#You CAN REALLY SEE HOW... HOW FUCKED HIS RIGHT SIDE GOT!!! LIKE !!!!

[fushitoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji��his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[kurooh]

keigo is unapologetically a whore when it comes to sending you voice notes. it’s a surprise every damn time—it could be the middle of the day, and you’ll press play, expecting a rant about something, only to for his pretty groans to reverberate through the earbuds.

your jaw drops, and a low heat begins to simmer in your stomach. after you’ve quickly scanned the area to make sure nobody’s around, you crank up the volume to the max and restart the note.

“god, fuuuck,” he moans, the word trembling on his lips, and it is just too easy to picture him right now. in your mind’s eye, you can see him leaning against a wall on the very top of a tall building, flushed cock in hand while he tries his hardest not to drop his phone. “i need you, baby. i need to bend you over right now and give you this dick.”

keigo shudders, and you can hear the ruffle of his agitated feathers in the background. his breaths come in both hot and heavy, crackling through the phone between each pinched gasp or moan.

“i - i know you’re gonna say i’m being dramatic, but god, you have no ideaaa,” each slick pump of his hand on his cock brings less relief than it is meant to, and you notice the frustration making its way through his dirty talk. “i can’t focus. all i’m able to think about is—nghhh, shit—is how goddamn pretty you look when you’re fucking me back.”

keigo takes a moment to drag in a shaky inhale, his nose whistling softly as he does so. your thighs squeeze together tightly, arousal pooling sticky and wet between them. just like he had intended, you’re hanging off every word, nearly sick with desire as you wait for more.

you think of him throwing his head back in that certain way that he does when he nearly sobs out your name, sounding broken and debauched all at once. god, he’s so damn shameless, sending you shit like this while he’s on patrol and you’re somewhere across the city. it’s hard to complain, though, with the way he spoils you—you almost begin to wonder what you did to deserve a four minute audio jam packed with noise.

“oh, oh fuck,” keigo whines, sounding like he’s nibbling at his chain, a nervous habit of his, “christ. you—you gotta tell me where you are, angel. i can’t handle this anymore, i really can’t.”

not far from the speaker, his feathers flick and shuffle, sounding more uncontrolled than before. “ughhh, i just wish you could see what you do to me. i’m crazy for you and sometimes it’s like you don’t even know it.”

he goes on to say something else, but it’s too crackly and muffled to understand. you shift in your seat, feeling hot all over—you’ve seen what you do to him, and is it a sight.

keigo’s cheeks always flush a rosy color, and when his body is tangled up with yours, it’s impossible for him to even attempt to mask his emotions. breaking down his daytime defenses and making a mess of him is satisfying in a way that is impossible to stop craving. on the other side of the phone, he probably looks even better than you could even imagine—golden and flushed in the afternoon sun, chain between his teeth, expression crumbling into one of absolute bliss.

you can hear the change in his breathing pattern, the way it becomes more stuttered and gasping, and you know your favorite part of the audio is coming soon. literally.

“—so close, i’m so fucking close,” a litany of moans spill out of his mouth, each one softer than the last. “all i want you to do is come here and take what’s yours, angel . . hah, i’m gonna cum—shit, ‘m gonna cum for you.”

you’ve got stars in your eyes as you mentally cheer him on, feeling your own arousal swell and rise in your chest like a tidal wave. thanks to keigo, you’re all hot and bothered in a café.

keigo falls apart just as a barista passes you with a coffee in hand, and you ride the high along with him. he sounds nothing short of beautiful as his groans dissolve into overstimulated gasps of your name and various pet names.

he chuckles, quaking with sensitivity. “there’s so much. if you were here, you might’ve choked,” he sighs dreamily, starry-eyed. “i’ve combed through this district and the next one over twice already. send me your location, angel.”

there’s some static and shuffling before you hear him shaking his wings out to get them ready for flying. “we’ve got plenty of time, if you’re fine with not being able to walk after. maybe i can drop you off at the house and we can take a quick shower there too.”

[forunct]

[7:46 pm] ᯓ.ᐟ ♢ + cunnilingus w/ idolbf!mark

minors dni!

mark hasn’t seen you in months. it’s been months since he’s touched you, months since he’s kissed, months since he’s tasted you. the tour has had him worked up to say the least and you were no help. sending suggestive photos for him to look at after his performances. sneaking late night calls to catch up only to end them with phone sex. it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy him but it was better than the alternative— getting absolutely no relief for his undying sexual frustration.

mark was usually more subtle with his actions when he was horny. hands resting in the back pocket of your jeans or the inner part of your thigh rubbing circles on the area, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, soft kisses on your neck, tender kisses on your lips. but today when he got back from the airport, he was anything but subtle.

you were in the kitchen preparing his dinner, you wanted him to have a home cooked meal when he got back. you expected it to be a while before he got back to the apartment, figuring that the traffic would be pretty heavy coming from the city. to your surprise, mark walks through the door in half the time you thought it would take for him to arrive.

“hi, baby!” you say as you throw the utensils to the side to wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug. “you got here fast. ugh, i missed you.” he instantly drops his bags pulling you in by your waist, taking in a deep breath to inhale your scent. a scent he missed oh so much.

“you have no idea how much i fucking missed you,” mark pulls back, his face inches from yours. he doesn’t miss a beat when he molds his lips to fit yours, the kiss not soft and tender like you anticipated but needy and desperate.

mark’s hands are roaming your body, hurriedly searching for the hem of your shirt, breaking the kiss to take it off. his lips trail kisses along your jawline and down your neck, pulling a whimper from you. his arms are bringing you impossibly closer as he pulls your lounge shorts down along with your panties.

“mark, i made you dinner,” you whine, almost as if you were pleading for him to wait until later. but a part of you really didn’t want to wait, you were already melting into his touch. this isn’t the order in which you expected the night to go though, in fact this was literally the opposite. mark ignored you, his lips on your neck relentless. “that’s not what i’m trying to eat right now.” his voice is muffled, low and smooth like honey as he lifts you onto the kitchen island.

your back lays flush against the cold granite and a layer of goosebumps scatter across your skin. mark’s kissing his way down your body, leaving a path of sloppy, wet kisses that led directly to in between your thighs. his movements are rushed and you can tell he’s eager to eat you out. he gently pries your legs open, fully exposing yourself to him. the cool air that hits your core pulls a moan from your throat. mark gently swipes a thumb against your clit and lets out a groan. 

“look at you, baby. so damn drenched,”  he has your legs bent at the knee and fully pushed back to get a clear view of you, completely naked and exposed for him. he watches you hungrily as you shift under his grip, aching for any kind of friction on your bundle of nerves. “love seeing you like this, y/n. so fucking beautiful.” you moan at his praise as he brings his face inches away from your pussy.

his breath fans over your core, his voice faint and you hear him mumble parts of a prayer he always says before eating his food. and before you could laugh in disbelief, he immediately starts devouring you whole.

the way he swirled circles around your clit has you gripping at his scalp as you whimper, your thoughts completely jumbled. did he really just bless your pussy like it was a meal? yes. was he eating you like you were one? absolutely. mark tirelessly flicked and sucked on your bud like his life depended on it and your moans were just mere encouragement, he was determined to make you come on his tongue. your arousal coating his lips and his chin, he was always such a sloppy eater, he couldn’t get enough. mark’s groaning into you, sending vibrations through your entire body that makes you cry out in pleasure.

“m-mark, o-oh my god.”

the lewd sounds of slurping and licking were barely audible over your moans as the coil in your stomach threatened to snap. your legs were involuntarily trying to close around mark’s head. he couldn’t care less though, there was no prying him away from your core and you knew that. it’s when he firmly sucks on your clit that you see stars, your orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks. months since you’ve come anywhere remotely this hard and god did it feel amazing. your legs are shaking around mark as he delicately licks at your cunt, gently helping you ride it out. when he finally lifts his head up for air, he’s panting, a sinful smirk plastered on his glistening lips.

“i’ll never get over how good you always taste, baby.” he says, clearly still breathless.

“did you bless me like i was a fucking meal?” you let out a giggle, propping yourself on your elbows to look at him.

he lets out a short laugh before he responds, “shut up, i’m used to blessing things i put in my mouth. now lay back down, i’m not done.”

note; chat was this too silly and dumb? 😭 pls be nice to me im sensitive ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა

[strnilolover]

chris/matt fucking sleepy!reader to sleep

⌗ . . . FUCK YOU TO SLEEP

WARNINGS : SMUT. PNV. SLEEPY SEX. SOFT!DOM!CHRIS. CREAMPIE. PRAISING. TEASING. POST-SEX SLEEPINESS.

you were exhausted. but really when weren’t you?

it was late, your body was already tucked into the warmth of the blankets surrounding you on the bed. the sheets were cool and freshly washed—and chris’ pillow still held the scent of his cologne, you curled into it, clinging to the way it made you feel close to him even when he wasn’t here.

you were so so close to falling asleep but you didn’t want to. not yet at least—not until he got home.

you had been needy all day—you weren’t even sure why but you just needed chris. and the longer you waited, the more that need started to build low in your belly. you missed him. you missed the way he touched you when you were tired like this. the way he slows everything down—murmuring sweet praises against your skin until your brain floats away and your body melted under his. how he made you feel safe and full and loved, even when neither of you said the words out loud.

so you stayed awake—letting the ache between your thighs grow more and more. sure you could’ve taken care of yourself and been asleep by now, but you wanted chris and not your own fingers.

you were curled up on your side when the bedroom door finally creaked open, chris stepping through and shutting it softly behind him before kicking his shoes off his feet. when he finally lifted his gaze towards you he froze, his eyes immediately dropping to your barely-covered form under the sheets. “baby…” he said softly. “you’re still up?”

you nodded slowly, turning your body toward his direction in bed. your eyes were glassy with sleep but heavier with want. “was waitin’.” you mumbled, the words slurring together faintly. chris smiled, striding towards the bed as he peeled his clothing off. his hoodie and shirt first—followed by the sound of his belt clanking and jeans dropping to the floor.

“could’ve been asleep by now, sweetheart. you’re exhausted, i can see it.” he murmured, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead once he was close enough. “i would’ve held you all night either way.” he admitted before pulling back just a little, moving himself into his spot on the bed.

“i know.” you whispered, your voice small and raspy. “but i wanted you.“ your body shifted closer to his under the covers, soaking in the heat from his skin—slinging a leg over his hips. “missed you.” you muttered into his chest, pressing your face into him. he groaned softly, leaning down and burying his face in your hair, pressing a soft kiss there.

you smiled, letting your body lean into his more. you laid there for a while, wrapped in each others arms, limbs tangled with one another’s. but then, you felt his hand slip under the covers—tracing small patterns along your exposed skin, your sleep shirt riding up higher. you moved you head, blinking up at him sleepily, your teeth beginning to dig into your bottom lip.

when his hand traveled lower, he felt the bare skin of your thigh, noticing you were wearing any shorts. “fuck.” he whispered, his voice already sounding wrecked and laced with exhaustion. “you waited like this f’me?” you nodded, your body pressing even closer to his. “wanted to feel you.”

chris let out a quiet breath, pulling back so he could look at you before leaning down and pressing a kiss just under your jaw, his hand now trailing slowly over your hip. “you sure, baby?” he asked, hesitating to move his hand any further after it stopped and rested high on your hip. “you’re so tired… i don’t wanna—” but you didn’t let him finish, cutting his sentence off.

“i want it.” you breathed, curling your fingers into his skin, leaving little indents in the soft flesh of his chest. you lean up more, slowly, getting right by his ear. “wanna fall asleep with you inside me.” really that’s all it took before he leaned in, kissing you softly, like a thank you because he knew just how tired you were.

gently, chris moved to pull the blanket down, shifting to move his body between your thighs. he reached for your shirt, stopping when he grabbed the hem to look at your face—waiting. you nodded, giving him a small smile before propping yourself up a little so he could peel the oversized shirt off your body. once it was over your head, he kissed his way across your chest, soft and reverent, pushing yourself to lay back down.

his fingertips ghosted along your skin, trailing slowly across your stomach—down your sides, along the outside of your thighs before slipping between them, finding you already warm and absolutely soaked for him. “fuck baby, you’re already so wet.” he muttered. “y’always get like this when you’re sleepy. so needy.” his fingers pushed against the damp fabric of your underwear, a soft moan escaping your lips at the feeling, letting your hips lift of the bed desperately for him. when you did that, he took it as a chance and hooked his fingers into the band of your underwear, pulling them down your legs.

you whimpered under his touch, feeling the cool air against your wet cunt. “shh, i got you,” he whispered, his hands grabbing a handful of the flesh on your thighs, hooking your legs around his waist before reach down to pull his boxers away—just enough for his cock to spring free from the confines. the tip leaking pre-cum, veins running along the side. you caught a glimpse of it through your tired haze, your mouth drooling just slightly at the sight.

you watched as he gripped himself at the base, spitting down onto the head of his cock and smearing the spit around until he was fully coated. he shifted, one hand planted near your head on the pillow as the other guided his til through your folds, lining himself up and sliding in gently with a low groan. watching the way your face scrunched up at the stretch. “thaaat’s it. just let me take care of you baby.”

you let out a shaky breath, your head falling back into the pillows as he filled you slowly—inch by inch—until he was buried deep inside your warmth. “god, you feel like home.” he whispered, his hips beginning to move in soft, steady thrusts, dragging over every sensitive spot inside you with ease. “so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

your body went limp under him—eyes fluttering closed as he rolled his hips. his free hand came up and cradled the back of your head, his forehead pressed to yours. his hips pulled back, dragging his cock out until just the tip was inside you before pushing back in just as slow, drawing a long needy whine from you. “mm gonna put you to sleep like this.” he whispered. “all warm and full, just like you need.” and you nodded, lips parting in a moan, the pleasure starting to wash over you in waves.

your hands clung to him, holding his body close to your own and you felt yourself getting close—you were surprised how quickly you were about to cum. chris could feel the way your walls began to pulse and flutter around him, pulling a soft grunt from him as he stilled, trying not to finish right there. sucking in a sharp breath, he began to move again, picking up the pace just a little faster now. “you close angel?” he asked, his voice hoarse and breathy.

you nodded, gasping quietly when the tip of his cock prodded at your cervix. “y-yeah mmhm.” you panted out, your hips now bucking up softly to meet his slow thrusts, wanting nothing more than to cum already. you were so tired, you could feel the way your brain started to drift off to sleep despite having chris’ cock stuffing you so so full.

“good girl.” he murmured. “cum for me, baby. i’ve got you—been so good, know you can do it.” and his words pushed you closer to the edge, your eyes rolling back behind your eyelids as you let go with a quiet cry. your legs shaking as you came around him, body going boneless. chris groaned, his hips faltering just slightly as your walls convulsed around him before he pressed in deep one last time and stilled—his release not far behind from your own. you could feel the warm liquid spilling into you, filling you to the brim. but neither of you moved for a long moment. he just held you there, cock still buried inside you, the soft weight of his body pressing you into the mattress as you caught your breath.

eventually, chris began to pull his body away from your own, not fully, but enough to look at you. “you okay baby?” he whispered, noticing the way your eyes were closed, your breath beginning to even out softly like you were dozing off into a peaceful sleep. you nodded weakly, your voice barely audible. “don’t move yet.” you mumbled, the words slurred. “i won’t.” he promised, gently maneuvering your bodies so he wasn’t laying on you fully, stroking your back.

and you drifted off like that—his cock still stuffed inside you, his breath syncing with yours. he whispered little things in your ear, kissed your cheeks, rubbed soft circles into your spine—doing everything he could to make you feel safe and to not wake you up at all. when your body finally went heavy with sleep again, chris gently pulled out with a soft, whispered apology and climbed out of bed. a few seconds later, he came back with a warm rag, nudging your thighs open and trying to clean you up as gently as he could.

“still with me?” he whispered, brushing your hair back that was in your face as he continued to gently wipe between your legs. you gave a small, sleepy noise. “mmhm, y’so nice.” chris smiled at that, tossing the rag aside once he was done and sliding back under the blanket, gathering you into his arms and pulling you to his chest.

“nice?” he whispered, teasing. “thought i just put you to sleep.” he chuckled, watching the way you tried so hard to fight your sleep, even after just falling asleep seconds ago. “you did,” you yawned. “just… also love you.” his heart clenched at that. but he didn’t push. he just pulled you close, let you bury your face in his chest, and kissed the top of your head.

“i got you, baby.” he whispered. “sleep now. m’not goin’ anywhere.” and you didn’t even hear the end of the sentence before you were out.

a/n : sleepy sex is amazing

[02lvr]

my dear melancholy — pjs

synopsis; jay's needy and he misses you -- soft dom! jay x female reader

warnings; unprotected sex (wrap it!), non-idol!jay, virgin jay + reader, cums untouched, oral (f. receiving), slight crying, riding, jay with a breeding kink (consensual), muncher! jay, cum eating, pet names (didn't proofread!)

now playing; pretty when you cry - lana del rey

jay misses you a lot, especially when the clock hits 1am and he sits in front of his laptop in the studio with no windows. he feels suffocated without any interaction for once, so he forces himself to finish the next verse in the song before grabbing his phone and texting you to come over.

"are you awake? do you think you can come over, i need your opinion on a song"

and there's no response. so jay scrolls on his phone and waits a bit before starting to pack his bag before the unlocked door opens and you're standing in front of him with tired eyes and him with a lovesick smile.

jay begins to hum low at the song that it sounds like a ballad until it turns into so much more than just the song but him so unbearably needy to feel you around him. so you two stare at eachother with the weird tension that the studio gives you two as the clock stops at 2am.

jay has thought about how good you'd ride him on the couch that sits on the right side of the room. so tiny but perfect for him to touch you.

"i'm sorry, this is so fucking weird and i didn't mean to do anything. i'm gonna leave now-"

so you pull his collar into a kiss, and he melts into the kiss as he falls onto the couch with you now riding him, and he isn't sure if the door is locked. and for jay it was the first time that he'd ever felt something like this and he could cum untouched but that was embarrassing to him.

all jay could think is about how good you feel around him and how fast he could come if you kept riding him like that; a pornographic type of moan that he was sure the studios next door could hear. and jay has touched himself before at the thought of you clenching around his dick.

and jay that feels the tension and decides to go in for a passionate kiss where you struggle to breathe, and he whimpers as he comes inside without a warning. so jay that takes a breather and looks at you like you put the stars in the sky.

he was so in love with you.

jay gets hard at how you moan loudly as he kisses down your neck, slowly reaching down and leaving hickeys on your chest. "so pretty just for me." he would lick like it was his last day seeing you like that in front of him.

jay that asks you if you're okay with continuing riding him because it felt as good as it did in his dream. he places his hands on your waist and slowly sits you, hovering over the tip as it barely goes in, and he moans at how sensitive he is. being so turned on that he doesn't realize your hand hovering over his throat.

he sits you down on the couch, and the only yellow lamp on his desk shows how desperate and needy he's gotten since you got here and he realized that he really could take his time with you. he licks while not breaking eye contact as you cover your mouth trying to not make noise.

"please baby I need to hear you." as he goes faster and faster and fingers you as you reach your high. moaning so loud that jay didn't care if everyone in the building could hear, he needed to take you in so badly in that moment.

jay cumming, with it spilling on the floor at the thought of someone catching you two in that moment because he thinks you look so pretty at the way you're taking him so well.

he takes his finger out and tastes it, moaning at how he sees how fucked you were. he hovers over you, kissing you passionately and looking at you while caressing your cheek.

"you're so fucking beautiful, please don't let this be a one night."

[captain-huggy-bear]

clayton and play fighting? i feel like he’s the type to definitely practice wwe moves on his gf

also i hope you have a good day/night you deserve it queen ❤️❤️

Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 (We're nearly at request reopening time though) Writing Masterlist

In your defence you really didn't think jumping on Clayton would end like this.

You'd just thought why not? Your boyfriend on the bed scrolling through his phone, unaware of the world, you? bored, clingy, wanting company. Why not dive at him? Why not rugby tackle him to the bed? Impulsive thoughts for the win really.

Except after Clayton got over the winding, the loud oomph that left him from you landing full bodied on top of him, he decided that this was a perfect chance for him to try out his own WWE moves like you were both 7 years old again. It seemed to spark something in him that had him throwing his phone off to the side and manhandling you in an attempt at wrestling.

It's how you find yourself face down on the bed, arm behind your back (lightly, so gentle you could literally slip your arm out of his grip with no resistance), Clayton's legs tangled with yours as he presses against you. Your cheek is pressing into the bedding, eyes rolling at him even thought he can't see it.

"I win. Say uncle." You can hear it in his voice, that smug grin that he's probably got because he's won, because you're underneath him. Like a kid who's beating his dad in an arm wrestling contest.

"You have an unfair advantage!" Your voice is muffled by the way your cheek presses into the bedding, it sounds a little silly but you refuse to just give in. Even though he's clearly stronger than you and has an advantage.

"Oh, yeah?"

"You literally do all those stupid workouts all the time, you freak." It's not fair. You're not being trained by professional trainers every season and off season. Clayton's stronger than he looks, deceptively strong.

"It's not very nice to call your boyfriend a freak, baby."

"Yeah...well you are...you put mayo on scrambled eggs." It comes out in a pouty sort of huff, you're being a bit silly, a bit goofy, a bit childish. But, that's the point of this right? You two acting like children rather than being all prim and proper and adult.

"I can't believe you're judging me right now when you are the freakiest little freak possible."

"Shut up..." Your cheeks warm, not wanting him to go into that long, deep list of issues that you know he'd happily pull out to win an argument even while he entertains your freakiness.

"Say uncle before I unload your laundry list of weird kinks, baby."

"No...." You're flipped over with ridiculous ease until you're facing him, back to the mattress, both of your arms pinned above your head by the wrists. His hands are fucking large, encompassing your wrists gently and holding them firm to the bed. Clayton lording over you like some sort of king, smug smirk pulling at his lips until that dimple is deep and evident. His hair is flopping deliciously into his face like some sort of hero out of a adventure movie and it makes you want to bite him.

"Baby, say uncle." He presses further into you, hips pinning you, weight heavy in a way that makes it harder to breathe. For multiple reasons really. It's hard to breathe whenever Clayton is this close.

"I don't wanna."

"You say uncle and we can do whatever you want." He's bribing you now, your eyes narrow at him, suspicious because he's too happy about this, too entertained.

"Whatever I want?"

"Anything."

"Cuddles?"

"If you say uncle, sweet girl."

You take a moment, pretending to weight it all up, to contemplate whether you truly want to admit defeat when it's clear you're never going to win this fight anyway.

"Uncle." You say it with a grin and the moment you do, Clayton flops fully on top of you, face pressing into your shoulder, breathing you in. Your wrists are released, fingers finding their way to his hair while his arms wrap around your waist until you're as close as two fully clothed people can possibly get.

So yeah, maybe you're not going to win a wrestling contest against Clayton anytime soon...but cuddles are better anyway.

[snail-day]

i keep thinking about being kidnapped by yan stsg,,, the sheer horror of being brought somewhere by two man who youve never met but apparently know everything about you. one of them is cuddling you like youre a puppy he got on christmas and the other is scolding him like his mother telling him not to squeeze you so hard or he'll hurt you. you get to a mansion in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and they double team restraining you so they can get you inside. then they bring you to the most luxurious bedroom youve ever seen, but the closet clearly has sex toys in it, theres an expensive looking leather lingerie set in the corner on a mannequin with your exact proportions and a dog crate. that you have a terrible feeling isn't meant for an actual dog.

the panic attack id have right on the spot. its ok though. theyll calm you down (feed you xanax and fuck you until you fall asleep) introductions can wait until tomorrow. you've had a long day <3

tw: drug usage, dubcon, captivity, yandere

I'd also be panicking but… y’know what? I think they’d save the sexy fun stuff until the next day, just because Suguru is one sadistic bastard.

So you’re on edge the whole freaking time, thinking something’s about to happen, but instead your face is buried between Suguru’s tits all night after he pops a child’s melatonin gummy past your lips. Meanwhile, Satoru’s clinging to your other side with a very obvious hard-on, but he’s really, really trying to be good for you :( and for Suguru, because Suguru gave him the talk beforehand.

“It’s like a fish tank, Satoru. You have to acclimate them first before you move them in. Think you can be patient for me, pretty boy?”

So in the morning, Suguru’s casually putting an aphrodisiac in your eggs while you sit at the big oak breakfast table, trying not to squirm too much as heat curls low in your stomach. He’s just smiling at you from across the table, all calm and polite, violet eyes narrowed like a fox, watching you press your thighs together as he says:

“Need anything, sweet girl?”

And you do. You really, really need one of them between your legs, but you’re too embarrassed to admit it, so you just nod, biting your lip. Satoru’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet, like, “I can help! I can make her feel real good - ” but of course…

Much to your disappointment (and Satoru's), Suguru has a thing for edging and toys. So now you’re tied up, flushed and frustrated while he’s murmuring softly, asking you to review the products like he’s running some twisted, unboxing. You're just lucky he's starting with the vibrators and not that sweet little package he got from Bad Dragon.

“Let’s see how this one fits, hmm? Be honest, sweet thing. I want your feedback.”

Everything is recorded for quality feedback, of course! <3

[cherrywriterrr]

do not touch me (unless you mean it)

bff!hockeyplayer!rafe x reader

warnings: emotional repression, light angst, fear of vulnerability, one-sided pining (kinda), strong language, mutual pining, some fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, angst with resolution

you didn’t really mean to flinch when rafe pulled you into that hug.

it was just… instinct.

maybe it had to do with the way his arms wrapped too tightly around your waist, or how his fingers splayed across your back like they belonged there. how his scent—crisp, piney soap and laundry detergent—slid up your throat and settled right under your ribs like heat.

you didn’t hate it. that was the problem.

“you okay?” he mumbled, chin hooked over your shoulder, voice low enough that no one else could hear over the noise of his post-game party.

you could barely think. you’d come to support him like always—stupid jersey with his number stretched over your hoodie, lanyard with his face swinging from your wrist.

a token best friend. the weird one. the one who only hugged other people.

you didn’t mean to stiffen in his arms. really. but you did. and he felt it.

his voice changed instantly. “what’s wrong?”

you pulled back before you could drown in the warm thump of his heartbeat. “listen…” you looked up at him, cheeks hot. “i enjoy this hug and all, but can you stop?”

he blinked. “what?”

you glanced over your shoulder—people were watching, but you didn’t care. your chest was tight. his hands were still on your waist, his brows pulling together like you’d kicked his dog or something. “i just don’t really… i don’t like it when you touch me like that, okay?”

“you literally sit in pope’s lap when you’re drunk,” he said flatly.

you scoffed, avoiding his gaze. “that’s different.”

“how?”

“because he’s not you.” that shut him up.

you were sure you sounded insane. even worse—you sounded like you cared. and that was the last thing you wanted him to think.

“you act like i’ve got some disease or something,” he muttered.

you bit your lip, looked away. he didn’t get it. he never did.

rafe cameron was everything you weren’t—tall, golden, all star on the ice and in every hallway he walked through. he knew how to flirt. how to touch. how to make people want him.

and you?

you were the girl who never said what she felt. never asked for affection unless it came from people who were safe and distant. you liked his hugs too much, and that scared the living hell out of you.

he tilted his head. “so you’re weird with me ‘cause you’re scared?”

you stayed quiet.

“you think if i hug you too long, you’ll start crying or something?”

your face crumpled a little. “no. i think i’ll fall in love with you and ruin everything.”

the words fell out before you could stop them.

rafe’s whole face shifted. not in the way you feared—no disgust, no panic—but like something broke open behind his eyes. slowly. painfully.

“…too late,” he said, and it barely came out a whisper.

your stomach twisted. “what?”

“i’ve been in love with you since sophomore year, dumbass.”

you stared.

“and you think you’re weird?” he added with a bitter laugh. “you’re not weird. you’re just scared of me.”

you felt like a fraud. like a coward. but he wasn’t done.

“i’ve watched you hug every single person in your life like they matter more than me. but i get it now. they’re safe. and i’m not.”

“rafe—”

“don’t,” he said. “not unless you’re gonna let me touch you again.”

your heart hammered so hard it hurt.

“‘cause if you don’t want me to hold you,” he went on, voice cracking just slightly, “you’re gonna have to tell me again. right here. right now. and really fucking mean it this time.”

you didn’t speak.

you just took two shaky steps forward, pressed your head into his chest, and curled your fingers into the front of his jacket. it took him one breath—one single breath—before his arms were around you again. slower this time. more sure.

and when he whispered “see?” against your hair—you almost cried.

taglist<- ->more

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @devoutedlover @iconiccolo @viqtoria @qversazex

[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ 'just for you' - joel miller x gn!reader

summary: joel admits his feelings to you the only way he knows how. OR joel plays guitar for you. (1.9k words) tags: pure fluff, joel doesn't think he deserves you, love mentions, love realisation, age gap implied, kissing, gets a little heated but not too much, sweet, happy ending.

joel lingers by the doorway. he often does this, you notice - the way he stands there, playing with his fingers, that subtle anxious expression flitting through his facial features. his mouth presses together like he's trying to stop himself from saying something. you'd move mountains just to know what's on his mind.

you're content with his silence though, because you've come to learn and love his quiet nature.

"what's up?" you whisper softly, sitting up in bed just a little, a book lying temporarily forgotten by your side.

a smirk threatens joel's lips, still slightly nervous as he pushes his thumb into his palm. seems like he needs some encouragement.

"c'mon, you know by now that i don't bite," patting the bed beside you, joel finally straightens up. his hand snakes behind the doorway and grips something, piquing your curiosity, "got a surprise for me?"

his head tilts, "a surprise? dunno about that," he huffs as he slowly pulls an acoustic guitar from the hallway. a surprise makes it sound bigger than it really is, and joel doesn't want to get your hopes up. it's stupid, this whole thing is kind of stupid but it's too late for him to back out now.

you try to hide the excitement bubbling in your expression, but you can't hide the way your eyes sparkle, the way your chest swells and butterflies bloom in your stomach. it's hard to hide from joel, and you don't really want to hide, not with him.

his look is slightly scolding, yet he still holds that smirk, telling you all you need to know. he likes it when you can't hide your excitement, it's one of the things he finds most endearing about you. one of the many things.

"thought i'd play for you," he continues, sitting on the edge of the bed and settling the guitar in his lap. you sit a little straighter, shuffling next to him as you take in the sight. the bedroom window lets in just enough rays of sunlight to illuminate the littered greys peeking through his hair, causing them to almost shimmer.

bathed in a golden glow, joel's strong, calloused fingers glide across the strings as if testing them, but you know he's stalling. he's still nervous, and you wonder what it is about you that makes him so on edge in times like these.

out on scavenge runs, he's not afraid, not nervous - at least not outwardly. but with you? you can almost hear how loud his heart is pounding right now. what's he so afraid of?

"so, what are you gonna play for me? do you take requests?" you smirk, nudging him slightly and you have to bite back a stupid smile as you see his smirk widen. fuck, he's too adorable. too old for you too, maybe - but so adorable.

he glances at you from the corner of his eye, "i got somethin' in mind," joel mumbles, his smirk melting into more of a gentle smile as he positions his hands, ready to play.

you're immediately mesmerised by the way his fingers glide along the frets as he licks his lips and begins strumming. but there's no lust there - because it takes you a minute until you realise the song he's playing for you.

time in a bottle by jim croce. 1972, you think, if he's taught you well, which he has.

and the lyrics sink in, that excitement in your chest melting to something softer, sweeter. is this. . . how he feels about you? god, you try not to overthink it, try to stay grounded in the moment. your heart is pounding in your ears and you know, you realise, this is his way of telling you how he feels without having to say it.

'if i could save time in a bottle

the first thing that i'd like to do

is to save every day

'til eternity passes away

just to spend them with you'

hesitantly, you rest your hand on his arm as he plays, feeling the comforting material of his plaid shirt beneath your palm. it feels like home, he feels like home. and suddenly you wonder where he's been all your life. it's been a while since you both met, but it doesn't feel like enough. you'd take more, take it all, anything he has to offer you. . . because, well.

you love him.

'if i had a box just for wishes

and dreams that had never come true

the box would be empty

except for the memory

of how they were answered by you'

joel hopes it's not noticeable how nervous he is, it's easier to hide behind a guitar than stand and confront his own feelings towards you. there's too much, too many words, and he'd never find the right words anyway.

it's insane, how you make him feel so comforted yet so on edge at the same time. you're home and yet you're dangerous. but it's too late, he thinks. it was too late the moment he saw you.

because how could he not fall in love with you?

and here you both are, at the edge of the world. each day is uncertain, but joel finds peace in the fact that you're there to face every tomorrow with him. while he knows he'll never be good enough for you, he'll try his best, if you'll let him.

god, he hopes you let him.

'but there never seems to be enough time

to do the things you want to do

once you find them

i've looked around enough to know

that you're the one i want to go

through time with'

time seems to stand still as the song ends, his hand that had been strumming curling in on itself as he runs his thumbs over his fingers in a self-soothing gesture. you reach out, taking his hand in yours.

his eyes flit to the side and then land on you, and you see that vulnerability behind his gaze, the one you've seen so few times before. because he never lets himself seem vulnerable in front of you. you know he feels like he has to be strong, all the time - because if he's not then he can't protect you.

but you want to protect him, too. you want to break down that wall he's tried so hard to build. you want to tell him it's okay, it's alright, that he doesn't need to be nervous.

instead of voicing how you feel, you lean in, giving him every opportunity to pull away. but he doesn't, doesn't want to, he finds himself leaning in too. his hand squeezes yours as he closes the small distance between your lips.

instantly your eyes flutter closed, melting against him as your body arches forward. you're too lost in the kiss to notice him moving the guitar behind him, shifting forward to cup your cheek with his now free hand. his kisses are soft, tender, like he's afraid he might break you.

you reach up to cover his hand on your cheek, brushing your thumb across his knuckles that have seen such violence - and though he believes to be tainted by said violence, you know better.

because he's perfect, to you. no matter what he's done, what he's seen. joel is perfect.

his lips part, fingers on your cheek gliding to grip the back of your neck just enough to tilt your head to deepen the kiss. a groan escapes the his throat and you swallow it eagerly, responding with your own as you get lost in the kiss.

you could drown in him, happily get lost at sea in the weight of his arms. a smile spreads on his lips and fuck, if it isn't the best feeling ever. seeing him smile always sent you reeling, but feeling him smile? you're not sure anything can ever top this. and you never want it to end.

his lips trail from your lips, and you begin chasing his mouth - but he tilts your jaw away in his firm yet gentle grip as he begins to kiss along your cheek, down to your jaw, snaking his way to that sensitive spot behind your ear.

"is this okay?" he whispers, his breath tickling against your skin.

those three words have you exhaling shakily, unable to wipe the smile from your face, "more than okay. . ."

"good," joel huffs softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your ear before kissing his way back to your lips. and he tastes you, really tastes you the way he's craved to. his tongue dances with yours, exploring, learning.

jesus, you're better than he dreamed. the way you feel, the way you move, the soft little exhales. . . it's intoxicating.

but he pulls back, keeping his eyes closed as his forehead presses against yours. you both stay quiet, letting the moment settle, his fingers trailing through the back of your hair as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

you can tell he wants to say something, can feel it in the air between you. his shoulders stiffen, so you lean forward to kiss the side of his mouth, "i loved the song. . ." you whisper, trying to disarm him, "encore?"

joel laughs, can't help it, it's real and raw and all him. he nuzzles against you before pulling back a little to look into your eyes, grateful that you broke the tension, and saved him from himself - god knows he doesn't want to fuck this up. "maybe another time."

"not even for your number one fan?" you tilt your head, practically batting your eyelashes at him.

now he's grinning, fuck, see what you do to him? "mhm," he hums, reaching back to pick up the guitar, keeping his eyes on you all the while, "alright, just for you."

it's then that joel promises to himself, and silently to you, that he won't sabotage this, not like he does everything else in his life.

he'll do right by you, make you happy cause you deserve it.

because you saved him and you don't even know it. and he'll spend the rest of his life trying to be good enough for you, to be the man you deserve. and maybe one day he'll be brave enough to tell you how he feels rather than sing it, but your patience with him makes him love you even more.

the guitar begins to play, and the lyrics seep into the room - a bubble, built just for the two of you. the outside world can wait, while you both gather the courage to tell each other how you really feel.

in the meantime, joel sings. and you listen, content as he bears his heart the only way he knows how. and you're happy. despite everything, despite the fucked up nature of this world you live in, you're happy.

and you only hope that this will be your forever, that he will be your forever.

cause fuck, if only he knew how crazy about him you really are.

[icallhimjoey]

idea: joe breaks up with you just for a reaction (so many of your characters are avoidant-ish and detached so that’s obviously the vibes lol), he doesn’t get one, and it drives him insane — like still thinking about you — obsessed — while on the other side of the world energy (very ‘one that got away’ coded except joe realizes his mistake and grovels in a very confusing way (because he broke up with you???))

omg jfc stop calling me out like this !!!!!! (you're so right, here you go) Wordcount: 2.5K

---

Let Go, Be Caught

Joe says it like he’s asking if you want the last biscuit.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded like he’s trying to casually hug himself, and you’re rinsing a mug, half-listening, until the words slot together into something sharp.

“I think we should break up.”

There’s a pause as you let it register.

You look up.

He looks down.

“Oh.”

That’s all you say. Just that. Oh.

Joe frowns and shifts like he thought the floor would drop out from under you both, but then… it didn’t. Nothing really happened, and now he’s just sort of left standing there with his dramatic little script in hand, confused as to why no one’s clapping.

You set the mug on the rack and wipe your hands dry on a tea towel. The rest of the dishes will have to wait a sec.

“Yea… yea, okay.”

“Wh–… okay?” Joe repeats, tone clipped, eyes huge. He pushes off the counter like he might pace, then doesn’t. “You don’t have anything else to say about that, do you?”

You shrug, a little slow, blink a couple of times and find that… no, you actually don’t.

“I don’t know… what would you like me to say?”

That throws him. He scoffs softly, caught somewhere between wounded and annoyed. You think he probably expected tears. Maybe a big “Why?” or even a slap. Something at least a little theatrical. Something that proves he means enough to you, that whatever the two of you have means enough for it to break you now that he’s taking it away.

Instead, you dry the inside of the mug you’ve just washed and don’t say anything.

If Joe wants to break up, then that’s what you’ll do. Who are you to tell him no?

Joe leaves before you finish putting the dishes away.

And, listen… it’s not that you don’t care, per se.

It’s just that–… you know Joe.

You know his shapes.

You know how he’ll try really hard to peel back a layer and then gets embarrassed about having done it when he finds that you were holding onto that layer for a very specific reason. You know how he’ll scramble to cover himself up with misplaced jokes and evasive manoeuvres that only really ever make sense to him until you giggle and can pretend it never happened.

You know him.

And you know, deep down, that whatever he’s trying to do now isn’t really… real.

Not really.

It’s nothing more than a flare shot into the sky to get your attention. A weird fucked up test that you think he secretly wishes you would fail, because your failure would mean a win in his book, and, sorry mate, but… you’re refusing to play.

He said he wanted to break up, so that’s what you do.

It’s radio silence for about a week, when suddenly, a midnight text lights up your phone.

“hope you’re doing ok”

Then another two days after that.

“did you ever finish that spanish film we put on and then only saw the first 10 minutes of?”

You don’t respond to either one, and you think Joe eventually will get the message. The one you’re sending by not sending him one.

There’s a long gap then.

A whole lot of silence.

Just– nothing from either one of you.

Until suddenly, out of nowhere, at 4AM on a Tuesday morning:

“I dreamt you punched me in the throat. Just woke up and wanted to say, fair enough”

You don’t reply, because what the fuck do you even say to that? Two blue ticks is all he’s getting, but �� and you hadn’t meant for this to happen – he gets them immediately. You cringe inwardly when you see his online status, and hope he doesn’t ask what you’re doing up at this hour. Why you read that text the very second it came in.

No other message comes though.

Not immediately.

But you think something must have changed on his end, because a couple of hours later, you receive a couple of voice notes. The first one he sends is just 2 minutes of muffled sounds, a very low conversation happening somewhere in the background. It gets quickly followed by another in which he apologises because he hadn’t meant to do that. Now, it’s turned into a fairly constant stream of quick short little clips, all random stuff. He’ll hear one of the songs he likes in a shop and records some of it to send to you. He’ll find a spider by his washing machine and quickly needs to tell you that he thinks it’s the same one you saw run underneath over a month ago.

You listen to all of them. Give them the blue ticks he’s seemingly after, and never send anything back.

Not long after that he leaves the continent, maybe, or at least the time zone. You can tell from the delay between his messages. In the timestamps on his voice notes.

His messages turn into funny complaints about his hotel room that weirdly smells like old bananas and how he can’t sleep because of it. About how he doesn’t have enough pairs of socks and is now washing a couple of them in the sink with shower gel. About how he never managed to rinse all the suds out properly and realised his socks were foaming when it rained the next day.

You don’t answer any of it.

Joe broke up with you.

He really said, hey let’s not be together anymore, and you’re merely obliging his request. You think maybe he forgot. Forgot that he had watched you calmly do your own dishes and then suddenly said he didn’t want to be with you anymore. Part of you thinks you should remind him, maybe… but you find are unwilling to.

It’s obvious that Joe thinks you don’t give a shit about him – not in the way he gives a shit about you, anyway – but… you still listen to every voice note, still read every message like it might unlock a version of him that realises he’s made a mistake.

You’re scared that version of him might not actually exist, when, on a Sunday afternoon, you open your front door, sunlight slanting over your shoulder, and–…

There he is.

Joe.

He looks like he’s been standing there for a while. Jacket zipped up to the top, hair an unwashed and unruly mess, longer than you remember. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, half-deflated, like even that doesn’t want to be part of this.

He doesn’t smile.

You don’t move.

For a moment, it’s just breath and the distant sound of traffic from the main road ‘round the corner that fills the silence in between you. You think about shutting the door and walking past him like you’ve not seen him. About saying nothing at all, because it feels like that’s been the trend lately, and letting him live with the silence he once handed to you like it was meant to be a gift.

But then his mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

“I–…” He stops. Swallows. “Hi.”

You arch a brow. “Can I help you?”

Joe exhales like you’ve punched him. Not hard. Just sharp enough to bruise.

“You never answer my messages.”

“You broke up with me.”

Joe’s mouth pulls into a grimace-smile hybrid. There’s nothing he can say to that. He did break up with you. “Can I... can I come in?”

You think about it for a moment.

He’s not owed entry just because he showed up. But… he did show up. In person. Looking like he barely survived the trip over. So, you step aside, curious about what he thinks he has come over to fix.

Joe walks into your flat like it physically hurts him. Like every step weighs more than the last. He walks over to your sofa, but doesn’t actually sit down. He just sort of hovers in the middle of the living room like he’s forgotten how furniture works, fingers flexing at his sides like they’re looking for something to hold onto but are coming up empty.

You do sit, cross-legged on the sofa, and you watch him as his eyes glide across the room and stop at the sink.

“I um…” he starts and has to clear his throat before he continues, “I made a mistake, I think…”

You nod.

No shit.

“Yea, I know.”

His head snaps to look at you. “You... you what?”

You tilt your head and can’t help the small smile that forms.

“Joe. You broke up with me like you were telling me I was out of oat milk...”

He stares down at you, blinking too fast. Then he laughs, helpless and hoarse, and sinks down onto the sofa like the tension holding him upright finally gives out.

“I thought you’d stop me,” he admits. “Or at least... argue. Cry. Something.”

You don’t say anything but wonder if he knows why that was something he wanted from you. If he’s aware that he would’ve had a better chance getting the reaction he was after had he just asked.

“I kept waiting,” he says. “Every day after. For a message. For… anything, whatever. I thought maybe if I gave it long enough, you’d crack and call me an idiot and yell at me for being such a coward and then… I don’t know…”

He rakes his hands through his hair, and you realise it’s why his hair looks the way it does. He’s probably been doing that all day.

“I kept playing it over and over in my head. The way you just said ‘oh’ and went back to washing the dishes... sort of made it obvious you didn’t love me. That I hadn’t really ruined anything, because maybe…” Joe swallows like the words are embarrassing to speak into existence. “Maybe it wasn’t really real in the first place.”

He pauses and then slowly meets your eyes.

“Am I crazy for thinking that?”

You inhale deeply and slowly as you look at each other for a moment.

If Joe wanted to know if your feelings for him were real, he could’ve just asked. He didn’t need to see if you’d break down by telling you he didn’t have any of his own.

“Joe,” you say slowly, “You’re an idiot. And a coward. You’re not crazy for thinking that.”

Joe cracks a small smile.

“But you’re insane for breaking up with me just to see if I’d fight for you. And you’re even more insane for convincing yourself that when I didn’t, that it meant I didn’t care.”

Joe lets his eyes fall to where your hands rest in your lap, and then softly asks, “But did you?”

You look at him then.

Really look.

His jacket is creased and worn. His eyes are bloodshot like he’s slept on his sofa for a month. He’s skinnier than before. Paler. Makes his blemishes stand out more. And there’s a fragility to him you don’t think you’ve seen before. Like someone who’s been walking on a tightrope and only just now realises how high up he actually is.

“Of course I did,” you say on an exhale. “But you made it a game. And I don’t play games like that. Neither should you. We’re not in year fucking seven.”

He closes his eyes. Something inside him folds.

“I thought I’d win you back with words,” he says. “You always liked the way I talked. I thought maybe if I said the right thing, at the right time, you’d fall back in.”

You can’t help the laugh that stutters out of you. “You thought soapy socks would win me back?”

“I know.” He drags his hands down his face as he smiles a little defeatedly. “Jesus, I know.”

Silence laps at the room again, but softer this time. Little bit more gentle. Comfortable, almost. You secretly think that maybe the soapy socks actually did sort of win you back…

“You’re right,” he says then. “We’re not in year seven, and I’m an idiot and a coward, and I wish I never said what I said… I might be asking for a lot, but I hope you can forgive so we can both forget.”

He’s trembling. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But you can see it.

You know Joe.

Know his shapes.

You can see it in the way his jaw tightens. In the way he’s still holding his breath, waiting for you to crush him with bad news.

You think about all the ways Joe’s failed you.

Think about the way he stood in this very room, pulled the pin, and then waited for you to explode.

About the way he scoffed at you when you didn’t explode, and then just walked out without saying another thing.

But then you think about this version of him.

Scared.

Human.

Trying.

“Okay,” you say, and it comes out just as dry as that initial ‘oh’ that had fucked up Joe’s entire world for a long while.

He blinks. “Okay?”  

“Yea. Okay. But no more loyalty tests.”

He groans. “No, that’s not– I wasn’t thinking. I just– I felt like you were already halfway gone. Like I was trying so hard, and you were barely hanging on, and I thought… maybe if I let it go, you’d catch it and grab hold of it.”

He’s breathless and reaches for your hand to clasp in between both of his. You let him take it without issue and look at where he presses it against his chest as you refrain from telling him that it was impossible for you to grab onto something he made disappear.

That feels like something he’s going to have to figure out by himself.

He’ll learn eventually.

And he’s lucky you’re willing to give him the time.

You tighten your fist to let him know that you’ll grab if there’s something to grab onto, and he feels it with both of his.

“You um… you used the past tense, just now. When I asked if you cared… does that mean that–… I know you just said we could forgive and forget but–…”

You lean back slightly, stretching the arm of the hand he’s still holding.

“Joe.”

He nods, swallows audibly as his brow furrows deeper. “Right. Sorry. Dumb question.”

“No,” you say, softer now. “Not dumb. Just… just late.”

His face twists like he might cry as he shifts forward slightly, reaching out like he might touch your knee, but then he aborts the mission halfway.

“I don’t… don’t know where to go from here,” he admits, because saying you would move on is different from actually going ahead and putting it into practice.

“Neither do I.” you smile, sad and tired. “But give it a good try, and maybe I’ll start replying to your voice notes with some of my own… okay?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Likely both.

“Okay?” you repeat, softly shaking your hand making all of him sway as he laughs.

“Yea… yea, okay.”

---

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add yourself

[brotherwtf]

Thoughts of Gale becoming almost unhealthily attached to John curls and longer hair because in the stalag when it was forced to grow out it became such a comfort for Gale, to stroke it and thread his fingers through it. We see that it got a lot shorter between being in the camp and meeting Gale at Thorpe Abbotts, so when Gale sees the short hair for the first time he kind of…freezes, goes offline a little, because he’s already feeling so lost and ungrounded and now one of his little lifelines is gone and he’s frustrated at himself because it’s such a stupid thing to be upset about but he’s already really struggling and now that comfort is gone and he didn’t realize how much he depended on it. Eventually John gets all this out of him and his heart breaks a little, telling Gale he’ll grow it out as soon as he can, and cuddles him more often.

yes definitely John's curls are MY lifeline too can't live without em

maybe it all started when John came into the compound all beaten and bloody, hair matted with blood that it plastered to the side of his head and Gales so off kilter that he steps right to the front of the line and demands to wash John himself, he has to be the one to do it or he'll start to come undone (he'll never admit this ever)

it was a blessing and a curse to wash John, it was horrifying to see how much blood came out with every pass through of water but it calmed Gale to no degree to run his fingers through it, to pull out all of the tangles while he just listened to John's breathing, listened to the brief comments John would make about this dump or about how cold the water was, but it was the most centered Gale had felt to this point just running his fingers through John's hair

he did it in the bitter cold of the winter nights as well, John would nestle into Gale's chest and Gale's hands would immediately go to his hair, he hates how it's not as fluffy or as soft as it was on base but they're still John's curls, still his beautiful hair that Gale absolutely loves

Gale would never admit it but his hands itched when he was back on base and he didn't have anything to do with his fingers, John wasn't there with his beautiful head of curls to center Gale so he started to come undone again, started to freak out even though he was out of the Stalag, was out of that nightmare

their first reunion back on base, they both had their caps on, Gales wayward locks were trapped underneath and he hoped John's were too, until John casually pulled his cap off and Gale saw it was back to regulation length, curling ever so slightly on his forehead but not bunching on his neck, not swooping over his ears like it was in the Stalag, and Gale's hands itched ever the more and he felt his heart pounding like he was flying a mission again and cursed himself for how fucking stupid he felt

it's just hair, it's just Johns hair, it would grow back, but it wasn't the same, it wouldn't be the same until it did grow back because Gale's fingers were long and slender and when he ran his fingers through John's beautiful curls he had enough length to play with, this was not nearly enough and he finds his chest hurting, finds his breath shortening and John of course notices, the intuitive bastard and pulls him aside, asks what's wrong

"'S stupid," Gale mutters, looking down at his shaking hands

John grabs them, of course, to still them and brings the back of Gales hands up to his lips, pressing a chapped kiss to them that almost brings Gale back to earth, almost

"don't say that, doll, if it's bothering you it can't be stupid," John says, running his thumb over the back of Gale's hand in comfort

Gale shakes his head and looks down at their entwined hands, it's good but it's not good enough

"It's just.... your hair... it's short now," Gale manages and he looks away in shame when he gets the words out

John understands it all of course, he'll always understand his Gale, and he just smiles a little sadly, leans forward so he can press their foreheads together

"I know, I hate it too, it's all scratchy and too short for me. I promise, doll, I'll grow it out as soon as I can and then I'll be yours for all hours of the day," John whispers, huffing a laugh into Gale's face that forces the tiniest grin from him, which John of course kisses happily

when they get back to the states and get a little place of their own together, John makes sure to hide all of the scissors and razors and just lets his hair grow, lets it get long and fluffy and of course Gale loves every bit of it, won't keep his fingers out of John's hair if he can help it :)) good Lord the sweetness what if I melt

[takumiraine]

School year is almost over. Have a thing.

As always, I love all the likes, appreciate the fuck out of reblogs and do a little happy dance wiggle with every positive comment. Even if it’s simple like “love this” or an emoji.

Once Upon a Time Chapter 15

<first> <prev> <next>

Inviting Danny over to read *had* originally been out of kindness. He didn’t want the guy to fail, especially because prior to this they had been something resembling friends.

Danny insisting he was a danger was…. Cute. In the same way a kitten would puff up and hiss when you came too close but was ultimately not a threat. To a normal person, yeah, he was probably dangerous. But Jason wasn’t normal. Nor was he particularly sane if you listened to his brothers.

Danny was right about one thing though. He was right about the fact that Jason had a lot of questions. How did Danny become the way he was, was that method shut down, did his being here mean that other ghosts were going to show up, would he help if they did, what does that make him, why did he pick Gotham…. So many questions.

Yet the most important one… “How did you settle the pit?” Because Jason had tried drinking, most drugs, sex, violence and some combination of the four in various quantities only for it to do nothing. Yet Danny? Danny had gotten it settled almost effortlessly.

Jason knew from a glance though that Danny had no idea what he was talking about. Maybe they called it something else in Illinois. Wouldn’t be the first bit of dialectical confusion in his life. “The pit rage?” He tried again, then paused. Still no recognition. Wasn’t shorthand then. Maybe a full name difference. He’d try the worst symptom of it. “Makes you angry all the time?” He paused again, still nothing. Maybe it was two different things. Or maybe Jason was just getting fucked by fate. He still had one more symptom to try. “Turns your eyes green?” That turned the lightbulb on in Danny’s expression and his own eyes flicked green before turning blue again, so quick if he wasn’t looking for it he’d miss it.

Danny was really a terrible actor. It was clear that whatever he was going to say, he didn’t want to say it. Well that was great. Once Danny started talking, however, Jason found himself on the receiving end of a crash course in being undead. His training allowed him to commit it to memory, but he was stuck on one particular piece of information. That Danny couldn’t tell what he was.

Jason didn’t know if that was a good thing or terrible one. When Danny was done talking Jason asked the other question at the front of his mind. “Can I see my core?” Danny seemed to balk at the question.

“I… Can try? It might…. Well probably will…. Feel really weird. And I’m gonna have to get close.” Jason nodded at that and moved one of the decorative pillows that Cass had brought over once and Stephanie had insisted made his apartment look like a home rather than a college kid’s bachelor pad. It made them happy and he liked the two of them most of the time. He then scooted back to the far side of the couch, tucking one leg half under him to give Danny all of the room he might need. It was times like this that it really sank in how big he was in comparison to Danny. He gestured to the space he made and Danny came over, sitting almost perfectly mirrored to him.

Only then did Jason set his book aside, the last vestige of what he had been doing before. Danny had his completely undivided attention.

“Are you sure?” Danny was giving him an out. God this guy was going to give him cavities from how kind he always was trying to be. That or Jason would irreparably corrupt him. He nodded anyways, with no hesitation.

“Never been more sure.” Jason watched as Danny nodded back, then his eyes switched to green, that same Lazarus emerald he had when the pit was writhing inside of him. That was the only warning he got before Danny stuck his hands inside of Jason’s chest.

Jason had to fight to breathe. His lungs tried to seize under the immediate frigid water flooding through his veins. It was only thanks to his training that he kept his face impassive not that Danny was looking at him. He was focused and every swipe of his hands, slow and controlled, spread more of the ice through Jason’s body. He could feel every hair stand on end and goosebumps erupt down his arms and over the back of his neck.

Jason was just about to ask how Danny would know he found it when Danny’s hand brushed up against something inside of him that felt more solid, which turned his stomach into knots.

“Ow.” Danny said, “Found it.” Jason could feel whatever it was moving slowly through his chest. It wasn’t painful, no more painful than the icy feeling anyways, but the pressure was uncomfortable. He breathed through it, slow and steady. “If you start feeling anything abnormal, tell me immediately. Emotional, physical, mental. Any of it. Even if it’s vague.”

“Scout’s honor.” Jason knew his voice sounded off already, his throat having gone dry when Danny first reached into his chest. He didn’t know why that was his go to pledge either. There was so much he did around Danny that didn’t make sense and yet…

When Danny pulled the core out of his body warmth reinfused him quickly but he swore he could feel the spikes and sharp bits as they came through his skin, even though there was no actual damage done. He was reminded of

that time, shortly before he stole the Batmobile’s wheels and became the next in what turned out to be a long line of Robins, when he tried to get his mother a vase for her birthday. Only to realize they had no money and all he could find was a bunch of shattered pottery and some glue. So he improvised, and the result was cut hands and a mass of jagged edges as it fell apart under its own weight. How fitting now that his core was in a similar state.

Danny was explaining what he thought the theory of its edges and the various colors was when he heard two sets of footsteps, intentionally light, hit the creaky spots just outside of the door and stop. He reached behind him and grabbed his gun from under the remaining pillow, and went to warn Danny, but he had no time.

Safety off and gun over Danny’s shoulder as the door burst open. He nearly shot them where they stood and it would have served them right. When he saw it was his brothers, he could feel the reflexive tightening in his finger and just barely kept it in check.

“Little Wing! We’re dragging you to-“ Dick’s sentence cut off as he took in Danny on the couch, entirely too close to be purely platonic, and his expression morphed into a shit eating grin, eyebrows raised. He could almost picture Dick filing that away for future needling and attempts to embarrass or blackmail him.

Damian stepped through the door without waiting to be invited in. “Todd, put down the gun. You know father would be most disappointed if you shot us.” There was a pause as Damian also took in Danny, though his expression turned to mild disappointment at best and mild disgust at worst. “Are you courting someone?” Danny, to his credit, didn’t move. Didn’t even look particularly shocked or scared beyond the surprise at the door being kicked open. Just calmly pushed the core back into Jason’s body. And turned around slightly.

“Uh, no. Not dating. But Jason? I would really appreciate not having my ears ringing for the next week or two.”

“So sexual relations only. Understood. Grayson, come. We shall leave them to their….” Damian sneered, “activities.” Jason groaned and rubbed his face with the hand holding the gun. He did not need this now. He had too many other things going on to deal with those two… still. May as well figure out what they really wanted.

“Get in here assholes. Sit. Danny, my asshole brothers. Assholes, Danny.” The two entered, and Jason watched Danny categorize them with the same kind of casual scrutiny he gave everyone. Dick dropped into the chair Danny had spent most of the day in, legs flung over the side, Damian continuing to observe as he shut the door and watched the trio for a long moment more.

“Dick Grayson. Glad to see the little bird has made some friends at last.” Jason bristled at his older brother’s words, teeth gritting together for a moment as his hand tightened around the grip of his gun, safety back on.

“I’m gonna make it look like an accident. Then B can’t hate me over it.”

“Tch.” Damian clicked his tongue and moved a wooden chair to sit primly on it“You are not that cunning Todd. I could be far more successful at draping murder as an accident than you could hope.” Jason was just about to fire back a retort when Danny spoke up, successfully breaking the banter.

“Uh hi. I’m Danny. Nice to….” Danny sent a glance towards Jason, then Dick and Damian, “meet you?”

“Demon spawn. Dick.” The one thing Jason always loved about his older brother was he could never be in trouble for calling him a dick in public. “Why are you here?”

“Grayson was going to take me out for supper and Father suggested we invite you. Drake was also invited but he had other plans.” Damian sounded bored, or maybe that was just the inconvenience of coming all this way.

“Something about getting Babs and ���avenging their honor’.” Dick waved a hand and, although he thought he didn’t, Jason must have made a small noise since Danny met his eyes with a questioning look. Dick didn’t know how smart Danny was. If he wasn’t careful he was going to give way more of their identities. Not that Danny was likely to do anything with them, if he hadn’t already. Jason gave a small shake of the head and Danny wisely kept his mouth shut. “So we came to you. But it looks like you’re…. Busy.” Dick gave what he must have thought was a charming grin combined with an unsubtle wink.

“Richard.” Jason grit out. “Nothing is happening, was happening, or was going to happen before you got here you walking traffic light.” He could feel the pit start to bubble. Damn it.

“Right and I left all of my weapons at home.” Damian countered, deadpan. “You share father’s tendencies towards having what could be called a type.”

“Dami, why are you bringing weapons to dinner?” Dick asked, sitting up and looking at Damian. Good the focus was off of him now.

“We live in Gotham. Besides, it is hardly my fault that you did not check. Now is it?”

“At the risk of poking my nose into another family’s business…. I have been mugged…..” Danny paused a minute to count on his fingers. “Seven? Times since I started college this semester.”

Damian looked pleased. “See? Daniel gets it.”

Danny tried to hide the flinch, but Jason knew that he was utterly unsuccessful. “Just Danny, please. Nothing good has ever come out of my being called Daniel.”

“Hm. That goes against many things I have been taught but fine. Upon your insistence, Just Danny, I shall not call you Daniel again.” Jason snickered at his brother’s formality then hid it behind a cough. “If there was nothing going on before we got here, what *were* you doing Todd? I know you do not have many friends.”

Jason looked up again, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Tutoring. He helps me with math, I help him with analyzing literature.”

“Really?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow. Jason could feel the judgement in the question and he scowled, the pit bubbling more violently in response. If Dick didn’t shut his fucking mouth…

Except Danny opened his before Jason could do anything to warn them they needed to shut up. Danny must have had a lot of practice redirecting people because the ramble had just enough ADHD to not let either of the two intruders get a word in edgewise, while being focused and pointed enough to put them on the defensive.

“I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid and so I practiced a lot of math early on. But you can’t really see the stars here in Gotham. You should really get on your dad about the smog in this town. I can get my friends to put together an ecological study if you want. Her big interest is ecology. I can’t really have her come visit though because if she meets Ms. Ivy then I’ve got a way bigger problem on my hands than ‘Danny did you hear about the water usage in this company’s Metropolis branch alone?’ or ‘Danny, we cannot let the fast fashion conglomerate set up outside of town. There is a rare moth that could become endangered that has a habitat there.’” Danny paused to take a breath and Dick stood up, clearly taking this as a point to exit lest he become hostage to more rambling.

“I’ll let B know about your concerns Danny. Come on Baby D, we have to make it to dinner before they get busy.”

“I do wish to hear more about the moths, but I suppose sustenance should come first.” Damian stood up and brushed nonexistent lint off of his clothing. “It was pleasant to meet a friend of Todd’s that is not overly concerned with violence or a vapid oxygen converter.”

“Night Little Wing. See you at family dinner, right?”

“Of course. A would kill me if I skipped again.” Jason stood and showed them out, leaning against the door once it shut. He had done it just to make sure they actually left more than anything else.

“So, siblings, am I right?” Danny was trying to joke, but it just earned a groan from Jason.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” A pause. “So. Uh. Where did that gun come from?”

That… was actually funny. Jason couldn’t help the laugh. “I have them kept everywhere. Never know when someone is going to break in that wants to do more than invite you to dinner.”

“My parents had their weapons everywhere too. More because they forgot about them than any real worry. Unless you count the thermoses. I’ve almost been souped more times than I can count.”

Jason waited for a further explanation before he took a guess. “Grenade launcher except the grenades are filled with soup?” He suspected that was something Tim had tried once in a sleep deprived attempt to help Alfred when he was dead.

Danny, to his credit, looked positively appalled by that idea. “What? No. Who would….? No. Portable ghost containment units. They look like thermoses. So. Soup. My parents are fruit loops, not completely insane.” Danny shrugged, “I still have one under my sink just in case.”

There was a moment of silence before Danny suddenly grew serious, if fidgety. “It’s point and click. In case I’m incapacitated or… say… an alternate timeline version of me bent on destruction of the world and everything beyond starts causing trouble. Take off the lid, aim, and press and hold the arrow pointing towards you. That’s the vacuum part. The arrow away from you releases what’s caught. Not ideal unless you are in the zone or at a portal that you can sort of… spit them into and shut down.”

Jason chewed on that for a moment “awfully specific scenario you envisioned there Danny.” Jason came back and took his place on the couch, causing Danny to skitter back to the armchair. “Something I need to be aware of?”

“What? No. No. That hasn’t happened ever.” Danny gave a laugh and Jason wondered how nobody found out his secret identity prior to that. “I’ve just worked with some potential alternate timelines before. And if I can jump timelines, it stands to reason a different me could. And if the different me could, they could also be potentially murderous and human hating.” Jason raised an eyebrow but grabbed his book, not pursuing it though filing it away for future contingencies.

“Right. So. Since it is starting to get late enough to eat, pizza sound good? I was planning on having that tonight anyways. And meeting more of my family was not planned so food.”

“I….could eat.” How midwestern. Jason had never seen Danny not hungry. He wondered if Danny just had an empty pit where his stomach used to be.

Granted, maybe it was a previously-dead thing. Jason was always hungry himself now that he was back from the dead. Maybe it had something to do with the horrible ecto thing Danny had mentioned.

More questions for later.

[tinytalkingtina]

WIP Weekend

Oh goodness I did this late so thanks for the tags @vthx @hbyrde36 @pearynice and @helpimstuckposting!

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple!

In an effort to catch up on the other outstanding asks I have for B.A.D. D.O.G. and my Star Trek Steddie AU gonna have only two options for new emojis this week!

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating" now features Steve playing mind games right back at Eddie heh heh.

💥Steddie Big Bang: Secret fic is at 9k words now! This can't be publicly shared yet, so if you send in this emoji feel free to pick another fic as well, and I'll write 3 sentences for both. Hopefully by next week I can start sharing snippets :D

Tagging some folks to join in on the fun and work on their own WIPs this weekend:

@apomaro-mellow @eriquin @zombiethingy @dame-zoom-a-lot @fkinkindagauche

@wynnyfryd @fuctacles @stevesjockstrap @shares-a-vest @runninriot

@onirislanding @strangerthingswritersguild

Enjoy a snippet from 🏴‍☠️ below the cut:

Yeah, he could just tell Eddie his hopeless crush wasn’t completely hopeless, buuut...there was no reason Steve couldn’t play a little dirty. See just how far he could push Eddie before he cracked.

The plan formed in Steve’s head pretty fast: The walls of their apartment were pretty thin. His roommate had mentioned he could hear Steve busy pleasing his partners before, usually with some sort of teasing snarky comment once they left.

Eddie had obviously taken those noises and let his imagination run wild. So now Steve had to step up his game and put on a show to inspire his voyageristic audience.

If Eddie wanted more, but was too chicken shit scared to ask? Well now he was about to get almost everything he wanted and listen in on a completely new side of his roommate:

It was time for Daddy to have some alone time with his toys.

Operation Fuck With Eddie (Then Maybe Fuck Him For Real If Things Work Out) got thrown into motion earlier than Steve expected it to. Robin and Vickie called in sick to their usual football/potluck/movie night, which meant the two of them would be alone in the apartment all Sunday. Steve barely kept a shit-eating grin off his face while he promised Robin that no, she wouldn’t have gotten rabies from her girlfriend sneezing on her, and yes, he’d drop off some soup tomorrow if they didn’t feel better.

Right after halftime, he gave a totally real and not fake-sounding yawn to interrupt Eddie’s rant about some burrito commercial ‘violating the sacred trust of documentarians’.

“Wow I’m sooo tired man, think I’m gonna head to bed early today,” he said, doing an exaggerated stretch. His would-be author of a roommate raised an eyebrow.

“I know you get up stupid early for your job but last I checked it’s four pm Steve.”

“Uh, yup, I see that.” Shit, think fast Harrington! “I’ve...got an early morning meeting! Yeah, the principal wants us there at five thirty. AM. Yup, early meeting. At the school. Where I work. With kids in it sometimes but not at five thirty in the morning.” Smooth.

Eddie stared at him for a second before shrugging.

“That sucks. Go get your beauty sleep Harrington. I’ll let you know if the world ends and the Browns win somehow. Really hope they don’t," he added with a wink, "Or I’ll have to let Gareth dye my hair. Think I'd look good as a blonde Big Boy?”

The combo of imagining Eddie posing like the sexy lady from that movie about the cross-dressing musicians and the college nickname nearly took him out.

“Haha, yeah, totally. Well, night! Shower time for Dadd-Steve!” He capped his train-wreck of a sentence off with finger guns, the classic.

Eddie laughed and turned back to the game. Fuck yeah, he bought it! Take that Robin, he totally could be as sneaky as a ninja if he wanted. He should probably tell his roommate to stop making bets with Gareth though, what if the guy tried to shear him like a sheep next?

[sassconvict]

Oneshot

Bruised Hand

Teenage Joel Miller x Teenage F!reader

Summary -> Joel gets into it at home and you see him the next day at school.

Warning -> Parental abuse, physical violence, swearing

Word count -> 700

Idea from @grayandthyme 😏

Joel’s POV:

You’re standing in the kitchen when you hear the front door swing open and slam shut. Your father is swearing Tommy’s name as he stomps up the stairs to his bedroom. You run quickly to catch him. As you race up the stairs, you hear him slamming his fists against Tommy’s door after realizing it was locked.

You push yourself between the door of your brother’s room and your father and attempt to shove him away.

“Leave him the fuck alone,” you scream at him, but this just seems to make him want to get to Tommy more.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to me, boy. Now get the fuck outta my way. That fucking boy needs to learn a lesson or two.” Your father yells back at you as he attempts to shove you out of the way.

“I won’t let you hurt him!” You say before winding your fist back and placing a mediocre punch to your father’s face.

He steps back and rubs his face. “Fuck sakes, you gonna take the beating for your little shit of a brother then, huh?”

Suddenly, you feel his fist collide with your face, and the impact sends you to the ground. He doesn’t stop there. After you harshly collide with the ground, he sends a kick to your side, and you scream out in pain, a tear rolling down your face as he speaks up again.

“Are you done testing me, boy, or do I need to keep going?”

You don’t reply, just slowly try to get up. Then you hear the doorknob to your brother’s room turn slowly as he peeks out the small crack in his door, opening it wide open when he sees you with blood dripping from your face.

“Tommy, don’t come out here!” You yell, but it’s too late. Your father kicks you back on the ground before he runs into Tommy’s room, slamming and locking the door behind him.

You crawl over to the door, banging on it while begging your father to leave Tommy alone. But you know he can’t stop this from happening, so you sit there praying that he won’t get it too bad.

You don’t even know what Tommy did this time. You don’t care. You’ll always protect your brother, no matter what.

The next day:

Reader’s POV:

You enter your first period classroom early, like always. Taking your seat before looking over to see Joel Miller entering the room, you immediately notice the gash on his face and how he walks with a slight limp. He must have gotten in another fight with his brother, you thought.

He looks over to you, eyes catching yours as he offers a slight smile and a little wave before coming over and taking the desk right beside you. You notice the bruises on his hand, and this makes you frown at him.

“Hey Joel, you okay?” You ask him.

He nods, “Yeah, just got into it a bit at home, but it’s not anything I’m not used to.”

This reply makes you feel a little sick. You want to ask more but decide not to pry.

“Can I see your hand?” You ask him quietly.

He hesitates before putting his hand out in front of yours. Instead of grabbing it, though, you place your palm up against his and let out a laugh at the difference in size.

He smiles before taking his fingers and curls them over the top of yours to show how big his hands really are.

He laughs this time before saying, “Cute little hands you have. I bet they fit perfectly holding mine.”

This makes you blush hard. You look away a little embarrassed, but he moves his hand and turns your face to him again.

“Thanks for asking if I was alright. It’s nice to know someone cares,” he confesses to you while looking deep into your eyes.

You smile again and answer him, “I’ll always care, Joel.”

You then hear other people enter the class, and you are broken out of your moment as he pulls his hand away and rubs the back of his neck.

“Well, if it means anything, I care about you too. A lot.”

You don’t say anything yet. You just smile brightly at him, blush creeping back onto your skin.

“That means a lot more than you think it does.”

[pinkyjulien]

Valentin & Mitch | 648/?? 😈 ~Put on your bad boy smile

[cherrywriterrr]

no one else gets to have you

exbf!rafe cameron x reader

warnings: suggestive content, heavy tension, possessive behavior, jealousy, profanity, toxic dynamics, reader is fighting feelings (and losing), rafe being rafe (obsessed, in denial, and desperate), emotional manipulation if you squint, filthy tension, cursing, rough body language, wall pinning, implied smut, mutual emotional damage, unhealthy choices. you are so not over him.

you knew going to the party was a mistake the second you stepped through the door.

but topper had texted “everyone’s gonna be there,” and you weren’t about to be the ex who stayed home like she was still heartbroken.

(which you were. but still.)

you wore his favorite dress. you told yourself it wasn’t for him.

you’re halfway through a drink when you feel it—that stare. the one that makes your neck prickle and your lungs forget how to breathe.

you turn.

and of course he’s there. rafe.

leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns the place, red cup in hand, jaw clenched. he’s not even pretending not to look at you.

you shoot him a look like, don’t. he tilts his head like, watch me.

you disappear into the crowd. it doesn’t work.

not five minutes later, he’s behind you—hand curling around your wrist like muscle memory.

"really?" you say, turning around, heart in your throat. "you’re doing this here?"

“you wore that dress.” his voice is low, smug. “you knew what the fuck you were doing.”

“it’s a dress, rafe. get over yourself.”

he leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “nah. see, the problem is, i can’t. haven’t stopped thinking about you for one fuckin’ second.”

you inhale sharp. “maybe you should’ve thought about that before you ruined everything.”

he smiles, slow and mean. “sweetheart, i didn’t ruin shit. you walked away.”

“because you made me.”

his grip tightens just a little. “and now you’re here, wearin’ that dress, tryin’ to act like you don’t want me watchin’. like you don’t want me touchin’.”

you swallow. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“oh, baby,” he laughs, low and dark. “i don’t have to. i’ve had you. every fuckin’ part of you. there’s no flattering—just facts.”

you try to pull away.

you don’t make it far.

he steps in front of you, crowding you against the hallway wall, eyes dark and burning.

“you really think anyone else is gonna know how to touch you the way i do?” he asks, voice sharp and low like a threat and a prayer all in one. “you really think they’re gonna know what you like, how you sound when you’re about to come, how your thighs shake when you’re tryin’ to be quiet?”

your breath stutters. “rafe—”

“nah,” he cuts you off, hand on your hip now, hot through the fabric. “they don’t get to know you like that. they don’t get to fuckin’ learn you. not when i already got the blueprint.”

his forehead presses against yours, and you hate that you don’t move away.

“you’re mine,” he whispers. “still are. always been. no one else gets to have you like that.”

you close your eyes. you should slap him. you should leave.

but instead you whisper, “then why’d you let me go?”

he pauses, jaw clenched. his fingers flex at your side.

“’cause i thought maybe you’d come back.”

you open your eyes.

“i’m not coming back.”

he laughs once, low and bitter. “yeah, you fuckin’ are.”

you shake your head, but he leans in, lips brushing your cheek.

“you’ll come back when you realize no one else can touch you right. no one else can kiss you like i do. no one else makes you beg like i did.”

you hate that your knees go weak.

he feels it. he smirks.

“just say it,” he murmurs. “tell me no one’s made you come since me.”

your silence says enough.

he presses a kiss to your forehead like it’s a goddamn promise.

“that’s what i thought.”

you should’ve gone home.

but rafe is outside the house now, leaning against his truck, smoking like he didn’t just unravel your entire sanity fifteen minutes ago.

you walk past him.

or try to.

“get in the truck,” he says, calm like he didn’t just press you up against a wall in front of half the party.

you keep walking.

he tosses the cigarette, pushes off the truck, follows. “don’t fuckin’ ignore me.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” you snap, spinning around. “we’re not together anymore.”

he crowds you in three steps.

“yeah?” he says, voice low and mean. “then why are you lookin’ at me like you want me to ruin your whole night?”

your breath hitches. you hate him. you hate how right he is.

he backs you up against his truck, hands on either side of you, caging you in. “you think i don’t know you? you think i don’t see how fuckin’ soaked you get when i talk to you like this?”

“stop—”

“nah,” he growls, stepping in closer, breath hot against your cheek. “you don’t want me to stop. you want me to fuckin’ remind you.”

his hand grabs your chin, forcing your gaze up.

“you want him?” he asks. “that guy you were talkin’ to inside?”

you stay quiet.

he grits his teeth. “did he make you whimper in the dark? did he know how you like your hair pulled when you’re about to fall apart?”

your thighs press together without meaning to.

his smirk is cruel. “yeah. that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

“rafe,” you whisper, “this is so fucked.”

he leans down, mouth ghosting yours. “yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “but you still want it.”

and god help you, you do.

you pull him in like a sin and a salvation all in one, and he kisses you like he’s starving—hands everywhere, grip bruising, mouth claiming.

your back hits the truck door.

he kisses you like he never stopped. like you’re still his.

his lips drag down to your jaw, then your neck, then back up again. he groans against your skin.

“no one else gets to have you,” he growls, biting down just enough to make you gasp. “i don’t care if we’re not together. you’re mine. always fuckin’ mine.”

you pull him tighter.

you don’t say it, but he knows. he’s always known.

taglist<- ->more

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @qversazex @viqtoria @k4yr14 @sc05