#but yeah UM... IF SOMEONE STILL READS TAGS...

[yoonmetogether]

A Kim Namjoon Oneshot

pairing: idol!namjoon x gn!reader genre: hurt/comfort, established relationship summary: tale as old as time, you’ve been rejected again. will things ever change? but namjoon proves that he’s not going anywhere, and you’re as important to him as the sunrise is to the morning. rating: 18+ only minors dni!!! warnings/tags: reader is sad and insecure, self-deprecating language, hopelessness, small argument, panic attack, crying, mentions of sex, namjoon tells it how it is as a very loving partner, he’s also pretty cheesy wc: 3k LMAOOOOO as always this got out of hand it's really 6.8k note: thanks a million to my lovely @moochii-daisies for beta reading this and giving exquisite feedback that i constantly go back to and cry over!! and also shoutout to my beauty @glossdebut for also betaing and helping me with the group chat at the end <3333 thank you queens!! 🫶🫶🫶 love yall so much

Your mind is blank as you drive through the night, windshield wipers on high because of the pouring down rain. Your heart is racing, but your body is still. Everything you feel is just… numb. You’re becoming too used to rejection, to not being wanted.

To not being as good as everyone else. To people saying you have what it takes, but inevitably losing interest and passing you up for someone better.

It feels like just a matter of time before Namjoon comes to his senses and does the same.

He hasn’t stopped calling you. But you can't answer - you dread what he’ll have to say.

Because you left that rejection letter on the counter before you ran out, so he definitely saw it when he got home. You should’ve torn it up and thrown it in the trash. Burned it.

He’ll probably be so frustrated after yet another let down from you. You hate disappointing the love of your life. It’s almost enough spiralled reasoning to make you not want to go home at all, but it wouldn’t be fair to him.

When you pull up to a red light, you go to open up your phone only to find it dead. Great. Now Namjoon will be disappointed and worried.

The rain has made it fucking cold out in the middle of spring, and you have half a mind to yell at your boyfriend when you see him standing in front of your house with an umbrella. Yep, definitely worried.

Just as you finish parking, Namjoon jogs into the street, reaching out for the handle so you can step out and be under the umbrella. But he’s already looking at you with concern that you can’t face so you walk past him and into the rain, uncaring that it ruins your hair and clothes as you make a beeline for the house.

“Um, hello?” he calls after you, sounding offended.

“Hi!” you throw over your shoulder in a tone unnatural for you.

Thankfully, Namjoon waits until you’ve both made it inside and out of the rain to confront you.

“Where the hell have you been? Do you know how many times I called? Why didn’t you pick up?” He exclaims as he shakes out the umbrella and leaves it on the porch.

“I was driving and then my phone died.”

He huffs, shutting the door. “I was about to hotwire a car and go find you.”

Eyes rolling, you shuck off your shoes and drop your bag next to the closet. “You can’t even drive, what do you know about hotwiring?”

“I’d figure it out.”

“Oh, right, Mr. IQ of 148,” you quip as Namjoon gestures for your soaked jacket. Your skin shakes as you shrug it off and you hope he doesn’t notice. Anxiety, not rain, is making you tremble. You don’t want to explain that.

“Wouldn’t the simpler solution be to, I don’t know, call one of the guys for a ride? Yoongi'd bitch at you for a while, but at least you wouldn’t be risking jail time.”

“The simpler solution would be that the partner who I love and adore picked up the first one or two times I called.”

“Yeah, I know,” you wave him off.

“Hey,” he says in a tone of richer bass, his long finger on your chin turning you to him, fret woven into every line on his face, even his dimples. “I was really worried about you, baby.”

“I just needed some time to myself.”

“Okay,” he nods, understanding. “But I didn’t hear from you all day and then I came home thinking you were here but you weren’t, and then you didn’t answer my calls so I started to think the worst.”

“I’m sorry.” You mean that. Namjoon already has so much to stress and worry about, you shouldn’t add to his plate. You don’t want to become another one of his problems. Maybe you already are.

“I’m guessing you saw the letter.”

“No?” His brows furrow in confusion. “What letter?”

You forget that Namjoon could walk by a burning building and not notice a damn thing, that big brain of his always too lost in thought or handsome nose buried in a book.

Sighing, you turn for the kitchen where you hand him the single sheet of paper that you refuse to look at.

“I didn’t make it.”  You stare at the counter as he takes it and reads it over, but your periphery catches the wrinkle in his brows and tick in his jaw.

“Fuck them,” he snaps, flinging the paper back on the counter. “It’s their loss.”

For some reason, his words not blaming you don’t make you feel better.

“Yeah, and this makes me a real winner, Joon,” you mumble, picking at the sleeve of your wet jacket. ��It doesn’t matter how much I want it or how hard I work, things are just never gonna fall into place for me. I’ll never be good for anyone.”

“Hey,” he says firmly, slinking into your space with a hand on your forearm. “You are good.”

“Not good enough!”

Namjoon’s eyes widen at your loud tone and the way you pull your arm away from him. You’re not one to yell, especially not at him, but the numbness within you is starting to crack and spill.

“And you’re so successful and good at every fucking thing you do - what if I can’t ever amount to that?”

You know you shouldn’t make him a part of this, but you can’t help it. This insecurity has been building with each rejection you receive, making it impossible to not compare yourself to him.

His concern turns into confusion mixed with something else, and he steps closer, holding up a finger but not pointing it at you.

"First of all, I am not good at every fucking thing I do - you're thinking about Jeongguk." Your eye roll doesn't stop him from pressing on and lifting another finger.

“Second of all, who drove home and who took the bus? And third of all," he emphasizes, adding one more finger. "What we’re not about to do is create our worth out of our accomplishments or lack thereof and then compare it to our value in this relationship.”

He’s right. He’s so right and so insightful and you should acknowledge that. But the insecurities prevail. You sink into yourself, making you as small as you feel.

“I’m not good enough for them, so how am I any good for you?” His eyes narrow, lips pulling in as he stares at you pensively.

“I don’t like where your head is at, baby. You’re projecting.”

He’s always so gentle when he calls you out. Since you started dating, you’ve struggled with feeling less than because you’re in a relationship with an idol, but Namjoon reminds you that it’s only a narrative you've created since he’s never personally given you a reason to feel that way and he never will. But you still have so many doubts.

“I’m just scared that one day you’ll lose interest because I can’t do things right.”

His mouth opens and closes, and you realize that you’ve made this man who’s always articulate and always knows what to say speechless.

How many more things can you ruin?

Before he can figure out even a single word in response, you twist around, turning your back on him to quickly shuffle up the stairs and into your bedroom, slamming the door shut.

You press your back against it, sliding down to the floor, chest caving in and heart trying to thud its way out of it, choking you in the process.

Everything that you’ve been locking away, pushing down and hiding flees to the forefront of your previously blank mind and attacks.

Not good. Not enough. You’ll always fail. You’ll always be a let down. A disappointment. A fuck up.

The list goes on and on and you can’t stop it, like a train on an endless track that won’t run out of steam.

Three soft knocks on the door plunge into the thoughts that you’re drowning in, guiding you to the surface.

“Baby, let me in,” he urges, deep voice traveling right through the door and washing down over your aching head. “Let me be there for you. Please. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You want to sink, you want to go back down to the bottom and never come up again, but he’s right here with his hand held out ready to pull you into respite, sheltering you in his embrace.

If you sink, if you push him away now, if you lose him -

Your hand is on the knob before you can consider any consequences of that. On your knees, you open the door, and the sight of Namjoon’s face, wrought with alarm, level with yours on the other side because he’s waiting there for you on his knees. And you burst into tears, spluttering out an apology as you curl into yourself and he carefully opens the door enough to crawl towards you, hands splayed in invitation for you to sink into him instead.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he whispers, strong arms wrapping around you.

“I’m sorry I’m such a failure,” you sob into his neck.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not a failure.” Namjoon never lies, you know this, but the relentless gremlins in your mind try to convince you otherwise. It’ll hurt him if you try to counter his words, so you just cry. And he lets you, cloaking you in a remedying hug with your fingers ensnared in his shirt, tears creating dark patches in the soft fabric.

You cry until you’re exhausted, until your mouth is dry, throat sore, stomach aching. As you start to calm down because there aren’t any tears left, Namjoon stays still against the door frame, comforting you with gentle, slow rubs of your back, keeping you close to him while you sniffle.

“If you want to use my shirt as a tissue, I won’t say anything.”

The laugh that elicits is wet and choked, but it takes some pressure off of your chest. “Ew, gross.”

“We’ve done grosser things.” Sweater paw under your nose, you weakly push at his chest and he just wiggles his eyebrows, grins his dimpled grin and kisses your temple.

“D’you want some water?” he asks, lips still pressed to your skin. You nod, warmth from the effects of his care radiating through your anxiety.

After he guides you both to stand, he heads back downstairs to the kitchen to retrieve a glass, giving you the opportunity to collect yourself, although the gremlins still torture the recesses of your mind. When he returns and hands over the water, he wipes off droplets that reside on your lips once you finish drinking. You can see in his eyes that he wants nothing more than to pick apart your mindset, but he won’t until you open up the floor.

Your partner waits quietly on the bed while you undress and trudge into the bathroom to shower. He’s still there on the edge when you emerge, head raising from his phone at the sound of your footsteps padding on the carpet, a smile resonating on his face that doesn’t expect one in return.

“I ordered food,” he announces as you cross the room for the dresser. “From that restaurant across town? Y’know the one where-”

“-we met after you burned your fingers on the hotpot grill like you didn’t have a whole set of tongs? Yeah, I know the one.”

You haven’t been there in a long time, but it was where you and Namjoon began.

Back when you worked as a server scrambling to pay tuition debts, before the band came to be the phenomenon they are now, Namjoon and the guys came into the restaurant after late night rehearsals and studio sessions. You waited on them in fleeting moments, but never got the chance to exchange more than a few words until Yoongi made the drunken mistake of handing Namjoon the tongs to turn the meat and he just used his fingers instead. 

It wasn’t too bad, but the burn couldn’t wait until he got home to be treated, so you brought him into the back to run his hand under cool water and he took the awkward silence to introduce himself. He stumbled over his words and it was clumsy and cute and he made you laugh while you held his wrist and wrapped a wet wad of paper towels around his fingers.

After that, he started coming by on his own. Late at night for dinner, a drink or two, to just sit at the bar and strike up conversation whenever you had a minute to stand still or do side work. You quickly learned that Namjoon is extremely intelligent, sometimes beyond your understanding, and he often ranted and went off on tangents on books he was reading, topics he was curious about, music he was working on, but never in a way that made you feel lost in the conversation. He got so amped up that you found yourself getting interested in what he was interested in. You would go home or to a bookstore and do your own research that you’d bring back and share with him at your next shift. He always seemed touched in a way and eventually got excited just to see you.

And when you talked, this man listened, intently, to every word. Leaning forward, arms crossed on the counter, eyes locked on you with the occasional nod and smile to show you he was present. He also chimed in to share his thoughts or narratives he related to, but never in a way that took the focus off of you, smiled whenever you got excited talking about your goals and things that made you get out of bed in the morning, and not once did he interrupt you. The way he spoke and carried himself, the way he paid attention to you and made it so simple and natural to have a stimulating conversation… It was hard not to fall for him.

But he was on the road to becoming an idol, and you were a few years late in getting your bachelor’s degree. You liked him and you were pretty sure the feeling was mutual, but… Were you really compatible? You might’ve been putting him on a pedestal because of the sheer talent and brilliance he had in just a single pinkie, but you felt you were just lacking in a lot of places and you could never measure up to him.

So you kept your feelings to yourself, but it was impossible to keep them from growing or stay away from him. 

There were some nights where he just sat in a booth tucked away in the corner, hardly touching his food, just staring at blank pages of his journal with a deep set frown. You tried asking him what was wrong but all he could say was that their recent album drop wasn’t getting the kind of reception he’d hoped for. You could tell there was more to it than that but you didn’t want to press him.

So after your shift, you listened to the entire album and spent hours writing your reactions and feelings and personal connections to each song, and tucked the folded pages under his bowl the next night. You went back to work, nervously glancing at him reading through your notes and debating if you should leave him alone or check to see what he thought. But by the time you had a moment to spare after the rush, his table was vacant and clear, except for a napkin that read in his recognizable scrawl, “Thank you” with an etching of a tiny smiling koala.

Soon he was back to his old, chipper self and during a late shift in the rainy spring, he sat in that same booth, attention buried in a journal as he scribbled away at lyrics, and you let him be until it was time to close up. When you came over to gently inform him that it was late, he jerked, head snapping up like you just withdrew him from another world. After checking the time on his watch, he apologized, scrambling to pack up his things only to forget to zip his bag closed so everything flew out and scattered onto the floor. He stuttered out more clumsy apologies to which you just shook your head and squatted down to help gather his things. You tried to keep your nosiness to a minimum, but it was hard when all of his prose brought to life by his pretty handwriting beckoned you on every page.

“You can read it. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” you declined, holding out the pages. “I know how private you are about your music.”

He blinked at you with a soft smile. “I trust you.”

And for the next couple of hours, you sat across from him in the booth, marveling over the passionate rhetoric he wove into every articulate and carefully chosen lyric that spun beautiful messages and stories, you couldn’t fathom how phenomenal it would sound put to genius melodies and beats.

“Wow, you’re-” you paused. It’s hard to find a single word to describe him. “A virtuoso. Truly.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, a gentle smile on his face that brought forth his dimples.

“No, thank you for sharing all this with me,” you emphasized, stacking all of his papers and sliding them back to him.

He nodded, tucking the pile in his bag. A tranquil silence settled between you, clearly there was more you wanted to say to each other but neither of you could find the nerve.

The dark street outside suddenly flashed under a bright strike of lightning, and the windows shook from the consequential rumble of thunder. Rain collapsed from the sky and you watched Namjoon stare at the torrential downpour with a frown.

You checked your phone. “Oh, shit! I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m sorry I kept you here so long.”

“You didn’t,” he shook his head. “I enjoyed… this. Talking with you about my music."

“Me too. I just have to finish locking up.”

He smiled. “I’ll wait for you.”

Blushing, you thanked him and slid out of the booth to quickly turn off the lights, grab your things and head back towards Namjoon where he was standing by the door, hoodie pulled over his bag.

Outside under the awning you asked, “Where’s your car?”

Sheepish look on his face, he lifted his arm and you followed the direction he was pointing in, squinting through the blur of the rain to a signpost and the bike leaning against it, a lock securing it there. So that’s why he didn’t look too fond of the rain.

“I don’t have a license.”

“Oh. Well, since it’s raining, I could give you a ride home, if you want.”

“I can’t just leave it here.”

“We can stick it next to the walk-in. I’ll let my boss know and you can just come get it tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

Nodding, you gestured for him to jog alongside him to his bike, and as the rain soaked through your clothes, he fumbled for his keys to unlock it. After sticking it in the back and locking up, you both ran back to your beatdown car, his hand hovering above your head like a makeshift umbrella.

“I appreciate you giving me a ride,” he murmured once you both slid into your beat down car.

“Of course,” you smiled, fiddling with the controls to adjust the temperature.

“I can give you gas money.”

“No, it’s fine. You’re on my way home,” you lied. (The first time Namjoon came over, in the midst of tearing each other’s clothes off, he mumbled against your lips, “I just thought about it. My dorm is in the opposite direction of where you live.” You got shy and hid your face in his neck. “I just wanted to drive you home, Joon.” He proceeded to kiss his adoration and appreciation all over you, tangled under your sheets where he fucked you until the birds started chirping under the wakening sky.)

When you dropped him off, he lingered in the car for a bit, long fingers tapping on the handle, like he was thinking of reasons not to leave and you were sitting there hoping he wouldn’t find one.

But then he got the inevitable texts from his managers and bandmates asking for his whereabouts, so he had no choice but thank you again for the ride and bid you goodnight, requesting that you message him when you got home.

“I’d be happy to,” you replied, pulse skyrocketing. “But I’m missing something.”

“What?”

“Your number?”

“Oh!” He laughed at himself as he smacked his pockets for his phone, and you chuckled nervously when he passed it over and created your contact.

You were vibrating at the thought of being able to text him whenever you wanted, instead of waiting until your next shift to tell him all of the things you read, saw, and heard that reminded you of him.

He had his phone with your number in it, but still lingered.

“I think I’m missing something too,” he said with rapid taps on his knee.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

After taking a few shallow breaths, he glanced at you and whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Biting your lip to hide your giddy smile, you nodded and leaned over the console where he met you halfway in a moment that you wish could’ve been frozen in time.

You’ve heard the cliche that fireworks go off when you kiss that one person, but when you kissed Namjoon - everything was finally at peace. The epitome of “no thoughts, head empty” as his plush lips molded with yours while the rain drummed on your car, but in the way that his hands on your cheeks holding you in place gave you all the answers of the universe.

You wanted to climb into his lap and kiss him until the storm passed but his phone kept buzzing in his lap.

“You should go,” you mumbled, lips still attached. “Before they send out a search and rescue team.”

He kissed you again before pulling back, disappointed. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

You fell asleep that night to the image of his blinding dimpled smile and the lasting taste of his kiss.

For weeks after that, he texted you throughout the day - pictures of the sky on his morning bikes to work, fresh blossoms on trees, snippets of text from books he read in his spare time, and the occasional selfie that you secretly saved along with everything else.

He still came to the restaurant during his usual time in the late evenings, but he sometimes snuck in from the alleyway to steal messy kisses and hugs that knocked the wind out of you, leaving you with a stupid smile on your face that lasted even through the busiest of rushes.

It became less easy to forget the separate worlds you both came from, when Namjoon sat in that booth and snuck glances and smiles at you to escape from his budding idolhood, to feel some reprieve from the stresses of album drops and industry critics and interviews and music video shoots and the responsibilities of leading a band through the hurdles of success because he told you all about it.

And you listened over bowls of hotpot (meat that you grilled) and banchan, silently worrying if he took on more than he could handle. Because you’d been in that position many times and knew how easy it was to fall apart under all the pressure, to a point where it was a painful struggle to get back up. But this was Namjoon - strong and passionate and willing to take charge of things so his bandmates didn’t have to shoulder the stress, something you deeply admired him for.

Whenever you gave him encouraging words, he peered at you with serenity in his eyes and an equally calm smile, always thanking you and seeming like he had more to say but never did.

That was until one night when he raced in, past your boss who had long given up yelling at him ‘no customers in the back’, to where you were putting away dishes. You wiped your hands on your apron and turned to him, taking in his state - absolutely disheveled, out of breath, shirt on backwards and inside out. Just as you began to ask “Why run when you can bike?” he blurted “Will you date me?”

Stilling completely, your heart started running faster than he probably just was. “You rushed in here to ask me out?”

“I’m late to rehearsal, and I might not get to see you in the next couple of weeks.”

“You could’ve called me,” you suggested even though your knees were about to give out. “Or waited until next time.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t wait anymore. And this wouldn’t feel right if not done in person.”

Peering out of the kitchen to make sure your boss was busy on the floor, you took Namjoon’s hand and led him out into the alley where you shared your first kiss as a couple under the flickering security lamp with moths dancing all around it.

“This whole time I’ve been wanting to ask you out but I’ve just been scared and you-” he huffed nervously. “You make me so nervous.”

This man who stood and danced in front of crowds performing songs he had a part in creating got nervous around you? When all you did was barely make it through your classes and drag your tired ass to work every night.

“I make you nervous? Dude, I get heart palpitations whenever you come around.”

“Same!” You both laughed and kissed again, and he backed you into the brick wall with your arms wrapped around his neck.

He kissed you for what felt like hours until that inevitable buzzing returned, making you both internally sigh.

“Hobi’s gonna fight me in the parking lot if I show up late again.”

“Yeah, my boss might come out here and chase you off with a broom if I don’t get back in there soon.”

He chuckled breathlessly, leaning in to kiss you a few more times, and then rested his forehead on yours, whispering “I don’t want to go.”

“Hurry up before the guys start placing bets on Hobi.”

“Hey!”

Grinning, you tipped up to kiss him goodbye. “I’ll wager some of my minimum wage check on you.”

“No,” he huffed, shoulders heaving dramatically. “I can’t let you lose money.”

Kissing you once more, he turned, fingers still tangled in yours, and it was only then that you realized he wasn’t just holding your hand and kissing you in the alley as Namjoon, but as your Namjoon, your boyfriend(?), because he asked you to make things official and you said yes and he looked happy and it made you happy and that’s all you want but who knows if this’ll last because you’re both going in different directions and he’s making himself known on music charts while you’re barely scraping by and-

Your shaking hand refusing to let go of him forced him to turn back around, beautiful smile faltering when he detected the turmoil swimming on your face. “Wait, you okay?”

You swallowed with an uneasy smile. “You should get going.”

“They'll get over it,” he said, stepping in front of you again and taking both your hands. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure? About this?” You whispered unsteadily, anxiety speaking for you. His eyebrows scrunched. “I’m just a server. And you’re gonna be a huge star.”

“Hey, you’re not just a server. Big things are gonna happen for you too.”

Doubt is an ugly, fickle thing. But then he said this, one hand over his heart:

“I see a dream in you. I see my dream in you.”

And that’s when you knew - you love Kim Namjoon. He indirectly told you the same in messages he sent after he finally got to work.

Just so you know, I owe you credit for a lot of songs I’ve been writing lately received from ‘🐨❣️’

Oh, really? Do I get any royalties? sent to ‘🐨❣️’

You could received from ‘🐨❣️’

I’m kidding, I don’t want your hard earned money sent to ‘🐨❣️’

I’ll just take you out on really nice dates received from ‘🐨❣️’

That sounds fair sent to ‘🐨❣️’

Two hours later, he sent you a picture of a dark parking lot with the caption “wish me luck” and you laughed throughout your entire break.

The rest was history.

Namjoon soared just like you predicted, and you stayed on the ground, waiting for him, loving him through all the ups and downs of fame and fortune. You wouldn’t change that for the world, but it’s hard not to feel stagnant, like you’re in a still pond with not a breath of wind around to propel you anywhere other than the dormant, muddy leaf that hasn’t made a ripple in ages.

When you graduated, he was on tour, but luckily your school live-streamed the event, so you received a shaky video of a laptop displaying you walking across the stage and accepting your diploma with seven voices whooping and cheering you on, Namjoon being the loudest.

You still have that clip saved in your camera roll, but sometimes you wish he could’ve been there in person. Don’t dwell on what you can’t change. But you did dwell on the things that prevented you from navigating your relationship as a “normal” couple.

Like when his company makes you sign a new NDA every couple of years. Or when Namjoon puts stickers over your face whenever he posts pictures of the two of you on his Instagram. You’re aware that it's to protect your privacy, but maybe if you were somebody, he wouldn’t have to hide you as much.

Would you ever do anything to achieve his kind of acclaim? You could dream all you wanted, but hard work and dedication doesn’t always mean the dream is right for you.

This million and oneth rejection is just the final straw to firmly convince you that that is the ultimate truth.

“You’re thinking real loud over there,” his amber timbre ruptures your warp back in time, snapping you to the present, still standing in front of the dresser.

You refuse to look over to acknowledge that he spoke, so you don’t risk catching a glimpse of your reflection in the vanity mirror. You probably look so dreary. Scrubbing at your face with exfoliant and moisturizer did nothing to get rid of the dullness.

“I’m listening if you want to share.”

That numb throb is taking root again, sealing shut your ability to talk, so you just shrug and expect him to drop it. As you change into pajamas, the bed creaks and his feet shuffle on the carpet, and your heart shrinks when you predict he’s going to leave you alone but instead he traipses over to stand behind you, hands on your shoulders, head ducked next to your ear, and quietly murmurs your name.

“Can I touch you?”

When you slowly nod, he gently folds his hands over your shoulders, and you nearly collapse under his warm, grounding touch.

“What do you think I see when I see you?”

Your frown deepens. “You won’t like my answer.”

Soft huff bristling your ear, his hands slowly rub up and down your arms.

“I’ll tell you one thing -“ he kisses the crook of your neck. “It’s not that rejection. Or any of those flaws you think you have.”

Your eyes close with the threat of tears when his fingers wrap around your wrists and move your arms so that you hug yourself, his strong biceps solidifying it.

“I just see the person who’s my pride and my desire no matter what. Someone I’m damn lucky to love.”

Your heart bursts but it’s so weighed down by self-made fallacies that it sinks instead of soars.

“But I’m a nobody compared to you.”

“Hey, don’t say that shit!” he exclaims, turning you to face him. “Why do you think that about yourself? ”

You gesture between you, pain in the movement and under your skin. “Because look at all that you’ve done and the little I’ve done and-”

“Stop.” He holds a hand in the air, tick in his jaw. “Stop comparing yourself to me and anyone else. I don’t see you or value you based on what you’ve accomplished. Win or lose, I love you. That will never change.” 

HIs shoulders deflate when your expression doesn’t change. “After all these years, you still don’t believe that?”

Disappointing, you’re disappointing him again. “Baby, all the times you’ve stuck by me, you think I won’t do the same for you? You were there when people mocked us, criticized us and our music, my music. All the times we talked about disbanding, about giving up and going our separate ways, you promised to stay right there with me. All the times I felt like a failure, like I didn’t deserve all of the grace you and the fans gave me, you made sure I believed I did.”

Warm palm slipping under your hand, he looks down at the promise ring he gifted you for your 5th anniversary that matches the one he wears on his index finger, but has the habit of switching it to his ring finger, where you wear yours.

“You know how I feel about making music for a living and being an idol, that it means the world to me, but there are so many moments I spend wishing I could go back to the time before all the fame where we could kiss in that alley and not risk getting caught. What I’ve built my life up to be has put limits on how I can express my affection for you. I would give anything to show you off everywhere I go and hold your hand in public without exposing you to repercussions but it’s made me feel safe to keep our love preserved just between us.”

His dimples poke out at the corner of his frown and the clench in his jaw, knit between his brows, and erratic blinking give way that he’s been holding something back and now he’s going to let it show.

“I’ve been terrified that one day you’ll get fed up with me having to be away a lot, missing anniversaries and birthdays because I’m on tour and all I can do is video chat. That’s why I bombard you with messages about how much I miss you, why I send you selfies and pictures of the sunset, books I think we should read, poems and music that make me think of you, so you know that you’re always on my mind and you don’t forget how much I love you.”

You see the fear swelling in his eyes - fear that you’ve somehow missed or he hid too well and now you worry just how much pain you’ve been keeping from each other because the insecurities don’t feel worthy enough to share.

Your resolve cracks. Have you been blind this whole time to his doubts, his insecurities, too caught up in your own to realize that he worries that he might not be enough for you?

“No,” you assert, flinging your arms around his neck, pulling him against you as tears teeter over your waterline. “I could never forget that. Ever.”

“I couldn’t stop loving you even if I tried,” he murmurs, large hands splaying over your spine to press you closer.

“Me either,” you whisper, more tears staining his shirt. Both of you start to softly sniffle against each other, so he pulls back, thumbs away your wobbling frown and before you can completely lose it at the sight of tears in his eyes, he leads you to the bed, sitting you down and enveloping you in a solid hug.

Burying your face in his chest, you feel the full extent of his deep sigh and the vibrations of his resonant voice as he speaks his sage words.

“It sucks that you didn’t get to reap the rewards for something you worked so hard for, but isn’t that an accomplishment in itself? That you keep trying and making a genuine effort? You’re always so determined and I know someone will see it, because I see it. Your friends, the boys, we all see it. And one day, you’ll see it too.”

“What if I’m shit at what I do?”

His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Sweetheart, if I thought you were shit, I’d tell you.”

You splutter a laugh. “I mean, in a better way because I love you, but I wouldn’t be so proud and encouraging of everything you work towards and dream about if I thought you sucked. I don’t encourage delulus.”

“Delulus?”

“Because my love for you is built on the foundation of honesty and trust and loyalty and lust and-“

“Way to throw that in there.”

He takes your hands and folds them against his chest, trapping you under the honey in his eyes that will always make you melt. 

“You’re my person, you’re my desire, you’re my pride,” he sings off key.

“And-” his eyes flash as he takes a deep breath through a wide, dimpled smile. “You make I to an O-“

“Joon!” You squeal, lunging to playfully cover his mouth and keep him from performing another cheesy rendition of the song he wrote about you. 

“I to an O!” And then he raps and sings the rest of the verses, closing his eyes as he focuses while holding your wrists to keep your hands away from his face.

He doesn’t stop even as you move against him so he walks backwards and falls down on the bed, using your fist as a microphone as you lay across him, failing to stop his one man show. You suppose it’s okay when you fail at some things.

Resting your head on his chest as he continues this private performance, warmth from his affection and proof of his love for you clears away the cobwebs of all of your doubt that he could ever give up on you. You smile at his heartbeat thudding beneath your ear. And just like the first time you kissed him, you feel at peace.

“That was good, right?” he asks breathlessly after you applaud his finish.

“10 out of 10!” Laughing at your enthusiasm, he dips down to kiss your forehead and then dramatically collapses on the mattress, claiming he needs a nap.

“You’re my pride and desire too, Joon,” you murmur after a few moments of silence, tracing shapes over his sturdy chest. He tugs you further up until you’re breathing into his neck, sending shivers across your skin with light trails of his fingers up and down your back.

“I’m sorry I convinced myself that you wouldn’t stay with me no matter what. I’m going to work on not projecting how I feel onto you.”

His fingers creep between yours, linking them together. “I’ll be there to support you in any way you need me too.”

“And I’m sorry I made you worry tonight."

He hums. “I get that you need your space, but just text me or something next time. I would like to know that you plan on coming back home.”

You lift your head, eyes pouring into his filling with promise.

“I’ll always come back to you, Joon.”

He smiles, places a finger on your jaw to tilt up your head and kiss you tenderly.

The food comes and you sit together on the living room floor, the nostalgic aroma and taste bringing you back to the first and last time you fell in love.

Later, in the group chat, you ask the boys whether they’d tell you if you sucked at what you do.

Bluntly received from 'yoongi :]'

To your face With love and respect received from 'wwhandsome 😘'

Obviously  received from 'yoongi :]'

Did someone say you sucked? Who said it! I’ll fight them received from 'jimin-ssiiii'

I’m putting on my bitch stomping boots received from 'jaykayyyy'

We ride at dawn received from 'hobi hobi'

It doesn’t matter if you’re good at something as long as you enjoy it But no, you don’t suck if someone said you do they’re lying Also who’s driving received from 'taebear'

Not Namjoon 😂😂😂 received from 'wwhandsome 😘'

There are bikes that could seat all 8 of us!!! *open attachment* received from ‘🐨❣️’

Never in a million years would I get on a contraption like that received from 'yoongi :]'

True you don't even get on a regular bike received from 'jimin-ssiiii'

🖕 received from 'yoongi :]'

Boom roasted received from 'hobi hobi'

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save me playlist

conclusions aren’t my strong suit so bleh and i didn't really proofread when i finished. anyway thanks for reading! i hope it didn't come off as too self-indulgent… i started writing this months ago and i debated on whether or not to post it but bringing forth this namjoon comforted me and i wanted to share it.

also aqua wrote tae's message in the chat so i wanted to make sure to give her credit!! thanks again bby <33333

(was that an office reference at the end lol whoops)

[irlneo]

i need to draw Amir.....

[huidol]

What a deceptive use of the word "you."

uncovered version under the cut

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji���s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

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taglist:

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@beabadobeee @air3922 @timetoletmyimaginationfly @chiyokoemilia @jotarohat

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@crystalymin @dcvilxswish @miakxn @satxoru

[potter-inthe-tardis]

... @ recent anon

[steveseddie]

my cards are on the table

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: family dinner and @steddiebingo prompt: matchmaker | rating: t | cw: 999 | tags: different first meeting, pre season 4, matchmaker wayne munson, soft boys

read on ao3

Christmas at the Munson’s consists of early dinner on Christmas Eve and opening presents on Christmas morning once Wayne comes back from work.

It’s been that way since Eddie moved in so when Wayne opens Eddie’s door to tell him to wash up before dinner and casually says he invited someone, Eddie is puzzled.

“You– what?”

“Kid, you gotta stop listening to your music so loud,” Wayne says gruffly, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“And you need to explain why you invited someone to dinner!” Eddie demands, narrowing his eyes. “Is it a woman? Are you seeing someone, old man?”

“Not a woman, son, just a kid who does deliveries to the plant sometimes. His folks ain’t gonna be around for Christmas so I invited him over.”

Eddie’s lips press into a thin line. He’s known his uncle is a good man since he took him in. He loves him for it. He just wishes it didn’t mean he has to spend Christmas with a stranger.

“Fine, but I’m not dressing up just because someone is coming over!”

“Suit yourself, son, but I think you might wanna.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Why?” Wayne just shrugs and leaves. “Why?” He repeats but gets no response.

Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and after whining about how this is Wayne’s guest so he should be the one to get the door, Eddie sighs and opens it to reveal–

“Steve Harrington?” Eddie shakes off the shock and flashes him a mocking grin. “Well, well, well, what are you doing on the wrong side of town, Your Highness? Did you get lost?”

The title makes Steve’s nose wrinkle but he lets it slide. “Actually, your uncle invited me.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “You’re our guest?”

With a shrug, Steve makes a ta-da! gesture. Eddie stares blankly at him.

“Um, are you gonna let me in, Munson, or–” he trails off, hanging a hand from his neck.

“Ed? Is that the Harrington boy?” Wayne asks, snapping Eddie out of it.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, come in, man.”

Steve gives him an awkward smile and steps inside.

After shaking Wayne’s hand, he politely asks if he can help and Wayne instructs him to fill three glasses with water. The sight of King Steve with his fancy green sweater and his perfect hair rummaging around their kitchen is so shocking that Eddie wonders if he fell into some alternate dimension. He’s glad that, despite his claim, he put on a red flannel and decent jeans instead of just sweatpants and a shirt with holes in it like he planned.

Still, Wayne could’ve done a better job warning him.

Not that Eddie wants to look good for Harrington or anything.

“Ed, get a chair for Steve,” Wayne says and Eddie dutifully brings the chair they almost never use to the table.

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling softly.

Eddie isn’t used to pretty boys being nice to him so that’s the only reason why he falters, mumbling a you’re welcome and grabbing the seat furthest from Steve. Considering their table is small, it’s not far enough.

Dinner goes- surprisingly well, actually. Steve and Wayne talk about sports while Eddie rolls his eyes and makes comments about sport culture and conformity. He expects Steve to act annoyed like jocks do when he starts ranting, but he smiles amusedly instead.

And no, that doesn’t make Eddie’s stomach flutter.

After the sports talk, Wayne asks Eddie about his band. He expects Steve to tune him out since he probably doesn’t care what a freak like him does in his free time but he perks up, eyes going wide.

“A band? That’s cool, man!” He says and then starts throwing questions at him about the band’s name and the type of music they play. He even says he’d love to see them play someday.

Wayne’s knowing smile when Eddie blushes thankfully goes unnoticed by Steve.

When they’re done eating, Steve goes to his car to grab something while Wayne and Eddie clean up.

“Really? You couldn’t mention that our guest was Steve?”

“So you could lock yourself in your room? You’re the reason I invited him, boy.”

Eddie gasps. “This was a set up!”

“About time you brought a boy home.”

“Except I didn’t!” Eddie sputters. “You did.”

“You’re welcome.”

Steve comes back then, clearing his throat. “I know you do presents in the morning, but I still wanted to bring something.”

He gives Wayne a bottle of whiskey that probably costs more than his van and a small bag to Eddie. Inside, there’s a Beholder miniature.

“How did you–”

Steve starts rambling. “I know that you run that nerd club and this kid I know is obsessed with that game so I asked him what would be a nice gift for someone like you. He probably thought I was getting it for him and might be disappointed but–”

“Thanks, Steve,” Eddie interrupts once he finally finds his words.

Steve gives him a shy smile. And maybe this one makes his heart stutter.

When all they do is stare at each other, Wayne clears his throat.

Flustered, Steve announces he’s heading out. “Thanks for inviting me. I haven’t had a Christmas dinner in years.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Wayne says. “Ed, will you see him out? Gotta get ready for my shift.”

“Sure, old man.”

At the door, Steve hesitates. “Sorry I crashed your Christmas dinner. Your uncle wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Eddie snorts, fiddling with the figurine. “He’s a stubborn old man.”

“Not that I didn’t have fun,” he quickly adds, “I did.”

“Yeah, uh, me too.”

Steve’s pink tongue darts out along his bottom lip.

“Like, enough fun that I could do it again.”

Eddie stops fidgeting and blinks at him. “Hang out with me and my uncle?”

“Or just you,” Steve says and he looks– almost nervous.

Oh.

There’s no denying the butterflies in his stomach this time. “Yeah,” Eddie says, watching Steve start to smile. “I’d like that.”

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

SPORTS CAR- D. GRAYSON

pairing: richboy! dick grayson x girly! innocent!fem! reader

word count: 3.9k

part one here! part two here!

summary: a true gentleman, dick takes you on your first date, and things get a tad bit heated on the drive home...

warnings: fingering, heavy praise and size kink, petnames, manhandling, kissing/ makeout session, flirting, swearing, future indications of sex, alcohol consumption

" i think you know what this i, i think you wanna, uh no, you ain't got no mrs. / oh, but you got a sports car we can uh-uh in it/ while you drive it real far- yeah, you know what this is"- sports car, tate mcrae

author note: yayyy this series is back! i got mixed reviews on adding smut to this part or having more slow burn, so i settled in the middle. very happy to be writing for them again- and side note, i tagged my idea of the dress she wears, but of course- totally up to viewers interpretation. happy reading!!

You felt like a princess, who was about to enter her personal horse drawn carriage. As if you were Cinderella, on your way to the ball in her shimmering gown and pumpkin carriage.

You watched as a dark black limo appeared by the curb in the dim lighting of your building, watching the rain slide down the hood from behind the front glass door.

A tall, dark figure stepped out from the back, and you wasted no time slipping out the door, the wind blowing the ends of your dress against your heels.

You had gone with something darker than you usually did, to blend with Dick’s cooler tones. Though you hadn’t fully turned to the darkside in grays and blacks, you settled on a deep, dark wine colour.

A mix, between your pinks and his blacks.

Your eyes twinkled with excitement as he approached, umbrella in hand to quickly shield you from the rain. Light seemed to beam out from your chest as he was close enough to touch, brushing soft manicured fingers across his forearm.

“Hi you.”

He didn't utter a word back.

Just swept you into his arms, kissing you with such passion it made your legs wobble slightly.

“Hi you.” he murmured, eyes flickering down to stare at your swollen lips. “Shall we go?”

You nodded eagerly, holding onto his arm as he ran you through the rain, making you giggle as you practically nose dived into the car, him following shortly after.

He shook his damp hair as he closed the umbrella and you squealed as some drops got on your skin. “Good god you look so beautiful. That dress…” he praised, eying your entire body up and down, before stopping at your eyes, taking them in.

Little did you know, he was unraveling it with his mind, just itching to slip the slutlry little shoulder straps and reveal the your breasts that were screaming at him from where he sat.

But no, no- he had to be a gentleman. He was a gentleman. So why did you make him want to do such naughty, naughty things? Let alone on the first real date?

You noticed he sat beside you on the leather seats, rather than across from you, the warmth radiating off him despite the chill that hung in the air outside.

“Thank you. It’s um, it’s vintage.”

His eyebrows perked up.  “Yeah? Tell me about it sweetheart. D’ya shop vintage often?”

A simple, shy answer- because yes, he still made you feel like you were a little girl with a big, bad crush again- turned into a full, deep seated conversation.

You had barely taken note of where the driver was taking you, weaving you through streets and stoplights. Somehow the two of you were deep in conversation, Dick fully engaged in your interests, smiling when you mentioned all your Pinterest boards and little things you adored.

Little did you know, he had already stalked them all- and knew exactly what you liked. And you had done amazing, based on your own taste.

It felt nice to have someone be so… well interested in what you had to say. Like what you were truly saying, not just the sounds that left your lips.

No, all of Dicks attention was solely focused on you- and you were so deep in his distractions you didn't even realize his hand had slipped up to rest on your thigh, until he slowly started to rub circles on your bare flesh with the pad of his thumb.

You stopped suddenly, startled- but eager for the physical affection he showed you. Leaned in closer than he was before, anxiously awaiting what you had to say next.

“Mhmmm sweetheart, why’d you stop?”

Your eyes looked down at where his hand lay, and flickered back up to meet his now playful, coy gaze as he urged you to keep going. The effect he had on you was nothing short of hypnotic.

You shook your head, quickly looking away as you laughed. “I’m so sorry, I’m boring you with all this fashion talk-”

“Boring me? Bunny, nothing you could ever say could bore me. I like when you talk. You have a really pretty voice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Like honey. And silk. It's so smooth, like your skin. Delicate.”

You subtly stretched your leg, letting the fabric drape around your thigh, letting his hand snake up just an inch higher, thumb tracing little circles on the bare skin.

You were feeling bold tonight. The little bottle of champagne he had delivered to your apartment with a delicate rose had made it just an inch easier.

“Do you think I’m delicate?” you murmured, looking deep into his eyes. His breath hitched as you took himin, staring at him with stars in your eyes.

“I think you’re coy. Alluring. Not simply delicate.” he smirked, pinching your thigh playfully, making you yelp. The car slowed to a sudden stop, two quick raps of a knuckle and a muffled “Here you are Mr. Grayson, sir.”

“Shall we be off?” he asked, stepping out into the dark night, extending a hand as he opened the car door for you. You took it, his larger hand seeming to swallow yours as you daintly hold onto it, like you were a Victorian aristocrat leaving her carriage.

“Thank you sir.” You called, waving goodbye to the driver, who gave you a soft smile as you were swept away by Dick, his arm wrapped around your hips, guiding you onwards.

“C’mon sweetheart, let's get you outta the rain okay?” he coaxed, ushering you inside the dimly lit restaurant, empty except for the flickering candles on the ironed tablecloths, and a few staff tending the bar.

"Wow.. Dickie this is, this is so beautiful.” you gasped as you took in the spacious room, slowly slipping off your shawl for him as he hung it up at the front. The place looked like it belonged in old luxurious Hollywood, something straight out of a film with the dim, low hanging wall lanterns, and plush leather booths.

The only thing missing was the bustle and chatter of mingling and glasses clinking together from the crowd. But there was none. Just soft, sweet music that was like a calming ambience, wrapping you in a warm hug.

“But- but where is everyone else?”

He just smiled to himself, taking your arm in his as he guided you to a table, as if you had said a silly joke and he only understood the true punchline. “Silly girl, I reserved it for us.”

“What, a table?” He shook his head, pushing the chair out for you to sit in. “No, the restaurant.”

Your jaw went slack, almost thudding against the table.

“The restaurant?!”

“Yeah, I called in some favours and managed to snag the place for myself. They didn't mind, especially when I told them it was for a pretty lil bunny like you.” he hummed, giving the waiter a little signal, as if what he had just said and done was an everyday, not a big deal occurrence.

You, on the other hand, thought your eyes were gonna pop out of their sockets. The fact that anyone- let alone this sweet, sexy, charming hunk of muscle had done this? For you?

Yeah you were willing to risk everything, and then some.

“Jesus Dick that's- I- I don't even know what to say I’m-”

“Don't say anything about it sweetheart. Don't worry your pretty lil head about it. It's all taken care of.”

As if a bell had been rung, wine had appeared in your glass, followed by a basket of fresh, steaming bread rolls with soft butter.

“You really do know the way to my heart.” you giggled, taking a slow sip of wine. “I like to think I do sweetheart.”

“Isn't that funny? I’ve only known you for a week and it feels like you’ve always been in my life. It's like.. I don't know. Maybe it's fate.”

He raised an eyebrow, grabbing a roll from the basket, spreading on the melting butter before taking a bite. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, and you pursed your lips together, taking a bite of bread yourself before responding.

“Maybe. I think so. I think this is what fate is.”

He smiled at that, leg (barely needing to) stretch to bump your leg under the table. “Thats cute. You’re really fucking cute.”

You scrunched your nose before taking another bite and he laughed.

“Yeah that. That little scrunch you do when you’re trying not to get all flustered from my words. S’sexy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I’m just thankful you didnt ruin the cute moment by grabbing my hand and rubbing butter all over my skin. Way to keep a moment going Grayson.”

You played into his wit, finding yourself starting to pick up on his snarky, sly little comments and sarcasm. “You’re not into that?”

“I’m into a lot of things but oil on the skin… not so much.” you smirked, taking a sip of your drink as his eyes raked you over, fist clenching around the butter knife at your suggestive comment.

“What happened to miss innocent?” he asked.

“Oh she's around. But sometimes she goes into hiding when she's had some drinks and there's a cute guy she likes. Environmental influences play a large role, ya know.”

“Oh so I’m an environmental influence now?”

“Oh sure! But I can pretend to not be all stern and sarcastic if you want.” You waved a hand over your face, changing your expression to a stoic and stern look, as if you were a philosopher from ancient times.

“Oh I am not like that.” he scoffed.

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

You crossed your arms, and he felt his gaze slide down to where your breasts were pushed together, having to take a dry swallow and pray to whatever god he believed in to get him through this night without taking you over the table.

God you were so fucking sexy when you looked at him like that. Acting all tough and playful, as if he didnt know how innocent you were. And fuck if that didn't make him hard.

“Tell you what sweetheart. If I go this entire dinner without laughing, or smiling- and I’m as cold as you insist, you’ll win this imaginary competition.”

“First off, you already laughed and now you’re just gonna laugh to win. Second, if I do win, what's the reward?”

“We start now, and I promise I won't. I dont cheat. And whatever you desire, sweetheart.”

You nodded, leaning back in your chair, swirling the wine around in your glass before taking another swig. “Bragging rights. For the entire week.”

He stuck out his hand. “It's a deal.”

-------------------------------------------- You tugged on his arm, laughing loudly as you stumbled out of the restaurant, trying to guide him onwards- belly and heart both full.

Not before you had profusely thanked all the staff, he noted, the kindness rolling off of you in waves.

It was so refreshing to see, you were so different from any other girl he had taken out. Usually they were spoiled, rich, and cold. And just wanting to get into his pants, and wallet.

But you… you were simply so bubbly and ecstatic it was impossible for him not to smile. So of course, you had lost the competition, almost immediately after it started.

You had waved it off with a “oh whatever” when he had brought it up, rolling your eyes before giggling.

I still get bragging rights for whenever I want. You insisted, cheeks heating in the dim candlelight as he winked at you. Of course you do bunny. Who would I be if not to comply?

Now here he was, arm being tugged on by what felt like a little humming bird next to him, out into the rain. You beamed at him, smiling as you tugged him forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.

A low growl left his lips as you parted your lips, lipgloss tasting sweet- like bubblegum. He picked you up, hands firm on your hips so you were as tall as him, letting out a little muffled squeak at the sudden shift, making him chuckle.

“You okay there bunny? Cat got your tongue?” he cooed condensely as he pushed you back up against the brick wall, nothing but him and the streetlights in sight.

He was beautiful. “You’re so beautiful.” you whispered, and something like shock, then surprise flashed in his eyes.

No one had ever called him that before. Hot, attractive maybe, but beautiful? Never. And it was even better sounding from your lips.

You just gazed at him with so much admiration, it made his heart clench. The soft rain running down your skin, your cheeks- soaking your hair and glittering off your necklace in the dim lights.

He was entranced.

All he could think to do was kiss you again, harder- faster. He couldn't get enough of you, your lips, your skin, your taste. God he was melting.

The little sounds you made when he nipped at your lower lip, the gentle pants and moans of his name, like his simple touch was sending you spiraling just made him crave you more.

“D-dick-” you mewled, head lolling forward onto his shoulder as he nipped and sucked at your neck, the sensation, the wine and the chill droplets of water that rolled off the tips of his hair onto your skin sent shivers down your spine.

A flash of bright headlights filled your view- clouding your senses. “I think the car is here.” you murmured, but not pushing him to get off you.

“I know sweetheart, I just want one more kiss.” he said into your skin, planting another kiss and nip down on your neck, leaving a little mark.

You moaned as he guided you down to your feet, swaying slightly at the change in altitude. His hand was entwined with yours, guiding you over to the back of the limo- opening the door for you like a perfect gentleman.

You laughed, stumbling down in the soft leather seats, back flush against them as he scrambled inside, shaking the rain from his hair like a wet dog.

Two quick raps of his large knuckle against the tinted glass and the car was rolling forward, his lips landing on yours again greedily. You arched into his touch, hands tangling in his hair.

“I usually don't do this kinda thing until the second date. I promise.” he moaned against your neck, and you shivered again, his hand roaming down to slowly hike up your skirt, waiting for the eager nods of approval from you with each little inch, to make sure you were okay with the direction this was going.

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, your hardened nipples poking through the fabric to brush against his suit.

“Fuck bunny youre so fuckin… fuck. Don't even know what your askin for.” he chuckled, inching closer to the damp spot on your panties.

“This. But this is as far as I’ve gone with a guy before.”

He looked at you with a look of gentle concern, hands stopping their wandering. “This okay? You want me to stop?”

You shook your head, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back down to where it was before.

“Fuck baby. But I’m not letting your first time be in the backseat, you understand?”

You nodded, seeing the limited space that was left for his massive body in the backseat.

“Not enough room here for all the pretty lil things I wanna do to you.” he growled, lips coming back to resume their place on your neck, inching further and further down as he bumped your thighs apart with his wrist as his fingers rubbed gentle little circles on the damp spot.

“Dick you’re so-”

“So what? Hm?”

You moaned, fingers tugging at the strands of black between them as he slipped past the fabric and slipped a finger in. “-big” you squirmed as his finger curled inside of you.

He smirked cockily, peering down at your face contorted in pleasure. “Cmon bunny. Think you can take one more f’me?” he asked, ego clearly boosted by your genuine reactions.

“So sensitive…” he tsked, thumb sneaking out to brush your clit. Your head rolled, slightly off the seat as you reached back for the door- window- anything to ground you from the overwhelming heat that had pooled down in your core.

“What- what about the driver?” you asked meekly, suddenly worried he would understand exactly what was happening behind the divider, hearing your little noises.

“Don't worry about him sweetheart. Just focus on me okay? Focus on feeling good.” he reassured you, his voice as soft and sweet as honey as you coaxed you open, having you come undone beneath his body as it shielded you from the world, from the cars blurring by as the limo continued to drive.

You nodded, staring into his gentle eyes, his sweet words and gentle praises making you grip the folds in his suit jacket, tugging his tie to bring him in for a teasing kiss.

He moaned, savouring the taste of you again as you rocked your hips against his hand, as he added a second finger.

“Thereee you go sweetheart, good girl. So innocent, aren't you? Taking two fingers like a good lil girl.”

“Feels so good..” you moaned, starting to feel a gentle pressure in your body that threatened to topple.

“Yeah bunny? Anyone make you feel this good before? Anyone see you this pretty, this fuckable?”

You shook your head, blabbering incoherent nothings as you twisted his tie, trying to cling to it as you felt yourself teetering. "Cause you're so fuckable. Wanna just use you like a pretty lil doll. My sweet bunny..."

“Dickie I’m gonna- fuck- gonna cum-”

“Thats it baby, cmon cum on my fingers bun. Such a sweetheart, look at you.” he cooed down at you softly, watching your eyes roll back, mouth parting to let out little pants and gasps escape as you shattered around his fingers, crying his name out with a squeal.

He groaned at the sight of you falling apart under him, and he knew right then and there the view would never be enough.

He’d always crave this, he'd always want and need this.

Your legs shook like a baby fawns as he slowly slipped his glistening fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth to suck.

You tasted so fucking divine. Fuck.

Your eyes widened at the action, so absorbed in his actions you felt yourself gravitating to slip them into your own mouth. Silently you placed a hand on his, tugging them out of his mouth and guiding them between your parted lips, tongue swirling around his digits, without breaking eye contact once.

You looked so innocent with your big doe eyes, it drove him insane. He couldn't help but groan at the sight, threatening to spill in his pants right then and there as you tugged them out of your mouth with a pop!, a little line of spit connecting them to your stained lips.

“Wanna make you feel good now Dickie. I don't know how but you can- you can teach me. Right?”

You gripped his hands tighter, and he smiled softly.

“Not tonight sweetheart. Tonight’s about you. And we're gonna take it slow. I’ll teach you some things later, when you've had some rest, okay? You’re practically asleep, like a curled little kitten.” he laughed, watching you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Your body felt like it was floating, from pleasure, from Dicks sweet, yet taunting words and the wine churning through your blood. It was late, and you clung to him.

Not that you were drunk, but you were buzzed enough you felt comfortable enough to nuzzle up to him, placing your head in his lap, letting his gentle caress wash over you like a wave. He stroked your hair, slipping over to brush against your bare skin on your arms, back up to your scalp for a soft scratch behind the ears.

You practically purred at the touch, feeling safe and relaxed as he held you. You fluttered in and out of consciousness as you felt the car stop, and he adjusted you so you were draped in his arms, like a princess rescued by her charming prince.

You clung to his jacket, yawning. “Where are we goin?” you asked, not recognizing the sleek and modern building you were entering- one that looked like it costs four months rent to simply step inside the lobby.

“We’re at my place, okay bunny? I just don't want you to be alone tonight. Are you okay to share a bed with me?” he asked, pressing a button that had the elevator dinging- doors parting open for him- as if they were only summoned for Dick.

You nodded, willing to go wherever Dick took you. He lifted you up just a smidge, planting a kiss on your forehead as you traveled up to the penthouse suite. He hummed a soft tune, at peace with the sounds of your breathing and the whirl of the elevator as it took you both above the skyline.

A few moments later, you heard a beep, a door swinging open- before being shut and locked behind you. There was the faint sound of two other men's voices- ones you didn't recognize- but you drifted back into a gentle sleep before you could put any faces to the voices.

They stopped mid convo, Jason and Tim turning from the couch to observe Dick- yes, the same Dick they had known most of their life, cradling a girl in his arms as if she was a fair maiden he had rescued.

“Don't.” Dick growled, seeing the light in their eyes start to flicker.

“She's beautiful.” Jason murmured, absorbing the way you hung limply in Dicks arms, small fingers (to him) clinging to Dicks jacket, eyelash tickling your cheeks in the soft light.

And the dress you had on would send any man into shambles.

“You’re lucky I wasn't at that club that night or else we’d have to flip a coin.” Jason joked, making Dick roll his eyes.

"Not a chance in hell. Both of you aren't gonna bother her. She's shy and innocent- and we don't need either of you ruining that.” he said, starting to make his way over to his room, to lay you in his bed just to watch you sleep a little longer before curling up beside you and getting rest himself.

He had to make sure you were fully taken care of before he could even imagine getting a wink of sleep. Your breathing was steady, and your eyes had stayed shut for enough time for Dick to know you were fully asleep now, still in his arms.

It was adorable.

“Introductions over breakfast?” Tim suggested, craning his head to get one last glimpse of you before you disappeared behind Dicks fortress.

“Start preparing a normal script.” was all DIck said before shutting the door behind him- softer then any time he had before in his life.

“She's made him go soft.” Tim observed.

“And thank god for that.” Jason snorted, watching the lock on Dicks door click.

You felt gentle touches unzipping your dress and guiding you out of your shoes, before soft, large fabric engulfed your frame. Dick had dressed you in one of his t-shirts, one that smelt so strongly of him it made your head spin.

“Goodnight my sweetheart.” you heard him call- from what seemed so far away, followed by a gentle kiss to your forehead as he tucked the soft satin sheets around your frame.

Sleep had taken over before you had noticed he had then slipped into bed next to you, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close- and to keep you safe.

---------------------------------

taglist: @gwyneveire @kalulakunundrum @undecided-simp @duchessdaisybat @princesstrunkz @americaarse @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @lanilxx @merrydoe @tinythebunni

[brattyspence]

nothing matters | s.reid

summary: when reader catches her boyfriend cheating, she’s quick to run right back to spencer, even if she once swore she’d never do it again. he just has a way of making her forget about her troubles.( loosely based on lyrics of ‘Nothing Matters’ by The Last Dinner Party)

tags/warnings: pure fucking filth (at least for me), fem!reader, afab!reader, soft dom!spencer, lowkey asshole spencer, reader makes bad decisions and is aware of it, situationship, reader gets cheated on, minimal foreplay bc reader is horny af. 

a/n: um. so. about that.

word count: 1.7k

playlist i made just for this!

masterlist

"And you can hold me like he held her,

And I will fuck you like nothing matters."

-

Getting involved with Spencer was more complicated than you’d hoped. 

It had started as mindless sex. It was no secret that your job was stressful, and you both lacked the time and emotional availability to truly maintain a relationship. Still, after spending days running around and chipping away at a case, it seemed that the only real way you could unwind was by getting in his bed. 

There were logical explanations for why the sex was so, so good. You both understood what the other had gone through each day, and the way that each case would sit heavy on your minds. Spencer was keenly aware that you were not in the mood to talk when you got home. What you really wanted was to turn off any part of your brain that could think, and let him rearrange your guts until you were too tired to remember any of the details of the day. 

The arrangement worked until it didn’t.  

You’d met someone else; someone you believed could give you everything you wanted in a relationship, and quickly called things off with Spencer. The friendship you’d once shared had crashed and burned in an instant. Spencer couldn’t understand why you thought you would suddenly be capable of a relationship with someone else, and this only fueled the growing frustration you’d had with him.

Recently, you were seated across from one another on the jet, your feet tucked up under you on the seat, boots kicked off and strewn somewhere under you. You were engrossed in something, reading texts on your phone with narrowed eyes. 

“You okay?” he asked. He flipped a page of his book, looking up for a moment. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, eyes lingering on the device for a moment longer than he’d have liked. “Boyfriend. It’s nothing.”

“Is everything…alright?”

You nodded, chewing the inside of your lip. “Yeah.” 

Spencer couldn’t figure out why you stayed with him. Even if he didn’t know the extent of the situation, it was clear you were unhappy. It wasn’t something you’d ever been too careful to disguise. He couldn’t seem to figure out why you’d never pull the trigger and admit you were wrong. Part of him was convinced you were holding on out of spite.

“You always avoid that question,” he noted.

“I said ‘yeah’. I answered.”

“Hm.” He seemed to hold your gaze for a moment before picking up his own book again. 

“Spencer,” you replied, your tone biting. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He didn’t look up when he spoke this time.

“Judging.” 

“Not judging,” he replies. “Just waiting for you to admit you were wrong.”

Now, here you were, standing in the doorway to your own apartment, keys in hand, watching the reality of your impulsive decision unfold right in front of you. Another woman in your apartment, in your bed, with the same man who had promised to treat you better. 

All rational thought seemed to escape you in an instant. Before you had time to process, you were flying through the stairwell and out into the night, your feet carrying you quickly to the one place you swore you’d never be again. 

The cold night air didn’t bother you as you hastily made your way through the streets. You weren’t aware of the tingling cold that bit your nose and cheeks, but instead you were so caught up in the rising heat and mix of emotions that were threatening to spill through your tear ducts and onto your face. 

Within the next ten minutes, you were standing outside his door, rocking on the balls of your feet. You only had to knock once before the door opened. Suddenly, the intense quiet of the street behind you seemed to be all too loud. 

Spencer looked you over once, that same smug look on his face. 

“So?” he asked. “Tell me I was right.” 

“Oh, would you please-”

“I know. I know. Sorry. Come in.” 

You crossed the barrier of his doorway with less hesitation than you'd expected. 

You watched as he shut the door behind you, the solid clunk of the lock a reminder of the decision you were about to make.

“So… what happened?” He asked.

You shook your head. “I don't want to talk about it.”

He took a step closer, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. 

“You don’t want to talk at all, do you?”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. 

“So tell me what you do want.”

He took another step closer, the gap between your bodies becoming increasingly smaller. He knew exactly what you wanted, and he was determined to make you spit it out. You narrowed your eyes at him, annoyed that he had to make everything so difficult for you. 

“Drop the attitude,” he said, his voice low. “And use your words.”

You swallowed, bracing yourself for what was to come. You took another breath before finding the right words. 

“Spencer,” you breathed. “Will you please just fuck me?”

“Mm,” he hummed.  He was already tugging your coat off by the sleeves. “So polite. That's not like you.” 

You thought better than to quip another remark back his way this time, instead letting him pull you further into the apartment. You offered no resistance as he guided you through the doorway of his bedroom, spinning you around to catch the foot of the bed against the back of your knees. You let yourself fall against the mattress with an exhale. 

You quickly kicked your shoes away, letting them fall to the floor with a thump. Spencer had already climbed over you by the time you settled against the bed. He carefully slipped one hand just below the hem of your shirt, fingertips barely skimming your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

“You ready for these to come off?” He asked, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. 

“Mhm,” you nodded, quickly tugging the button undone.

“Eager,” he chuckled, pushing your hand away. “I got it. Relax.”

You watched as he undid the button with practiced ease, then quickly tugging away your jeans entirely to discard somewhere on the floor. With one hand holding his weight over you, the other continued its path up your side, pushing your shirt further up your stomach.

“You sure you want to do this?” He asked. 

You knew the implications. Nothing had changed, of course. You'd do this, and things would still be the same. Spencer was adamant about refusing to settle down. 

It would hurt tomorrow.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Really sure.”

“You're not gonna regret this?”

You huffed. “Yeah, I’ll regret this. It doesn't matter. I just need you to fuck me..”

 “I know,” he replied, settling his hand against your side. “Like nothing matters.”

You nodded again, impatience creeping back into your body. “Now.”

You heard him chuckle softly, and he quickly disappeared from your line of sight. You stared at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily above you, and listened to the soft sound of rustling fabric, anticipation gnawing at your bones. You were quick to lift your hips when he queued you, letting him remove your underwear in one swift movement. 

 You let him pull you closer to the edge of the bed, his hands sitting firmly over your hipbones. 

“Look at you, honey,” he breathed, running a thumb slowly over your core. “Missed me that bad?”

“Oh, shut up,” you groaned. “Just-”

“Is that how we ask for things that we want?” He asked, leaning in. 

You sighed. “Please?”

You watched with half lidded eyes as he carefully lined himself up, pushing himself slowly inside of you. He continued rubbing circles against your clit with one thumb, easing the growing ache of need between your legs.

“That's okay?” He asked.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Please move.”

You weren't quite prepared for how good he would feel after so long apart. The sensation caught you off guard, leaving you unable to control the desperate pleas for “more more more” that spilled from your lips. 

“There’s my girl,” he cooed. “So good. I knew you were still in there.”

Spencer moved one hand from its spot gripping your hips, instead tucking it against the back of your neck, anging your head up just enough to force your gaze on him. 

“Can you- more, please?”

“More? You sure?”

You nodded, bringing one hand to hold onto his arm. “Mhm. More. Please.”

If the goal was to fuck you until you forgot why you came, he certainly succeeded in that. You squeezed your hand against his arm, holding on for dear life as each thrust pressed you against the mattress a little further.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he breathed. “So, so good, baby.”

Spencer knew exactly where he had you. Your nails were just beginning to dig into his skin with the familiar sting you always left him with. He watched the flush of color in your cheeks slowly darken as the seconds ticked by. 

“That’s… please don't stop, Spencer. Please, please, please,” you whined.

“I know,” he replied. “I've got you, baby. You can let go.”

Sure, he'd made you come dozens of times before, but there was something about the circumstance that made today more intense than before. You were only half aware of your body, seemingly lost somewhere between your brain and outer space. By the time you were just beginning to drift back into your body, he was still pressed into you, breath heavy with the aftermath of his own orgasm.

As you lay against the mattress in the minutes following, nothing seemed to be going through your head. This was exactly what you came crawling back to him for. 

You felt the soft touch of his hands again as he quickly cleaned you up. 

“You feel okay?” He asked, carefully climbing back over you. He pressed one final kiss against your stomach before settling down on the comforter next to you. 

“Mhm,” you mumbled. “So good.”

Spencer chuckled, turning his head towards you. “I can't believe you waited for that guy to cheat on you before coming back to me.”

You could have given him a hard time about it, or gotten upset all over again about his lack of willingness to commit. The point was though, you wanted him to fuck you like nothing mattered. That was exactly what you got.

[ellieslob]

★ streamer ellie!

ways to help palestine!!!

S★ she started with fornite and minecraft gameplays but went viral for playing girly video games and screaming with pure rage and desperation if she loses or if her chat tells her the outfit she made was ugly asf😭

S★ she deadass will say “u guys clearly don’t know about fashion like i do” n then pull outfits like this:

S★ she used to be so fucking afraid that her face reveal went like dream’s that she posponed that shit for like a year. when she finally did it she ended the stream, turned off her phone and went to bed covering her body completely, while sniffing and crying “my career is over ”

S★ after her face revealed her account went even more viral, people started to make thirst traps of her and edits, videos, even fanfics, she got a little more comfortable with showing her face. her favorite edits were to songs like ride, baby by me, hey daddy (daddy’s home) and a song in spanish called vaquero, they were just so funny to her😭

iloveellie: she’s daddying so hard‼️

ewisinthechat: aw you guys really see me as a father figure?😺🫶

brondon444: 😭

kvcjjsaj: 😭

loverboydsa: 😭😭😭

“hey why is everyone crying in the chat, is everyone okay?”

S★ she really loves the cat emojis, specially this one 😻

S★ out of all her platforms (aside from twitch) she uses twitter the most, she tweets without a second thought in that head, without filter, like zero hesitation and then apologizes if she said something way too controversial.

ewisinthechat2: have you had that feeling when someone is so stupid you want to stab your eye with a fork? #kys

ewisinthechat2: k, i guess u have not😅…

S★ she was practically new to tiktok, so the first moths she had her likes public, she didn’t even know that was possible on the app. but if you click on it all you could see were shit post and memes that a dad would like, all except for a big section of aprox thirteen videos, one after the other, all with the same girl.

sckerforellie18: did u guys saw ellie’s likes? i think she’s stalking that poor girl😭

slaybabesew: HAHAH WAIT IS REAL, IS SHE HER GILFRIEND???

elliesaheymamasg: she’s so hot wait😩

heyemogirlbb: it’s her @girlypop66

S★ the chat started to tag you to every single one of her videos on tiktok, her photos on instagram, tagging you on things like “hi, could you please date my mom?🤗” or “my new mommie😻” EVEN in her questionable tweets telling you “we know she’s crazy but give her a chance😭”

S★ one day you waked up to your phone being practically broken from all the notifications, you still had your little pink iphone 6 and you had to buy another one because of it.

Instagram

girlypop: hi um i don’t think we really know each other but people are tagging me on your videos😭 love them though

S★ ellie was in a stream, the chat had to make her laugh and spit the water so she was reacting to videos that her chat had send her. when that notification appear on the screen, she read it, gulped the water, looked dead ass serious at the camera and turned off the stream.

elliewilliasm: omg hi, im so sorry i didn’t know, I’ll tell them to spot

elliewilliasm: spot*

elliewilliasm: STOP**😭

you laughed in your new phone, she was funny, and for what you had seen in all the posts that you were tagged on, very pretty too.

girlypop: hey would you like to grab coffee sometime?

ewisinthechat: TO EVERYBODY IN THE CHAT, THANK YOU, YOU GUYS ARE THE FUCKIN BEST, LOVE YALL, IM SO LUCKY TO HAVE YOU, XOXO😻😻😻😻

GIVEAWAY COMIN FUCKIN SOON💯💯‼️

S★ she was exhausted when she jumped to her bed, after all the crying, screaming, jumping and the extreme tweeting that just said “YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES”, she unlocked her phone again.

elliewiliasm: yeah sure :)

REBLOG AND COMENT

IF YOU WANT TO BE IN THE TAG LIST

[imnottkyle]

Box Dye Professional - A Solivan Burgmansia x GN!Reader FluffFic!

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI

Tags Kinda?: TKaTB VN, Solivan Burgmansia, Sol, fluff, kinda weird in some parts tbh, gender-neutral reader/no mention of reader's gender.

Warnings: It's Sol, so yeah... However, this fic is fluff, so no warnings really, just Sol gets a little weird over being near Reader.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Meowdy folks, your newest TKaTB fic writer has arrived! I am so totally hyped to be writing again, and I hope that you have as much fun reading my fics as I have writing them. This is actually my first fic in SEVEN years, so please have mercy ｡･(ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣ ꞈ˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू)

If you're still reading my intro here, I would like to let you in on a special tidbit! I am now starting a Stalker!Reader x Sol fic yayayayayay!! I just think it would be amazeballs to see someone outfreak his freak. Okay, I'll shut up and let you read <3

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Fingers moving nimbly with the charcoal, you sketched away at your muse, sharp eyes taking in his every detail. You told yourself it was simply because you wanted a good grade for this project, that you wanted to prove the authenticity of the piece, that those brief moments of eye contact didn't make your heart jump. Get a grip, you had only known Sol for a few weeks (even if it felt like a lifetime), now was not the time to start crushing. As you continued to scratch at the paper, your mind couldn't help but fall back to the reason you were here in the first place; your father, your home.

"___…?"

You startled, nearly causing the pencil to streak a nasty gash across your paper. "Sorry, what was that?" You asked, full gaze on your subject. "Something on your mind?" He answered, relaxing out of his pose for a quick stretch. "Oh, it's nothing, just got to daydreaming aga-" The sentence trailed off, your eyes sneaking off to peek at the bit of skin that showed when he stretched. No, stop it eyes, focus! Quickly pretending to notice a stray bit of fuzz on his shirt, you pointed it out, successfully hiding your wandering glance. Sol let out a soft chuckle as he picked off the fuzz, "So quick to notice the smallest things, aren't you? It's quite charming." he murmured rather gently. "Oh yeah, just like how I can't help but notice your hair dye is fading awfully! Tell me where you got it done so I know never to go there." You playfully retorted. The green-streaked, or rather yellow-green streaked, man groaned out loud, hiding his face in his hands.

"Is it really that noticeable?"

"Yep."

"Ugh, I knew I shouldn't have tried a different dye. I guess it really is that bad, huh?"

Okay, now you just felt bad for teasing him in the first place, that embarrassed expression that he wore, only tugging at your heartstrings further.

"Well, I was staring at you pretty hard- er -for the sketch, I mean. Maybe it isn't that noticeable from afar."

It was definitely noticeable from afar, but there was no way that you were going to say that to his face. You took a breath, a flash of brilliant courage (or maybe stupidity) overtaking you. The sketchbook and charcoal fell into your lap as you leaned in closer to your classmate, "Um, if you aren't doing anything later, maybe I could help you fix your hair. I'm somewhat of a bathroom salon pro." At this, you saw Sol's face brighten, "R-Really? That'd be nice, thanks." he smiled, voice soft. "Just shoot me a text when you're on your way, and I'll get everything set up. You beamed back, heart already pitter-pattering way more than necessary.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Your bathroom looked stupid. It was as if you became painfully aware of every wonky detail in your entire apartment. Two of the shower tiles were crooked, there was a weird blue stain on the floor, and the sink had lime growing on the edge. You had tried everything to get rid of the lime buildup, but in the end you had given up and just accepted the shit. So why now of all times, did it bother you so badly? Was it because Sol was on his way? Was it because you were afraid he would notice and think you were a slob? Why did it even matter in the first place, he was just your classmate, just your project partner.

Lime- 1

Your Idiot Brain- 1

You- 0

For the millionth time, you wished that you would listen to your own advice and calm down. It's not like Sol would even think anything of this, you were just being a good friend and helping him out. You let out a groan and simultaneously heard a knock at the door. Collecting as much of yourself as you could, you headed to the door, opening it to reveal your crush's classmate's handsome face.

"Hey Sol, got the goods?"

"Of course."

He held up the shopping bag, giving it a little shake. You grinned, this was certainly going to be a fun evening. "Well don't just stand there, come in, silly!" You said, before practically dragging him inside the apartment by his sleeve. Whatever nerves you had before had nearly dissipated, leaving you to feel rather giddy. Hair dyeing was fun, you would know. Having done this countless times to your own head, you found the whole process to be rather therapeutic, a welcome metamorphosis. You could have sworn that Sol had mumbled something as you dragged him along, though when you looked back on him, he simply smiled. Wait, was he blushing? It was then that you realized how tightly you had gripped his sleeve, fingers brushing dangerously against his wrist.

"Oh, god, sorry." You loosened your grip, allowing him to regain his left hand.

"It's okay." He replied, setting the grocery bag down on the bathroom counter.

How you wished you had a clock or something, because right now the awkward silence was, well, awkward. Seeing him just stand there suddenly reminded you of something, "Oh wait here, I'll get you a chair!" you spun out the doorway only to reappear a second later, "Did you want anything else? Water, snacks? I have some chips and um, fruit snacks…?" Maybe this whole hosting thing wasn't exactly made for you. Sol, however, didn't seem to mind your scatterbrain, chuckling once more before replying, "A glass of water sounds nice." he rose to his feet, ready to follow you. Aaand now you found yourself panicking, as to whether or not you had somehow left your stinky socks in the cupboard.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

There was now a man in your kitchen. The way he so easily reached into your high cupboards was honestly kind of impressive. Men were like cows, or semi-trucks, you forget how big they are until you see one up close. Or maybe you were just weird and lonely. "Oh, don't drink the tap water, it tastes funny." You interjected, quickly grabbing a water jug from the refrigerator, before extending your hand to take the glass Sol was holding. Once more, you couldn't help but be acutely aware of your fingers brushing against his as you took the glass, heart fluttering at the contact. Pouring the water, suddenly became a very serious task, your eyes focused like lasers, hands steady and balanced. This might be the most perfect glass of water you had ever poured. Handing him the glass, you spun around to place the water jug back in the fridge, quickly taking note of what all it contained in case Sol got hungry later.

It was your cup, or at least a cup that you had used at some point. Your lips had once been pressed to the cool glass, perhaps even at the same spot his were pressed to now. Your lips, your thirst, how he wanted to be pressed up against you, easing your craving.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Good grief, he must have been parched, the way he chugged the water down. You quickly offered him another glass, but he declined, strange. Back to the bathroom it was, unboxing the dye and getting things set up. It was decided that you would sit on the chair, Sol taking a seat on the ground (you gave him a cushion, of course) so you could better see his hair. Shaking the bottle of dye, you broke off the seal and squeezed some directly on his head. You felt the man jolt, "So, no instructions?" he asked, pointing at the instruction sheet that now lay in the trash. "Just trust me." You declared, using your bare hands to work the dye into his hair. Now this action caused Sol to whip around abruptly, "___!! Your hands are gonna be stained if you do it like this! Why don't you use the gloves!?" You groaned, grabbing onto his head, gently trying to guide him back into position, "It's fine, besides, the gloves just inhibit my amazing abilities." You gave yourself a grin, you were a seasoned professional after all! Well, you still had hair on your head, so that had to mean something.

"So, do you usually do this on your own?"

"Mm, yeah, sometimes Hyugo helps out."

"Oh that's nice. I almost feel bad for taking his place right now, except I'm having too much fun."

You let out a giggle, waving your green, stained hands in front of Sol's face. He simply turned back at you and smiled, "You're so reckless."

Your hands matched his hair. Your hands matched his hair. And they would be stained like that for a few days. Stained like him, marked to match him, branded as his.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A few more squeezes of hair dye, and even more idle chatting, it was nice really. Gently running your fingers through Sol's hair, making sure each faded highlight was coated evenly with fresh green pigment, it was soothing. However, you found yourself scooting your chair closer every few minutes, as if Sol was somehow sliding away. Oh, that's right, the cushion. It was just a random pillow, actually, which turned out to be quite slippery on the bathroom floor. You let out a small huff of frustration before scooting closer one final time. Thighs spread apart, Sol sat in between them as they pressed against his shoulders, firmly locking him in place. You heard a small mumble escape the man's lips, it sounded like a curse, but you didn't bother to pry.

"Sorry, but you aren't running away so easily." You chuckled, teasingly tugging at a dye-soaked strand of his hair.

"Whatever you say, pumpkin." He murmured with a returned chuckle, though there was little he could do to hide the heat in his voice.

"Hmph, atta boy."

Cheeks flushed, you were never so glad that Sol couldn't see your face. Pumpkin, that stupid nickname he had given you a while back. It was cheesy, but for some reason, you found yourself enjoying it, a rather endearing feeling. Your gaze softened as you tenderly stroked Sol's hair, the warm feeling in your chest only blossoming more. He had been one of your first friends this year, one of the only friends you had actually made on your own. A leap of faith, a single rooftop lunch, a chance at being partnered with this man, had quickly turned into some of your most treasured memories. And now you had started to question yourself; was this love at first sight?

Haah.. The way your fingers tangled in his hair, the gentle tug at it, fuck. The scent of you, snaking around him as he knelt between your thighs, clamping him in place. Your presence was inescapable, all-consuming, just the way he liked it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"You look like a seaweed monster!" You giggled, standing in the mirror next to your dye-soaked friend. He simply frowned in reply, "And you look like a sea urchin."

"Huh? That doesn't make an-!!"

You were cut off abruptly as Sol yanked you close, tousling your hair with his hand. Satisfied, he pulled away, now examining the both of you in the mirror. "A seaweed monster and his little urchin." He teased, smiling at your disheveled reflection. "Idiot, now my hair is all messed up!" It was a false protest, your face betraying you, a heavy blush now spreading to your ears. Sol was so close, you couldn't help but inhale his scent, feel the warmth radiating off his body, and hear the rapid beating of his heart. It was beating just as fast as your own, and somehow it seemed as if it was in perfect sync. Could it be that Sol felt just as nervous as you did? That he perhaps harbored a small crush of his own?

"Uh, let's get you rinsed off, I think the dye might be seeping into your brain…"

"Huh?"

"Never mind!!"

You quickly extracted yourself from his space, smoothing out your hair, and instantly feeling the chill of your apartment once again. Had it always been this cool in here? After a brief crash course on how to use the extendable shower head, you let Sol rinse his hair on his own while you tidied the rest of the bathroom. A few moments later, his green-streaked head popped back up, wet bangs covering his eyes. "Uh, ___? Can you pass me the towel?" You handed him a towel as he pushed the bangs from his face, beads of water running down his pretty face. Focus, focus, focus! Judging by Sol's raised eyebrow and flushed expression, you were pretty sure your jaw was somewhere on the ground right then.

"Er, sorry…!"

"N-No it's fine!"

"I'd let you look at me like that all day if you wanted~"

"Did you-?"

"Hm? No, it's nothing!"

The man smiled back in reply, rubbing his hair with the towel.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You had brushed his wet locks, dried his hair with your blow dryer, the same one you've used since middle school, and sent him on his way. The apartment was silent now, save for the sound of your heart pounding against your ribs. You were sprawled out on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, completely alone, and yet the faint scent of Sol seemed to cradle you no matter where you moved. He smelled like soap, laundry, almost sterile. But underneath that all there was a hint of a woody musk and, oddly enough, a sweet, candy-like smell. Maybe he had a thing for sweets. What kind of sweets did he like? What kind of foods did he like? What was his favorite flavor? You wanted to know more about him, everything about him. There was no point in fighting it, you gave in, curling up into your blankets as if they could somehow offer protection from your own realization. You liked Sol. You really liked him.

[itsmerelliwellie]

Don’t Touch Him Like That | UmeTsuba

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Pairing: Hajime Umemiya x Tasuku Tsubakino

Content: Jealous Umemiya, etc. (end of thinking capacity)

Warning: None (it's just poorly written and not beta read)(okay, maybe that is a warning)

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A/N: I wanted to get back to writing so expect all of my works right now to be judge-able. Love me anyway please.

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The wind was sharp that afternoon, but Hajime Umemiya barely noticed it as he leaned against the fence on the rooftop, and pretended he wasn’t watching the group below.

They were laughing. Seryu had his hands all over Tsubakino again. Ruffling hair, tugging at sleeves, even slapping his shoulder when Seryu cracked some stupid joke.

Umemiya scowled.

Tsubakino, as usual, didn’t seem to mind. Hell, he was probably encouraging it. That cute idiot always grinned when people touched him like that. Like he didn’t even realize what it did to people.

“I get it,” a voice suddenly said beside him, breaking his intense glare. “I’d be pissed too if someone kept flirting with my crush right in front of me.”

Umemiya jerked upright, eyes wide. “What the hell, Hiragi?!”

Hiragi raised an eyebrow. “Ya think you’re subtle? Dude, you’ve been glaring daggers at Seryu all week.”

“I haven’t,” Umemiya muttered, crossing his arms.

“Ya have. Ya also nearly broke the vending machine when he bought Tsubakino a drink yesterday.”

Umemiya didn’t respond. He just stared down at his feet, trying to stop the heat from rising to his ears.

Hiragi leaned against the fence as well, arms behind his head. “You’re right. You’re not mad. You’re jealous.”

“I’m not—” Umemiya started to snap, then stopped.

He opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. His brows furrowed.

He wasn’t mad at Seryu. Not really. He was cool. Strong. Kind. A little too clingy maybe, but he didn’t mean anything by it. Right?

So why did it make his stomach twist every time he put his hands on Tsubakino?

Why did he want to pull him away? To say “Don’t touch him like that—he’s mine”, even though he’d never once thought of Tsubakino that way.

Or had he?

“...Shit,” Umemiya whispered under his breath.

“There it is,” Hiragi said smugly.

“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not. Just glad you’re finally catching up to what the rest of us already knew.”

Umemiya shoved his hands in his pockets, chewing harder on his gum. “I didn’t— I mean, I don’t even know if —”

“He really likes ya,” Hiragi said like it was obvious. “For some reason, he does. He looks at ya like you're the only person in the room. He’s just too stupid to realize ya don’t joke around with someone that much unless you wanna kiss them. And he laughs at yer jokes even though ya ain’t that damn funny, man. Ya ain’t.”

Umemiya blinked, feeling like his brain had just short-circuited. Tsubakino really liked him that way?

He didn’t get to dwell on it long. The rooftop door slammed open, and Tasuku’s familiar voice rang out.

“Ume! You up here?”

Umemiya turned, trying to smooth out his face before the Jikoku Leader spotted his conflicted expression.

Tsubakino jogged over, a little out of breath, but still looked ethereal with the way his face was glowing and his long hair dancing in the wind. “We’re going to Photos. You comin’?”

Umemiya glanced at Hiragi, who smirked and walked away like he already knew how this would go down.

“I’ll catch up,” Umemiya told the Tamon Leader before facing the person he’s been dying to get alone all week. “Walk with me for a sec?”

Tsubakino blinked but smiled. “Sure.”

They walked down the stairs in silence for a few floors before Umemiya finally said, “You and Seryu seem really close lately.”

“Hmm?” Tasuku looked over. “Oh. Yeah, he’s been tagging along more, even outside patrols.”

“He’s very touchy, isn’t he?”

“I guess? He’s been real sweet too.” He gave a sheepish grin before turning to face the Bofurin Rep with a teasing look, “You jealous, Ume?”

It was supposed to be a joke with the way he laughed afterward, but Umemiya stopped walking.

Tsubakino turned around, confused.

“I don’t know,” Umemiya said, voice low. “Maybe.”

Tsubakino’s smile faltered, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. “...Why?”

Umemiya stared at him for a long moment. His chest felt tight, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff.

“Because I’m madly in love with you,” he said, his head down. “And I didn’t realize it until I saw someone else touching you and wanted to punch a wall.”

Tsubakino’s eyes widened, and for a second Umemiya thought he’d messed everything up.

But then Tsubakino stepped closer. Not touching him, not saying anything. Just standing there with that same stupidly sincere look he always had.

“That’s kinda unfair,” he finally said.

Umemiya blinked. “What?”

“I’ve been into you for years and thought you were just too cool to like like me. And now you’re telling me this like it’s nothing?”

Umemiya stared. “Wait—you what?”

Tsubakino chuckled, playing with the ends of his long hair. “Guess I didn’t realize you were the jealous type.”

“I didn’t either,” Umemiya muttered, then added, “Sorry.”

“Eh,” Tasuku shrugged. “I guess it means you actually do like me.”

“I do,” Umemiya said. “Maybe too much.”

“Well... good.” Tsubakino took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “Guess that makes it okay if I do this.”

He reached up, lightly tugging Umemiya’s jacket collar to pull him down just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Umemiya’s ears turned bright red.

“I’m gonna kill Hiragi,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Because he was right.”

Tasuku laughed again, this time a little breathless. “So? Come get omurice with me, dumbass.”

“Only if I get to walk and sit next to you.”

“You always do.”

---

A/N: Yeah... so... yeah

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Pent Up 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you seek validation through online correspondence with incarcerated men, only for one to lock you down in turn.

Characters: convict/excon!Thor (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The night is long and torturous. When sleep comes, it's accompanied by the same man that invaded your waking hours. Thor is like a shadow, following you from one plane to the next. You wake in a sweat, disoriented and dull.

What are you going to do? Even if he wasn't a dangerous felon, you're no match for him. He's like if someone made a bear human. Despite how nice he can be, you fear the flip side of the coin.

You force yourself to get up as Andy's voice echoes beneath the thunder of Thor's. Your mom would flip if she found out. And do nothing. It's your problem, you're grown, just don't bring that around your siblings. She's with Andy for a reason; several.

A day off would typically be an occasion for delight. Everything is off. Everything is tainted by the consequences of your stupid action.

The idea of eating makes you want to puke. Getting washed up is a task on its own. You read about Marie Antoinette in her cell and the looming threat of the guillotine. Is this how she felt?

Light blue jeans and a tiered lilac top. It would be cute in any other context.

You don't know when but you know he's coming. He promised. He made many promises and you never took those seriously. Now you know just how committed he is.

It's absurd. He has to see that right? You're too young. You're naive. He needs someone who can relate to him. Someone who isn't terrified.

The doorbell rings as you pace in circles. Shoot. Ugh. You see him on the little smart screen.

You freeze for a minute. Fight or flight has you stuck in the middle. You make yourself move. You have no fight but also nowhere to run.

You open the door and let out a gurgling noise. He's surprised you again. Not as frightfully as that first encounter, but still. Thor wears a tidy button up in a shade of pale blue and navy slacks. His hair is braided along the sides and drawn back into a low pony. He smells like fancy pine cologne. Your eyes go wide.

"My queen," he offers you a tiny gift bag, dwarfed by his large hands.

"Um, hi," you take it by the ribbon handles with a trouble furrow in your brows.

"While you always look stunning, might I ask you to change into something more...than casual?" He smiles sheepishly. "I have many surprises and I would have you in style."

"Oh, uh, yeah, I just... threw this on," you look down.

"It is no trouble. I only thought you would want to match your gift," he gestures to the gift bag.

"Ermmmmm," you drag out the fizzy murmur.

You reach into the bag and take out the ivory box. Your stomach storms furiously. You pull open the lid on the hinges to reveal a ruby necklace. The heart-shaped stone is trimmed in diamonds. You blink and babble.

"It's so... pretty, but I can't--"

"My queen, please, it would be a great honour to have you wear it," he insists. "Might I?"

He opens his large palm. You stare at the deep lines and gulp. You carefully pull the necklace free and hand it over.

You turn and he steps closer to drape it around your neck. It rests along your clavicle as he clasps it. You're no great judge but you think it's real. Did he steal it?

"Thank, er... I'll go find something to go with it," you draw away as he tickles your neck.

"As ever, I shall patiently await my queen," he assures.

The bag crinkles as you face him again, "can I meet you at the truck? I don't want you standing out here that long."

"It is no trouble--"

"Please, I would feel bad," you plead.

He touches his chest, "aw, my queen, you do treat me well. Yes, I shall wait for you there."

You nod and watch him go before you retreat inside. You hurry to the guest room and shove away the bag. You sift through your bag. You didn't really bring anything fancy... Wait.

You trip out of the room and head down to the basement. Your mother holds onto everything. You clamour down to the basement and push through the hangers. It's not your fave and she chose it, but your semi-formal dress hangs amid the forgotten thread. You really don't think it goes with the necklace but it will have to do.

You change quickly and steel some of your mom's shoes and a thin white shawl. You probably don't look any more ready than you feel. As you come out, clutching your purse against your side, you catch your breath. You lock the door and brace yourself.

You come down the walk as Thor stands up straight from leaning on his truck and touches his hair to check that it's in place. Oh gosh, what've you done?

This man is delusional. Sure, you helped build that fantasy, but for him to take it this far? You feel sick.

"My queen," he opens the door.

You smile and let him help you into the truck. The dread settles with you in the seat. He shuts the door gently as you look down at your hands. You busy yourself by buckling the seat belt.

He gets in and you peer down the street with wide eyes. He reaches over to pet your knee, "that colour is wonderful on you. You always are perfect, darling." He leans over and kisses your cheek. He squeezes your knee with his large hand, fingers swirling on the bare skin. He growls. "How I dreamt of this. Of you. When I was locked up. But now I'm free, we are free, and together."

You put your hand on his and squeak, "Thor."

"I understand now. It is new to you. I wish you'd said. But now I can take it slow for you, my kitten."

He kisses your cheek again and rescinds his hand. He grips the wheels and you watch his knuckles pale. Your throat constricts as if his fingers are around your neck.

"Um..." you shrink into the seat, "where are we going?"

He chuckles, "it's a surprise."

You twitch. This is how those true crime shows start. Your lips tremble but you keep your smile in place. He pulls away from the curb.

"Okay, but er, you know, my stepdad is very... strict and I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on the house, so I can't stay out long," you explain as you mash your palms together.

"Your stepdad. Hm. Yes, he seems controlling."

"Well, you know, he's just... particular," you shrug.

"Mm, it makes sense," he nods.

"Makes sense?"

"Yes, why you thought to try to block me. To deny our love," he clucks. "You speak of this man as he is. A dictator. Well, I am your king, he will not keep me from my queen, so you needn't worry for him."

You don't argue. It's a better explanation than you had and if he knew the truth...

"I don't know the man and yet he makes my blood hot. I could throttle any who would stifle you, my queen," he snarls. "As I have sworn to myself to always keep you safe. And close."

You cringe. You remember his long rambling emails. You skimmed a lot of those flowery monologues. You assumed he read a lot of poetry in jail. What else did he have time for?

"Please, be calm, and yourself," he glances over at you. "No need to be scared, my queen. Not ever."

🩷

Your confusion mounts as you watch the grand house rise before you. The property is maintained; trimmed hedges, marble statues, a fountain, a drooping blossom tree akin to some whimsical fantasy movie.

It's unlike anywhere you've ever been. How would Thor know of this place? Are you trespassing?

You peek at him nervously as he pulls his bright red truck in behind the luxurious ivory and gold car. You search around for anyone to come calling intruder. Thor gets out as you're too reluctant to move further. He comes around and opens the door. As you step down, his hand around yours, his name booms in the air.

An older man with white hair marches over in a velvet jacket over a sleep shirt. He's eccentric with his long white hair and bird-headed cane.

"Ah, the prodigal son returns," the man proclaims, "and he has brought... fresh meat?"

You squirm as you look between them.

"Father, she is not to be spoken of such," Thor warns.

His father? Your mouth falls open.

"Odin," the man offers his hand. "And you must be wildly out of your mind."

You open and close your lips. He laughs and you finally unclench your hand to shake his. He squeezes firmly and brings your hand up to kiss the back.

"So, has she read the court report yet? Is she aware?" Odin chirps.

"Father, I am reformed," Thor snatches your arm back. "You needn't mock me so. I've done my time. She knows this."

"Does she? She is rather young. How much can she know?"

Your brows rise up and down. You're speechless. This is both awkward and humiliating.

"Come then, your mother has been fussing over breakfast all morning. It is why I had to flee the house. You get your madness from her," Odin mutters as he turns.

He walks airily despite the cane, swinging it more than he uses it. Thor holds your hand as he pulls you along. Maybe your family isn't so weird.

Odin whistles as he swings the door open and enters. Thor squeezes and you fear he might dislocate something. You squirm and he lets up.

"Oh, the love of my life, where are you?" Odin calls out, his voice echoing along the high ceilings.

Your eyes rove around the extravagant decor. Refined but not stuffy. Elegant with subtlety. You could only aspire to be any of those things.

You can't help but wonder how he got locked up. By the looks of it, his family is wealthy. Better off than your own. Your mother is comfortably middle class but she's stingy as heck. Andy is worse.

"In here," a trill sounds through the large doorway with the curling detail over the archway.

Odin strides through and Thor drags you in to see the older man kissing a blond woman on the cheek as she juggles a covered tray. "Oh, you rogue."

He purrs and keeps his arm around her as she sets her armful down. Her eyes brighten as she looks in your direction and they flick between you and Thor.

"Oh, my son! You've brought her!" She claps her oven mitts together. "And she is absolutely stunning."

She sweeps out of her husband's embrace and around the large square island. She brings the warm mitts to your cheeks and presses a kiss to your forehead. She holds you at arms length and admires you.

"My, my, so lovely," she praises. "And you're with my son?"

Thor grumbles, "mother."

"Well..." she shrugs and pulls away, then wraps her son in a hug. He wraps his arms around her as she turns her ear to his chest. She giggles as her green eyes flash. "His heart is racing. He must be in love."

"Mother," he gently nudges her away. "You're embarrassing me."

"I embarrass myself," she turns to you again, "Frigga, darling, and you?"

You peek up at Thor before you give your name. She repeats it, rolling it over her tongue.

"Just as beautiful as the rest of you," she turns and taps away in her heels. You don't know how a woman her age has so much energy. "Oh, and have you heard from Loki, Odi?"

"You know his excuses. Work. A very busy man," the white-haired patriarch shakes his head.

"My brother," Thor explains in a whisper.

You nod. Does it make much of a difference?

"My son tells me you've been a wonderful support. Gods know he has always been such a handful," Frigga arranges a silver tea pot and porcelain saucers on a tray. "Even after they put him away, oh, it was awful. When I called, they told me he was not permitted to take his calls." She hums in disappointment and sends Thor a sharp look. His shoulders slump. "I didn't raise him like that. I want you to know, I've only ever taught him to respect women and I do hope he treats you as well as you treat him."

"Mother, you know I would never," Thor insists.

"Oh, and you promised you would not go to prison. Yes, I see how that panned out," she sniffs. "Ah, but let us not cling to mistakes. Let us move on." She smiles at you as she lifts the tray. "I know, dear, that you will fix him. From what I hear of you, it cannot be any other way."

Heat crawls up your neck. What has Thor told them? How can you live up to expectations when you don't even know what they are?

"Um, may I help with that?" You offer as you near her.

"Oh, but you are a guest," she chimes.

"Really, it's no problem. All this food smells delicious. It must be a lot of work," you insist. "It's the least I can do."

You take the handles of the tray as she relents. You hold your smile and turn. You don't let the facade fall until you're out of the room. She calls after you that the dining room is left not right. You correct your path and bite the inside of your lip.

You're really not that helpful but you'll take the excuse to get away. If even just a few minutes.

[pluvioloulou]

I Still Worship The Flame

Summery: After Eddie moves back to LA, Buck moves in with Athena. Still dealing with grief, the world starts to lighten up a bit more when she realises Buck is trying and failing to hide his boyfriend like a secretive teenager, sneaking through the house at night. (Inspired by this post from @tevanbuckley )

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,3k

Tags: Roommates, Buck and Athena are roommates, Implied Sexual Content, getting caught, Sneaking Around, Failing at sneaking around, Fluff and Humour, Loss, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Cooking, Slow Dancing, Mentioned Bobby Nash, Tommy Kinard Loves Evan "Buck" Buckley, No Beta

( Ao3 Link )

~~<3~~

Locking her car, Athena walked up to the front door and slotted her key in. She felt dead on her feet, having just endured a shift from hell, her superiors feeling bad for her let her go early and she couldn’t be happier. All she wanted to do was get a glass of water and head to bed.

As she made her way to the kitchen, she heard rummaging around and a door closing upstairs, but it didn't make her reach for her gun anymore because she knows it’s just Buck.

After Eddie moving back to LA meant Buck had to find a new place to live, Athena offered him her guest room until he could find a place of his own, and admittedly, it was nice. She liked having Buck around, just having someone who reminded her so much of Bobby was something she didn’t know she needed, plus Bobby did a great job at passing his cooking skills onto the kid.

His presence put her at ease when she was having a bad night, even if his info dumping could get a little annoying, she was happy for the distraction when she was missing her husband.

Getting a glass out and filling it with water, she could now hear careful footsteps descending the stairs, not thinking anything of it, she pulled out her phone to read her messages.

A figure stopped right behind her, she could sense them and she knew it wasn’t Buck or an intruder, the security system would have picked up a problem if so. It sounded like said figure was slowly backing away, so she put her glass and phone on the counter and stood up straight.

“You think you could sneak past me and I wouldn’t notice?” And as she turned around, she was met with a wide eyed Tommy in nothing but his boxers.

“Tommy?!” She squawks, not expecting to be faced with Buck’s apparent ex-boyfriend.

“Uh, um, nice to see you again, Sergeant.” He slowly starts to back away again, like he wasn’t just caught in a police sergeant’s how half naked.

“Considering how much I see of you, I think ‘Athena’ will work just fine.” She teased, a hint of amusement in her tone having gotten over her initial shock.

Tommy coughed out an awkward laugh and moved his hands to cover his lower half, out of decency if anything, “I was just getting Evan a glass of water,” he smiled, but as soon as it appeared it was gone in realisation, “if that’s okay with you?”

Athena laughed, “Yes, of course,” she waved to the cupboard, “glasses are in there, help yourself, I’m going to bed.”

Tommy moved quickly, nodding, “Thank you.”

Athena continued laughing to herself as she walked off to her bedroom, and god knows she needed that laugh.

When Tommy made it back to Buck’s room in one piece, he gave Buck a serious look as he passed over his glass of water.

“What’s that face for?” Buck cocked his head, looking confused.

“When you said you had a roommate, you didn’t mention it was Athena!” Tommy did his best to shout in a whisper, not wanting to make a single noise now that he knows Athena is here.

“Well, yeah, this is her house.” Buck said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, causing Tommy to collapse on the bed with his head in his hands.

The next day, when it was just Buck and Athena, she didn’t even mention it.

But that was just the first time it happened.

The second time, she watched as Buck tried to quietly sneak Tommy out the morning after he had spent the night, not that she didn’t know he spent the night, they’re not as quiet as they think.

As they walked past the doorway to the kitchen-living area, whispering to one another, she cleared her throat. They stopped, frozen in place.

“Would you two like to join me for breakfast?” She asks them, she doesn’t want to make them think they have to sneak around when she’s home.

At her request, they shuffle wordlessly into the room and sit down where all the food is laid out ready. Eggs, fruit, toast, amongst some other things sat there waiting to be eaten.

“Well, help yourselves.” She smiles and hands them a coffee each.

They both mumble a thank you and dig in, but the silence and occasional clink of cutlery was slowly killing Athena.

“So,” she began, both of the men whipped their heads up at her assertive voice, “is there a reason you two are at my house and not Tommy’s?”

“It… Well, um, it was closer?” Buck gave her a sheepish smile, cheeks growing rosy.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” She smirked into her coffee mug.

Tommy choked on a bit of food, he brought his fist to cover his mouth as Buck was quick to pat his back.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, I know the feeling,” she looked away and sighed, “I was like that once.” Buck was only a little horrified to hear that, knowing she was most likely reminiscing about his former captain.

Clearly having composed himself, Tommy sputtered a laugh at the look on Buck’s face and all he got was a frown back.

Buck turned back to Athena, looking as apologetic as ever, “It won’t happen again, we are so sorry.”

She waved her hand and pulled a face, “Nonsense, Buck, you live here, you are allowed to have people over,” she quirked her eyebrow at Tommy, “especially your boyfriend.”

Both boys laughed awkwardly, cheeks growing red, looking everywhere but each other, “We’re not-” Buck stumbled on his words. “Yeah, we haven’t-” Tommy tried to finish for him but couldn’t get his words out either.

Rolling her eyes, she watched the two fail miserably at covering up whatever they were doing together. “Give it up, boys, you two were made for each other, I’d be a little disappointed if you weren’t giving this another shot.”

They looked at her and then each other, a smile breaking out on both of their faces. They were so smitten with one another.

Buck turned back to Athena, smile dropping slightly, “You can’t tell anyone, not yet, we’re taking it slow.”

Her face morphed into a judgy stare and her hand landed on her hip, “Mhmm.” She hummed into her coffee mug at the words, ‘taking it slow’. After taking the last sip she put it down, “Why would I tell anyone, Buck?”

“I don’t know, you talk to Hen a lot.”

After breakfast, Athena got ready to meet up with May for lunch, and if Buck later got a call from May laughing down the phone about how he and Tommy traumatised her mom, well that was between them.

From then on, the sneaking around stopped. They didn’t need to hide in the house anymore and Athena made sure of that.

And just like Buck, Tommy was nice to have around, he was always ready to strike up a conversation with her about how her shift was and if anything needed to be done around the house. He was handy. Just like how Bobby was.

One evening, when Athena got back late, she saw the two men curled up on the couch watching some movie, but as she got closer she realised that Buck was fast asleep. His mouth was slightly open, face pushed up against Tommy’s shoulder as the older man stroked a hand up and down Buck’s side.

She quietly walked around them, grabbing one of her blankets she keeps stored near the couch and handed it to Tommy. He mouthed a “thank you”, draping it over them and the hand that was by his side was in Buck’s curls.

It was such a tender moment.

But, something deep in her heart ached at the sight.

There was another time where she had come back downstairs after a shower, ready for dinner, when she walked in on them being all in love.

A Frank Sinatra song played through Tommy’s phone as they swayed and danced together in the kitchen, Buck still wore his apron covered in the ingredients he put in the meal.

And that ache was right back in her chest in an instant.

However, she could admit it wasn’t always cute. One night after getting home early, she was greeted by Buck in nothing but an apron standing in the middle of her kitchen, his behind fully on display.

His yelp of fear summoned a concerned Tommy, who was yet again in nothing but his boxers. The sight was all too familiar, but she couldn’t remember from where.

“Am I going to have to start charging you rent too?” She sassed Tommy.

With her head in her hands, she made her way up the stairs. She didn’t have the energy to scold Buck for wearing his ‘kiss the cook’ apron for sex, or for seeing Tommy, yet again, in his underwear.

But that night she lay in bed with that damned ache again, and she didn't know why.

A few days after, as Buck was on his latest fun fact deep-dive, Athena walked out into the garden. She took a breath of fresh air and looked around at the empty flower beds, Bobby was supposed to fill those. He just didn’t have time.

Her eyes wandered over to the grill, still new and untouched, she had no clue how to work it well. Bobby knew. He was always so excited to pull out the grill when they hosted the 118 & co. barbeques.

She turned back to the glass doors and stopped.

In the soft evening light, Tommy was leaning over Buck's shoulder, speaking to him so softly and looking at Buck like he hung the moon and stars. Maybe to Tommy it really felt like he did. She knew that feeling once. But it was gone now, she lost it and it was replaced by an awful ache she can’t seem to shift.

That ache she has grown to know so well. The ache of a hole in her heart, a piece missing.

Lost in her own world of grief, she didn’t notice Tommy looking back, his eyebrows pinched together in worry. Giving Buck a kiss on the cheek, he made his way to Athena.

Siding up next to her, he lets his eyes drift over the garden, “It’s a beautiful space out here.”

“It was all Bobby, and the kitchen, these were his areas of expertise.” She pushed down the emotion that was inching its way up her throat, clawing to get out.

They let the silence fall over them, Tommy’s hand gently rubbing at her back, doing his best to give her the comfort she needed. He thinks he understands, when he thinks of Evan, losing him would be the worst thing to ever happen to him. But it hasn’t happened, so all he could do was think.

“Ya’know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” he moved in a bit closer to her, “I really looked up to Bobby, and I just wish I used my time with him to get to know him better, but,” he peered back inside where Buck still had his eyes glued to his laptop screen, “I can see how much he rubbed off on Evan, I’m grateful for that, because it’s like he gave him a piece of himself.”

When he looked back at Athena, her eyes were glossy and there was a faint smile. Sighing, she said, “He would be so proud that you and Buck made your way back to each other, proud that Buck has the love he deserves,” she laughed wetly, “you guys just remind me so much of how Bobby and me were, that’s how I know I’m right before you ask.”

Tommy holds his hands up in humoured defence, “I wasn’t going to,” he puts his hands down and into his pockets, “he would be so proud of Evan, he always was.”

Athena placed her hand on his arm, making him face her, “He would be, but he would also be proud of you,” she turned her face back to the empty flower beds, “you both have grown so much separately, don’t think I don’t remember you from your 118 days, and when you and Buck started dating Bobby would talk about how much you’ve changed, in a good way.”

She pulled away from him and sat in one of the patio chairs, “He always used to say he was a great matchmaker, maybe a little too good,” they both laughed softly, Tommy joining her on the chair next to hers, “and I say this, because, even maybe unknowingly, he shaped you both into the people you are today, my husband, he did that. He left his mark on this world and I couldn’t be more proud of everything he’s done.”

It was in these moments that Athena didn’t mind having Buck and Tommy intruding on her alone time, because in these moments, the joy of what she thought she completely lost comes back in quiet, gentle memories. Even if it’s catching them half naked. She couldn’t remember the last time she and May laughed like that when she told her daughter.

“He’d be proud of all of us.” Tommy simply stated.

“Although, I don't think he'd be very proud of you and Buck having sex in our kitchen, so maybe refrain from that in the future.” Tommy laughed, albeit the red in his cheeks putting his slight embarrassment of display, he genuinely laughed.

Athena just looked proud of herself for that one, “Yeah, maybe do it in your own.” She prodded, laughter bubbling up her throat and replacing the sadness that was there before.

~~<3~~

Tagged: @niraves @fanaticallyfleeky @okyum @tommylovingho @verschlimmbesserung @dana077 @buckleyyevan @hopefulcreatures @ironspiderdad12 @tyrusshipper12 @neotradpsyche @aristocratic-rats @hubcaphalo @ceeceekayblog @pointbreak-down @trustme-imnormal @weewookinard @sherlockismarvelous9-1-1 @theyaylady @peppermintquartz @wiay04 @weballingsad @rainstorms-by-june @cornerofspace @the-sweet-psycho @mars-wants-sleep @grimmsdead @ambee3 @maycontainsimonella @perfectlyscrumptiouswolf @ev-baker @onemorenerdhobbydarnit @notanother911blog @buckevantommy @dairxoxo @awkwardcoffeebean @aotearoagal @northernsnowdogs @houseofevanbuckley @ribbit-ribbit-mfer @itsnourm @lbltpsmspenguin

Man... that was a lot of tags, thank you <3

[written-in-flowers]

Dying Twice: Thanos x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Thanos / Choi Subong x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, smut

Word Count: 5k

Summary: "The heart no longer races when hearing the music play, tryna pull up. Seems like time has stopped. Oh, that would be my first death I been always afraid of" - BTS "Black Swan"

Or you should be scared to play the games, but what is the point in fear if you've already died once? What else is there?

Tags: k-rapper!reader, angst, mentions of drug use, drug use, mentions of partying, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, dom/sub undertones (if you look closely), slight choking.

****

You really landed yourself in a bind this time. As if getting scammed and having to scrape to get by, you sunk low enough to end up here…wherever here was. You still couldn't figure out what kind of place the masked men brought you to. In colors of sickening pink and eye sore yellow, the maze of stairs reminded you of a painting you'd seen. The stairs went up and down and side to side. They went upside-down and sideways. Like with that, you had trouble gauging the path to your destination. Perhaps that didn't matter. You followed the rest of the players through the maze guarded by masked men. They said you'd be playing games for a cash prize. It sounded too good to be true…

But you couldn't pass it up. 

Standing in line to have your photo taken, someone tapped your shoulder. You turned to see a young woman with a short ponytail standing with an excited smile on her face. A pang of dread hit you when you recognized the signs.

“You're B.Kat,” she beamed, getting a better look at your face. “From The Rap Battleground. I've listened to all your songs, and went to your shows! Oh my god, this is so cool! I love your music!”

“Yeah, thanks.” 

“I saw you at The Rap Battleground,” she continued, “When they paired you up with that one rapper.”

“Sik-k,” you said. 

“Yeah, and you burned him so bad,” she laughed. “Oh my god! ‘tell these boys to get back, don't they know I'm fucking S-class’” she repeated, mirroring your gestures. “Ah, this is so sick! I always wondered what happened to you after your last album.”

Everything went downhill, that's what. You'd trusted Nico to manage your money, and instead he embezzled it. You’d given him everything: your heart, your body and soul. The trust the both of you shared went beyond lovers. Hearts beating like one, you swore your souls meshed together the night you met. They’d imprinted and became one form instead of two separate ones. The day you found out what he’d done, your heart physically ached. The threads keeping you together pulled and snapped, the metaphorical red threads falling to the ground. That thread might have never existed to begin with. Nico went to prison but you'd lost everything. All the money you made with your music suddenly disappeared overnight. You tried rebuilding your career, but being a woman in a male dominated industry was rough. Not many producers took you seriously. You’d even been snubbed at Battle, where the judges chose a man over you despite what audiences believed. It didn’t matter how masculine you tried being, you’d never fit in with them. 

“Hey, can I get a picture?” she asked excitedly. “Please?”

“Yeah, me too!” A man nearby overheard and jumped into line with you. “You and Thanos are my favorite rappers. You're both lyrical geniuses.”

“And me!” said another woman, coming over to you. “And can I get your autograph?”

“Um, look, I-”

“-Now, now, everyone. Let's not crowd B.Kat like this.”

You recognized him right away. Long brown hair slicked back from his face, his jacket read ‘124’. Funny, you thought, you were 126. The club manager from Club Pentagon, Namgyu. You remembered the smooth way he'd integrated himself in your inner circle that first night. He'd come bearing drugs and free alcohol that you eagerly accepted. Smooth talking and flirty, you hadn't minded his advances since he’d been before Nico. 

“You can all take a photo with her and Thanos,” he said to the group. 

He gestured over to a man with spiky purple hair. Thanos. A cold sweat went over you seeing him in person. The last time you’d seen him, you both were panting and bottomless in the Battle dressing room. A part of you shivered recalling how his hands felt on your body back then. In that dressing room, he’d pressed on every weak spot as if he’d already known. He’d worked you easily, driving you crazy and nearly begging for him to enter you. When he finally did, it was better than any high you’d ever had before. You sometimes thought he’d been better than Nico. 

“Wassup, Senorita?” he said, and you almost laughed from his cringey opener. “I haven't seen you since Battleground.”

“I've been around,” you lied. 

“Let's take a photo with our fans,” he said to the delight of the group. “A real artist doesn't deny their fans.”

Before you could reject the offer, Thanos and Namgyu pulled you to the camera station next. It reminded you of times that pulled at your broken heart. The fans who used to come to every single show regardless of location; the ones who posted about you on their social media and streamed your music. You didn’t care about the fame they brought, but the acceptance and energy. When you stood behind your microphone, you were home. You could breathe amongst them. Nowadays, you can hardly bear it. Your last album disappointed a lot of people; they said it sounded too manufactured and not like your old sound. You’d gotten a ghostwriter to help you, and that itself was a disaster. The group of followers circled around you for the photo before a masked man stopped you. 

“It's only one photo!” said the first woman told the guard. “You took our phones so we can't take the photos ourselves!”

“Don't you know who they are?” asked the man. “This is B.Kat and Thanos. You know, the rappers?”

“It's not allowed,” the masked soldier said again, crossing his arms in an X symbol. 

The group groaned in disappointment, but Thanos turned to them. “Tell you what. When we get out of here, B.Kat and I will take photos with all of you.”

“Or just with you,” you said. 

“We might even do a friendly rap battle, eh?” he teased you with a nudge. 

“Ooh yeah!” The group cheered, excited by the prospect. 

“I don't think so-”

“-Please step aside,” said the masked man, “And take your individual photos.”

You were the first to obey. However, they weren't done with you. Thanos came up beside you. 

“You know, it’s not cool to snub your fans like that,” he said in matter-of-factly tone. “People will start thinking you’re a snotty person.”

“I don’t have fans anymore,” you replied, not meeting his eyes. 

“You have plenty,” he reasoned, gesturing to the people behind you. “Like, who were those people then? Paid fans?” When you did not answer, he said, “Where’ve you been, B? You haven’t been in the game for a while.”

“I retired.”

He scoffed, “You can’t retire. You’re too young to retire.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Just wasn’t feeling it anymore.”  

You missed it. You missed being on stage performing for a crowd of people, just feeding off one another's energy. In the dark rooms and dim lights you could release everything laying inside you. You could be another person. But, then it stopped. The music that used to flow out of you felt stuck and dry. It no longer brought the same excitement as before. Every time you thought about stepping on stage, shame came and drove you away. You sat in your room for ages trying to write lyrics or music, but it didn’t happen. The worst thing that could happen did happen: you’d lost your passion. 

“That's a shame,” he said. “I liked your music. I enjoy your flow better. You have a lot of control, so you're precise but still spitting like crazy. Like,” he chuckled, “‘This ain’t a movie, wake up. You’ve lost your sense of reality. Fall away far from here.’ It flows so well. I hoped to hear more after that album of yours.”

You didn’t want to talk about your album. Nico’s betrayal hurt enough without adding your stupid decision to it. “Thanks.”

You all walked into an open roof room. Nothing in it but sand and a large animatronic doll at the end of the room. A female voice explained the rules as Red Light, Green Light. 

“We're playing Red Light, Green Light?” Thanos scoffed when it was announced. “This will be a cake walk.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, eyeing the doll at the end by the tree. An ominous feeling crept inside your bones, stiffening them as you walked. 

“Why?”

“That’s too easy. There must be a catch.” You searched the room for the answer, but you saw nothing unusual. “They wouldn’t give a bunch of broke people a chance at money without there being some challenge to this.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Maybe.”

You felt him stand closer to you. “Don’t worry, B,” he said, winking, “I’ll protect you.”

You somehow doubted that. When the game finally started, your suspicions were proven right. A man-Player 456-told you that the doll was a motion detector and if you moved, they’d shoot you. Nobody believed him the first time, scoffing and laughing at him. 

“He’s like my old man when he comes home drunk,” Thanos said with a smirk, “Just spitting nonsense.” 

“He’s not drunk.”

“What do you mean? Look at him.” 

When the doll called out a second and third time, the true catch was revealed. Bullets came flying from different directions, piercing through people that moved even a smidge. Hot blood sprayed on your face as the man in front of you got a bullet to the head. You could taste the droplets near your mouth, and the stench of blood stuck to your nostrils. Staring down, you realized you’d never seen a dead body before. Not even at a funeral. The man, pot-bellied and bald, laid lifeless at your feet. When it came time to move, you stepped around him and kept going until you reached the end. More people around you and Thanos dropped to the ground. You turned to see your own horror mirrored in his eyes. 

The game ended, and you stared at the field of bodies left on the ground. You wondered what you’d gotten yourself into for real. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t real. It’s a nightmare that you’d wake up from any second. Yet, as you walked on shaky legs back to the dorm, the blood you wiped from your face made everything real. Nobody spoke as you entered the dorm. You walked right to your bunk in the far corner, visions of the dead still clouding your mind. How could they do that? They’d shot those people so easily. What kind of person came up with “games” like this?

“This shit is crazy, man.” Thanos took the bed beside yours, shocked and confused. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, hugging your sides. “I…Those people…It’s…”

Neither of you spoke for a while. You saw the same horrified expressions on the other players. It was the small click that broke you from your thoughts. Thanos had retrieved a large cross from under his shirt and opened it to reveal several different colored pills. Nico used to have a vial of cocaine he kept on him at all times. He always shared it with you. He said he’d do it with nobody else. You wonder now how true that was. 

“Want one?” Thanos offered the cross to you, chewing down on one of them. “It’s crazy good, man. Like nothing I’ve done before.” 

“No, thanks.”

“Come on, I know you pop too. We did it together that night.”

“No.” 

He closed the cross, and finished chewing. “Your last album was shit,” he said out of nowhere, still watching the rest of the group. “Who wrote the music? Nico?”

No point denying it. “This guy named Huey.”

“You used to write your own verses. I saw you doing it during Battleground. What happened?”

“It stopped coming to me.”

“You thought getting a ghostwriter would make it easier?” 

“I needed to make money.

“And lose all your cred in the process?”

“I didn’t think the difference would be that noticeable.”

“Psh, well, it fucking was. Everybody was talking about it. They said you’d finally sold out.”

“I know what they were saying.”

“People already thought a girl rapper was a joke,” he said, “And right when you were showing people you were the real deal, you-”

“-Keep talking and I’ll shove that cross down your fucking throat,” you snapped. “I already know all that. You think I don’t know it? I’ve known since before Battleground when they picked that clown J.D. over me. I heard the shit those fuckers said behind my back: that they thought I was somebody’s girlfriend when they saw me and how I’d make a better groupie than a rapper. I don’t need a pill popper telling me how I fucked up my career. My boyfriend taking my money is already embarrassing enough.” 

“Nico took your money?” This made him turn his head. 

“Yeah.”

“Damn,” he huffed. “That’s ten times more fucked up. At least the guy who scammed me didn’t know me.” 

“Who scammed you?”

“MG Coin,” he scowled, “He told us to invest in this coin and we’d be billionaires. Then the guys who made the coin took all of the money and ran.” He stared into the crowd, “And now he’s here.”

“He is?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna get my money back from him one way or another.”

“Me too!” Namgyu appeared hanging from a bunk above you both. 

“Namsu-”

“-Namgyu-” he corrected Thanos.

“Yeah, Namgyu and I bonded over our shared misfortune,” Thanos said. “We’re gonna get our money back from him. All of it.”

“In order for him to pay you back, he’s got to be the sole winner,” you said, “And in order to be the sole winner, we’d have to be dead.”

“I ain’t dying,” he scoffed, “And neither are you.”

“I already did, so it doesn’t matter.”

Your chest tightened whenever you thought about it. The last time you’d held your notebook, you’d stared at the pages until you gave up. When you last heard one of your songs, you felt nothing. A part of you, you felt, had died. The excitement that used to come out of you no longer existed. It was your first death. Dying in these stupid games would only be a second one. 

“Pill?” He offered his cross a second time, seeing your watering eyes. 

You took a red one without hesitation this time. Crushing it between your teeth, you knew the chalky substance would sink into your bloodstream and you’d forget about it. 

“Can I get one?” Namgyu asked eagerly, trying to get closer to him. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thanos said as if he weren’t already tucking the cross away. 

The masked men returned to the room, and everyone gathered in the center. They told you the new accumulated amount, then for a vote. People could vote to either keep the games going or stop them and leave with a share of what’s left. Seeing the amount left, you knew what choice you needed to make. 

“That would barely put a dent in my debt,” you said out loud to yourself. 

“Same,” said Thanos. You saw the drug starting to take over him with his restless body. “So, it looks like we’re going back into the fray together, B!” 

“Looks like it.”

As expected, even with the amount of bloodshed they’d witnessed, most people picked to continue the games. You heard some people say ‘just one more game can cover my debt’. That depended on how many people died in the next game. As the drug starts running in your veins, you let yourself get lost in the euphoria. 

Hey, if you’re going to die a second time, you’d enjoy the time while you could. 

****

“Fuck, you taste good.”

His tongue swirled and dipped carefully over the hard nub and hood. Your nails dug into his hair, purple hair tangling between your fingers. 

“Better than anything I’ve had before.” 

A slight rush of cold on your side pulled you from the hazy dream. 

“That’s a good girl…Yeah, just like that…You look so pretty like this…Can we just stay here? You feel so fucking good, baby. I don’t want to stop.”

His hands and lips were fire on your skin. His length sunk deep in every thrust, stretching and filling you. Your hands slipped into the dark purple spikes of his hair, scratching his scalp as you tugged on it out of habit. He kept you pinned with his body as he slowly rocked his hips to yours. 

“Subong…”

His body came first. He slowly uncurled you from your sideways position for more access to you. A pair of lips started pecking your neck, starting at your shoulder before reaching the curve at the base. Your mind stayed in between dreams and reality, unable to register what was really going on. Soft breaths buried themselves in your hair, while two hands went around your middle. 

He withdrew just to rub against your clit. His girth pushed your swollen lips apart, sliding over the sensitive nub before slipping back into your entrance. You didn’t think Subong would be any good, but here he was driving you crazy. 

“I was that good, huh?” his voice filled your ear, pulling you from your wet dreams. “So good you dream about it?” You responded with a weary whine. “You sounded so sweet whimpering my name just now. You should do it again.” 

You whined at the hands toying with your nipples. His fingers whirled slowly around the softness to stimulate them, which wasn’t hard to do. That familiar tightness built between your thighs. It had been a long time since anyone coaxed this feeling out of you. You reached around through Thanos’s arms, grabbing the nape of his neck to touch as much as you could. He grinded into you, his hardness poking against your ass each time and causing him to groan. Whether it was the pills or you really had talked in your sleep, you didn’t care. You didn’t want him to stop. 

“Open your legs,” he whispered, turning your head to draw you in for a kiss. His tongue slipped over yours in the deep kiss, passionate like the first time. He explored your mouth with his tongue before ending it with a few soft pecks. “Let me see how wet you’ve gotten.” 

You let him slip off your sweatpants to reveal the plain cotton underwear. Rubbing your thighs together, you knew there must be a small wet patch already there. You got confirmation when three fingers rubbed over it, and he groaned. 

“It must’ve been a nice dream if you’re this wet already,” he said, lightly dotting kisses on your neck. “I remember how wet you got for me in that dressing room. It was running down your thighs when I started fucking you. You remember that, don’t you, baby? You remember how sticky and sloppy your pussy was before I railed you?”

“Ye-yes…” You let go of his hair to feel down his body to his center. He quivered at your touch, breathing heavily as you reached the bulge pressing to you. “I remember how hard you were by the time I put you in my mouth.” 

“Best blowjob I ever had,” said Thanos, pushing into your hand as he spread your wetness through your panties. “I got so jealous when I heard you started dating someone. I would’ve treated you a billion times better than him,” he traced his tongue along your ear, “And fucked you as much as you wanted.” 

“Why do I believe that?” you giggled, giving his cock a squeeze. 

Thanos chuckled as he turned your head to kiss you. His tongue instantly darting into your mouth, your arousal grew feeling him harden in your hand. Not particularly big, you knew he’d make you see stars by the time you finished. You slid over the hard tip before teasing the sensitive underside. You couldn’t stop thinking about him inside you. His thickness pulsing and twitching in his boxers brought memories of how perfectly he’d filled you that night. Nico wasn’t very big, but Thano’s was the perfect length. 

He’d also gone longer. 

Soon, Thanos pushed through your panties, and a rush of cold air made you tremble. Two fingers holding your swollen lips open, a third one flicked over your clitoris. You flinched at the single swipe, earning light chuckles before he did it a second time. The tip of his finger rolling around it, you put your hand in his boxers to feel his hot, hard cock on your fingers. A light trickle of precum became the lube you used to coat his tip. The squishy bulb leaked into your palm in every stroke, and his low moans filled your ear. You sensed his need beginning to build with yours, making you stroke him more. 

“Pl-please,” you whimpered, eyes closing and back arching as he teased your entrance with two fingers. “Please…”

“You’ll get it soon, baby,” Thanos promised, free hand sliding up to your throat where he held in your place. “You’ll get it really soon. Be a good girl and be quiet for me. We wouldn’t want to wake anyone else up.” 

Your leg going back over his, Thanos pinned it down with his arm. Volume really should be a concern, but the overwhelming pleasure overcame that sense. You squirmed in his hold while he teased you. Spreading your juices around, you heard the faint slick sounds in every move. It was when he slipped the fingers inside that your thighs closed, trapping his hand there. 

“No, no, no,” he said, pulling your thigh back up, “You’re keeping these open for me.” 

“Subong,” you whined quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He sunk them deep, wriggling the tips around as he curled them. “How can I touch you if they’re closed? You have to keep them open if you want me to make you feel good,” he continued, seeing you moan and writhe from his touches, “Just turn your brain off, and let me take care of you.”

His palm tapping your clit made your thighs and legs tremble. Your back arched against him as your hips moved into his hand. They reached right to your g-spot like they’d done the first time. You recalled everyone having gone home, but you’d stayed to keep rehearsing in your dressing room. He’d come innocently, wanting to talk about music and songwriting, but then it became less innocent. The thought it might’ve been a bet between the men came to you, yet it had been a while and you thought he was cute. It’d been by luck that nobody knew about what you two had done in the dressing room. 

“You hear that?” He asked, as he fingered you quickly. He made sure you heard the squishing sounds of your sex gripping his fingers. “That’s all you, sweetie. That’s the sound of your sweet pussy drenched and wet.”

Your body shivered as he went deeper and faster, the sensation crippling you. The deep, tongue-clashing kiss you then shared was what sent you over. Your body suddenly became sensitive to his touch. Muscles tensing in their grasp, eyes squeezed shut as you restrain your orgasm with his mouth, you got lost in the euphoria coursing in your like a drug. 

You didn’t have a moment to process anything before the cock in your hand replaced his fingers. Thanos continued the steady pace, holding onto your thigh to keep your legs spread. You could feel him spreading you out, mixing your wetness with his own inside your pussy. Like last time, he hit your core dead center and had you grinding into him for more inches. His faint whimper at your hips whirling to his stroked your ego a bit. 

“You had sounded hot too, you know,” you moaned between kisses, keeping his hand on your pussy. 

“Oh yeah?” Thanos lifting your leg up and changing his angle slightly. 

“Yes,” you said, clenching your jaw as you suppressed more moans. “I love hearing guys moan.”

He took immediate advantage of this information. Lips to your ear, his groans tickled the edges. Hearing it out loud, even in the quiet room, lets you imagine all the pleasure he must be experiencing because of you. Your walls dragged across his cock in each thrust, and you purposefully clenched them to make yourself tighter for him. Thanos drew closer as he lifted your thigh upwards, holding you by your ass instead as he thrusted faster. It showed in the way he gripped your body close to him, wanting to touch more of you. You thanked God you didn’t have anyone sleeping above you. 

You were jelly by the time he pulled you underneath him and forced your legs open. As you knew he would, he gently tapped and rubbed against your clit. Overstimulated but wanting more, you cupped your breasts and brushed your nipples for added pleasure. Thanos didn’t allow this. Pushing your hands aside, he pinned them to your sides as he pushed his cock inside you. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding against him, loving every inch he gave you in his thrusting. 

“Just as good as I remember,” he grunted in your ear, not holding back anymore. The bunk might’ve pushed into the wall if it weren’t bolted to the floor. Yet, the light smack of his hips to yours could be heard. “Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

The best dick you’d ever had, including Nico’s, though you didn’t say so out loud. Your mouth could not word the thoughts going through your head. Even back then, Thanos’s cock turned you into a senseless, incoherent mess. You could lay in that bed and take him forever. In the half glow of the dorm, you could see his shirtless body hovering over you. Dark hair hanging over his face, eyes full of lust, he’d look the same in the dressing room. 

“I'd vote X if it meant I get to have-have this,” he said in your ear, hands keeping yours to the bed as he took long strokes. “Get to have this tight pussy to myself…all the time…whenever I want…”

“Subong,” you whined, your second orgasm approaching.

“I love when you say my name,” he groaned against your shoulder, “Say it again, baby.” 

You said his name like a mantra, the word matching the pace of his hips. You noticed he went particularly hard the times you whined his name instead. He released your wrists and knelt up, lifting your hips from the bed. In this new, elevated position, you could only grind on him as he pumped himself inside you. His muscles constricted from the hold his orgasm and position had on him. As your walls squeezed him, his head fell back, eyes closed and mouth open in every quiet moan he forced back. You reached out for him, grabbing his forearms and keeping him close this way. Trembling in his hold, Thanos sensed your next orgasm and chased it down. 

He stuck two fingers in your mouth right as you came around him. Moans muffled by the digits pushing down on your tongue, occasionally pushing to your throat. You forgot where you were at that moment. Pleasure and bliss washed over you in waves, crashing down in trembles and twitching. It controlled every sense in your body, keeping you going but also wearing you down. You held onto his wrist to keep his fingers in your mouth, regardless of the drool they created. Eyes locked on one another, he didn’t tear away even when his own climax approached. Something deeper happened in that moment that had nothing to do with him cumming inside you. Legs hooked around his waist, you kept him close as he emptied the last few drops into your cunt. 

“Fuck,” he huffed, settled between your legs and head on your shoulder, “Fucking amazing.”

“Very.”

This is where you expected him to roll over, mutter a goodbye, and start heading back to his bunk. He didn’t. Thanos did lay beside you in the bed, but he didn’t leave. You didn’t mind. It felt nice having someone next to you again. Perhaps you’d let him come back tomorrow night just to have the closeness. Feeling his cum starting to leak from you, you knew you should do something about it, but why? You might not make it out of this place. What did it matter if anything came from this? 

“I know what you mean, by the way,” he said in the quietness of the dorm. 

“About what?”

“Dying twice.” 

The stab wound in your heart reopened at his words. “I was standing on the bridge when that ddjaki guy came up to me,” he said. “I thought about ending it all. Who was I without my music? Okay, the money thing really affected me too, but not like how losing my passion did. It felt hard to make anything. Putting words to my feelings was hard, and it didn’t give me the same excitement it used to. It was like I’d already died, so big deal if I fell from the bridge?”

The confession surprised you. Thanos never struck you as the type to have that mindset. But, as you turned to look at him, you realized you weren’t talking to Thanos, the cocky rapper. You were seeing Choi Subong, a man who once had passions and dreams that became shattered in a single second. A lot like you. Snuggling to him, you put your head on his shoulder as he put an arm around you. You pictured him standing on the edge of the bridge, looking down at the water and contemplating everything that happened to him. He’d lost the lifestyle he worked so hard to achieve, and going back to the bottom was rough. 

“But, we’re both good rappers,” he said, “Maybe if we win this, we’ll get our money and our passion back.”

“And if we lose?”

“We’ll be dead and nothing will matter. So, that’s why I’m playing like I’m going to die anyways. If you play like that, you’re not scared.”

“Being high for most of it helps too,” you sneered, hand finding the cross laying nearby. 

“It does,” he chuckled. “Want one?”

“Sure,” you shrugged. 

Why did it matter? You’d already died once. Dying a second time wouldn’t be so bad. 

****

A/N: haha love that my first squid game fic is for Thanos. I have others on the way, but hope you enjoyed my first!

[shiningjustforreid]

aura

where Spencer Reid meets someone who shares his pain - if only for a bit.

word count: 1774

a/n: hi! this is my very first published fic (even though i’ve read for years!) and it’s nothing major, but i thought it would be fun to finally write! i hope you enjoy <3

warnings/tags: 18+ (implied intimacy), migraine-era spencer reid, reader has migraines, reader is called ‘girl’ once, heavy themes at the end, spencer rambles about stars, hospitals, spencer calls reader ‘angel’, no use of y/n

- ✩ -

Hospitals may be one of his least favorite places.

“Did you know that actually on any given day 1 in 31 people in a hospital have a hospital induced infection? these include things like a surgical site infection, MRSA,”

Cue the smell of the antiseptic, drowning out the smell of people dying. It’s too clean.

Makes him on edge. But then again, most things do. When people give him that look that clearly says ‘shut up.’ He seems to pull in darkness, trouble, and maybe it’s because he creates it for himself.

Currently, he’s sat, in one of those uncomfortable hospital benches, foot tapping anxiously, sunglasses on, because everything hurts. Notably, his head and eyes.

The lights. The lights build a nausea in him that’s like a tidal wave, build an agony behind his eyes that threatens to reduce his thought process to ash. He still squints, behind the black plastic; it’s not enough, not enough to quell the pain entirely.

“No, I’m, about to go in, actually.”

Is what he should’ve said. But Spencer Reid, a forward man, an eloquent man, is not.

“Can I sit here?”

Quiet, but polite. He makes the mistake of looking up. Your hair is messy, probably from the wind outside, and tucked away from your face. The coat you have on is a deep admiral blue, and it just makes the lack of color in your face all the more apparent. A green bag, slung on your shoulder, as you fiddle with the zipper. Chapped lips form into a halfway smile, and, most noteworthy of all, you have black, plastic glasses on.

“I have an appointment, it’s probably, it’s right after yours, but if I can’t sit here, it’s okay, I-“

You’re backtracking, which means you’re nervous, probably because he’s just been looking at you with an impassive expression, even more unreadable due to the glasses. He clears his throat, and opens his mouth.

“No, um, actually I’m waiting. Hopefully not much longer though.”

God help him, because there’s a shared struggle here, between the two of you. He sees it, in your tense shoulders, the way you sit down slowly, as to not generate any more pain than necessary, the way your hands tremble like leaves in the wind when you adjust your glasses after slowly turning to him. Your halfway smile stays put, though, even through the slow movements.

You move like that, because every movement seems to intensify the burning hot behind your skull.

He knows. He doesn’t know you. Not at all.

But he knows your pain. And maybe that’s enough.

You don’t nod, because it’s unnecessary movement.

“Yeah, I finally gave in and booked an appointment. I’ve had to call out of work for them at least 3 times in the last two weeks.”

Them. The migraines. You don’t need to name them, you both just know. You’re clearly both there for a reason.

“I’m uh, Spencer, by the way. I’ve had mine for a bit now too.”

You tell him your name, and the sound makes a welcome warmth flood through his chest. A star, tiny, but burning, is born. Gravity in his chest, tugging you in, as your heat floods his heart.

Bad idea, bad idea - the alarm bells are clanging. He doesn’t know how sick he is, and he really doesn’t know how sick you are. This could spell disaster, and yet-

He’s intrigued. You radiate this nervousness, a distinct desire to be understood, seen, known. He knows that desire. He has that desire. He wants to know you.

“I think mine might just be due to stress, but, I don’t know. It’s the easiest explanation to deal with.”

For your sake, he hopes that’s all they are. Stress.

And, you’re still sitting there, head bowed, when the nurse comes out and asks questions.

She asks about hallucinations. As if this hell is all in his head. You sit there, silent, biting your lip, worrying the cracked skin in your teeth, your hands picking at the fraying edge of your coat.

When he comes back out, somehow even more tired, even though all he did was lie there and answer some questions, he speaks your name, softly.

As if he has the right to.

You jump a little, look up, and remove your glasses. He stares, he can’t help it. Visible, is the pain, the way your ocular muscles are tense, your skin without color, but you smile, still.

He makes you smile.

“Everything okay?”

Spencer nods hurriedly.

“Fine, for now, I have to get to work. You uh-you’re next?”

“Mhm. Will I—is there any chance I’ll see you again, Spencer?”

You don’t know him. You know him, you must.

“Uh, I mean, I—you want to see me again?”

When will he learn to speak when it actually matters?

“Only if you want to, I-I know I would like to see you again.”

He leaves the hospital, that damn hospital, with a small slip of paper, with ten numbers scrawled in purple ink, and your name below it, a tiny smiley face beside it.

When he gets home from his next case, he fishes that paper out of his messenger bag and types each digit into his cell phone with shaky hands.

Is he tempting fate? Perhaps. But fate answers, your soft voice coming through the phone.

Soon, he finds himself at a café with you, sipping his saccharine sweet coffee and telling you about his job, or some book he just finished, in detail that you don’t seem to protest against. It’s refreshing, really - just to be listened to. To be heard. When you leave, you give him a barely-there kiss on the cheek, a soft goodbye. The star burns brighter.

“I had my follow up appointment.”

He tells you, on the third date, as you two sip coffee once more - are these dates? Would Morgan be impressed? - trying to keep the conversation casual, yet relevant. Your eyes widen with interest.

“And? Did they give you answers?”

He makes a face, shaking his head.

“No. Well, yes, but they told me it’s psychosomatic.”

All in his head.

Your face falls, and you look truly sympathetic.

“I’m sorry, Spencer. I knew how much you didn’t think that to be the case.”

He takes comfort, then, in the way you hug him goodbye, your cheek pressed against the cotton of his cardigan, eyes shut against the light. He tenses, only for a second, before his arms curl around you, resting against your coat.

“We should do dinner.”

He mumbles into your hair, before he can stop himself.

A real date.

And you do. You have dinner, and he makes you laugh, even though it’s quiet, like a bell ringing at Christmas, tiny, joy-filled, and the star in his chest just glows. Your face is tense, though, and he can’t figure out why. You won’t say. either. You never do. You keep your responses composed, and careful, calculated. Like you’re afraid. He wonders why, but won’t press it. You are made of nervous energy. He knows this now.

A few months, of appointments for both of you and cases for him where he aches for your hand in his and coffee and dinner and museum dates, and one ice skating excursion he will not mention, and then—

He makes another mistake then, when he asks you to come over, after a case.

“Just for coffee, or to talk, not to-you know, unless that’s what you want, I—“

Yet, that’s how he ends up with you in his bed, in his lap, your warm hands sliding over his skin like you’re in awe, your wide eyes meeting his own, because he dimmed the lights, and thank God neither of you are hurting right now.

He takes you apart, piece by piece, with his mouth on your collarbone and fingers across your ribs, learning, seeking to know. Because that’s what he wants, to know you, fully, in every way he can, until there’s nothing left for him to study.

After he watches you tremble under him, with his name on your lips, he realizes he’ll never be able to memorize all of you. You’re too extensive, with the blush on your cheeks and the way you cling to him and the way your eyes sparkle for a moment, just a moment, before they dim again.

You’re tucked into him, under his chin, as he traces shapes mindlessly into your back with his fingertips. He feels that star, burning bright in your arms, for millennia to come.

“I love you.”

You smile against his chest, before you speak again, choked up.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Whyever not, angel girl?”

Because you are like an angel, come down from the heavens, his angel, gracing his life during some of the most incredible pain he’s ever felt.

“They told me I’m dying. They found the source of it all.”

And the star fizzles, and sparks, and slowly, a cold ice begins to dwell where the star was. Months fly by, and yet drag, each day feeling long but the weeks short.

He finds himself in the hospital - miraculously, his migraines have given him respite today - your hand in his, his eyes on you. You don’t say much, you never did, but now, he feels like you don’t ever speak at all.

Until you do.

“Spence?”

The light in his chest flickers, illuminating his darkness.

“Yes, angel?”

“Can you talk? About anything? I just wanna hear you.”

He nods, and his voice gets quiet, almost breathless, the longer he speaks.

“Did you know that stars actually are simultaneously pulling apart and being pushed together? The heat from inside the star creates a pressure that causes the atoms to separate, but the gravity attraction forces them back together, as it burns. The bigger a star is though, the less time it takes to go through that fuel.”

He stops, looking down at you. He wonders if you’re listening.

“But when the heat is gone, when it stops burning, there’s nothing to counteract the gravitational pull, and—“

And it collapses in on itself.

“And it just sort of sucks everything else in without its heat, the light, if it’s large enough. Pulling everything in, everyone in-“

He’s said too much. You open your eyes, your voice barely a whisper.

“I don’t want you to do that. You won’t, Spencer, I swear.”

In a rare moment of strength, you tug yourself up, to hold his face in one hand.

“You burned before me. You’ll burn again.”

He nods, desperately trying not to weep.

But I won’t burn like I did with you.

“The brightest stars burn the fastest, so we must love them while we can.”

- Anna Todd

[dovenskin]

oh um.. im back 🫩🫩🫩 ur writing is just tooo goooodddd 🤌🤌🤌

this reqq im not sure if youve done it b4 but basically is just the boring old bimbo reading bla bla but theyre so dumb to the point theyre oblivious to bill's (yes bill again, i cant help it) antics

--like no matter what he just cannot bag them because they brush him off like nothinggggg

theres no specific gender or race for thiss just go wildd 💕💕

⋆

bill dickey ノ

cw : just fluff , bimbo reader/ gn , bill is a loser with a crush

✦ Title: Don’t You Get It?

an : i must have this loser // bill nye the science guy

© dovenskin

Bill had been rejected before.

Sort of.

In theory.

He once got ghosted by a girl named Rachel who said Warhammer lore made her sleepy (and who probably wasn’t even a REAL girl with an answer like that). Another time, he asked a girl in his English class out and she started screaming out of pure horror. But you? You were something worse. You didn’t even reject him. You just… missed it.

Like someone throwing themselves off a building and landing in a bounce house.

You weren’t mean. You weren’t cruel. You were just… impossibly immune. Dangerously dumb in the most mind-nuking, hot-person way possible.

You floated through life powered by Fruitopia and vibes. You called manga “graphic cartoons.” You once said Donnie Darko was “like if a Hot Topic coupon was a movie.” And worst of all—worst of all—you never noticed Bill’s advances.

Like, ever.

He’d tried subtle at first.

Made fun of your taste in a way he thought came off flirtatious.

“You know those comics are written for normies, right?” he snorted, watching you flip through Witchblade.

You smiled. “Yeah. The girlie has a glowing hand. It’s cool.”

“That’s not even how the lore works.”

“What lore?”

He blinked.

You walked away, humming.

—

He spent three hours that night writing a forum post titled: “The Infantilization of Comic Culture & The Rise of Hot Airheads.”

He made sure to tag it with your username.

You never saw it. You didn’t even have a forum account.

When subtle didn’t work, he tried smart.

You were leaning on a shelf near the longboxes, biting the straw of a Yoo-hoo and reading an issue of Gen¹³ sideways.

“I brought you something,” Bill said, practically materializing next to you.

You looked up, all bright eyes and that vacant, serotonin-radiating smile.

“Oh! Is that for me?”

He handed you a bootleg DVD of Paprika.

“Satoshi Kon,” he said, like it meant something. “It’s high concept. It’s about dreams and identity fracturing under surveillance capitalism.”

You stared at it. Turned it over.

“Oh, cool. This the chair guy one?”

“….Yes?”

“I like the chair guy. He’s weird.”

You never watched it.

The DVD ended up in your tote bag, wedged between a glittery hair clip and a MyScene doll. Bill saw it fall out once when you tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Still shrink-wrapped.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the week.

—

Then he tried bold.

“You ever think about dating someone who actually gets you?” he blurted one day, sweating. You were crouched on the floor, reading Archie’s Weird Mysteries with the kind of laser-focus people usually reserved for religious texts.

You looked up, gum smacking.

“Huh?”

“Like—someone who doesn’t treat you like a moron.”

“Oh, haha, yeah. That’s why I stopped watching movies with guys.”

He blinked.

You went on, cheerfully oblivious.

“They always get handsy if you fall asleep or try to make you watch stuff with no plot. Like I get it, David Lynch, whatever. But, like, where’s the kissing?”

Bill opened his mouth. Closed it.

You patted his arm. “You’re nice, though. You’re like… a cousin to me.”

A Cousin.

A COUSIN TO YOU.

Bill left work early that day and walked home in the rain. With his head hung low. Like a tragic indie movie protagonist. Except worse. Because he wasn’t mysterious—he was damp and flannel-clad and on the verge of a bimbo-induced psychotic break.

—

He tried to get over it. He did.

Told himself you were too vapid to matter. Too shiny. Too airheaded. “A creature of pure aesthetic with the cultural taste of a Hot Pocket,” he muttered once to Jerry. Jerry nodded, like that was wise.

But then you showed up the next Thursday wearing something so uniquely you and asked, “Hey, does Batman ever die? Like actually die?”

And he was back at zero.

Hard reset.

Spiraling.

-

At some point it stopped being a crush and became a condition.

He wrote about you in his LiveJournal.

June 3rd: They don’t know who Alan Moore is. They said Watchmen was “kinda wordy.” I’m in love. Kill me.

June 10th: I offered them my Criterion copy of Seven Samurai. They asked if there was a color version. I said no. They said “Lame.” I haven’t slept since.

You weren’t even trying. That’s what destroyed him. You weren’t teasing him, weren’t playing a game—you just genuinely, blissfully didn’t care. About his film references. His anime lectures. His edgy monologues about narrative structure.

You once asked if Dune was based on Star Wars.

He actually saw God for a second.

The final straw came in late July.

You were standing near the register eating a Pop-Tart raw, Bill walked in holding two Slurpees. One blue. One red. Subtle. Intentional.

You looked up.

“Oh my god! You got me one?”

He smiled, smug. “Yeah. I remembered your favorite.”

You sipped it.

“Mmm… this is wrong. I like the blue and red together. Like when they mix and get all sludgy. Can I pour this into yours?”

He blinked. “What?”

You had already done it.

The sacred Slurpee merge.

Like it meant nothing.

He didn’t speak for five minutes. He just stared at the cup, mourning the symbolism that only he had built up in his mind

That night he started a draft of a zine called “Too Dumb to Love Me: The Decline of the Modern Crush”. He drew a caricature of you on the front. You had sparkles around your head and were saying “What’s a criterion?” in bubble letters.

He never finished it.

He couldn’t.