation was going.

Nanami opened the door to his office and held it for you. You shot him a mumbled thanks before you slumped into one of the leather chairs that sat across from his desk. 

Keeping your eyes straight ahead, you didn’t bother to look at your surroundings. You had been in this room enough times to know every detail in it. 

From the stupid stress balls with smiley faces on his desk to the ever growing collection of diplomas on his walls. You couldn’t forget about the eye rolling ‘hang in there’ poster with a doe eyed little puppy.

However, Nanami wasn’t a full time anger management coach as hard as that was to believe. His full time job was working at the university as a psychology and criminal justice professor. His side gig was dealing with unorthodox people… like you.

Nanami slowly crossed the room and sat down in his brown leather chair. He clasped his hands in front of him and waited for you to speak.

It was always like this. He knew that you understood what you did wrong. So, instead of pointless questions he allowed your guilt to spill the beans for you.

You sighed heavily, not wanting to argue with him today, “Alright I get it. I was late three times this week.”

You waved your hands around dramatically, “But it’s not like that even means anything. I’ve just been busy.”

You could feel the anger in the pit of your stomach heat up, “What right do you have to judge me?! It’s not like you're labeled some freak who needs help!”

A loud silence flooded the room. 

Nanami sighed, “As I suspected.”

Your eyes widened at your mistake, “N-No I didn’t mean that! It’s just that I've been stressed. I swear to you I’m doing a lot better!”

His gaze held your own, “Do you understand the amount of money your parents have put forth into this program?”

You flinched, “Of course I understand-”

“Then why do you not act like it?”

You bit your lip at his question, “I do, I’ve been doing better-”

Nanami held up a hand to silence you, “You had been getting better (y/n). You were on the right track.”

Every syllable he pronounced made you inch back in shame.

“For the past month I have observed a sudden change in your behavior. You’ve been less receptive to the lessons and even disregard coming on time.”

You clutched your hands together in your lap, “I know.”

“So what is it?”

You looked at him confused, “What?”

Nanami frowned, “What changed in your life that made you angry again?”

Flashes of Sukuna hit you like a brick. That fucking bastard did this to you. He was the reason you were getting yelled at. That piece of-

“You're blaming someone else aren't you?”

You jumped at his statement, “He’s a part of the cause! Of course he’s to blame!”

“Accountability, (y/n). We discussed this earlier this week if you would’ve paid attention.”

You clenched your teeth together harder, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the chair's arm rests, “It’s just…been hard.”

“What has been?”

“Living next to some scum bastard I can’t stand to look at! Everyday I’ve had an encounter with him! I can’t have a moment's rest for god's sake!”

Nanami threw you a look before grabbing a happy blue stress ball. He handed the worn ball to you expressionless. You angrily took the dumb ball and squeezed the life out of it.

Counting down, you took a breath, “I understand that I have definitely started some of the fights. But you wouldn’t understand how infuriating he is. It’s like he does it on purpose!”

Nanami nodded, “It hasn’t gotten physical yet I assume?”

You felt your stomach drop. Vivid flashbacks of Sukuna’s head bouncing off the door entered your mind. The sick satisfaction you got from the thunk of his skull hitting the hard wood. Suddenly, the sound of loud sirens entered your ears as you tried to push away more memories.

“No.”

Nanami hummed, “Good, then you're still on the right track. As much as I’d hate to remind you, we wouldn’t want another incident to extend your stay here. You're lucky that girl dropped the charges.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, flashes of red and blue starting to form, “I know.”

“(y/n).”

You forced yourself to look at him.

“Although you have been slipping lately, that is nothing to be afraid of. Relapsing is easy, that is why you are here.”

You clenched the ball harder.

“Do you remember the first day you came here?”

Did you remember? Of course you did. You practically assaulted him in his own office.

You laughed, “I think seeing you here was more of a shocker than having to come.”

A faint smile made its way onto his face, “(y/n) I want you to come back.”

You raised a brow, “I’m already here?”

Nanami shook his head, “No, come back to college.”

You froze, “W-What?”

“I want you to return back to college and finish out your degree. You were only months away from graduating when you dropped out.”

The stress ball in your hand morphed around your fist, “I’m not allowed on campus anymore.”

You shot daggers into his glasses, “You know that.”

“Online.”

Nanami straightened his back, “Finish your courses online and continue your dream.”

You casted your gaze to the floor, “Why should I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

You clenched your teeth, “Why do you even care?”

“You were my best student.”

The ball in your hand blurred as tears dotted your eyes, “…I don’t know if I can.”

Your throat felt constricted, “I-I want to but-” Your breath came out ragged, “What if-”

“Prove to me you want this.”

You lifted tear filled eyes to an outstretched hand. Nanami held a single coin. A 30 day chip.

“Prove to me you’d do anything to go back to school. Even earning this. If you can manage at least one month I will talk personally with President Masamichi to allow you to finish out all your classes and graduate. No questions asked.”

You stared at him with wide eyes. The coin beckoned you to take it. To get away from your dead end job and become something.

“It’s your choice (y/n).”

You took a deep breath and snatched the coin from his hand, “I want to go back. No matter what it takes.”

Nanami nodded, “I look forward to see you back in my class.”

You laughed lightly, “I’m sure you’ll regret that like the first time.”

The blond merely shook his head, “Not once did I.”

A warm feeling filled your chest. The coin heated your palm as your tears slowly dried. Could you really save your ruined life?

“Ah, one more thing,” you watched as he pulled out a thick Manila folder.

“You’ve missed so much during these past few days that you’ll need to extend your stay today. Though unfortunately this means I will have to work overtime.”

Your jaw dropped as he began reading off papers. His lecture not stopping for any of your small pleas. 

This guy-

・❥・

You walked into your apartment exhausted. Mindlessly throwing yourself onto your couch you yelled into a pillow, allowing the stress of the day to leak out of you.

You had to stay two extra hours in Nanami’s office listening to every part of the lectures you missed. The man didn’t even let you go to the bathroom.

It didn’t help that after you finally escaped from your lessons you had to stop by the grocery store once you remembered you had no food in the house. 

Your luck only ran out more when you got stuck in rush hour traffic. You sat in bumper to bumper traffic for three hours trying to make it through the city only to find out the store was closed for technical maintenance.

What the hell did that even mean? It was like the universe was trying to get you to fail already.

Pouting, you rested your chin on your pillow and scrolled through your phone. A quick answer back to all your messages left you bored after a few minutes. Glancing at your phone’s clock, your eye twitched, 6:45pm

You sighed heavily and flipped onto your side. It was well past dinner time and you didn’t even get to eat yet. A loud stomach growl signified the need for you to finally get up.

Scraping yourself off your couch you made your way over to your open kitchen. You were certain you at least had one cup of Kraft Mac And Cheese left.

Flipping on the lightswitch, the sound of a flickering light caught your attention. Abruptly, the lights in your kitchen went out along with every other source of electricity following in suit.

You clenched your teeth together and opened your fridge. A pit in your stomach formed at the sight of a scarce fridge engulfed in darkness. The damn thing had turned off as well. Trying your stove you cursed when it also made no indication of being on.

You came to the sudden conclusion that everything in your apartment had been turned off. Fuck.

You weighed your options. Stay home and starve for the night with the hopes of your electricity coming on by morning. Or, drag your sorry ass over to Sukuna's and see if his electricity was up and running.

If his wasn’t you could report the issue much faster if it was a building issue rather than just your own apartment. But did you really want to talk with Sukuna? Especially after the day you just had?

Groaning you rubbed your brows. Screw it. Might as well make it a test of faith for the next month to come.

Swiftly exiting your apartment you took notice of the lit up hallway. At least now you knew the entire building’s power wasn’t out.

Knocking on Sukuna’s door you waited for familiar footsteps. No answer.

You knocked louder. Nothing. 

The quiet buzz of the hallway's lights mocked your pathetic attempts.

Growing agitated you went to bang on the door with your fists before you caught yourself. Calm down. Breath.

After a quick count down from 10, you gently knocked again. Faint rummaging flowed from the door's crack but there was still no answer.

You clenched your hand in a fist. Why did you even care at this point? You knew the building's power was still on.

You should just go to the reception desk and report-

Sukuna’s door leisurely opened to reveal a figure you knew all too well. You swallowed hard at his lack of attire.

Sukuna’s tattooed chest was on display as gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. Your eyes trailed his pronounced v-line before you snapped them back up to his eyes. Shit.

“What?”

Sukuna crossed his arms and leaned against his door frame. You watched as his arms flexed naturally showing off the thick lines that decorated his skin.

You chewed your lip, “Is your power on?”

“Obviously.”

Your jaw twitched, “Mines off. Can I borrow your kitchen?”

What the hell were you saying?? You didn’t even want to talk to him now you wanted to use his kitchen??

Sukuna snorted, “Why should I?”

You glared at him, “Listen, asshole. All my shit went out, you can at least spare me your damn microwave.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes before his pushed off his door frame. You grunted when he carelessly shoved past you and walked over to your door.

“What are you doing?”

Your brain spun as Sukuna abruptly walked into your apartment like he owned the place.

“Fixing your problem so you don’t bother me.”

You had little time to rebuttal his insult as you internally worried about the disarray of your apartment. The place looked like a hurricane went through there.

“W-Wait a minute!”

You ran after his form pathetically holding your hand out to stop him. Embarrassment filled your face as you watched him look around your apartment in disgust.

“You live like this?”  

You growled, “I haven’t had time to clean, dick!”

Sukuna scoffed, “Sure. Where’s your Breaker Box?”

Composing yourself, you led him to a small room near the front of your apartment. The ‘room’ was barely the size of a closet, Sukuna’s form just managed to fit.

The box sat attached to the back wall along with long forgotten brooms and other random items you shoved in there. Immediately, you heard Sukuna tsk before he retreated out of the small space.

“It looks like everything is on. You must’ve blown a fuse.”

Sukuna scratched his neck, “Have the desk worker call you an electrician in the morning, for now you can stay at mine.”

You nodded, “Okay. Wait what-”

Sukuna didn’t bother waiting for your answer before he started walking back to his own apartment.

You stood in place, jaw to the floor. Did he just ask you to stay the night?

・❥・

[bunnys-kisses]

okay, okay, okay! i know we're still on the jailhouse rock au (we will come back to this), but in the process of staring at simon's tattoos i came up with another idea.

it's the classic biker au, you met him after you cursed at him for running a red light and almost running you over. while at the time time you thought nothing of it, you see his bike in the parking lot of a grocery store and reminded of what almost happened, you take your keys and key the side of his bike.

but as you were going to put you key away, you were met face to face with the six foot two behemoth that was simon riley. the lower half of his face was obscured because of a face mask, but the sternness in his eyes made cold sweat go down your back.

"whatcha doin' there, girlie?"

you frowned at him before you said, "you almost ran me over a few days ago mister motorcyclist. you should be watching where you're driving, people use the streets too." you stood up a little straighter. it wasn't your finest moment, keying a strangers car, but the fear that raced through you when he ran that red was still fresh in your mind.

"well then." he said, then looked to his bike, "i guess i should apologize." he leaned in close to your personal space and said, "i'm sorry, but you have to look both ways, little girl." then ruffled your hair.

you felt rage build up inside of you. you actually stomped on his foot to get him away from you before you walked away. you refused to be talk down to like a little girl. this wouldn't be the last you saw of simon.

a few months later, your older neighbour was moving out to live in a long term care facility after she had a pretty bad tumble. but on moving day, you weren't expecting to see heavily tattooed men with amazing body strength move boxes into the apartment. and then you saw simon again.

he recognized you and smiled under his face mask, "well. if it isn't the girl who keyed my bike."

"well, if it isn't the man who tried to kill me." you replied. you would've never guessed that you'd soon up in simon's bed with him holding your legs open as he thrusted up inside of you.

"that's a good girl, we could've done this instead of you ruinin' my bike." he purred as he gripped your thighs. the muscle under his palms riled him up.

"shut up and fuck me you idiot." you groaned as you clutched onto the pillow under your head. your heart was racing as you felt his cock deep inside of you. you wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but you were too busy feeling his cock in your throat.

"anything for you, love. you just lie there and let me take care of everything." he chuckled lowly.

eventually you two would make amends, even become lovers. one day you'd be mrs. simon riley. but not at that moment, at that moment you wanted to make sure that he didn't feel like he won this battle. <3

thoughts? feelings? want more?

[lemonwrap]

You know these ridiculous doors in an apartment complex you might’ve seen on Twitter?

Imagine: an AU in which Soap and Ghost are neighbors…Except their doors are close. Very close.

They’re both in their late thirties or early forties. Ghost retired after sustaining an ACL tear, and Soap retired after suffering a back injury.

Simon is woken up early in the morning the sound of a bang and muffled cursing. He groans, gets out of bed, and opens his door just to be met face to face with a man.

“Steamin’ Jesus!” said man swears, taking a step back and dropping the box he’s holding.

“Good morning,” Simon says dryly, watching as the box thumps loudly to the ground. It’s about an inch away from his feet with how stupidly narrow the hallway is.

The man blinks at him. He’s awfully handsome, and with how they’re standing barely a foot apart, Simon can see how ridiculously blue his eyes are. He’s got a mohawk, some stubble, and an interesting scar on his chin. A new neighbor, Simon supposes.

“Morning,” the man says, bending down with a wince to pick up the box, but pauses. He hisses lightly with pain.

“You alright?” Simon asks.

“Busted up back,” the man replies. He’s got a Scottish accent, too. Charming. Simon silently picks up the box for him, careful not to bend his knee too much.

“Name’s Simon,” he says. He has no idea why he’s introducing himself, as he doesn’t talk much to anyone in the complex. The life of a retired veteran can be lonely, but Simon doesn’t always mind.

“John,” the man replies, flashing him a clearly grateful smile. Simon hands John the box, and when he turns around to go put the box in his new apartment, Simon goes back inside his own respective apartment and shuts the door. He’s not usually big on social interaction anyway.

He thinks that’s the last he’ll see of John, until he’s going out to run an errand and bumps right into a man when he’s turning around after locking his door. The two of them nearly fall, but Simon grabs the man’s wrist and steadies them.

His new neighbor, John, grins up at him. “Nice to see you again.”

Simon releases him, and John steps out of his space as much as he can. Simon swears his cheeks feel a little warm—maybe he’s coming down with something.

“How’s the back?” Simon asks gruffly. Why is he even asking? Jesus, he needs to get out of here.

“Shite as usual,” John says, shrugging.

“See you around,” Simon says abruptly, and he brushes past John.

The interactions don’t stop there. They regularly run into each other at various times, half of the time dropping groceries, bumping a funny bone against a door, or ending up much too close to each other. To his dismay, Simon realizes that he doesn’t mind his encounters with John, and he begins to look forward to them.

A few months after meeting John, it’s yet another day of the two of them accidentally crashing into each other. John drops his keys, and Simon nearly trips over John’s foot.

“Shit,” John laughs. “We’ve gottae stop meetin’ like this.”

Simon huffs out a laugh and bends down to pick up John’s keys, remembering his bad back. He just about slams his head into John’s chin when he stands up, but he doesn’t take much of a step back. He presses the keys into John’s hand, and John takes them with one of those bright smiles of his that Simon’s slowly grown to know.

“Come in for coffee?” John asks, and Simon can’t refuse.

[sam-loves-seb]

across the hall

“Hi,” Ian finally manages, then clears his throat. “It’s Mickey, right?”

Ian’s own apartment door makes a noise as it swings shut behind Trevor, who’s already beelining for the stairs. He glances at it briefly, catching his roommate’s retreating form for only a second before he’s gone.

Mickey never takes his eyes off Ian. “What do you want?”

“Sorry,” Ian says, wincing. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Mickey says nothing, just stares back as he braces one hand against the doorframe. His knuckles spell out FUCK and Ian finds it inexplicably hot.

// au: mickey moves in across the hall, and he's not at all what ian expected

[ read the rest on ao3 ]

[iboatedhere]

Thank you @lemonlyman-dotcom @cha-melodius @jmagnabo92 for the tags!

Should be the last share from the Neighbors AU before I post sometime this weekend, maybe.

--

Alex doesn’t know what happened. 

One second he was making a mental list of all the things he had to do when he got to the office (1. Top off his coffee. 2. See if there’s anything to the claims of voter suppression from the Richards campaign out in Grand Rapids. 3. Have an all-consuming but totally low-key breakdown in the bathroom about what will happen if Senator Luna doesn’t win in November. 4. Help the interns put together SWAG bags for the fundraiser next week in Flagstaff.) and the next he was on the cold ground looking up at the cloud filled sky. 

“Are you all right?”

A voice, soft and British and fucking lovely floats down. 

It’s his hot neighbor, the one with the long legs, cashmere sweaters, and adorable beagle who moved in three months ago, but Alex has yet to introduce himself to. 

This is not the way he thought it would happen. 

He thought it would be a nice bottle of wine or whiskey—and glasses from the gift shop near campaign headquarters, the ones with the city grid etched into them. Maybe a couple of tea towels or coasters. Something simple and fun. 

It would be late and his neighbor would invite him in for a drink and they’d get to talking and….

Alex isn’t looking for a boyfriend—not with how busy he is—but they could have fun. 

But work got in the way and time passed and suddenly it felt too awkward to welcome him to the neighborhood when he was already set and settled. 

“Can you hear me?”

Alex turns his head to watch slipper clad feet start down the steps followed closely by dog paws. 

“Careful,” Alex tells him before he hits the bottom, “it’s really—.”

His neighbor gets two steps from the stoop when he goes down, hard, landing with a thud beside Alex. 

“Slippery,” Alex finishes. 

“Fuck,” his neighbors says. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “You know, it’s the property owners responsibility to remove snow and ice from the sidewalk in front of their home.”

“Bloody hell. You could sue me.”

“I could. Probably get you to pay for any medical bills I might accrue.”

“Will you have medical bills?”

“Probably not. I think my ass broke my fall.”

His neighbor makes a strangled sound then coughs. 

Tagging: @suseagull04 @anincompletelist @piratefalls @porcelainmortal @magicandarchery @maxbegone @orchidscript

@oxfordslutphase @fullsunsets @sunshinestrand @cricketnationrise

@liminalmemories21 @luainthewild @youcancallmekathyp @bitbybitwrites

@henryspearl @inexplicablymine

[eilidh-eternal]

You need a favor

SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Part 1 Here | Masterlist

You’re out of milk.

You’re out of milk because you hadn’t had the mental bandwidth to finish your shopping three days ago after Johnny, with help from a certain puppy-eyed five year old, convinced you to have dinner with them after you made your very awkward introduction. Isobel had long ago told you his name but you’d pretended not to know for formality's sake.

“Neighbors shouldn’t be strangers,” he’d declared. That’s what you’re telling yourself as you hesitantly step up onto his front doorstep, empty measuring cup in hand. It takes several moments of controlled breathing and a fair amount of you rocking back and forth on anxious feet before you work up the courage to knock, a timid rap of your knuckles. You’re just asking for a cup of milk. Neighbors do that all the time. You’re just being- “‘S it Friday already?” His voice interrupts the silent conversation you’d been having with yourself and you nearly stumble back and off the narrow stoop.

“Oh, n-no. I just-” You take a beat, a breath, to calm your nerves. “I um, haven’t got any milk.” You lift the measuring cup, as if it wasn’t already obvious in your hands, and he leans with his shoulder against the doorframe. “Was wondering if I could borrow some?” 

“Makin’ more sweets?” There’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, and you nearly drop the measuring cup when you spot the dimple hidden beneath a few days worth of stubble.

“Oh, no. It’s for combat corn.” The smirk remains but his brows draw together with a curious tilt of his head, and eyes the color of lochs in the summertime flicker with amusement.

“Combat corn?” he echoes, and it takes you a few beats to remember the distinctly American dish and the family joke that named it isn’t common knowledge in Scotland. So, you find yourself explaining to the man–who nearly gives you an aneurysm when he folds his arms and the muscles in his chest bunch deliciously beneath the corded muscles of his forearms–what scalloped corn is.

“Someone made a joke that it was like the food in the army, anything you could find just thrown together—combat corn. Called it that ever since.” You fidget with the measuring cup, tapping the pads of your fingers against the glass, overly aware of your rambling explanation. “It uh… you have to bake it. With milk.” There's a beat of silence and then he’s pulling away from the doorframe, 

“Cannae say I have much time f’r bakin’ in the army.” He reaches for the measuring cup and your arm works independent of your brain to hand it to him, functioning on autopilot as your mind works to absorb the unexpected revelation about the man next door with the muscles and darling little girl. Your fingers brush, just barely, as you hand it over, and you can feel the confirmation of this newfound part of him, callus pads of his fingers glancing over yours to retrieve the glassware. “Never left a man behind though. C’mon in then.” Thank fucking god he’s holding the glass because the wink he shoots in your direction before retreating inside, leaving the door wide for you to follow, surely would have sent it shattering against the pavement at your feet.

Their home is both exactly what you thought it would be and somehow the complete opposite. None of the living room furniture matches, like it’s all been collected over many years, and looks well loved. As does the room itself, littered with toys and costume clothing, a small shelf in one corner near the television overflowing with bins of more colorful blocks, stacked high with books, and crammed full with stuffed animals.

“Sorry f’r the mess, Bell’s no’ fond of pickin’ up after ‘erself.” The clink of glass against stone countertops echoes from the kitchen.

“I can’t imagine she would be at her age.” Pictures line the wall leading into the cozy space. Some you recognize of Isobel. Some you think might be a younger Johnny. There’s one of the two of them, a very young Isobel balancing on top of his shoes and holding onto his hand in front of him, and Johnny stands with the other arm draped around the shoulder of the woman holding Isobels hand at his side. She has the same hair, wild and curly. Her mom. Something bitter coats your tongue at the realization, sour and unpleasant. You feel like an intruder.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater, struggling to put the pieces together. In all the time you’d lived next door, you’d never seen the woman in the photo. Never saw a ring on Johnny's finger. Never saw anyone but him walking her to and home from school. The sound of the fridge opening and closing precedes Johnny’s appearance at your side, measuring cup full of milk in hand, and you’re acutely aware of how close he stands, shoulder nearly pressed to yours as he follows your gaze to the photo. He smiles but it feels forced, like doing so hurts him. 

“Havnae stopped to look at that one in a while.” The remark only confuses you further. Why does such a happy photo make him look like he just took a beating, like he’s smiling through the pain? When you don’t say anything he continues. “She passed. ‘Bout two years ago.”

Oh. The bitter taste on your tongue curdles into something rotten and rife with shame. You’d been jealous of his late wife. For all of about three minutes, but still. The realization twists your stomach into knots and it roils with guilt and embarrassment.

“I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” Sorry for feeling jealous of a dead woman. A cautious glance up at his face reveals a stoic expression, one he’s probably learned to carry on with from the military if you had to guess.

“‘S hard, ‘specially on Bell. Still too young to understand why she’s gone.” Too young to grasp the concept and finality of death. Far too young to endure the loss of a parent. Silence stretches long between you, thick with grief and the admission of a once beautiful life lost. Her life. Their life. Guilt nestles itself between your ribs, taking up space between flesh and bone and it makes your chest feel tight, lungs constricted by writhing tendrils of the ugly thing. He always looks so happy, always smiling and laughing with Isobel. Always strong for her. Who smiles for him? Who takes care of him? Does he hold it all in until he drops Isobel off for school, filling the silence of their home with muffled sobs and silent tears as he picks up toys and clothes?

“Bubby?” Isobel stands at the end of the hall near the stairs, hair tousled and eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and a little bear wearing a skeleton hoodie dangles from her hand. Johnny’s eyes immediately soften, cold fractals of sorrow melting when they land on the sleepy little thing, toddling closer to wrap her arms around his leg. 

“Did ye have a nice nap. leannan?” He holds the cup of milk out to you, something you’d nearly forgotten about, and passes it off so that he can lift Isobel, settling her on his hip.

She mumbles something that sounds like an ‘uh-huh’, cheek squished against his shoulder where she lays her head. “Hi miss neighbor.” Little lips curl up at the corners to smile lopsidedly at you, and you give her a small wave. 

“Hi honey. I like your bear.” It’s pressed between her and Johnny, little hood pulled over its head to make it look like it’s wearing a mask with a cartoonish skull printed on it. “Does it have a name?”

“Ghost.” Johnny’s own lips tug into a half smile. “Bubby’s friend uncle Grumpy gave ‘im to me.” He chuckles at that and gives her a little squeeze.

“Are ye hungry?” A nod and a toothy yawn tells him yes.

“Well it was very nice to see you, Isobel. And very nice to meet Mr. Ghost. I’ll see you in a few days on Friday, hm?” She nods and Johnny carefully lowers her to the ground.

“Go get washed up, Leannan, and ye can help me make supper.” 

“Okay. Bye miss neighbor!” She lifts the arm of the bear, waving it at you before running off to the washroom. You wave one last time and turn your attention to Johnny.

“I should leave you to it. I need to get my own dinner going.” You raise the cup of milk for emphasis. 

“I’ll walk ye out then.” He does so with his hand on the small of your back, guiding you past the living room-turned-warzone by Isobel and her toys, and surprises you when he follows you out the door, hand still lingering on your back, and walks you all the way to your door.

“Thank you. Uh, for the milk, I mean. And walking me over. You didn't have to do that.” His hand leaves your waist and fixes itself on the doorframe beside his head, leaning against it with his forearm and shoving his other hand in his pocket.

“What kind of gentleman doesnae walk a lassie home?” Any remnants of the grief that shone in his eyes moments earlier has been replaced with the warmth Isobels presence brings to him. It makes them look like the hottest part of a flame, bright and mesmerizing blue in the golden rays of the setting winter sun, apricity blooming a faint pink on his cheeks that mirrors the warmth creeping into yours for an entirely different reason. “Cannae let ye slip on the pavement. Bell would have my heid if ye got hurt and couldnae make it to dinner wi’ us. She’s been talkin’ ‘bout it all week.”

“Oh.” Really? ‘Oh’? That’s the best you can come up with? 

“Been thinkin’ bout it too.” He shifts his weight, leans forward, and you have to look away for fear the flames flickering behind his eyes might burn right through your head to peer into your mind where he can see all of the inappropriate imaginings inside it. Your back to the door and him towering over you, one hand around your waist and the other braced against the doorframe as it is now. All that warmth in his eyes because of you. Burning for you. “Can’t stop thinkin’ of how ye’d look in our little kitchen, bakin’ yer sweets with Bell.”

“I could bring something, if you’d like.” He shakes his head.

“Ye’re sweet enough on yer own, lass, just bring yer bonnie self. Besides, if ye do all the bakin’ here, how’m I s’posed to sneak a lick from yer spoon, hm?”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[eowynstwin]

a wake-up call

previous - neighbors - next

You deal with the aftermath of the previous night. cw: masturbation reference

Three knocks on your front door wake you up.

The sound feels at first like the thump of your own throbbing brain against the inside of your skull. Awareness comes back to you slowly, in gradiated shades of stiff joints and greasy skin. You shift, and find you’re still on your couch, still in your clothes from last night. Your eyes are filmy, sticky with dehydration—you blink several times to clear them, to little effect.

The knocking, a three-beat staccato, comes again.

“One second,” you croak irritably, cupping your forehead with your hand. Your skull might come apart, you think, if you move too much.

Your entire body feels like it is suspended from loose, tangled marionette strings as you struggle to sit up on the couch, and you wobble to that effect as you stand. Somehow, your flat has tilted at thirty degree angle, likely sometime in your sleep. You make it to the door at an oblique, having to lean on the jamb as you open it, and to add insult to injury John is standing on your doorstep like a clean, shining beacon of sobriety.

He’s in a dark shirt and jeans. His hair is casually neat, as if he’d styled it with his fingers. He looks fresh-faced, as if he’s been awake for hours already.

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

His brows draw together over cool blue eyes. “Jesus, love,” he says, looking you up and down.

You think you should say something back. But your head is too full of ache and interrupted sleep—and the bright shock of his presence—to produce anything intelligent.

“John,” is all you say, and you sound absolutely pathetic.

“Was gonna accuse you of standing me up,” he says ruefully, “but I see that’s not the case.”

“No,” you say dumbly. The fact that he’s come to seek you out gets tangled up in the strings. “Um.”

It is so far out of the ordinary as to be dreamlike. John’s knocking belongs on the other side of your wall, not your door. His boots belong on his own doorstep, making room for your house slippers at the time of your choosing, not his.

“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.

John gives that little huff-laugh of his. “I doubt it.”

You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”

“Just a bit,” he replies. “I’ll admit, when I didn’t hear you move around this morning, I got worried.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” you confess. You put a hand to your forehead as your brain throbs again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“Love,” says John, gentle and soft, “why don’t you let me in, and I’ll make you some breakfast?”

You blink, and you’re sure now that you’re still drunk. 

John. In your flat. Cooking?

“I’m not fancy in the kitchen, but I manage alright,” he suggests further. His gaze is warm on yours, brows lifted encouragingly.

“…Sure,” you say, and shuffle to the side to let him in. If this morning is determined to be strange, you might as well not get in its way.

He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold. 

Your flat shifts again; as he enters your living room, it seems to shrink, or maybe it’s just that John fills your home in a way no one ever has. His body, his presence, casts new light on the interior that throws its existence into unfamiliar repose. Details—the softness of your furniture, the cozy clutter of books and knickknacks spread across every available flat surface—offer unmeasured insight into who you are, more than you might ever have intended to reveal to John.

It’s only when he’s halfway to your kitchen that you realize one detail—the bright fucking pink of your vibrator, still on your coffee table—is glowing like a neon sign.

And your previous night’s activities come flooding back. 

Your body, draped over his. The scrape of his beard on your hand, your face. 

The furious grind of your mons against that toy as you pictured him taking you, drenched in hot shower water and pressed bare to the tile wall.

You are fully, painfully awake now. You stare, frozen in shocked terror, waiting for him to catch sight of it, but his head does not turn in its direction. He passes by it with no indication that he even noticed.

You dart over and snatch it behind his back, shoving it deep into your dress pocket, and grab up the empty water glass for an excuse. Then you have to put a hand to your head as your vision swims from the sudden movement.

“Have eggs?” John asks over his shoulder. He enters your kitchen. “I can make ‘em any way you like. Fried, over easy, sunny side…”

“Um,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, “scrambled.”

You follow after him, and lean against the wall to watch as he opens your fridge. His hand engulfs more of its handle than yours ever has; the musculature of his powerful body visibly shifts beneath his clothes as he has to bend down to root around the shelves.

He is broad in your kitchen. As broad as he’d been between your legs, in memory and in fantasy.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he straightens and puts the eggs, butter, and milk on the counter. Your breath hangs suspended in the shallows of your lungs when he catches your gaze.

His brows crease again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

“Um,” you say, again, because it’s the only sound your brain will reliably supply.

To your horror, he comes to you, and—oh, god—takes your face in both hands.

“You’re warm,” he says. “Do you feel sick, love?”

Your brain supplies nothing now. It is so unfair, how good he looks the morning after drinking nearly half a bottle of scotch. His features are velvet-soft, so easy and wonderful to look at that you stop feeling your headache entirely.

“I really think I might still be drunk,” you admit, sounding pathetic.

His thumbs rub into your temples as he smiles at you. “Hell of a hangover, then.”

The pressure of his fingers is an incredible relief, and you close your eyes as you give into it. You feel, if your knees suddenly gave out, that he would easily be able to hold you up like this, as if you weighed nothing. His hands are a little cool from rooting around in your fridge, and the rest of him is warm, standing close enough that his body heat reaches out to you with the freshness of a recent shower. You want to fall into that warmth, bury your face in his chest…

Your eyes fly open. You hear your own voice again—I wanted to touch you, and I wanted you to hold me. You feel, again, the echo of his body between your thighs. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest as embarrassment, hot and acidic, pumps through you.

“I think I need to sit down,” you whisper.

He strokes your temples, and surveys your face with a gentle gaze. “Sure, love. Go ahead.”

And then he releases you, and you try to remember how to walk as you return to your living room. There is no relief to be found as you sit down on your couch, which is indented by the dissatisfied night.

“How’d you sleep?” John asks from the counter. You hear him crack a few eggs into a bowl. This is the first time cooking has happened in your kitchen with you outside of it, and the cognitive dissonance of it does not help to steady you.

“Like the dead,” you say, rubbing your sore neck. Then, you decide to lie to him. “I—I think I passed out before the door even closed last night.”

John looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles. The vibrator sits cold in your pocket. Are you imagining that glimmer in his eyes? “Wouldn’t be surprised. You were pretty out of it.”

“I didn’t end up drinking the whole bottle, did I?”

A chuckle. “Not quite.”

“Didn’t you drink as much as me?” You try to recall, and think you can remember him matching you glass for glass. “Why aren’t you out of commission?”

“The army never cares if you’re hungover, I’ve found,” says John. “Guess I learned to stop caring too.”

You hear the sizzle of whisked eggs spreading over a hot pan, and for a while there’s only the sound of John moving a spatula around.

You watch him in your kitchen, his back to you as he stands at the stove. His long-sleeved shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, planes of shifting muscle underneath casting shadows through the soft cotton. The collar hangs a little low down his neck, leaving enough room for the dark hair at his nape to curl as it dries.

It makes something in your stomach twist, twinning your nervous hunger with unstable desire. It’s something that wants to walk back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his trim waist, press your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Want anything else?” John asks. “Could make some toast.”

“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.

The spatula scrapes softly against the pan again. As he turns to open your fridge, you swear you see him grinning. 

Heat blooms across your face. SAS. Of course he could feel you looking at him.

It does not take him very long to finish cooking. Space bends once again as he leaves your kitchen, as he comes to you with a plate balanced on one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. You feel smaller than you ever have as he approaches, and sets the meal in front of you on the coffee table. 

“Hope it tastes alright,” he says, sitting down beside you. He sinks into your couch cushions, far more dense than you are, and looks quite comfortable doing so. “I made ‘em how I like ‘em, but no guarantee you’ll feel the same.”

You look from him to the eggs, which are golden yellow and steaming pleasantly. “You didn’t make yourself anything?”

There is a softness in his eyes when you look back to him. You’ve seen it before—it’s there every time you hand him a new book. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just eat.”

You can’t protest when he’s looking at you like that, so you obey, suddenly ravenous once a forkful is between your teeth. The eggs are whipped to a wonderfully soft fluff, salted perfectly, and you think you can taste the barest hint of butter. You can’t help shutting your eyes to savor the taste.

“Good?” John asks. “I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, but I think I’m all right at eggs.”

Usually you like to add things when you make the same dish—potato chips, broken up into little crumbs, or a dollop of sour cream and salsa. For once though, right now you’d be disappointed by all that. 

They wouldn’t be the eggs John made for you.

The thought makes your stomach twist again. “Delicious,” you say. “Thank you.”

He watches you eat, and you try not to feel self-conscious. He seems almost—satisfied by this, by feeding you, more than you would expect him to be. But then, this has always been the case with John. You have never understood why the smallest of things you do have such an impact on him, but they do nonetheless.

“John,” you say. “About last night…I wanted to apologize.”

Dark brows crease as you set the empty plate down. “What for?”

“I got so drunk,” you say. You won’t look at him, face heating, strangling your own fingers in your lap. “You—you had to carry me home, and I’m so embarrassed by the things I said, I was so inconsiderate.”

“That’s not—”

“You must have felt so uncomfortable,” you continue, “you were so nice to take me out, and there I was acting like a lush with no self-control—”

“Darling, it’s fine—”

“And then after, the way I—I pawed at you—”

He says your name—fully and clearly, firmly—and it catches you so off guard that your words halt in your throat. You finally meet his gaze.

John’s eyes have always been windows. Portals into the truth of him, freely offered, without hesitance or fear. You think John knows himself in ways few men do—knows every corner, every crack and crevice, and refuses to hide any of it from himself or anyone else. As if he is not afraid of being seen for what and who he is; as if he has seen it all already, and cannot be daunted by it.

What you see now is undisguised. Untempered. John Price wants you. And he has no fear that you can see it.

“Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest.

The question catches you off guard, throwing you with its directness. The only thing keeping you upright is his gaze, the steady certainty of its own intention. Strong even under the weight of suspense. 

You swallow, and take a shaky breath. “John,” you say, “I was so drunk...”

His eyes flash. John moves, leans forward, and you are speared, held in place much the same way you had been at dinner, by his presence alone. “I know. But did you mean it?”

The breath trapped in your lungs calcifies, solidifies into hard, pressing nodules of catalyzed fear and desire that trap the seeds of any response in your chest. You tear your gaze away from him, finally, stare at the empty plate on your table. He does not touch you, but you feel the phantom weight of his hand on your knee. The warmth of his body against yours.

“We hardly know each other,” you whisper shakily. It is a flimsy scrap of an excuse, even to you. “We—we barely know each other at all.”

“Love,” John says, low and soft. You turn to look at him again. His lips part—

Your phone rings.

You exhale hard, strings suddenly cut. John closes his eyes, breathes out, and then leans back again.

You retrieve your phone from where you’d flung your purse last night, off the couch and to the opposite wall where it lays on the floor. When you see the caller ID, you want to throw the phone back across the room, but you take a deep breath and answer anyway.

“Ben,” you sigh, and to your furious embarrassment it comes out as a croak.

“Hey, sweets, Liv is—wait. You sound awful,” comes your coworker—and ex-boyfriend’s—voice through the earpiece.

“Rough night,” you say, closing your eyes against sweets. You then look at John. His gaze is fixed on you.

“Oh, sorry,” Ben says. “Anything I can do?”

He could have not called. “Tell me about Liv,” you prompt him.

“Right! She’s out. Flu.”

“Oh.” You blink, and watch John retrieve your plate and glass. He takes them to the kitchen and runs the faucet low, so the sound won’t interfere with your call. 

You’re not sure how you know that that’s his intention, but you do. 

“That’s awful.”

“And inconvenient. We need another instructor for the trip.”

Can John hear what Ben is saying? He looks up from the sink, lifts one brow when you meet his eyes. There’s humor there, a kind of rueful empathy for dealing with the nonsense of coworkers.

You want to hang up. You want to answer his question right then and there. 

“When?” you ask.

“Two hours. I know! I know it’s short notice,” he says, animatedly contrite. “Sorry. But we’d love to have you, it’ll be fun! I can even pick you up, if you like.”

“No, that’s alright,” you sigh. “But okay, I’ll start packing. Just send me the details, yeah?”

“Sure, sweets,” Ben replies, “can’t wait to see you! I’ve missed hanging out, you know? Even after…everything.”

The gravitational force of John’s presence—the shift and bend of your flat around him—snaps in half. Reality asserts itself like a recurring headache. 

Suddenly you’re in your flat, phone to your ear, unshowered from last night and coated in a layer of grease. The vibrator is a useless weight in your pocket. You are a useless girl hungover in day-old clothes.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say noncommittally, and hang up.

John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.

“Work trip,” you say, and you wonder if you sound as dazed as you feel. “Last minute, I…I need to get ready.”

John blinks, and then grins, amused. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I’m usually the one in that situation.”

Suddenly he is too much to look at. You tear your gaze away, look at your phone in your hands. You feel very exposed, ashamed somehow. “I’m sorry,” you say.

You hear the easy drum of John’s boots out of your kitchen, across the room, and then he’s in front of you. His hands are in his pockets, arms slung loose at his sides. “What for?”

“For…”

He steps closer to you. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you have to look up at him, unable to resist the pull he has on you.

The line of his mouth is gentle, and you stare too long at the divot of his Cupid’s bow. Beneath the soft lines of his brows, his gaze is soft, fond. More so than you deserve.

“I don’t really know.”

The long muscle in his neck shifts as he tilts his head. You swallow, unconsciously mirroring the gesture.

“John…I…”

His gaze drops—rests on your lips, and returns to yours.

“Love,” he murmurs, low and humming. “Did you mean it?”

His voice slides across you like physical touch, and every hair feels like it’s standing on end.

Yes. Yes, of course you meant it, every word. It feels so obvious to you, so blatant, and the shame of it holds you by the throat. You are not important enough to inflict upon John Price. You are trembling, meek, afraid of stepping outside your own door sometimes. What is that in comparison to him? Him, who comes home shaking off the dust of places you’ve only ever heard of. Him, who you’ve learned can swear in six different languages. Him, who has stuffed more life than you thought possible into only a handful more years of living than yours.

Of course you want him. Moths are always drawn toward flame. How could you not?

“John,” you say in your smallest voice. You hate the way it sounds—like an admission of guilt. “What if I did?”

He doesn’t move, but you see the shift in him anyway. A coiling, almost,  energy banking as he studies you, searches your face. His hands remain in his pockets. He watches you for a long moment, and you can’t possibly imagine what he might like in what he sees.

“Ball’s in your court, then,” he finally says, soft and low in his chest. “Whatever you want from me, love, you can have.”

You want too much. You can’t give enough back.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” you say on a shallow breath. “Our—us. What we already have.”

He steps closer to you. Close enough that his shirt brushes the front of your dress. Close enough that his clean, soft warmth near-envelops you, the exact same way you’d been wishing for earlier. He does not reach out, like he did when he thought you were sick. You cannot decide if this disappoints you or not. You feel shaky without his hands on you, feverish and embarrassed, and you fear desperately that he can see that as he holds your gaze, that you are completely open to him in a way that leaves no space for the truth to hide. 

“You won’t,” he says, steady and solid.  

You take a trembling breath, swallow to clear your throat. “I…”

He withdraws one hand from his pocket, slowly, and brings it upward. Feather-light, he curls his index finger under your chin, caressing his thumb so terribly gently beneath your bottom lip. You cannot help flinching, anticipatory want recoiling from the very thing it was aching for in surprise, and for a split second you are newly scared that he’ll take his touch away.

But he doesn’t. The windows of John’s eyes stay open, and there is nothing but intent behind them. You realize he knows. He knows that you’re reluctant, that you’re unsure, that you are pulled to him like a falling star to earth and also terrified of burning up in the process. 

He understands.

“I’m a patient man, love,” he purrs, and you realize too that he is excited by this, by you. “I can wait. As long as you need.”

[morganski-19]

Steve doesn't really have any issues with his neighbors. None of them are that loud at night or like to throw parties, so everything else he can kind of deal with. He's met a few of them and they seem great, but he wouldn't consider any of them friends.

There's one neighbor though he's never met, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know him. It's the one who lives across from him. From what Steve can hear from the hall, the guy works nights and sleeps most of the day. After sometimes lighting a joint that can make the hallway smell like weed for a little while, but Steve could care less about that.

He sometimes hears music pouring out of the apartment and singing when he's out in the hallway. Hard not to when the walls are so thin, but it's never when he's asleep, and honestly it's kind of nice. He thinks the guy's pretty good honestly and wonders if he's in a band or just keeps it all in his apartment.

The one thing he definitely knows about this guy who lives across from him though, is that he has a cat. A very vocal one. Every morning when he comes home from work, Steve will hear the door open and the cat will meow, loud. Only to be followed by "Well hello to you too, Ozzy," or something of the sort.

It's funny really, a little routine. It's every time, every single morning, sometimes even at night too. And when Steve's in the hall, sometimes the cat will be meowing for a while and then he hears a very grumpy voice tell Ozzy that he will be fed soon.

Today is the same. The guy comes home, says hello to his cat, and the door shuts. Only this time, Steve keeps hearing the meowing. It takes a few minutes, but then he hears the guy frantically calling out for his cat, and the cat calling back to him hopelessly. It has to have gotten into the hall.

Steve opens his door to find the cat, Ozzy, pacing in front of the door, meowing its head off while the guy is rooting around in his house. He walks over and knocks on the door, planning on leaving after doing so. But then the cat starts to purr and rub against his legs, so he just stands there and lets it happen.

The door opens and Steve's greeted by a guy he guesses is around his age with curly hair that meets his shoulders.

"Can I help you?" he asks while the cat meows at Steve's feet. "Holy shit, Ozzy. You little fucker, get inside."

Steve laughs as Ozzy struts back into the apartment while meowing loudly and giving Eddie the stink eye.

"Thank you so much, I didn't see him get out. He didn't, like, scratch you or anything?"

"No, not at all. Does he do that?"

Eddie sighs. "Yeah, to new people especially so I'm surprised he didn't do it to you. Guess you won him over. I'm Eddie, by the way." Eddie sticks his hand out and Steve gives it a shake.

"Steve, I live across from you."

"Oh, you just moved in last month. Sorry if I'm loud sometimes, I play guitar in a band so it can get a little loud sometimes."

He shrugs. "I don't mind. I've heard you though, you're good."

"Think so?" Ozzy meows from inside the apartment again. "Jesus Christ you're needy. I will feed you in a second. You should be happy, I'm socializing."

Steve laughs again while the cat responds. "He really seems like he needs food."

"He acts like I've never fed him a day in his life. You can come in if you want, not to be presumptuous or anything. It just might be nice to get to know one of my neighbors, and Ozzy already likes you so there's that."

"Yeah, sure. Why not."

[monster-cock69]

peter going into labor alone in his apartment and shouting for help so loud his new neighbor emt bucky hears

[gilbirda]

Friendly neighborhood vigilante. Chapter 24

BatmanxDP crossover. JasonxJazz

Link to Jazz's armor design and ramble about ideas >>HERE<<

[Read on AO3] [Read on FF.net]

Based on this post

First chapter || << Previous chapter || Next chapter >>

---

Bruce sighed. Danny choked.

“You— You guys had bets going on?”

Dick stopped his celebratory dance to have the decency to look ashamed. “I mean… Maybe?”

Danny’s smirk replaced his worried face, and the mischievous little brother was back; wearing a heavy and clearly magical armor from another dimension, but still the same person.

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much was the bet?”

“There were a few,” Dick explained, ignoring Bruce’s tired sigh in the background, “But Stephanie thought Jazz was the King. She bet twenty bucks.”

Danny scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m offended. I’m worth more than twenty.”

Jazz joined Bruce in the tired sigh department. She even placed her hand on her forehead.

“Wait,” Duke perked up, glancing at Jazz trying so hard to keep it together next to a smirking Jason, “if he’s the Ghost King…”

Jason was the first to catch on. “It means Jazz is—”

“The Crown Princess of the Infinite Realms, yeah!” Danny chuckled and pointed a finger at his sister.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Uh-huh!” He answered, the tip of his finger lighting in more green fire.

“Danny, I swear—!”

She couldn’t finish. Danny shot the fire at her, and immediately the flames spread across her body, revealing armor the same way it did for Danny. On her chest, her comfortable long sleeved blouse was replaced by a crimson red chest piece and dark metallic shoulder armor pieces. Her hands and forearms were covered by more red metal, dented and dull with use, up to her elbows.

On her legs, a pleated skirt made of the same dark gray armor reflected the sunlight when she quickly readjusted her legs to stand up, crimson red boots appearing down her legs from her mid thighs.

As the fire retreated over her face, Jazz was already baring her teeth at her brother.

“Danny!” She growled. “That was unnecessary!”

He chuckled again. “If I have to stand here wearing a stupid outfit then so do you.” He approached her and patted her on the back so hard she grunted and stumbled forwards. “What was the thing? ‘A true warrior shows their armor with pride’?”

She rolled her eyes and moved one hand to pull back some strands of hair that had gotten on her face. Jason followed the movement to the bright red headpiece framing her eyes, and extending into points on the sides of her head. They burned with green flames like Danny’s crown did, as if their transformation were condensed in the pieces of metal.

He also noticed the exposed skin of her arms, how his assessment of her turned out to be true, watching the muscles flex with the small movement — and the scary amount of scars she apparently hid under her clothes. He didn’t miss a big burn scar peeking from under one shoulder piece.

“Man, I wish Steph was here,” Dick took everyone’s attention away from the siblings, “because I was also right on the princess thing.”

“So… This is really nothing to you? Like, it does nothing?” Danny’s wide smile was more amused than it should be. “We are literally interdimensional royalty, here, standing in your fancy mansion,” he did a gesture encompassing the whole room, his sister, and himself, “and nothing?”

Jazz sighed again, the flames on the tips of her headpiece burning a little bit brighter. If one squinted, the vague shape of a circle was starting to form with the fire. Her crown?

“Danny,” Jazz made a gesture towards the not at all surprised Waynes sitting in front of them, “there is something you should know about them.”

“Aha?” He glanced at her, but kept his eyes on the others.

“The Waynes are also heroes. They are—”

“No fucking way.”

“Yep.”

“Jazz,” Danny crossed his arms again, but he was smiling, “you had one job. What was it?”

“To not be noticed by Batman.” She looked away, ashamed.

“And what happened?”

“It was— I was careless. I’m sorry, okay?” She closed her eyes and pinched her nose. “Can we drop it? Please?”

Danny was not going to drop it, but Jason got his attention and made a signal to cut it out. Fortunately, the young King made the decision to listen. The little frown told them it was only temporary.

“Okay.” Nobody missed Jazz’s shoulders immediately relax at the word. “So you guys are the bats and birds, and have known about us for a while—”

“Suspected.” Bruce spoke for the first time since reveals started happening. He cleared his throat. “Jasmine, she— She explained some things, but warned that there were things she couldn’t say due to safety reasons and needed to wait for you.”

Danny raised his eyebrows, looking back between Bruce and his sister. Did he know that there was more story behind those words? No doubt he would ask her more details about how they found out — that’s what he would do — so he wasn’t sure the siblings were going to be this amused and relaxed in their— in his presence anymore.

As much as it pained him, maybe this would be the last time they could get answers.

“She talked about the GIW,” Danny tensed, Jazz pursed her lips, “and warned us about Vlad Masters.”

Like the flip of a switch, any amusement left Danny and he donned a persona they haven’t seen yet: the King. It was subtle, but they were so used to reading body language that they could see the shift happen as clear as day.

“Is that so?” The flames of his crown flared for a second. He glanced at Jazz. “When you said the situation had changed…?”

“The GIW and potentially Vlad are… they know I’m here.” She winced. “They will, when they get here. And Jason—”

“I’ve noticed.”

All eyes went to the mentioned. Danny’s new attitude made his piercing green eyes drill holes on Jason’s skin. If he felt poked and prodded when Jazz watched him, it was nothing next to how he literally felt Danny’s consciousness somehow touch his.

He jumped. “What the fuck was that?”

“Interesting.”

“Don’t ‘interesting’ me! What—”

“Darling,” Jazz sat back down next to him, “it’s okay.”

She took his hand, which helped a lot, but still he glared at Danny as the presence came back. At least now that he expected it he didn’t feel so violated.

“What an interesting case.” He tilted his head. “You sure know how to find them, Jazzy.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What do you mean?” Jason tried to keep the conversation on track. “What’s interesting?”

Danny licked his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to another. The armor barely made a sound, even if it was expected from such heavy metal.

“You died.” It wasn’t a question. “And your resurrection was painful. What has been done to you was incomplete, tainted, and has left your ghost development stunted.”

That explained absolutely nothing.

“I gave him one of my vials.” Jazz interrupted before he could complain.

That didn’t please her sibling. “Jazz—”

“I know.” The hand that held Jason’s twitched for a second. “But it was an emergency. Would that affect him?”

Danny pondered the question, one hand on his chin. “Maybe. I don’t know. We should check with the yetis.”

“Thought so.” She glanced at her boyfriend. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. I told you if there’s no blood, there’s no need to say sorry.”

“As cute as this is, we need to focus on the important part here.” Danny got his sister’s attention. “Situation has changed.”

“Yes.” Jazz took a deep breath. “GIW is coming, Vlad may be as well, and I can’t just—” she rubbed her face, “We need to re-negotiate, re-strategize and move up The Plan.”

“The Plan?” Bruce leaned in, catching on the capital letters.

Danny looked at Jazz. Jazz looked at Jason before looking back at her brother.

“We… Okay. Okay.” She breathed in, breathed out. “We are at war. In the Infinite Realms.” She ignored Danny sitting down beside her and the fire when his armor was gone. “Danny is the King, yes, but he is not the only one who has a claim.”

“Vlad.”

Danny clicked his tongue at the name, but patted Jazz’s shoulder and now her armor disappeared in green flames. “He has been after power ever since he came back to life from his accident.”

“We’ve been fighting Vlad and his supporters, as well as trying to fix the mess left behind by the previous King, ever since Danny took the throne.”

“And this was…?”

The siblings shared a look before Danny answered Bruce: “A week after I graduated.”

He was just a kid.

That being said, Robins started fighting crime way younger than eighteen, Bruce considered. Not the same as becoming the ruler of a whole dimension, though.

“Something you guys need to understand about the previous king, Pariah Dark, is that he was such a tyrant he had to be put into the sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep. Everything has been a mess for millenia.”

Bruce pondered Danny’s words. An interdimensional tyrant they knew nothing about, a war they wouldn’t have learned about if it wasn’t for Jason’s neighbor. He got dizzy for a second.

“But that’s not all.” Bruce nodded along when the siblings did, clearly relieved he was catching on. “The GIW.”

“We have been trying our best. Those documents you found with our parents’ signature,” Danny’s head snapped towards Jazz so fast they confirmed he was not human, or he would have had some real damage, “they were the things we couldn’t stop in time. The research we couldn’t erase in time.” She continued, ignoring Danny’s wild eyes.

Bruce swallowed, trying to get rid of the knot in his throat.

“I have nothing to do with these!”

“Darling, listen to me. Jason, this is not true.”

“This is taken out of context.”

Her voice trembled as she tried to defend herself. How could she even sway him? He now understood there was so much at stake than mad scientists on the rise, but she couldn’t say the whole truth, and by principle he considered a half truth as a lie. Nothing she could have said could have convinced him she wasn’t a criminal he needed to stop.

He was ashamed now. How in his mind it made sense. How he was blinded by Jason’s hypothetical gratitude once he presented the report of Jasmine’s arrest. Maybe he could show him he still cared for him, that he still wished him the best even if it wasn’t with him.

It felt so stupid now. Meaningless. He glanced at his son, relaxed, one of his hands subtly on Jazz’s and tracing circles with his thumb without thinking. Jason, who never seeked physical contact, who didn’t like to be hugged even as a kid.

He would never have that, it would never be that easy for both of them to be comfortable together. He made sure of that.

“I— I understand.” He managed to say. He ignored Duke and Cass’ looks at his choked voice.

“That’s when The Plan comes in.” Danny leaned in. “We need help. With Vlad and the war and how much time it consumes running the show, we decided he had to suck it up and call the Justice League.”

Duke nodded. “Jazz mentioned that Amity Park folks don’t like the League?”

“Oh we hate them. With passion.” He leaned back with a grin stretching from ear to ear, apparently enjoying when Bruce tensed. “They abandoned us when we most needed it. They left a dead teenager in charge of protecting the city.” The grin grew bigger with each accusation. Jazz slapped him on the leg. “But we decided it was worth a shot to confront them and demand that help we were owed.”

Jazz sighed. “What Danny meant to say is, after I was done with my internship at Arkham the next steps were confronting the Justice League and negotiating help with taking down the Guys in White.”

“The Plan.”

She nodded at Duke. “We didn’t know what we would encounter but the situation keeps escalating and our parents… Maddie and Jack have to be stopped.”

Danny looked away, suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of his parents. Were they this bad? How much did Barbara’s research cover? How much were they missing?

“We thought— If it’s okay with you, Bruce — that those negotiations—”

“Of course.” He interrupted her. He straightened his back. “Of course we’ll help. I’m… I’m sorry we weren’t there before.”

Jazz nodded, satisfied. Bruce took it as he said the right thing and he was one step closer to properly apologizing.

“Just like that?” Danny didn’t seem that convinced.

“Yes. I’ll need to write a report and bring it up in an emergency meeting that can be as soon as…” he tried to remember everyone’s schedules, “next Tuesday? Could be earlier but I think the Lanterns were away on some Lantern business and this sounds like something they need to know. And they should be back on Tuesday morning.”

The siblings looked at each other and had another silent conversation with just face gestures and rapid fire microexpressions. After a moment Danny sighed and relaxed, letting his body flop back to the backrest of the couch.

“We’d be very grateful, Bruce. Thank you.” Her smile was genuine.

Bruce glanced at Jason, who was looking at Jazz. As if he knew he was being watched, he turned to look at him. He also was smiling a small smirk as he subtly nodded in approval.

“What a shame,” Danny’s tone was playful, “we had planned for the possibility of fighting the League.”

“Danny.” His sister slapped his shoulder.

“Who would have fought B?”

“Dickward.” Jason gave his brother a warning look.

Both ignored the warning and smiled at each other. “Valerie.” He seemed amused that the other bit the bait and asked. “She’s the best at adapting mid combat, has a hoverboard and a bunch of gadgets that neither of you can ever hack or disable.”

“Why?”

“Is ghost technology. Nothing in it, either the material or the code, is even close to anything you have encountered before. Batman thrives when having enough time to prepare, but believe me we wouldn’t give him enough time to figure out how anything works.”

“We have had access to alien tech before.” Bruce was curious now.

Danny was shaking his head. “Our weapons and technology may look like yours but in essence it isn’t. Since we are friends now I wouldn’t mind lending a few things to study. You know, as a token of my faith.”

Bruce glanced at Jazz. She nodded in confirmation. “Would be honored to.” He finally said.

Did he have to offer pleasantries? Danny was the ruler of a dimension, nonchalant about that fact as he was. Bruce chose not to since they weren’t in their armors anymore.

“And Jazz?” Jason asked Danny.

The mentioned hid her face behind her hands. Danny leaned in to look at Jason from Jazz’s other side. “Green Arrow. And of course, Wonder Woman.”

“I noticed the Amazonian armor.”

“I’m right here.” Jazz growled.

“She’s been trained by Pandora, back at the Greek side of the Realms. All the dead Amazons are over there and some were thrilled to participate in her training; so you could say she’s the closest of us all to her battle style. Also Jazz is the expert for close quarters combat and a wide variety of weapons.” Danny was obviously proud of his sister. And maybe loved embarrassing her too much. “Except guns.”

Dick’s eyebrows went to his hairline. Bruce hid his shock as best as he could, and tried hard not to look at Jason.

“Danny.” Jazz said through gritted teeth. “Stop.”

“What? It's the truth! You are the only one of us that doesn’t fight with ectoguns, but you make up for it really well.” He slapped her back so hard a bone should have cracked.

Jason cleared his throat. “No guns? For any particular reason?”

Duke choked. Would Jazz find Jason’s weapon of choice repulsive? It couldn’t be — she knew about Red Hood, she knew what he had done, how he had done it.

Danny’s smile was as bright as the Sun. “Because she sucks! I’ve never seen such a bad aim.”

“I’ve been getting better!” She groaned, her face crimson red. “I’ve practiced!”

“Oh yeah? I still have scars from the last time you ‘practiced’!” He lifted his shirt, showing his lower back and a very clear healed burn scar in there. “You definitely have dad’s aim!”

“Yeah? And you suck at sword fighting!” Danny flinched. “Do you think I don’t know how many training sessions you’ve missed?”

“Is not that bad…”

“Yes it is, Danny,” she crossed her arms, “since you rely so badly on your powers. What happens if you cannot use them?”

“That will never happen.” He crossed his arms too. “Most powerful being of the Realms here.” Danny shrugged, showing off his perfect rows of pointy white teeth, even in human form.

Jazz snorted and moved as fast as lightning, one hand going for her brother’s stomach to punch him square in the gut. She didn’t hit flesh, because at the last minute Danny’s chest went intangible and her whole arm went through like he was air.

“Ha!” He looked back up to laugh at her — finding her other hand waiting for him.

Jazz flicked his forehead so hard the others flinched at the noise it made, and Danny was sent back to the armrest of the sofa.

“Hey!” He rubbed his forehead. “That wasn’t fair!”

“This is what happens when you don’t pay attention, Danny!” She hissed, gesturing with her hands. “And when you rely way too much on your powers!”

“But—”

“But nothing! I bet since I’ve been gone you’ve skipped every damn sword fighting class. Ancients, I bet I could beat your ass even as rusty as I am now!”

Danny opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. He knew she was right.

The others watched amused as the young man rubbed his forehead again and glared at his sister.

“Not my fault you are a freak.”

“What did you just say?” Jazz tensed, her body ready to pounce.

Bruce cleared his throat, and like magic, the siblings jumped away from each other and sat straighter. Jazz nervously chuckled and fixed her hair again. Bruce smiled. King, princess and all, they were still around his childrens’ age.

Said children giggled, amused by the familiarity of their chaotic dynamic.

“So,” Dick redirected the conversation, “what’s next?”

Jazz tilted her head, thinking. “With my identity revealed, we need to renegotiate with Lady Gotham.”

Danny clicked his tongue. “She’s not going to like it.”

“Well, she will have to if she wants her people protected.”

“Jazz talked about this Spirit,” Bruce nodded. “So there was an agreement?”

“Yeah,” she answered, “as I said, we were not supposed to get closer to Batman or any of the vigilantes, and she wouldn’t be opposed to the Princess stomping on her haunt.” Her cheeks tinted a slight pink as she glanced at Jason. “Obviously that’s void now, and if I’m going to protect this city I need to be able to use my abilities, so we have to chat with her before strategizing.”

“When do you think you are talking to her?”

“Why? Wanna come?”

Bruce’s silence told her that yes, he very much wanted to. She made a weird face, between amused and concerned. “Is it not allowed?” He asked.

Jazz glanced at Danny, who shrugged and was very unhelpful. “I mean… It’s her beloved Knight. Maybe she won’t try to obliterate us on sight if we use him as a human shield.”

“Hey!”

“Actually, it’s not a bad idea.” Bruce conceded. Apologizing for what he had done could also mean mediating when they talked with the sentient city.

He was also curious.

Hm.

“Okay then we could do it sometime tomorrow? Before I have to go back to the Realms.” Danny stretched his back and yawned.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

Danny stopped mid yawn at his sister’s tone of voice. “Why? Did you miss me?”

She didn’t answer, but Jason’s amused nod where she couldn’t see it made Danny chuckle. Jazz would talk your ear out about reaching out and being in touch with your emotional needs; but she also had a hard time admitting that sometimes she also needed her little brother as well.

“You could stay the week? I have work, but apart from that…”

“And we also have to prepare the report with Batman.” He answered, nodding.

“Bruce is fine.”

Jazz nodded at the older man and smiled back at her brother. “What do you think?”

He made a show like he was pondering staying or not, humming and crossing arms, and making a big sigh like a heavy weight was on his chest.

“I guess I can make the time in my busy kingly schedule.” Danny’s smile showed his true age — not a front, not trying to appear mischievous, not wanting to be strong for appearance’s sake.

Just a little brother and his older sister.

---

First chapter || << Previous chapter || Next chapter >>

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Just a normal link to support me (if you want)

[lizardboiii]

ANGER MANAGEMENT┃R. Sukuna

[Possessive!Sukuna x Fem!Reader]

・❥・

│Summary: Anger management was by no means your strong suit. No amount of lessons or prayers could change that. In fact, it feels like you’ve been doing a lot worse lately with the appearance of a new neighbor in your next door apartment.

“You're an insufferable bastard and I hope you move.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“Fuck you.”

・❥・

│cw: 18+, Slight NSFW, vulgar language, younger sibling behavior

│w/c: 4.5k

│chapters: (i) (ii) (iii) (iv) (v) (vi) (vii)

│notes: Quality sibling time is enhanced with spaghetti propaganda. NeighborsAU!, AncestorsAU!

・❥・

│Chapter II : INFURIATED

Hiding from your problems was one thing, but hiding from someone who lived directly next door was another. After your little ‘session’, guilt struck you like a truck. There was no way you could look Sukuna in the eyes in your current state.

So, here you were today sitting at home like always but with one thing different. Obnoxiously loud rock music barreled through your apartment like a hurricane. Your walls shook vigorously with every base drop.

Now normally you’d give your sweetheart neighbor a pleasant surprise visit, but not today. You had gone two days in a row without seeing his face, and you definitely needed another week to even hear his voice.

Cringing, you thought back to how you've been practically sneaking out of your own apartment when leaving for work. It was routine at this point, poke your head out, look both directions, and make a b-line for the elevator. You were surprised with how well it was actually working out.

Sighing in defeat you swaddled yourself with a blanket on your couch in some hope of drowning out the music. You groaned when you noticed the music somehow getting louder.

That’s it. Whipping up to your feet, you haphazardly threw your blanket to the ground and stormed over to your door. Practically tearing the door off its hinges, you entered the hall virtually frothing at the mouth.

Your anger carried you over to Sukuna’s door with a quickly extinguishing confidence. You stood before the white door and bit your lip. You’d be able to look at him, right? You didn’t even really do anything bad, right? 

Letting out a deep sigh you facepalmed. You were by no means a coward, but right now you felt like one. Raising your fist to knock, you held it still in another moment of hesitation. Should you just suck it up and go home?

However, fate had chosen for you as the door suddenly swung open up to a taken aback Sukuna. His eyebrows rose at your smaller figure, hand still lingering in the air.

You were quick to put your hand down, “Could you turn down the music?”

Sukuna leered at you, “No yelling this time?”

Flashes from two days ago entered your brain. Sukuna’s rough voice, deep and dangerously addictive.

Shamefully, you bore your eyes into the floor and mumbled, “Just turn the damn music down.”

You heard Sukuna shift above you, a thoughtful hum passing through his lips, “I can’t hear you.”

You shoved your heels into the ground, “Turn down the music, please.”

Sukuna whistled, “And a 'please' too? What’s gotten into you, piggy?”

You felt like you could tear your hair out. Looking back up at him through your lashes you scowled at him. His red eyes scanned your face with such amusement you wanted to punch him again.

“Turn down the fucking music, scum.”

Sukuna smiled wildly. You noted how his pearly white teeth held a slight sharpness to them. Like a predator.

“No.”

You snarled at his pleased expression. What the hell did you even expect? In the spur of the moment an idea shot through your head as you glanced behind him. His dreaded speaker sat passively on his kitchen counter, music still flowing out of it in waves.

“Move.”

Sukuna raised his brow before you shoved his body aside and stormed in. You’d never been in his place before, only catching glimpses whenever you fought.

The room smelled faintly of a sharp woodsy scent, something you recognized but weren’t sure from where. Scanning the entrance you noticed his place was the same layout as your own apartment only flipped.

It was surprisingly neat too. The entire place was organized without a single dish in the sink. You cringed when you thought back to the state of your own apartment. He put you to shame. 

A large hand hastily grabbed the back of your collar and pulled, choking you in the process, “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

You grabbed Sukuna’s hand and tried to pry it off, “If your so incapable of turning down your own music your poor considerate neighbor will help.”

Sukuna pulled your form closer to his chest, “I don’t think so, rat.”

You struggled against his grasp causing his other arm to wrap tightly around your waist. You cursed under breath at the secure hold.

Sukuna leaned down into your ear and chuckled, “Listen if you wanted in so bad you could’ve just asked.”

You swallowed hard at your predicament. Pressed up against him, you could feel the outline of his toned chest engulfing your back. His arms felt impossibly muscular, trapping you tightly with them. 

Slowly, the hand that fit snugly against your waist made its way higher, directly pushing underneath your breasts. 

Your heart was beating so fast you could hear the thumping in your ears, “Get off.”

Sukuna’s other hand moved from the collar of your shirt to roughly grab your chin. Harshly pulling your face up, he grinned at your panicked expression, “What if I don’t want to?”

Your face burned at his proximity. Too close. Trying to pull your face away, you winced when Sukuna’s calloused hands squeezed your face harder. The crescent of his nails dug into your skin creating small droplets of blood.

Trying to ignore the ache in your cheeks, you glared into his sharpened eyes. You could swear their eerie red shone brighter. Swallowing, you watched him glance from your eyes to your lips then back to your eyes again.

You internally scolded yourself as you found your eyes doing the same. However, you lingered on his lips for far longer. They looked soft. The curve of his cupid's bow looked as if they might even fit perfectly with yours. 

Mindlessly, you felt yourself lean forward into him, eyes still locked on his lips. How would he taste? Minty? Or perhaps sweeter?

You bit your lip and forced yourself to draw back, this was not the time to be seduced by your neighbor. A dark chuckle made you return your eyes back up to deep red ones.

“Scared of a little kiss?” Sukuna pulled you forwards, lips just grazing your own, “Or just scared you’ll like it.”

Your body shivered as you closed your eyes, “Fuck off.”

SLAM

“BROTHERRRRRR!!”

You flinched so hard at the new voice you thought your soul left your body. Tearing your face away from Sukuna’s grip, you tried to shove him off you. Sukuna’s grip reluctantly gave way as he turned his attention to the new intruder.

“Yuuji,” you swallowed hard at the venom that laced Sukuna’s voice, “Why are you here so early?”

Yuuji merely scratched the back of his neck laughing off his brother’s bitterness, “I figured since I was late last time I’d come a bit early today!”

Sukuna rubbed his face with a deep sigh, “Of course you did.”

You sucked in your cheeks at an oblivious Yuuji. You had to thank the kid though. He just saved your sorry ass from becoming a certain playboy’s next victim of the night.

Pouting at his brother, Yuuji’s eyes eventually found you, “Hey (y/n)! How’s it going?”

You shrugged, “Better now.”

Glancing over, you side eyed an irritated Sukuna. He glared down at you with disdain as you threw him a fake sympathetic look.

“Are you here for dinner too?” Yuuji smiled brightly as he pulled two full grocery bags from behind his back.

“No-” “Yep!”

You quickly cut off Sukuna with a malicious grin. Hey, if you had to suffer through his music he could afford you a meal. 

A large hand started shoving your back towards the door, “No. She was just leaving.”

You dug your feet into the ground, pushing against him, “Hey!”

“What!? No way! You have to stay!” Yuuji jumped in front of your path waving his arms frantically, “We have more than enough to spare anyway!”

Sukuna’s hands moved to grip your shoulders tightly, “I’m feeling pretty hungry.”

“Pleaseeeeeee,” Yuuji held his hands out in prayer.

You flinched as Sukuna’s grip strengthened, “Fine. She can stay for just dinner.”

Yuuji shot his hands up in the air in victory, “Yes! Let’s get cooking!”

You smiled at his cheery form. He was just as bright as the first time you ran into him.

・❥・

A soft knock rang out through your apartment as you sat on your couch painting your nails. Sighing heavily you set your polish down and shook your hand to dry it. Blowing on your freshly drying nails you opened the door to see…a familiar figure???

Your eyes widened at the sight of a tinier Sukuna. Though, this one had light brown eyes that looked as if they were melted gold. His hair was messier too, with black roots below his matching pink hair which contrasted with Sukuna’s pure pink look.

In some sick coincidence his face sported two tiny birthmarks under his eyes that matched the two tattoos under Sukuna’s eyes. There was no doubt he was another spawn from wherever the hell Sukuna crawled out of.

You stared at his form in a stupor, “Uh, hello?”

The boy’s eyes widened in confusion as he frantically looked at you then down to a scrap of paper in his hand, “Uhhhh, sorry I think I have the wrong apartment!”

You laughed at his troubled expression, “I take it you're related to another certain pink haired gentleman?”

You gagged in your mind. Gentleman your ass.

The boy ruffled his hair and laughed tiredly, “Right on the mark.”

You pointed to the door next to yours, “One over.”

He followed your finger and smiled brightly, “Ah, thank you so much…”

You lifted your hand, “(y/n) (l/n).”

“Itadori Yuuji! I’m here visiting my brother,” He firmly grasped your hand and shook it.

You felt taken aback by the strange interaction. It felt like you were in some alternate dimension with a normal well behaved Sukuna. 

“Well Yuuji, I must say you are far more pleasant than that brother of yours, that’s for sure.” 

Yuuji laughed, “I get that a lot.”

You matched his smile with your own, “It was nice meeting you, Yuuji. I hope to see you around some time, it’s nice to have a civil conversation for once.”

Why couldn’t this one have moved in next door?

“Same here, see you around (y/n)!” Yuuji threw you a salute before spinning on his heel.

You watched as he trudged over to the correct apartment and knocked. Poor kid, having to deal with that asshole for a brother. Not bothering to have another altercation with Sukuna, you quickly retreated into your apartment and returned to your nails. Grumbling when you noticed you managed to smear one.

・❥・

You smiled fondly at the memory as you watched Yuuji cook from the kitchen’s island counter. To your astonishment you managed to run into him far more than you thought you would after your first encounter. He surprisingly visited Sukuna several times a week. 

Soon enough, you managed to find out he went to the local university as a student. He lived in the freshman dorms but stayed with Sukuna whenever he wanted some alone time. You grimised at the thought of Sukuna being a safe haven. As if.

Speaking of the devil, Sukuna stood next to Yuuji cutting up tomatoes for the spaghetti sauce. As much as you liked watching him slave away for you, you figured you might as well help out as a courtesy for Yuuji.

You called out from the counter, “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

Yuuji hummed, “You're our guest, no need to worry!”

Sukuna scoffed next to him, “It’s better if she doesn’t get her hands on the food anyway. Who knows what she’d put in it.”

You frowned, “I’ll have you know I’m a fantastic cook!”

Sukuna turned to you with a sly grin, “Is that why I constantly hear your fire alarm going off?”

Clenching your fist on the table you snarled, “Some foods are better burnt!”

His eyebrows turned inward, “Like what?”

You chewed on your lip looking for an answer before you abruptly stood up and walked over to him. Snagging up a knife, you held your hand out for a tomato.

“I’ll show you how good I am.”

Sukuna held your gaze tauntingly before he dropped a small tomato in your hand, “Then show me.”

You huffed and set the tomato down on the cutting board. Slicing, you went slow trying to make all the cuts even. You scowled as your plan failed, only making your cuts even more uneven. 

Turning to Sukuna, you looked to see how he was faring. There was no way he was doing that much better than you. 

Your eye twitched in disbelief as you watched him cut through tomatoes at the speed of light, each slice perfect. 

Sukuna side eyed you, “Need some help?”

You growled and slammed your knife into the tomato harder, “No.”

You halted your movements when you heard an annoyed sigh and the drop of a knife. Casually, Sukuna placed himself behind you and wrapped his arms around either side of you. His left hand immediately grabbed your own and helped you hold the tomato steady while his right assisted your cutting.

“No need to take it so slow,” Sukuna lifted your hand and brought it down firmly, “A good rhythm is all you need.”

You grumbled and followed his movements, the feeling of his body becoming a lot more apparent.

Sukuna leaned into your ear, “Just like that.”

You flushed as he sped up his pace, slicing the tomato faster. Your senses felt on overdrive as you drowned in his cologne, something you ignored earlier in favor of staring at his lips. You held the knife harder trying to ignore the growing heat in your stomach.

“You're doing so good for me.”

The knife sliced through the final chunk with blaringly loud ringing. You felt like you were on fire. 

“Good girl.”

Keeping your gaze on the chopped tomato, you prayed Yuuji was too preoccupied to look to his left. But just as quickly as your tomato was cut, Sukuna’s warmth was gone.

Wordlessly, you glanced to your left at a humming Yuuji. You flinched in surprise when you noticed him glance over as well. He threw you a cheeky grin and raised his eyebrows, eyes darting between you and Sukuna. 

Your jaw twitched as you playfully punched him, “Quite, brat. I just needed help with cutting.”

Yuuji smiled smugly, “Sureeeee~”

Another punch to his arm sent him into a laughing fit. Little brat. You were starting to see the Sukuna in him right now.

・❥・

Laying on your stomach on the living room floor, your mouth was watering at the smell exiting the kitchen. You sighed pitifully as your stomach groaned. How much longer?

The blessing ding of a timer made your head snap up in the direction of the oven. An equally carnivorous Yuuji rocketed through the kitchen and grabbed a testing spoon. You watched fervently as he tasted the sauce.

With a hungry grin Yuuji turned to you, “It is complete.”

You jumped to your feet and made a mad dash to the kitchen, “Finally!”

Like starved animals you both hastily grabbed plates and began dumping pounds of freshly made spaghetti on them. Yuuji snagged a pitcher of water before he claimed a seat at the table as you followed in suit.

Excitedly, Yuuji lifted his filled fork up to his mouth only for a hand to grab his head. Sukuna frowned at him, “You didn’t save any for me, brat.”

Hearing his words you looked at Yuuji and then the empty pot. Sheepishly scratching the back of your head, you grabbed a spare plate and began dumping your extra servings onto it. Hesitantly, Yuuji coughed up some of his own before placing the plate down in front of Sukuna’s seat.

Sukuna merely sighed at your childishness and pulled out his chair to sit down in front of you. You were thankful you weren’t sitting next to him but you weren’t sure if sitting across from him was any better.

Twirling your fork in your noodles, you watched the brothers playfully interact. Yuuji shook his fork in defense at Sukuna who was attempting to steal more food. The two argued like a married couple.

You smiled softly at the sight before a soft pang hit your heart. You thought back to your own family. The home cooked meals, careless banter, attentive family members. But that was long gone. You had run from them like you always ran from everything.

Your mistakes had done enough damage for a lifetime, you couldn’t afford to be in the presence of their sympathetic eyes. 

“(y/n)?”

You glanced over to a concerned Yuuji. Well, concerned from what you could tell. Sukuna’s hand took over most of his face as he was shoved away.

You let out a puff of air at the sight, “Hm?”

“PROTECT MY LAST MEATBALL!”

Your eyes widened as Yuuji flung a stray meatball from his fork at you.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” 

You scrambled to catch the loose meat before it hit the floor, recoiling at the wet feeling of the sauce. The sudden screech of a chair indicated a pissed Sukuna bolting from his seat. 

“Put that down!”

You panicked as Sukuna stormed over to you. A quick flash of Yuuji throwing his hands over his head asking you to pass made you sigh.

Sukuna picked up his pace, “DON’T YOU DARE!”

In defiance, you chucked the meatball at Yuuji as Sukuna reached you. The sphere flew through the air before Yuuji caught it in his hand. Sukuna snarled as he lunged at Yuuji.

Laughing hysterically, Yuuji threw the meatball back at you as Sukuna wrestled him to the ground. Catching the meatball, you gaped at the pair of brothers fighting.

Yuuji flung his body around wildly trying to escape Sukuna’s relentless hold. A swift kick to Sukuna’s face made you snort.

Yuuji screamed when Sukuna regained the upper hand causing you to grab the counter trying to catch your breath. You shook uncontrollably as your laughter slowly became unstoppable.

“KAHH, (Y/N) HELP ME!!!!”

Yuuji struggled on the ground as Sukuna pinned his arms behind his back. You sucked air through your teeth at the sight, “You're on your own for this one, pal.”

Yuuji cried out as Sukuna slammed his body down one last time before he lashed at you, “Throw that shit away right now.”

You smirked at his aggravated expression before dropping the meatball to the ground, “Opps.”

The precious meatball landed on the tiled kitchen floor with a sickening plop. All at once Yuuji cried out in loss as Sukuna yelled in frustration. Letting go of his brother, Sukuna sprinted at your form.

You laughed harder and ran behind the island counter. Sukuna slammed his hands on the marbled surface as he glared at you from across, “Clean that shit up, right now.”

You flipped him off, “Kiss my ass.”

You yelped in surprise when Sukuna abruptly hurled himself over the counter and grabbed you. Pulling you over the island, he picked you up by your hips and threw you unceremoniously over his shoulder. 

You lifted yourself up on his shoulders and pounded on his back, “Put me down, asshole!”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, “Fine.”

You cried out when he ruthlessly threw you down on the couch. Your body bounced up and down from the force as you scowled up at an annoyed Sukuna. Beside you, Yuuji lay drained on the floor as he cracked up laughing at Sukuna's pissed face. 

Crossing his arms, Sukuna frowned at you both, “You’ll both be cleaning my kitchen if you ever plan to leave this place alive.”

You glanced at Yuuji who gave you a look before he mocked Sukuna, “Who died and made you king?”

The stomach-turning cracking of Sukuna’s knuckles shut Yuuji up immediately, “I mean, yes sir!”

You smiled, “I suppose I could help as well.”

Getting up from your spot, you and Yuuji quickly got to work cleaning the mess. Yuuji washed the dirty dishes while you sat on the floor scrubbing the sauce the meatball left off.

Wiping up the soapy water from the floor, your brows creased as legs came into your view. Glancing up you frowned at a smirking Sukuna.

“That’s a good look for you.”

You sat up from your crouched position and rubbed your back, “What do you mean?”

“On your knees in front of me.”

You choked on your spit, “What-”

Smooth laughter mocked you as you quickly stood to your feet. You crossed you arms and glared at him, “Your fucking disgusting.”

Sukuna leaned his back against the counter, “Damn, and I was getting used to the view.”

You threw your dirtried rag at his face. A swift hand easily caught it and threw it back. Agitated, you tossed it on the counter, “You're insufferable.”

Sukuna laughed, “You're an easy target.”

Before you could wring his throat, a cheery Yuuji let out a loud exaggerated sigh, “I can’t believe the night is almost over.”

Thank god. You were starting to realize how much you hated Sukuna again.

“Wait!” You flinched at Yuuji’s mood switch, “Let’s watch a movie!”

“Absolutely not.”

Yuuji pouted at his brother's words, “Come on! I never get to hang with (y/n)! I bet you get to all the time!”

You internally cringed. Like you’d ever willingly hang out with Sukuna alone. 

Yuuji huffed as he realized his begging was getting nowhere with Sukuna. Finding another solution Yuuji turned his attention to you.

Throwing you puppy eyes Yuuji stuck out his lower lip, “Pleaseee!”

“No-” “Alright.”

Cutting off Sukuna, you resigned yourself to Yuuji’s pouting. What can you say, you were a sucker for the golden retriever ones. At least your presence would annoy Sukuna.

Yuuji smiled, “Alright!”

You sighed, “What movie?”

Yuuji scratched his chin, “Anything with Jennifer Lawrence.”

You deadpanned at his response. Of course.

Once you finished cleaning you were quickly moved by Yuuji into the open living room. Claiming a seat on the end of Sukuna’s couch, you curled up in a ball and watched Yuuji scroll through Netflix. 

He currently sat on the floor with his back propped up against the edge of the couch. A pillow tucked comfortably behind his back. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat on the opposite end of the couch, his legs taking up the rest of the L shape.

“Just pick a damn movie already.”

Yuuji huffed, “Then you pick!”

Sukuna rested his head on his fist, “No.”

Yuuji exclaimed a loud sigh before settling on a random movie, “If this sucks, that's on you.”

Sukuna moved his foot to kick Yuuji in the back of the head, making him yelp and rub his scalp. You shook your head at their antics and tried to focus on the start of the movie. 

You blinked when a certain female character came on screen. Jennifer Lawrence. You looked at Yuuji who was staring at the screen intensely. Shoving your fist into your mouth, you tried to contain your laughter. At least he’ll be happy even if the movie blows.

・❥・

Sweltering. 

You were so hot you felt like you were dying. 

Attempting to turn to your side you froze when you realized you couldn’t. Peaking your eyes open, your mouth dropped when you came face to chest with a larger body. 

It didn’t take you long to realize you were cuddled up with Sukuna on the longer portion of the couch. 

His right arm curled suggestively around your waist and rested on your hip bone. While your own arm clung possessively over his chest. 

You gawked at the situation. Internally freaking out, you tried to free yourself as quickly and as quietly as possible. You must’ve fallen asleep during the movie, but how you got in this position was beyond you.

Gently slipping out of Sukuna’s loose grip, you carefully sat up. You blinked again in confusion when a newly appeared blanket slipped off you and cascaded down onto Sukuna’s chest. That wasn’t there either last night.

You rubbed the bridge of your nose and checked the time on your phone, 3:04am. Shit it was late. You’ve definitely overstayed your welcome.

Moving to stand up, you jolted when a large hand captured your wrist and pulled you back. Its frigid temperature cooled the aching heat of your skin. 

Quickly, you snapped your head over to what you thought was a sleeping Sukuna in shock. His head laid lazily on top of his folded arm as his tired eyes took in your shape.

“Where are you going?”

You shivered at the raspiness that took hold of his voice, “Home.”

A shift from below you made you tear your gaze away from him. Looking at the floor, you eyed a sprawled out Yuuji who was snoring loudly in the center of the living room.

“Why?” Sukuna’s thumb slowly traced circles in your wrist, almost enticing you to stay.

You went to answer before strong arms captured your waist, “Just stay. It’s already late.”

You clutched the previously discarded blanket as Sukuna’s hands rubbed up and down your sides, feeling every curve you had to offer.

Slowly, a hand crept underneath your shirt caressing your bare skin. Its icy touch shot sparks through your entire body. 

“I can’t.”

You shuddered when your shirt lifted slightly as soft lips kissed your lower back. Their fullness sensually traced the dip of your spine before lifting away.

“Stay,” A rough thumb swiped tantalizingly slow underneath your waistband, ghosting over your v-line.

All you could manage was a silent nod as Sukuna’s arms pulled you back into him. His straying hands returned back to your stomach and clutched your body close. You closed your eyes and allowed him to bury himself in the crook of your neck.

His faint breath tickled your neck slightly before his lips started to trail the curve of your shoulder. You gasped lightly when he stopped near the crevasse of your neck and bit hard. He sucked and nipped at the spot making you tremble before he licked it clean.

Pushing his face further into your newly formed bruise you heard his breathing even out, signaling him falling asleep. Once soft snores entered your ear you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Allowing yourself to melt in his grasp you sighed, were you still dreaming? When you wake up will that mark still be there or was this just another one of your perverse hallucinations?

You squeezed your eyes shut. A small part of you prayed it wasn’t the last. That it was real. But you’d never admit that. 

Tonight you’d allow yourself to be wrapped up in intoxicating arms. The hatred that filled them turned still until the morning. Once you woke up you’d go back to how things were. The buffer of Yuuji no longer containing the festering anger that crawled beneath your skin. 

You’d go back to despising Sukuna.

｡･:*˚:✧⤷

・❥・