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kthologue · 2 months ago

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operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?”

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

#kt.writes.·:*¨༺#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojou x reader #gojou x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jjk angst #gojo angst #gojo hurt/comfort #jjk hurt/comfort #nerdjo #jjk x you

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mssishipi · 2 months ago

Text

wet the bed — sjy

— soft people fucks the loudest.

content tags: established relationship, sub!jake&reader, jay cameo, explicit content (smut) unprotected sex, multiple sex position: 69, doggy style, mating press. squirting, overstimulation. lots of whining and moaning, they fuck like rabbits :) MDNI. WC:2.4k

note: this is a request from an anon, hope u like it!

Who the fuck decided that two soft, submissive people in bed are automatically boring?

"Too vanilla," they say with wrinkled noses and half-laughs, like they know what happens when the lights go out.

You and Jake have been together for nearly five years—since the final months of high school, when you stumbled into something that felt a little too gentle to be real, too safe to be intense. Most people around you just don’t get it. They whisper that your relationship is sweet, sure, but stale. Predictable. Lifeless, even.

But they don’t know a damn thing.

They don’t know that you and Jake don’t need dominance or power games to melt each other down into quivering pieces. You don’t play roles. You don’t lead or follow. You move, he moves. You're both responsive, both hungry, both gentle in ways that burn just as deep. It’s not about who takes control—it's about how far you’re both willing to unravel for each other.

If those assholes could see what actually happens behind closed doors, they'd choke on their smug assumptions.

"Nghh—baby..." Jake's voice is slurred, barely even speech anymore. His face is buried between your legs, the heat of his breath searing against you, tongue dragging slow as he works you over.

And fuck, you are gone, head thrown back, hips twitching, thighs trembling around his ears.

The only soundtrack is the obscene wetness of his mouth on you, your choked moans, and the blaring growl of an electric guitar seeping through the wall, his room mate, Jay’s latest desperate attempt to drown out the symphony of you and Jake destroying each other.

It doesn’t work.

Your ears are ringing. Your vision blurs every time your spine arches off the mattress. Your legs are shaking so hard they barely stay hooked around his shoulders. Your body is covered in bruises and teeth marks. Jake’s arms are clawed raw, red streaks down to his elbows from where you grabbed and dug in, helpless under the waves he pulled from you again and again and again.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come, how many times you’ve done the same to him. It's a haze. A loop. An exchange of pleasure until your bones feel hollow.

You barely catch your breath before his fingers are inside you again, curling just right, his mouth crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as you clench around him and cum hard enough to see stars. Your hand slips between you, wrapping around him, stroking with messy urgency until he gasps into your mouth and spills across your stomach.

Then comes the slow grind of hips in missionary, Jake above you, eyes glassy, sweat dripping down his temple. He pushes in deep, moaning into your throat while you clutch at his back, legs locked around his waist, and both of you fall together again.

Vanilla, their ass.

The aftershocks haven’t even stopped vibrating through your bones when Jake rolls off of you, chest heaving, lips parted. He sprawls across the sheets, flushed and trembling.

Without a word, you swing a leg over him, straddling his face. He groans like a man starved as your thighs settle against the sides of his head, and your gaze lowers to his cock. thick, flushed, and still rock hard despite having cum four fucking times already.

You lean down, tongue flicking out to tease the head, your breath warm over his slick skin. His hips twitch instantly, a soft, choked whine escaping from under you.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, voice muffled between your thighs.

You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him, the way his whole body tenses beneath you. At the same time, you feel his tongue drag through your folds.

You moan around his cock, the vibration making him jerk. You grind back against his mouth, and he groans right into your cunt, tongue sliding in and curling upward. He hardens it, fucking you with it, slow and deep, as your hips begin to roll.

It’s a filthy rhythm—your mouth stretching around him, sucking harder, faster, your spit dripping down his shaft while he licks and licks and licks, tongue relentless, hands gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against his face. Your thighs clamp down on instinct, not letting him breathe, not letting him stop.

You feel the familiar pulse in your core and the slight twitch of his cock against your tongue, he’s close, again. You squeeze him tighter with your lips, hollow your cheeks, and the sound he makes is damn near ruined. His whine hits a high pitch, hips jerking once, twice and then he spills into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Jake latches onto your clit now, sucking, and you are barely holding on, every nerve burning. Your whole body is tensed, arms braced against his thighs, cunt pulsing uncontrollably around his tongue. Your thighs clamp even tighter, grinding down until he can’t even moan, just hums and licks and loses himself.

Jake loves it—loves how wet you get, how you suffocate him with your thighs like it’s nothing, how your pussy clenches around his tongue. He loves the little tremble in your legs, the broken cries you try to stifle, the taste of your arousal dripping down his chin.

"Jake, fuck! I'm gonna cum!" you squeal, your voice shaking, one hand fisting around his softening cock, feeling it twitch, swell, harden again.

Your hips grind down one last time, helpless, chasing that final drag of his tongue as your orgasm hits. You cry out, body shaking above him, pussy spasming around his mouth. Your forehead presses to his thigh, gasping, and you barely manage to keep sucking him as your world shatters again.

Jake lets out a high whine, hips twitching upward into your mouth. He’s still so fucking hard, again. You can feel it, thick and throbbing between your lips.

He moves again as another orgasm crashes into the both of you.

Another orgasm.

And another.

You lose count. Time folds. The two of you are always going at it like rabbits, bodies slick and tangled, pleasure drawn out like it might never end. At some point you’re flat on your back again, back arched off the wet bed, sheets soaked with sweat and everything else, Jake’s mouth between your legs for what feels like the hundredth time.

You’re delirious, you feel like you are floating.

He pulls back, lips shiny, chin drenched. You barely get the chance to breathe before he’s kneeling between your thighs, jerking himself off with quick, rough strokes. His eyes are locked on your chest, on the rise and fall of your breath, on your wrecked body twitching with aftershocks. He grits his teeth, then pulls his cock free, aiming it at you.

You're hypnotized.

By the way it twitches. By the way his jaw clenches. By the way his abs tighten and he throws his head back with a broken moan as hot ropes of cum spill across your chest, painting your skin with another climax that somehow hits just as hard as the first.

And still, he's not done.

Jake leans forward, one hand smearing the mess across your breasts, mouth crashing into yours with wild hunger. His cock presses against your thigh, still hard and leaking.

"You want more?" he pants against your lips, voice hoarse, almost disbelieving at how far you both keep falling.

You nod, eyes wide, lips parted. Jake flips you over in one smooth motion, pushing you onto your hands and knees, body trembling beneath him. His hands grip your hips, pushing inside again, deep, slow, a stretch that feels impossibly full despite how soaked you are.

You both moan at once. And then he starts to move, hips snapping into you, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, drowning out even Jay’s music, which is now thundering through the walls in one last futile attempt to ignore what’s happening just a few feet away.

“Ahh, fuck, Jake, baby!” you cry out, fingers clawing at the twisted sheets as the rhythm builds.

Jake groans behind you, bracing himself with both hands on yours, pinning you to the mattress as he drives deeper, rougher. You love this position—God, how you love it. He finds every spot, angles his hips just right until you’re gasping, sobbing into the mattress.

“We’re so fucking good together,” Jake pants into your ear, his voice shaking with need, “Fuck.” His lips find your neck, kissing everywhere he can reach, hot, sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate to mark.

You tilt your head back blindly, catching his mouth in a messy kiss over your shoulder, tongues tangling, moans swallowed between breathless gasps as he starts to thrust harder, deeper, your bodies slamming together.

You’re clenching around him so hard, you can feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock. The orgasm hits, your breath catching, head lolling forward as heat floods you from the inside out. "Fuck!"

Jake keeps going through it, keeps thrusting through your high, refusing it to end. Your hips instinctively push back against him, your eyes roll back, jaw slack, pleasure crackling through every nerve.

“F-fuck, I—shit,” Jake chokes out, repositioning behind you with a sharp slap to your ass that makes your whole body jolt. He watches it jiggle with a low groan, hips snapping forward again and again. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, and your arms finally give out.

You collapse forward, face buried in the soaked mattress, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body slack and trembling. Completely, utterly fucked out.

“B-b-baby,” Jake stammers, leaning over you again, his chest slick and warm against your back.

You feel his arms slide beneath you, one curling tightly around your waist, the other slipping under your body to knead your breast in slow, circular motions. He’s still thrusting, slower now, but no less intense. You feel every inch, every grind of his hips, his cock dragging against your overstimulated walls as he pants against your ear.

“You can take another one for me?” he whines, voice cracking into a whisper. “P-please? Pretty—pretty please?”

You moan weakly, unable to find words, only nodding as your fingers twitch into the sheets. You’re half-asleep, fucked so deep into the mattress your limbs barely move but Jake’s still moving, still inside you.

“Don’t s-sleep, nghh, baby, fuck,” he breathes, nuzzling into your nape, teeth grazing the sweat-slick skin there before sinking in gently, biting down as his hips start to pick up again.

The pleasure's too much now, tangled with pain and pressure until your body doesn’t know the difference. You're a trembling mess, whimpering, twitching, your muscles weak from everything he's already wrung out of you.

You don't know how he's still strong enough to shift your limp body, but suddenly you're on your back, legs pushed up and pinned high beside your shoulders. His hands curl behind your knees, holding you wide open as he sinks into you again with no warning.

He grunts as he slides home, balls-deep, moaning loudly, eyes locked onto your face, drinking every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His hips start pounding again, relentless, slapping into your soaked cunt with wet, brutal rhythm.

Your mouth falls open, lips slack, eyes half-lidded. You can't even speak.

“Baby! L-love you—ahhh!” Jake cries out. One of his hands slips down, thumb pressing to your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles.

You twitch violently beneath him, chest heaving, body barely holding together.

Even with your consciousness slipping—your mind half-blacked out from pleasure and fatigue—you feel it again. That same heat blooming low in your belly. Your legs are burning in the mating press, your lungs clawing for air, your head spinning.

“J-Jake, w-wait!” you sob, shaking your head from side to side, voice cracked, but his thrusts only get harder, his thumb moving faster, and ruthless.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—just one more,” he begs, almost delirious.

“FUCK!” you scream, fingers twisting the sheets, your body shaking as it hits you. “Fuckfuckfuck!” you shriek as your entire core contracts violently. Your back arches. Your vision whites out. You feel the gush of hot liquid pulsing from your cunt, soaking the sheets, his pelvis, everything.

Jake groans loud and deep. But he doesn't stop. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing, his thumb grinding your clit as you cry out and shake under him. Your legs jerk in his grip, body trying to retreat, but he doesn’t let go.

Your voice cracks—"No! No more!"—but it's lost in the noise.

“O-one more, baby, please,” he moans as he leans over you again, his body trembling, lips brushing your ear.

Your scream rises again as his cock drags through your soaked walls, now slick with your release. You’re squeezing him so tight he’s nearly frozen in place. His eyes roll back, mouth dropping open.

“Jesus Christ, people! Tone it down!” Jay roars from the other side of the wall, banging his fist hard against it, rattling the drywall. His voice is muffled, furious, but distant and irrelevant.

Jake doesn’t even blink. He’s too far gone. His hands tighten around your thighs as he slams forward, again and again, slick friction loud and obscene, the slap of your bodies echoing through the room.

“Last one,” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, baby, fuck—!”

You scream again, nails digging into his wrists as your body explodes for the final time—another hot gush forced from your cunt, a violent surge that splashes his abdomen and thighs. Jake throws his head back and howls, the tension in his spine snapping as you clamp down so hard around his cock it punches the orgasm straight out of him.

He cums inside you, trembling, moaning, his voice broken and high as he spills deep, cock twitching wildly, over and over. His whole body quakes as he presses into you, emptying himself in ragged pulses that stretch on and on.

By the time it ends, you're both shaking. The room is thick with heat and the sharp, musky scent of sex, every surface damp with sweat, slick, and release.

Jake pulls out slowly, carefully, and even that soft withdrawal makes you both moan. The two of you are oversensitive.

Jake collapses beside you, arms immediately wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips pressing the faintest kiss to your skin.

You curl into him instinctively, legs tangled, your body heavy and sore but warm in the aftermath, without another word, you both drift under—naked, tangled in each other’s arms, unconscious on a mattress you’ve completely wet the bed in.

#enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #jake x reader #jake smut #jake hard hours

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mw00nie · 23 days ago

Text

when you first met producer!suguru, he didn’t even say hi.

he just nodded from behind his massive desk, a lit cigarette resting between his fingers, smoke curling around his cheekbone as he tapped something into the beat sequencer. his black hair was messy in an admirable way, his eyes barely flicked in your direction. if shoko hadn’t walked in behind you and gone “suguru, this is her,” you would’ve thought he hadn’t noticed you walked into the studio at all.

“you sing?” he asked, voice low, dry. you nodded. he gestured to the mic booth. “go.”

that was it. no warm-up, no icebreaker, no compliments about your viral video that landed you in this basement studio in the first place. he played a loop, some scratchy vinyl sample over a gritty bassline, and let you figure out what to do with it.

you didn’t impress him right away. he didn’t say anything after your first run. or your second. but after the third take, he reached over and stopped the track.

“try again,” he said. “don’t think so hard this time.”

and for some reason, you listened.

***

three months passed like weather. fast. quiet. unpredictable.

you showed up to that studio almost every day. some days you’d write for hours and only get one clean take. other days you’d record nothing at all. he didn’t force anything. if the energy was off, he’d light up, lean back, and scroll through sounds for hours without even looking at you. but you didn’t leave. you stayed. the silence between you started to feel like music too.

he wasn’t exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either. he was still. unreadable. a little strange. he didn’t say much unless it mattered. didn’t have any other artists coming in. no flashy equipment, no plaques on the walls. just you, him, and whatever beat he built for the day. his instagram had no posts. no stories. just a profile picture of his recording booth with dimmed lights.

you started calling him “ghostface.” he didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch once.

you’d talk more in the later sessions. after midnight. when the windows steamed up and your voice was a little rough from singing too long. he’d ask about your old band, your hometown, the first song you ever wrote. you’d ask him why he didn’t work with anyone else, and he’d shrug and say, “don’t like most people.” he never really answered questions. he just let them float.

you started leaving stuff there. your hoodie, your lip gloss, your charger. he didn’t mention it, but you noticed he moved your things to the little side table by the mic booth. like it was your spot.

he smelled like vetiver and incense. clean but earthy. his hands were always cold. he rarely looked you in the eye unless he was adjusting your mic. and when he did, it felt too loud in your chest to breathe right.

you didn’t know when it started. the tension. maybe it was always there. maybe it was the way he listened when you sang. not just to the notes, but to you. or how sometimes you’d glance at him through the booth glass and find him already watching you.

the first time he touched you, it was an accident. you reached for the same knob. your fingers brushed. and you didn’t move yours away.

neither did he.

***

the night it happened, the track wasn’t even finished.

you were in the booth laying harmonies over a hook he’d built that morning. just a scratch loop, moody keys and that signature dusty drum pattern he always defaulted to when he wasn’t trying too hard. you’d run through the same few lines a dozen times, but it wasn’t clicking. you felt off. exposed. raw.

you pushed open the booth door and leaned against the frame. your tank top clung to your skin, sweat cooling on your lower back. no bra. cotton shorts. the kind of outfit you only wore around him now, like it was your shared little secret.

he was in his usual spot. sockless, cross-legged, his bun loose and falling apart, smoke trailing from the joint between his fingers. he glanced at you over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“something’s off,” you said softly.

“your timing’s behind the snare.”

“that’s not what i mean.”

this time, he turned.

for a few seconds, neither of you moved. the beat kept looping on his screen, the faint hum of it bleeding through the room. he just stared at you, like he’d already heard what you were about to say and was waiting for you to admit it.

so you walked up to him. close. he didn’t lean back, didn’t shift away, just tracked your movements, eyes darker than the room.

you took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out. his fingers twitched when yours brushed them. still, he didn’t say a word.

“what are we doing?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

his voice was lower than yours, almost a rasp. “you tell me.”

you kissed him like you needed to. his hand caught your waist instantly, grounding you. the other slid up the back of your neck, slow, steady, holding you still like he couldn’t risk you leaving.

his mouth was warm. soft, but patient. deliberate. not frantic, not greedy, just present. every movement slow, like he wanted to drag this out. like he’d been imagining it for a while and didn’t want to get it wrong.

you climbed into his lap without even thinking about it. straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. his palms found your thighs, dragging up under your shorts. you felt the heat bloom in your stomach when he gripped your ass through the fabric, pulled you tighter against him.

your tank was pushed up before you even noticed his hands move. he kissed your collarbone first. then the curve of your chest. then your breast, tongue slow, eyes half-lidded, like he was worshipping it. your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your nipple.

“fuck, sugu–”

he exhaled through his nose, like he felt that. his name in your mouth.

you pulled his shirt off, then reached for his jeans. he stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

“booth,” he murmured.

“what?”

“i want you in the booth.” which made sense because it was soundproofed.

he stood and lifted you with him in one motion. didn’t give you a chance to protest. just walked you straight into the recording space and pressed you back into the padded wall. the door clicked shut behind you.

you gasped when he dropped to his knees.

“oh–wait–”

but he’d already hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down, slow, mouth dragging along your thigh as he kissed his way up. your legs trembled a little. he looked up at you, one brow lifted, like he was asking if you’d tell him to stop.

you didn’t.

he licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center.

your hand hit the wall.

“fuck–”

his tongue was slow, purposeful, tracing around your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. two fingers pushed into you without warning. the angle was perfect. his rhythm was maddening. steady, unhurried, like he enjoyed how much it wrecked you.

you came fast. embarrassingly fast. legs twitching, breath catching in your throat, hips grinding against his mouth like you couldn’t help it.

he stood up again, mouth slick, eyes so dark they barely looked brown anymore.

“you okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“yes,” you breathed. “please–”

you tugged at his belt and he let you, but he didn’t rush. undid his fly slow, dragged his boxers down just enough. when he lined himself up, he waited. forehead to yours, hands on your hips.

“look at me,” he said softly.

you did. and he slid into you in one long, aching push.

your lips parted, breath stuttering. he was thick. deep. your back arched as he bottomed out, the stretch perfect, almost too much. he groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched tight.

“so fucking wet,” he whispered.

you couldn’t respond. just nodded, legs wrapped around his waist, arms hooked around his neck. he started to move. slow at first. then harder. deeper.

your moans filled the space. quiet at first, then louder. helpless.

he kissed you through it. your lips, your jaw, your throat. said your name under his breath like it was something sacred. and when he hit that spot that made you cry out, he kept hitting it. over and over. precise. focused. until you came again, nails dragging down his back.

“oh my god– fuck– don’t stop–”

he didn’t.

he fucked you through it, grunting softly in your ear. you heard him mutter, “good girl,” and you clenched around him so hard he stilled.

“you keep doing that and i’m not gonna last,” he said, breath ragged.

“then come,” you whispered, teeth grazing his shoulder.

he whimpered. actually whimpered. and drove into you once, twice more before pulling you down hard onto his cock and burying himself with a broken moan. you felt him twitch inside you, his arms tight around your back, his mouth open against your neck.

you stayed like that. tangled, panting, your heartbeat stuttering in your ears.

then he blinked. tilted his head toward the mic.

“shit.”

you froze. “what?”

he exhaled.

“…still recording.”

you looked up at the red light blinking on the mic. blinking. still on.

your stomach dropped.

“suguru..how long–”

he leaned out, pressed the stop key on the monitor.

00:49:53

“fifty minutes..”

you smacked his arm. “are you serious?!”

he winced, then smirked, lazy and smug. “fifty minutes of pure soul.”

“delete it.”

“nope.”

“i swear–”

he kissed your temple. then your cheek. then your lips.

“we’ll sample it,” he murmured. “cut around the names.”

“you’re insane.”

***

A/N: i almost went insane while writing this and i have absolutely no motivation so idk if this good :<

#x yn #fanfic #jjk #fanficiton #geto suguru #geto x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu geto #geto smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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glossykissies · 2 months ago

Text

arthur morgan loves putting you in a full nelson. truly, nothing beats it. ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა

it’s effortless for him, the way his thick arms brace your legs against your chest, the weight of you on top of him barely a disturbance. he’d make you think it was your idea — not because he was trying to manipulate you, but because of the way he adored how you begged.

you’d been pressing him about it earlier in the week, hounding him about his sex life before he met you and what kind of ridiculous scenarios he got himself into. he had years of experience, probably sexually active before you were even born and you couldn’t help but be curious.

“well now there was this one pose, but i’m not too sure you’d like it. s’a little advanced.” he sticks his thumbs in his belt loops, leaning against the wall as he finally gives into your prodding. he thinks it’s adorable the way your brows pinch, all determined to change his mind as you rush over, standing on your toes and grabbing at him.

“oh please go on arthur. satisfy my curiosity, i beg you!” you whine and he swallows down a chuckle.

“c’mere.” he walks you to a chair and you follow without further prompting. arthur sits, before pulling you onto his lap. fully clothed, he easily lifts your legs making you gasp. calloused, weathered hands slide up the back of your legs until they were hooked under your knees, keeping them high before he mimicked the act of thrusting into you from below, jean clad crotch thudding against you softly. “a little like that. now i’m sure you can use your imagination and picture that without clothes on.” he lowers your legs and taps the side of your ass like you’re a horse. “go on now, up y’get — we got things to do today.”

as expected, you don’t forget about the conversation and demonstration, infact you’re weak in the knees for the rest of the day — clinging to his strong arm, whiny and submissive to his every calm command. you could only imagine what had got you in such a state, and arthur knew just how he’d fix it.

now in a candlelit hotel room arthur’s got you totally in the nude, holding the same leud, split open position he had you in earlier as he stuffs your cunt with his thick length.

“shh shh shh shh now.” he chides, voice warm and gravelly as he slows his thrusts to a deep and firm rhythm. “this is what you wanted, remember? begged n begged me.”

“j’st — s—so much!” you shudder, head lulling forward weakly and helplessly, glossy folds fluttering around the man who held you open.

“well you’re bein’ a very good girl. keep takin’ it, there we go.” he hums, working you toward that sweet release.

#surprise !#idk much about the history and i just started getting into rdr2 so idk how accurate this is #idek if i’m gonna write for him i just wanted to write this hehehe #arthur morgan smut #a.m ♡#rdr2 ✮

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yandere-daydreams · 4 months ago

Text

Title: Short Leash.

A continuation of Good Dog.

Pairing: Yandere!SatoSugu x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 7.5k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Pet Play, Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Physical Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Semi-Public Humiliation, Blood, Controlling Behavior, and Dehumanization. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You woke up the next morning groggier than you’d ever been before, praying that you’d open your eyes and miraculously find yourself in your own apartment, piled into your own bed, with a hangover painful enough to block out the strange, hyper-realistic dream you’d endured the night before. Predictably, you didn’t.

Less predictably, you found yourself in Satoru’s villa, piled onto Suguru’s bed, and entirely alone.

They must’ve untied you at some point, most likely shorty after you’d passed out with Suguru’s cock lodged deeply enough down your throat to cut off your airflow. The black cord hung limp from its post, and the sharp pain in your wrists had dulled into a red, angry throbbing. The rest of your body wasn’t so quick to recover. Your legs felt like tree roots, too heavy to lift and connected to you only by calcified tendons too stubborn to break. Your back and sides were bruised where Satoru had pawed and bitten, and you could feel the indents of Suguru’s fingertips around your throat, the weight of his palm against the back of your head. Your muzzle hung limp around your neck, which you were thankful for. You were sure it wasn’t as uncomfortable as Satoru’s, but already, you knew you wouldn’t be able to wear it for more than a couple minutes at a time. Whether or not you’d be forced to was something you didn’t want to think about, right now.

With no small amount of effort, you picked yourself up and swung your legs over the side of the mattress. You’d only just started to test the sole of your foot against the carpeting when something clambered against the bedroom door, knocking against the wood clumsily before shouldering it open and stepping inside.

It was Satoru. That wasn’t surprising on its own, but the fact that he was wearing clothes – real, non-puppy themed clothes – was. Just a pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized white shirt, sure, but clothes.

That, and the absence of his muzzle. Come to think of it, this was probably the first time you’d seen anything below his eyes.

Even if you’d thought to, you never would’ve pictured him wearing the expression he currently was. A big, lopsided grin stretched across his lips, a toothbrush hanging haphazardly from one side. In the light of day, it was hard to tell he was the same person who’d done the unspeakable to you last night – his eyes not quite as prying, his posture less rigid, his demeanor more akin to a kid at a sleepover who’d been waiting the better part of a morning for their guest to wake up. You might’ve been able to convince yourself last night was some sort of mix-up, that he and Suguru would apologize and offer some neatly wrapped, bow-topped excuse to explain it all away, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to open his mouth.

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” he started, wiping foam off of his lips with the back of his hand. “Good thing Suguru’s already gone. He kept me locked up for days, the first time I took off my muzzle without permission.”

You blinked at him, a blank slate. Then, because the visual seemed to loop in your mind like some gruesome, prophetic vision, you asked, “…he’s going to lock me in a cage?”

Satoru’s smile turned sympathetic. The toothbrush was abandoned on the corner of a dresser as he closed the distance between you, hooking an arm around yours. “C’mon – we should get you cleaned up. See if we can wash off the shock.” He pulled you onto your feet, bracing you against his side. “Think you can walk on your own?”

You tried to take a step and crumpled immediately, collapsing into a heap of limbs and stupor and embarrassment. Satoru didn’t wait for you to push yourself up, looping an arm under your knees, another around back, and pulling you into his chest. The muzzle suddenly seemed like a mercy. Without it, his delight at your helplessness shone through clearly.

You could remember passing at least half a dozen bathrooms last night, but Satoru didn’t seem to be in a rush to put you down. With his fingertips burrowed into your skin and an ever-tightening grip, he wandered through the villa, taking you back to the first floor and into another wing entirely. Eventually, he seemed to find what he was looking for – a large, traditional bathing room almost entirely taken up by an in-ground stone basin. You were placed on a wooden stool while Satoru fussed with the facets, scalding-hot water slowly beginning to trickle into the tub.

As reluctant as you were to give Satoru credit, the heat and steam were sobering. Your eyes flickered from wall to wall, looking for weapons, escape routes, signs that you were supposed to be doing more than sitting here and letting this happen. You didn’t find any unattended razors, but there was a screen door near the basin – no lock visibly from where you currently sat. Dappled sunlight beat against the thin, yellowed paper, but knowing there was a way outside only raised more questions. Namely: If leaving was so easy, why was Satoru still here?

You turned to him. He was sitting on the tiled ledge, fingertips skimming the surface of the steadily rising water. More concerningly, he was already looking at you, blue eyes wide and aware. You wondered if you’d ever adjust to that – his eyes, the way he stared, how jarringly bright they seemed. It seemed impossible to imagine yourself getting used to having two twin floodlights constantly pointed in your direction.

“Afraid of a little water?” It took you a second to put together what he meant, that your lasting terror must’ve been apparently. You didn’t respond, but still, Satoru laughed. “That’s alright. That’s perfect. Just goes to show that you were always meant to be our little kitten.”

Sure. Whatever. The pet-talk was already turning into white noise – washing over you more ambivalently than it should’ve. You soldiered on, newly eager for a change of subject. “You keep trying to make it sound like you know me.”

Satoru hummed. “We do, baby. Wouldn’t have brought you home without doing our research.”

“How long?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

You crossed your arms, suddenly aware of your own state of undress. “How long were you watching me?”

You weren’t sure you which you would’ve preferred – a quick answer, concise and telling in its reflexivity, or something more delayed, leaving room to doubt just how well they’d thought this through. He seemed to think, but not for very long, robbing you of the satisfaction of either. “Do you remember a few months ago, when your building got condemned?”

You nodded. You’d been told it was a maintenance issue; black mold, or faulty wiring, or something along those lines. It’d been sudden, but there were signs. You could still remember how tired you’d felt to the months leading up to your hasty eviction, the dark shroud of misery that’d seemed to spread itself over you and the other residents and, ironically, only start to lift the day you’d all been told to pack up and get out. That was over a year ago, now. Closer to two, really.

“Suguru stopped by with a few acolytes the night before, since places like that tend to be a breeding ground for cursed spirits. After a little fighting, he ended up in your apartment, and—” Satoru paused, grinning as he shook his head. “It was something about the way you looked, all pathetic and curled up. He says he thought about killing you for a while, but never got around to it. He told me about you a few weeks later.”

It might’ve been a kindness that you only understood half of what he said, your mind catching on words like acolyte and cursed spirit without the ability to assign a meaning to the phrase. But, even through your confusion, you could get to the bottom line. They’d been stalking you for years. Mostly Suguru, but Satoru had been in on it, too. And, to make it that much more nightmarish, you’d never noticed either one of them – not until they decided you were allowed to, at least. It was enough to leave you cold and unsteady, fighting not to shake where you sat. It was enough to leave you wondering why you’d ever thought a hot, normal guy would be interested in you, in the first place.

The water reached the basin’s rim, and without glancing down to check, Satoru cut it off. It took you a second to find your voice. The humidity in the air abruptly seemed overbearing, choking. “When do I get to go home?”

It was a deliberately pointed question – meant to counter his delusional affection with cold, jutting reality. Satoru only sighed, nodding to the screen door. “No one’s in your way.”

His tone was resigned, a little bored, but the sentiment gave you more hope than it should’ve. If there was hope— any hope at all – that Satoru was brought into this the same way you were, that he was on your side, then that increased your chances of getting out of here ten-fold. Suguru seemed to put a lot of trust in his lapdog, but there might’ve been a chance that you wouldn’t be bitten for stepping out of line.

Slowly, you staggered to your feet and struggled to the door, relying on anything within arm’s reach for support. It looked like someone had taken a knife to the barred handle, but you couldn’t make out what they might’ve been trying to carve – only a series of nonsensical kanji and outlandish symbols. You spared a glance back to Satoru, who nodded encouragingly. Like that helped.

Bracing yourself, you wrapped a fist around the handle a tried to pull.

…

You woke up minutes later, colder than you’d ever been before and cradled in Satoru’s arms. His lips were pressed into your temple, his nose buried in your hair. You could feel his breath fanning over your scalp. Absentmindedly, you realized he was smelling you.

They didn’t live in the villa. Suguru let that slip quickly, somewhere around the fourth time he found you hiding in one of the many unfurnished rooms. It’d been an anniversary present – although, from who and the anniversary of what, he never specified. They used it as a retreat, or in your case, a training facility. You’d be allowed to see their actual home once you’d proven you could be a good kitty.

You hated thinking about yourself in their terms – a captive, a kitten, a pet – but it would’ve been impossible not to. Satoru was capable of a sort of pseudo-normalcy when Suguru was out, wearing clothes and talking to you like something resembling a human being, but when Suguru was home, he conformed to his allotted role happily. The puppy gear was more of a uniform than your realized – the specific parts exchangeable, but each component necessary. He donned them pridefully, happily. You were expected to do the same.

You didn’t often meet Suguru’s expectations.

Satoru whined as you were pulled off of the living room floor (because animals weren’t allowed on the furniture without permission) and into Suguru’s lap. Your latest offense had been your most frequently repeated. The leather muzzle bit into the bridge of your nose and cut into the underside of your jaw, and your faux ears always seemed to be pricking at some part of your scalp, and yet, the collar always seemed to be what you gravitated towards, what you picked at, what your body wanted removed before anything else. Suguru clicked his tongue as he traced the jagged, red lines you’d raked into your throat, only dulled slightly by the fact that you’d been scratching through fabric. Trying to get it off would’ve been futile, with or without your hands trapped in paw-shaped mittens, but you couldn’t help it. There was something deep and primal inside of you that wanted it gone, and despite your better judgement, your conscious mind agreed.

“I’ve got half a mind to have you declawed.” The threat was dulled by an airy laugh, but his underlying agitation was clear. In his own, twisted way, you guessed that Suguru considered himself a good owner. Hence why evidence as to the contrary was usually so poorly received. “Care to explain yourself, princess?”

You swallowed back your nerves. “I honestly didn’t realize what I was doing, I’m just not used to—”

“Ah,” he cut in, hand falling to your thigh and squeezing. “That’s not right, either. Can you tell me the first thing pets aren’t supposed to do?”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Right. You were having time remembering that one.

Pets weren’t supposed to speak. Not without permission.

You hung your head silently, and Suguru took that as answer enough. “Good girl.” And then, his eyes falling back to your throat, “What do you think we should do with the poor thing, ‘toru?”

Satoru let out a keening bark, still on his knees at the foot of the couch. Suguru softened immediately. “Speak.”

“She’s been thinking too much, again. You should show her how to stop.”

Even behind the muzzle, you could hear his grin. Suguru mirrored the expression. “And how do you think I should make that happen?”

Another bark, shriller than the first, followed by the heady sounds of feigned panting. You sent Satoru a venomous look, and Suguru hummed. “You’re right.” He paused, lowering his voice, creating a pantomime of privacy between the two of you. “He thinks that, since you’re so intent on making yourself uncomfortable, we should do the same.”

Cold, sharp dread cut through your chest, accompanying a flood of memories of Satoru’s body on top of yours, the animal force of his hips against your ass as he did his best to make up for a natural canine breeding drive. They’d been surprisingly conservative with sex after that first night, limiting your exposure to a few minutes of unwanted touching during baths and having to hear the two of them go at it from halfway across the villa. You assumed it was a nicety, a means of letting you adjust. Suddenly, you were confronted with the idea that they’d only been waiting for a reason to blame you for your own violation.

It was almost a relief when Satoru didn’t pounce, when Suguru didn’t move to kiss you. Instead, he took you by the shoulder and forced you down, until your body was splayed awkwardly across his lap, your stomach pressed into his thighs. One hand rested on the small of your back whine the other fell to your ass, kneading shamelessly. Your face burnt with embarrassment and righteous anger. You couldn’t imagine how Satoru handled it – being treated less like a person, prideful and independent and deserving of respect, and more like an animal, happy to be touched in any ways its owner was willing to. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible if, like Satoru, you’d never had any pride to begin with.

“We’ll start with twenty-five, since it’s your first real punishment. Count yourself lucky – Satoru’s first warning was a broken finger.” His tone was fond, distant, as if he was recalling a cherished memory. “I’ll need you to count for me. If you can’t, we’ll have to start over.”

You tempted to protest, to stiffen, to refuse to participate in your own degradation, but this was, admittedly, the preferred alternative to what you’d imagined. You could handle this. Even if it took every part of you not to react, you could handle this.

Or, that was what you thought, at least. Then, you heard metal clink against metal, felt leather crack against the unprotected skin of your ass, and immediately realized you’d been wrong. You couldn’t handle anything.

The noise that escaped you was wordless, base, instinctual; something between a scream and a gasp. The pain was surprisingly cutting, the blunt force of it relatively dull compared to the sharp, piercing sting. The belt came down again, deliberately angled towards space just below its previous target, and you managed to force something out. “Two!”

Suguru clicked his tongue. “Not just yet, sweetheart. Don’t you remember what I told you?”

You heard Satoru lumber closer, positioning himself below where your head laid. “You’re being too mean, Suguru.”

“I’m being strict. There’s a difference. That’s why so many kittens end up so poorly behaved.” He sighed, rubbing a few small, shallow circles into the column of your spine. “You’re going to have to keep me honest. We’re still on one.”

You dug your teeth into your bottom lip. You hated him. More than anything else, more than anyone else, you hated Geto Suguru. It was all you could think, all you could feel, and yet, when his belt came down on your ass, you whimpered out an obedient “O—One.”

By the fifth, you were sniffling.

By the fifteenth, you sobbed unabashedly into the couch cushions, your mechanical counting barely audible.

By the last strike, you’d gone limp and still across Suguru’s lap. Every part of your ass ached. If the bruising wasn’t already visible, it would be within the hour, long before the next time you’d have a chance to dress yourself. You could only hope Suguru would have the mercy not to rub salt in the wound.

Already, you knew that he wouldn’t.

“Ah, there she is – my perfect little kitten.” Suguru hooked a hand under your arm, pulling you upright and letting you straddle his lap. Immediately, you collapsed into his chest, eager to hide your face. He didn’t seem to mind. “You were so good. Satoru called me such ugly names, the first time his behavior had to be corrected.”

Satoru whined in mock hurt, and Suguru chuckled fondly. “How ‘bout we get you somewhere nice and cozy? I think you’ve earned a little rest.”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Silently, you nodded into his shoulder, and Suguru rewarded you with a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

You were taken to Suguru’s room, but rather than his bed, you were placed in Satoru’s – low-walled and velvet-lined, more fit for a dog than a person. Satoru crawled in after you, curling around your crumpled form. The last thing you felt before you shut your eyes was the warm, slick sensation of a tongue running over your cheek, lapping up the last of your drying tears.

As it turned out, Suguru wasn’t an animal trainer. Admittedly, you’d figured that out pretty early on – as soon as you realized the only real animal in his life was Satoru.

Still, ‘cult leader’ probably wouldn’t have been your second guess.

You sat in the furthest corner of the sanctuary, a small crowd filling the limited space. Some were wearing street clothes, their expressions bored but unquestioning, as If Suguru’s sermon was only a prelude to something more engaging. Others, most, were more invested – positioned on their knees, hands at their sides, their eyes focused intently on Suguru where he was reclined on his dais. Both he and Satoru – sitting alert and watchful at his side – were dressed for their roles, drenched in tradition garb from an era long-dead. The only anachronism was Satoru’s mask. It was the same shape as his muzzle, but the metal frame was barred, the edges sloped downward into something sharper, something more defined. Even from the other side of the room, you could see the set of his jaw, the thin line of his scowl. The association had to be intentional. You doubted there was anyone in the world who could look at Satoru and see anything but a guard dog.

You were aware of the intentionality of your seating, too. Across the room, separated from the mass of bodies, placed so temptingly close to the sanctuary door and so directly in Suguru’s line of sight. Occasionally, you’d catch a piece of his lecture, make out something about ‘taking pity on lesser beings’ and ‘practicing divinity through extermination’ before tuning him back you. What little Satoru had told you about invisible monsters and hyper-specific supernatural abilities lingered in the back of your mind, but at a distance – information you knew to be true, but just couldn’t bring yourself genuinely believe. It made sense, in a twisted kind of way. You weren’t sure how you’d ever looked at Suguru and recognized him as fully human.

You drummed your fingers against your knee. Running was tempting, but a bad idea. Even if Suguru was miraculously distracted, Satoru would notice, and you wouldn’t get more than a few steps past the door before he caught you. Still, they’d dressed you for the occasion, and even a single silken layer of your too-complex-for-comfort get-up would be more than enough to pay for cab fare back to the city, back to your apartment, back to friends and resources and the police. That was, if you still had an apartment. You’d already missed at least three months’ worth of rent, and you doubted your landlord would have much sympathy for—

“He’s always been so fucking full of himself.”

You straightened and shot to the side, immediately pulled back into reality. You hadn’t heard him sit down, but suddenly, there was a man at your side – blonde hair slicked back, his black suit tailored immaculately, his posture confident in a careless sort of way. It was hard to tell if he was well-groomed early 40s or a particularly rough late 20s, but either way, the lines carved deep into the grooves of his scowl and the dark circles under his muted eyes spoke to an age-old exhaustion. One directed at Suguru, no less.

“Should’ve seen him in high school. The god complex is new, but the rest of it comes naturally.” You shifted slightly, unsure whether or not you should respond. He didn’t seem to care. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he reached for something in his front pocket – a pack of cigarettes, maybe, or another cheap vice – before thinking better of it and checking his watch. “I’d say Gojo’s a saint for putting up with it, but—”

“He’s worse,” you finished, under your breath. “At home, at least.”

The stranger glanced at you, wearily. As if he’d only expected to talk to himself. “You’re the new addition.”

It wasn’t a question, but after a beat, you nodded. He slumped against the wall. “And you’re here against your will.”

A longer delay, this time, a more hesitant nod. He let out a prolonged breath and directed his attention towards the dais.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “That’s unfair.”

You felt something tighten in the back of your throat. Your collar, hidden well underneath the layers of your ensemble, seemed just a little heavier. “Yeah.” And then, when you could manage it, “I know.”

Suguru gave his final statement, and there was a muted ripple of activity through the crowd – some bowing, some muttering prayers, some wordlessly moving to the side to wait for an undetermined encore. Satoru made it to you first; dropping to his knees and hauling you into his chest. His face was buried in the crook of your neck in a matter of seconds, and you did your best not to care that the blonde stranger’s gaze was still very much boring into you.

Satoru held onto you until, moving at only his own pace, Suguru found his way across the sanctuary. He helped you to your feet and nodded to the stranger by way of greeting. “Bring the kids home in one piece, Kento?”

“Nanami,” he corrected. “Yuuji, Nobara and the twins are in the courtyard now. Megumi left a few minutes ago – his sister tends to worry.”

Suguru hummed. As they exchanged logistics, Satoru propped his chin on your shoulder. “Our latest batch of students,” he explained, keeping his voice low and airy. You wondered if he was allowed to speak in public, how firmly Suguru held onto his rules. You wondered if there’d ever be another time when you didn’t have to think before opening your mouth. “And Suguru’s daughters. You’ll meet them eventually. Kento’s on babysitting duty, in the meantime.”

You couldn’t say you were looking forward to the prospect.

As their conversation began to taper, Kento’s eyes skirted in your direction, and Suguru followed his gaze. Kento’s features were indecipherable, all but entirely blank, but Suguru wasn’t so difficult to read. Anger flashed hot and fast across his expression, quickly settling into something more restrained, something more amused. With a note of levity, he called to you. “Why don’t you join us, dear?”

Immediately, Satoru pulled away, and you were left completely and entirely alone. It took more time than it should’ve to remember how to move your legs, even longer to actually find the will to step forward, but Suguru waited patiently, keeping his hands tucked into his sleeves until you were close enough to take hold of. With an arm wrapped tightly around your waist, he slotted your back against his chest, forcing you to face Kento. “You were quite friendly with my acolytes during the sermon.” You tried to close your eyes, to bow your head, but he caught your chin – keeping you upright an on exhibition. “Kento, here, especially.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You misunderstand - it’s a good thing. The last thing I’d want is for you to feel out of place among our little family.” He paused, humming as he tapped his thumb against the corner of your mouth. “In fact, you really ought to show Kento how happy you are to meet him.”

Suguru dug his fingers into your waist. Kento reset his jaw. Satoru smiled widely from behind the bars of his muzzle.

“You should purr for him, love.”

Heat rose to your cheeks – equal parts fury and embarrassment. Kento, for his part, kept his poker face in-tact, nonreactive save for the slightest possible quirk of his lips. His nonchalance provided little comfort, though. An unwilling audience was still an audience. At least, at home, you were given the mercy of a private dehumanization.

“I…” You swallowed, dryly. “I don’t know if I can do that. Like, physically.”

Suguru’s grin broadened. “Try for me.”

The ‘or else’ was left implied.

And the worst part was, you listened. You tried to find it in your throat, first, to flex a muscle you’d never thought to use, but the most you could manage was a low, droning hum – nothing close to a rumble. Kento looked away, humiliated on your behalf, and you opened your mouth, prepared to reiterate that even if you’d wanted to embarrass yourself in front of half his congregation, your body wouldn’t let you. Suguru’s thumb was in your mouth as soon as your lips parted, though, pressing into the flat of your tongue and pinning it to the bottom of your mouth. “You can do better than that, love. For my sake.”

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to, but Suguru’s hand curled tighter around your jaw and saliva pooled at the corners of your lips and you forced out a pitchy, half-strangled whine. It wasn’t anything like a purr, not really, but it seemed to satisfy Suguru. His hand had fallen to your hip in the blink of an eye, the edge in his voice softened back down to a cool, smooth timbre. “Ah, I suppose you do need more practice. We’ll have to work on it at home.” He looked to Kento. “Thank you for your unwavering dedication. I trust you’ll be in touch?”

Kento nodded, curtly. “Of course.”

And just like that, you were being ushered out of the sanctuary and into a more seclusive part of the temple, Satoru following close behind you. You tried to look over your shoulder, to see if Kento’s eyes were still following you, but Suguru’s hand found its way to the back of your neck, wordlessly warning you away from something so needlessly masochistic. You didn’t mind, though.

You could still feel his eyes burning into you, the sensation a touch warmer than it’d been a few minutes ago.

“Don’t you hate it?”

Satoru hummed, kneading absent-mindedly at your chest. Currently, the two of you were home alone, and he was engaging in his favorite leisure activity – laying on Suguru’s bed with you pinned to his chest, a human (or, human-ish, at least) body pillow to be squeezed at and cuddled as he faded in and out of sleep. His touch was probing, shifting constantly between your tits, stomach, and thighs, but not necessarily invasive. Despite everything, it was still difficult to see Satoru as anything more than an extension of Suguru, something only dangerous when ordered to be. It was hard to be wary of a weapon when not in the hands of the person who’d used it to hurt you, especially when that weapon was all you had in the way of company.

“What am I supposed to hate, now?”

“Having to share his attention. I mean, it was his idea to kidnap me, right? You don’t have to pretend you’re happy about it, if you’re not. I know you’re—” You recalled the sounds of stifled moaning through thin walls, the feeling of a mattress dipping under the weight of two bodies while you pretended to sleep, and swallowed down your nausea. “I know you two are pretty close.”

Satoru let out a breath of a laugh. “We love each other, princess, Like we both love you.”

“But you don’t.” Admittedly, your tactics were crude. Search until you found a sore spot. Skirt around the edges until it’d gone tender. Make him want to get rid of you. Satoru wouldn’t hurt you, not without Suguru’s permission, but you needed to make him want you gone. There had to be something you could say, something you could do, to give him a reason to carve you a way out and look the other way while you escaped. “Suguru just told you to put up with me. He gave you a new toy, and you’re not even really allowed to play with it – isn’t that unfair?”

“I promise, he didn’t have to tell me to do—”

“And aren’t you scared?”You cut in, feigning distress. “I don’t want to be here, Satoru. And, god forbid, he ever decides he likes me more—”

Satoru didn’t let you finish. His teeth dug into the crook of your neck, turning anything you might’ve gone on to say into an abrupt, high-pitched squeak. The bite was shallow, but it still stung as he pulled away, resting his forehead against the apex of your spine. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just—I know what you’re doing. And it hurts, y’know?”

“…it does?”

“Mhm.” He slotted himself against you, his hand falling from your chest to the hem of your borrowed shirt. “You’re nervous.” And then, his thumb slipping under the waistband of your panties, “You think we’ll get tired of you.”

A new fear, hot and visceral, struck through your chest, lodging itself somewhere between your lungs and your rib cage. While you fought for your ability to breathe, Satoru went on. “Suguru hasn’t told you about the day he let me meet you, has he? That figures. He always hated getting sentimental like that, ‘specially if it makes him look sappy.”

Your panties were tugged downward, to the plush of your thighs. Satoru nestled into your back as he traced over your slit with the pad of his thumb, his touch still heavy with that kind of lazy, pawing affection. You squirmed, and when that failed, did your best to speak through grit teeth. “I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be touching me without—”

“Suguru can find a way to live with it. He’s always liked having an excuse to punish me.” His thumb caught on your clit, pushing slow circles into the sensitive bud. “That’s what I thought he was trying to do, the first time he mentioned bringing you home. He’s always hated non-sorcerers, even after I got him to be a little nicer about it. Honey over vinegar n’ all.” Satoru paused, laughed. “Don’t take it personally, but it was a little like your boyfriend threatening to bring home one of those inflatable sex dolls. Just because of the whole ‘This is what I think you could be replaced with’ thing.”

His hand drew back, but only far enough to cup your sex properly. The heel of his palm ground against your clit as two of his fingers gathered the slick traitorously accumulating between your thighs. “He wouldn’t take me to your apartment, probably thought I’d try to suffocate you in your sleep. Wouldn’t stop bothering him about it, though, so we settled on something more public.”

It wouldn’t have been so agonizing if he’d just gone a little faster, moved with a little more urgency. Instead, he seemed to savor the way your restlessness slowly turned to blatant thrashing, how deeply you dug your nails into his forearm when you reflexively lashed out to try and pry his hand away. Suguru would’ve put you over his knee for that, if not worse. Satoru was different. In a way, Satoru was more sincere. Satoru knew that, even when a housecat bared its claws, the worst it could do was break the skin.

“Remember that florist gig you had, for a while? Just a couple of months – to give you a little extra funding for the sudden move. Not that you needed it. Suguru and I were always ready to take care of you.” He prodded two fingers inside of you and spread them apart. Miserably, you whined into the sheets. “He talked me into it – sitting at the café across the street, watching work for the better part of the day. I spent most of it imagining how to get rid of you without him noticing, but towards the end—”

Satoru cut himself off abruptly with a chiming laugh. You felt his fingers curl inside of you as he re-settled against you. “Suguru did this—this thing. He started touching me under the table, a little like how I’m touching you, and asked how I would feel about having something that couldn’t be taken away from me.”

There was another laugh, softer than the first, then a lingering kiss to the curve of you your shoulder. You made one last unabashed attempt to struggle, to kick, to get away from him, but Satoru only held you that much tighter, forcing another finger into your stuffed cunt.

“He probably meant it as a sex thing – thought I’d like bringing home someone I could be in-charge of. I don’t see it that way, though.”

He nuzzled into the nape of your neck. His breath was first, warm and stifling where it fanned over you, then his tongue – lapping over your back in short, slow swipes. If you’d been any less disgusted, you might’ve found it comforting.

“I think we were always supposed to share you,” he finished, his saliva still drying on your skin. “I think you made to be ours.”

His palm rocked against your clit, his fingers grinding against the sensitive walls of your pussy. It’d only take a few more seconds for you to cum, and a few more minutes for Suguru to come home and find Satoru with his head buried between your thighs and tears running down your cheeks. For your punishment, Satoru would have his arm broken (an injury that, as you’d learned quickly, he could walk off as quickly as the average person would a paper cut) and you’d have to spend bouncing on Suguru’s cock, thanking him for each climax he was generous enough to milk out of you.

Getting the collar off was trickier than you’d expected. The nail clippers, pilfered from a bathroom drawer while Satoru dragged you through his half-conscious morning routine, only dented the leather, and neither of them seemed to feel at-home enough in the villa to leave things as mundane as scissors or box-cutters laying around. In the end, you had to steal a knife from the block left unattended in well-stocked, but sparingly used kitchen – pressing the spine into your throat while sawing through your collar with the blade. It wasn’t the safest option, but it got the job done, and you managed to keep the damage limited to a small nick on the underside of your chin. You left the remains of your collar on the mat in front of the villa’s main door and waited.

Suguru wasn’t ecstatic, to say the least.

He found you in the living room, sprawled across the largest sofa you could find, wearing a hoodie that Satoru had made you promise to take off before he and Suguru got home. Satoru trailed behind him – a shadow with an inverted color palette. They must’ve come straight from the temple, or something to do with Suguru’s cult, at least. They were both still in their traditional get-ups, and Suguru was wearing the easy, narrow-eyed smile he only seemed to make use of during his sermons.

You had to hand it to him. Had it not been for how tightly his fist was curled around the strip of ruined leather in his hand, you wouldn’t have known he was angry at all.

“’toru,” he started, his tone light and melodic. “On the floor. Stomach-down. By the time I come back.”

He turned on his heel, slipping into another part of the villa, but Satoru lingered. He stared at you from the doorway for a second, then another, his eyes blank and his face unnaturally pale.

Then, you moved to stand, making a pitifully clumsy attempt to run, and he was on top of you.

It was strange – to see Satoru so quiet. He kept his lips sealed and his jaw locked as he pinned you to the floor, straddling your lower back and forcing your wrists against the tender spot between your shoulder blades. You could’ve tried to get away, but you didn’t. There was no world wherein you could overpower Satoru, and he knew that as well as you did.

Suguru took his time. Full minutes later, he returned, having replaced your collar with a pair of rusted-out pliers. It seemed wrong to see him carrying such a crude tool, like violist showing up to their recital with a sledgehammer rather than an instrument. You weren’t really in a place to comment, though.

“Princess.” He crouched in front of you, letting his head lull to the side. He cupped your chin, thumb running over the hairline scrape you’d inflicted onto yourself, before pulling away. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

You swallowed, thickly. “I didn’t want to, I just—I couldn’t wear it, anymore. It hurt my neck, and I couldn’t breathe, and—” Pausing, stiffening, digging your nails into your palms. “—and I’m not your fucking cat, you sociopath.”

Suguru sighed, his smile falling. He exchanged a glance with Satoru, expression unchanging, before looking back to you.

“I’ll be nice,” he said, finally. “Bad kittens can either get declawed, or defanged. Since you seem so unhappy with your current level of autonomy, I’ll let you choose.”

You balked. “I’m not playing your—”

“Satoru.” Apparently, you’d already run his patience thin. “Choose.”

You couldn’t decide whether it’d be better or worse, had his answer not been so deafeningly automatic. “Declawed. And just the index finger.”

“And why is that, puppy?”

“Because she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’ll be more careful after she’s learned her lesson.”

Suguru hummed, his posture taking on a slacker note. After a beat, he nodded. “Give me a hand, then.”

This time, you did fight it – albeit, not very effectively. You did your best to wrench your arms from Satoru’s grip, and when that failed, to jerk away as he curled a hand around your left wrist and pressed it into the floor. Suguru moved to take your hand, but stopped barely a hair’s width short, his eyes flickering back to Satoru. “Sorry,” Satoru mumbled. There was a nearly imperceptible shift in the atmosphere – a change in the air pressure, a drop in the temperature – before he went on. “It’s a reflex.”

Suguru didn’t waste time. He spread his hand under yours, interlocking your fingers and holding you steady as he brought his pliers up to your fingertips. The nose of the lower hinge worked underneath your nail while the ribbed underside of its upper counterpart scratched against it, the texture alone enough to make you cringe. You shut your eyes and tried to distract yourself, but nothing you could’ve dredged up would’ve dulled the feeling of blunt metal digging into your nail-bed, of the jaws clenching around something so thin, something so suddenly fragile. There was a light pull, testing for grip, then the pain.

Burning, throbbing, blinding. The soreness of it was almost worse than the sting, your body protesting the jarring absence of something it hadn’t known to imagine life without. You’d expected the pain to be limited, isolated, but it spread quickly – infecting everything below your elbow with phantom pains and sympathy aches. You’d told yourself you’d stay quiet, that you couldn’t cry, but a scream tore past your lips involuntarily, the tears following shortly after. That was fine. That was good, actually. They should know that they’d hurt you. They should know why you’d never, ever be able to love them back.

Hot blood pooled in the space your nail had once filled, dripping down your finger and spilling onto Suguru’s skin. Rather than let you go, he pulled you closer, bringing your hand to his face and taking your mutilated finger into his mouth. His tongue ran over the empty nail-bed, enlightening you to a brand new type of agony. You were sobbing unabashedly by the time he pulled away, the crimson of your blood dotting the corner of his lips.

“Take her to the cellar.” He was talking to Satoru, not you. That was fair. You weren’t in a state to listen to much of anything, right now. “It seems like we all need a little time to think.”

There was no protest from Satoru, no resistance from you. It was all you could do to cradle your wounded hand against your chest as he gathered you up and held you against his chest. With no great sense of urgency, he navigated through empty rooms and endless hallways, up the natural incline of rustic architecture and down, down, down into a lightless, concrete abyss. Despite the size of the basement, it’d been left deliberately void, with only a bare mattress and a few thin sheets to fill the desolation. Two lengths of thick chain hung limp from the wall above it, each one punctuated by a metal shackle, but you didn’t have the strength to acknowledge them.

Satoru set you on the edge of the mattress. Rather than curl into yourself, you clung to him – refusing to let go even as he tried to pull away. “Please,” you begged, the sound of your own desperation catching you off-guard. “Please, I’ll be good, and I’ll wear my collar, and I’ll purr, and—”

His arms were wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against him. But, despite the gentle warmth of his embrace, his voice was cold as ice.

“Pets don’t talk.”

You’d wanted Suguru’s, but Satoru had been the one to hold you down, to carry you, to let you cling to him for just a few seconds longer than he should’ve. Calling the police was a non-option, a fantasy you’d been childish to indulge. You’d seen more than a few officers at Suguru’s sermons, and asking anyone you knew, anyone you trusted for help would just be inviting lambs to the slaughter. You didn’t want to be the reason Satoru had fresh meat to tear from the bone.

You let out a keening, miserable sob. Satoru didn’t crack, but he softened, sighing as he kissed the top of your head. The next time he drew back, you let him – falling onto your side and curling into the smallest possible ball. You stayed that way as you listened to him climb the cellar stairs, as the heaviest lock you’d ever heard slid into place. It was only when you were completely, entirely sure he was gone that you sat up and, after wiping away your tears as best you could, fished his phone out of your hoodie’s pocket – still warm from where it’d been trapped between your body and his. You’d clear the history and hide it underneath the staircase later, as if it’d fallen between the steps. So long as Satoru found it before Suguru, you shouldn’t get in trouble.

It took you three minutes to guess his passcode (your birthday) and four more to find the name you were looking for in his contacts. The phone only rang twice, but he offered no greeting, leaving you to break the silence, your voice more unsteady than you would’ve liked.

“…Kento?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru x reader #yandere geto suguru #gojo satoru x reader #yandere gojo satoru

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bluemerakis · 6 months ago

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ this one’s on me ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ s4 .ᐟ spoilers, cussing, dean’s really just suffering omg, and he’s also like, secretly smitten over reader; small age gap, a slow-burn build up to car sex, grinding, nip sucking, oral f receiving (he’s such a tentative munch pls), unprotected p in v, fluff. lmk if I forgot any :))

synopsis — dean’s physically free of hell, but he finds that his own demons have never really left him. having already made his fair share of bad decisions, he figures that it couldn’t hurt to make one more—the pursuit of you.

word count ~ 10.5k (i’m done apologising y’all know how carried away i get 🤟)

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Rowdy occupants teetered throughout the local bar, their cheers and protests slurred by this evening’s two-for-one special on all drinks. The bar was lively enough on most nights, but always in a manner sophisticated enough for Dean to enjoy a glass or two in comfort. Now, the space had become a raging fest of body against body, and the music was so loud that he could feel the ringing of his ears pressing all the way into the back of his eyes. The abrupt change in atmosphere felt personal, like it’d been specially planned to further tug at Dean’s gradual undoing.

His elbows were propped onto the bar top before him, fingers restlessly tapping at the sweaty, glass keep of his beer. All around him, barmaids wove frisky lines to tend to drunken groups seated along either side of him. Occasionally, one of the girls would attempt to cast their hook into him with an overzealous offer to top up his drink, and a candid nibble of their glossed lips, but he’d nicked their lines at the ready.

Any other night, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to show those gorgeous barmaids a time to remember, but as of now, he had other company to entertain—the unwanted and persistent voices in his head. Sounded insane, huh? Quite frankly, he was starting to feel the part. It was making him a bit of a downer, and that wasn’t much his style with the ladies.

Dean’s head lolled between his hunched shoulders, where he glimpsed his lonely reflection in the bubbling amber of his drink. He realised he must’ve stood apart from the bar’s bustling and cheerful atmosphere like a sore thumb, sat in broody silence as he indulged his second beer with a hefty frown on his brows.

He could have scoffed at the idea of being alone. If only onlookers had the ability to peer into the depths of his tainted mind, then they’d know that he was anything but alone.

True silence was a luxury Dean had long since been robbed of. It was a concept that held hands with peace, but there was no peace to be found in a soul as wretched as his. He didn’t deserve it—not after everything he’s done.

Those years he’d spent wrapped up in hell had remade his psyche in all the worst ways. And even now, as he walked amongst the living once again, it felt as though a fraction of the underworld had carried through and engraved itself in his very DNA.

He felt tainted by its touch—heard the way it mocked him with the voices of all the strangers he’d tortured to spare himself the same turmoil. It looped in his mind like a sadistic ear worm. Every hour, every minute, every damn second of the day. And to top the icing on the screw you cake? He had no idea how to make them shut the hell up.

It hadn’t always been that way, though. The first time it happened had been a rough week or so after his return. He’d taken on a rather grim job with his brother—a chain of victims that had been tortured to the death by a rogue demon. Dean had let out a wry scoff when Sam had first told him the details. He had a hunch on what that was about.

The demons hadn’t had any say in Dean’s release from hell. If it were up to them, they’d have kept him in a glass display for all eternity. When Cas had pulled him from the fiery depths, the angel had just about pissed off every single demon down there. They knew they couldn’t lay hands on Dean and drag him right back down to his eternal misery, so they’d taken to doing what they did best—causing havoc. And they’d found just the way to make it personal.

Each victim the brothers had found had been tortured in a different way—methods that were all too familiar to Dean. Methods that he’d invented. He’d had years to become creative. Each sighting had mortified him, and he’d had to swallow several times to suppress the bile adamantly reaching up to strangle his airways. What hurt him the most, though, was having to put on a detached facade for Sammy. His brother had no idea what Dean had been through down there. . . what he’d done down there—and why should he? He’d be more than eager to offer up a steaming fest of pity and guilt if he knew the truth, but Dean didn’t deserve any of that. It was all his own doing. His choice.

Cas might’ve liberated him from his physical hell, but he’d never truly been liberated from anything. Most of the suffering had always come from within, anyways.

They’d never found the demon responsible for the murders. It almost made Dean believe that he’d reverted back to his primal nature and killed all of those people himself. He’s hurt people before, so what was stopping him now, right? Maybe he’d done it in his sleep. Maybe, as soon as he’d let his head hit the pillow and dull his battered mind into a much needed deep sleep, all the worst fragments of his subconscious would pull together into some twisted alter ego that came to kill at his unspoken will.

Had Cas freed an innocent that day, or had he just unleashed another, wretched demon into the world? Boy, if it was the latter, Lilith surely had nothin’ on him.

The voices had started ever since that disturbing case, and they were yet to leave him alone.

It’s almost as if that cheap, goddamn knockoff on the real events of his life had been last switch that needed flipping to tune his mind into hell’s channels. Now, he heard them all—the voices—at every frequency and at every volume. And it didn’t matter how hard he cranked up Baby’s radio, their agonising pleas would always pull through in a haunting backtrack. One time, while he and Sam had been on the road, the voices had grown so loud that it made his eardrums feel as though they’d implode. It had hurt like a bitch, pushing him to the brink so that he’d lose control of the wheel and swerve into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, dear ol’ Sammy had been quick enough to grab ahold of the wheel and steer them clear of the looming truck they were en route toward.

The truck’s bellowing hooter had set him straight again as it whipped past the rear, almost as though it were the stern chiding needed to pipe those asshole voices right back down. His brother, bless his soul, had offered to drive them for the rest of the day, quiet concern alight on his features. But Dean had declined almost instantly. Sam hadn’t pushed to know what had overcome his older brother in that very moment; he’d known enough to pin it onto the aftermath of hell.

For the rest of that day, the younger brother had said nothing about it, but he did cast a few, fleeting glances with those damned puppy eyes of his. Dean pretended not to notice. Furthermore, he’d chosen to forget that that instance had ever happened. Fake it til y’make it, right? He didn’t need to look worried—didn’t need to make Sammy worry.

How his brother had grown up unmarred by Dean’s personal shit was beyond him—but he was thankful for it. And he’d continue to withhold that burden from his brother for as long as he could. This hell business? It was his alone to bear. Sammy needed no part in his suffering, and Dean doubted his brother could do much about it, anyway.

Man, the younger Winchester could do no wrong. It almost sickened Dean to know that they shared the same blood. He supposed it created a balance in nature, like how a coin had two sides—one lucky, and the other anything but. It wasn’t hard to know which side was his. Wasn’t much fair, but which aspect of his life had ever been? No matter. For Sammy, he’d keep on flippin’ that damn weighted coin if it meant that he could keep his brother safe.

Dean shifted atop the uncomfortable bar seat and sniffed away his restless thoughts, bringing the thawed beer to his lips. His nose dipped into the glass as he downed an eager gulp, the lukewarm beverage engulfing his tongue with a warmth he would’ve rather claimed from a skimpy barmaid. But alas, he’d made himself the promise to keep any and all contestants from playing this whirlwind of a game that was anything remotely related to his life.

Was this how celibate priests felt? ‘Cause man, it sucked. Not that they’d know the feeling of that, either.

He lowered the partially emptied drink back onto the bar top with a bitter scoff, eyes downturned to where he twirled the glass base within the ring of moisture it had bled onto the wood.

“Something funny, or have you just finally gone insane? Called it, by the way.”

Now that was the last voice Dean had expected to hear tonight. And in a bar, of all places—somewhere your holier than thou self had once sworn to never set food in outside of hunts. Granted, you were probably just being dramatic, but the thought still amused him.

He needn’t turn much to witness your figure. You slunk into perfect view as you took up a seat beside him. “Fancy seein’ you here,” he greeted through a lazy half-smirk, lifting his glass in a one-sided cheer.

You shot his drink a pitiful glance before returning his curious stare with an amused smile. “And I’m sure the bar hates to see you coming,” you retorted lightly, averting your gaze as you lifted your hand to wave over the bartender. “Whiskey, neat, thank you,” you said sweetly once the man had approached.

Dean risked a quick sweep of your figure—adorned with a dress so simple and casual, it shouldn’t have beckoned for his attention the way that it did. But honestly, this was one of very few times he’d seen you in anything other than your hunting or roleplay attire. And to be a little more honest, it was a view he could get used to watching.

Your head swivelled to face him for a brief second, which was enough to pluck his eyes away from what could be considered leering, if he’d made a point to stare any longer. And he was oddly tempted. But you quickly turned to face the bartender once more, initiating friendly chatter while he poured your drink with an extra chirp to his tone. You tended to have that effect on people, making bonds both meaningful and meaningless wherever you trod. Shit, look at the way you’d so easily strolled into both Sammy and his life. He wasn’t one to let strangers linger around, but for you, he’d made some sort of exception.

Dean lowered his head to study his glass once more. It was a view he’d long since grown tired of, but it was for the best. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that, anyway. You were Sammy’s friend first, and with that connection came the unspoken obligation of keeping his destructive hands off of you.

Sam had met you all the way back college. You weren’t the brand of friendship Dean would’ve expected his former anti-hunting brother to delve into—being a hunter and all—but that fact had only been disclosed after an unfortunate day of you being caught in the crossfire of one of their cases. It was a day Dean had thought you done for, for sure, but then you’d gone and surprised the both of them with your hunter’s wit, immobilising the threat like it’d been nothing of a challenge.

Dean would never admit it to your face, but you were a whole lot more knowledgeable than himself and Sam combined—and that’s considering that his brother is a colossal nerd before anything else. Since then, you’d stuck around, always helping Sammy with the nit-picky bookworm bullshit that Dean had never had much desire to do. He’d thank God himself for the lucky find that was you, if the big man in the sky really existed to begin with. Even after having met the angels, who were by no means impressive (save the girth of their dick nature), he couldn’t be convinced that there was a God who’d sent them here.

His attention strayed back to you as you reached across the bar top with a cash tip in clutch, which the bartender drank in with slightly flustered eyes before refusing it politely. Dean found himself huffing softly at the sight of it—not long after he’d come in, he’d seen that same bartender lay a fit on one of the occupants who’d refused him a tip after wrapping up the bill. He could’ve guessed that the demanding air you brought to the place had something to do with it. You didn’t mean to do it—demand things your way—it was just a string of events that always managed to fall into place whenever you showed up.

It was a quiet allure you’d always had to you. Dean could call you a good-luck charm for it. It made him want to hold onto you, just a little tighter, but he’d be selfish to do it. And whatever found it’s way into his grasp always seemed to shatter.

You reached for your glass almost shyly, as though you felt some slither of guilt for not being able to compensate the bartender’s effort, before turning to face Dean more directly. You tilted your head in the slightest manner, free hand brought up to cradle your cheek in poise as you gazed at him. “What did you mean by that, anyway?”

He frowned lightly. “What did I mean by what?”

“Fancy seein’ you here,” you mocked in a tone far too deep. A shameless grin spread your lips before you lifted your glass to take a sip—your eyes holding a glint he couldn’t quite decipher. And he didn’t try to linger on your stare for long enough to find out. There was some pull to it—like a getting caught in the sea’s rip current, and it made him feel something he couldn’t quite place. Or wouldn’t place, for the sake of keeping things unattached.

He glanced off to the side with a simple shrug. “Nah, I mean, you’re always off chasin’ some fairytale with Sammy. Just figured the two o’ya woulda found a fresh tail to nip by now,” he said nonchalantly, glass brought to his lips as he took a tense swig that finally emptied his glass.

“Well, yeah, but it’s after hours now. And I need a break, just like you,” you laughed. “Besides, I think you of all people could take the biggest break from chasing anything for the time being—which I’m glad to see you doing, by the way.”

He offered a simple nod of acknowledgment before lowering his glass and swirling the beer around his tongue, racking his tired brain for the next thing to say. It irked him a bit. Part of his charm was that chatting it up with the ladies always came easy. Who the hell would be be without it? But something about tonight—about you—had him feeling like a gawking numb-nut with a desperate need for a wingman.

He swallowed his sip and cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously, finally mustering up the courage to face you again. You had your fingers wrapped around your glass now, your eyes narrowed in eager focus and the corners of your lips slightly upturned—all while you sat waiting for him in patient silence. A silence that had no reason to make him feel. . . anxious, but it did. Were you doing it on purpose? Did you even know what you were doing?

Get it together, man, you’re blowin’ it, he said silently. You always do. Where do you think this’ll go? Nowhere. It’ll all crash and burn. Burn. Burn, the voices taunted. They’d become far too comfortable in his head, and now they had no shame popping up during his any and every conversation. Whenever the hell they pleased.

Mouthy bastards.

He ignored their jeering and settled for poking at the past, hoping it would invite you to carry the conversation he was so clearly dropping. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember you sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout how bars are home to sad men and madly horny men. So, that begs my earlier surprise that the Judgemental Judy herself showed up at the weepin’ whorehouse,” he said with a light chuckle.

You seemed more than happy to perk up at his teasing, a sight that made him ease off the clutch on his glass. “Well, maybe—just maybe, I have the guilty pleasure of making fun of sad sobs like you afterhours. I mean, the job gets so dull sometimes, you’ll forgive a girl for having a stupidly fun hobby.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “You callin’ me a loser?” He asked through a grin.

Your shoulders lifted in the most dramatised shrug you could’ve possibly mustered. “Dunno, Dean,” you sighed. “Are you?”

He shook his head through a weak grin—not as a response to your question, but at the way you always found it in yourself to tease him with thinly veiled insults. He could’ve gotten mad over it, but it had become something like a tradition between the two of you—the very soul of your friendship. Now, he’d let you compare him to every depicted loser in the literature of insults if it could have you both sharing a hearty laugh by the end of it. If it would buy him a second longer of your presence.

You can’t have her. Not yours. She’ll break if you touch her, the voices pressed on. He never could place any of them—not to a face, not even to a name. But he must’ve known them, must’ve met them face to face when they’d been strung up for a beating by a weapon of his choice. The voices were right, too. Dean could tell himself he was a blacksmith, that he’d have the power to handle you in a way that would only make you malleable without breaking. But at the end of the day, he always managed a slip up. He knew he’d swing a little too hard, or bend you a little too far, perhaps even just hold you with a little too much force.

He’d break you the way he’d broken everything else. The way he’d broken himself.

“Are you okay?” Your slightly concerned voice broke into the chasm of his torment, causing him to raise his brows with a growing awareness.

“Yeah, no, I’m all right,” he attempted to say casually, coaxing forward a smile to reinforce his statement. But you didn’t look convinced—and why would you be? You knew him better than that. If anything, you might’ve been the one person who knew him better than Sammy. Not because he’d necessarily allowed it, but because you were scarily observant. He didn’t like how vulnerable that made him feel, but he couldn’t deny the facts, either. And he’d rather be faced with the hard truths than entertain myths forged for his own comfort.

“Come on,” you sighed all-knowingly before your leg crossed over the other, your whiskey pushed aside as you leaned yourself in a little closer to him. “What’s wrong, Dean?” He held his breath at the sudden closeness, but he wasn��t fast enough to miss the sweet caress of your perfume. It wafted beneath his nose like a taunt, and it fuelled the voices in his head even further.

Run away now, Dean. Save her. You’re doomed. Don’t doom her to the same fate. Don’t be selfish. Those words bit at his chest. Shut the hell up, he seethed silently, but they’d never listened before, and they wouldn’t listen now. You can’t shut out the truth, one sniped back.

He turned his head to the side. “Nothin’s wrong. Been a long day, that’s all. Sammy’s been wearin’ me down with all the hell crap. I just need a damn break.”

“I think that’s what you call brotherly concern,” you said, inching forward in your seat so that you nudged at the corner of his vision. “Is it so bad having somebody check up on you from time to time? Can’t do everything on your own, Dean, even if you like to think so.”

Dean released his glass and pushed it away from him, wringing his fingers out before he began to play with his ring. How could he tell you—tell anybody that this was something he could only do on his own? There wasn’t a single thing you or Sammy could do. It wasn’t the sort of thing that the books you skimmed through for hunts had an answer to. Traumatised man struggles to confront his tainted past. Now that’s a book that might’ve come in handy. But he wasn’t about to take a stroll through the local library’s self-help section, and reading it would only feel slightly validating if it’d been assigned by somebody with the degree to back the premise.

Besides, even if he’d been willing to talk to somebody who could help him, he’d surely be given a one-way ticket to the looney bin after the first session. Which wacko got to spew tales about the voices in their head without waking up between four padded walls the next day?

Dean cleared his throat dismissively. “Hey, uh, how’d you get here, anyway? Sammy drop you off?” He asked, eyes still glued to his fiddling fingers before he lifted his head to try and scout out the bartender. He could use another drink to drown the nerves he felt lingering within, and hopefully also drown out the voices while he was at it. You know, kill two birds with one stone and all that.

“Took a cab,” you answered hastily—a clear indication that you had no intention of entertaining his bullshit small talk. “I notice things, you know?” You added more earnestly, something that told him he wasn’t getting out of this one so easily.

Oh, trust me, I know, he remarked silently. He could’ve said the same about himself, especially when it came to you.

For instance, he noticed the way you’d never been a big drinker—how you’d only order something whenever he did. Obligatory pressure? Maybe, but he also noticed the way you always ordered the same whiskey. It was a whiskey he’d chosen for you the first time you’d gone to a bar together, and it was the same one you currently nurtured so gently between your fingers.

He noticed that you tended to care from a distance that didn’t feel suffocating, like making him that piping hot cup of coffee in the mornings he’d be too tired to pluck himself from the sheets, or all the times he’d gone days without eating and then woke up to a breakfast you’d prepped and plated at his bedside table. Hell, even all the times he’d left the motel in a scramble and forgotten essential equipment or some personal belonging, and you’d been right by his side, calm as a cucumber while you procured the items from your backpack.

Even now, you’d come all the way out here to keep him the company he’d never asked for, but that you must’ve known he needed. It was slightly more transparent than the rest of your previous acts of care, but he didn’t mind it, especially because you never tended to hassle him about his problems the way Sammy did. Up until now, at least. It was the little things like that that defined you in his eyes, things he’d come to admire about you.

Honestly, when it came to you, Dean couldn’t do anything but notice. You gave him the sort of impression that there was nothing you couldn’t try and fix. But she can’t fix you, a voice barked at him. You can’t be fixed.

Oh, piss off, you ass-probing sons o’ bitches, he spat internally. I’m not tryna get fixed. He wasn’t naive.

He shifted slightly in his seat as he grew more desperate for a numbing release, his eyes searching the bar frantically. But the bartender seemed to have disappeared entirely, and he gave a barely audible huff at tonight’s rigged luck. There goes the fuckin’ rescue. If he had to endure whatever mushy heart-to-heart was about to come next, he’d rather have done with some more alcohol to cull the consequences.

Almost as though you’d read his mind, the glass you’d been savouring was pushed in his direction. He glanced at you with slightly widened eyes, then gave a tiny dip of his chin.

“Thanks, but I prefer mine on the rocks,” he said thickly. Nothin’ like an icy gulp to remind me where the hell I am. That’s right, Hell. You’ll be back there in no time.

“Oh, I know, but if we’re gonna have this conversation—and we both know we will, you’re gonna need something stronger.” You nudged your glass another inch in his direction, modelling a clear-cut expression that told him not to argue any further. “Take it. This one’s on me,” you added with a cheeky smile. It was on you, only, it hadn’t cost you a dime.

Dean watched you for a few seconds longer, his tongue poking through to drag along his lower lip in silent debate. She’s not going to stop. She’s going to find out who you are. She’ll leave you. Just like everybody else. You’ll be alone. All alone. Alone. Again.

Neither of you moved to claim the drink—you out of protest, and him out of something far darker. All you did was cross your arms onto the countertop as you shared his silence, watching him through those calculating eyes of yours that made him feel a little too seen. Just what was going on inside of your head?

“All right,” he relented, slowly reaching across to clutch the glass. He brought it toward himself before lifting it to you in good gesture. “Cheers,” he said, then with a pause, his head tilted in silent consideration. “Again,” he added wryly.

You gave a tiny smile of victory, and the sight made his heart skip a beat. He immediately dropped his attention to the drink, where he brought it in for an eager drain. But his hand hesitated midway when he spotted the evidence of where your lips had settled for its first sip—the coloured print of your kiss overlapping the rim he’d planned to taste just seconds before.

“What, a little lipstick scare you?” He glanced up in time to see your eyes lifting from the same print on the glass rim, only to fix him with a slightly daring grin.

“Nah,” he answered almost too eagerly. He could’ve cursed himself for acting like a rattled school boy. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, hearty gulp of the whiskey. It seared every inch of his insides for the entire trip down to his stomach, but the burn was something different and oddly welcoming. With a smack of his lips and a sigh of relief, he set the remainder of the drink down and flashed you a content smile.

Suddenly, you were leaning toward him, your hand reaching for his face. The sight made his heart race, and all he could do was lean back an inch in his seat, as though you had a case of cooties he was trying to avoid. “Hey, uh—woah,” he laughed nervously, and then he didn’t make any sound at all. Your thumb was pressed against his lips, but it didn’t hover for long before it did a brisk swipe and your arm retreated back to your side.

“Lipstick smudge,” you told him innocently, but he caught that delighted look on your face, and he knew then that you were perfectly aware of the effect you seemed to have over him.

Dean’s head buckled to conceal the heat in his cheeks—hoping that it hadn’t reached your attention the way everything you did reached his. “Yeah, well, at least buy a guy a drink first,” he chuckled hoarsely.

“Technically, I already did.”

He gave a series of minuscule nods that depicted his defeat. “Touché.” Technically, you hadn’t bought anything—you’d gotten a freebie. But he supposed it was the sentiment that counted.

“Anyways, as I was saying,” you continued your earlier agenda. “I notice things, Dean.”

She’s going to find out exactly who you are.

“Oh, yeah?” He muttered half-heartedly, the heat in his cheeks vanishing only to be replaced by a feeling of dread. His chin perked up when he caught sight of the bartender creeping into the corner of his eye. There you are, ya prick. He lifted his hand to wave the man over, before he finally turned to face you. “Like what?”

He knew exactly what, and so did you. Where to begin was the real question.

Luckily, the bartender appeared just in time to offer a preparatory interlude, which he gratefully seized at the throat. Turning to the man, he leaned onto the counter. “Hey, man, could you fix the gal over here with a. . .” He trailed off with a questioning glance in your direction.

“I’m good, thanks,” you refused politely, but Dean could make out a hint of impatience peering through.

He cocked his head slightly. “Suit y’self,” he murmured, then faced the bartender again to order himself another round to down after he finished the whiskey—drown your sorrows, or whatever it is they say. But your hand reached into his space with far more sense than him, silencing his impulse before his lips could even split to give the order.

“He’s good, too,” you told the drinks master, and the man glanced between the both of you before settling on you with a knowing smile and taking his leave.

Dean turned to you with a slight pout and a ruffled frown. “Man, seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” you retorted bluntly, hand retracting back into your own vicinity. “I’m not carrying your drunk ass out of here. And neither is Sam,” you added when Dean attempted to argue his brother onto his case.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he mumbled, reaching for the singular, remaining drink he was apparently being limited to for the rest of tonight. But he didn’t take another sip just yet. Instead, he used the glass as more of a coping device, his fingers wrung tightly around its fragile body. And he couldn’t look at you while he waited for you to say whatever it is you had to say; he wasn’t strong enough to confront that particular Pandora’s box head on.

“You haven’t been okay for a while now,” you began. His teeth reached to bite the already-raw skin of his cheek. “And I know that it’s because of. . . you know—” he did, “—the things you’ve been through during your time in Hell. I mean, I can’t imag—”

Dean already knew the ending of that sentence before you finished it, and all the spite he’d garnered within drove him to face you with unintentional hostility. “No, you can’t,” he snapped gruffly, but he came to regret it shortly after seeing the hurt creep into your expression. With a sigh, he turned away from your crippling stare, his head shaking lightly in defeat. “This is why I don’t wanna talk about it. . . you and Sammy, you can’t understand what I’ve been through down there—what I had to do down there.” Go on, tell her. Tell her about the monsters in hell. Tell her about the biggest monster of them all.

“You still need to talk about it, Dean,” you urged gently. He noted how soft your tone was, almost as though you were afraid to push him too hard, whether it be with your choice of words, or with a single, harsh pitch in your voice. “If not to me, then to Sam, at least. I mean, he’s your brother, I’m sure he understands most things that other people wouldn’t.”

“Nah. . .” Dean murmured, his voice trailing off as he picked at his battered brain. He brought the whiskey to his lips and took a sip, savouring the burn in his chest. He hovered the glass in the air. “Sammy. . . he can’t help me with this. He shouldn’t have to, anyway. I’m the big bro, I gotta keep my head on for ‘im, y’know?” He glanced at you finally, and he didn’t realise how shattered he must’ve looked until he saw heartbreak soften your eyes.

His attention flickered down to where your crossed arms faltered, your hand briefly reaching forward as though you’d wanted to offer some slither of physical reassurance, but something else had kept you from engaging. He wished it hadn’t.

“Well,” you murmured, that same hand rubbing tender patterns along your forearm. “You don’t have to keep your head on for me.” Dean glanced up at you in surprise. “You’d be stupid to try, anyway. You’re not fooling me, Dean.” You gave a light laugh of defeat. “You’re not even fooling Sam. But the difference is that you don’t have to share that burden with him if you don’t want to. . . but you can share it with me.”

Could he, really? He couldn’t help but feel as though once he did open up to you, you’d realise the true magnitude of his shit. Only then, you wouldn’t be able to back out. You were too kind for that sort of rejection. But you’d both become miserable, and he didn’t think he could do that to you of all people.

With a slight jerk of his chin, he said, “‘fraid I can’t,” and gulped down the last of his drink to flush away the guilt of the mere sound. He hissed through gritted teeth as he placed the glass down with a bang, something that caused a few loiterers to glance his way, but he ignored them as surely as he’d been doing this entire night. “We should get back to the Motel. Bet Sammy’s startin’ to wonder if he should give me a call and chew me out over missin’ your curfew.”

“Dean—” you started, but he stopped listening.

He reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out his wallet, fingers prying the worn leather to slip out a hefty note. He folded and plopped it onto the countertop, his chin dipping in a brief thanks to the bartender who’d begun to saunter over and claim the bill. “Thanks, man,” he murmured, rising from his seat as he buried his wallet once more.

When he did finally make eye contact with you again, you had this sullen look to your features, but he tried not to show the way it made him feel. Feeling guilty? Like a douche? A prick undeserving of her time? After she came out all this way to speak to you. Tsk, the voices sneered.

Piss right off to hell. You first.

“Come on.” Dean jerked his chin at you, averting his gaze almost immediately when he saw your eyes narrow. He half expected you to start arguing, or to continue sitting there in a determined protest, but much to his relief, you rose up before him in a nerve-wrecking silence.

He glanced back at you, noting the light shake of your head before you let slip a hopeless scoff. Before he had a chance to prompt you further, you pivoted on your heels and whipped off into the busy bodies suffocating the bar. Behind you, your perfume lingered like a tantalising trail of candy, one that he knew he’d have no return from if he followed. But he did, anyway—the same way Hansel did Gretel because something about you had always felt like the home he’d never had. Even if he might burn it all down eventually.

He kept you in his sight all the way until the bar’s entrance, where you both eventually slipped out into the cool, unwelcoming air of the night. Dean drew up beside your hovering figure, his hand brought up to cradle your back and guide you to where he’d parked the Impala. He tried to catch your eye to ask whether you’d like his jacket because he felt your faint trembling beneath his hand, but you seemed to stop noticing he existed. Maybe that was for the best.

When you reached the passenger’s side of the car, Dean released you to reach for the handle. It clicked open, and he widened the door with an usher for you to climb inside. But all you did was stand there, tussles of your hair carried in hypnotising whisks by the night’s nipping breeze. He caught the scent of your shampoo, the same one he often found himself breathing in too deeply whenever he’d man the shower after you. And he could still remember it’s name—some limited edition crap he’d forced himself to memorise so that he could find another bottle like it and gift it to you on your next birthday. You’d been complaining for a good month that your current one was running dry.

He didn’t much like the idea of gift-giving, it wasn’t exactly his forte. But he knew the way you and Sammy both lit up at the mere thought of it. Besides, he’d be rude not to return the favour after having received gifts for his birthday from the both of you. Who are you fooling, boy? The best gift you could give her is to get out of her life. Don’t bother playing pretend with anything else.

You finally turned to face him, which instantly halted any and all thoughts he’d slowly been drowning in. There was some new resolve furnishing your features—brows furrowed, lips slightly parted and nostrils flaring with the weight of your own thoughts. But before Dean could ask the first thing about it, your hands came to wrap around his jaw, your lips pressing against his in a firm kiss.

Your lips were so warm against his, so soft that he could’ve fallen deeper into their padding. And he wanted to, so desperate for their welcome that he had to bring his hands up in a gentle bracket of your neck to keep himself from falling prey to his deepest desires. He pulled his lips from yours almost regretfully, keenly aware of your lingering warmth. There was so much emotion brimming in your eyes as you gazed up at him, but he saw uncertainty glare the loudest. He wished he could’ve said something—done something to displace it, but he had to remember where his priorities lay. In keeping you safe. Away from everything that was him.

“We can’t,” he murmured softly.

“Why not, Dean?” You answered with equal volume. He felt your thumb stroke across his stubble.

His lower lip fell loose with a heavy sigh, his head buckling in your hold. “We just can’t,” he repeated.

He waited for a reply, for any sound that echoed your frustrated with him, but you said nothing as your hands fell away from his jaw. He was forced to release his hold on you when you backed away from him and ducked into the salvation of the car’s privacy, his hands collapsing to his side in regret. He lifted his head to the sky with a brief breath of strength before he reached to shut the Impala’s door and tensely made his way around the fore. When he slipped into the driver’s seat, you’d already taken to the view of your window, hand cupping your cheek as you stared at anything that wasn’t Dean.

Fair enough.

He got Baby up and running, carefully picking his way out of the bar’s crowded lot before they hit the road winding toward their motel. The drive’s scenery was quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier atmosphere, and it made the air between yourself and Dean a whole lot tenser. There weren’t many cars, or people, found wandering by at any point of the trip, so it truly felt like the two of you had been locked alone in a room to confront the unspoken elephant. But he wasn’t so eager to pick at that fresh scab. Besides, what else more did he have to say that wouldn’t end up hurting you?

It felt like a lifetime had passed when he pulled up at the motel, the lot desolate save another car somewhere down the line. You finally shifted from your position of gazing out the window, but it wasn’t to look at him. It wasn’t even to reach for the handle that’d free you from this suffocating place beside him. Instead, your head was turned forward as you gazed through the windscreen.

“You’re one stubborn shit, you know that?” You said suddenly.

Dean followed your lead and decided to focus on the bug stain streaking the windshield just above the view of his wheel. “Yeah,” he scoffed knowingly, his fingers restlessly tapping the wheel’s rim.

“You’re just so determined to let yourself suffer alone—as if it makes you righteous in sparing us the hurt. But in reality, we’re already suffering. I mean, we’ve all got our own shit going on, right? The only thing making it worse is that somebody we care about is going through something unimaginable, but we don’t know how the hell to help him because he just won’t talk about it. Because he’s scared about—I don’t know—making us accomplices to his problems, I guess.”

Dean’s head buckled to the view of his lap as he listened to you talk, gripping the wheel’s rim a little tighter as he strangled the emotion threatening to take ahold of him. He heard you shift in your seat, noting as your knees turned toward him for a more direct confrontation. He didn’t think he could endure your frustration for any longer without finally cracking, and that scared him.

“When will you stop being so selfless, Dean?”

He allowed that question to linger in the air. Him, selfless? He wasn’t sure he’d call it that. To tell the truth, though, keeping his mouth shut had slowly been wearing him down. And it was almost as though walling off both you and Sammy had allowed the voices in his head to get as bad as they did. He knew all of this, but still he couldn’t find it in himself to open up. He’d never been good with rationalising his emotions, or with asking for help to do so. After all, growing up, he’d had nobody to ask. So he’d done the only thing he knew how to—suck it up and act the steadfast parent so that he could take care of Sammy. And ever since, he’d never quite learnt how to step out of that role, or how to take care of himself.

“I guess I’m just not ready to talk about it, yet,” Dean admitted in an unsteady murmur. His lower lip began to quiver, and he hated the way no amount of clenching his jaw seemed to quell it.

The hand he’d hovered on the wheel moved hastily to wipe the moisture he felt brimming on the cusp of his eyes, and he swallowed hard to fight his urge to flee the car. There was a loud silence from your side that made his ears ring; he wished you would say something—anything—before his voices did.

“I get that,” you said eventually. It made him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Your hand came fourth to rest on his shoulder, which made him drew a sharp, shuddering breath, despite your warmth seeping through his layers in a way that should’ve soothed him entirely.

“I just need you to know that you don’t have to do everything on your own,” you continued. “It gets exhausting. Trust me, I’ve been on my own for practically my entire life before I met you and Sam.” You paused when Dean turned to face you. “You wanna know something? Humans weren’t made to be alone—to do things alone. We’ve never been strong enough. That comes back to bite some people in the ass, but I’d say for people like us, it’s a blessing. So count them, Dean.”

And finally, as Dean sat stewing in his vulnerability, held hostage under your intense stare, he understood what glint had been in your eye all along. He couldn’t look away from it anymore. As if you seemed to witness his change in demeanour, the hand on his shoulder began to trail down the sleeve of his jacket in a suggestive caress. It set a fire to his chest, one that made him breath a little deeper for the air you seemed to be stealing from his lungs.

“Listen. . . you’re Sammy’s friend,” he pushed out weakly, an attempt to reason against his pressing urges. He hoped that by saying it aloud, he’d be able to silence the part of him that craved the pursuit of you. But for once, amongst the many voices in his head, he could hear his own—loud and clear in it’s true hopes that you’d be braver than he felt and make nothing of his poor argument. That you’d be brave enough to give him the permission he’d been withholding from himself.

You gave him this subtle squint—he caught it briefly in the thinning of your lashes. And then there was the slight hitch in the corner of your lips. The sight made his heart flutter up an inch. For all the voices in his head, he wished he could hear yours right now. Did you want this as much as he did?

Eventually, he caught you leaning closer to his yearning self. “So?” You murmured, the challenge accentuated by the purse in your lips. “I’m my own person before I’m Sam’s friend. I think I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions and dealing with the consequences that come after.”

Dean’s lower lip sank open at that, his brows quirking on anticipation. “I can’t promise you that. . . this, whatever it is, will be an easy ride,” he said. That I’ll be easy to love, he added silently.

You fixed him a long stare, your lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “I told you, Dean, this one’s on me,” you murmured.

This time, he knew that you weren’t alluding to the drink.

You’ll regret this, the voices barked. That’s my own damn decision.

Slowly, he began to lean in toward you, holding your stare and feeling further encouraged by the eager glint that seemed to grow in their breath-taking depths. The voices in his head blared a united jest. She doesn’t want you, she only pities you. You’re going to ruin her, just like you ruin everything else. You think Sammy’s going to forgive you when you break his closest friend? Traitor. Some big bro you are. You’ve always been selfish. He pushed back a mental answer. Shut. It. They didn’t listen.

He felt his heart begin to thud a little harder at his chest, but he gave a hefty swallow to dampen the feeling, and before it had a chance to return reinforced, he pushed his lips to yours.

Silence.

For the first time in what felt like ages, there was silence. Blissful, unequivocal silence. As if your touch was the antidote he’d needed all along to quench the fire hell had set alight to his brain. As if you’d been the missing incantation he’d needed to chant to keep all his demons at bay. And it made him greedy—this taste of peace you seemed to offer him. So he claimed more of it, the kiss deepening as he brought up his hands to cradle both delicate curves of your jaw. In turn, your hands flew up to bracket his neck, before drawing sensual lines all the way to his nape. Your touch was as gentle as he’d imagined, and as kind as he knew you to be, and he craved more of it. More of you. All of you.

Goddammit, he shouldn’t, but he did. He was only human, after all—even if he was all the worst parts of one.

He pulled away briefly to take the view of you in, lips parted in a slight pant. You mirrored him well, the gentle glare of the lamppost light reflected across your slicked lips. The sight made him burn with a more feral desire. He just had to have you. He was far beyond fending off his selfish desires now.

“Dean?” You called softly, an unsure twinge to your tone. You must’ve thought that he’d begun having doubts about pursuing this because there was a sudden, anxious furrow to your brows. But your hands didn’t falter from his neck, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting you go, either.

“C’mere,” he breathed softly, releasing your jaw only to slide his hands down your waist and to your hips, where he settled a firm grip to encourage you onto his lap. You followed his flow so naturally, hands sliding along the toned slope of his shoulders to grip there for support. You manoeuvred across the conjoined seat and reached the first leg over his lap, which Dean cupped at the thigh to steady you onto him. “Yeah, there ya go, you got it,” he murmured encouragingly, and your other leg followed shortly after until you comfortably straddled him.

You tilted your head up to drink in the impala’s ceiling, which could manage a graze of your nose if you lifted yourself any further. “Bit of a tight fit, isn’t it?” You giggled, glancing back down at Dean. He wanted to bottle the sound.

“Hey, she’ll do plenty fine,” he chuckled huskily, his hands comfortably settled at the meat of your hips. His thumbs rubbed tentative circles across your clothed skin, and he watched the way your lower lip drew into a subtle bite. It drove him nuts. He found himself leaning up to reach for your lips once more, but you held him back with an index finger to his chin.

“And just so we’re clear, I don’t have a curfew,” you said pointedly. Dean knew you were alluding to what he’d said back at the bar.

His lips split with a thankful grin. “Hallelujah to that,” he drawled huskily before lowering his lips to deliver a playful nibble to your finger. You let slip a giggle the most bubbly he’d ever heard before plucking your finger away and replacing it with your hungry lips.

His hands found their way below the hem of your dress, where he rubbed a firm line up your thighs. The touch coaxed a moan from your lips, poured into his mouth like the drizzle of honey—he couldn’t help but lap it up. Your hands wandered messy lines up and down the expanse of his neck, even going so far as to tousle his hair. The stimulation drove him crazy and sent a jolt down to his core. The longer your lips spent entangled, the more he felt his jean begin to strain beyond his control—but he didn’t have much adoration left to conceal. If anything, he wanted you to know exactly how you consumed every part of him.

He pulled away from the kiss, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ this,” he husked. “Wantin’ you.”

He could see the way the kiss had left you breathless, too, and strands of hair had fallen from the keep of your ears to messily frame your face. God, you looked beautiful. “Your damn fault for taking this long to pursue it. I’ve given all the signs, Dean Winchester, but you are as naive as boys come.”

He reached up to tuck the hair behind your ears, making a point to trail his fingers along the contour of your jaw as a knowing smirk felt out his lips. “Nah, just a good ol’ case of self-restraint,” he murmured.

“Oh because you know what’s so good for you?” You teased. Even under the dim lamplight, he could make out the rosy tint to your cheeks.

“I damn well do now.”

“Then show me.”

Dean grinned at your blatant challenge, hands moving to grab at your hips. He slowly began grounding you against his erection, which plucked from your lips a series of noises that began to grow more and more lewd with each passing second. He felt your nails digging into his shoulders, the padding of his jacket cushioning the sensation into gentle kneading. He couldn’t help but grunt with each blissful stroke against him—god, he could do this all night. It wasn’t long before you’d taken over the job entirely, your hips stirring back and fourth across his lap to a slow, tantalising rhythm that made his head loll back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his teeth grit as he endured the waves of pleasure riding its way through every nerve of his body. His fought the urge to flutter his eyes closed, to drown in the darkness of his euphoria because there was no way in hell he was missing a single detail about you—lower lip nibbled, fluttering lashes, heaving chest, a show all for him.

“You like that?” You asked thinly, your eyes fluttering closed as you threw your head back with a single, harsh push of your hips.

“Like it? You’re killin’ me over here,” he pushed out—a gruff, strained sound as he battled the heat accumulating in his groin. The demons, the angels, every asshole out to get him could go stuff it. At the end of the day, it was you that was going to be the sure death of him.

You let out an impish giggle, your hands releasing his shoulders to plough through your hair in the most seductive manner you could manage. It made him clench his jaw, made his grip on your hips a little firmer than before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he praised breathlessly, eyes fluttering through his lashes as he gazed up at you. You were mesmerising, in everything that you did. You didn’t ever have to be doing much for him to want to stare. Existing was enough. Doing more than existing was a bonus.

He saw the way you lit up at that compliment, and it made him want to shower you with many more like it. Hunting had its kicks, but fuck, this—you—he could find himself addicted. That should’ve made you dangerous, especially when you were all he needed to take to stifle the voices. But he couldn’t pull away from you now. He wouldn’t. In fact, it only made him want to hold onto you more fiercely.

Your hands reached back for the steering wheel as you sought out just the angle to intensify your movements, and that’s when you accidentally struck the hooter. The both of you jolted with the noise, which made your hands fly up to cup your mouth in both horror and amusement, your hips stilling against his lap.

Instinctively, both Dean and yourself turned to glance through the windscreen, zoning in on the door that lead up to the three bed motel you’d been renting for a good month or so. A few tense seconds passed, but the door never opened to reveal an inquisitive Sam, and you both let out with a breath of relief. You collapsed onto the crown of Dean’s head with a fit of laughter, practically hugging his head. He burrowed into your chest with his own chuckle as his hands dragged up your body to wrap around your waist in a hug.

“I’m thinkin’ maybe we should move this party to the backseat,” he murmured against you.

You pulled back to face him, hands entangling at the nape of his neck. “I think that’s for the best,” you giggled, leaning down to place a tender kiss on his lips. He loved how gentle your touch felt, like he was being admired more than desired—something to savour and not to lap up like a greedy, guilty cheat meal. It made him feel valued, and he’d take every damn second of this night to return the favour.

He received your kiss eagerly, eyes falling shut as he basked in your soothing warmth. He found himself breathing a little deeper, your scent streaming in to envelop him further in your essence—as if he craved to be remade in your image. Then, much to his disappointment, you pulled away and left his lips bare as you began to shift from his lap. He watched as you reached past his torso to bend yourself over the seat, and then with a few noises of effort here and there, you heaved yourself over—your flailing foot nearly striking his eye in the process.

“You good?” He called back, twisting in his spot to catch you sprawled on your back along the seat. Oh, you were comfortable, all right.

“Just get over here, Lover Boy,” you giggled, hands grabbing the empty air.

Dean chuckled and shifted onto his knees with a grunt, carefully reaching over the seats to place his hands on either side of your torso. He got the last of himself over so that he towered over your waiting figure, the necklace permanently wrung around his neck slipping his top to dangle toward you. Your eyes latched onto it curiously before you reached up to hold it between cautious fingers. He half expected you to ask about it, but instead, you released it and wrapped your hands around his neck, as if nothing other than him mattered in that moment.

Before he knew it, he was pulled down into a kiss, and he leaned down even further to get lost in the taste of you. His hands lowered along your body to find the hem of your dress, where they fastened around the material and began dragging it up and over the curves of your legs. When he’d gotten to your torso, he broke off the kiss to lift himself a fraction, your hands coming up to aid the removal of your dress. He slipped it over your head and tossed it onto the floor before moving to shed his own jacket and layered shirts. The clutter of your shoes falling to the floor sounded some ways behind him, and he took a moment to do the same, shrugging off his boots into the oblivion below.

He took a moment to glance you over, almost naked save the pretty set of lace underwear. He’d pictured this moment far too many times than he’d like to admit, and now he drank in your every curve, scar and blemish, and marvelled at the soft sheen of your skin to the point where he hoped he’d come to memorise you. Somewhere in the mix, he picked up the sweet tang of your lotion.

“God,” he pushed out absentmindedly, his hands moving to rub soft lines down your waist.

“A believer now, are we?” You poked, your back arching an inch off the seat as you bathed in his endearing touch.

Dean jerked his chin. “I mean, come on,” he grinned, doing another sweep of your body before he leaned down to litter soft kisses along your neck. Your head caved further into the seat, broadening the horizon for his appreciative lips to explore as they pleased—and they did.

He drew passionate lines all over the curve of your neck, even managing a sneaky trail up to your ears, where he nibbled lovingly at the lobe. You giggled, the sound pure music and bliss to his ears. He wandered all the way down to your collarbones, experimenting with light nibbles along the tender anatomy before he soothed it with a slow kiss. You let out a passionate moan that spurred him on, the strain in his jeans becoming far tighter than he could bear, but he couldn’t stop himself from exploring every inch of you just yet. He intended on pressing all of your buttons—desperate to know just how many sounds he could coax from you.

He dipped down to place a kiss on your breast, so perfectly hoisted by the bra he sought to slip from your body. He pulled back in a light pant, his hands coming up to fulfil his wishes. Thankfully, it was one of those that unhooked in the front. It sure as hell would save the extra effort. While he reached for the clip, your hands wandered up his muscled forearms, thumbs tracing over the veins of your choice. He stole a glance from you, noting how you seemed as enticed by him as he felt by you, before he turned his focus back to your bra with a sheepish grin on his lips.

“What’s got you more flustered than a frat boy with a serious crush?” You asked, your hands straying from his arms to trail down his toned abdomen.

Your touch stopped just shy of his navel, but the heat carried all the way to his groin. “Don’t you play games with me,” he warned through a smirk, the bra’s clip coming undone. Slowly, he parted the cupping, his breath usurped by the view of your spreading breasts. “Y’know what, play as many games as you’d like—but keep the damn view, will ya?” He chuckled, aiding your efforts to shimmy the bra straps from your shoulders.

Your hands hovered half-way over the hem of his pants, framing his gently carved v-lines in admiration. And then you began to undo the button of his jean, the zipper splitting downward in a slow and steady whir that hoisted his primal urges. You made a point to simultaneously tug at the hem of his underwear as you pulled down his jean, which he shifted to help aid the removal of. He felt mildly embarrassed at the way his manhood bowed with eager anticipation, but you drank in the view with flustered eyes, lips thinning with an exhilarated grin that told him you were marvelling in the spell you’d cast over him.

When you met his gaze again, there was this almost pleading look to your eyes. He answered your silent prayers by bowing down to place tender, thorough kisses all around the curves of your breasts, even taking a moment to adorn your hardened buds with a hot swirl of his tongue and a gentle toying of his teeth. This action alone seemed to tug at your last thread until you’d unravelled into a mewling mess, slurring his name in a manner that made him never want to stop. His hands came up to squeeze your breasts a little harsher than he’d intended to, but you let out an approving groan that left his grip steadfast as he continued his toying.

The hands you’d settled into his hair was the last straw he needed to finally drag his attention lower, where he instilled sloppy, hasty kisses all along your stomach. He reached the hem of your delicate lace, hands gliding over the meat of your hips to hook his fingers under the waistband and yank it down your legs. You discarded the undies eagerly, and with his newfound access to your womanhood, he gave you a content smile before dipping between your thighs to drag his tongue through your slicked folds. He curled his arms around your propped thighs, his nose burying against your clit as he lapped up your core at slow and steady pace. He deliberately took his time to draw all manner of patterns along the tender skin, keenly listening for any hitch in your moans that indicated he’d found a sweet spot. The sound of your undoing? Now that was a voice he’d gladly allow to plague his mind—all day, all night.

He could tell by the progressive loudness of your moans and the more frantic jerking of your lower half that were close to your limits, so he intensified every flick and whisk of his tongue to help carry you to that point.

“Dean—stop,” you breathed out suddenly. Immediately, he withdrew from your proximity with a concerned glance in your direction.

“You all right?” He asked, releasing his grip on your thighs to rub calming circles along your sensitive skin. “If I pushed too far, I’m sor—” he attempted to apologise, but you were eager to cut him short.

“No, it’s not that!” You said quickly, propping yourself onto your elbows to take the view of him in better. “You’re doing amazing—you’re amazing,” you said through a soft smile, your cheeks blown red by a combination of your stimulation and your almost undoing. “But I don’t want to finish just yet. I want to feel you—all of you,” you explained.

Dean caught on quickly, his heart lurching a short distance. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” he murmured, inching his way back up toward you, where he leaned in to brush his nose against yours tenderly before he dipped to place his yearning kiss onto your lips.

“I want you so bad, Dean,” you murmured between kisses—a sweet, breathless sound that cooed into his ear.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how mutual the feeling is,” He breathed, answering your plea by reaching down to grab ahold of his manhood. He delivered a quick, preparatory pump along the length before he pressed it to your slicked folds and dragged it down to your entrance. You let out a sharp moan at that, the kiss temporarily seizing.

Slowly, he began to insert himself into your warmth. You drank him in so eagerly that he couldn’t stop a strained moan from slipping his lips.

“Oh, man,” he mumbled huskily, head collapsing just past yours as he drove himself into the first pump—so controlled and calculated as though he were afraid to hurt you. You seemed appreciative of his pace, your hands coming up to wrap around the toned contours of his back. “You still good?” He checked in as his hips retracted for the second stroke, angling himself to achieve just the right curve that would boldly reach your sweet spot.

You mumbled a feeble mhm, your fingers burrowing little divots into the muscle of his back. That confirmation cemented him, and he took on a steady pace within you, one hand reaching down to grip your thigh in support. It wasn’t long before the impala began to sway under his growing pace, each powered thrust of his hips against yours providing all the momentum needed to rock the steadfast steel. The mingled tune of your moans and grunts filled the isolated air of the car, the windows tinted with a secretive sweat bled from your combined body heat. It carried on for a while, and he could only hope that nobody was around to witness it.

His high came on strong—and embarrassingly, a lot more quicker than yours. He’d blame it on his infatuation with you. That, and the fact that he’d practically cleansed his brain of the mere thought of you. It’d all been necessary to spare himself the torment of fawning over every aspect of your existence, but now that he was finally afforded the opportunity to truly taste you, could he have blamed himself for being greedy? Still, he throttled the urge to scatter his pleasure, straining and waiting as you reached your own breaking point. He knew you were near when he felt the twinge of your nails against his back, and he brought both arms up to straddle your head as he pressed a desperate kiss to your lips.

With a single, deep thrust of his hips, you both spluttered a weepy breath. The knot in his core dissipated into an elated, white haze that consumed his every sense. For a moment, all he could do was hover himself over you, his lips splayed against yours as he grunted into you. Your lips tangled in breathless bouts of air, occasionally snagging in a weak kiss.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed against your cheek, placing a kiss onto the flushed skin.

Your hands came up to cradle his face and push him just far enough to drink him in. “I adore you, Dean Winchester,” you whispered lovingly. “I always have.”

The way you gazed at him was enough to throb his debilitated heart, and suddenly he felt rejuvenated within—as though you were all the motivation he needed to keep on powering his way through this cruel experience he’d come to call surviving. You made him want to do more than survive. You made him want to live—if not for himself, then for you. You were the type of person he’d have fought himself free of hell to return back to. And now that he was back, one thing was for certain—he’d keep on fighting to ensure his place on this earth. To remain beside you.

Dean had never been too good with words out loud, so he gave you a soft smile that he hoped could convey a fraction of what he felt for you. He removed your hands from his jaw, crowning each with a kiss before he shifted your bodies into a comfortable spooning session. Your back curved into his chest, your lower half perfectly conforming to his as he held you against him like you’d slip away if he relented for even a second. And you laid like that until a gentle, shallow rhythm of breathing overtook you, sleep coming to claim you with a haste he envied. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slipped into dreamland as quickly as that—and when he did, his nightmares would turn up like an eager workaholic reporting for dawn duty.

Now, with you nestled between the arms that had come to memorise the shape of loneliness, he didn’t mind laying there in wake. He listened to the gentle whisper of your flaring nostrils, taking in a fraction of the peace etched across your partially concealed face. He was glad that somebody else could draw peace from him and claim it in the way that he’d never been able to claim for himself. He was glad that somebody was you.

It had always been you.

He’d been the biggest fool trying to convince himself otherwise.

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a/n: trying out a new format here bc the old one is exactly that. old. n e ways. first Dean fic—be kind to me!! :’) this was so daunting to write, but boy did I have my fun with it. i hope y’all enjoy this piece, i haven’t been able to get this sad sad man out of my mind. i just want to hold him close at all times. also i’m not responsible for any typos i’ve missed bc it’s currently 2 am and i’m scrambling to get this out. the drafts are sick of it.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated! ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind

want to be apart of the taglist?

comment/message me if you’d like to be added to/removed from the taglist of any future dean winchester works!

other works — supernatural masterlist

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mywritersmind · 6 months ago

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TATTOOED ON MY BODY - LN4

summary : Lando Norris doesn’t have many opinions when it comes to tattoos, but as soon as he sees his girl with a very supportive one, he’s all for it.

listen up : based on haley scott’s tattoo in one tree hill😚 suggestive content! lando norris likes ass. i’m a genius for this one. tbh since i don’t write smut, someone should just continue this and tag me.

words : 626

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“My love.” he practically melts into me, his hands instinctively going to my waist as his face gets buried in my chest.

I’m sitting in his driver's room as he leans against me in between my legs. His suit is unzipped and his hair is messy but he’s never looked happier.

He’s sweaty and soaked in champagne but I don’t care. He won. He fucking won the last race, his fourth win, as well as the constructors with his team.

“I’m so proud of you, Lan.” I bring my hand to his chin, tilting his face up to me to kiss him. He’s still smiling when I pull away and the air switches between us. I bite my lip, “I have a surprise for you…”

“Oh?” He rests his hands on either side of me. He hasn’t seen me in a couple of days, which I may or may not have strategically planned.

I nod slowly, pushing him back, “I got you something.”

“Yeah?” He’s smirking now, taking a couple steps back as his eyes rake up and down my body. “What kinda something?”

“Not exactly physical…” His brow raises at this, “But I think you’ll like it.” His head knocks the cabinets, nodding at me to go on.

I take a breath and turn around, maybe dragging it out a bit when I hear his breathing spike. I move my hair over my shoulder, looking back at him just to see his eyes glued on my ass.

I can’t help but smile, teasingly pulling up my shirt that goes past my belt. I know the second he sees it because he makes a sort of strained choking sound.

“So… you like it?” I look over my shoulder, tucking my shirt into my bra and watching his gaze being directed at the small of my back and most importantly, the ink on it.

In a daze, He hooks his fingers on my belt loops, pulling me closer and leaning down, “Do I- Fuck is that even a question?” His fingers drifting over the tattoo sends a shiver up my spine, “I’ve never been more turned on.”

I laugh as he spins me around and kisses me, it's rougher this time, his hands are more grabby and possessive. “I’m glad you like it.”

He kisses me again, “Like in an understatement.” He kisses me again, “I love you.” I giggle as he spins me back around and all but bends me over to get a better look.

“Lando!” His hand is grabbing my ass now.

“Shh, love. Let me enjoy my girlfriend’s ass that’s marked as mine.” He kisses the back of my neck, tugging at my hair as I bite my lip to keep myself from moaning.

“With all the hickies you leave on me, I'm always marked!” I turn around and slip my hands into his hair. I love his curls, even if they’re wet and falling into his face. “This is just more prominent, even if it is a bit hidden.”

His lips are on me once again, but he’s soft now, “I never thought you could get any hotter… Yet here we are.”

I smile, tugging at his shirt and standing on my tippy toes to face him, “I’m a woman of many surprises, Lan.”

He shakes his head, his green eyes so crystal clear while looking at me, “Let's go, I need a shower and a better look at this number on you…” His hair encloses over mine just as his lips meet my cheek.

I know he watches my ass as I leave. It's an even better feeling knowing that he’s staring at the same number his car is branded with.

#fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando x you

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faithsmadhouse · 16 days ago

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streamer!max who lets lando record you and him fucking.

Smile for the Cameras||Streamer!Max Verstappen x Reader (feat. Lando Norris)

Summary—max like showing you off and you like that attention.

Warnings: Voyeurism, filming, degradation kink (light), praise kink, oral (f receiving), rough sex, possession kink, implied masturbation (Lando), intense eye contact, verbal control, aftercare

Word count—1348

A/n finished this three days ago forgot to post it

The apartment’s still bathed in the soft glow of Max’s RGB stream setup when he closes the door behind him. The air hums with leftover energy—electric, sharp around the edges. One of Max’s arms loops around your waist possessively. The other hooks into Lando’s hoodie and tugs him forward like he’s reeling in a fish.

“I said you could watch,” Max mutters, voice low and hot against your ear, “but only if you film it right.”

Lando stumbles into the room, awkward and flushed, his usual cocky smirk nowhere in sight. His eyes flick from you to Max to the bed, like he’s not sure where to land. His mouth opens—maybe to ask a question, maybe to back out—but no sound comes.

Max doesn’t wait. He grabs the camera from his desk: sleek, expensive, something he only brings out for certain content. He hands it over to Lando like it weighs nothing, but the way Lando’s hands fumble says otherwise.

“This isn’t a stream,” Max adds, almost casual. “No chat. No subs. No filters.”

He steps behind you, large palm sliding up your stomach beneath your shirt, dragging it up until your ribs are bare and your breath hitches.

“This is for me. And for you,” he adds, tossing Lando a loaded glance. “So don’t fuck it up.”

Lando’s voice finally cracks out of him, thin and unsure. “Are you—are you serious right now?”

Max just laughs under his breath, mouth brushing your neck. “You think I’d let you through the door if I wasn’t?”

He grips your chin next, fingers firm but careful, and tilts your face toward his. His gaze is heavy. Not possessive yet—but close.

“You okay, baby?” he asks. The kind of question that sounds like a command. “Need you to say it. Loud enough for our guest.”

You nod first. But then you speak.

“I want it.”

Max smiles. Not soft. Crooked. Dangerous. His thumb brushes the side of your throat as he kisses your jaw, then turns to Lando.

“You hear that?”

Lando nods. Wordless.

Max’s smile sharpens. “Then start filming. Or get the fuck out.”

Lando jumps a little, the camera clicking on with a faint beep. He raises it like it shields him, holding it between his hands like it might bite him otherwise.

“Focus on her,” Max says as he guides you toward the bed, letting you sink onto the edge. “Keep it steady. I don’t want that shaky Twitch bullshit.”

“I—okay,” Lando mutters. He’s already red from the neck up. His gaze flicks over you, then snaps back to the camera’s tiny monitor like that somehow makes it less real.

Max starts peeling off his shirt, slow and unhurried, watching both of you with the same lazy intensity he gets when he’s ten rounds into a shooter and already winning.

“Jesus,” Lando mutters under his breath. “This is fucking insane.”

Max chuckles, tossing his shirt aside.

“You’re not backing out, are you?”

Lando doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes lift, meet yours for a beat. Something flickers in them—not just arousal, but a question. A plea for reassurance that he’s not crossing some unspoken line.

You give him the smallest nod.

And maybe that’s all he needs.

Max sees it, too. He watches the quiet exchange with a tilt of his head, then steps in between your legs and rests his hands on your thighs.

“See that?” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “She wants you to watch.”

He leans in, brushing his lips over your ear, voice darker now. “She gets off on it.”

You shiver under his hands.

“She’s mine. But she likes to be seen,” Max continues, like he’s explaining how you work. For the camera. For Lando. For himself. “And I like letting people know what they can’t fucking have.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your mouth. And when he pulls back, his voice is soft—just for you.

“You’re still good?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Color?”

“Green.”

Max smiles again. “Good girl.”

Then he looks at Lando, and the softness vanishes.

“You better be filming.”

The camera clicks into sharper focus. The tension breaks into heat.

And the show begins.

Your back hits the mattress, and Max is on you in seconds, dragging his shirt over his head, eyes locked to yours like he’s daring you to look away. You don’t. Not when he spreads your legs. Not when he kneels between them and drags his tongue slow and firm through your folds, growling against you like he needs it more than oxygen.

“She’s already wet,” Max murmurs, voice rich and smug for the camera. “Are you watching this?”

You moan, high and open, hips bucking up—but he pins you down with an arm over your stomach, glancing back toward Lando.

“She’s so fucking needy. Always like this when someone’s watching.”

Your thighs shake when he sucks your clit between his lips, relentless and messy, groaning like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. You grip the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes on him, baby,” Max warns, dragging two fingers into you with a wet snap. “Look at Lando while I make you cum. Let him see how pretty you break.”

It takes everything in you to lift your head, to meet Lando’s eyes behind the lens. He looks stunned, stiff as a statue, face burning—and fuck, it only makes it hotter.

You cum hard and fast, with Max’s name spilling from your lips and Lando’s breath hitching audibly. The camera dips, like his hands are shaking.

Max pulls back, mouth and chin slick with you, wiping it off with the back of his hand like it’s nothing. He gets to his feet, strips the rest of the way down, and fists his cock—already hard, red and leaking.

“She cums so easy for me,” Max tells him. “And I’m not even inside her yet.”

When he presses into you, it’s all at once—deep, possessive, overwhelming. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, and Max groans right into your mouth, biting at your lip as he starts to move.

“You’re mine, yeah?” he breathes, snapping his hips. “Say it for the camera.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper.

He fucks you rough, steady, one hand gripping your jaw so tight your bones ache, the other sliding down to rub your clit again.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” Max pants, voice hoarse and drunk on you. “Fucking tight. Takes me like she’s made for it.”

The bed creaks beneath you. Sweat sticks to your chest. You’re drowning in him—his weight, his words, the heat of his body—but the camera never leaves you. You feel Lando’s gaze like it’s physical, like it’s burning your skin where the lens touches.

Max grabs your face again, forces you to look up. “You think he’s touching himself?”

You whimper.

“He’s gonna cum to this for weeks. Knowing he watched me wreck you first.”

You spiral, eyes rolling back, and Max groans your name like a prayer.

“That’s it. Cum for me. Let him see.”

You break on a moan so loud it drowns everything else out. Max fucks you through it, unforgiving and breathless, before he finally shudders, curses, and buries himself deep inside you with a growl.

The room is silent, heavy with sex and sweat and heat.

Max leans over you, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then your mouth—gentle, grounding, his hand brushing damp hair from your face. “You good, baby?”

You nod, spent. Barely able to speak.

Lando is still standing there, camera hanging limp in one hand, the other clenched in a fist at his side.

Max glances over, smirks.

“You wanna see the footage?” he asks, lazy and smug. “Might have to make you film the next one too.”

Lando swallows hard.

And doesn’t say no.

#f1 smut #f1 x you #formula one x you #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula one x reader #f1 x female reader #formula one x y/n #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #faiths inbox #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x you

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majestyeverlasting · 2 months ago

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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader summary joel walks you home after your first date, but neither of you are ready to part ways—so you invite him inside [post-outbreak, very fluffy, joel has big hands, wc 1.1k] a/n a humble offering as we near the episode 2 drop (pretend this fic is being presented to you in a little egg—happy easter/resurrection sunday to those who celebrate).

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

Endings. Joel only seems to remember he wasn’t fond of them until one stared him in the face. Especially on a night he wished would never end. Every time he looks at you, he sees the pretty girl who’d once been a pair of unfamiliar eyes across the community center. That same girl smiled at him that afternoon, and you haven’t stopped smiling at him since.

It had taken a considerable amount of courage to ask you on the date he’d taken you on tonight. Until the moment you opened your front door to him, he’d never seen you in a sundress.

For as much as your beauty made an impression, he can still hear your laughter and see the sparkle in your eyes as you talked and listened to him over dinner. Everything was fresh in his mind, settled beneath his skin. It’d been a while since somebody made him feel this way.

But it was time to say goodnight.

A crescent moon watches as Joel walks you up your porch steps, your arm hooked in his. Rather than moving to unlock your front door, you face him, letting both arms fall by your sides. He tucks his hands into his pockets, eyes roving over you as a warm breeze blows through.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but you’re the one to speak up first.

“I had a really good time tonight.”

He huffs a chuckle and glances at the wooden planks beneath his boots.

“Beat me to it,” he says, kind eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Gotta be quicker next time,” you lilt.

The smile that settles on his face makes your stomach liven with butterflies that scatter high into your chest. You’d realized it was the little things with him.

Joel wasn’t loud or particularly talkative—sometimes you wish he spoke more—but he never missed a thing. There was never a moment he wasn’t fully immersed in, even if it seemed like he was merely drifting through it with that same pensive expression. He listened more intently than anyone you’d ever known, even when you had nothing important to say.

A selfish part of you wishes you could have him to yourself a little while longer. But you knew he had a kid to get back home to.

Joel takes a chance, outstretching his arms to offer a hug. It’s almost pathetic how quickly you step forward, both arms looping around his waist as you tuck your nose into the crook of his neck. He smooths a hand along your back in a few steady passes before stepping back.

“‘Night,” he says.

You bite your lip just as you’re about to say it back. “Hey. Listen. I know we’ve been together all evening, but would you want to come in, maybe? It’s totally fine if not, I completely understand. I know Ellie’s probably—”

“Sure.” Joel lifts a shoulder. You blink in surprise. “She ain’t exactly prayin' and wishin' for me to get back as soon as possible.”

You laugh at that, amused and relieved.

Inside, Joel takes his shoes off even though you insist he can keep them on—something about tracking dirt in and keeping your floors nice and pretty. His socked feet pad behind you as you give him a shy tour that you partly stammer through. It’s much different now that he’s actually in your house in the dim lamplight.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the exact angle every picture frame and accent pillow rests at.

When you make it back to the living room, you motion for him to take a seat wherever he likes. He relaxes onto the couch with a contented sigh, hands resting in his lap, knees slightly parted.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you ask, still standing.

“Water’s fine,” he says. “Thank you.”

When you come back, you pass him the glass and sit beside him. It’s quiet as he takes a couple of sips. By the time he sets the water on the coffee table, you can hear every little sound, and every shift of your dress as you get comfortable.

“What happened?” he asks lightly. “Am I the reason you’ve gone all shy?”

He’d realized. Of course, he realized.

You huff out a helpless laugh, tucking your head down. “Thanks for rubbing it in.”

A small smile curls at Joel’s lips. “Wasn’t my intention,” he says. “M’sorry.”

He reaches over to squeeze your thigh, letting his hand rest there. Warmth blooms beneath his touch and spreads throughout your body until it thrums beneath your skin. If Joel realizes his effect, he doesn’t let on, beginning to brush his thumb along your skin.

“Apology accepted,” you murmur. “Your hands are so big.”

You place your hand over top of his, and he flips it face up so your palms are touching. His fingers are longer and thicker than yours in a way that makes your stomach flutter. It feels like you’re a teenager again, finding any reason to touch and flirt with him because it feels safe and easy.

You’d heard all the stories about him, the ignorant warnings about force, anger, and strength. The Joel those individuals spoke of sounded nothing like the mild-mannered man sitting beside you tonight. They had chosen to believe that people could only show up in one light. There was no room to shift, or be different, or make mistakes.

“Bet I can read your future,” you say.

“S'that right?”

You begin to trace over the lines of his calloused palm, just light enough to tickle. Joel tracks your touch, fingers twitching just slightly. You meet his gaze after running your finger down the most prominent line.

“Anything good?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“Like what?”

“It’s gonna cost you first,” you say.

“What’s your price?” Joel humors you. “Name it and I’m good.”

The air shifts as you angle your body more towards him. Your attention flits from his eyes to his lips. Just like his hair, his moustache is streaked with silver. By the time you realize you’ve been staring a second too long, it’s too late. A tug has already stirred between the two of you.

Joel shifts closer, gently taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb. When he leans in, your eyes flutter closed, and time stills as his lips meet yours. It’s a soft, chaste kiss. His lips are so careful and warm, you miss the feel of them when he pulls away. A small whine almost escapes you when he settles back into the couch like he hadn’t done a thing.

Truth be told, he's just gotten good at his poker face.

“There we go. Paid in full,” Joel says. “Now tell me ‘bout the future.”

One he hoped had you in it, as you stood at the dawn of something new.

Thank you so much for reading. All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #the last of us season 2 #pedro pascal

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chleem · 23 days ago

Text

If it's casual now...

One shot; college students drew x reader

Summary: after five months of blurred lines and unspoken rules, everything unravels when you ask drew what you really are to him. suddenly, pretending it’s casual isn’t an option anymore.

Genre: angst (read at own caution; explicit languages + scenes

⋆.˚ dont copy or translate my work on any platforms

♡⸝⸝ phrase one | more

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“We need to talk.”

Your voice echoes through your dormitory, coming from Drew’s phone, the message you left from last night.

It was the only thing you said, but you figured it would be enough to get him here.

And it was. Drew showed up the way he always does- unannounced, no text, no call, just the quiet click of your door unlocking and the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor.

Like he belongs here. Like it’s his space.

Now, he’s standing across from you behind the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped lazily around a mug. His hoodie’s slung over your chair, his phone charging in the same outlet he always claims.

He hasn't said anything yet. Just looking at you expectedly with the piercing blue eyes of his.

You’re dressed- ready for class, your bag prepared by the couch, adjusting your bracelet- everything about you says you’re leaving.

He plays your voice message again.

“We need to talk.”

You send him a look, “stop playing that.”

Drew sets his mug down; the soft clink of ceramic against the counter louder than it should be, “you look pretty.”

You give him a faint smile, reaching up to adjust your necklace.

“Where you going?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know your schedule by heart.

“Class,” you say, trying to keep your voice light despite the thudding in your ears.

Drew nods at your answer, biting down on his bottom lip. “Okay… you look pretty,” he repeats.

Then, he moves.

He steps out from behind the counter, and in just a few strides, he’s standing beside you, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes.

You can feel the warmth coming off him. That clean scent he always carries-something between laundry soap and the hoodie he probably hasn’t washed in a while- settles in the space between you.

He somehow also smells like sleep and mornings and whatever’s left of the cologne he put on yesterday.

“Thank you,” you whisper, glancing at him before turning toward the small bulletin board by your dorm door.

You search for your keys, among the clutter of class notes and reminders pinned there, trying to focus on something else.

You could feel his stare burn on the back of your head.

“I have your keys, babe,”

“…both of them?”

“Yeah,” Drew replies, before the sound of keys jiggling fills the room.

You turn around to see him sitting on your counter stool, legs spread comfortably.

He sets both keys on the countertop.

You walk back over, and without much thought, he scoots the chair closer, closing the space until you’re settled between his legs.

Your fingers close around your key, the one with your familiar keychain and you want to leave, escape his presence, but you’re right in the middle of it.

He reaches over, his bicep brushing lightly against the side of your waist as he grabs his phone. You already know what he’s going to do.

The message plays again: “We need to talk.”

You chuckle softly under your breath, and when you glance up, Drew’s smiling gently at you.

“Yeah?” He says.

You meant it last night- that you were going to talk to him. But now, with him standing so close, it feels harder to do.

He hooks his finger into your belt loops, tugging gently, pulling you just a little closer, his touch light but deliberate, as if he’s trying to coax the words from you.

“You’ve got my attention,” he adds, voice low and almost teasing, but there’s sincerity to it too.

Where to start?

You turn to face him, and he takes the chance to rest his hands on your lower waist, his bracelet (the one you got him) brushing against the fabric.

You take a deep breath, fingers nervously fidgeting with your keychain, then finally meet his gaze.

“What are we, Drew?”

You won’t lie- what other people say has been creeping into your mind more than you want to admit. Your friends, who sneered and called you a loser for sticking around. The strangers who whispered, maybe a little too loudly, about how you’re just ‘the girl he bangs on his couch.’

Those words, sharp and careless, have been gnawing at you, making you question everything you have with Drew.

Five months of casual talks, stolen touches, late-night kisses, meeting parents like it was nothing- it’s all there, but without a name, without a definition.

And then there’s Mike- your new friend, a first-year who confessed, asked you out. His honesty made you think about everything even more. The more you thought about it, the more restless you got.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

He kept you like a secret, while you carried him like a promise.

It’s clear this simple question caught Drew off-guard, his eyes widening, pupils dilating a bit, and his mouth parts slightly- before he quickly fixes this smile.

“What?” he chuckles, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your waist.

“What are we, Drew?” You ask again, patiently.

He hesitates, then smiles, a little uneven. “Where- where is this coming from?”

“I’m just…curious,” you look down at your keychain, fiddling with it nervously. Before you can think twice, Drew reaches out and takes it from your fingers, setting it gently on the table.

You look back up at him, catching the almost blank stare in his eyes. “Curious?”

“Yeah- I mean,” you shrug, pulling your sleeves down a little tighter. “It’s just… I don’t know. Don’t you…wonder?”

He lets out a light scoff, bringing a hand up to scratch behind his ear, a little awkward. “No... no, I don’t really,” he says, voice low but honest, eyes flickering away for a moment before meeting yours again.

“You… don’t?”

You wait for him to say more, but he just shrugs, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe I just... like things the way they are,” he admits.

Of course he does.

Casual- no expectations, no labels, no accountability.

That’s what Drew likes; how casual you are- how casual he thinks you are.

But you aren’t. You’re nowhere near it.

Not when he’s met your friends, not when you’ve met his family, not when he kisses you like he means something. Like you mean something.

You blink, pulling in a quiet breath.

“So that’s what you wanted to talk about?” Drew smiles, and before you can answer, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your stomach, right over the fabric of your top- affectionate, familiar, automatic.

You can’t even help the frown that settles on your face.

You hesitate for a moment, your hand hovering, before you give in and thread your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle.

He exhales softly at your touch, his lashes fluttering briefly as he presses another kiss, higher this time, right over your ribcage. Still over the fabric, still tender.

“Drew?”

“Yeah?”

“…we need to talk.”

“You sound just like the recording,” he teases, lips curving up as his hand lazily roams over your back.

But you don’t laugh, not even smile.

You shift back slightly, just enough for his touch to fall away, his hands slipping back to rest at your sides.

“What are we? Seriously,” you ask, letting out a breathy, uneasy laugh as you tuck your hair behind your ear.

He swallows; his smile falters, and this time he scratches his forehead, “I don’t know- casual? No strings, no attachments- you know.��

No attachments.

No strings.

Casual.

“We’re not, Drew. We’re not casual, at all,” you whisper, biting your lip and glancing away, because saying it out loud makes your chest tighten.

Drew stays quiet for a beat then finally asks, “Why now?”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head slightly, running a hand through his hair. “I mean... two days ago, you were sleeping on my arm until it went numb- ”

You cut in, voice low but firm, “that’s why, Drew. Does that sound casual to you?”

You couldn’t believe his next words.

“Yes.”

“‘Yes’?” You look into those blue eyes of his, “do you casually fall asleep with strangers, Drew?”

“…you’re not a stranger.”

You lean in just a little, voice soft but steady. “Then what am I? What am I to you?”

The sapphire orbs dance between your eyes, your nose, your lips, “I don’t like this conversation,” he answers instead.

You gulp, heart pounding, “me neither. But- just-“

“You mean a lot to me, y/n. Is that what you want to hear?”

You nod slowly, biting your lip hard enough to taste the faint metallic tang of blood. Your gaze drops to the floor, unable to hold his eyes any longer; your arms wrapping around yourself instinctively.

You wait, just a beat longer to see if he’ll say anything else, if he’ll soften those words or try to explain.

But he doesn’t.

He stays close, and you find yourself chuckling softly at the tension between you.

Trying to slip free, you move, but his legs brace yours in place, trapping you gently yet firmly.

And so you stay, standing between Drew, who sits comfortably on the counter stool.

“Hey- you okay?” He reaches up to cup your face, and you immediately flinch away.

“What do you think?” you snap, voice sharper than you intended.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“You don’t get it, do you, Drew?”

But you don’t give him the chance to answer.

“You don’t meet someone’s parents when it’s casual,” you say softly. “You don’t leave your stuff here, or memorize my schedule, or- look at me the way you do- and call that ‘no strings.’”

He shifts in the stool, but you don’t look at him yet.

“You don’t- you don’t make love to someone…if it’s just casual.”

“Love?” he repeats.

“Yeah, love,” your voice is barely above your whisper- even though the emotions are real, it feels weird confessing them. Meeting his gaze, you see doubt, maybe- crossing his features.

He leans back, and the corner of his lips lift up.

“We fuck, y/n. I don’t- I don’t love you-“

Just when you thought it wouldn’t get worse.

The words land cold, blunt, like a slap you never saw coming. You can’t believe they came out of his mouth- the same mouth that pressed against yours so deeply, lingering like it meant more. The mouth that whispered your name in the dark, the one that traced every inch of your skin like it was memorizing you.

“Then do you like me, at least?”

“…you mean a lot to me, you know that.”

“It’s not the same thing, Drew-” you say, a sad smile tugging at your lips despite the hurt pooling in your eyes. “-you know that.”

He notices immediately- your smile, fragile and trembling, the way your eyes start to glisten with unshed tears. His confident, cocky facade flickers, and for a moment, vulnerability breaks through.

His brows knit together, a crease forming between them as if the weight of what you just said lands heavier than he expected. His jaw tightens, searching for the right words, but none come easily.

“Fuck- babe-“ His hand reaches up.

You flinch away, swallowing hard to hold back the tears. “Don’t- don’t touch me. Don’t call me that,”

A heavy pause settles.

And then, softly- but with finality- you say the words that will break it all apart.

“Let’s stop seeing each other, Drew.”

“…so that’s it? You get- you get a little in your feelings and suddenly we’re done?”

“‘A little’?” you echo, your voice cracking just slightly, more from disbelief than anger.

“Well, yeah, are you in a bad mood-“

You stare at him, stunned.

“I’ve been letting it slide for the past few months, Drew,” you say, “I’ve stayed quiet while everyone else talked about us- about me like I was a clingy bitch you couldn’t get rid of.”

He goes still- shame clouding behind those blue eyes.

“And now you’re telling me it’s just me being a little in my feelings?” you whisper, voice trembling just enough to betray the hurt, “after everything?”

He stays silent- and for a moment, you let yourself hope that means something. That maybe the words finally hit. That maybe, just maybe, you’ve gotten through to him.

His eyes are still on you, unreadable now, but softer than before. The way they used to be when he was pulling you closer in the dark. The kind of softness that once felt safe.

But now? Now, it just feels late.

You draw in a shaky breath, arms still wrapped around yourself. “You like the way things are? Well, I hate it. I hate feeling like I was the only one who actually cared about this... whatever this was.”

“I care about this,” Drew says- too quick, too defensive.

You shake your head, voice quiet but sure, “No. You don’t-“

“I do, y/n. You-“

“You only care about yourself, Drew. So, stop pretending,” you murmur, and you immediately wipe away the tear that just slipped down your cheek, hoping he didn’t see it- but knowing he did. You force a small smile, and his shoulders immediately drop, his expression shifting to one of awe and devastation.

You feel wrong in your own space. Like an intruder in the scene of your own undoing. His scent still lingers in the air, faint cologne and worn cotton, and it turns your stomach. The room is still littered with traces of him; his hoodie slung over your chair, his books scattered around the place, even the beautiful roses he gifted you on Valentines.

You felt so wrong in your own space.

“I have class now, so I’ve got to go,” you say instead, ending the conversation by grabbing your keys and moving out of his way.

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, I could be late,” you reply, not meeting his eyes as you reached for your bag on the couch.

You walk past him, focused only on the door, until his hand wraps firmly around your wrist.

It’s not rough, but it’s enough to stop you.

“Hey- hey, y/n, c’mon, I- ”

Slowly, you turn to face him. He’s standing close now, closer than he should be, his fingers still curled around your wrist like letting go might mean something final.

You watch his face carefully, trying to see if he’s about to say something real.

“I- I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.”

You wished there was a mirror, so he could see how physically hard it looked for him to say those words.

And that’s not what you wanted to hear.

Not really.

Because ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t answer anything.

“…are you, in love with me, y/n?”

The question hits you harder than anything he’s said tonight. It lands like a punch- not because it’s cruel, but because it’s unexpected. Because he asked it.

Your eyes snap to his, to those piercing blue eyes that have looked at you a thousand different ways but never quite like this, curious, cautious, maybe even scared.

“Would it change anything?”

His breath hitches.

You see it- the realization settle in his eyes, slow and sudden all at once.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything; his lips part, then close again.

The truth sits right there on his tongue, but he’s too scared to let it out.

Too scared to name it, too scared to lose you if he does, or maybe more scared of what it means if he says it and still loses you anyway.

Drew’s voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks.

“…I don’t know.”

And that’s worse than a no.

You nod, something in your chest sinking, not crashing, just… lowering. Settling into that numb space where hurt goes to hide.

“Um, then I guess you could take your time to get your stuff out of my room,” you say instead, your voice weak, walking over to the door to hurriedly put on your shoes.

You open the door and step out of your dorm, closing it gently behind you.

You stand there for a few beats, hoping, maybe waiting for him to call your name, to step out after you and say something that would change everything.

But the silence stretches on, and the door’s still.

Slowly, you start walking away, each step heavier than the last.

Then your hands lift, covering your face- pressing into your eyes, trying to stop what’s already happening.

You’re not even sure why you’re crying.

Maybe because it’s finally over. Maybe because it never really started. Or maybe because, deep down, you let yourself believe- for just a second- that it could have been something more.

And now, there’s nothing left to do but sit with the ache of what it wasn’t.

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

word count: 2.8k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: i wrote this in a way that, even if you didn't read the other 'extras' or 'phase one', u could read this as a stand alone. this is for the ppl that love angst, i hope this is angsty enough (their argument is a softer kind of heartbreak- kinda calm before actual storm + i feel it fits into their characterizations)

and u have no idea how many times ive rewritten and reread bc this is not my best work im sorry

also, thank u for the 1.8k ppl that read my work! im so appreciative of it, im grateful that someone even reads it; let alone follow me. so thank u, im trying my best to produce the best for u <3

taglist: @maybankslover @rafeyswifey @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amb3rsaurus @bananaminn @rafecamerons-national-anthem @milky321 @drewnationalgf @iraslore @ursogorgeous13 @jamimers @hockeybabe87 @jqtsblyth @virgochaos @wolvestitches @dontblamethedrunkcaller @esposamultifandom @starkeysfile @rlalliehayes @pillowprincess4him @kravitzwhore @cokewithcameron

elevator | other | more casual!drew

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #oneshot #angst #fluff #smut #situationships

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gweelczz · 2 months ago

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“Roots and Remedies”

Elias “Stack” Moore x Honey (OC)

Genre: Fluff with slight violence

Summary: Somebody tries Stack’s woman and Stack ain’t fucking with it

The sun was low and hot, spitting fire across the cracked concrete outside Roots & Remedies. Honey was standin’ on a stepstool inside, fixin’ a jar of bay leaves onto a shelf when she heard the ruckus — a voice, loud and ugly, barkin’ out over the quiet hum of the evening.

“Witchcraft! Devil’s work!” the man hollered, spittin’ onto the sidewalk like the ground itself owed him somethin’.

Honey set the jar down slow, wiped her hands on her skirt, and stepped outside. The man was a wiry little thing, face already turnin’ beet red, sweatin’ through his cheap button-up.

Her deep cognac eyes narrowed. “Ain’t nobody botherin’ you, sir,” she said, voice smooth but firm, her thick 4c coils tucked away in a pretty deep-purple headwrap that caught the light. “You best go on ’bout your business.”

“Business?” the man barked, takin’ a step toward her. “This ain’t business, it’s blasphemy! You sellin’ evil! Cursin’ folks!” He jabbed a finger toward the sign painted on the window — Herbs, Remedies, Roots.

A few folks lingered at the curb, watchin’.

Honey didn’t flinch. “Ain’t no curses here,” she said coolly. “Just folks tryna heal a little. You don’t like it, you can move along.”

The man puffed up, lookin’ like a rooster about to pop a vein. “You better shut this place down ’fore somebody shuts it down for you!”

Before Honey could open her mouth again, she heard it — that low, heavy scrape of boots on pavement. She didn’t even need to turn around.

Stack.

He moved like a storm rollin’ in — tall, broad, dressed in a suit with a red tie and hat accompanied by a cigar. Smoke flanked him dressed in a tweed suit with blue, cigarette in hand that Stack had rolled for him, cut from the same rough cloth.

Stack stopped right between her and the fool, thumb hooked lazy in his belt loop, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“You heard the lady,” Stack said, voice a slow southern drawl, gritty like gravel. “Get the hell on.”

The man sneered, takin’ in Stack and then Smoke, eyes bouncin’ back and forth.

“Y’all supposed to be twins?” he asked, snickering like he thought he was clever.

Stack smirked his voice low and laced humor. He tilts his head down a bit, grills showing, “Nah we cousins.”

The fool laughed — a nervous, ugly sound — and shoved Stack right in the chest.

That was it.

Stack’s fist cracked into his jaw before the man could even blink, knockin’ him flat on his back. He let out a pitiful grunt, lyin’ there, stunned.

Smoke stepped up, starin’ down at him, his gold tooth flashin’ when he gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Told you, you dumbass.”

Honey watched it all with her arms crossed, lips pursed, but there was a little curl of pride under it too.

Stack turned back to her, brown eyes softer now when he looked at her. He reached out, thumb brushing lightly over her jawline.

“You alright, baby girl?” he drawled, low and rough like molasses.

“I’m good, sugar,” she said, voice just as slow, just as thick. Her hand slipped up to lightly squeeze his wrist — strong, calloused, warm.

He dipped his head a little, like he might kiss her right there if there weren’t still folks watchin’. Instead, he tucked her close under his arm, leadin’ her back toward the shop.

Smoke lingered just long enough to nudge the groanin’ man with the toe of his boot, makin’ sure he stayed down.

The door to Roots & Remedies swung shut behind them, the bell jinglin’ soft-like. Outside, the street buzzed with whispers and side-eyes, but inside, it was just them — the sharp scent of dried herbs, the creak of old wood under their boots, and the feelin’ that, no matter what foolishness tried to stir up outside, this was Honey’s ground.

And Stack?

He’d fight the devil himself before he let anybody take it from her.

⸻

Inside Roots & Remedies, the air was heavy with the scent of cedar and lavender, the last light of the sun stretchin’ long across the wooden floors.

Stack let the door fall shut behind him, the little bell jinglin’ once, then nothin’ but the sound of their boots against the worn floorboards.

Honey pulled away just enough to turn and look at him — her thick lashes low, cognac eyes glintin’ warm but wary. She untied her headwrap slow, lettin’ some of her thick black coils tumble free down her back, a habit she always did when she needed to breathe deep.

“You ain’t had to do all that, Stack,” she said soft, but the way she was lookin’ at him said she wasn’t mad about it neither.

Stack shrugged like it was nothin’, shoulders rollin’ slow under his tank, tattoos catchin’ the low light.

“You know I ain’t gon’ let no man talk crazy to you,” he said, voice thick, drawlin’ rough around the edges. “Ain’t gon’ happen, not while I’m breathin’.”

Honey leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed, watchin’ him like she was tryin’ to see right down into his soul.

“You always been hardheaded like that,” she teased, but there was a tremble in her voice. One she couldn’t hide.

Stack stepped closer, boots heavy on the old wood, until there weren’t no space left between ‘em. His hands found her waist easy, rough palms slidin’ over the soft curve of her sides, holdin’ her like he was afraid she’d slip away.

He dipped his head low, forehead nearly brushin’ hers. His breath was hot against her lips.

“I gotta ride out soon,” he muttered, voice grittier than gravel. “Handle somethin’.”

Honey’s heart kicked up hard. She knew Stack’s somethin’ was never clean. Never easy.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, holdin’ on tight. “Stack, don’t you—”

“I ain’t makin’ no promises I can’t keep,” he cut in, his thumb strokin’ slow over her hip. “But I’m tellin’ you right now… when I get back?” He pulled her closer, voice low like a prayer.

“I’m puttin’ a ring on that pretty lil’ finger. You gon’ be mine, Honey. Whole town gonna know it.”

Honey blinked up at him, heart slammin’ against her ribs, tears burnin’ the backs of her eyes — but she didn’t let ’em fall. Not yet.

“You betta come back to me,” she whispered, voice breakin’ just a little.

Stack gave her a half-smile, all sharp teeth and reckless heart. He kissed her forehead slow — a kiss that felt like it was settin’ a mark only she could see.

But before he could step away, Honey caught his hand, holdin’ him still.

“Wait,” she said, voice steady now.

She moved behind the counter quick, grabbin’ a small velvet pouch and two tiny bottles filled with oil. She handed one pouch and one bottle to Stack, the other set into Smoke’s calloused hand.

“Keep these on you,” Honey said, voice low, almost sacred. “I blessed ‘em myself. For protection. For strength. For comin’ home.”

Stack looked down at the little pouch in his hand, then back up at her — somethin’ hot and tender flashin’ in his eyes that he didn’t dare speak on.

Honey stepped even closer, pressin’ her palm flat against Stack’s chest, right over his heart. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, her voice thick with old words passed down from her grandmama and the women before her — words stitched with faith, strength, and stubborn hope.

When she finished, she pressed one last kiss to his knuckles, the ones already bruisin’ from the earlier fight.

Then she let him go.

Stack headed for the door without lookin’ back, pushin’ it open so hard the bell above it jangled wild, like it knew somethin’ was comin’.

Honey stood there, chest tight, clutchin’ the edge of the counter, watchin’ him disappear into the blood-red dusk — feelin’ in her bones that whatever Stack was walkin’ into, it might not let him come back easy.

If he came back at all.

Next chapter

#x oc #stack sinners #smoke sinners #sinners film #sinners fanfiction #sinners #smoke and stack #smokestack twins #talks with red

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jellyfishbug · 10 months ago

Text

POP THE HOOD F'ME

pairing. chris x reader genre. smut with plot. MDNI. word count [5.2k]

content; mechanic!chris, flirty!chris, smoking (they share a cig), sex with a stranger ig? semi public, car head (m recieving), face fucking, big dick chris, reader has an eyebrow piercing, use of pet names, dirty talk, swearing

Maybe it was just dumb luck.

My dad has been promising me that his old ford pickup was gonna be mine when I got my license since I was ten. However, not long after my sixteenth birthday, he randomly decided that his promise had conditions.

I had to fix it myself.

I had been putting off working on it for years. I just didn't have the time, and it needed a lot of work. The list of things to be fixed was long, and I knew if I started then, I wouldn't have finished.

Finally, the time presented itself for me to start. I finally had a summer that wasn't so busy, so I decided in May of this year I was finally going to do it.

I was finally going to get my own truck.

So I did; I worked on it for two long months. Two long months spent in the garage on my back under the heavy pickup with my hands covered in soot and oil whilst sweat dripped down my face. Two long months spent fixing the paint job and fiddling around under the hood, my hair tied back to keep it off my neck while the sun beamed through the opened garage door.

I finally felt confident enough to take it out for a test drive today. It was starting fine in the garage, and I'd driven it around the block a number of times without fail.

I excitedly hopped in the driver's seat and shut the heavy door, jamming my keys into the ignition and grinning at the sound of the roar when the engine started. I made it pretty much across town without a single problem, and I thought I was in the clear.

So, maybe it was just dumb luck when not even an hour later, here I am, standing on the side of the road next to said pickup with the hood popped and smoke coming out of the cabin.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was dumb luck when I realized I was only three blocks away from an auto shop, and a guy pulled over to help drag my car there.

It felt like forever when we finally reached the parking lot. The red and white sign that hung over the opened garage doors read 'sturniolo's auto-repair".

For the most part, the slots were empty, except for a 58' baby blue Impala that was suspended off the ground, and a brand new silver Subaru outback that sat right next to it.

As we finally pushed it into the open slot on the far end of the garage, I let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off my forehead with one hand and letting them both rest at my sides.

I thanked the stranger for his assistance and he wished me luck, mumbling about how much a repair on a truck like this was going to cost before wandering off. I scowled at him as soon as he turned away from me.

Walking away from the smokey and damaged shell of a car, I pushed open the clear glass door into the entry-way of the shop, and the sound of the ringing bells that were carefully tied at the top of the door filled my ears.

Near the desk stood two boys, both were brunettes that roughly stood at the same height. The first was wearing a red toyota nascar cap backwards over his brown hair, as well as a black tank top and a navy blue mechanic's suit that hugged his frame. The name patch on the chest of it read "Matt". He was speaking to another customer, flailing the rag around as he emphasized his points with his hands.

The other was standing behind the counter, a gray bandana tied around his head. He wore a navy blue button up that he left completely open with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, making the white tank top he wore under it visible.

The name patch on his chest read "Chris", and a white rag was thrown over his shoulder. A plethora of keys were hooked to a red carabiner that hung around the belt loop of his jeans. The desk hid his lower half below his waistline, and as I stepped closer, I saw a toothpick in between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he jotted down words on a yellow notepad with a pencil.

I slowly walked up to the desk, my arms at my sides. He didn't raise his head to look at me, he just continued writing, so I cleared my throat.

His head shot up, and his expression fell into embarrassment.

"Fuck- sorry, I didn't hear you come in. How long ‘v you been standing there?"

I laughed lightly and shook my head. "Not long, I just walked in."

A smile painted itself onto his face as he set the pencil down and put his hands in his pockets just far enough that his thumbs still stuck out. "What can i do for ya?" He asked kindly, the toothpick in his mouth moving as he spoke.

"My truck broke down three blocks ago and wouldn't start. I tried looking under the hood to see the problem, but it was smoking, so I pushed it here." I explained, my hands finding each other and clasping together at my front.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly. "Jesus, you wheeled it all the way here?" He asked, laughing breathily when I nodded my head in response. "Atta girl. What kind of truck is it?"

"A ford pickup," I responded all too quickly, my voice strained as I tried to ignore how my heart swelled in my chest from the impressed look on his face. He nodded as he opened the drawer next to him and pulled out a ballpoint pen, picking up the notepad once again to start writing. "What year and license plate?"

"85', boston plate, the number is 289 BTO. " I watched as he wrote mindlessly, the handwriting barely coherent.

"'M kay, I'll take a look at it for you." he said, setting the notepad and pen back down on the counter. He opened his palm, gesturing for my keys, and I dropped them into his grasp. He hooked the ring that held them together around his index finger.

"Wait here, should only be a couple minutes."

I nodded as he circled around to the end of the desk, walking past me and pushing open the door to the garage.

His absence gave me a chance to examine the decor of the office space. Family and baby portraits crowded on top of the counter below the window behind the desk. A mickey mouse clock sat above the side door, and a large OPEN sign hung in the window.

The wall was crowded with plates and signs. One that caught my eye was an eagle with its claws digging into a hanging mirror, the name HARLEY DAVIDSON displayed in bright orange letters above the eagle's head. Next to the register was a small bell with a sign that said "ring for service" and the words 'don't actually' were scribbled in sharpie above.

Just when I was getting lost in thought, I heard the door bells jingle a second time, and Chris walked back in. The rag was now hanging loosely in his palm as he approached the counter. He stood right next to me, reaching over for the notepad and throwing the rag back over his now bare shoulder, which is when I realized he had discarded his button up. My eyes dart down to see the keys to my truck now hanging on a different belt loop on his jeans.

"From what I can see," he starts, popping the cap of the pen off and leaving it in between his teeth as he spoke. "It looks like a coolant leak. The combination from the antifreeze leaking and the heat of the engine is enough to make it smoke, but it's not enough to cause the engine freeze up." he explains, his eyes meeting mine every couple of words to make sure i understand. "So, it could also be a fuel pump problem combined with the leak."

I nodded, chewing my lip nervously as he went on to explain the time the repair would take as well as the cost. When the words, "not finished until at least tomorrow" left his lips, I huffed in defeat, and tried to make my disappointment less evident as i crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"How long have you had it?" He asked, now leaning against the counter next to us with one elbow, crossing one foot over the other.

"I've only started to work on it this summer, but it's been my dads since before i was born."

He nodded. "It's a pretty ride," he confessed. "I honestly expected it to look worse when you said 85', but the conditions not bad. You been workin' on it a lot?"

"As much as I can." I shrugged.

He complimented the paint job, to which i confessed i'd done it, and he gushed. "Christ, you should work here. Matt can't paint to save his life. You could probably get him out of a job,"

Matt sent a glare his way. "Shut up, kid. Dad would fire you over me any day, especially if you keep sleeping in."

Chris laughed, a genuine sound that made Matt's glare turn into a small smile before he went back to rifling through the file cabinet.

He turned back to me, pausing to look back over the notes he'd written down. "If i had to guess, I'd say we can probably have it to you by tomorrow evening." he said, looking away from the paper and averting his gaze to instead look me right in the eye. "That work for you?"

I nodded slowly. Suddenly, the issue of a ride home became extremely apparent, and an anxious feeling started to blossom in my chest.

"Good. Just one more thing. . ." he pauses to take the pen cap out of his mouth and place it back on the pen, tapping it against the curve of his hand and grinning wildly at me.

"i'm gonna need your number to let you know when its finished."

He's just asking because he's supposed to; because he literally has to in order for me to get my car back. But regardless, i felt heat rise to my cheeks as i started shifting uncomfortably in place.

"Right," I said, moving to reach for the pen. He points to a blank part of the notepad, tapping lightly to tell me where to write it.

Quickly and shakily, i write out the numbers with dashes. I hand it back to him, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He rips the sheet off the notepad in one swift motion and folds it in half, placing it in his back pocket.

He glances towards the clock. Its nearing seven. He turns back to me, "d'you have a ride home?"

My eyes went wide. I'm reminded of my attempt to call my dad three times when the truck initially broke down, and how my shoulders slumped in defeat at the sound of his voicemail playing repeatedly.

I glance back over to him, ". . . Not exactly. I'll probably just catch the bu-"

"I can drive you,"

I swallowed, my lips slightly parted in surprise. His grin was still wide, awaiting my response.

It was a sweet offer, really. But considering my house was across town, partnered with the fact that he was literally on the job, i shook my head. "That's really sweet, thank you, but I'm far. And you're working, anyway." He shrugs, glancing at the clock once more. "It's fine, Matt's on desk duty and he's closing tonight. I don't mind."

I chew my lip. I'd be stupid to pass up on a ride, but i barely know this kid, and if my dad sees me rolling up with him and no truck, it wouldn't look great.

And then I think about the hour long bus ride that would be in the near future if I declined.

I screw my eyes shut. "You know what? Why not."

Despite the scenario i was in, my mind was pushing out any and all nerves as I watched Chris collect his things from behind the desk. He pulled his wallet, shop keys and jacket out of a cubby.

The two of us walked back into the garage and over to Matt, who was washing his hands in a sink bellow the tool shelves.

Chris bid goodbye to his brother, who looked at the clock and then frowned, turning the faucet off and reaching for the roll of papers towels.

"You're seriously slacking off? I already covered for you and Nate leaving early last weekend." He complained, discarding the wad of paper towels he'd used to dry his hands into the trash bin below.

Chris shot him a look. "And then i covered your sunday morning shift because you were hungover. You owe me."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just put your tools away when you open tomorrow. It drives me fucking insane when you leave them everywhere."

Chris salutes. "Roger that." He turned to me and winked, gesturing to follow him through the garage with a tilt of his head.

I followed behind him as he went out a different exit; this one leading to a parking lot on the back of the building. A large EMPLOYEE PARKING sign hung on the fence near the driveway.

He fiddled with the many keys on his carabiner before finally finding his and walking towards a car near the opening in the gate.

A blue, four-seater, convertible 65' mustang. The light from the setting sun literally reflected off of it. He mindlessly stuck the key into the passenger side door, twisting and pulling it open with a faint click.

He gestured his hand towards the seat playfully, "Ladies first."

I rolled my eyes, placing one foot on the floor of the car and ducking my head to sit down. "How gentlemanly of you,"

He grinned at me, closing the door and walking around the back of the car before popping into the driver's seat.

"This is.. wow." I mutter, admiring the small details and cleanliness of the car as he closed his door and threw his belongings in the back. "Jesus, this is yours?"

He smiled proudly, his tongue darting out to dampen his bottom lip. "All mine,"

His fingers twisted the key into the ignition and the roar of the engine made the car buzz against my feet. He rolled both of our windows down, the summer air blowing smoothly through the car.

His smile was wider and prouder than ever as he glanced into the rear view mirror, throwing an arm over the back of my seat to glance behind him as he reversed. We pulled out of the parking lot and turned left onto the main road, Chris letting the steering wheel slide back into place under his palm by itself once he'd done so.

"You said you were far," he mumbled. "What area are you in?"

The question pulled me back into reality. I'd gotten so distracted by the way he drove so carelessly, like he was completely relaxed and in control of everything movement the car made, like fear didn't even exist to him as he pressed harder onto the gas pedal with his foot, my eyes choosing to ignore the way the tic on the speed meter start to spike.

His jawline was illuminated in the dim light, and the toothpick that was still resting on his lips stayed moving as he spoke gently, waiting patiently for me to answer.

I started giving him directions, and he listened carefully and intently, glancing over to look at me to make sure he understood my instructions. Once we were on the freeway, he went even faster, lane switching if someone in front of him wasn't going as fast as he'd like them to.

Soft giggles left me as he did, basking in the view of his lips parted into a smile, showcasing pearly teeth between pink lips.

Once he pulled onto the off ramp and we were stopped at a red light, he turned to look at me again, the bright red turning the car a faint shade of crimson.

"What time do you need to be back?"

He asked with a tone of voice he hadn't used till now. The sudden lowness caught me off guard as I shrugged, "'Dunno, not for a while."

He hummed in acknowledgement. "You wanna stay on the road for a bit?"

I pull my knees up to my chest and let my head fall against the headrest, a careless smile on my face. "Definitely."

And we did; we ended up back on the highway pretty quickly, blasting music through a speaker Chris had propped against the dashboard.

His speed only got higher and higher as time went on, carelessly resting one hand on the wheel whilst the other gripped the gear shift. At some point, his hand had mindlessly traveled to rest on my upper bare thigh below the hem of my shorts, cold and partially ringed fingers pressing against my skin.

"Will you do me a favor?"

I raised my eyebrows and hummed in response. He gestured towards the glove box. "Theres a pack of camel blue 99s in the glove box, would you grab em for me?"

I bit my lip. "Depends, you sharing?"

"Duh."

I leaned forward, feeling my stomach flip when his hand didn't much as move an inch on my thigh, brushing against my lower stomach as I lurched forward to fiddle with the glovebox.

I propped it open and grabbed the pack and paused, "d'you have a light?"

He nodded. "Should be one in there."

I learned more forward and reached farther back, glancing around before locking my eyes on a silver flip top lighter and grabbing it. Once i lean back up, Chris is pulling into an empty lot. His hand leaves my leg to push the gear into park, and i try not to frown.

I flick the top of the cig carton open and hastily pull one out, dropping it into Chris's palm.

He places it hazardly between his lips and turns to face me, silently asking for me to light it.

I pop the lid of the zippo open and hold the flam to the end of his cig, waiting to pull away until his expression signifies that its lit enough. His expression relaxes as he breathes in before pulling it away from his mouth with two fingers and exhaling, the smoke filling the car.

"If I'm honest, I prefer marlboro reds." I say quietly in an attempt to break the silence, watching Chris flick the ash out the window lazily with his thumb and index finger. He shakes his head. "Camels are undeniably better."

I laugh lightly and raise my eyebrows in amusement. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

He takes another drag before holding it in between his fingers in front of my face, and Instead of reaching for it, I place my lips around the filter while it's still in his hand. Our eyes lock while I breath in sharper, the cool feel of the smoke filling my chest.

He licks his lips, and for a moment, his eyes dart down to look at mine, and he's starts he's studying my face. I'm doing the same.

His eyes are bright blue, surrounded by thick lashes, which are barely visible with stray pieces of his hair hanging down below the bandana on his head. Freckles lightly paint his noise, and his pink lips are slightly parted as his eyes scan my face.

"I like your piercing," he finally says, pressing his one hand to his eyebrow as if he had one himself. I breathe out the smoke i'd been holding in my lungs and smile at him. He's still looking at it as he speaks again, "Did it hurt?"

I shrug. "Not really," Because it didn't, but also because I'd feel like an idiot saying it did. "Just a pinch."

He nodded slowly. "Hm."

I take another hit from the cig which he's still holding up to my lips. Our faces are closer now. One of my elbows is resting on the center console as I look at him through my lashes.

"You should get one." I say.

He laughs, breathy and genuine. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Mhm," i reach my hand up to graze above his eye with two fingers. "It would look good on you." He watches my movements. "We'd match, too."

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, finally moving the cig back to his own lips and taking one more long drag before carelessly discarding it out the window.

All too quick, he's facing me again, and he leans even closer. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest, and a part of me thinks he can hear it.

Before I can even blink, he places his fingers on my chin and tilts his head, smashing his lips against mine hard.

Its all teeth at first, clashing messily as his hand leaves my chin and rests as the base of my neck. My hands are on his face, my fingers messing with the curls at the back of his neck while he grins against my lips.

He lightly bites my bottom lip, taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like cherry and camels, and I feel myself whimpering at the contact.

"Fuck," he mumbles into my mouth, and his tone is exasperated, partly because the console between us is making it harder for him to kiss me like he wants to, and partly because his attempts to pull me close enough for our chests to press together have been unsuccessful.

His hands reach down to tug at the belt loops of my shorts, trying to pull me onto his lap. I pull away for a second to push myself over the console, Chris's grip on my hips staying firm to assist me. I duck to avoid hitting my head on the roof of the car, and Chris giggles lowly.

I finally relax once I'm comfortable in his lap, straddling his legs below me. One of his hands is across my lower half, sliding his hand into my back pocket, and the other rests in the middle of my back, holding me in place.

We're kissing again, and this time it's more lips and tongue then teeth, but he's still lightly tugging at my lip.

I'm tugging at his hair as I push myself closer to his lower abdomen, pressing down, which elicits a groan from him. He pulls away from me, and I try to follow his lips with a whine, but he tugs at the back of my hair lightly so he can press kisses from my jaw down to my neck.

I'm already whimpering as soon as his teeth press against my throat, and he digs them deep, kissing the mark once he's satisfied with the shade of purple its turned before finding a different spot to do the same thing.

"Chris, fuck- please."

I can feel him below me, and it's making me crazy. He doesn't budge, even as I continue to whine breathlessly at him.

He only grins as he continues to nip at my skin, and i felt the smirk on his face against my throat. I tangle my fingers in his hair and tug as a silent plea. "What s' it, baby?"

Baby.

I practically keen at the nickname. He finally pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his lips to his previous spot on my neck. He grins proudly at the marks he's left before looking at me again.

"What d'you want?" his tone is cocky and assertive. His lips look red and bitten, and I start to feel embarrassed at the fact that we were sucking face so lewdly in a literal parking lot.

I want to squirm and writhe away under his gaze, but his knuckle tight grip on me won't let me. I fiddle with the neck of his shirt and avoid looking at him as i whisper, "I need you."

He grins madly. "How d'you need me, sweetheart?"

I lean forward and press my lips back against his, and he entertains for a little before tugging my hair lightly to pull me back. His fingers grip my chin, holding me in place to look at him.

"Tell me what you want."

I brush my hand against his belt buckle. "I wanna suck you off,"

It came out in a mumble, but he understood, nodding somewhat cockily with a shit-eating grin on his lips. A groan left him as he tugged me even closer so our chests were pressed together. "Yeah?"

I nod eagerly, another 'please' ready to escape my mouth as my impatience grows. He ducks his hand between the seat and the door to push it farther back, "On your knees, then."

I obliged immediately, sliding off his lap to rest on my knees below him. My elbows rest on either side of his legs as my hands flew to his belt, unbuckling it and tugging at his jeans and boxers.

He lifted his hips lightly to assist me. I pulled them down until they rested around his ankles, and I feel myself gawk.

He's big. Bigger then I expected.

A nervous feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach, but the way he's looking down at me through hazy vision makes it vanish even quicker, and I wrap my hands around his length.

"You okay?" He asks, moving his hand to rest on my cheek, his thumb soothingly pressed on my temple.

"No- yeah, i'm good." I breathe. I hover myself over him, finally taking him into my mouth. A string of curses leave him in a hushed breath, and his head moves to rest at the back of my head to coax me farther down.

I pull back slightly, wrapping my lips around his tip and sucking lightly. His chest is rising and falling quickly above me, and his labored breathing is music to my ears.

His cock is heavy on my tongue, and its addicting. I take him farther down my throat, hollowing my cheeks to fit as much of him as i can while my hand is in a fist around his base. I bob my head and twist my hand, looking up at him to see his flushed face as he pants.

"Fuck, you look so pretty like this." He babbles, a throaty moan leaving him when I twist my hand faster, swirling my tongue along his cock as my head rises and falls.

I hum around his dick at the compliment, the slight sting on my scalp from him pulling my hair only pushing me to do more. He pushes me down slightly, and i choke at the burn of his tip making contact with my uvula.

I moan loudly on him at the feeling, tears building in my eyes as the vibration from the noises i'm making cause him to throw his head back, a blissed out expression on his face. "Fuck, so good. Just like that, god."

Drool seeps from the corners of my mouth as I speed up all my movements. Chris is a breathy, moaning mess above me, watching me through lidded eyes as I glance up at him.

He moves his other hand to rest on the side of my face, grinning at my fucked out appearance. "Fucking filthy girl, aren't you, baby." He says through gritted teeth. "You love this, don't you?"

I whine at him, furrowing my eyebrows in pleasure to say "yes', and watching as his eyes roll lightly back in his head when i start to suck lightly at his tip again.

My hand falls from his base to lay on his leg, the other holding the bottom of his shirt in my fist. I try to push my head farther down, whimpering faintly at the stretch.

Chris's hips jerk up lightly at the sensation, causing him to push himself down my throat until my lips hit the base. I start to choke, but I breathe heavily through my nose, screwing my eyes shut and hallowing my cheeks out to stop myself from pulling off.

"Fuck!" he grunts loudly, his grip on my hair turning animalistic. He mindlessly mutters out curses and praise as he pushes my head up and down with his hands, 'good girl', 'don't stop', 'takin' me so good, baby' 'just like that' . . .

My hands are resting completely at his sides as he guides my mouth on his cock, slightly bucking his hips to push himself as far as I can take him. His strokes turn sloppy, and I look up at him again to see him looking at me with a broken glance, bottom lip between his teeth. "Fuck, gonna cum," he gasps.

I begin to swirl my tongue around him, moaning messily on him as if to say, 'in my mouth, please', but he's already reading my mind, digging his nails into my scalp as he spurts coats of white down my throat, an incoherent string of "fuck fuck fuck"'s spilling out of him. Im swallowing as quickly as i can.

I pull off of him with a lewd pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I know i look completely ruined, but I'm still focused on catching my breath and looking at Chris's flushed pink face above me.

His hand rests on my face again, and his thumb soothingly rubs my cheek. "You okay? Was that too much?" he asks, his expression full of concern as he wipes the tears from under my eyes.

I smile, leaning into his touch. "I'm good, it was really good."

He nods, smiling dumbly. "Good."

He pulls his jeans and boxers back up, bucking his belt before pulling me off my knees and back onto his lap. He presses a soft, passionate kiss on my lips, and then trails kisses down the side of my face, pulling my hair back off my shoulders as we both catch our breath.

We're both startled by the loud ringing of my phone in the passenger seat. I reach over the console, sighing in relief when i flip it over and see my dad's name at the top of my screen.

I put the phone up to my ear, watching as Chris rubs circles into my side with his cold fingers.

"Hi," I breath out. I listen as my dad apologizes for not answering earlier. He tells me he heard my voicemail and asks if I'm okay. "M' fine, I just wheeled it to a shop a couple blocks over. I'm on the bus home now, should only be a bit."

Chris pouts at me, and i roll my eyes at him. My dad talks for a couple for seconds before hanging up, and i leave my phone in the drink compartment next to Chris's forgotten lighter.

"D'you need to get home?" He asked. I nodded, and he frowns. "I was gonna get you off in the backseat,"

part two? :)

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