#blocked drain poole

[sosplumbingdrainage]

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[ihaveanunhelthyobsessionwithwump]

Truly, the wildest feeling is when you know that you're about to pass out.

(For me, at least) there is this moment of sudden realisation. Just a single moment when the fog clears and the only coherent thought formed is "Oh shit."

Sometimes, that feeling comes minutes before it happens; other times, it's only seconds.

Sometimes, it happens early enough that you can do something to try and stop it or attempt to make it safer when it inevitably happens. (sitting or laying down, standing still while your vision clears, and focusing on taking deep breaths)

And sometimes you turn to sit down, and suddenly you're laying on the floor, your wrist sore from hitting the counter on the way down, and unable to move as your body catches up.

Sometimes, you're conscious as you lay on the floor. Your body completely unresponsive as you wait for the lead weights to disappear from your limbs

Sometimes, you feel like you've evaded it only to realise that the water beating down on you is at the wrong angle and your music has skipped ahead, and when you notice your eyes are closed, you open them to see all the bottles are strewn across the shower floor, your legs folded beneath you as you slump against the wall. Your head sore where you must have hit the water control on the way down.

The one thing that never changes is the panic in your chest as you realise how badly the situation can become in just seconds if you're not careful.

And the sudden clarity that your mind is slowly shutting off and losing control of your own conciseness. That you're going to go down. You're going to lose seconds, and that thought terrifies you. Because seconds could mean life or death in the wrong situation.

[inbabylontheywept]

the house i grew up in was a little bit of a fixer upper. for the first 19 years, my dad just sort of slowly fixed it, but pretty early on in college, he came into a large amount of cash and decided to just do the whole thing at once. so he rented a different house for like, 2 months that was just a block down from us, and then got a bunch of contractors to fix original house ASAP. it was kind of crazy, but it compressed many years of work into like, three months.

the sitting in a new house for three months was actually pretty fun. and i shouldnt really complain at all (staying at home while in college is a sweet deal)

but.

but. my parents are fairly hard of hearing, and their bedroom in the old house was in the furthest possible annex from everyone else. wheras in the rental it was just in the middle of the house. so without going into details, i was extremely aware that my parents were having sex like, eight times a day. my dad had just retired and i guess they were celebrating, which is great i guess, having parents that really like each other is way better than the alternative, but also, it did make me envy their deafness. i kept headphones on for so long that year i got literal ear calluses.

at the same time, the house my buddy from the shoe incident grew up in flooded. turbo flooded. they burst like, two pipes at once and the damage was so severe they had to redo all the flooring and all the drywall. his family actually had homeowners insurance, which is either incredible or suspicious for a family that used the drained pool in their backyard to store rusty scrap metal. so insurance was handling the work, but in the meantime, they were crammed into a very small hotel room space. we did the math on it then, it averaged about 80 square feet a person.

so one day i got home, and i was chilling, and then six rolled around, and apparently six o'clock was sex o'clock because my parents decided to flex their cardio. i grabbed my headphones and prayed that god would do for me what he did for beethoven, but that failed to work, and then seven rolled around and my parents were still at it, which again, very impressive, but was pushing me to swap out judas for mozart in those prayers. there's a definitive point where you stop praying to be deaf and instead pray that god could take you to a nice field and pop you like a gore-balloon.

i was about five minutes away from that point when my friend called me and basically said i have been stuck in a 500 square foot space with 6 people and i didn't have many marbles to start but what few i had are gone. please. if we are friends, if we were ever friends, take me out of here just for a moment.

and i was still pretty mad at him, but i had pity on the poor guy. also helped that i was desperate to leave the house. so i drove the chickenshitmobile to the hotel and i picked him up, and then we did our normal hangout activity, which was go to food city and buy produce. his normal house was, on a good day, nasty, and his backyard was, as i stated before, mostly used to store mosquito larvae and rusty metal, so what we'd always done before was just walk to the grocery store a half block away and leer at vegetables.

so we did that and it was like old times again. they had some radishes that were expired, so i could buy like, literally an entire grocery bag of them for about $5. so i did. i really like radishes. he got a coconut because he liked fruit and beating things with hammers.

which probably would've been great except we didn't have a hammer, so instead we spent about 30 minutes stomping itike it owed us money. when it finally cracked we cheered like we just got the winning touchball at the superdome and then he ate some of the flesh, and i ate some of the radishes, and we admired the black, starless sky of the city before i took him back to his hotel room.

and then we got pulled over.

i forgot to turn my lights on because the street all around the food city was ludicrously well lit. so it went from being pretty bright, to pretty bright and flashy, then i pulled into a parking lot and a cop came to ask us for IDs which is where everything went to shit:

i’d forgotten my license at home. 

the cop was was actually kind of chill about it - he said he could get by with just an address. except i did not know my address. i hadn't memorized the new one yet. so i told the cop, my house is getting remodeled, i don't know my address right now. and then he went to my friend, and my friend said the exact same thing. house getting remodeled, staying somewhere else, no address, sowwwwwwy.

now the cop genuinely didn't know what to do. he went back to his car, and i was stressed that i was about to get into HUGE trouble so i started eating the radishes and my buddy started eating more of his coconut, and we actually managed to eat like a quarter of both before the cop came back. we ate enough produce that he could smell something weird in the air, and he asked what the smell was, and i said radishes, and my buddy said coconut, and the cop said which, and then we produced a large bag of droopy radishes and an absolutely brutalized coconut, and the cop was just like

so my buddy tried explaining how he was sharing a 500 square foot apartment with 6 people and wanted a fruit he could fight with power tools, and i tried explaining how i'd actually tried buying my parents like, board games and puzzles and stuff but nothing worked - the only thing my parents seemed to like doing right now was each other, and we both went on long enough and pathetically enough that the cop eventually went:

ok. stop.

and we stopped.

and he said do you know why i pulled you over?

and i said, because of my headlights, and my friend (who is hispanic) and the cop both looked at me like like i was the dumbest person in the entire world. and then the cop said no. that's why i'm allowed to pull you over. i checked your car because this neighborhood has a terrible sex trafficking problem, and i pull over every car i can to make sure no one is buying or selling sex. and you two are obviously doing neither. now i could give you, like, four tickets right now, but that would do nothing to make this area safer, so just turn your lights on, go home, drive safe, and try to be less stupid in the future.

and i said okay but i was thinking, you know, damn, this is just how i live man, i don't have a hidden third gear i can shift into. people can't just get smarter because it would be convenient. it's always convenient to be smart. i am literally trying my best.

but i didn't say anything because i was, slowly, learning how to filter what i said. instead i nodded and the cop left then i dropped my buddy off, and the last thing he said was said he owed me for responding to his SOS. I said he owed me for a lot of things, and he agreed that was true. then i drove home with my lights on, 5 under the speed limit, and arrived to a peaceful quiet home. I could’ve wept with relief but instead I went to bed.

the relief was short lived. i was woken up at 6 am by my parents. i swore, and then i prayed, and when i did not explode, i swore again. then i got up to make breakfast before my first class.

[southerndrainageandwater]

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[katsu28]

rain, rain, (don't) go away

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: you put your trust in a handsome stranger in the midst of a bit of bizarre wet weather. what could go wrong? (4.6k)

warnings: minimal swearing

a/n: not quite the summer lando series i've been working on but the idea for this came to me in a dream a while ago lmao

It doesn’t often rain in Monaco. Especially not during the summer. 

So when you feel a drop splash against your forehead, then another, you’re wildly unprepared. You squint up at the rapidly darkening sky like it's personally wronged you, and you’re met with another raindrop, this time in your eye. 

Part of you wonders if you could try and make it home before it starts to pour. The other part knows it would be an impossible feat given your lack of a car and how far you’d have to run in such a short amount of time. Even as you ponder the thought, the occasional drops turn into a heavy drizzle. 

You barely make it under the nearest awning before it really starts to come down. All around you are people scrambling to get out of the rain and somewhere dry, caught off guard by the unexpected downpour like you are. 

“Crazy rain, huh?” You startle at the sound of a voice from next to you, gaze snapping to your left to see a man huddled under the same awning, most likely having come up with the same idea you did. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He apologizes, holding his hands up in surrender. “I take it you weren’t expecting rain when you left the house today either?” 

You scoff, chuckling. “Was anybody?” 

You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him once more, and to say you’re pleasantly surprised is an understatement. 

Your awning buddy is awfully attractive, and looks to be around your age too. A form-fitting black sweater stretches across broad shoulders, paired with baggy blue jeans that might not have worked for everyone, but definitely suits him well. He’s smiling at you too, a lopsided grin that has you intrigued by him. “The one time I didn't check my weather app before I headed out.” 

“You actually check the weather app?” He chuckles, tilting his head. 

“You don’t?” 

“Can’t say that I do. Usually I just trust the vibes when I look out the window. Didn’t really work out today, though.” He holds his palm out from under the makeshift shelter, letting the rain pool in his hand before dumping it on the ground, flicking his fingers to rid them of the excess drops with a scrunched nose. “Is this your first time in Monaco?” 

You shook your head, smiling softly. “I live here. You?” He bobs his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s never rained like this though, especially this time of year.” 

“If it’s any consolation, I reckon it’ll stop soon. It’s usually pretty quick—” 

A bolt of lightning flashes through the sky right at that moment, followed by a clap of thunder not five seconds later. If it continues on like this, you might be stuck here forever. 

“Huh! Maybe not.” The man sounds amused, aiming a sympathetic smile at you. You can’t help but chuckle, and you notice it makes him perk up a bit, looking pleased with himself. “Hope you don’t have anywhere to be.” 

“Honestly? I don’t. But I’d rather not be standing under this awning til the storm lets up. Could be ages, by the looks of it.” 

A stream rushes its way down the street, carrying a sad swirl of leaves down the storm drain at the corner along with it. It seems everyone else has come to their senses and found somewhere warm and dry to wait out the sudden storm because when you look around, the two of you are the only ones still outside. 

As if the man can sense what you’re thinking, he speaks. He’s smiling hopefully at you, head tilted invitingly. “There’s a cafe down the block that was open before it started to rain. Care to join me?” 

Normally, you’d be wary about a handsome stranger inviting you to an unknown location. This seems like one of those situations you’ve been warned about, but right now you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s about time you put yourself out there, take a chance for once. You’re pretty sure he won’t try to kidnap you. 

“I’d love to.” You reply. You peer out at the dreary grey sky again, lips twisting into a grimace. “Is it just me or does it seem to be raining harder?” 

“I say we make a break for it. Run like hell on three.” He says firmly. You nod and he does the same, holding out his hand. You slip your fingers through his without a second thought. “One, two, three—go, go, go!” 

You both take off in a wild sprint down the sidewalk, splashing through puddles on your way. He giggles the whole time, peals of laughter bouncing off the cobbled street that sound gleeful. You’re laughing too, because who would’ve ever thought you’d be running through the rain hand in hand with a guy you’ve only just met?

He tugs you along, leading the way to your destination confidently. Well, as confident as one can while being half-blinded by a torrential downpour. 

You nearly slip as you make a poor attempt at a sudden stop when he finally slows, and you probably would’ve ended up flat on your ass if he hadn’t grabbed you by your forearms, steadying you with an infectious grin that you can’t help but return. 

The bell above the door rings when the two of you stumble inside, soaked to the bone even in the very short time it took to get down the road. But you know what they say, when it rains, it pours. 

He shakes the rainwater from his hair not unlike a dog would shake out its fur, and in the process splatters you with the droplets. Normally you wouldn’t be too happy about it, but you’re already drenched and he’s very cute, so you don’t mind. 

The place is pretty much empty when you look around, save for a handful of other patrons doing their own things. It’s cute though—cozy and warm, the smell of coffee beans and something sweet floating through the air. You never noticed it before, but it’s exactly the kind of cafe that you love. 

The man seems to notice that you’re still holding hands, because his cheeks turn pink and he drops it, smiling rather bashfully. 

“Sorry. I’m Lando, by the way.” He introduces himself softly, rubbing the back of his neck. You tell him your name and he repeats it, testing it out on his tongue. You’re not ashamed to admit you like the way it sounds when he’s the one saying it. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

“I’m gonna go order something so they don’t think we’re loitering. Preferably something hot, because I’ve got water in places water definitely shouldn’t be.” He shudders, pulling his soggy sweater away from his torso as proof. “Do you want anything?” 

You ponder for a moment before responding. “A latte sounds amazing right now. I’ll pay you back, of course.” 

Lando shakes his head, backpedaling towards the counter. “My treat. You just sit there and look pretty.” You roll your eyes playfully at him, but smile nonetheless. “Oh look, you’re doing great already!” 

That makes your cheeks grow hot. You’ve just met Lando and he’s flirting with you, and you don't mind at all. In fact, you have half a mind to flirt back. 

He finds you at a table soon after, balancing two cups and a concerningly large paper bag. You pop to your feet, carefully grabbing the bag to ease the load, and peer into it. There’s at least five different pastries inside, all of them looking absolutely mouthwatering. 

“I hope you’re hungry. Got convinced to buy a few things by the lovely old lady at the counter.” Lando says sheepishly, sliding into the seat opposite you. “Very persuasive, she is.” 

You shrug. “I could eat.” 

You’re not sure how long you sit there, chatting with each other like you're the only two in the world. It’s surprisingly easy to talk to him too. He’s funny and quick-witted and he talks very animatedly with his hands, you notice. You find it cute. 

Lando tells you about himself, asks about you and your life story, and you find yourself settling in nicely with his friendly nature. This isn’t a date by any means, but he makes it feel like one by the way he truly pays attention to you and what you're saying, nodding along closely with rapt attention. As far as listeners go, he's a fantastic one. 

You’ve also learned a lot about him. He was born and raised in the UK, but moved here a few years ago for work. What exactly did for work, he wasn’t too forthcoming with, but you don’t pay it any mind. You’ve just met, after all. You’re not expecting him to tell you his whole life story. 

But it also doesn’t feel like you’ve just met. You aren’t sure why, but Lando has this way of making you feel like you’ve known each other for ages, of making you feel comfortable and at ease with every word out of his mouth. 

Your clothes and hair have just started to dry out a bit, and you’re having a great time. Such a nice time, you don’t even notice the girl approaching your table. Lando sees her before you do, and he smiles politely. 

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you guys, but are you Lando Norris?” She asks hopefully. She looks young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her eyes flick to you, and you can tell she’s nervous, so you smile back. You’re confused to say the least, but you remember what you were like at her age. She reminds you a bit of yourself. 

Lando nods. “I am, yeah. What’s your name?” 

“Valeria. But everyone here just calls me Val. I’m the owner’s granddaughter, so I work here all the time.” 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Val.” 

She looks positively starstruck now, hands trembling as she holds up her phone. “Would you mind if I got a photo with you? You can totally say no if I’m interrupting something, I—” 

“You’re alright, love, don’t worry.” Lando stands, moving into selfie position next to her. The poor girl’s arm shakes so much you’re positive the photo won’t turn out clear at all, so you slide out of your seat too. 

“Here, let me.” You take the phone gently, motioning the two of them to scoot closer to get them in frame with each other. 

Val looks a combination of relieved and grateful, while Lando gives off nothing but a cool, albeit reserved, confidence. The same kind of confidence a celebrity might have when approached by a fan of theirs. But certainly Lando couldn’t be famous…right? 

You shake away the idea, snapping a handful of photos before passing it back to her, figuring there can never be too many to choose from. She beams bright, hugging him quickly, then to your surprise, gives you a hug as well. 

“Thank you so much! I’ll get out of your hair now. Enjoy your food!” With that, she hurries away with a bounce in her step, disappearing into the kitchen. 

You turn to Lando with arched brows. “That was interesting.” 

“So interesting.” He echoes, but his tone makes it sound like he doesn’t quite agree. 

“What are you, famous or something?” You mean it as a light jest, but Lando looks guilty for some reason. He beckons for you to take your seat again, sliding back into his own before offering you a sheepish smile. 

“Um, there might be something I haven’t told you yet.” 

“Shit, are you actually famous?” 

“...Yeah, kinda.” You arch a curious brow, and he sighs, but not in exasperation. “I’m a Formula One racing driver. For McLaren.”

Formula One…racing…it all sounds slightly familiar, but you can’t quite place it. Then it dawns on you. 

Lando isn’t just a local celebrity—he’s literally world famous. 

You’ve heard your friends talk about the races before, a few of your relatives who keep up with the sport, but you’d never paid it any mind. It just wasn’t something you could see yourself being interested in. That really famous race that takes place here in the streets every year that makes traffic an absolute fucking nightmare the whole week, Lando drives in that race, and countless others around the world, if you recall your limited knowledge correctly. 

He’s…cool. And he’s sitting right here with you in a tiny cafe, and you had no idea who he was. 

“Oh my god, you must think I live under a rock or something! This is so embarrassing, I—” 

“No, no! I’m not—I don’t go around expecting everyone to know who I am, I swear. It’s just that most people usually do recognize me, and it saves me the whole ‘having to tell them I’m famous’ thing, which always just makes things really awkward, and…yeah.” 

“Things don’t have to be awkward.” 

“No?” 

“No. We don’t even have to talk about it.” 

“We don’t?” He sounds a tad wary, but when you nod, the tension in his posture melts away. Relief floods his features at once. “Thank you. It’s actually quite nice to meet someone who has no idea what I do. Makes me feel normal for once.” 

“Glad my lack of sports knowledge makes you feel like a regular guy,” You joke, nudging his foot with yours under the table. He gives you a light kick in return, infectious smile back in full bloom once again. You quite like it when he smiles. 

You’ve just moved on to a new topic that has nothing to do with Lando’s job when his phone buzzes, making him jolt in surprise. He digs it out of his pocket, and when he sees the name flash across the screen, his eyes go wide. 

“Sorry, hang on. I’ve gotta get this.” He says, hitting the answer button. It’s a quick phone call, and you try your best not to eavesdrop, but whoever is on the other line has Lando worked up when he hangs up. 

“Everything okay?” You ask lightly. Lando bobs his head quickly. 

“Yeah, it’s—I, uh, I’ve gotta go. I forgot about a work event, apparently. That was my press officer, wondering where the hell I am and how fast I can get there.” He sounds disappointed, smiling almost sadly. “So much for feeling normal.” 

You try your best not to let your face fall when you nod. “I should get going too. Get home before the next freak summer rainstorm.” 

It’s nice when you step outside. You tilt your face up towards the sky, feeling the sun warm your face. This is the Monaco you know and love. Though if it hadn’t rained, you would’ve never met Lando. 

He turns to face you, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for the nice afternoon. I had a good time.” 

“Me too.” 

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” 

“Maybe you will.” 

“I certainly hope so.” He says softly. You shift slightly on the balls of your feet, suddenly feeling awkward. You’re not sure how to leave things with him, and it looks like he feels the same by the way he mirrors your actions. “Um, I really should leave, so…goodbye, I guess?” The look on his face tells you that leaving is the last thing he wants to do, but he has to. 

“Bye, Lando.” 

“Bye.” He echoes, one more time before turning away from you to head down the street. 

You can only bring yourself to wait a few seconds before you call his name again. He turns around instantly despite his hurry, meeting your gaze. You want to say something to him that’ll make him remember you, because chances are you’ll never cross paths again. If you were brave enough, maybe you'd even ask him for his number. But you’re not, so you don’t. Instead, you just smile at him. 

“Thanks for the latte.” 

If he’s disappointed, he hides it well. He smiles back at you, warm and bright like the sun beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. “Of course.” 

You watch him walk away, fighting that pesky little feeling in your gut telling you that you’re making a mistake by letting him go. It’ll go away soon, and you’ll go on with your life like you’re meant to. 

-------

You find yourself going back to the same cafe often, whenever you're out and want a little treat before you go home. The pastries are always still as delicious as the first time you had them, and you’ve become well acquainted with the staff as the time goes on. 

Oh, and that feeling you had when you let Lando leave without a word? 

It never went away. It’s still here, worming its way into your thoughts every chance it can get. 

You’re a little embarrassed to admit that every time you walk into the cafe, you hope you’ll see Lando. It’s wishful thinking more than anything, hoping he’ll be there when you go. He’s probably busy doing his thing anywhere but here, busy racing around in the world to the tune of thousands of screaming fans. You’re not sure if he even remembers you, or the afternoon you’d spent together. 

Why would he? In the world of Lando Norris, world famous Formula One driver, you’re probably just a speck of dirt in his rearview mirror. 

The thought gets pushed to the back of your mind as you step up to the counter to order. Val beams at you from behind the register. 

“Hey, Val,” You greet the young girl warmly, returning her smile. You’ve become quite fond of her and her youthful energy, and she always brightens your day. “How’s business going?” 

“Oh you know, same old.” Val waves an absentminded hand in the air as she keys in your usual order with the other. Her smile turns mischievous at the same time, like she knows something you don’t, and you narrow your eyes at her, already knowing what she's going to ask. “Have you heard from Lando?” 

“No, I haven’t. How’s summer school going?” 

She makes a funky face at you, rolling her eyes. “Boring. Way to change the subject though.” Before she can press any more about Lando, someone calls her name from the kitchen. “Ugh, I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfy, wait for your order, you know the drill!” 

You chuckle to yourself, heading straight for your usual table by the window to wait for your name to be called. 

You like to sit while you enjoy your food and drink, watching the people and cars go by outside. The streets of Monaco are always busy and bustling, but being in here feels like a pocket of peace. 

“Is this seat taken?” 

Your brow crinkles at the sudden voice, because you know for a fact there are at least four or five other empty tables available other than the one you’re currently sitting at, but this person chose to to ask you. 

Pocket of peace…disrupted. 

You let out a short sigh through your nose, turning your head from the window to politely tell them to find another seat, preferably at a table that isn’t yours, and that’s when you see him. 

Lando is grinning at you when you look over, lopsided and endearing just like the first time you met him. 

“Oh fuck!” You can’t help the expletive that falls from your mouth at the sight of him, even though there’s a thousand other things you’d told yourself you’d say to Lando if you ever saw him again. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, and he’s rocking on the balls of his feet slightly like he’s nervous as he waits for you to do something other than curse at him. “Lando! I—you—hi.” 

“Hi,” He echoes, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. All you can do is stare at him, wide eyed in disbelief. “Mind if I sit?” 

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yes, you can sit.” You fumble over your words like you’re not used to speaking, feeling your cheeks flame embarrassingly hot. Lando just chuckles, sliding into the chair across from you. “Um, so how’ve you been?” 

He rubs at the back of his neck, bobbing his head. “Good! Bit busy. We had a triple header the last three weeks, so it’s just nice to be home again.” 

“Oh, I bet. I don’t think I’d be very good company if I couldn’t sleep in my own bed for three straight weeks.” 

“That’s fair. Though to be honest, I’ve gotten scarily good at falling asleep anywhere. If it’s a flat surface, I can nap.” 

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.” 

“Impressed would be mint. Otherwise I just sound like a dumbass.” 

You laugh at that, and in this moment, you realize just how much you’ve missed Lando. No matter how many times you’ve tried to convince yourself to forget about him, to convince yourself that there was no point in pining after someone you’d only spent a few hours with, it all came back to this. You missed him because you like him. 

“I need to tell you something.” He blurts suddenly, bracing his elbows on the table. 

You nod, expression turning thoughtful. Whatever thoughts you’re having about liking Lando can wait. “Sure, go ahead.” 

“This is gonna sound unbelievably weird and maybe even a little bit creepy, but I need to get it off my chest or else I think I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Lando looked nervous. The bouncing of his leg you can feel under the table and the way he plays with his fingers supports your theory. 

You cock your head at him, reaching across the surface to steady his fidgeting with a hand over both of his. His gaze snaps down to your touching hands, and you can see him visibly gulp. 

“What’s going on? Are you okay, is something wrong?” 

He shakes his head quickly. “No, nothing’s wrong. Everything is…the opposite, really. Everything is right. Meeting you, finding my way back to you—here of all places. I don’t believe in fate or anything like that, but this sure feels like something along those lines.” 

“Lando, I—”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that afternoon. I tried everything. Nothing worked. I couldn’t get you out of my head.” He confesses. His fingers curl around yours gently, thumb stroking over the ridges of your knuckles. “If I’m being completely with myself, I think it’s because I didn’t want to get you out of my head. And I just got off the plane an hour ago, but instead of going home and passing out like I usually do, I came here, hoping that somehow, you’d be here too.” 

“Can I say something now?” You ask lightly, stifling a giggle. 

His cheeks flush an embarrassed pink, and he motions for you to go ahead. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. I talk too much when I get nervous. I’m working on it, I—fuck, sorry again. You go. I’ll shut up.” 

“I still think it’s cute.”

“Is that the only thing about me you still think is cute, or…?” 

That gets another laugh out of you. You chuckle, giving his hand a squeeze. “Not at all. I still think all of you is cute, and…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either. We haven’t known each other long, but I really like you, Lando.”  

“I could kiss you right now.” 

“What’s stopping you?”

You don’t have time to second guess your newfound confidence before he’s leaning across the table, sliding a large hand over your jaw and pressing his lips against yours. Lando kisses you softly—gentle, like he’s worried you’ll pull away if he’s too forward with it. 

You’re fully aware that you’re smiling like a madman against his lips, but in your defense, he is too. His eyes open slowly when you pull away, almost tentatively as if he’s not quite sure what just happened actually happened. 

He leans back just enough to study you, letting his gaze flit around your face, taking in every detail he possibly can. All while he grins larger than Cheshire cat, like he’s a kid whose parents just told them they could get whatever they wanted at the candy shop, instead of kissing you for the first time. 

“I was gonna be nice and bring you your order, but it looks like you’ve already got something sweet.” Val’s voice cuts through the moment, and when you look over at her, she looks over the moon. 

“Lando, you remember Val, right?” 

“Uh huh,” Lando hums, holding out his hand for a fist bump that she happily gives him. “Thanks again for the heads up.” 

“Hold on, what? What heads up?” 

The two of them share a look, like they’re debating whether or not to tell you their secret. Then Lando sighs, giving her a go ahead nod, and she squeals, setting your food down. 

“Okay, so you know how you come in here all the time after work? Well me, being the keenly observant, brilliant young mind I am, noticed a pattern. You come on the same days, at the same time, and you never stray.” She explains excitedly, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. You aim a questioning glance over at Lando, who just gives another amused nod.

Val continues excitedly, “So I’m expecting you today, right? But then the door opens and guess who walks in? Lando! He asks me if you’ve ever come back here after that one day and I’m like oh my god, you have no idea! So I tell him to wait a half hour for you, and now you’re both here and my matchmaking skills can be put to rest.”

“Are you being serious right now? Really, I can’t tell.” 

She tilts her head, popping a hand on her hip. For the same girl who’d been so nervous to meet Lando just weeks ago, she’s got a surprising amount of sass in his presence today. “Why would I not be serious? I’m basically a genius, and I expect to be invited to the wedding. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“Alright, that’s enough, cheers, Val!” Lando blurts, shooting her a pointed look. 

“Can I get paddock passes for making this whole thing happen? Preferably Monaco but I could probably make it to Monza too. Imola is a little far.” 

Lando blinks at her for a few moments, probably seeing if she actually means it. When all she does is raise her eyebrows, he concedes. “Maybe. I’ll make some calls, see what I can do.” 

“Fantastic. Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone!” 

You both watch as she all but skips happily off, then turn back to each other. 

“She’s…definitely something,” You sigh, shaking your head. Secretly, you owe her everything. 

“Eh, I dunno. Kid’s growing on me.” He reaches across the table, lacing his fingers through yours with a fond twinkle in those pretty eyes of his. 

“How serious are you about those paddock passes?” 

“I mean…she did help me out massively. I’d have missed you if it weren’t for her.” Lando shrugs, rubbing an absentminded thumb over yours. “I hope you know I would’ve come back until I found you again. Everyday, if I had to.” 

“Me too.” 

If you’d told your past self that a bizarre summer rainstorm in sunny Monaco would’ve led you to where you are right now, you wouldn’t have believed it. But now, as you sit here with Lando, smiling at each other like complete and total idiots, you’ve never been more grateful for a bit of unexpected rain.

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post new fics :)

[seeingivy]

slut!

satoru gojo x f!reader

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

--

“just so you know, the dining hall closes at seven.” 

you look up to find a short girl – dirty blonde hair braided at her sides with an awkward smile on her face – as you shoot her an apologetic smile. 

“right, cornelia. sorry, i’m almost done, i’ll just be out.” 

cornelia works morning shifts in the dining hall. 

you tend to frequent the place at odd hours – particularly getting cravings when it’s closed – and she’s always sweet enough to oblige you with whatever they have left over. 

you have a sneaking hunch it’s because she saw utahime be over-exceedingly harsh with you on the first day of training. you’re thankful for it nonetheless. 

“just…finish up by seven. i’ll be out of here by then to go home.” she responds, words laced in her thick dutch accent. 

you shoot her a grateful smile, looking down at the mess of rice and chicken that you’ve demolished into oblivion with your fork, and wonder if it’s still edible. you mindlessly reach for your phone, scrolling through the litter of texts on the screen. 

in amsterdam gymnasts 2024 

[shoko]: there’s a party on the first floor if you guys are down 

[nobara]: do yk think that girl we saw on the train will be there? 

[yuuji]: BRO literally has green hair. she’d be hard to miss 

[nobara]: stfu 

[utahime]: We’re training early tomorrow. Don’t be irresponsible. 

knowing yuuji and nobara, they had probably already schemed their way to the party. out of everyone on the mixed teams, you could tell that they were enjoying themselves the most – sitting with the spanish water polo players in the dining hall, scrolling on hinge to find people in the olympic village, and attending every party they could. 

you were happy for them. at least they were enjoying themselves. the mindless mantra that was ringing through your head was stopping all your attempts to enjoy the three weeks you were spending here. 

if you put your head down and give an honest effort, things will work out for you.

that’s how it’s always been and always how it was going to be – sitting at the back of the class, answering the questions in your head. being sought for your work and your work alone – you had to be outstanding just to be noticed, because you weren’t going to mention it otherwise. 

working hard in silence until it was pointed out, hustling and grinding until you couldn’t anymore, just so that someone would, on an odd chance, remember you and push you forward. 

and it worked. it worked most of the time and got you far enough. but at the end of the day, it was always the same result. 

you got drowned out. you get drowned out like you always do but it doesn’t sting any less. 

by a loud, boisterous voice – an emboldened sense of confidence that you don’t have, one that utahime does – and three words that sent all of your efforts down the drain.

if only you were brave enough to talk. emboldened enough to boast – to show off, to embellish, to call attention to yourself – but, you weren’t. it just wasn’t something you could bring yourself to do. 

it was just another day. 

“are you okay?” 

you look up from the plate – you’re positive the fork must have left scratches in the porcelain – to find the source of the voice, light glowing around his frame and head blocking the glow of the dingy light bulbs in the ghost town that is the dining hall. 

you know those eyes. satoru gojo. 

you immediately reach up, wiping away the leftover wetness on your face, and feeling the burning of your cheeks underneath your fingertips as you gesture for him to take the seat across from you.  

satoru gives you a lopsided smile – blue eyes filled with kindness or pity that’s just masked very well – as he slides his legs over the bench. you can smell the faintest hint of chlorine, his hair still matted and damp from the pool. 

“yeah. yeah, i’m good. how’d she…how’d she let you in?” you respond, noting the shake in your voice, as you try to change the subject. 

satoru gojo is a seven time olympic medalist – the pride and joy of team usa at the amsterdam olympics. six foot five, easy on the eyes, and an absolute menace in the swimming pool. coupled with an irritatingly charming personality and the grit of a professional – he’s one of the few athletes that’s taken seriously on the team. 

he was the flag bearer at the opening ceremony. you’ve seen him at meets here and there, exchanged pleasantries, over the past few years. 

not that he would remember that. 

“she likes me.” he responds. 

you snort. 

“of course she does. who doesn’t?” you mutter. 

you look up, feeling the leftover heat and tension from the crying still simmering behind your cheeks, as he shoots you a glimmering smile. 

the mere thought of it – smiling so freely, that he looks so joyful or that really, this entire experience must culminate into everything that he has wanted and worked towards – sends an aching pang through your chest. 

“you know who i am?” he asks. 

“satoru gojo. small town college student turned gold olympic medalist. everyone’s heard the story. they don’t pick just anyone to be the flag bearer, you know?” you repeat, attempting to mimic the monotone voices of the news reports you’ve heard hundreds of times. 

he clicks his tongue in his cheek, giving you a sly smile as he leans forward on his forearms, his face only inches from yours. it’s at this moment that you realize that he’s tall, obscenely tall even, because he’s able to reach over the length of the table while still sitting down – hovering in your space entirely. 

“and we’ve…we’ve met before.” 

“i know.” 

you pause. 

“you do?” 

“are you shocked that i can remember conversations i have with people?” 

“um. no, i guess not. you’re just a really big deal and all, figured you talk to everyone.” you respond. 

“bold coming from you, y/n l/n. rookie gymnast with only three years of training under her belt overperforms in the olympic trials and makes it to the final team roster.” he responds, mimicking the same tone of your voice. 

hearing the words, the premise, sends the tears running straight back to your eyes, as you try your best to swallow them down by staring down at the mottled mix of food. you give him a noncommittal hum in response, which you’re positive that he clocks immediately as he leans forward, his calloused hand on yours as he squeezes. 

“hey really. are you okay?” he whispers. 

you look up, warm and hot tears spilling out of your eyes at this point, as he squeezes your hand again, tilting his head to the side as he waits for an explanation. you sigh, biting at the side of your already demolished lip, as you look back up at him. 

your voice wobbles when you finally muster a response. 

“you caught me at a really bad time. i don’t actually do this whole thing.” you respond. 

satoru smiles. 

“what thing?” 

“crying in front of strangers. and…and telling random people my business.” 

satoru gives you an airy laugh, before squeezing your hand again. 

“i’ll take your word for it. it’ll be a one time thing.” he murmurs. 

you study his eyes – examining and analyzing for any sense of patronization in his eyes and tone – but you don’t find any. 

if anything, he just looks curious. 

“do you ever feel like all of your hard work has amounted to nothing?” you whisper. 

satoru gives you a confused look, eyes expectant as he waits for a proper explanation. and you’re not sure what it is – why you give it to him knowing his reputation, that sweet talking and charming was just part of his human nature – but in the late hours of the night, when he walks you back to your room, you reason that it was just the circumstances. 

that he was in the wrong place at the right time. 

“you…you’ve struggled your entire life with your body. sometimes you almost feel like you’re at war with it and…and it’s frustrating feeling like you don’t have control. that you can pass out on a whim, that you’ll be on top of the world one day and at the bottom the next, and that there’s nothing you can do to remedy it.” 

you sigh. 

“you decide that you want to put in the work. that you’re going to push the limits, even if it seems impossible, because you’re not going to let this thing – this nervousness, the anxiousness tie you down. i spent a whole year training, figuring out how to do this thing. the second year, i qualified for the olympic trials and i choked. i took the loss so seriously, trained so hard that i actually made it here, and now that i am, i can’t even try for real because i’m being undermined by someone else.” you state. 

“undermined by someone else?” he asks. 

“utahime iori. she’s a four time medalist, the senior on the team. she’s been to the olympics twice. she told masamichi, our coach, that…that i got nervous on the floor routine that i’ve been preparing for the final and that they should just pull it to prevent a point loss. she thinks that she should just compete on the floor as well.” you state. 

satoru gives you a frown. 

“did you? choke i mean?” 

“it was a bad day. i was all in my head and i couldn’t…i couldn’t bring myself to do some of the twists. i could do it the next three days and…and i’ll be ready to do it by the time we compete.” you state. 

satoru smiles. 

“of course you will. so what’s got you down?” he asks. 

“that masamichi believed her. he’s trying to get me to change the floor routine to one that i did before. easier, it’s more safe, but it’s also less points.” 

satoru hums in response. 

“it’s just frustrating that i put in so much work to get here, that everyone knows i did and that i had put in so much hard work, and all it took was one person who’s louder than me to drown me out. that all the effort they’ve seen was easily discredited because someone else said so. that…that my work wasn’t able to stand out on it’s own and it almost never is. i’ve never been one to speak up and that’s always my downfall.” 

you drop the fork against the plate, deciding that you’ve assaulted the chicken enough. 

“so, no. i’m not okay. i cried so hard that the people let me stay here in the dining hall after it closed just because she felt bad for me. she even brought this cookie over while i was sobbing and then walked away.” you respond, holding it up in between the two of you. 

you’re not a natural. and no matter how hard you try, you won’t ever make it to the top. it was in your fingertips and now it’s miles away, like you’re at the starting line but your feet are glued to the start. 

because the time is running out, because you won’t get this opportunity again, and this is all that you’ll amount to. 

“i’m just sad. i’ll get over it, deep down i know i will, because…because i know things happen for a reason, but it just…feels hard to find one right now.” 

satoru takes the cookie from your hands, nimble fingers quickly undoing the packaging and splitting the cookie in half. he takes the bigger half, placing it in your hand, as he gestures for you to eat it. 

you give him an irritated glare, taking a bite out as you swallow it down your dry throat. 

“i mean, you get to be here before everyone else eats the cookies. and you don’t even have to get up to grab them, they actually deliver them to your seat all special.” satoru states. 

you sigh. 

“i can’t wait to tell the news when they ask me how i’m coping with not winning a medal that the cookies are great and life is good regardless.” you respond, voice coated in bitterness. 

satoru slides the other way on the bench, now leaning his elbows and his torso against the table, his head leaned all the way back and eyes pinched shut. you immediately wince, noting the harshness of your words when he was just trying to be nice, as you sigh. 

“sorry. i know you’re trying to be nice. and it’s a great cookie! i’m just frustrated. i just hate thinking that –” 

“i do feel like all my hard work has amounted to nothing.” satoru responds. 

you pause. 

“what?” you ask. 

“you asked me, at the start, if i ever felt like all of my work amounted to nothing. the answer is yes. i do feel like all of my hard work has amounted to nothing.” he answers, the tone in his voice steady. 

you look down at the cookie, lifting to take another bite, as you ponder over the thought. 

but he had everything. other teams – they were scared to see him coming. hopefully pining over the silver because they already knew that the gold was his, that there was no point in even hoping when they were competing against the best of the best. 

“really?” 

“mhm.” 

“you’re telling me the satoru gojo doesn’t feel like he’s amounted to anything? you have seven gold medals. they’re literally scared to see you coming.” 

satoru laughs. 

“you really think they’re scared?” he jokes. 

you roll your eyes. 

“i sat with the canadian swimmer the other day at breakfast. they were over there debating who was going to get the silver, because they saw no point in even vying for the gold when they were competing against you.” you respond. 

satoru’s face is painted in a satisfied grin. 

“amounted to nothing? you’re literally at the top of your game.” 

“i guess. if that’s what mattered. if i still liked swimming.” 

you pause. 

“you…you don’t like swimming?” 

he smiles.

“not anymore. losing passion for the one thing that you’re good at can….cause it’s own type of meltdown. especially when there’s fifty people asking you how you're going to top yourself next time.”  

satoru twists around on the bench, giving you a smile, as he leans forward. 

“count yourself lucky, y/n. you’ve got a reason to move forward and prove yourself. the drive. something to push you forward.” 

he pauses, taking a beat, before responding. 

“things are entirely bleak when you have nothing to work towards.” he responds. 

satoru gives you a smile, before pushing off the bench – fingers messing through his damp hair – before shooting you a smile over his shoulder. 

“cornelia will get mad. it’s ten minutes to seven.” he murmurs. 

you give him a noncommittal nod, pondering over his words, as you watch him walk away – the letters of his last name brightly stitched to the back of his jacket. 

“hey. gojo?” you ask. 

he turns around, eyes expectant as he waits for an answer. 

“just because you don’t have something to work towards now doesn’t mean you won’t have something later.” 

there’s an awkward pause – mainly because he doesn’t respond – and you give him a shrug back. 

“satoru.” he states. 

“what?” 

“you can call me satoru.” 

--

“she was at the party.” nobara states. 

you look up from the bowl, noting the darkness around nobara and yuuji’s eyes, as you roll your eyes. you relish the fifteen minutes of peace you’ll get before utahime comes down to berate the two of them and most likely loop the rest of you in with it in the process. 

“did you even talk to her, cupid?” you joke. 

nobara kicks you under the table, as the group of you snicker under your breaths. 

“we made very prolonged eye contact. you wouldn’t get it.” nobara responds. 

“they were eye fucking each other. i felt like i was interrupting something.” yuuji adds. 

it’s right at that moment that nobara and yuuji stop talking, eyes wide, as you give them a confused look. yuuji lightly waves his eyes to the left and you follow – only to see someone standing at the side of the table. 

he’s decently tall, spiky black hair and solemn blue eyes. you note the embroidery on his jacket – megumi fushiguro, team usa, javelin throwing – and give him a smile. 

you look back at nobara and yuuji, the two of them looking awkwardly back down at their plates.and decide to take one for the team and extend your hand out to him. 

“hello. i’m y/n l/n.” 

he places his hand in yours – you can’t help but notice how sweaty it is and silently wonder how he throws javelins with that slip – as you give him a polite smile. 

“megumi fushiguro. i’m from new york. i uh…throw javelins.” 

“cool. we’re with team japan. we all do gymnastics. these are my friends nobara and yuuji. nobara does all of the gymnastic rhythmic events and yuuji does specials with rings and the pommel horse.” you add. 

megumi gives you a smile, before awkwardly running his hand across his neck before looking at yuuji. you note that whatever yuuji was talking about between nobara and the girl with the green hair is exactly what’s happening now – the eye contact the two of them were sharing so intense that you felt like you were interrupting something. 

“right. um, it’s nice to meet you. well, we met last night but i’m not sure if you remembered since you…had a lot to drink.” 

it’s swelteringly awkward – so awkward because yuuji’s so starstruck? or surprised that he doesn’t give him a response and instead just stares at him straight on. you kick him under the table, jostling him under the table, to talk. 

“i love you.” yuuji responds. 

you watch as megumi’s eyes widen, you and nobara shooting each other a look before attempting damage control. 

“he doesn’t mean that! why would he love you? you don’t even know each other!” nobara responds. 

“i mean, not to say that he won’t ever love you. maybe in the future! you’re probably a great guy!” you respond. 

“he’s like repressed or something, i swear he’s normal when you get to know him.” nobara adds. 

“but not in a weird way! we all get a little nervous here and there, right?” 

“you know meets make people really nervous. he actually doesn’t even know english so..so that’s why he didn’t respond.” 

you kick nobara under the table. 

“he knows english. obviously! how else would you guys talk to each other?” you respond, trying to give a hint to nobara. 

you and nobara pause, cheeks warm from the second hand embarrassment, as megumi nods at the three of you – unable to parse if you’re all part of some circus show or having an aneurysm – and smiles awkwardly. 

“right. i’ll see you around, yuuji. it was uh…nice to meet you, y/n.” 

“you too.”  

the second he walks away, the three of you start shouting at each other. 

“who the fuck was that?” you ask. 

“i’m repressed? why would you say that, nobara?” yuuji responds, head in his hands as he pulls at the pink strands. 

“because you fucking are. why were you staring at him like a deer in headlights? you had no problem putting your whole fucking tongue down his throat last night.” nobara responds. 

you gasp. 

“you kissed that guy last night?” you whisper. 

“yes! it was so fucking good, i literally didn’t even sleep last night out of pure excitement.” yuuji responds back, a hint of a giggle on his lips. 

the three of you silence at the sound of utahime’s tray smacking next to yours on the table, the three of you adjusting your posture – nobara and yuuji rubbing at their tired eyes – as you drop the conversation completely. 

“well, don’t stop on my accord.” she states. 

“good morning, utahime.” nobara responds, shooting you a pinched look. 

she sighs, hands aggressive with the knife on her plate as she slams it down against the porcelain. 

“just so you know, this is our one day to slack off since we’re touring the city. nobara, your beam is still sloppy. and y/n, i told you to start working on the other floor routine. i’ll let your shenanigans slide for today, but you both really need to stop fraternizing with other athletes and focus on what we’re really doing here.” 

“we’re not fraternizing with other athletes.” nobara states. 

utahime rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, as she gives the two of you an accusatory look. 

“so the girl with the green hair three tables down is just staring bullets into the back of your head for no reason, kugisaki?” 

nobara’s cheeks go pink as she turns around – the girl immediately ducking her head down, embarrassed by being caught – as nobara turns back around and shakes her head. you can tell that utahime’s satisfied from her hunch being correct, as she turns her accusatory eyes towards  you. 

“and don’t even get me started on you.” 

“i’m not fraternizing with other athletes.” 

“right. satoru gojo’s sudden love for gymnastics just came out of nowhere, y/n.” she deadpans. 

you feel your throat dry. 

“what?” 

“you haven’t seen the tweets?” 

you shake your head, reaching for your phone in your pocket, as you slide open to the app. you note that there’s an obscene amount of notifications in your inbox but two that stand out particularly. 

@satorugojo followed you! 

@satorugojo retweeted your post. 

you click on the notification to find the video of you at the finals – doing your original floor routine. 

@satorugojo: every shred of patriotism coming back to my body as i watch the olympic gymnastics team…. 

you laugh at the tweet, cheeks warm from the acknowledgement – especially from someone with as many followers as him – as you immediately put your phone down and look back at utamime. 

“i’d watch out for him if i were you.” utahime states. 

“sorry, what?” 

“he knows how to get around. focus on your floor routine and less on slutting yourself out. we all know what we’re here for and let’s remember that.” 

her comment leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

--

“y/n, can you come here?” nobara asks. 

you and yuuji shoot a lazy look over your shoulders to see her standing at the door, rolling your eyes. 

“it’s your turn to pay for room service, bitch. don’t look at me.” you respond. 

nobara turns around properly, eyes shooting bullets into your forehead, as she gives you an awkwardly peachy smile. 

“y/n. i really think you’ll want to take this one.” she responds, her tone urgent. 

you reach for the closest object to you, one of yuuji’s shoes on the ground, and lazily throw it in her direction. 

“my bank account is doing just fine, actually. i think i’m good.” you respond. 

nobara turns around, raising her finger in the air gesturing for a pause, before picking up the show and throwing it right back at you with full force. she’s quick to walk over, yanking your arms up from the bed, as you rub the sore spot on your forehead. 

“get the fuck up. satoru fucking gojo is at the door asking for you.” she whispers. 

you shoot her an apologetic smile, yanking your jacket off from the hook on the door and pulling it on, as you walk over to the doorway to find satoru standing there, hands politely in his pockets as he gives you a smile. 

“good evening, rookie. how are you?” he asks. 

you pause. 

“i’m um…good, gojo. how are you?” you ask. 

“satoru.” he insists. 

you shake your head. 

“right. satoru. uh, to what do i owe the pleasure? at nine forty-five in the evening? at my dorm….?” 

he smiles. 

“i have an in with the people at the gym the same way i do with cornelia at the dining hall. do you want to come and keep me company?” he asks. 

you pause – hearing utahime’s words about slutting yourself out rattle in your head – as you give him an awkward smile. 

“right, i would love to go but –” 

it’s right at that moment that you feel two pairs of warm hands on your arms as nobara and yuuji rush to your side. 

“she’s right, she would love to go! which is why she’s going!” yuuji responds. 

satoru flickers his eyes in between the two of them, before looking back at you. you shoot him an apologetic smile, but not before the two of them keep talking. 

“she loves to go out with guys.” nobara adds. 

you elbow her in the side. 

“i mean, not other guys! just you. she hasn’t talked to anyone in four years.” yuuji adds, tapping you lovingly on the head. 

“but she’s not like decrepit or anything. she’s in her prime, trust us. she’s got a great ass.” nobara affirms. 

satoru flickers his eyes in between the two of them, before looking back at you. you shoot him an apologetic smile, but not before the two of them keep talking. 

“she loves swimming. knows everything about it.” nobara responds. 

“i mean, not everything. she doesn’t even know how to swim!” 

satoru’s eyes widen. 

“you don’t know how to swim?” he asks, eyes wide in shock – and what you pander is amusement. 

you sigh. 

“i’m scared of the water.” 

“well, now you have to come with me. swimming is a necessary survival skill, rookie. i can’t have you dying on me now.” 

satoru shoots you a boyish grin – one that you can tell excites nobara and yuuji, who you’re assuming are probably starstruck at this point – as they squeeze down on your arms and push you out of the door. the two of them give you bright smiles as they push you out of the door, leaving you and satoru alone in the hallway. 

you shoot him an awkward smile, as he reaches forward, twisting one of your pigtail braids in his hands. 

“they seem fun.” he jokes. 

you groan. 

“that’s an interesting word for it.” you respond. 

“who threw the shoe?” he asks. 

you pause. he leans forward, thumbs soft on your forehead as he rubs at the spot. 

“oh. nobara. but i threw it first so, it’s only fair.” you respond. 

“naturally.” he jokes. 

--

there’s a frigid chill in the gym as satoru opens the door for you, gesturing for you to enter the pool deck first, as he follows behind. the girl at the top of the stands shoots him a polite smile before leaving – which leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

who is she? is that who he has an in with at the gym? is that how he gets in with all of these girls – like cordelia and her – and most of all, now you? 

though you’re not really sure what you’d have to offer that he’d really want. 

“hey. you okay?” he asks. 

“hm?” 

“i was talking. you didn’t respond.” he states. 

you widen your eyes. 

“oh god, i’m sorry. was just in my head, thinking about the uneven practice i did this morning.” 

satoru walks all the way to the front of the aquamarine pool, plopping down as he pulls his shirt over his head, and dips his legs into the pool. you follow suit, discarding your shoes at your side, the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder with your knees brushing as you swing your legs in the cold water. 

“what happened?” 

“nothing. i kind of face planted during the warm-up.” you state. 

“did you get hurt?” 

“just a little bit of carpet burn from the floor.” 

you lift the sleeve of your jacket up to show him the red marks on your forearm to which he leans forward, fingers featherlike as he brushes against the raised skin. he looks up at you, blue eyes peering into yours, that make you endlessly nervous before the thought comes to you. 

how many times has he used that move on someone else?

you immediately jerk your hand back, pulling your sleeve up as you shoot him a polite smile. he gives you a strange look, eyes focused back down on the water as he reaches forward and feels the temperature with his hand. 

“ready to go in?” he asks. 

you give him a nervous nod, as he jumps down into the pool, and you pull your shirt over your head. satoru’s waiting, eyes expectant as you look down at the water, at the ten feet depth, before looking back at him with nervousness jittering in your stomach. 

“don’t you think i should start with a smaller pool?” you ask. 

he shakes his head. 

“i’ve got you. i won’t let anything happen.” 

“you can’t just…drag me out if something happens.” 

satoru rolls his eyes. 

“you don’t do your research, do you?” he asks. 

“hm?” 

“small town college student turned gold olympic medalist. did you ever wonder how that even happened?” he asks, repeating your words from yesterday. 

“oh, no. how?” you ask. 

satoru smiles. 

“i got scouted at my job. as a lifeguard. trust me, i’m more than equipped to help you if something happens to you.” 

you sigh, eyeing the depth of the water, before looking back down at him. 

“okay, just. just…don’t let me go, okay? i’m not joking when i say i don’t know how to swim.” 

he gives you an encouraging smile, as you dip down into the pool, immediately feeling the weight of the water as the panic surges through you. you immediately reach forward, looping your arms around his neck and leaning forward against him, your grip death like. 

you can feel his hands on your waist, his grasp firm, as he leans back, his tone quiet as he talks. 

“relax.” 

“no, no. i should probably get out. this is really deep, satoru.” 

“y/n.”

“it’s dragging me down.” you state. 

“nothing’s dragging you down. i’m right here with you, rookie.” he whispers. 

“satoru.” 

“y/n.” 

“i can’t die before i go to the olympics!” you shout. 

satoru takes a beat, before giving you a full laugh. 

“you’re not going to die before you go to the olympics. you’re already here.” 

you groan, pressing your forehead against his bare collarbone as you feel the tenseness wrack all over your body, before one of his wet hands comes across your cheek, pulling you back with you flesh against his chest. 

“hey. this really won’t work unless you listen to me, okay?” he whispers. 

“okay. okay, okay. just…just…i’m being serious. please don’t let me go until i’m ready. this entire thing will blow up in your pretty face if you do.” 

satoru grins, pinching at the side of your cheek, as you glare at him. 

“this entire thing?” he asks. 

you want to bite your tongue. 

“you know. swimming.” 

“right. swimming.” he repeats. 

he hums in response, but you can tell that he doesn’t believe it. satoru drops his hand from your face, hands on your waist as he looks back up at you. 

“let go of me.” he responds. 

“no.” 

“y/n.”

“satoru, no.” 

“as much as i like you holding on to me the way you are, you won’t be able to swim if you don’t let go.” 

you sigh. 

“you’re going to paddle your feet back and forth like i am. when you let go, do the same thing with your arms, it’ll give you more control.” 

you look down at your feet, before satoru’s hand is at the bottom of your chin, guiding your gaze back up at him. 

“it’s not rocket science. don’t overthink it. it helps to keep your mind on something else.” he responds. 

you give him a nod as you start mimicking his motions, your legs heavy as lead, as you try to get yourself to do it. 

“uh. what do you think about? when you swim?” you ask. 

“porn.” he states. 

“what?” 

he lets out a boyish laugh and you feel your cheeks burn as you lift one of your hands to lightly smack at his shoulder. 

“that wasn’t funny.” you state. 

“it was a little funny.” he defends. 

“you were about to live up to your reputation there.” you state. 

satoru pauses, narrowed eyes, before he talks again. 

“my reputation?” he asks. 

you pause, regretting your last words, as you look up at him, shooting an apologetic smile as you try to backtrack. 

“i didn’t mean…you know a lot of people talk and i don’t mean to offend you when i say…” 

satoru smiles. 

“so that’s why you’re being weird.”

“i’m not being weird.” 

“can i say one thing before you continue?” he murmurs. 

you sink into the embarrassment, giving him a quiet nod. 

“if she says things about you that aren’t true, would you really expect her to be entirely truthful when she talks about everyone else too?” satoru asks. 

you groan – noting satoru’s sweet smile as he clocks you understand what he’s saying – and knot your hands back together behind his neck. 

“hey. i’m really sorry, satoru. i just thought that –” 

he smiles, reaching forward to cup the side of your face again. 

“no wonder you were glaring at that girl up there. i can promise you, the only reason that i get late night access to the gym is because my coach arranged it for me. i don’t even know her name.” 

you groan. 

“oh fuck, this is so embarrassing.” 

he laughs. 

“don’t worry, rookie. i’m flattered you’re so worried about it. but i’m not going anywhere.” he whispers. 

“you’re not?” 

he shakes his head. 

“i told you i wouldn’t let go.” he states. 

“i was talking about swimming.” you mumble. 

“and i wasn’t.” 

you smile at him – one that he fully returns back. 

he finally closes the space between two of you when he drops you back off at your dorm – matching pair of chlorine soaked hair – his skin still damp from the water. 

nobara and yuuji watch it through the peephole, their excited chatter behind the door pulling the two of you apart. 

--

almost fourteen days later – of you and satoru biking through amsterdam, you teaching him how to balance on a beam, and warm kisses later – you’re filled with nervousness at the thought of the floor routine. 

you can hear his voice in his head right there with yours. that you’ve got this. that you can’t overthink.  

there’s a tense energy in the air the morning of the final. you and nobara head down to the gym early, a very sleepy yuuji in tow for moral support, as you start drilling through your stretches. 

you note that yuuji’s not offering his moral support alone, the awkward encounter you had a week prior shockingly coming off as endearing to megumi, who sits at his side with a coffee in his hand. 

you can’t help but shake the feeling that the other teams are staring as you and nobara run through your warmups, the jittery feeling in your stomach accumulating as you chalk up your hands. 

you have to focus. it helps to think about something else. you’ve done this routine hundreds of times – just let the muscles take over. 

“you’re going to do the original floor routine. we’ll bet on it for the teams, but we’ll scale back for the all around at the end of the week if it’s lower than the trials.” masamichi states. 

you give him a non-committal nod, eyeing the bars as you walk up to the podium, jumping up as you feel for the swing of the equipment. you can see the australian gymnasts swinging through the air out of your peripheral vision, the chatter of the people talking around filling your ears as you try to focus. 

“no, i don’t think she’s coming.” 

“the seam of the uniform is kind of fraying at the end, i might try to change it.” 

“i’m just hoping to qualify for next time, when i have more time to train.” 

“i heard her and gojo do it in the pool. like all the time.” 

you miss the handle on the last swing, falling face first into the floor, the group of them turning around at the loud sound. you note that there’s a small sense of relief on their face from the mishap, as you lift off the floor, dusting the chalk off of your hands. 

you can feel your throat dry as you make your way over to the bench, where nobara is sitting, your mind swirling with anger. she gives you a squeeze on the shoulder in support and you note that yuuji tells you to shake it off from his place in the stands. 

“they’re saying that satoru and i did it in the pool last night.” you note, miserably. 

“dude. they talk. they’re trying to put you off your game. we’re not even talking about this right now. focus on the bars.” nobara responds. 

you sigh, looking back at the group of them as they fly on the beams, and feel the acid rise up in your throat. 

you knew that people talked. you knew that it was natural – to comment on what it was that they were seeing in the dining halls and the hallways – but it didn't make it any less fair. 

“fuck them.” she states. 

“i know, i’m just saying…” 

“who said it?” nobara asks. 

you pause, before pointing it out to her.

“she’s just jealous. you do know she’s been in interviews saying that the person she wants to meet the most is gojo, right?” 

you pause. 

“dude, everyone wants him. that’s not your fault. they might be slut shaming you now, but they would kill to be in your spot.” she responds. 

you pause, looking at the burn on the front of your shin. 

“if he doesn’t care what they say, why do you? if you see it through, all the shit they’re saying might not even matter if he’s actually worth your time. he’s happily ignoring all of it, for you, because he actually likes you. he wouldn’t be sitting there in the stands if he wasn’t.” she responds. 

“sitting in the stands?” you ask. 

nobara points toward the left, where you see satoru and three of his teammates sitting in the chairs, in the middle of the conversation. satoru gives you a wave now that you’ve looked over and you can’t help but walk over – noting the bright smile on his face as he starts walking over. 

you didn’t realize he’d be here this early. 

satoru leans over the railing, his hair dry for once as you look up at him. he reaches forward, fingers soft on your forehead, as he smiles. 

“hi rookie.” 

“what are you doing here?” you ask. 

“big gymnastics fan.” 

you give him an accusatory look. 

“did you watch me eat shit just now?” you ask. 

“any carpet burn?” 

“the trainer will wrap it when she comes in.” you state. 

he gives you a nod, reaching forward to cup the side of your face, before smiling. 

“don’t overthink it.” 

“i’m not.” 

satoru narrows his eyes at you. 

“give me a smile.” 

“satoru. don’t be patronizing.” 

he groans. you note that he gets more theatrical the closer you get to him. you find if funny. 

“god forbid, this pretty, sweet girl smiles at me. god forbid i would want to see that.” 

you roll your eyes. 

“oh wait! i’ve got something to take your mind off of it.” he adds. 

satoru gives you a smile, before leaning back on the railing, and unzipping the white windbreaker that he has on. you can’t help but immediately laugh, heart burning at the absolutely corny shirt that he’s wearing with your face on it. 

“oh my god.” 

“figured if they’re gonna talk, i might as well get all dressed up and give them something to look at, right?” 

“how did you even do that?” you ask. 

“maki knows a guy. had to show everyone i’m serious and rep the team.” he responds, gesturing over his shoulder. 

you shoot a non-committal glance over, shooting a smile to the girl – the girl with the green hair that you’ve been talking about ever since you’ve gotten here – before you widen your eyes and pull satoru down by his wrist. 

“you know the girl with the green hair?” 

“uh, yeah. she’s part of one of the volleyball teams. met her at the opening ceremony. she’s a lesbian before you say anything rude.” 

“idiot. i know she’s a lesbian. or well, i didn’t know that, i had a hunch. not that i assume things about people, i’m just saying that –” 

“you’re rambling.” he states. 

“maki is the girl that nobara eye fucks.” you whisper. 

you watch as satoru clocks what you’re saying, his eyes going past your shoulder to where nobara is sitting, before he turns around and gives maki a glance. 

“yeah, i’ll talk to her.” he states. 

you pause. 

“really?” 

“yeah, yeah. worry about it after, alright?” he responds. 

you can’t help but laugh, leaning forward as you press your hands to his cheeks, and close the distance between you two. satoru gives you another kiss on the cheek before you run off to share the news with nobara. 

--

the floor final is the very last and the way the last names work out, you’re the last person up to attend. nobara wobbles on her beam and utahime misses a few points for a bad landing – meaning that your score needs to be higher than it’s ever been to get it in good shape for the team. 

you all wait in silence, satoru’s hand over the railing in yours, his chin on the crown of your head, as you wait for the new score to be reflected on the screen. 

utahime challenged the floor score that they gave you. because if she counted her numbers right, your score should have been 0.3 points higher – meaning that your team would be in range to medal as first. 

the problem? challenging the score can get you more points. or dock them all together. you could easily go from a silver medal to nothing at all. utahime makes the executive decision to bet on it. 

satoru leans down, nose pressed against your hair as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“she really challenged the score for you?” he asks. 

“we are a team after all.” you mumble. 

satoru nods, hands soft on your shoulder as he squeezes the tense spots. 

“how much longer?” he asks. 

satoru brings his hands down the railing, thumbs rubbing into the softness of your cheek as you watch the announcer walk up to the microphone, cardstock note in his hand as he reads off the note from the judges. 

“i can’t listen.” you state, placing your hands over your ears, the sound half muffled and mixed with the cheers in the crowd as they start jumping behind you, nearly shaking the floor you’re standing on as you look back at satoru, blue eyes wide. 

satoru leans forward, arms harsh as he hugs you hard, nearly panting in your ear as you pull back, knotting your hands behind his neck. 

“what?” 

“you won a fucking gold medal, dumbass. what do you mean what?” he breathes, hands shaking with anticipation as he leans forward, closing the distance between you. 

you can barely process the thought as he pulls back, tucking his face into your neck, and wrapping his arms around you as yuuji wraps the flag around your shoulders, the group of them jumping in the stands. 

“wait, i…” 

“go get your fucking medal. come back later, nobara’s waiting.” 

you can feel your legs shaking, warm tears in your eyes as nobara gestures for you to join her, hand extended out as you step off the platform. 

you won the medal.

you take three steps off before running straight back up, pressing your lips to satoru’s one more time, before joining nobara on the podium. and you can’t help but beam at satoru right across the way and note the way he has his hand pressed to his heart. 

--

satoru gojo wins five medals at the end of the week – all of which are gold – and notes that his secret to success is having a reinvigorated sense of drive in the sport. 

that teaching someone the basics reminds him of why he fell in love with it in the first place. 

you’re the only one who knows that he’s not talking about the swimming. 

--

an: please be nice im rusty

taglist: @invisible-mori @porridgesblog @k0z3me @sugu-love @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @gojoswifeyyys-world @cutiejg @chilichopsticks @torureadz @dreamxiing @mamamamamarga

[aetherdoesthings]

a new job pt. 2

forethoughts: apologies for my long hiatus; writer's block has been draining me mentally. anyways, i started playing honkai star rail :D. no spoilers for penacony pls i wanna see this through 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

notes: fem!reader, reader working for arlecchino, arlecchino being sweet? idk

Your head throbbed as consciousness came back to you. Unlike the hard mattress you normally slept on and the nonexistent pillows, your head was supported by several, a large puffy blanket covering your body. You were even in different clothes than you remembered yourself to be in; a pair of silk pajamas buttoned up instead of the large worn out oversized shirt. The change of scenery instantly made all fatigue and drowsiness disappear, as you shot up, head spinning around, grasping at the scenery around you. You were inside a well furnished room, the windows on the side of the bed open, the Fontainian breeze entering your room. All your stuff from your flat above the shop was on the nearby desk. Your heart pounded heavily inside your chest, as you planted the balls of your feet on the soft surface underneath you, allowing yourself to explore your surroundings to a better degree. Somewhere far, you could hear the sound of children, their cheerful laughter reaching up to the room you were in. 

The doorknob twisted, stealing your attention as every nerve in your body went on high alert, your muscles tightening. The door opened, revealing a familiar figure, the sound of her heels muffled by the carpet as the woman walked towards you, those crimson eyes boring into your skull. 

“Ah. Y/N. You’re awake. Perfect.” The Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers stated with a monotone voice, her hand moving towards your face. A rush of heat shot to your cheeks as the Knave ran her darkened thumb over your lips, feeling the cracks and grooves of your chapped lips. You swore you saw her own thin lips purse ever so slightly at the touch, displeased by your physical condition. 

“W-Where am I?” You forced yourself to sputter out, in hopes of destroying the suffocating atmosphere around the two of you.

“Inside the House of Hearth. Since our last meeting, I took it upon myself to ensure you were properly settled into your job. All your belongings are on the desk.” Arlecchino said ever so matter-of-factly, as if she wasn’t fazed at all by the idea of breaking into your place while you were sleeping to move you into new territories without ever asking you if that was okay.

“If… that's alright with you. I understand for a normal human a sudden change like this is… daunting. However, this is to ensure the discreteness of the House’s location.” Arlecchino added, after noticing the shock and horror in your eyes.

You forced yourself to calm down, bottling up all your emotions now for a breakdown later as you faced the Harbinger. “I-It’s okay. I understand.”

“Excellent. I shall let you get dressed and ready for the day before giving you a tour of the House.” Arlecchino’s hand lingered on your cheek for a beat longer, her crimson eyes gazing into your dark pools. She removed her hand and departed before you could speak up, and thankfully you didn’t have to. 

Accepting your fate, you changed into the clothes inside the closet, as another sense of uneasiness bubbling in your stomach at how the clothes perfectly fit your body. You brushed your teeth and washed your face, reminding you that this was the reality you were in. Not some fantasy or dream world. Stepping outside your bedroom, you found the Knave standing idly by the door, those red crosses instantly landing on your figure the moment you opened the door. 

“You look wonderful in that.” Arlecchino mused, her lips curled upwards slightly as she beckoned for you to follow her. Looking back once to ensure you were behind her and not trying to escape, Arlecchino began her tour. You stayed by her side, listening to her explain the schematics of the House of Hearth and the history, though never delving into great details. She led you through the different halls and floors, until the two of you passed by the dining hall. 

“Are you hungry?” The Harbinger asked, no sign of malice in her voice as she looked at you.

“U-Uh..” Before you could think of a convoluted lie so the tour could move on and end sooner, your stomach answered for you.

Your stomach churned as you heard the Knave let out a chuckle, your heart thudding at the sound as Arlecchino smiled at you. “I suppose you are. Come. Allow me to fetch you some breakfast.”

No. Why were you feeling this? This feeling of… longing. Longing to hear that chuckle again. Longing to see those lips curl upwards and those eyes bore into yours, a hypnotizing gaze that told you everything would be alright. No. This was the Knave. Arlecchino was a Fatui Harbinger. She killed people. The blood on her hands was far greater than you’d ever known. 

But yet a part of you couldn’t help but keep thinking about Arlecchino possibly seeing you only in your undergarments and carrying you and tucking you in, a sense of joy and glee filling your heart. 

“What would you like?” Arlecchino brought you over to the breakfast bar, waving and greeting the children that occupied the hall.

“Do you have pancakes?”

“Pan..cakes?” Arlecchino looked at you, confusion written all over her face.

“I-I like pancakes.” You mumbled under your breath when you realized she didn’t have a clue about what you were talking about.

Arlecchino instantly shook her head, her gaze softening as she granted you a small smile, immediately making you feel better. “I will ensure that the kitchen will make these.. pancakes of yours for you. How about some fruit and yogurt as a substitute for today?”

“Sure.” 

“So, that concludes the tour.” Arlecchino cleared her throat, rummaging through the files on the cabinet behind her desk as she grabbed a piece of paper, placing it on the table in front of you. “Your employee contract. Sign it, and you will become a teacher at the House of Hearth.” Arlecchino listed several things that came along, as you sat on the plush chair reserved for the children that visited her offices. Every once in a while, she’d glance over at you, watching you eat your bowl of yogurt and fruits, your eyes following her figure pacing around. 

“Any questions?” Arlecchino turned her head towards you. Her gaze softened ever so slightly when she saw you with your knees to your chest, holding the empty bowl with both hands as you looked at her with those innocent round eyes, a smudge of yogurt on the corners of your lips.

“No.” You responded, shaking your head, setting the bowl aside. 

“Well then.” Arlecchino placed a pen next to the contract. 

Arlecchino watched you take a deep breath, picking up the pen and rereading the contents on the paper. She knew her methods of getting you here wasn’t the best, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel bad for taking you in your sleep and bringing you to the House without asking you. But then again, she stared at the paper, waiting for the pen to move, nails digging into her arm. Ever since that day at the flower shop, Arlecchino could not stop thinking about you. She wanted to have you close. Wanted to always see that innocent look on your face, oblivious to the world of danger she lived in. 

A sigh of relief nearly escaped Arlecchino’s throat as the pen moved across the surface, your signature on the line. She stifled it with a cough, taking the contract and gazed at the signature, as if trying to burn it into her brain. “Excellent. Take the rest of the day to adjust and get used to the surroundings. Is there… anything I can do for you?”

Arlecchino hoped you were going to say yes.

“...You don’t know what pancakes are?” You tilted your head.

Arlecchino blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You work at an orphanage. With children. B-But you don’t know what pancakes are. Kids like pancakes. Pancakes are good”

“Are you insinuating that you are a child, then, Y/N?” 

Your cheeks flushed, realizing the error in your sentence. Arlecchino let out a low chuckle, reaching her hand out to wipe away the stain around your mouth. “How about you show me… what this pancake is? So the children could enjoy something new, and you would be happily fed.”

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.

Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.

Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS]

Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful. 

Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin. 

You look like something the cat dragged in. 

You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat.  You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.

A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.” 

Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.

Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion. 

Right. Your watch is gone. 

Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster.  You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.

Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.

The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray. 

At least it’s warm. 

The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.  

In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight. 

Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling. 

You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.

Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain. 

You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster. 

It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon. 

God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.

You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real. 

The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square. 

You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower. 

Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.  

You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.

There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be. 

"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen. 

A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small.  You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache. 

Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.

You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. 

Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter. 

Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now. 

You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs. 

It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms. 

"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”  

You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–

Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.

With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.

It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.

You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does." 

"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"

“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts. 

His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”

“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”

You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection. 

Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap. 

Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin. 

It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches. 

At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation. 

The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes. 

"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him. 

He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition. 

You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are. 

"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened. 

Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.  

Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!

There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face. 

"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances. 

You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for. 

Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot. 

"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again. 

He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead. 

Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions. 

"Marc," you start again, "what was--"

"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."

"Marc!" you bark. 

He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away. 

He looks… scared. 

Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him. 

"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even. 

His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle. 

“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him. 

There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.

He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.

Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even. 

Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites. 

No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation. 

That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'. 

It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail. 

This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you. 

You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him. 

Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there? 

How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes? 

Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane. 

Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then? 

You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry. 

But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.

"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–"  you hesitate on the word. 

The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best. 

"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."  

Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration. 

“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you. 

Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself. 

"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”

In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him. 

"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom. 

"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”

He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes. 

"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."

Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”

"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish. 

“You were pretending to be asleep?” 

"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"

“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room. 

Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him. 

But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you. 

“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch. 

“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask. 

He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you. 

His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly. 

It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face. 

“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”

"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.” 

“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?” 

That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.

"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”

There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.

"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"

His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him. 

It doesn’t last. 

He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.  

"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter,  "Marc!"

Oh goddamnit! 

You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.” 

He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp. 

“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.” 

“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”

“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest. 

You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"

And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.

“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”

“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"  

“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”

His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks. 

“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt. 

The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.

You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.  

“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you. 

It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all. 

Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you. 

“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc. 

He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.” 

There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you. 

“Work for him… how?” you ask. 

His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you. 

“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”

And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?! 

Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding. 

“Can you speak in plain English?”

“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”

“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”

He grits his teeth. 

“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”

“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”

He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door. 

And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.

Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.  

“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way

He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort. 

Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.

But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort. 

The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break. 

And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.

In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore. 

Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.

He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion. 

It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants. 

“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”

Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it. 

“I’m not moving,” you tell him. 

It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.

What is he–?

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours. 

Oh.

Marc Spector is kissing you.

It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him. 

Something shifts. 

All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. 

You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever. 

It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again. 

The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets. 

You want this man, all of him, to be yours. 

Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.

“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”

Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank. 

He doesn’t. 

You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.

“I love you.” 

You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know. 

You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now. 

"And you love me,” you say. 

His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise. 

“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first. 

You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst. 

Marc Spector loves you. 

You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him. 

It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes. 

It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust. 

Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even. 

And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms. 

You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before. 

Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you. 

Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight. 

God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you. 

For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind. 

You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again. 

His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything. 

Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly. 

But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon. 

"Shit!”  

His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall. 

You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants. 

As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more. 

Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him. 

Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling. 

This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.

You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip. 

And fuck, fuck– that’s– 

You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.

Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess. 

Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge. 

Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe. 

There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take. 

When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach. 

You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both. 

Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress. 

The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.

Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you. 

His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.

Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed. 

Then he stops. 

You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor. 

But he’s not moving away from you. 

Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes. 

You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have. 

Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt. 

And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it. 

“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–” 

He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down. 

“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply. 

You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches. 

From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter. 

But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.

His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick  over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most. 

Fuck, you could kill him for that. 

“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him. 

“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–” 

“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone. 

“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.” 

There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt. 

Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs. 

Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat. 

This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.  

This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in. 

Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt. 

You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick. 

It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even. 

“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone. 

Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over. 

Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.  

You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips. 

"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks. 

Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks. 

You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself. 

You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit. 

It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die. 

You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much. 

It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?

“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."

Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it. 

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue. 

His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body. 

“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur. 

He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet. 

Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again. 

“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed. 

He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly. 

Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.  

It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it. 

You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide. 

“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish. 

He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed. 

“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.  

There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you. 

And oh… You get it now. 

It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours. 

All you need to do is ask for him. 

“You. I need you. Want you. Please.” 

You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.  

It's everything.

Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster. 

Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly. 

Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach. 

The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention. 

His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock. 

A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.  

As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip. 

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot. 

“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”

You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.

Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance. 

His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.

The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.

Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried  to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering. 

“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either. 

It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.   

Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him. 

His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet. 

And god, you need him to. 

"Marc."

He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle. 

"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed. 

“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch. 

You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move. 

Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination. 

"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate. 

Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for. 

Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him. 

The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.

He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing. 

Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart. 

Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow. 

He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids. 

"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.

A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe. 

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating. 

Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"

He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours. 

"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say. 

His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him. 

His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can. 

It feels like a confession. 

The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep. 

His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. 

It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved. 

And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—

“Baby, you close again?” 

And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it. 

You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you. 

“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter. 

Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you. 

And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.  

You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see. 

But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him. 

Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart. 

Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.

And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.

The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion. 

His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him. 

“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter. 

He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation. 

But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat. 

There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.

“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is.  His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again. 

“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready for this to end.”

It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it. 

It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens. 

Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear. 

“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.” 

His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.  

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.” 

He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go. 

How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?

Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too. 

“I love you.” 

At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.  

His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes. 

You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse. 

And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.

You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted. 

His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.

Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you. 

He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even. 

The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by. 

If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions. 

His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss. 

He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.

“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks. 

He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is. 

“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.  

There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised. 

You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one. 

Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him.  Steven. Both. All of them. 

“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?” 

A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”

You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this. 

“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”  

Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his. 

The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too. 

“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.  

Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.

You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply. 

Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him? 

Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head. 

He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still. 

It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc. 

No swelling, no bumps. No wounds. 

On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once. 

There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.

“What's wrong?” Marc asks. 

“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.” 

“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you. 

You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.” 

An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him. 

“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”

Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”

“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable. 

The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it. 

Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them. 

What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that? 

“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says. 

There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to. 

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc. 

He’s… opening up to you. 

You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?

Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except… 

There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.

He’s waiting for you.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable. 

He’s nervous. 

Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile. 

"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"

His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh. 

Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement. 

It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else. 

Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again. 

"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.

"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.

"I like that you make it for me," he tries.

"That wasn't the question, though."

Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face. 

"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together." 

His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you. 

A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either. 

There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him. 

When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all. 

Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again. 

Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that. 

“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”

“Here.”

Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep. 

You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen. 

The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.

Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday. 

In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile. 

You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately. 

Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before. 

That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.

All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc. 

But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly. 

This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.

 It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf. 

You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you. 

“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?” 

The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum. 

“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?” 

He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake. 

“Name’s Jake Lockley.”

You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there. 

You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity. 

But you’re not scared this time. 

Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.

You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.

THE END.

Author's notes

This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.

The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.

A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[pastel-greene]

The Daughter | king!sukuna x curse user!reader

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 - Anger | Chapter 5

Summary: The mother of curses happens upon a blind child and decides to impart a portion of her power to them as an experiment of sorts. The power morphs the child in their image until they are part curse and part human. So what happens when they get employed by the King of Curses? Will humanity bloom as newfound emotions flow between the two? Or will they usher in an era of never ending terror?

Notes: not all of this will be canon, it will be loosely based off of the jjk universe :) taglist is open, comment your request on any chapter to be tagged in future ones

Genre: female reader, fluff, angst, ‘loads’ of smut, violence, sukuna true form but like not with the weird face lmao just double set of eyes and arms, dark reader

Warnings: profanity, explicit smut (two dick sukuna, sadistic sex, biting, oral m & f receiving, pet names, more to be added), violence, depictions of gore, dark minds cause yk, mentions of rape, toxic relationships, chaotic neutral reader, trauma, possessiveness from reader and sukuna, torture, vampire themes (reader’s blood is infused with the Mother of curses so if a curse user is to drink it it basically gives them a temporary stat boost bc what can i say vampire sukuna seems hot), cannibalism (no I don’t support it but it is true to his character), and more to be added as story progresses

Word count: 7.4k

This work contains mature content, so absolutely no minors I will block you if I find out :)

When the sun started drooping in the sky, Sukuna finally pulled out of your cum engorged holes, and streams of white gushed free. You let out a slight sigh of relief as it all drained from you. Your belly had grown a slight bulge from trying to contain all of it. You both lost track of the amount of times he came in you, but it had to be a lot given the pool of white that spread within the red. He watched in amazement as your holes healed and went from gaping to normal. Both still slightly twitched from all the stimulation they had gone through.

Sukuna never thought he would be able to fuck someone like that without them tearing apart. He had always either broken or held back with his concubines, never getting to do all the things he wanted. And there was still plenty he wanted to do, but he knew you would be there to take it. He was in no rush. He looked down as your blood soaked body started to get up and stretch. No sign of the mindless, shaking mess that was beneath him just minutes ago.

“Where are you going”, he asked, back to his usual authoritative tone.

“Uhm, probably to my room to bathe. What were you wanting a cuddle”, you asked with a smile as you teased him.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “You are coming to my room tonight, we will wash there”, he said while getting up and coming over to you.

You crossed your arms, “What if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t care,” he said as he reached out and touched you, teleporting both of you to his chambers.

Why wouldn’t you want to come with him? Most people would be tripping over the opportunity to go to his chambers. Hell, not even Uruame has seen the inside of them. You were his and you would stay with him.

You let your eyes wander around his chambers. They were not what you had expected. You had kind of expected a villain’s lair. Dead corpses and bones scattered about. Ominous lighting showcasing the horrors within. Instead, you were standing in a room that had a ceiling lined with light, natural colored wood, tucked away by black support beams. The walls were a dark charcoal gray adorned with black trim pieces partially hidden by large paper sliding doors. In front of you stood a wide circle archway that led to a private bathing area complete with a hot spring.

“It’s pretty in here, completely different from the rest of the palace”, you said as you continued to look around.

He looked at you and scoffed a little while pulling you towards the water. “So the rest of the palace is not pretty, then”, he asked as he led you down into the bath water. The bath was filled with the overflow from the hot spring, making it perpetually warm.

You smiled while looking up at him, “Yes. It’s hideous and should be torn down. Not to mention egotistical. I mean, when I look up all I see are your past glories”.

He quirked an eyebrow up while joining you in the reddening water. “Should I have them put new conquests up there? Perhaps, your naked body submitting to me, squirting out my cum, sucking on my finger”, he asked as he ran his fingers over your body. He didn’t know why but he loved touching you. He wanted you to always be there for him to touch, never leaving his grasp.

You laughed at his comment before you kicked his legs out from under him and watched as he fell fully into the water, dodging his hands when they reached out for you. Did he really have you? Were you really his? He didn’t and you would show him that. His head ripped up from the water with confusion and anger etched on his features. He grabbed for you again and again, but you kept yourself just beyond his reach. He was about to teleport to you when you disappeared and reappeared behind him, holding him. You ran your hands in opposite directions along his abdomen. One landed upon his hip bone, nails grazing over the slight protrusion. The other landed between his pecs, your thumb petting the skin gently. He reached to touch you, but again you disappeared.

He looked around for you but you weren’t reappearing. He started worrying that you had actually left when you emerged from under the water, your hair draping over your form as water flew through it. “Was it you who conquered me, my King,” you said, turning to look at him, diluted blood tracing down your body. You walked back towards him, turning the water beneath your feet into steps. You were slightly above his eye level as your hand slipped under his chin to tilt it up. “I may have been on the bottom but it was you who fulfilled all my commands without hesitation. You wanted to please me, I could feel it. So who conquered who”, you teased.

He grabbed your throat, “You think you could conquer me”, he laughed as he squeezed your throat harder. “Just because I fucked you and brought you here to bathe you think you hold power over me”, his grip started to crush your windpipe and make your eyes bulge.

You were just playing around, but of course he couldn’t take a joke when his fucking ego was at stake. You just laughed at him, “I hold power over you because you let me. I don’t even have to use real magic to get you to submit to me. It shows in your eyes every time you look at me, even when you hurt me,” you said through gurgles. You had figured he would resort to hurting you instead of owning up to his own emotions.

Pissed. He was seething. He was going to have a nice bath with you, fuck you again in the water. Make you feel good, special even. All you had to do was be good. Now, he was snapping your neck. He felt blood trickle down his hand as bone shards splintered through your arteries and skin. You were still fucking smiling. He clenched his hand further and your head popped off and into the water below, your body following it. That you had not expected. You anticipated him hurting you, making you bleed, but killing you? You didn’t think he would take it that far. He stood there for a few minutes still panting with anger. He conquered you, not the other way around. He couldn’t be conquered, couldn’t be owned.

Your body floated up, red pouring from the base of your neck. He stared at you waiting for you to reattach yourself but you weren’t. Surely you weren’t dead, right? He waited several agonizingly long minutes before panic started to set in. This wasn’t right. You weren’t supposed to be able to break. You were supposed to be able to take all of his strength, all of his anger.

“(Y/N)”, he called out while pulling your body over to him. All of your energy was gone. Inside you was completely stagnant, empty. He started breathing quicker as he held your headless corpse. No, no, no this isn’t right. Why weren’t you coming back? You needed to come back to him, you weren’t allowed to leave him. He had never felt a negative emotion about death, but he was quickly being swallowed by them. The water around him started boiling as his energy ran rampant in it.

“(Y/N)”, he shouted over and over while shaking your cadaver.

“Yes, my King,” you said laying on the edge of the tub, feet dangling in the air and arms propped under you.

His face snapped to look at you before looking back to your “corpse”. It slowly turned back into water and slipped through his fingers. You hadn’t come out of the in between before. The figure he saw emerge from the water, was only that— water. You didn’t feel like being hurt, so you let it take the brunt for you. You were playing with him and it was making him seethe. He appeared on top of you, knees on either side of your body, cocks grazing your upper back as he pulled your hair back, forcing you to look up at him.

“Why do you hurt me? You are so sweet to me until I stop playing your game. You even went as far as killing me over a silly debate”, you say, your smile falling as the words come out. He was so sweet in earlier hours. Kissing up and down your body as if he worshiped you. Caressing your skin so softly it was like he was scared you would break. And now he was breaking you on purpose. You knew his intentions. He would hurt you over and over until you became the perfect doll for him. Now that you made him feel the way he did, he wanted to put you in a cage for only him to enjoy. You didn’t want that. You wanted to be an equal if you were going to be in a relationship, and you didn’t even know if you wanted him that way. You had just wanted sex and now he was making it more.

“Because you need to learn how to be good for me”, he said as he tightened his grip on your hair, pulling your head further back till it forced your lips to part. He used the hole as a receptacle for his spit before kissing you. Why couldn’t you just be good? He could give you everything, more than anyone else ever could if you would just behave.

“I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What if I ran away”, you asked, watching as his face grew dark.

“I would hunt you down and break your limbs until they didn’t regenerate. And if I couldn’t find you, I’d go after Nanami or Shoko. I’d make them scream until you appeared”, he replied while kissing your hair line.

You teleported beside him, rushing him into a grapple. Two arms reached up to grab you but fell to the ground as they disconnected from his body. Tentacles of black shot through the bones in his legs and held them down. A dark mirage of wings contorted themselves from your back, the talons on the ends slamming down through his wrists and into the stone below. Your face was right above his and your scleras were darkening, teeth turning pointed, saliva turning black. Inhuman noises that sounded like strangled growls rang out everytime you breathed. Your energy was consuming you and he could feel it. Like a bomb waiting to go off.

“Don’t you ever. threaten. them. Or I will show you a world where you live as a human, not a lick of cursed energy in your veins. I will beat you over and over until you’re just a pile of viscera. And then, I’ll turn you into a curse and you’ll be forced to bow before me. The once terrifying King Sukuna turned into a mindless dog on a leash”, you say spitting black liquid onto his face.

The black tentacles continued to spiral up his legs to his abdomen. Poking him full of holes and binding him to the stone. Your consciousness was fading, you knew you needed to calm down before you went ballistic.

Sukuna had never seen you like this. Even your energy felt completely different. It was dark and cold like death, but also chaotic and fiery like hell. The longer it lasted, the less of your energy remained and the more the new one replaced it. He started to get the feeling that he might actually die if it took you over.

“Get off me, brat.”

You hated him. Every inch. He was so fucking up his own ass that he couldn’t interact with others in any intimate capacity. “This, whatever this is, is over. You will not fucking touch me again. I am not yours, you are not mine. I will work as planned and that is where our relationship will end”, you said giving him one last hateful look before disappearing.

“I’m sorry.” He said after you had disappeared. He hated himself for feeling the need to say it, hated himself even more for not being able to say it. He could have just killed you again and put you in your place. But he could feel the pain that radiated from you when you had watched him kill what he thought was you. It wasn’t physical, but emotional. It was supposed to feed his sadistic pleasures, instead it felt like he stabbed his own heart. He never wanted to feel that again. Never wanted you to feel that again. He knew you didn’t want to be chained down like he was now. He even knew it was selfish of him to force shackles on you. You were powerful in every sense of the word. You knew more about curses than anyone he had met, could do more than anyone. He should be proud to have someone he didn’t need to coddle. He was very old, but you were showing him things he had never seen before. Making him feel things he had always looked down upon. He could feel the feelings you had for him too. They were healing him in ways he never knew he needed. He didn’t want to lose them to hate.

Sukuna laid there for a while after his restraints dissipated, gaping wounds left in their place. He kept thinking of the look in your eyes. The hate in them was deeper than when he tore apart your hand. He wondered if the damage he had done was beyond repair, if you would look at him the way you used to again.

You had returned to your room still naked and partially covered in blood. You put a robe over you before peeking your head outside your door and asking your attending to start you a bath. They looked at you with mild horror from your appearance before hurriedly getting to work. Once it was ready, you sat and tried to relax but ended up angrily scrubbing your skin. Asshole. Dickhead. Dumbass. You wanted to hit him in the balls so hard he would sneeze cum. But through all the anger you were crying. You couldn’t believe he threatened them. You hadn’t really felt trapped here until he said that. You could always get there first and run away with them, but that wasn’t fair to them. They had people they cared about too and you knew Sukuna would wipe your whole town off the map if you ran. You could kill him, but you also couldn’t. You didn’t know why, but the thought of doing so made your whole body shake with grief. He killed you so easily, though. Without a second thought. You were stupid for getting close to him, letting him fuck you.

You got out of the bath and dried yourself off before putting on a nightgown. It was a long black dress made up of sheer layers. You tied a robe over it and sat on your bed. You were sitting there stuck in your thoughts when a knock rang out on your door. You could feel it was Geto but asked who it was all the same.

“It’s Suguru, I brought you dinner. I didn’t know if you had gotten the chance to eat.”

Your stomach growled at the thought. The last thing you had eaten was Sukuna’s finger and you wouldn’t even call that a meal. “Come in.”

When he entered he saw you on the bed, hair still wet and eyes slightly red. “Do you want to eat there or at the table”, he asked with what you noticed were two servings of food in his hand.

“Are you eating with me?”

He shrugged, “If you want me to. If not, I’ll eat in my room.”

You shook your head. Having his company would probably make you feel better, clear your head and give you perspective. You moved over to the table where you motioned for him to sit.

“Do you want me to move it back so you can sit across from me or?”

“Sitting beside you is fine. You’re not too smelly”, he said with a soft smile while sitting down, waiting for you to join him.

“I was asking out of hopes you would move given that you’re the smelly one. But I guess I can put up with it, since you come bearing food.” You sat down next to him and started eating. The food was delicious as always and warmed your body, but noticed he kept looking over at you and the way you sat while you both ate. “What is it?”

He just smiled and shook his head before putting an elbow on the table and propping a leg up just like you, “Nothing.”

“Asshole”, you said while shaking your head and smiling.

Silence grew between the two of you as you finished your food. Awkward tension bloomed within the air, you knew he had questions about what happened at the training grounds. You didn’t want to talk about it and he wouldn’t ask, but then the awkwardness would stay. So you gave in.

“You look like you have questions, it’s okay to ask.”

He looked at you with a sad look, “What happened when we left? Are you okay?”

You didn’t realize it, but tears started falling when he asked that. You weren’t okay. You felt like your whole world had shrunk to this tiny room and it was suffocating. You didn’t want to see Sukuna ever again but knew you would inevitably have to, and have to speak with honor when you did. You hated it. Hated it here. Hated him.

Suguru wiped your tears with his thumb before slowly pulling you into him. He smelled like cedar and jasmine. You wrapped your arms around him and let it all out. It had only been a few days and everything was already so messy and fucked up. You hated yourself for letting it get to the point it was at. Hated Sukuna for treating you like an object. Hated Uruame for attacking you when you hadn’t done anything. Hated the human part of you that felt these weak emotions. The emotions that kept you from just killing Sukuna and solving all your problems. You didn’t love him, but fuck you couldn’t deny the way he lit you on fire. The way your energies curled into one another until you felt like one. You were weak. You thought of the dagger the mother gave you, thought of your promise. You decided you would be human tonight and only for tonight. Tomorrow you would go back to being a monster. Tonight you were just a woman that hated herself.

You awoke to the sound of your servants knocking on your door. You faintly remembered Suguru laying you into the bed after crying into him for at least an hour. You stuck your palms into your eyes as you cringed from how you cried into him. You rolled around in your bed as you tried to fight off the memory before letting out a very long sigh. You told your servants to come in while sitting up in your bed.

“Good morning, ma’am. The King has sent for you. He said your training will start in an hour and you’re not to be late”, they relayed while bringing in your breakfast.

You dropped your head back and let out a groan. He was the last person you wanted to see. But you told yourself that you wouldn’t be dictated by feelings today. You would do your job, keep your head down, and act like nothing had happened between the two of you. You ate your breakfast and got ready, repeating that in your head like it was some sort of life-fixing mantra.

You were told to meet the King in the throne room instead of the training grounds. You weren’t sure if that was because of what happened yesterday or if it was preplanned. You approached the throne room and took a moment to collect yourself just like the last time you were here. Do your job, keep your head down, act like nothing happened. Servants swung the door open and you could feel Sukuna looking down on you from his throne while you entered.

He looked you up and down. You wore a black button up crop top, adorned with gold buttons, red trim, and his sigil on the back. He had requested it be put there when he looked over your clothes order, so that everyone could see you belonged to him. Under it, sat a black, fitted bodice that sank below the waistline of your pants. Your pants sat towards the tops of your hips and were loose around your curves. The slack bunched around where they were tucked into your steel toed boots. Beautiful girl.

“I heard you had summoned me, my King”, you said, keeping your voice professional.

“I did. Your training is going to begin today, or well not so much training as your first day on the job. I have a meeting with a few generals, at least one of which I am sure is plotting against me. I want you to get into their minds and write down who the traitor is and their plan. At the end, I will read it and gauge the others' reactions. Should they quickly condemn them, they will live. If they hesitate or defend him, they will die”, he explained.

The concept was easy enough. Get into their minds, find the traitor, discover the plan. “Are any of them sorcerers?”

He let out a little chuckle. “Gods no, they’re all weak little humans. I only keep them around because it keeps their troops in line. However, with you being here, the loss of some troops is not a big deal”, he said, trying his best to show you that he acknowledged your power. Acknowledged you.

Realistically he could cut down most of his troops and replace them with your curses if it was that much of a hassle. What better army than one that couldn’t be detected by most of the population? One that had powers overshadowing any human capabilities. You contemplated telling him about that option.

“Is there something on your mind?”

You looked up at him before shooting your eyes back down to the ground. “Well, I am not against your plan. I think it is good to make an example of the traitor, but it can also put contempt in the other generals’ hearts. I think it might be good to have a curse shadow the remaining ones. I would give them the ability to see it and tell them it was there to keep an eye on them. That only they could see it and wouldn’t be able to tell any of the troops about it. I think it would keep them in line with minimal effort on your part.”

“My, my, maybe you are meaner than me”, he said with a proud tone. He wanted to see you smile from his joke, but you didn’t. In fact, it felt more like you grimaced. But with your head down he couldn’t tell for sure. “Where do we get said curses?”

You twiddled your thumbs a little bit, something to look at and remind yourself to keep your head down. “I can summon them and order them to watch the generals”, you said flatly.

“You can summon curses? How will they know what they’re looking for? The curses I have seen haven’t had much of a brain”, he questioned while two of his arms crossed and the others rested on his chin and knee, pointer fingers tapping in contemplation.

You sighed not really wanting to go through all the details but going through with it anyway since you brought it up. “I can create curses from cursed energy. If there is a fear of something, I can use the energy and craft a curse that embodies that fear. Previously, I would use my magic to create hysteria around things I wanted as curses. Like zombies for instance. I wanted one so I used my energy to make it look like people’s loved ones had risen from the grave and were attacking the town. The word of flesh eating, undying creatures that should have already been dead spread to surrounding towns and thus energy for a curse was created. I took it and put it in a doctor that had been hung for experimenting on his patients. He was intelligent and knew about anatomy so he was the perfect vessel to put it into.”

He just stared down at you for a minute, processing the fact that you just said you created a zombie. Does that mean vampires could be real? Tch, he couldn’t believe you joked with him about that and made him feel so stupid. “So, to be clear, you can create curses. And you were behind the fall of Nanmoku? And the zombie hysteria? All because you wanted a pet zombie.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

He just laughed. You were fucking crazy. He rubbed his hand over his face, still slightly chuckling, his tongue feeling the inside of his cheek. “Show me him.”

“Okay, but you should know he is not exactly all there. I mean he is intelligent but crazy as hell. Like we will look sane next to him”, you said while summoning him. Black smoke pooled on the ground as hands with long overgrown nails reached around the edge and started tapping.

“Enough with the theatrics Miro”, you said while tapping your foot.

He pulled on the ground, shooting up and landing on the floor as the portal closed. “Yes my Lady, my apologies. I humbly offer my body to beat for my transgressions”, he said while crawling down in front of you. His back offered up to you in an arch, head shaking in anticipation as suppressed giggles fell through his teeth. His hair was stringy and white like a spider’s web and fell over his eyes. Eyes of light blue and dark brown that he had confiscated from his victims. His skin was pale with multiple holes carved between his neck and collar bones, making the the edges look like a connection of veins. His lips were pink and curved higher than they should up his cheeks revealing a perfect set of teeth, teeth that all seemed a little different. His abdomen was scrawny, the skin pulled taut across his muscles and dipping where his stomach was. Burn marks that resembled X’s went across each of his nipples and an O was scorched over his heart. A taunt for enemies to hit him there. He wore bandages that reached halfway up his abdomen and baggy pants that hung low over them.

The King looked down at him with lips curled in disgust. “So, what does he do?”

Miro looked up at the King as if just realizing they weren’t alone and sneered. “I can do anything my Lady asks of me. I can gut others, I can gut myself. I can bring people’s loved ones back from the dead and play house all day with them. Ooo I just love the way the little ones shake and sniffle and how the older ones comfort them and put on a brave front. None of them wanting to upset their returned family member. I play with my toys until they bore me and then I get rid of them all to make room for new ones. Some toys I keep, those that are strong. I keep them in my collection and use them to fight for my Lady. To keep her safe. To make her happy”, he said, getting more and more excited with each word. His whole body vibrated as he laughed.

You kicked him in the gut, his body rolling from the impact. “He didn’t ask you which meant you didn’t have permission to talk. Now pick yourself up and quietly sit beside me on your knees with your head down”, you said as your annoyance with him grew. You had always wanted a zombie but this one became crazier than you expected. Begged you to beat him, to experiment on him like you and Ieiri used to. The only upside of the crazy was that he was fully devoted to you.

He moaned out a laugh as he crawled next to you, tucking his knees under him, head down. You rubbed your face in slight embarrassment as you halfheartedly said, “Ta daa”.

You weren’t lying when you had said he wasn’t all there. Sukuna wondered if you had done something to make him that way or if that was just how he came. Crazy aside, Sukuna could feel a good amount of energy coming off of him, your energy mixed with another. It was undeniably stronger than any other curse he had ran into, and with intelligence he was all the more lethal. If you could really create and control curses on that level, he wondered just how many you had stored away. And how many people had died for your pleasure.

“You have more like him”, he asked.

You chuckled and shook your head, “Like him? No. Intelligent and strong? Yes.”

Sukuna sighed while looking up. “Who would you send with the generals?”

“It would depend on what they feared most. I would give them a curse born from their greatest fear, makes my curse stronger and them more obedient. Plus, watching a human consumed by terror is always fun.”

Little monster. “We will try it, but you will replace the army with curses if it ends with me having to slaughter the troops.”

You had already considered that an option so you had no qualms with that idea. “Works for me, my King.”

He hated that you weren’t letting him hear you say his name. Such a simple yet effective way to punish him. He got up from his throne and started descending down to you. Miro looked up at him before you smacked the back of his head, making him look back down. “You can dismiss him. He is not needed for the meeting”, he said now standing a few feet in front of you.

You looked down at Miro and he began to sink through the floor, back where he came from. Now that it was just you and Sukuna, the room felt awkward. Each step he took to close the gap made you feel like you were suffocating. You could see his black socks and sandals stop in front of your boots.

“Look up at me”, he said softly. Hand moving to touch you but not completing the motion.

You looked up at him, his eyes looked like they were withholding endless words that his mouth would not let out. “I shouldn’t have killed you”, was all he said before walking away and motioning you to follow.

In the war room, you sat beside the King, paper and quill in hand. The generals filtered in with their heads down greeting Sukuna with utmost respect. There were eight of them in total, four sat on each side of a long table with you and Sukuna at the head. They talked about various matters in politics that made you want to shove the quill through your ears. You were thankful you didn’t really have to listen and started poking about in the general’s head closest to you. He was a large man, not like Sukuna, but larger than most humans. He had a daughter and wife back home that he seemed to dote on. You could tell he did not like the King, but would never rebel for the sake of his family. You looked at memories of how his daughter ran into his arms when he returned home, just like the woman who contracted you. They both had wrapped their arms around their children with such care, hearts warm and full. You hated it.

The next man’s head was so bald it hurt your eyes to look at. It was like a mirror that refracted light right into your eyes, a very sweaty mirror. He had a wife that abused him regularly. Calling him names, hitting and throwing objects at him, sleeping with other men. He liked it though, got off on the abuse. A well respected general secretly a masochistic cuckhold. What a cliche, you thought. He had no thoughts on Sukuna. He was used to serving people and didn’t seem to care much about who as long as he had money to give his wife.

The man after him had long blue hair tied into a low ponytail. It looked better than yours and had you curious about what he used to get it so soft looking. You found out that he was one dark ass motherfucker when you went looking for the answer. He kept a haram of younger men at his mansion and tortured them regularly. Sometimes he even made them torture each other or themselves. His hair was so soft because he soaked it in a blend of his discarded servant’s organs and cum. He had heard hair needed protein to look nice and that was his solution. Cleaner methods existed but to each their own you figured. He liked Sukuna more than he should. He wanted to be chained up by him and used. He would follow him off a cliff as long as he continued to meet his gorey ideals. If Sukuna slipped up, his thoughts would shift to owning him instead. Sukuna not being a monster didn’t seem like an issue, though.

Next in line was a very buff yet very small man. He had a long red beard that showcased intricate braids. The hair on his head was also tied up in various styles and bright red. He hated Sukuna. You didn’t even have to really dig to feel the hatred he felt. Apparently, he had gifted Sukuna his daughter when she turned 18 and hadn’t been allowed to see her since. Ιt seemed he owned a massive farming setup that provided most of the food for the region. He had given up his daughter as an offering so that the King didn’t destroy the operation and condemn the region to starvation. He wanted to kill Sukuna, but would never make a move for the sake of his daughter and people. Pathetic. Not like you could really judge, though.

The fifth man had black hair that was cut close to his scalp and a scar that interrupted his hairline. It was him. You could hear all of his thoughts so loudly. Sukuna had murdered his daughter and son after his wife spoke out against him at a festival. You remembered hearing about it. He had strung the woman up by her own intestines for the whole festival to see. When her children saw it they cursed the King and exploded where they stood, a warning for all other viewers. He had lost his whole family that day and had to sit there quietly like a coward while they were killed. He planned to team up with the 8th man sat down. He had also lost his family to Sukuna because his baby would not stop crying at a different festival. Sukuna took the baby from the woman’s hands and bit its head off before throwing the corpse back in the mother’s lap. Ιt was then mother who wouldn’t shut up, so he silenced her too. Her head fell off without any movement from Sukuna. He turned to look at the general with his baby’s blood still flowing down from his mouth, challenging him to look up at him or step out of line. He even spat what was left of his son’s skull in front of him, but was met with no reaction. Pleased, he walked back to his seat.

Their plan was to poison the King at the next festival by dosing their newborns with poison as well as their new wives in hopes he would repeat his previous actions and ingest their blood. Sukuna may have been a monster, but they were no better using others as bait to be sacrificed for their petty vengeance. You wrote down what you learned and Sukuna’s lower left eye watched as you wrote. You slid the paper before him on the table. The generals eyeing it with curiosity. You sat there, bored and disgusted with the men before you, casually doodling on the leftover paper as you waited for the meeting to end.

When it came to an end and the generals were paying their respects Sukuna spoke. “So, what kind of poison did you plan to use, General Sho and General Ayato?”

The color drained from their faces as they froze. The others sat in confusion, but completely still as they noticed the air change.

“King Sukuna, whatever do you mean”, Sho, the man with short black hair asked with a clearly shaky voice.

The King smiled as he read out their plan and reasoning, their bodies shaking as they realized they were screwed. Sukuna looked to the other generals, “What do you guys think we should do about this little problem, hmm?”

Some closed their eyes, others smiled, but they all said “Punishment for treason against the King is death for the guilty and their family.”

Sukuna smiled as he looked at the other two, their heads finally raising to look at him, “Then I guess we have a decision gentleman”. Lines of blood appeared on their bodies before they fell into piles of pieces. “And before the rest of you go, my assistant has a gift for each and every one of you. You may look up.”

The remaining men looked up at you as you smiled, then they saw the monsters within the room with them. Weaponless, some of them started swinging before their assigned curses restrained them. “Now, I don’t think that is anyway to receive a gift from the King’s palace”, you said. “You’re supposed to smile and say thank you.”

Some of your curses pushed the men’s faces up into a smile and whispered the words in their ear, instructing them to say it. Fear filled the room until the air was thick. Some of the men saw what happened and immediately started thanking you profusely with wide smiles. The mother’s smile.

“You’re very welcome. They will accompany you every hour of the day to ensure no other coupes are designed. They will not interfere with your lives in any way. Only you and your fellow generals will be able to see them. Once you leave this room, you are to never mention them again. This is an order from the King. Failure to comply will be considered treason and death will be carried out immediately by your new friends.”

Their eyes were all wide, thoughts erratic and viciously mean, hands shaky, breathing short, but heads nodding in understanding. Sukuna told them they were dismissed and they all left trying their best to not acknowledge their gift’s presence.

Once the door closed, you let out a sigh and stretched your back. The meeting was boring, but the end was fun. Different from the work you used to do, but not entirely.

“That was excellent”, Sukuna said while looking at you. You peeked a look back before looking back down. “You can look at me”, he said hoping you would.

“I am okay my King”, you replied. You were still upset with him for killing you, even if he apologized.

“It wasn’t a question”, his patience with you was growing thin. He knew you were mad, and he guessed you had a right to be, but he was getting tired of it. He didn’t like the way you were making him feel. He would’ve just hit you until you acted better, but that approach was what got him here. He didn’t really know any other way to approach it, though. Never had a need to, never had feelings to hurt.

You looked at him, irked with the way he ordered you, “Yes, my King?”

“Stop calling me that”, he said as he scooted closer to you.

He was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him. You didn’t want to, but part of you just wanted to give in and lean against him. “What would you liked to be called then? Huh? Lord Spooky?”

He just stared at you. Repeating the name a few times before he laughed. “I will let you call me Lord Spooky if you forgive me for killing you.”

“Did you hear the words that just came out of your mouth? You think letting me call you a pet name makes up for taking my head off?”

He pursed his lips together and shrugged, “I mean if you think about it, I technically didn’t kill you, I killed something that looked like you.”

You raised your eyebrows, lips twitching in anger as you slapped him across the face. He didn’t move much but blood did trickle from his cheekbone. From the look in your eyes, he knew he said the wrong thing.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I was trying to make a joke. I just wanted to see you smile. I don’t like you being mad at me. It makes me feel weird and I don’t know how to deal with it without hitting you. But if I hit you, you just become more mad at me and I am starting to think you might go ballistic on me if I continue. I don’t want to fight you. Which is also weird for me”, he said. It was the first time you had heard it talk so candidly. It was hard to be spiteful towards him when he was being so open, made you feel like a child. So you rubbed your hand over your mouth and decided to be just as honest.

“I don’t like it when you hit me. Most people don’t appreciate being hit just saying. I also don’t like how hot and cold you are. One minute you are telling me sweet things and the next you’re literally killing me. I don’t want to be owned either. I know you think I am yours because you enjoy the way I make you feel, but I am no one’s. Not ever again will I be owned. Threatening me is whatever, but if you threaten my friends again, I will make good on the threat I made. I know you’re the King and have to keep up appearances, and if I actually did something majorly wrong, then I would understand hurting me the way you do. But don’t say you care about me and want me to open up and play around with you and then punish me for it. It isn’t fair and I won’t tolerate it. I don’t want to fight you either, but I will if it comes to it”, you told him while making eye contact. He sat quietly for a few minutes while processing what you said.

“I won’t hit you, unless you commit a great offense. I want you to joke around with me, but you may only do it when we are alone like this. Otherwise you need to respect me as a King and follow the rules”, he hesitated, whatever he was about to say proving difficult for him, “I am- I feel-… I regret threatening your friends and killing you, truly. I want you to be mine, and me to be yours. I can’t promise I won’t be possessive, but I will try my best to not control you. I want you to be happy when you see me, not full of hatred. I do care about you and I want you to enjoy your life here. As pathetic as it sounds, I would like you by my side. Today, you were phenomenal. The way you asserted yourself over them, toyed with them, it was so attractive.”

You could tell he wasn’t lying or speaking in half truths. These was his thoughts laid bare. You reached out and grabbed his hand, fingers holding it from both sides as your thumbs ran up and down his palm. “So where does that leave us, then?”

He didn’t really know. He had never been close to someone like he was you. You weren’t an enemy, or a toy to play with, you were you. An anomaly he never saw coming. “Wherever you want us to be”, he said as he moved one of his hands to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I want to go slow. Everything up until now has felt so chaotic, so rushed and messy. And I mean, don’t get me wrong, there were good parts. Some very good parts”, you smirked at him, “but we need more. We need to figure out how to be around each other without any hidden intentions, how to relax in each other, before asking for more.”

He caressed your face looking at your lips but holding back, “Okay.”

Notes: hehe this chapter was a pain to write. Hopefully it comes off clear and not confusing to read :0 Extras v v

- Miro would 100% fight Sukuna for the reader. Miro loves the reader unconditionally and has an arsenal with some faces we all know that will be revealed later, making him quite the pain to fight. He is also hard as hell to kill, because his whole existence is made from being undead and “unkillable”. Sukuna could do it, but it’d definitely take some effort.

- Poor bb Geto. He doesn’t know the King and reader fucked. He thinks that any screaming he heard was from you two fighting/you being tortured and that you started crying because it was too hard to relive. He regrets being the one that brought you here.

- Sukuna is finally learning how to use his words. He would never let anyone else know, he would tell them he beats you because that’s somehow more acceptable than talking to you. He will still have outbursts in the future and there will still be more hateful sex to come, but he is trying. When he thought you were actually dead it felt like his whole world stopped. The breath left his lungs, gravity felt too heavy, his body felt weak and hot, he hated that feeling. He hated how you felt looking at him holding your fake corpse too. He doesn’t want to ever feel that again. He is fr being forced to learn empathy.

Taglist: @missroro @roxytheimmortal

[sosplumbingdrainage]

CCTV Drain Survey 

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[suashii]

— 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝓈𝑒𝓉 𝑔𝑜 ౨ৎ

mastuoka rin x reader. 1.3k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ lifeguard!rin & lifeguard! reader ﾉ established relationship

“wanna have a race?” the water beneath you kisses your cheeks as you float on its surface, soft waves carrying you wherever they please with the direction of the wind. the sun isn’t as bright as it had been earlier in the day, doesn’t beam uncomfortably over your skin and in your eyes. it’s beginning to sink down past the horizon, leaving the sky an almost mystical blend of pink and purple.

a lounge chair drags against concrete somewhere on the other side of the pool—no doubt matsuoka going down the checklist of tasks to do before either of you can lock up the gates and go home for the night. he always makes an effort to start the closing duties as soon as the last patron leaves for the day.

“no… would you like to help me clean up?” his voice is smooth despite hours of blowing his whistle and firmly reminding rowdy children not to run or roughhouse. 

“come on.” you whine from your place on the glistening blue water. “sitting in a chair all day is no fun. it’ll be quick—promise! and we can make it more interesting with conditions.”

any noise from outside the pool ceases. you can’t see him from your position on your back but the silence is enough to tell you he’s at least considering. “what do you mean?”

with his question, you effortlessly transition from floating on your back to swimming towards matsuoka. splashes sound in your ears as you make your way to the edge of the pool, the sound softening when you slow to a stop, propping your arms on the warm concrete. your gaze drags up from matsuoka’s sandal-clad feet, over his red trunks and white t-shirt, to finally land on his cherry irises. they’re sparkling with curiosity.

“if you win, i’ll quit slacking off and help you clean up—i’ll even take on the majority of the work. but if i win…” you pause for a moment, contemplating how you can benefit from this arrangement. something comes to mind, makes the corners of your lips pull up in a smile. “you have to do whatever i ask.”

his eyebrows come together in the middle of his forehead in a troubled frown.

you frantically wave your hands to wipe the unsureness from his face, drops of water flinging from your fingertips onto the concrete, leaving dark little imperfect circles on the pool deck. “nothing bad!”

he thinks about it for a moment before shrugging and reaching for the neckline of his shirt to pull the fabric over his head. he shakes his hair out and kicks off his sandals, all while looking at you. “fine, i’m in. freestyle?”

“well, we’re not doing butterfly,” you tell him, putting your palms on the concrete to pull yourself out of the pool. there aren’t any starting blocks at the humble neighborhood pool but you still emerge from the water to take your place.

rin chuckles at your unwillingness to swim his specialty. you must really have your mind set on that unspoken wish of yours. “free it is, then.”

you both ready yourselves at the pool’s edge. knees bent, the toes of your starting foot gripping the edge of the deck, you clear your throat. “on three?”

your companion hums. “you count.”

“one.” you extend your arms over your head. “two.” you lean forward. “three!”

you push off the deck as fast as you can after shouting the last count but it seems like rin is faster, entering the water a fraction of a second quicker than you. you can only stay underwater so long, the pool much more shallow than those used for your competitions, shorter in length too. you break the water’s surface and start your stroke, arms alternating in their mission to carry you to the end of the pool.

the water beside you in rin’s imaginary lane looks like it's splashing ahead of yours. you’re in the final stretch and don’t have the luxury of paying him any attention if you want to win. you muster up every bit of energy left in you after a draining day of dealing with kids and teenagers who treat rules as suggestions and convert it into strength that feeds your final push.

when you emerge at the end, rin’s head has already popped above the water, maroon strands of hair dripping with beads of water that drop right back into the pool. you run a hand over your face and shake your head. “no fair.”

rin snorts. he saw this coming—you always find something to nitpick about whenever your so-called friendly competitions don’t end in your victory. he’d call you a sore loser if it weren’t so entertaining. “you’re only saying that because you lost.”

“nuh-uh.” and here come your desperate, far-fetched attempts at discrediting his win. “you’re taller than me so that’s an automatic advantage.”

he won’t argue with you on that one but he does take notice of how you opted to base your argument on that rather than technique or skill. a mischievous smile turns the corners of his lips upward. no good can come from such an expression. “yeah, but i thought free was supposed to be your specialty.”

a strangled noise of disbelief penetrates the air as your eyes widen and you point an accusing finger at him. “you train in freestyle too!”

rin burst into laughter at your reaction, eyes crinkling at the corner, arms wrapped around his stomach. what’s worse, you can’t be as mad at him as you want to be. you’ve always told him that you find him the prettiest while he’s laughing—really laughing. any anger you can summon, barely any at all, comes in the form of a displeased groan and a weak splash of water at him.

his laughs die down, leaving only the gentle ripple of the waves and the occasional chirp of a cricket on the other side of the fence. humor lingers on rin’s face but there’s tenderness in his features. “look, if you promise to hold up your end of the bargain, then i’ll give you that wish.”

“really?” you ask. you never planned on leaving him hanging, and you think he knows that, but you’re definitely willing to pull your weight if he’s willing to be so amendable.

“sure.” he nods, elbow propped on the deck. “so, what is it you wanted me to do so badly?”

it’s silly now that you think about it—the idea and your convoluted way of asking for it. a sense of comfort washes over you as you gaze into his inquisitive eyes. he once told you he’d do anything for you. “i want… a pool kiss.”

his lips stretch into a grin. “that’s it?”

“don’t ‘that’s it?’ me.” you bring your hand up from the water to slap his chest. your cheeks haven’t been this warm in his presence since the two of you first started dating. “i thought you’d call me corny for asking.”

“i mean, it’s a bit cliche but…” you open your mouth to tell him that your worries weren’t for nothing but he doesn’t let the words pass your lips. his wet palms cradle your face as he leans in to capture your lips in a kiss. his body is firm against you but his lips are soft like the fluffy clouds that have yet to disappear with the day. they’re sweet like the cotton candy sky.

his forehead presses against you when he pulls away, your noses nudging with the proximity. the absence of his lips on yours makes you feel as though you should have asked for more than one kiss.

“anything for you.”

thanks for reading! reblogs and comments are appreciated :3

[firelordsfirelady]

XX. Hot Springs

Author: @firelordsfirelady

Imagine: When Y/N—a princess of one of the Water Tribes—is told she’s leaving her tribe, she never expects that she’s to be betrothed to the Fire Lord’s son, nor was she prepared to be exiled the very day she arrived at the Fire Nation. With her life in the hands of her new fiancée, how will life change for the princess? 

Pairing: Zuko x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: arranged marriage, feelings of fear, banishment, mentions of burns/abuse, frustration, violence, betrayal, language

Word Count: 525

Destined to be Yin and Yang 

I own no rights to Avatar the Last Airbender or any of the characters/story. 

Author’s Notes

The characters as all aged up so Zuko’s banishment happens when he’s 16 

Keep in mind I am bringing a unique world with inspiration from ATLA in their characters, some of the events that happen, bending, etc. Not many things may align or occur with what happened in the show. It’s intended that way, so I hope you enjoy it regardless.

See Y/N’s inspiration here. 

Destined to be Yin and Yang Soundtrack (YouTube)

Zuko and I made dinner and training our routine for the next week as we awaited any news or unusual reports that could lead us to the Avatar. Lieutenant Jee had mentioned that there was reports of children in the Earth Kingdom were playing with ice, so that’s how the three of us--Zuko, Iroh and myself--ended up in the temperate forest of the Earth Kingdom. We had split up to cover more ground, and I was pushing my way through some bamboo when I stumbled upon a clearing where there were three pools of steaming water.

I had been to some hot springs when I visited the Northern Water Tribe, but I wasn’t expecting to find any in the Earth Kingdom. My eyes widened as I walked over and tested the water. It was the perfect temperature, and I wanted to melt into the water. I looked back to the wall of bamboo stalks blocking the view of the springs, and I looked back to the hot spring.

Deciding that I could still embrace this journey and experience the world around me, I stripped down to my undergarments and hung my blue robes on a nearby tree limb. I figured that I could do the walk back any undergarments as long as no fight broke out. My body sunk heavily into the perfectly warm water as I sat down in the spring. I leaned back so that my head rested lightly against the ridge of the hotspring. I had just closed my eyes to relish in the water when I heard a familiar voice calling for me.

“Y/N!” The color drained from my face as the voice grew closer. “Where are you?” 

We’re leaving already? I frowned as I heard the Firebender walk through the bamboo wall.

“Y/N!”

“I’m over here.” I calmly said loud enough for the Prince to hear me, but I didn’t bother to open my eyes to look at him as I heard him stop.

“We--” Zuko cleared his throat. “We’re closing in on the Avatar’s trail, and I don’t want to lose him.

“Alright. Just give me a moment--” I started to say, but Zuko interrupted me.

“Y/N, we don’t have time--” Zuko’s words stopped as I sat up in the pool of water. The air was slightly chilly on my exposed shoulders and almost exposed chest. I crawled over to the edge closest to Zuko, whose face was as red as spicy bulgogi sauce, and raised a surprisingly confident eyebrow at him.

“Shall I get up now?” I let out a laugh as Zuko quickly turned around.

“Please join us back at the ship in a few minutes.” I continued laughing as Zuko retreated back to the safety of the bamboo curtain. Chuckling to myself as I stood up in the hot spring, I quickly dressed and headed back to the boat. Zuko’s eyes avoided looking at me as I arrived with a smile on my face and wet clothes draped over my arm.

“Onto the next adventure!” I cheered with a laugh as Iroh smiled and laughed at me while Zuko walked away yelling orders at the crew.

Tag List @chevysstuffs @puttyly @ginger24880 @night-fall-moon @junieshohoho @0kauy @coolgirl458 @hypnoticbeing @angelruinz @preeyansha @playboygeniusphilanthropist @ssonniiu  @chi-ara @hagridshaircare @stell404  @kyo-kyo1 @herondale-lightworm @simonsbluee @nadlx33333 @nerdisthenewcool @jewelsrules @soggycrout0n @mymomsdisappointment @leeaintthere-blog @sanskritisays  @katie-tibo @stavitcutislamepodkrevet @niktwazny303 @fudogh

[beesmygod]

fun fact; did you know that sometimes when twitter shows you a promoted ad tweet with video, it'll play a pre-load ad on the promoted vid, meaning some people are out there promoting videos that won't even get seen 'cause some shitass casino app is getting the pre-roll in the time it takes to block a promoted tweet. this is endlessly hilarious to me

YES!!!! okay but wait this was a whole fucking thing if you didn't hear. comrade mrbeast blew up elon's spot in a really REALLY funny way by calling his 250k payout "a bit of a facade".

and he was right. he pointed out that his video had undue attention not just bc the CEO retweeted it or because they've been secretly boosting his account, but bc advertisers were bidding like crazy to put pre-rolls on his and ONLY HIS video. the more advertisers, the higher his payout was. AND if twitter counts every load, every SINGLE load, as a view on an account they are algorithmically boosting on a timeline that's no longer chronologically....isn't that the same broken circular logic?

the fallout of this has been that every time mrbeast uploads a video on X, he drains the fund bc its a limited pool lol. so all the conservative superstars have been getting 20 dollar checks in the mail instead of their 2k or whatever lol

[somerandomassguy]

Warmth

The water was warm, Steve recognized. The hands touching him, running through his hair, gently stroking his skin were warm too. It was weird, in a way, to be surrounded by such warmth; such love, as he remembered it to be. Normally the water felt cold as it pooled around his feet, running off his shoulders in fat droplets. Even with the shower knob turned to be almost as hot as the water heater allowed for, it still chilled his bones and sent shivers down his spine in graceless waves. 

The hands pressed firm into his flesh, allowing for him to process the feeling before tapping softly, as though asking a question. Steve quickly caught onto the fact that it wasn’t a question but a statement; a little informative gesture telling him that the soapy washcloth would be scrubbed over that part of his body when he deemed it so. 

He leaned back against the edge of the tub, screwing his eyes shut to block the light. He felt a thumb rub over his thigh in vague circles. That’s how he knew it was safe. That it was safe to keep his eyes closed; to render himself useless with only the sense of touch left. He couldn’t hear worth a damn, anyways; just gentle throbs and thumps when someone made a loud enough noise. It was like he was deep underwater in the beginning; before he took one too many hits to the head. Now it was just silence. 

When Steve finally drew his eyelids up, a soft, incredibly lovestruck smile met his eyes. Eddie half chucked half properly set the washcloth on the edge of the tub, leaning himself over to grab Steve’s face in his hands and press a kiss to his lips. Just a simple one, lust abandoned and in its place; love. 

‘You feel safe’ Eddie signed, although his fingers moved in that clunky, unpracticed way and his sign language was distinctly lacking. But Steve understood it nonetheless; and brought himself to nod slowly. Eddie’s smile only seemed to brighten, eyes shining and teeth showing.

‘Always, with you.’ Steve attempted to mumble, very unsure of how it actually came out. He was positive he got the point across anyway, if the way Eddie practically melted and fell back onto the floor was any indication. Steve felt a soft smile paint his lips. 

He was loved, content, warm. But most importantly; he was safe. He couldn’t even put a date on the last time he could close his eyes and relax. Eddie was here now, though; he’d keep Steve safe from the echoing horrors brought by the Upside Down, even if only for a little while. 

To be quite honest; that brought a funny feeling deep within Steve’s chest, a feeling though not unwelcome, but strange nonetheless. 

He later recognized it as a graceful dance between gratitude and devotion; his utter love for the man before him and how much he adored having Eddie in his life. His heart swelled with tender emotion at that; a little truth whispered in his head. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly; the water drained away, dripping down his chest and off his legs. Stark cold wrapped around him like a thick, unforgiving blanket. The feeling didn’t last long before Eddie helped hoist Steve to his feet, one knee wobbling without the support from the brace. A towel fell around his shoulders, courtesy of one Eddie Munson; the very ratty fabric doing just about absolutely nothing to warm the chill of his flesh and to soak up the water still gliding off his wet hair. 

He threw a faux scowl at Eddie, the man only shrugging with a sheepish smile and saying something probably along the lines of ‘It’s the best I could find.’ Still though, Steve tugged it tighter and scraped the water off his skin until the towel felt like it took a long dip in the ocean. 

With barely a moment to spare, Eddie put his hand on the small of Steve’s back and swooped them both away to rummage through his closet (Mostly consisting of still unwashed items from thrift stores and clothing articles so worn through it would only take a single touch for them to fall apart at the seams.)

Steve could almost see when Eddie had a lightbulb moment, pulling out a pair of sweatpants in arguably good condition and a hoodie Steve had literally never laid eyes on in his life; no doubt because of the lack of holes, stains and shittily sewn patches. He eyed them both hesitantly, but Eddie had already practically flung them at him; leaving Steve just about zero choice in the matter. 

He put them on with a sigh; after locating.. a halfway decent pair of boxers. Eddie had scampered away to retrieve something he didn’t bother to tell Steve about. He returned triumphant, it seemed, when he held something out in the palm of his hand; confidently proclaiming “For you, my liege.” 

Steve eyed his hand first; before taking the hearing aids and slipping them onto his ears. He turned them on, a whiny mechanical groan emitting from the shitty electronics. He winced, scrunching his nose up as he managed to adjust it properly. 

As he finished, Eddie’s arms wrapped around him in a fond hug. “You did great.” He beamed proudly.

“At what; sitting on my ass as you do all the work?” Steve snarked. 

“You got it in one, Harrington.” Steve could feel the ‘Soon to be Munson.’ On the tip of Eddie’s tongue. (Even though one of them worked a shitty retail job and the other didn’t at all, therefore making the purchase of a ring basically irrelevant and homosexual marriage was very illegal.) 

“Thanks.” Steve laughed, smacking his boyfriend on the back jokingly. 

“You’re very welcome, my liege.” 

Steve smiled, eyes crinkling shut as he stood there, holding Eddie as Eddie held him back. 

Their life, the one they carved out from the stone blocks of text the Fates had written; was nearly perfect, in that moment. And he was quite glad for that. 

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Committed to Hell

Yandere Male Demon x Gender Neutral Reader (CW: Noncon, drugging, religious themes/imagery, reader dies but the story takes place in their afterlife, murder, blood, cock sucking, stalking, abduction, general yandere themes, dacryphilia)   Word Count: 2.8k (Wow, okay, so this is a very special post, it is in celebration and thanks for getting me to 2.5k followers, and it is also for Halloween. I have been working on this ALL day. This post has a story with a new demon lord OC, AND, for the first time ever, and there is an audio component of the yandere OC speaking to YOU! I had to upload the audio in a separate post which can be found nowhere because I deleted it. I hope you all enjoy this food, your Halloween Feast, thank you all so much for following me. Please excuse any mistakes as this was not beta read.) (The music in the background of the audio is Horror Drone 1, music by audionautix.com. The voice of Ledlam, the demon, was provided by me, artwork by @solariahalsey​ in exchange for writing. Edit: Art was removed due to being NSFW and I didn’t want to get in trouble and audio was removed because it was cringe and only got 100 likes.)

 One late night you had come home from work and exited your car to step into the chilly air. Two hooded figures leapt from the shadows, putting a rag of what could only be chloroform over your face before quickly taking your keys, stuffing you into your own car, and driving away.  When you woke from your forcefully induced slumber you struggled to recollect the proceedings of the following night, all you knew was that you had been on your way home and now you were on some kind of stone slab in a large room. The walls were adorned with complex runes and sigils that had been painted with something red and suspicious, the room was dimly illuminated by torches along the walls, and an ominous chanting could be heard coming from an adjoining room.  Your limbs were bound with rope and tied to four posts on the cold hard stone block you were trapped on. You thrashed and tried to yell, but your mouth was gagged and your muffled screams of terror only served to let your captors know you were awake.  They stopped their chanting, their unholy prayer to a significant demonic deity, and suddenly a set of heavy wooden doors burst open and a few dozen cultists filed in silently and sat in pews laid out before the stone altar.  One cultist, who you assumed was their leader as he was dressed in more intricate robes, stood before the altar and looked down upon you before turning to face his flock.  “Fellow worshipers of Ledlam, Shepherd of the Shadows, we assemble here today in the house of worship to fulfill the will of our lord.” The cult leader turned back to you, now holding a ceremonial athame. Your eyes fixated on it and tears rolled down your face as you redoubled your yells and struggles. “We now commit this lucky chosen soul to the service of Ledlam.”  And in one smooth motion he had cut your throat, your blood pooling into grooves carved into the altar, dark magic sizzled and popped as the cultist chanted and the arcane symbols were filled with your blood.  Your life quickly drained away.  Now you were in hell, through no fault of your own, in the home of Demon Lord Ledlam. Unbeknownst to you, Ledlam had been watching you for nearly a year. He had used his powers to peer into the mortal realm and find someone suitable to his tastes, that someone had been you.  From the moment he first laid his eyes upon you he knew that, on this very Halloween, you would be sent to him. It was the only date that the veils between Earth, Heaven, and Hell all thinned a bit and those using the right magic rituals and using significant power could bend the rules a bit.  And so it was that upon your death your soul had been funneled here by the ritual of his followers and by the gravity of his abilities. Otherwise you would have either walked the veil before reincarnation or you would have ascended into Heaven.  Now you were confused and in an old style castle. Hell was a lot like feudal Earth had been, society was just often more violent. There were many different territories in Hell and Ledlam was the demon lord who ruled over the largest piece.  You could see from the windows outside that you were no longer on Earth, the sky was an angry crimson red, crashes of thunder echoed periodically as flashes of black lightning danced across the tumultuous sky.  Understandably you were shaking. Anyone would be scared in Hell, but your soul, your very essence, was not for such a place as this. Under normal circumstances only an impure soul would be here. The effect was that you felt much more uncomfortable here than others would, a creeping sense of unease that permeated every pore of your being.  Ledlam, however, was beyond excited. He was putting the finishing touches on a feast in honor of you being here with him. He had all favorite foods, well, as close as he could get to your favorite foods with the type of flora and fauna that were available in Hell, he had his horns polished to make a good impression on you, and he even had the dining hall décor changed to match your favorite colors.  You could hear the stomp of his footsteps approach the room you were in as his great hoofed feet hit the hard surface of the floor. Not knowing what it was you ducked behind a chair in a desperate bid to hide from whatever monster could possibly call this place home.  What you saw turned your stomach, a beast straight out of a nightmare. A colossal demon, well over 7 feet tall, opened the door and stepped into the room. He had sharp shiny horns protruding from his head of black and red hair, his legs were covered in thick white fur and his feet were mighty hooves, his body was all muscle, and his nails sharp and black. An upside down cross was tattooed on the back of his hand and a spaded tail could be seen moving behind him.  The demon was naked except for a bird skull necklace and a loincloth, which was mostly useless, as his large cock and balls swung quite visibly and pendulously below it.  His four yellow eyes glowed in the darkness of the poorly lit room, scanning for any sign of your presence and finding you almost instantly.  “(Y/N)! There you are, come on, your food will get cold!” He spoke with a deep booming voice, one that echoed unnaturally. Ledlam approached you and grabbed your arm, completely apathetic to your resistance and only silently enjoying your terror.  He dragged you into the dining hall and set you down at a small table opposite of him with a large plate of food between you two, evidently for you both to share. You just looked down at your lap silently and awkwardly. Your demon captor just stared at you with unblinking eyes as he smirked at your fear. It was so delicious.  You flinched at that wicked voice when he spoke again.  “How rude of me, in my excitement I forgot to introduce myself, I am Ledlam, lord of this territory.” He reached across the table, put his hand under your chin, and lifted your head up, your eyes threatening to cry just from the pure fear you were experiencing from him and your situation as a whole.  “You need to look at me when we are having a conversation, okay (Y/N)” At this you nodded obediently, too scared to speak, but your acknowledgement seemed to please him as you forced yourself to look at his frightening visage.  Ledlam reveled in your fear, he couldn’t help it, he did not meet too many human souls up in his castle and the few times he ventured out the souls were long since hardened and immune to the simple sight of a demon scaring them, even a frightening one with his violent reputation.  Your fear was just so cute and pure. He could not help but enjoy it.  “Leaving your Earth body behind takes a lot of energy, you need to eat, my little human. You cannot really die in Hell, but you can still suffer.” As he finished speaking he held something to your lips that looked similar to a dish you had enjoyed while living. A little mini quiche.  You managed to speak in a small trembling voice, “N-no that’s okay I’m n-”  “I was NOT asking. Open your mouth!”  Not daring to disobey him, you blushed as you opened your mouth and took a bite of mini quiche that he fed to you. You chewed slowly and took a nibble of food from the plate intermittently to keep Ledlam appeased.  “Such a perfect little human, that is why I had you brought here, you will be a wonderful mate!” Ledlam could not wait to hold you and kiss you and make you writhe in pure pleasure, he had been alone for untold millennia. None of the demons born of hell nor the humans sentenced here were what he sought. He wanted you. A sweet, kind, pure being. Unspoiled by the ravages of Hell, who he would protect and keep safe.  Though you could not speak after hearing what he wanted you here for, your surprise covered your face.  “Don’t worry, I know you are scared, my angel, but I will keep you safe.” At these words you started sobbing. You wanted to be home, safe and curled up in your bed. Instead you had been killed and had your soul dragged into hell. It wasn’t fair.  As much as Ledlam loved seeing your face streaked with tears he did not want you to be too upset.  The demon lord left his seat and tried to pick you up, but for the first time since you wound up in Hell you found the will to run. You ducked under his arms and ran straight out of the dining hall, running frantically, luckily the way out was pretty direct and you wasted no time rushing out the door.    It appeared there were no guards or anyone else around and you rushed towards the forest surrounding Ledlam’s castle. Just as the sky was like an angry wound flashing with dark lightning so too was the forest completely alien. Flora with purple, red, and black foliage, strange animal noises, and grass and soil that just somehow seemed… off…  But you could hear Ledlam shouting for you so you proceeded into the cover of the trees anyway.  It was not a fun experience for you, some of the bushes lashed at you leaving wounds on your legs, you were getting bitten by any number of horrible insects, and just to make matters absolutely as bad as possible it began to rain. Blood. It was raining blood.  To say you were miserable would have been a grave understatement. At least the blood rains dispersed all the insects. You trudged through the forest, trying to put as much distance between Ledlam and yourself as you possibly could.  It felt like you had been running for hours, your entire body ached, and this rain was making your skin itch. You found a little cave at the base of a cliff and decided to take shelter until the weather was a bit more favorable.  But it was only minutes before you heard the booming voice of your pursuer nearby.  “I KNOW you are close (Y/N), did you REALLY think that you could escape from me? This is my kingdom, my playground.” The demonic voice was slowly getting louder, you hid a bit deeper in the cave behind a boulder. “Are you in heeeere my little angel?”  “I can smell your wonderful scent even through the blood rain darling~” Now you could hear his hooves against the ground, drawing ever nearer. “I love a good hunt every now and then too little dove, but my patience is wearing oh so very thin. Wouldn’t you rather get out of this scary cave and go back home to bounce on my cock?”  Suddenly you saw four glowing eyes peering at you in the darkness.  “Ah, there you are darling... mmm… I was going to wait until I got you nice and comfy back at home before mating, but seeing you covered in all this warm blood… mmm… it is really doing something to me. I really don’t think I have any choice other than to take you right here~”  You did not know how he could see you so well, but you backed up until your back was against the rough wall of the cave. As he stepped towards you he uttered some kind of spell that illuminated the cave in a soft light for your benefit, you could now see that his uncut cock was fully erect bobbing excitedly with each step that he took.  For what felt like the hundredth time today warm tears began streaming down your cheeks. Ledlam smirked, you just looked so irresistible like that. He continued his approach and stopped when his precum leaking dick was just in front of your lips. His intent was obvious.  “Pl-please… I don’t want t-”  “Suck. If you don’t get it nice and lubed up then what we do next will hurt quite a bit my little angel~” This wasn’t true, he did not and would not actually harm his sweetie, and his cock made enough natural lube so he did not need your saliva. But ingesting his precum would actually help to relax and arouse you and he relished the fear his threat got from you.  Your lip quivered before you reluctantly opened your lips and he slid just a little more than the tip of his prick into your wet mouth. You stroked his dick as you sloppily sucked on it. His skin was extremely warm and his precum was strangely heady. Ledlam knew it would take a minute or so before his precum changed your demeanor any, so he had a bit of time to enjoy your clumsy nervous sucking.  The demon ran his fingers through your blood drenched hair gently as you continued your task. Such rains were exceedingly rare, to have been drenched by one before completing his unholy union with you was surely a sign it was meant to be.  You licked up and down the shaft, trying to get as much spit on his massive tool as possible, he caressed your face gingerly, careful not to hurt you with his sharp nails as he used his thumb to wipe away your gorgeous tears.  The drug-like effect of his fluid was starting to become apparent. You slowly stopped crying and your muscles relaxed considerably, relieving all the tension that had been stressing your soul since your death. You found yourself more into pleasuring him as you gradually became more aroused.  Nervous sucking and a desire to lube him up to ease future pain were replaced by eager licking and a need to swallow more of his precum.  “Mmm, so good and obedient for me (Y/N), but I think we are ready to do something else little angel.” You looked up at him with a flushed face, desperation and confusion obvious on your face, all your previous fear completely melted away.  Ledlam peeled off your wet clothing, easily slicing through it with his sharp nails. He leaned you over against a large stone and then kneeled behind you, his rough hands exploring your legs and thighs. Unable to stretch you with his fingers with his large nails he instead opted to use his tongue. It slid into you effortlessly. You moaned in desperate pleasure as he moaned at the taste of you.  His serpent-like tongue thoroughly massaged and stretched your entrance, he licked, stretched, and kissed it until you started sobbing again, but this time in needy agony, yearning for more than just his tongue and mouth.  “Shhh, I’ll take care of it darling.” Your demon lover turned you around. You draped your arms over his broad shoulders, dizzy with a need that you didn’t understand. Strong calloused hands gripped your waist. Ledlam pulled you into his lap and allowed you to nuzzle your head into his neck as he slowly lowered you and the tip of his cock teased your hole, smearing thick precum into it, before he finally sat you down on it.  You moaned, literally drunk with pleasure. Ledlam took you to the base, moving you up and down on him, your stomach bulging from the enormity of his shaft each time you were forced back down, though there was no trace of pain or even discomfort.  Seeing you utterly fucked out of your mind as he bounced you in his lap was even better than seeing your eyes wet and full of tears. You leaned against him, nuzzling lovingly against his chest, as he started plunging into you just a bit faster, his weighty nuts smacking your ass with each sinful thrust.  Pleasure mounted in both of you until it could be held back no longer and you both came at the same moment, as he filled you up with potent demonic seed the ritual was complete and your soul was irreversibly bound to his.  If there was any doubt as to who owned you it was certainly gone now. You were Ledlam’s angel from now and into the fathomless depths of eternity.  You were too exhausted from the sex to stand, and too drunk off his cum to think, so Ledlam pressed a kiss to your lips before picking you up and carrying you all the way home.

[malarkgirlypop]

MEDIC! Part 37 (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC)

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK OH FUCK!

TW- Violence

Based on the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, not hate to anyone involved.

Tag list: @imusicaddict, @b00ks1ut , @mstiemountainhop, @awaterfalls, @lovememadly92 @lucyfromtheoldhouse @blueberry-ovaries anyone else please let me know.

We picked two replacements up on the way to the checkpoint, the two young men got into the back and chatted to Grant and I along the way. 

Grant was showing off to the young men telling terrible jokes and long winded stories. The two soldiers stared blankly at him as he finished his latest joke. 

The joke didn’t land from the silence of the back seat, their confusion sent me into hysterics, soon the replacements joined in too, not really knowing what they were laughing at. 

I think the boys just wanted to impress Grant, him being their senior and all. They laughed politely even when they had no clue what was going on. The men just seemed to be happy to be spoken to. 

We hadn’t made it to the checkpoint just yet but for some reason Grant slowed the jeep. I cast my eyes forward focussing on the scene ahead of us. Other cars were scattered along the sides of the road, some blocking the path altogether. My brows furrowed as I looked over to Grant who wore the same expression. 

The car pulled to a stop parking the car in the middle of the road. He had left some space between the scene in front of us and the car. We both dismounted the car, Grant requesting the men in the backseat to stay put as we walked closer to the cars scattered across the road. 

“You should get back into the car Em.” Grant told me, not looking at me as he spoke. 

“I think there is safety in numbers.” I disagreed with his statement, I wasn’t going to sit in the car and potentially watch him walk alone into danger.  

My gut swirled and my skin tingled, something wasn’t right about this situation. 

We approached the cars, I swallowed my gasp as it rose in my throat. Lying on the ground were bodies, multiple people unmoving in pools of blood. I looked at Grant, concern lined his features as he took in the same information. 

I bent down, my fingers finding the inside of the neck of the man closest to me. He was cold to the touch with no sign of life under my fingertips. It seemed he had been here for quite some time, as I tried to pull his eyelids shut but rigour mortis had already set in. 

Grant watched me, I looked up to him to shake my head, a silent exchange. We hadn’t uttered a word to each other since we had gotten closer, as if the sound of our voices would disturb a monster lurking in the shadows. 

As if my thoughts had been said aloud, a man appeared from the darkness. Goosebumps rose on my skin and bile in my throat. The way he moved was unsettling, as if there weren’t bodies laying at our feet.   

I didn’t recognise the man, but he wore an American uniform, so he had to be one of ours. Grant gestured for me to come close to him, we had been on separate sides of the road. His hand was outstretched for mine. I rose from my position slowly trying not to spook the man now standing before us. 

My hand reached out for Grants as he took mine, he subtly pulled me behind him, stepping in front of me. My stomach churned, my breathing erratic. The voice inside my head called for me to drag Chuck back to the jeep and leave. But I stood silently, a pace behind Grant, still gripping his hand like a lifeline.  

“You ok man? Do you need some help?” Grant asked tentatively. His voice in the silent night made it seem as if he was yelling. I tried to even out my breaths. 

Grant’s question made the man stagger closer to us. I felt the blood drain from my face as my eyes focussed on the gun in his hand. The man laughed, smiling at us in the darkness. That action alone sent chills up my spine as the hairs on my neck stood on end. My grip grew even tighter on Chuck’s hand. I was silently begging him to leave with me. But instead he did the opposite, dropping my hand to my side. 

He glanced over his shoulder, a weary look on his face, he was trying to distance me from the man. I bit my tongue, but I couldn’t urge my feet to move forward. I was frozen watching Grant approach the man alone. 

“They wouldn’t give me any gas.” The man's slurs pulled our gazes from each other. We watched him cautiously like a wild animal, we had no idea what he was capable of.   

The drunk man motioned with the gun to the people who lay lifeless on the ground. I had only assumed, but his actions made it clear. He had killed them. This man was dangerous. 

“Krauts!” The man bent forward screaming at the dead man on the floor. I begged for my mouth to work, for my feet to work but all I could do was stand still watching in pure horror. My heartbeat fought to muffle all other sounds in my ears. Tears pricked my eyes, I didn’t care if they were Krauts he took their lives in cold blood, over gas.  

Grant moved forward. I whimpered silently. I willed him to stop with my eyes but he wasn’t looking at me, he hadn’t taken his eyes off of the soldier. He was inching closer to someone we couldn’t trust, who had killed over something as simple as gas. If we weren’t careful we could be on the receiving end of the weapon he carelessly flung about. 

The soldier stumbled away back to his jeep, turning his back on us. I finally willed my feet to move forward. The crunch of gravel underfoot seemed to be louder than bombs with each step I took. Grant must’ve felt the same way as his head snapped over his shoulder to look at me. He subtly shook his head, he was going to handle this. I was going to fight him over it but our second of refuge was soon shattered. 

Grant walked closer again to the man. I let the cry of protest die in my throat. 

“I tried to explain, this fucking limey wouldn’t listen. I think he was a Major.” The man’s words strung together in a long sentence as he again motioned to the man who was clearly dead. The man was an American Major, fuck. We’re fucked. 

“Hey private, we’ve got a problem here.” Grant spoke in an even tone. All I could do was watch, tears pricked in my eyes. We needed to get out of here, but we were already in too deep, there was no way out of this.  

“You got any gas?” The private asked with a vicious grin plastered on his face. He acted like Chuck hadn’t even spoken. 

“Why don’t you give me your weapon.” It wasn’t a question, Grant was going to take the gun off of the man whether he wanted him to or not. Chucked stepped forward, his hand outstretched readying to remove the weapon from the man himself. I stood still, my hands clasped together, I could feel my nails digging into my palms and the sheen of sweat that lined my brow.  

“I guess I’ll use his jeep, I-I don’t think he’s going to be needing it.” The man wandered away, back to the jeep the Major slumped beside. 

“Hold on a second there alright.” Grant yelled at the man, surging forward. It all happened too fast or too slow. I wasn’t sure. It all became a blur in the end. Grant’s actions caused the man to swing around from his journey back to the car, he raised his weapon with no hesitation. 

BANG. 

The shot rippled through the still night air. I watched the bullet leave from the gun, straight into Grant’s fucking head. With a sickening crack his head took the brunt of the force, his neck snapped to the side. Blood splattered as Grant crumpled to the ground. 

My screams pierced the air as I ran forward trying desperately to catch Chuck before he hit the ground, but I wasn’t fast enough. His dead weight crashing to the ground. 

I sobbed kneeling beside Grant as I took his torso into my lap. 

“Grant!” I wailed, his eyes rolled back in his head as his breathing became shallow. I pressed my hand to the injury trying to stop the bleeding but his blood seeped between my fingers and onto my pants.   

I couldn’t hear anything over my sobs. I didn’t know if the replacements had seen what happened or if they were calling for help. I didn’t even know where the man had gone. 

Turns out I should’ve been paying more attention. A pained scream strangled from my throat. A hand firmly gripped my hair and yanked me backwards. The force propelled me back, as my hands scrambled to release the death grip that tore the hair from my skull. My legs kicked out from beneath me, the hand not giving me enough time to find my footing. I screamed in pain as I was dragged all the way to the jeep. 

I looked up to find him. The soldier. But he wasn’t just the soldier that murdered my friend and took other innocent lives. His eyes were familiar. I wasn’t close enough to see it before. 

He’s the man from the bar. 

*************************************

Chapter 38