#something cheap and watered down

[newkiqx]

Installed a sensor on my girl so i know when

[mssalo]

dirty work

You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, hotgirl!reader, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, filthy dirty talk, desperate!Joel, pervy!Joel, pathetic!Joel, age gap, Joel being down bad, obsessive staring, possessiveness, mild power play, teasing, so much cum (like he literally can’t stop), Joel not having sex in decades and it shows, Hot girl reader knowing she's hot, Joel being completely ruined by your pussy, and you loving every second of it

11k. Enjoy!

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

The house needed work. And probably a priest.

It wasn’t falling apart, but it also wasn’t move-in ready.

The kitchen faucet screamed whenever you turned it on, wailing like it had unfinished business in this world. The porch stairs were one strong gust away from sending someone straight to the ER- or the grave. 

The back gate swung open on its own, which was either a poltergeist or just bad hinges, but either way, it sent an unsettling creak through the yard at odd hours of the night.

The lights flickered sometimes. The water pressure was unpredictable. The floors creaked loud enough to make you think twice before sneaking around in the dark.

But it was cheap. And it had potential.

And you?

You weren’t a DIY girlie, but you could figure shit out. Probably…. Maybe. 

You did have a certain level of misplaced confidence that made you think you could tackle anything with enough trial and error.

The problem was—so far, it had been mostly errors.

Your first attempt at fixing the faucet resulted in a flood that had you sprinting to turn the water off before your kitchen turned into a slip-and-slide.

Trying to replace a light fixture nearly ended with you electrocuting yourself into another dimension. 

And the less said about the unfortunate caulking incident of last Thursday, the better.

Still, you were determined. A little clueless? Sure. But determined.

You wiped sweat from your brow, standing in front of your latest challenge: the front door. It didn’t latch properly. It wasn’t quite crooked, but something was off. The hinges, maybe? You had no idea. 

You just knew that a strong wind could blow the damn thing off, which wasn’t ideal for your safety or your sanity.

So there you were, kneeling on the porch, staring at a pile of tools you weren’t entirely sure how to use, the manual open beside you like it was about to offer some divine intervention.

You twisted the screwdriver in your hand, frowning at the misaligned screws. “Alright, bitch,” you muttered to the door, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

And that was when a shadow fell over you.

A heavy presence.

You turned, blinking up at the broad figure standing at the foot of your porch.

Joel Miller.

Your neighbor. Big, built, silent as the grave. Old as fuck.

You’d seen him around—on his porch, smoking, reading the newspaper, doing old people things and watching. Always watching.

Never introduced himself. Never waved. Never made an effort. Just sat there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable, watching the world pass him by.

Watching you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. A trick of the heat, the way his dark eyes always seemed to linger just a little too long before darting away. But then, as the weeks passed, you realized it wasn’t just some coincidence.

Joel Miller was looking. A lot.

From behind the safety of his porch, through his truck window when he pulled into the driveway, stealing glances while pretending to tinker with something outside—he was always looking.

He wasn’t the type to catcall or whistle or let his jaw drop like some dumb, desperate idiot. No, but he did openly watch, with that brooding, set-jaw expression, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting the urge to jump.

A man seeing something he wanted—something he knew he couldn’t have.

And, honestly? It was kinda hot.

You love a pathetic man.

Pathetic in the way only a man like him could be- big and strong and old enough to know better, yet still sitting on his porch like some clueless teenager, hopelessly caught in your orbit.

Joel had spent his entire life working.

Calloused hands. Aching back. A routine as grey and dull as the pavement he walked on. He wasn’t a talk-to-women kind of guy. He was a build-shit-and-keep-his-mouth-shut kind of guy.

He had probably spent years without even thinking about sex. Not because he didn’t want it—fuck, of course, he did—but because who the hell would even let him?

The man was a relic.

Pushing sixty. Grumpy. Built like a man who had done nothing but work his whole life—because that’s exactly what he had done.

No wife. No girlfriend. Nothing.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t go out. Didn’t fucking bother.

Just work, fix, sleep. Get off when he needed to—always alone, always quick, no one to fucking hear him.

That was life.

And then you moved in next door.

And Joel broke.

Because Jesus Christ.

You.

Soft and sweet and fucking perfect—so young, so pretty, so effortlessly sexy.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely.

Something cruel.

With your tiny little skirts and tight little tops, walking around like it wasn’t a goddamn crime to be that fucking perfect.

Joel shouldn’t have been looking.

Knew he shouldn’t memorize the way your tits bounced when you jogged past his house.

Shouldn’t have let himself watch the way you stretched on the porch, or walked in those obscene little shorts, or sunbathed out back with your top straps pulled down—looking so fucking soft, like you were made to be touched.

Made to be ruined.

It was sick.

And he didn’t care.

Because at night, when his house was quiet and the only thing in his bed was his own hand, Joel let himself imagine what it would be like to pull you onto his lap or spread you open, bury his face between your thighs and never fucking leave.

To get his mouth on you.

God, he was so hungry for it.

And the worst part?

He was pretty sure you knew.

It was pathetic.

And he fucking knew it.

But he couldn’t stop.

And right now, his gaze was locked on you.

Or, more accurately—your thighs.

You were still kneeling, skin glistening in the summer heat, your tiny skirt barely covering anything. Joel looked like a man who had just seen God.

His throat bobbed.

His fingers flexed.

Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped up.

“Need a hand?” His voice was rough, all gravel and rust.

You tilted your head, dragging your gaze over him.

You smirked.

“I got it,” you said simply.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

“…No, you don’t.”

And before you could argue, he was stepping forward.

Taking the screwdriver right out of your hand.

And just fucking fixing it.

Like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t even there.

· · ──𖥸

From that day on, Joel… kinda never left.

Not literally. Not in a way that you could call him out on.

But he was always there.

At first, it was little things. Fixing what you couldn’t. Offering a hand when you were clearly struggling. Showing up at the exact right time, tools in hand, that furrow between his brows like you’d personally offended him by even attempting to fix something yourself.

Then, it escalated.

Because you didn’t even have to ask anymore.

He was just there.

On your porch. In your yard. Pretending to check something in his truck but really just looking at you while you stretched in the morning, your tight little tank clinging to every inch of you.

The excuses started getting thinner, too.

At first, it was, “Saw the porch light flickerin’. Just figured I’d fix it before it got worse.”

Then, it became, “Just keepin’ busy.”

Then, no excuse at all.

Just Joel, lingering around your property, finding any reason to be near you, any reason to work himself into a sweat just for the chance to look at you up close.

Because that was his payment.

His reward.

Every little smile, every little laugh. The way your tits moved when you pointed at something needed fixing. The way you stretched just right, your little skirts and shorts riding up, flashing soft, smooth skin that made Joel’s head spin.

He didn’t even need you to talk to him.

Didn’t need you to flirt.

Just existing was enough.

So he worked.

For free.

Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

You made him feel like some pathetic old pervert.

Standing around like a useless extra in the movie that was your perfect fucking life.

A washed-up, near-sixty-year-old loser with a bad back, a lonely house, and a dick that hadn’t worked properly in years.

And now?

Now, he nearly was hard all the time.

No blue pills. No coaxing. No thinking about some old porn magazine he had tucked away for emergencies.

Just your voice, your body, the way you smelled, the way you looked at him when you handed him a lemonade like he was doing something special—when all he was doing was fixing your fucking sink.

And the worst part?

He was leaking.

Like a damn teenager.

Hadn’t been this sensitive in decades.

And yet, here he was—barely keeping it together, feeling the way his cock throbbed and ached, fucking dripped inside his jeans while you leaned in, smiling, teasing—

“Thank you, Joel!”

Fuck.

That voice.

All sweet and grateful and warm, and it was fucking nothing. Just three little words.

And yet, his whole body reacted like you had just whispered something filthy in his ear.

Like you had just gotten on your knees, licked your lips, and told him

Sit back, Joel. Let me take care of you.

God, he was fucked.

So he mowed your lawn.

Fixed your AC unit.

Made sure the fence was latched, the gate was locked, the pipes weren’t leakin’.

And when he wasn’t fixing shit inside?

He was finding things to do outside.

Hammering shit that didn’t need hammering.

Cleaning tools that weren’t even his.

Anything. Anything.

Just to be there.

· · ──𖥸

Joel looked wrecked.

Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his broad shoulders sagging as he finally took a seat at the kitchen table he had just fixed for you.

His hands were rough and calloused, veins prominent, fingers flexing against the cool surface as he exhaled, deep and slow. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that clung to a man who had spent the whole day pushing his body to the limit.

And yet, even now, after hours of working himself to the bone, he was still staring.

Not at the food you’d set down in front of him, not at the cold glass of iced tea dripping condensation onto the table, not even at his own aching hands that had spent all damn day making sure every little thing in your house was perfect.

He was staring at your tits.

You noticed it immediately, of course. How could you not? Joel wasn’t exactly subtle.

His dark, hungry gaze stayed fixed on your chest, drinking in the way your tank top clung to you, damp with heat, the fabric just a little too thin, a little too low. His hands twitched every so often, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.

He barely responded when you spoke, offering little more than a grunt here and there, a slow nod, an occasional hum of acknowledgment. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was completely fucking gone.

And you?

You smirked.

Because this wasn’t new.

Joel Miller had been looking at you like this for weeks now, like a starving man watching a meal just out of reach, a man standing in the desert watching water slip through his fingers.

And he thought he was hiding it.

He wasn’t.

You leaned forward slightly, trailing a finger through the condensation on your glass, watching his Adam’s apple bob when his eyes immediately flicked down again, drawn like a magnet.

You waited. Let it stew. Let the tension stretch thick and heavy between you until you could practically hear the way he was grinding his teeth together, working his jaw, trying to think of something—anything—other than the way your tits were right there.

Then, casually, you spoke.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

Joel didn’t move at first.

Didn’t even seem to register your words right away.

Just blinked, slow and dazed, before finally dragging his gaze back up to your face, blinking again, like he had just been pulled out of something deep.

“…Huh?”

His voice was thick, rough like gravel, his fingers flexing again before clenching into loose fists.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flick down to your own chest, then back up to him, pointedly.

“You like ’em?”

For a moment, Joel just sat there.

Silent.

Completely fucking still.

Then, finally, he exhaled. A slow, measured breath, dragging a hand down his face like he was collecting himself, trying to piece together a response that didn’t immediately give him away.

And then, voice lower, rougher, wrecked—

“…What’s there not to like?”

Oh?

That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did.

But it did.

The way he said it, low and warm and dripping with something dark, something dangerous. The way he looked at you when he said it, like he was memorizing every inch of you, like he needed to burn the sight into his brain.

A slow heat unfurled low in your belly, sinking between your thighs, pooling thick and molten as you shifted in your seat, pressing your legs together, suddenly very aware of how wet you were getting.

And Joel knew it.

Because his eyes flicked down for a split second, watching the way you shifted, the way your breath caught ever so slightly, and his fingers clenched tighter against the table.

And then, voice slow, teasing, stretching out the moment—

“Hmmm.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, watching the way his dark eyes tracked your movements, like he couldn’t help it, like he had no control over the way his body responded to you.

And then, soft and syrupy—

“You know, Joel… I feel kinda bad.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

You watched the slow, deliberate way he swallowed, the way his whole body seemed to tense under the weight of those words, the muscles in his arms flexing as his fingers curled against the table.

“…Bad?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“For letting you do all this work without paying you back.”

There was a beat of silence.

Joel’s fingers flexed. His breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. You could see the battle happening in his head—his morals, his age, the voice in his head screaming this is wrong, you’re too old, don’t do this—

And yet.

When he spoke, it was wrecked.

“…Can I just—”

Joel swallowed hard.

His voice dropped lower, raspier, barely even a sound.

“Can I just see you? Look at you?”

The words sent a jolt of something electric through you, made your skin heat, your pulse quicken, made that molten heat in your belly throb.

You smiled. Slow. Sweet.

Cruel.

"You wanna see me, Joel?"

His breath hitched.

His fingers twitched.

He nodded, almost absently, his mouth falling open, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

You dragged your nails lightly up your stomach, over your ribs, the movement subtle, slow, making him watch.

Your hands went to the hem of your tank top, your fingers curling around the fabric, slowly dragging it up.

Joel’s pupils blew wide.

His lips parted.

His breath hitched.

And when you pulled it over your head, letting it drop to the floor, you saw it.

The way his fingers clenched so hard around the edge of the table that his knuckles went white, like he needed to physically hold himself back.

You sat there in just your bra, running your hands up your stomach, over your ribs, tilting your head slightly as you murmured—

“Like this?”

Joel made a noise that was almost a groan, almost a curse, a low, strangled thing that caught in his throat as his eyes devoured you.

He swallowed again, hard, blinking like he was trying to process what was happening.

Then—rough, hoarse, desperate—

“…Please. Everything.”

So you did.

You reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a slow, deliberate flick of your fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms before shrugging it off completely.

And Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had.

His breath hitched—a sharp, audible inhale, like he had just been punched in the gut.

His eyes dropped from your eyes instantly, dragged down like they had no choice, like the second your tits were bare, he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.

And fuck.

The sound that tore from his throat was something low, deep, filthy— not even a real word, just a groan, guttural and needy, his lips parting, his tongue darting out, his whole fucking body reacting like he was a man who had been starving his whole goddamn life, and now?

Now he was looking at the best fucking meal he’d ever seen.

Because Jesus Christ.

Your tits?

They were perfect.

So fucking full and soft, high and round, plump little handfuls of heaven that he’d been imagining for weeks, and now? Now they were right there.

And your nipples—fuck.

They were already hard, tight little peaks sitting pretty, puckered and aching, begging for something—a touch, a mouth, something wet and warm.

They looked so fucking sweet, like they’d feel so soft, like they’d taste so good on his tongue.

Joel groaned.

A rough, heavy sound, his jaw clenching so fucking hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack, his entire body tensing like it physically hurt him to just sit there and look and not touch.

And then, voice wrecked, strained, barely even a whisper—

“Best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen.”

You smirked, slow and teasing, shifting slightly, making them bounce just a little, the movement so subtle, but his whole body jerked.

“Yeah?”

Joel grunted, a deep, broken noise, his breath stuttering, his fingers flexing.

“Yeah.”

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

His hips shifted.

And you noticed.

The way his jeans were tight.

The way a wet patch darkened the denim.

The way his entire body looked like it was straining under the weight of his own need.

And then, voice breaking, groaning—

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

Because that?

That sounded filthy.

Low, wrecked, grateful.

Like just seeing you was some kind of mercy.

His thighs tensed. His hands twitched. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning, devouring, drowning.

You dragged your hands up your own stomach, slow and lazy, brushing your fingers over the soft curves of your breasts, rolling your thumbs over your hardened nipples, smirking when you heard his breath hitch.

“You wanna touch ‘em, Joel?” you murmured, soft and syrupy, voice dipped in honey.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, like the question alone was enough to wreck him.

“Fuck yeah.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t fucking think.

His hands were on you before the words even fully left his mouth—grabbing, groping, squeezing like he was starving for it, like he’d been fantasizing about this for so long that the second he finally had them in his palms, he lost every ounce of restraint.

And Jesus fuck, his hands were big.

Rough.

Strong.

Decades of hard labor carved into every thick callus, every flex of his fingers, every hungry, greedy, desperate grab.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost dazed as he kneaded your tits, rolling them in his palms, squeezing like he needed to memorize the way they felt—like he’d never get this chance again.

He groaned, deep and filthy, fingers digging in, rough fingertips brushing over your stiff nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath as heat licked through your veins.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasped, thumbing over the tight little peaks, watching the way your body reacted to him, your back arching, breath hitching.

Joel felt that.

“Feel good, baby?” he rasped, voice a low, guttural thing, dragging his calloused fingers over your nipples again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, watching your reaction like a starving man watching a meal.

You swallowed hard, a shiver running through you, your thighs pressing together. Fuck.

Your nipples were so sensitive, tingling with every swipe, every flick, every dirty little touch of his rough fingers.

“Yeah,” you breathed, biting your lip, arching into his touch, letting him take what he wanted.

Joel groaned again, deep and needy, gripping your tits harder, pushing them together, squeezing, kneading, fucking obsessed.

His thumbs twisted your nipples, slow and deliberate, watching the way they hardened even further, standing up all soft and pink, looking so fucking suckable.

“Jesus,” he muttered again, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at these pretty tits.”

His fingers pinched, tugged, twisted just right—just enough to make you gasp, a soft little sound that sent a lightning bolt of pure fucking need straight to his cock.

He grinned.

A dark, hungry thing.

And then, voice gritted, thick with lust—

“Bet they taste even better.”

“Can I-”

Before he could even finish asking, you were already shushing him, already threading your fingers into his graying hair and pulling his face down, guiding him straight to where he belonged.

Joel went willingly.

Mouth first.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Joel yanked you into his lap, gripping you like you might disappear, like this was a dream he’d wake up from if he let go for even a second.

His knees ached against the floor, his back twinged in warning, but he didn’t give a fuck. Not when you were straddling him, warm and soft, tits in his face like some fucking gift from God.

His mouth sealed over your nipple, pulling at it with an obscene, wet suckle, tongue flattening before flicking, rolling, teasing the sensitive bud until it was aching, stiff, raw.

Just a wrecked, filthy groan, muffled against your soft, warm skin as he was sucking deep, sucking hard, sucking wet.

“Fuck yes,” he moaned into your skin, voice ragged, his breath hot and heavy against your breast.

He was loud.

Not in words—because words didn’t matter anymore.

But in the way he suckled, the way his lips sealed tight, how he groaned and slurped and moaned, every single sound of his mouth on you wet and obscene, filling the space around you.

His tongue swiped up, then down, then circled—slow at first, then faster, flicking against the stiff bud before pulling it into his mouth again, sealing his lips tight, sucking deep.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t even try.

His hands moved next, big, calloused fingers gripping your waist, dragging you closer, then sliding up to cup both tits in his palms, rough and desperate. 

“Oh—fuck, Joel—” your breath hitched, the sharp pull of his mouth sending a jolt straight between your thighs.

He groaned—deep, guttural, filthy.

“Goddamn, baby—”

Then, harder.

His fingers squeezed tighter, thumbs brushing over your nipples, pinching the one he wasn’t sucking on, rolling it between his fingertips, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

You felt his breath stutter—like he was about to lose it completely—before he pulled off with a wet, sucking pop, spit connecting his lips to your nipple, slick and shining.

He stared.

Breathing ragged. Eyes dark, starving.

And then he dived right back in.

Latching onto the other like a man possessed, groaning into it like he was trying to drink from you, ruin you, consume you.

His hands never stopped.

He hugged you closer, pulling you right into him, pressing your tits together, mashing them up against his face, smothering himself in them.

“So fuckin’ soft, baby—” he rasped, licking, suckling, tongue dragging slow circles around your nipple before he sealed his lips and sucked deep again.

“So fuckin’ sweet—”

He switched between them like he couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t decide, couldn’t stop.

His tongue flicked, his lips sucked, his teeth grazed, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your legs.

Your breath hitched.

Your back arched.

Because he wasn’t just playing around.

This wasn’t just teasing.

This wasn’t some guy mouthing at your tits before moving on.

No.

Joel was staying here.

Lingering.

Drowning in it.

Like he could suckle your tits for hours.

And then, voice low, gravelly, wrecked—

“Baby…”

You hummed, already smirking.

He swallowed thickly, his fingers tracing absent circles against your ribs, his voice barely above a whisper—

“Lemme see you.”

Your smirk widened.

“See what, Joel?”

He groaned, head dropping against your shoulder for half a second like he physically needed to collect himself. His nose brushed along your jaw, leaving small kisses, hot breath fanning against your skin, and then—

“Sweetheart, please,” he rasped. “Lemme see that pretty little pussy.”

Your stomach tightened, heat flaring low, but you didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, you stretched, slow and indulgent, arching just slightly, your tits pushing up against his chest. “Hmmm,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against your lip like you were actually considering it. “You worked so hard for me, didn't you, Joel?”

His jaw flexed. His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, squeezing.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Don’t tease me like this.”

You tilted your head, tapping your chin, dragging it out just a little longer—watching the way his fingers twitched, watching the way his pupils were blown black with hunger, watching the way his hips barely resisted the urge to rut up against you like he needed something, anything.

Then, finally, you sighed.

“Alright, old man,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, the movement making him groan. “Take me to the couch.”

Joel nearly fucking growled.

His arms came around you instantly, strong, needy, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you. Not struggling, not even hesitating—because fuck if you thought he was too old for this, fuck if you thought he wouldn’t show you exactly what he could do.

He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious, his hands sliding over your body, down your sides, gripping your thighs, spreading you open just enough.

And then—his fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.

Not pulling it down.

Just flipping it up.

Joel wasn’t breathing.

At least, it felt that way.

He couldn’t. Not with the way you were spread out in front of him, thighs parted, panties soaked, looking like the filthiest, prettiest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

The way you stretched lazily, arching just a little, making your tits push forward. The way your lips curled in that slow, knowing smirk when you caught him staring, like you were indulging him, letting him look, letting him take in every fucking inch of you.

And Joel—Joel was gone.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow, reverent, rough fingertips dragging against soft skin, feeling the heat radiating off you.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, dark, almost reverent.

Joel dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze locked on the damp spot between your legs, so fucking dark, so fucking pretty.

His thumbs traced along the edges of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp patch at the center, groaning when he felt the way it stuck to you.

“So goddamn wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, shaking his head, his fingers flexing against your skin. “Been like this all night, little girl?”

You moaned, shifting slightly, watching the way his jaw clenched at the movement.

“Maybe,” you teased. “Not my fault you’ve been looking at me like that all day.”

Joel exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound, his grip tightening.

Poor old man.

He was completely fucking gone.

“See something you like?” you teased, voice sweet, syrupy, making his jaw clench.

Joel exhaled through his nose, hands tightening where they rested on your thighs, fingers pressing in deep, like he needed to hold onto something, ground himself before he completely lost control.

“Baby,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice low and rough, thick with something desperate. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

You laughed, slow and taunting, your nails dragging up the couch, watching the way his entire body tensed, like he was on the verge of snapping, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Am I?” you mused, tilting your head, watching him watch you.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, his grip bruising now, his breath shuddering, his hips twitching like just the words alone were enough to ruin him.

And then—

He leaned in.

Pressed his face against your covered cunt, breathing deep, dragging his nose over the soaked fabric, his entire body shuddering, shaking, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

And fuck.

He moaned.

You smirked. Moaned.

Because you knew.

Knew exactly what kind of power you had over him. Knew that Joel Miller—this gruff, brooding old man who barely spoke to anyone, who’d spent his life working, fixing, existing—was utterly wrecked over you.

And right now, he was on his knees, rubbing his face against your soaked panties, inhaling like the scent of your cunt was the only thing keeping him alive.

You loved it.

“Mm, you really like it down there, huh?” You moaned dragging your nails through his hair, watching the way his whole body twitched, the way he groaned against you, his nose pressing harder into the damp fabric covering your pussy.

Joel barely lifted his head, just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they were nearly black, lips slick with his own spit. His fingers flexed against your thighs like he was fighting himself—like he wanted to tear those panties off and bury himself in you, but he was holding back.

Barely.

“Like?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, like he was tasting the scent of you in the air.

He groaned.

“Pretty girl, I’m fuckin’ obsessed.”

You moaned. Tilting your hips just slightly, pressing up into his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered like just feeling your heat against his lips was too much.

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging. “Then show me.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He just acted.

His hands shot up, gripping the waistband of your panties, and for a second, you thought he was going to rip them off you. But no—Joel was feeling something nastier.

Instead, he grabbed the soaked fabric, pulled it tight against your cunt, wedging it between your slick folds, pressing the thin material right into your aching clit.

You gasped.

“Ohhh, fuck—”

Joel groaned, a deep, filthy sound from the pit of his chest as he rubbed the fabric against you, slow at first, then harder, pressing it between your lips, letting the damp, sticky material drag over your throbbing clit.

His nose dragged over the outline of your swollen pussy, mouth parted, tongue slipping out to taste the wet spot directly over your entrance, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking put in his mouth.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled. “S’soaked, girl. Look at this fuckin’ mess. You see this?” He rubbed the fabric in deeper, groaning at the way it stuck to your folds, the way your slick smeared against it, making it wetter, stickier.

You moaned, hips rolling, pushing against his mouth, chasing the friction.

“Joel—”

He growled again, gripping your thighs tight, keeping you spread as he bit down gently on the covered part of your clit, tugging with his teeth, rolling it between them through the fabric.

You gasped.

Your back arched, hands flying to the couch, gripping the cushions for some kind of grounding because—holy fuck.

Joel chuckled. Chuckled. A deep, perverse sound.

“Ohh, you like that, hm?”

He pressed his tongue flat against your clit through your panties, sucking at the damp fabric, like he was trying to drink you through it, humming like he could taste you, even with the barrier in the way.

Then—

His teeth latched onto the thin cotton, gripping the wet spot over your entrance, and he pulled.

A sharp, precise tug.

Dragging the panties against your cunt, making them slide against your soaked folds, pressing them deeper, wedging them between your swollen lips, rubbing everything.

You fucking whimpered.

Joel moaned against you, rutting his hips against the couch, pressing his nose right against your slit, inhaling, sucking, rubbing his face all over your cunt like a man starved.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, nuzzling you, his voice dripping with filth. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm, baby. So fuckin’ messy. Leakin’ all over these little panties—bet they’re ruined, huh?”

Your thighs shook. Your breath stuttered.

Your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging, and he moaned again, loud, tongue slipping out to drag slow, wet strokes over the damp fabric, gathering everything before pressing it back against your cunt, making you feel how fucking messy you were.

His hands—those big, rough, work-worn hands—slid up your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open, thumbs pressing into your soft skin as he finally, finally hooked his fingers into your panties and peeled them off.

He groaned when they stuck.

When your slick clung to the fabric.

When he had to drag them down your legs because they were soaked.

And then—

You were bare.

Wet.

Dripping.

All for him.

Joel sat back on his heels, staring.

His fingers flexed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice deep and wrecked.

Then, dark eyes flicking up to yours, a slow, filthy grin stretching across his face—

“Oh, baby…” He groaned.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

His voice was a wreck, almost a whisper, full of awe, full of filth, full of something desperate and hungry.

Because you were fucking perfect.

Your pussy was obscene.

Pink and swollen and glistening, folds spread, sticky and slick, so wet you were practically dripping onto the couch. 

Your clit—puffy, throbbing—begging for attention, twitching every time Joel’s hot breath ghosted over you. 

The dim light caught on the shine of your arousal, making everything look impossibly wet, messy, fucking ruined.

And Joel?

Joel was losing his goddamn mind.

His breath hitched, a low, wrecked groan ripping from his chest, his fingers flexing hard against your thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging forward and devouring you whole.

“Fuck me.” His voice came out rough, strangled, barely even a whisper. “Look at that messy little pussy. S’so fuckin’ wet for me, baby.”

You hummed, stretching out against the couch like you had all the time in the world, arching just slightly making your tits look so good, making yourself even softer, even easier, even more of a temptation.

“Yeah?” Your voice was all gasped, all teasing, your hips rolling up just a little, just enough to make the slick between your thighs glisten in the low light. “You like her, Joel?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, eyes blown dark and wide, locked on your cunt like it was hypnotizing him, pulling him under.

He let out a rough, humorless laugh, shaking his head, squeezing your thighs just a little tighter. “Baby, I’ll never let go of her.”

That smirk stretched slow across your lips, your thighs parting just a little more, an open invitation, a silent dare.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural, painful.

And then he snapped.

His big, rough hands grabbed you, dragging you down the couch with no warning, tugging you toward him until your ass was hanging off the edge, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, his face—his mouth—right where he wanted it.

And then—

A long, wet, messy lick.

Tongue flat, broad, dragging over your slit, catching every drop of slick, lapping it up, his nose bumping against your mound, his groan muffled as he tasted you.

And Jesus fuck—he growled.

“Goddamn, baby… this sloppy little pussy.” His voice was hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to catch another drop of arousal, swallowing it down, his thumbs spreading you open even wider. “Fuckin’ drippin’ all over my face.”

You whined, hips bucking, but Joel’s grip slammed you back down.

“Uh-uh,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up again, circling your clit, teasing, groaning loud like he was tasting something sinful, something addictive, something he was never gonna get enough of.

His lips wrapped around the swollen bud, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking, his nose buried against your mound, his face pressed so deep in your pussy he was fucking drowning.

And he loved it.

You were soaked.

Dripping.

And Joel wanted it.

Wanted every drop.

His tongue licked into you, fucking inside, groaning loud when he felt your walls clench, sucking your juices from his own tongue like he was drinking you, like you were feeding him.

And fuck—

His hips rutted against the couch, grinding, his cock straining against his jeans, so fucking wet, his pre-cum soaking through, his whole body wound tight like he could come just like this, just from eating you, from tasting you, from hearing the little broken whimpers spilling from your lips.

His fingers dug in deeper, pressing into the softness of your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer, burying his tongue so deep inside you it made your eyes roll back.

And then—

A rough, growled, wrecked—

“Goddamn, baby. Gonna fuckin’ stay down here.”

Joel was gone.

Buried between your thighs, tongue fucking into you like a starving man, like this was what he was made to do.

And fuck, maybe he was.

Because he was too good at it.

You moaned, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling, loving the way he groaned, the way his hips rutted harder against the couch, the way he needed this.

“Fuck, Joel,” you panted, voice thick with pleasure.

Joel growled.

He actually fucking growled, pulling you closer, spreading you wider, licking into you deeper, his tongue flicking, curling, sucking, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself back from humping the fucking couch like some desperate, pathetic thing.

And then—

Joel spat on it.

A wet, messy, lewd spit, right over your swollen clit.

And then?

He rubbed his face into it.

Like some depraved old pervert, moaning as he smothered himself with your slick, nuzzling into it, smearing his own spit and your arousal all over his lips, his chin, his nose .. damn nearly up to his forehead. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, breath hot, words slurred against your swollen folds. “Smell so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste even fuckin’ better.”

His tongue swiped over your clit, broad and firm, lapping at it like he was fucking thirsty, groaning when he felt you pulse, when he felt your thighs tremble.

He spat on it again.

And smeared it in.

Dragged his tongue through the mess, licking his own spit off your cunt like he was cleaning you up.

And fuck.

It sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, a sharp, hot jolt that made your back arch, your mouth dropping open in a broken moan.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I—I’m gonna—”

Joel knew.

Knew you were close, knew he had you teetering, knew you were about to fucking snap.

So he latched onto your clit, sucking, moaning, filthy and loud, his fingers bruising into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.

And when you came—

Oh, fuck, when you came.

Your body jerked, legs trembling, the orgasm hitting you so hard it stole the breath from your lungs, your vision going white, your whole body clenching around the pleasure, drowning in it.

And Joel?

Joel groaned.

Like he felt it.

Like your orgasm belonged to him.

Like he had just come from tasting you, from making you come, from hearing you cry out his name.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t fucking stop.

Kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking devouring, his tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, dragging out every last aftershock, keeping you on the edge, keeping you throbbing.

And you—

You were shaking.

Body weak, legs useless, cunt aching for something more.

“Joel,” you gasped, breathless, still trembling. “I—I want your cock.”

And Joel?

He didn’t hear you.

Didn’t process it.

Because he was lost.

Lost in your pussy, lost in the taste, lost in the way you fucking shook for him.

His tongue dragged through the mess, lapping up every drop, swallowing you down like you were something precious, something he couldn’t afford to waste.

So you tried again.

“Joel,” you panted, tugging at his hair, trying to get his attention. “I want your—”

And he still didn’t listen.

Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept moaning against your cunt like he was starved.

So you had to rip his face away.

Fisting your hands in his hair, pulling him back, making him look up at you—

And fuck.

His face.

Wet. Slick. Lips swollen, chin shining, pupils blown.

And his mouth—

His mouth was fucking open, his tongue still flicking like he was trying to find you, like he was looking for your pussy, like he was about to dive right back in.

He was panting, breath heavy, wrecked, like he had just fucked you, like he was the one who had just come.

And then—

A low, desperate, ruined—

“Baby, please.”

Like he needed it.

Like he needed to go back.

Like he wasn’t done yet.

The smell of you. The taste of you. The way you squirmed and moaned, your fingers sinking into his hair, giving the softest little tugs that made his cock throb.

You hummed, dragging your nails lightly against his scalp. “You gonna stay down there all night, handsome?”

Joel groaned against your thigh, his fingers tightening where they gripped your hips.

“Would if you’d let me,” he muttered, voice rough and muffled.

You laughed, breathy and teasing. “Well…” You tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you. “Maybe I want something else tonight.”

Joel’s head spun.

His stomach clenched, heat coiling low, thick and heavy in his gut.

Because you couldn’t possibly mean—

“Maybe,” you mused, trailing your fingers down his face, smirking. “You should fuck me instead.”

Joel went completely fucking still.

A full-body freeze.

Because, holy shit.

He hadn’t even considered it.

He hadn’t dared to.

Had been so caught up in this—this ritual, this worship, this sick fucking devotion of getting to lose himself between your thighs, mouth greedy and desperate, tongue messy and unrelenting—he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further.

Hadn’t even let himself hope for it.

But now?

Now, you were looking at him with those big, bright eyes, your lips curled in something teasing and wicked, your fingers trailing down his chest, and fuck.

It hit him.

Like a fucking freight train.

He was gonna fuck you.

Joel groaned, his head falling forward against your stomach, breath heavy, body shaking as his hands gripped your thighs, squeezing so tight it bordered on bruising.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Baby.”

You grinned, delighted. “Yeah?”

Joel swallowed, lifting his head, his gaze burning as he looked up at you.

“Yeah.”

His voice was rough, wrecked.

“Then get up here, old man,” you purred, tugging at his shoulders. “Come fuck me.”

And, fuck, he was gonna.

Somehow, he managed to kneel between your legs, looming over you, broad and heavy and burning with something filthy and desperate.

Somehow, he managed to unbuckle his belt, yank his zipper down, pull himself free—

You hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected him to be this thick.

Because, fuck me.

Joel Miller was fucking big.

The way his cock twitched the second the cool air hit it, sending a slow, heavy bead of precome dripping down—hot and sticky, landing right on your stomach.

God.

Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching where they were still spread open for him, aching.

And Joel?

He was just watching.

Watching that glistening drop smear against your skin, dragging his fist slow along his length, squeezing at the base, like he was trying to calm himself down.

Not that it was working.

Because he was dripping.

Leaking all over you, precum slick and thick, dribbling down the fat head of his cock, smearing over the tip as he worked himself, his jaw clenched tight, breathing heavy.

His cock was—fuck.

Thick. So fucking thick.

Broad, heavy in his palm, his shaft veined and throbbing, dark with need, his swollen head gleaming wet under the dim light.

A thick trail of silver and black hair led down from his stomach, curling around the base—graying just like the rest of him, salt-and-pepper in a way that made your stomach tighten.

And his balls.

Heavy and full, hanging low, tight and aching with neglect, pulled up just slightly, like his body was already fighting to hold off the inevitable.

And Joel—Joel was losing his fucking mind.

Because fuck.

Your soft, pretty body sprawled out beneath him, tits still sticky from his mouth, your stomach slick with the mess he was dripping all over you, your thighs spread open, that sweet, soaked pussy waiting for him—his cock.

He groaned, low and ruined, watching another thick bead of precum slip from the head, drooling down his shaft, slicking up his fingers.

He couldn’t stop leaking.

Couldn’t stop fucking twitching, pulsing in his own grip, so hard it was almost painful.

His body was betraying him.

Decades of needing, decades of nothing, and now?

Now he was about to lose it over just this.

Just you, looking up at him like that.

Smiling sweetly like you fucking knew.

Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Joel groaned, watching your expression shift, watching your eyes flick down to where he was gripping himself, your lips parting just slightly, breath hitching.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

He smirked. Just a little.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Ain’t gettin’ shy on me now, are ya?”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, grinning lazily, voice smooth and teasing. “Nah, just thinking.”

Joel raised a brow, cocking his head. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”

Your lips curled.

“How the hell this thing’s gonna fit inside me.”

Joel growled.

A deep, guttural, feral fucking sound, his grip tightening around his cock, his other hand gripping your thigh, yanking you closer.

You giggled, delighted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, his body pressing heavy against yours, his cock resting hot and thick against your belly, pulsing.

He was panting.

You could feel it, the heat of his breath against your cheek, the slight tremble in his arms, the pure need radiating off him.

“You’ll take it,” he murmured, voice rough and low, dangerous in a way that made your stomach clench. “You’ll take all of it, baby. Ain’t no way I’m not givin’ you every goddamn inch.”

Fuck.

You whimpered.

And Joel—he fucking felt it.

Felt the way you clenched around nothing, the way your thighs trembled, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.

Felt the way your body was begging for it.

“Joel…” Your voice was thinner now, breathless.

He smirked.

“What, baby?” He pressed against your entrance, just barely, the thick head of his cock stretching you the tiniest bit before he pulled away again, teasing, watching the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched. “You were talkin’ so much before. What happened?”

You whined.

Louder this time.

And Joel groaned, dropping his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ spoiled, baby.”

Then—

Joel pressed forward.

Slow.

Heavy.

Thick.

The swollen head of his cock pushed against your slick entrance, parting your folds, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. Your body clenched around him instinctively, the burn sweet and deep, making you gasp, your fingers digging harder into his shoulders.

“Fuck—” Joel groaned, long and drawn out, his forehead dropping against yours as he fought to hold himself back, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “Goddamn, baby… s’fuckin’ tight—”

You moaned at the stretch, the way your cunt swallowed him up, the way he felt inside you—thick and throbbing, pulsing against your walls, filling you more than you ever thought possible.

And fuck, he wasn’t even all the way in yet.

Joel was shaking.

Every muscle in his body drawn tight, his cock twitching as he struggled to keep himself together, to not just slam in all at once and lose himself in the hot, wet grip of you.

He was too old for this shit.

Too fucking old to be trembling like some desperate goddamn virgin, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his breath coming in ragged pants as he forced himself to go slow.

But Jesus Christ—

You were so small.

So fucking tiny compared to him, your cunt squeezing around his cock like it was trying to keep him out, like you weren’t built to take something this fucking big.

But you would.

You had to.

Joel wasn’t stopping.

“Take it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked, low and strained. “You’ll fuckin’ take all of it, little girl. Gonna stretch you out real nice, make you mine.”

You whimpered, legs trembling as you tried to relax, tried to take him deeper.

“Good job, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, voice rough, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pressing his weight against you. “That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You clenched around him at that, and Joel felt it—felt the way your body squeezed him, the way your breath hitched, the way your back arched just slightly, like your body was instinctively trying to get more.

And fuck, that just about broke him.

His hips twitched, and suddenly, he was sinking deeper, forcing more of his cock inside your tight little cunt, and you gasped, nails raking down his arms as he stretched you even further, the feeling almost too much, too full—

But fuck, it felt so good.

“Joel—”

He groaned at the sound of his name falling from your lips, dark eyes snapping up to meet yours, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as he panted against your mouth.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice dripping with heat.

You couldn’t even form words. Couldn’t think past the way he felt inside you, past the way he was holding you open, filling you up, stretching you out in a way you’d never felt before.

“More,” you whispered, breath hitching, thighs trembling. “Please.”

Joel growled.

Deep and low, something primal and wrecked, and before you could process it—

He thrust forward.

Burying himself to the fucking hilt.

You choked on a gasp, your whole body jerking at the sheer force of it, the sudden fullness, the way he bottomed out inside you, his cock nestled so deep it felt like he was fucking splitting you in half.

Joel snapped.

The last thread of his restraint fucking gone.

“Fuck—” He groaned, hips jerking, grinding himself deeper, reveling in the way you squirmed, the way you moaned, the way your body clenched around him like you never wanted to let go.

“Goddamn, sweetheart—” His voice was all rough edges, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, barely function beyond the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he filled every inch of you, every nerve ending fucking screaming in pleasure.

Joel didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because he knew.

Knew you felt it.

Knew you loved it.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his lips dragging over your throat, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Made for this. Made to take my cock, weren’t you? You were askin' for this, huh? Teasin' me all these weeks?”

You moaned.

Loud and wrecked, your head tilting back, exposing more of your throat, and Joel fucking ate it up.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” he rasped, voice strained, his hips pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again, grinding against that soft, spongy spot inside you. “Like this little pussy don’t wanna let me go.”

You whimpered.

Because it didn’t.

Didn’t want him to go.

Didn’t want anything except more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he was stretching you open, fucking ruining you for anyone else.

And Joel knew it.

Could feel it.

Could see it in the way your body arched, in the way your nails dug into his skin, in the way you moaned his name like a prayer.

And fuck—

That did something to him.

Something dark.

Something needy.

Something possessive.

His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and fuck, he loved that sound.

“Oh, god—i - you feel so good,” you cry, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure rolling over you in hot, heavy waves.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice full of filthy heat. “That what you want? Want me to fuck this sweet little pussy with my cock? Want me to ruin you?”

You gasped, back arching, nails dragging down his back.

“Yes—”

And that was all he needed.

All he needed to let go, to give in, to let the raw, aching need consume him.

Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, and then—Joel growled.

A deep, wrecked, guttural thing that ripped through his chest, and suddenly—he was moving.

Thrusting.

Fucking you.

“Oh—oh god—” Your back arched, breath hitching, body jolting with each sharp thrust, each desperate snap of his hips.

Joel fucking grinned.

“That what it takes, huh?” he rasped, voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. “A big cock to shut you up, baby? Hm?”

You moaned, head lolling back against the cushions, unable to form words, pleasure slamming into you so hard your mind went blank.

And Joel? He ate it up.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he gritted out, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you down onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “Too busy takin’ my cock to be a smug little brat now, huh?”

You whimpered.

And Joel groaned, eyes rolling back slightly as his pace faltered, his cock twitching inside you.

Fuck—he wasn’t gonna last.

Not with this.

Not with the way you were tightening around him, squeezing him like you wanted him to cum, like you wanted him to break apart inside you, wanted to milk every drop from his aching cock.

His breath turned ragged, hips stuttering, muscles tensing, and—

“Oh, baby—shit, I—I won’t—”

His voice broke.

He gritted his teeth, fighting it, holding on as long as he could, but you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, so fucking perfect—

And then—

You clenched around him again, dragging him deeper, pressing your lips to his ear, voice all soft and sweet—

“Cum for me, Joel.”

And that was it.

Joel snapped.

His body locked up, cock throbbing as a strangled groan tore from his throat, his hips pressing flush against you as he spilled deep inside you, pumping you full, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure crashed over him in heavy, burning waves.

His breath stuttered, his whole body trembling, nails digging into your skin.

Your body was still trembling, sweat slicking your skin, the heat between your legs thick and wet with the mess Joel had already left inside you. Your mind was still spinning, your breath uneven, but Joel wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He held you close, his big body still caging you in, his thick arms wrapped around you like he needed to keep you there, to pin you down, to claim you.

His lips moved against your damp skin, pressing soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, up your throat, nuzzling against the sensitive skin behind your ear as he let out a deep, satisfied groan.

But then—

Another pulse.

Another deep, warm spurt of cum filling you up, coating your walls even though you swore he had already given you everything he had.

Your breath hitched, your body twitching slightly as you felt it—felt him still throbbing, still leaking, still making sure every single drop stayed buried inside you.

“Joel,” you gasped, tilting your head back against the couch, your fingers curling weakly into his sweaty back. “You’re still cumming?”

Joel grunted against your neck, his hips giving a slow, almost involuntary push forward, like he was trying to press himself even deeper, to make sure it stuck. His lips dragged up to your jaw, warm and slightly open, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked when he finally muttered,

“Still got more for you, baby.”

Fuck.

Your stomach tightened, another wave of heat rolling through you at the sheer desperation in his tone, the filth in his words. You felt his mouth on you again, felt the rough scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, and then—

Joel groaned, his lips finally finding yours, capturing them in a slow, wet kiss. The second you moaned into it—

Another slow pulse inside you.

Another spurt.

Hot, deep, filling you up all over again.

Joel shuddered against you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, swallowing your soft whimpers as he rocked into you, his cock still buried deep, still throbbing, still giving you everything.

You broke the kiss first, tilting your head back against the couch, a dazed, smug little smile curling on your lips. “You really are an old pervert,” you murmured, voice teasing, breathless.

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, filled with something possessive and raw as his fingers flexed slightly, keeping you in place.

“And you,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous, “are a fuckin’ menace.”

His hips rocked again, and you let out a choked little gasp as you felt just how deep he was still buried inside you, still stretching you, still keeping you full. He groaned at the sound, dipping his head to bite softly at your bottom lip before licking over it, tasting you, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy tease.

You melted into it, humming softly as you curled your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.

Joel growled.

His breath was heavy against your lips, warm and ragged, his body shuddering slightly as the last waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, then another just beneath your ear, his lips soft and warm and so different from the way he’d just fucked you—filthy and desperate and rough.

Now, he was gentle.

Now, he was melting against you.

His weight pressing you down, his hands smoothing over your hips, his fingers curling possessively around the softness of your thighs. Keeping you close. Keeping you his.

You sighed, shifting just slightly, feeling the thick heat of him settle inside you, the stretch easing, leaving behind a deep, satisfied ache. You were so full.

So stuffed with him.

And god, you could feel it—the way he was still throbbing deep inside, the way the sticky warmth of his spend was already beginning to leak out, thick and hot, slicking your thighs where you were still stretched wide around him.

You smirked.

“Hm,” you mused, tilting your head back against the couch, letting your fingers drag lazily down his back. “I really got forty-year-old cum inside me right now, huh?”

Joel groaned, shifting slightly, dragging his lips down the curve of your throat, nipping softly. “Baby, don’t—”

“What?” You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips slightly, making him hiss. “Just stating facts.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing where they gripped your waist, holding you still. “Not forty,” he muttered, his voice a low, grumbled thing against your skin.

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? My bad. Forty-something-year-old cum.”

Joel groaned again, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And yet,” you purred, voice sweet and teasing, “you still came so deep inside me.”

His hips flexed, pushing deeper, and you gasped, arching slightly beneath him. Joel lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours, something warm and hungry and satisfied settling there.

“Damn right, I did.”

You shivered.

His lips curled slightly, his hand dragging down to rest against your lower belly, pressing there—right over the place where you were still stuffed full of him.

“Know how long I been thinkin’ about that?” he murmured, fingers flexing slightly. “Fillin’ you up like this?”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as he rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “Joel…”

His lips found yours again, slow and deep and lingering, his tongue sliding against yours in a soft, lazy tease. You melted into it, letting him kiss you slow, letting him take his time, letting him savor the taste of you, the feel of you, the warmth of you still wrapped around him.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment, his hand smoothing up your side, curling around your ribs, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.

“You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice softer now, rough around the edges but warm.

You exhaled, stretching slightly, feeling the way his body fit against yours, warm and solid and safe. You felt good.

Better than good.

A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. “More than okay.”

Joel grunted, pressing one last kiss to your jaw before finally shifting, pulling out slowly, carefully, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt just how soaked you were.

He sat back, dark eyes dragging over the sight of you—legs spread, pussy messy and glistening, his cum already beginning to leak out onto the couch. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and push it back inside.

Your smirk deepened. “Like what you see?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching slightly, your grin widening. “Well,” you mused, voice lazy and satisfied, “if you die, at least you’ll die a very happy pervert.”

Joel rolled his eyes, reaching for you, tugging you onto his lap effortlessly, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

You sighed, melting into him, pressing your forehead against his, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck.

Joel exhaled, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers flexing slightly where they gripped your hips.

Then, voice low, murmured against your mouth—

“Yeah, baby. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

...Hey y'all im back. Opinions and comments are greatly appreciated please PLEASE (please)

[bi-ftm-on-main]

I made out with a random guy at a club

[tonycries]

Lady & The Sick Man - T.F.

Synopsis. Most people would run away from the ghost in their shabby new apartment, Toji Fushiguro makes you lose your mind.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Lady K!reader, Lady K & The Sick Man AU, roommates-to-Iovers, sIeazy Toji, he cooks for you, male mast., face-sítting (fem rec.), Toji’s DOWN BAD, pússydrúnk Toji, dry húmping, matíng presses, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, pushing down on it, MARATHONS, bréeding, spítting, dúmbifícation, fíngering, cúmplay, making him whímper, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.1k

A/N. Babygirls, I WILL cry if this doesn’t post-

All in all, it wasn’t the most awful place, considering the dirt-cheap price.

Toji certainly could’ve done worse for himself after being sacked from his job - some nonsense about recessions and workforce reduction, go figure - and racking up a mountain of arrears on his last home. 

Sure, a few questionable mildew stains here, and perhaps a broken floorboard there. But this unverified property wasn’t completely run-down; at the very least it had running water, a dingy kitchen, tolerable enough neighbors, and…

…you.

It was only a few hours after moving into his new apartment that Toji understood exactly why the rent was cheap enough even for him. Exactly why the jittery landlord was oh-so-insistent on signing the contract right away. And exactly why he’d kept looking over his shoulder all throughout their rushed “tour” - as if dreading for something to pop out of thin air any second now.

Like a pretty lil’ poltergeist haunting the closet inside his bedroom.

Toji sighs out a clammy breath at his glaring phone screen, thumb brushing over the twentieth interview rejection this week. 

Honestly, with his recent lack of employment success and the sheer amount of boxes he had to unpack, a ghost seemed like the last of his worries. 

It wasn’t as if he really wanted to do something about his unsolicited roommate in the first place - not that he had the funds to move again, anyway - because from what little he’d seen of you since moving in today, you were harmless. 

And…fucking hot. 

Startling out a disbelieving huff of laughter, Toji empties out a boiling hot kettle over two matching cups of instant ramen. The bubbling red sauce molten and simmering to the surface exactly in time with the traitorous flush over his ears.

Almost hunched-over in his snug kitchen, he could visualize it from glimpses already— that skin-tight dress of yours, so thin it looked see-through, always peering at him from corners with those confused, gorgeous eyes. 

Like he’s sure you were doing right now.

“D’you want the spicy or the extra-spicy noodles, doll–?” Toji’s crooning out somewhere behind his back, lazy drawl laced with a titter of sheer amusement as he hears your shocked squeak. Followed shortly by the urgent thud-thud-thud of you surely running back to the safe haven of your - his - bedroom. Calling out, “Oi! S’not that bad.”

Turning back, he warily eyes the soils of chemicals swimming around inside the mouth-watering concoction that’d become his dinner every night since getting fired.

Well, Toji’s bored, mossy eyes flit questioningly from the tower of instant ramen stocked up on his kitchen counter to the shadows where you’d disappeared. If even a dead person wouldn’t eat those then…

And it hurt - ah, did it hurt for him to grab a handful of the ones he’d begrudgingly acknowledged were extra awful for your insides. Big, beefy hands shovelling them down his waste bin with a pained grunt-

Wait- did said dead people even eat? He has no idea, and yet carries both scalding hot cups to the room he’d become quickly accustomed to. Even despite his afterlife accomplice. 

“Yoohoo, pretty lady~ I got somethin’ for ya.” He’s cooing as he enters, husky bass dipping into something softer. Smoother. 

With a humming gruff, he seats himself down on the scratchy tatami floor. Surrounded by so many boxes upon boxes to be sorted through, quirked gaze locked firmly on the shut sliding doors of the closet. That papery wall just opposite him was so flimsy that he could almost see you watching from behind it, waiting. 

And Toji waits, too.

He waits until his senses get used to the slightly damp, willowy scent of the four walls. 

He waits until his ears grow strained n’ tired from yearning for but a single sound that you were still there with him. 

He waits until he’d finished both savory, now-lukewarm cups - in his defense, job-searching and trying to make nice with your resident ghoul will really work up an appetite, alright?

Letting off yet another exhausted gust of air, Toji’s just about to throw his hands in defeat and dispose of the remnants of his dinner - perhaps even try and forget about this entire ordeal altogether. Briefly-unused joints creaking as he stands up, he’s shaking his head free of you when his eyes land on something.

Actually, more someone. 

That raunchily flashy cover of one of his favorite porn DVDs, propped right on top of one open box, the actress in it smiles brightly in a sheer white dress that reminded him too much of yours. 

He gulps– if he remembered correctly, it was about some foreign exchange student that seduced her nervous roommate and- Toji’s lids crack wider, the sleaziest of leers plastering allll across his face. Well, hey…

SLAM!

The cozy closet trembles with both surprise and poor woodworking as Toji all but crashes it open, making quick work of fitting himself inside the stifling airway and propping open the hidden attic doorway homed on the ceiling. The only place he would expect a ghost to disappear off to.

Shit, you think he looked so unfairly handsome like this.

Cottony black fabric of his sweater hanging off of his every bulging muscle, heavy eyelids half-hiding away that glinting stare. Devouring. 

One meaty palm pushing the rickety door upwards, his grin is vulgar as his sights land on your crouched figure. Rasping, “Hey there.” The heated gasps of his words barely hit your face before Toji’s other hand- oh, his other hand shoots up in a split-second to curl sternly around your neck. 

Tight. 

Before you know it, you’re letting yourself be pulled into a filthy, filthy kiss. 

Fuck- Toji’s honed canines snag against the cute plush of your wobbly bottom lip and make you sing out the prettiest whine. Biting back a groan himself when the spit-filled crevice of your mouth parts way to let him squeeze his tongue in - making you suck.

You tasted like the most syrupily cloying candy and, hell, Toji wasn’t one for sweets but now he wanted more. 

More more more. 

The doughy mounds of his sensory tips itch out bruises right near where your pulse was thundering, he’s flexing his strong arms and reeling you in even closer. So soft and warm; you were practically melting into every swipe of his mushy tastebuds, and he was drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

Straightening his towering height even more into the attic, it was like he was burning. Bright, boiling red. A rugged palm gliding to your beautiful nape and pushing-

Every breath. Every whine. Every slippery dollop of spit that dribbled out of your unfastened maw and straight into his watering mouth. 

Toji was a damn sloppy man - and he was just as cocky, too. Feeling your nose nuzzle against his cheek in an effort to get him to kiss you deeper, he’s parting one bleary eyelid just a fraction to envision the full force of his effect on you. 

Trembling and impatient. How cute.

One dark brow raises at the way your lashes were so close and clumped with great glittering droplets of tears. Sliiiiding just away to take in the way your thighs were squeezing–

“Hck!” You’re breaking off from the lecherous French kiss with a sappy pwah! delicate strings of spittle, still dangling from each of your lips as Toji drunkenly chases after your mouth.

Feeling his gawking on you, your hand shoves shyly between your legs. And the other shoves him right out of the opening of the attic, as if you weren’t raw putty in his palms just mere sultry seconds ago. 

Fuck. 

Toji finds himself thrown back onto the wooden closet floor, marvelling at the thunderous crash of you locking yourself back away - and yet he still can’t fully compute it all. 

A calloused palm comes up to cover the lower half of his face, mind whirling over and over with the burning memory, and before long he’s realizing that he’s let his kiss-swollen lips leak with a thin trail of drool. Him. Drooling. 

Even more once he’s thinking of it again - the way you were sooo fucking wet, just from a kiss. 

“What….the…f-fuck.” Toji mutters to himself, stare latched dazedly to the closed wooden surface of the attic as if just willing it to somehow open once more. Toned thighs making to leave and-

Oh.

It’s right then and there that the man looks down at the hardest fucking boner he’s ever gotten in his entire life, wet n’ achingly swollen. Almost as if his prolonged length was about to break through his sweatpants right this very second-

“Dammit.”

.

.

.

Back at Toji Fushiguro’s last place, there’d been no one but himself to keep him company.

Which wasn’t necessarily bad - he’d still had his instant ramen (almost all of it now thrown away because of…health reasons), his vast porn collection (given away to a few friends, no use keeping something he couldn’t watch with you around), and occasional small talk with his neighbors (his current ones seemed to avoid him for whatever reason.)

Right now, it was just him. And-

“You know, I hear these new microwave meals are supposed ta be killer, pretty lady.” 

“Ahh–!”

“Oh- sorry. S’that too insensitive?” Toji snickers out, sounding not even an ounce apologetic as he catches the cute frill of your ghoul-like dress disappearing behind the corner of the grim kitchen wall. 

It was about as much of a conversation as he’d managed to coax out of you in the week you’d started cohabitating.

A week of letting you squeak and ogle at him from the shadows as you pleased, a week of trying his very best not to show off the puffing bulge of his muscles whenever he worked out unabashedly in front of you. A week since…that kiss.

“How rude.” He’s scoffing, though the curling twitch of his lips says otherwise. Eyes still honed on the way the very crown of your head just spies out from the corner. Cute. 

Seating himself on the creaky kitchen table, Toji places the second microwave dinner right opposite him and pretends not to notice as you pad a few tentative steps forwards. Picking idly at the soggy rice on his plate, he feels the bottom of his stomach twist with something strangely akin to delight.

Closer. And closer. 

You’re peaking curiously over at the clouds of steaming tendrils that waft off of the food, catching a whiff and- nose crinkling in disgust, you scamper away before Toji can even feel disappointed. 

“Yuck.”

Grumbling, “Now that was really rude.”

Well, he really didn’t know why he was so intent on befriending the cute lil’ ghost that lived in his closet attic. And he really didn’t know why he found himself trudging over to that tiny nook tucked away in his bedroom later that night, full of a microwave dinner he certainly won’t be buying again.

Blankets and flattened pillow in hand, Toji’s eyes rover for any sign of you - any. 

But, alas, as most things tend to do, it doesn’t exactly go the way he hoped.

“Hmm– no sign of her.” He murmurs underneath his breath, uncertain hands setting his impromptu bed down on the closet floor. Volume lilting just a few pitches louder in emphasis, “Guess I’ll go to sleep then.” Higher - and so does his head up into the looming darkness where you were sure to be. Slithering underneath the warm covers, “This is me now. Sleeping.”

And Toji doesn’t exactly have to pretend to fall asleep - not quite. 

Long lashes shuttering; the net of slumber casts down on him sluggishly - it’s not long before his chest grows heavier, breaths more staggered, and a heated body settles into his bed.

You. 

“Ya came back for more, huh?” His softly musing groan strikes the back of your neck like a scorching breeze, skittering such delicious goosebumps all over your body and all underneath that useless piece of cloth you called a dress. 

Making him wonder where else…

Plump, puckered lips hit the side of your throat and you shiver– hips gyrating back in a lewd figure eight to where Toji was spooning you now. 

He was so big, in every sense of the word. Chiseled washboard abs gently caressing down your arched spine in a repeated back n’ forth, every ridge massages you depravedly, the plush pillows of his pecs cushioning your back. 

When Toji’s broad arms wrap snugly around your body, so do his meaty thighs pinning you to him. Instantaneously, your head tumbles backwards with a stuttered gasp, “Please.”

And something in Toji twitches. Something in him awakes.

“Ohhhh– so ya can be nice?” He purrs, roaming over one hand in a carnal grip on the globes of your ass. He’s savoring that sweet, sweet sound of your voice begging for him and- shit, he really hadn’t dreamed of this last week. “Say it- say it f’me again like a good girl?”

“P-please.”

“Hmmm, how cute.”

The very tip of his thumb writes out a cursive Toji on the right cheek of your ass, playfully tapping its way down to cup your fluttering core. 

You were so fucking wet that the fabric of your dress was clinging between your legs in a way that made him jealous, sticky fabric seeping through with a few glistening slathers of syrupy wet slick. Practically flooding out a lil’ damp spot where his massive cock was stirring. 

“Fuck- hellooooo girls.” That hooked scar tickles down the tenderest spots of your neck to pant out humid breaths over the swell of your breasts. A viscid layer of sweat slicking up those perked nipples as you squeeze your shaky thighs and push-

Your lungs burn with a fiery need, squeezing out every ounce of air as he’s smearing his hands all over your tits. “-T-Toji.”

His name - you’d memorized his name. 

You were going to be the death of him.

And your body renders forwards, dipping the curves of your gorgeous tits further into his ready grasp. You could feel every roughened callous, every palmistry line, every grope he was relentlessly feeling all over. Feeling allll of you.

“Ngh- T-Toji.” You’re slipping out adorably, as if his name was all that you could repeat at this point. Fuzzy brain showing static at the spiking heat of this closet room-

“Yeah- Yeahh–?” It’s all you hear before his rounded digits spank down on your tits, circling out softly against where you were the most sensitive. That high-pitched wail you’re keening out is the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

Toji has the audacity to giggle, thick fingers sneaking underneath your dress to give your pebbled nipples yet another thwack! 

“Whoops.” And another. “Sorry-” Dutifully pinching the nibs of your tits as he pecks your jawline, he’s rolling his thumb right over those pointed nipples like he was milking them. “-hand slipped.”

“Y-your fingers–” And you’re choking on numerous saccharine moans when his fingerpads come slamming down once more, the stinging striking rendering your mouth waterlogged with oodles of saliva. “-so m-mean.”

Tears were practically overtaking your pretty features now - but that wasn’t the only place you were letting out sobs from.

Your inner thighs glue together with a clingy film of bawling sap out from your cunt, puffy lips so bloated n’ needy that Toji could peer down and count every sinful throb. 

“Wouldya look at that–” He’s breathing out, in such awe at the slurping slurs that were springing up from your dampened pussy. Almost as if she was squelching out in conversation, he nods, “She’s more talkative than you. This heh- turns ya on- doesn’t it, pretty lady?”

Velvety sweater skirting up, he’s dragging the thick, scratchy tufts of a black happy trail straightly down your squirming back. Pushing you against a sexily tensed core, your heart races as you could feel him harden.

“Mmm…could bury myself here forever.” His voice cracks sloppily as he cranes over to muffle the ends of that particular sentence into your heaving mounds. Musked cologne hitting your senses, filthy tongue flopping out to smack your tender areolas and draaaaag-

“Toji- Toooji–”

“Heh- m’here. Your Toji’s here, sweet thing.” He’s snarling as he bites, glistening white edges of his teeth scraping your raw flesh. Voice warbling - high, his raven lashes flap furiously to keep his vision from hazing over. “C’mon- c’mon c’mon c’mon don’t hide ‘em from me.”

Sensually, he’s trekking his hand near the hem of your dress and tugging down until he can fully try to suffocate himself between your pretty tits. 

Toji didn’t need fucking air - the sight of you was heavenly enough, making him buck so that the curly black hairs near his base scratch your skin and leave it stinging. 

Tongue simply ruthless, whisking out soppy dollops of spittle that drip down your nipples and purposefully make a mess. Sucking and sucking while he ruts from behind with a groan.

Messy. Toji was making sure of it.

The slimy trailway of his tongue laps and laps until your eyes are bulging halfway out of their sockets, grunting. “You got it- you got it, sugar.” He latches on hypnotically to your left nipple and gnaws a generous mouthful. “Keep up now- I bite.” 

Jaw dropped, toes curled. 

Babbling broken ohs! and Toji! your lips smack away incoherently through bouts of bubbling slobber. He’s watching with awe as your legs fall open, glue-stuck pussylips spreading wiiidely apart- 

Swallowing a leaden ball at the sheer amount of wetness you were pouring out. Bucketloads, really.

Pretty. 

Toji grabs ahold of your humping hips with a groan, pushing you all snug n’ cozy against his throbbing cock. Spying from beneath his unruly black bangs, “Would make the s-sweetest fuckin’ birthing hips, pretty lady.”

He was so…massive.

Gasping, the very action of you scrambling up onto your elbows makes your vision swim with a few blotches of black - still tingling all over with the buzz of being so close.

You’re shivering, a sudden yelp escaping your glossed lips as you nudge Toji away with something that resembled a headbutt and ran. 

Well, more like crawled with whatever strength you had left - all the way back up your safe, dark attic whilst leaving the man disoriented below. 

And it was not just because of your forehead crashing into his.

“Shiiiiit.” Toji belts out a low whistle, a hand dipping down to grab his thickened cock through his drenched-through sweats. He’s laid all out on his back now, staring up at the shuttered attic door where you’d disappeared, “I’m fucked.”

.

.

.

It was quite a change to be sleeping with a ghost - in the most literal sense, he wasn’t sleeping sleeping with a ghost.

Turning into somewhat of a routine now to find himself woken up inside the closet space with your sleeping body cuddled softly up to him - at least, until you realize and make it your mission to disappear before he can say more than a few words, that is.

You hadn’t progressed past a few cute whines n’ touches here and there, and even that was enough for Toji to lose his damn mind this past week. 

He thought of you when he cooked, he thought of you while his neighbor squawked at every glimpse of him, he thought of you in the shower - especially in the shower, in fact, with one hand wrapped around his hard fucking cock- 

-and he was thinking of you right now. 

Stood stock-still in front of one of those high-end fashion stores beaming smugly on the bustling streets of Tokyo - the exact type he’d have scoffed and turned his nose up at just a few weeks ago.

But now, Toji was turning his nose at something else - right downwards to search for a price tag on the cute pink dress that was displayed proudly in the middle of the shop window. 

It was a skimpy lil’ thing, open and stylish, the exact type he knew you’d look perfect in. The exact type you’d wear so nicely that it’d make him want want to rip it off altogether. 

The exact type that was making him gape at the sheer number of zeros on the printed price, jaw moving up and down soundlessly as he double takes - was it legal to charge this much for a fucking dress? How the hell was he supposed to even get it for y-

Wait. Toji straightens up until he’s ramrod as a pole, not even caring for the way passersby give him the dirtiest of looks as his bulky frame blocks most of the sidewalk. Why was he even thinking of buying this for you in the first place? Did ghosts even-

“Steep price eh, sonny?”

He’s turning ‘round towards the aged, grating voice of the shopkeeper who’d apparently come outside to investigate his conundrum. 

The older man smiles apologetically at him, as if he wasn’t the one that was responsible for half those prices anyway. “You know how it is with these one-of-a-kind pieces. Lowest I could put it at, of course.”

Toji nods without a word, feet itching to remove himself from this awkward situation before- 

“S’for a special lady o’ yours, isn’t it?” 

“None of your business, old man.” Toji snarls, not much bite to his words. 

Judging by the way the clerk smirks, he’d figured out that he hit the target dead-on. And the frosty cold of the city air had never bitten the tips of Toji’s ears sharper, redder. Waving a weathered hand airily, “Tell ya what- I don’t usually do this, but I’ll reserve this piece until you collect ‘nough of those salaries and buy it for ya girl. How about it?”

And usually - usually - Toji would have told the man to fuck right off with those bargains. “One-of-a-kind” his ass. 

But…his eyes drift to the gauzy, delicate dress, the way it fitted on the mannequin. And how much more gorgeous you’d look in it. Salaries, huh?

With a firm nod, and a reluctant handshake with the shopkeeper, he finds himself browsing once more through a few employment sites he’d all but cursed the name of and abandoned a few weeks ago. 

One thing at a time, Toji ponders, shuffling his phone back into his pocket, albeit with a few fresh webpages bookmarked. 

Now, back onto his mission to head to the nearest supermarket - namely the fresh produce section. 

Which…actually didn’t turn out to be as much of a wild goose chase as he expected about two hours, a pissed shop employee, and three burnt fingers later. 

Skin muggy with the stifling kitchen air, hands placed on either side of his waist in a way that reminded Toji of his mother- “So?” He grouches out, the nonchalance in his voice given away as nothing but a façade with the way his feet tap-tap-tap. “How about it? Michelin star or what?”

The subject of his attention - you, like most days recently - only scrunches your nose in distaste. A spoon filled to the brim with steaming hot miso soup inching ever-closer to your mouth with the air of a lamb being carted off to slaughter. 

And a fucking massacre it was once the taste hits your awaiting buds and you spit–

“Oi-”

“Yuck!”

So much for Michelin stars, Toji’s grumbling to himself as he takes your same spoon and savors the miso soup with tofu for himself. Face crinkling immediately like a piece of paper at the salt bomb that assaults his senses, “Too much miso.”

Well, it seems he couldn’t fault your ghostly tastebuds just yet - but in his defense, it was his first time doing anything as sensible as this!

“Pretty lady~” Toji coos out, kneeling on the frigid quilt of his kitchen tiles to bring himself eye-level with your crouched figure in the shadows. “C’mere, sorry about the miso- try the tofu.”

And it was almost…adorable how you’re tentatively skulking your way over, pretty lips pulled into a permanent pout after his mess of soup. 

As soon as you’re close enough, he’s popping a hand into one of the bowls and plucking out  a creamy wad of tofu to nudge inside your mouth; slightly mushy in his touch, but at the very least you don’t wince too much at the overdone flavor of it. 

In fact, you actually swallowed. 

“Mmm–”

Leering, “Delicious, huh?”

“No.”

“Fine then- not bad.” Cackling out a hoarse bark of laughter, amusement sets his features aglow as Toji thumbs over the stray smidgens of white that stuck to your salivating lips. Catching a few beaded droplets of soup, “Messy girl. Look at you.”

You’re whining as he smears over the sleek spillage, trickling from between your lips and down to where your see-through dress was drenched almost non-existent. 

Fuck. 

You really were messy - and it was driving him crazy.

Parched Adam’s apple bobbing up n’ down in his scratchy throat at the glistening stickiness where your tits were heaving, his strained breaths aching to match your own. Pants tightening, buzzing fingertips twitching, Toji can’t even think before he unfastens his mouth with a dry, “Let…let me try something, doll?”

Your mouth drips hot and open as soon as Toji tugs down on his snugly-fitted sweatpants until his throbbing cock proudly slaps at his tensed core. 

And when you imagined that he might be big - you didn’t think he’d be big.

Red n’ swollen, the glittering tip of his mushroom crown was sprinkling out pearly drops of pre at the sudden sting of the cold kitchen draft. Simply gaudily decorated with fatly pumping veins all ‘round his girthy sides, they slithered in a zig-zag towards the clammy tufts of his happy trail. 

Nine- maybe even ten solid inches that twitch as your glassy eyes set sight on all of him greedily. So ridiculously massive that your mouth was starting to water already.

“Just hafta watch me, pretty lady.” Toji gruffs out solemnly, one of his burly hands curling around his meaty hilt. The ridges of his teeth sink down as he bites back a simmering hiss- “Just- just–”

Trailing off into merely nothing but soft rasps as he’s starting up short, stout tugs of his painfully hard cock. Not made of rocks, but made of fucking diamonds and jolting out creamy spatters of precum with every slight squeeze.

He was teasing. Toying. Just blushing cherry red at his tip, a saccharine lil’ color that made you want to inch forwards…

“Awww- yer drooling, sweet thing.” Toji interrupts your train of thought with a cocky tilt of his head, narrowed gaze flittering down to the thin line of spit that’d started to overspill from your maw. “Heh- never seen a guy so big, huh?”

You’re shaking your head in a way that makes the man groan, and with a vulgar few flicks of his capped thumb underneath the jutting ridge of his slit, Toji shoots out his free hand. Darting, in two bats of your shocked lashes you’re registering that he’d locked one hand around your neck and was pulling you.

Unapologetically tittering, “No needa be shy now.” Closer. Closer. Faintly wondering whether ghosts could bruise, the curved margins of his nails bite down your rapid pulsation. “C’mere.”

Mewling once gusts of his bodyheat radiate in waves, making your skin prickle with cold sweat. Your spine aches with the effort of being manhandled close, “T-Toji…”

“Tha’s right, m’here.” He’s grunting from above, scarred lips pulling into a prowling snarl as he smears the tender side of his length against your cheek. Burning hot and messy, your features gleam with a sprayed sheen of sweltering pre. “S’a biiig fucking cock, huh?”

“Please-” You’re latching down onto the elastic hem of his pants, mindlessly yanking away until you could see the chubby curve of his fat breeder balls. “S-sooo big.”

“Greedy greedy.” Toji’s right hand slows down to a slooow crawl up and down his plump shaft, taking his lazy time to tug open your prettily pouted maw with his other hand. “Heh- could open that pretty mouth all wide f’me and it s-still wouldn’t fit, doll.”

With a wailing protest, you’re letting him lilt your mouth open further- and fuck, the way that pinkish tongue of yours flops out eagerly makes Toji dizzy. 

His own tastebuds flooded with a freshly scalding wave of briny spittle, just starting to threaten near the crevices of his stern lips before he cranes his head towards yours and spits. 

Splattering.

Now, Toji had good aim - perfect, actually. But where was the fun in that?

His rotund thumb swipes away a few speckles of excess, plugging the frothy remnants back between your whiny lips. The way your brows scrunch at the impact is so adorable, “Look at you- all greedy for this cock. Sooo fuckin’ wet already.”

“M’n-not…” 

Liar, your cunt seemed to throb. Legs trembling together whilst your whirling pupils followed every draaaagging stroke of Toji’s big hands, the way he’d softly caress his lengthy digits over those delicate lightning bolts of his veins. It made you clench around nothing just to imagine how they would feel inside.

You blubber out a sobbing, “T-Toji.”

“Say it- say m’name again.” Toji drawls out sluggishly. Needy. He’s spitting down his spheroid cockhead, pumping angrily. “C’mon, say it-”

“Toji-”

“Again.”

Stuttering, slobbering with every gyrating hump gifted into the heady air.

“Toji…” Your bottom lips swells with your biting nibble, “-cum f’me.”

And as soon as the axons in his body pull taut and snap, he’s scrambling up from his seated position onto his knees to push his weepy tip into your face and cum.

Alllll over your pretty face - great, dripping cobwebs of seed that make his heavy thighs shake with sheer force. Whacking his bulbously swollen tip against your lips so that the ivory topping swabs across every inch he could reach. 

Toji’s clawing on a tight hold around your neck to keep your cutely squirming self in place, his sharp hips jutting outwards in a slow gyrating pace. As if he was fucking an invisible you - envisioning it whilst his stringy bouts of sweltering hot cum dripped down your face. 

Sloppy, sloppy.

“Shiiiit, haven’t cum this hard in…” His deep bass trembles, eyes glazing over with something primal and dreamy. Practically melting for you, “...in forever.”

The fastest he’s ever had, he shakes back the red, red blush scalding his ears now- just from you and those words. You. 

You’re mewling, lapping your tongue out to taste the syrupy salted caramel flavor of his oozing sap. Lips gluing together at the thickly glutinous consistency, “Toji- cummin’ so much. Want more.”

“Shit.” Toji hisses, lurching as if he’d just been bolted with a zillion volts of electricity. Instantly, the hand at your throat adjusts you so that you’re splayed out on the kitchen floor. Pretty and slobbering with need for him.

Dewy eyes widening a significant fraction at the way his rounded capped knees settle languidly on either side of your head. He was so thick with chiseled muscles, you think you could cum alone from the way that Toji’s wrapping a hand around his hefty base and milking himself.  

Face blossomed red, black brows scrunched, a slow splashing of sweat falls onto your face once he’s squeezing his hilt with a raw squeeeelch–!

“Sh-shit, talking outta pussy when you ngh- can’t even-” Straddling you, he nibbles on the flooded inside of his cheek, whirling peripheries locked on the last few splotches of pure sinful white that cream out of his tip and frost an adhesive capping down his length.

Chest heaving, voice guttural. “-can’t even- even hck!” As he’s finishing off, he guides his length to stand side-by-side with your fucked-out face. The way he was bigger than your head. Airily musing, “-fit this.”

You can only whine in protest, “A-as if.”

“Sass.” And Toji’s overstimulated cockhead twitches once, twice as he drifts a hand over to thumb his fattened pad on a particularly knotted puddle of cum beside your cheek. Gliding it allll down your wobbly lips like a sticky lipgloss, “Damn beautiful, too.”

With a shy peck on his meaty palms, you slip away into the shadows as you usually do. And eventually he’ll find his charcoal lashes dipping lower with fatigue, skin still sizzling with you and his high and you-

“Oh? Ya also wanted a change tonight, doll?” Toji pauses, worm-patterned blanket (it was half-off, alright!) partly spread in his arms. 

Now about an hour later and back in his dingy bedroom, Toji stares with bated breath as you sneak out from the cracks of his open closet. 

It wasn’t like him to leave you all alone, but after a week of his back moaning and aching at him- well, a night away from that teensy shack you called a home wouldn’t hurt right? At least not physically, it was tough for a man his size to squeeze himself inside without any afterlife powers.

What he certainly didn’t expect was for you to move back into the proper bedroom with him.

Cuddling your back against his toned front, fitting together like two puzzle pieces. Arms tight around your waist like glue, legs tangling together sweetly. Toji finds himself scoffing at the rosy heat that rises irrationally up to the tips of his ears - practically mocking him. 

“G’night, pretty lady.”

“Good night…Toji.”

Burying his face into the soft crook of your neck so you wouldn’t see his furious blush, he thinks he’s never slept more peacefully.

.

.

.

Once in a blue moon - emphasis on once in a blue moon - Toji actually begrudgingly appreciates the presence of Shiu Kong in his life. 

Sure, the man was an ass and absolutely too proud of those pencil lines he called a stache, but he was employed, at the nearby gym no less. And the best part about having a friend that was employed was that he could help Toji himself get employed. 

And it was walking back home after (completely, totally acing) his job interview as a boxing coach, swiping through the email with his advance and the request that he start next week, that Toji runs into his enigma of a neighbor. 

Ichiro…Ijishi…? Something of the sort. Running on the fumes of his good day, Toji raises his hand at the fidgety, spectacled man in greeting, “Yo- Itachi.”

Honestly, he couldn’t have looked more terrified had he been welcomed by a phantom. And Toji would know…

Jumping about a proper three feet in the air, he’s breaking out in a glittering cold sweat all over. Muttering incoherently, “I-it’s Ijichi…”

“Ah, right.” Toji grunts, shocked he even managed to squeak out enough syllables to answer him. Usual conversation was limited to running away or avoiding him altogether - though, perhaps the presence of you had something to do with that fact. Not that he was complaining though, as long as he had you.

Almost as if Ijichi had sensed his thoughts, he’s splaying his hands out in warning, “Y-you know- Toji-san, you should really be careful.”

Halting right in front of his walkway, the taller man raises a brow in questioning. This was bound to be interesting. 

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while but, th-they say there’s a…” Looking around, shuffling. “-g-g-ghost in that apartment, a woman who lived long ago and- d-died inside that closet. Until you, no one could live there because she would eeep! haunt them. Y-you should really be careful, Toji-san, I’ve been hearing noises from your home at the dead of night lately, too…”

Ah, your moans. He forgot he shared a bedroom wall with the other man, and you were probably louder now since you’d started sleeping in the bedroom with him.

Fingers tightening on the glossy pink shopping bag held in one hand, “S’that so? She’s really this scary ol’ ghoul then?”

“Exactly- it isn’t an o-old wives’ tale, either. Everyone’s seen it, the closet door opening at night, lights flickering, strange voices.” Dark brows furrowing, he trails off. “If you want the- the town’s exorcist, Ogami, is coming to cleanse my a-apartment tonight and has been urging me to give you her number.” 

“An exorcist.” The syllables fall flat on Toji’s tongue, “For the ghost.”

“Yes yes- that ol’ woman, ah- exorcist says that the vengeful s-spirit can attach to a human being and sap their life source, tying the ghoul to them forever-”

“I wouldn’t mind that, actually. If it was her.” 

He’s surprised to find that he means it. 

Leaving Ijichi blubbering in confusion, Toji mutters away something that hopefully sounded like a ‘thanks but no thanks.’ Easily making his way inside, the door had barely slammed closed before you were slamming into him.

Face pushing into the valley of his firm pectorals, arms dangling to reach around his neck. Your fingers tangle into the delicate waves peaking out at his nape and Toji almost purrs, tackling you equally as fervently. 

“So- dinner?”

Damn, he couldn’t even deny it anymore. Exorcism and spiritual powers his ass, you’d turned him into some sort of house-husband. 

The same thought he’s repeating again and again as he cooks up a mean omurice in that tiny kitchen of his, golden brown and perfectly crisp on the edges.

All thanks to two hours of online research and bugging Shiu - his usefulness strikes again, dammit.

Toji takes great pride in drawing a lil’ heart of ketchup on the mounded middle, like he’d heard maid cafés do. Watching as you sniff. Cautious…and then scoff it down in generous gulps. Smirking, “So…Michelin stars?”

You’re only nodding, leaning over to plant a lingering peck- “Mhm.”

“Knew it.”

You were eating something he cooked - finally, finally eating something he cooked.

Suddenly hit with remembrance, Toji reels back his body a few inches away from your proximity on the kitchen table and almost whines - what the hell have you done to him? Shuffling through the few groceries, he waves one bag tantalizingly in front of your face, “Guess what, pretty lady.”

Oh, Toji was right. 

If you asked him, he would say that he’s always right - but he was especially right in his assumption that you’d look jaw-droppingly gorgeous in that pretty pink number from the shop. 

The old man had kept his word, reserving that dress so that Toji could splurge almost all of the hefty advancement fee from that brand-spankin’ new job of his. Later that night, he sat criss-crossed on his bedroom tatami, awaiting the fashion show. Letting you waltz out of the closet, nervously donned in a gauzy layer of fabric that hugged your body just so-

“C’mere. Shit, c’mere.” Toji rasps out, one hand sliding down his face because shit- the other clamors for his phone to take a picture. He glances down at the kassha-! of the screen, jaw dropping when- “Oh, ya really are a ghost.”

You’re spying over at the photo that showed nothing - literally. Nothing but a dress floating in midair, you shrug. “Duh.”

“Well, whatever-” Toji grouches, so much for setting a picture of you as his lockscreen. More preoccupied with the success of you becoming more talkative lately, “-do ya like it, doll?”

“Mhm– like it a lot.”

“C’mere, then. We hafta celebrate.”

Ah, you had the feeling that ‘celebrate’ meant so much more right now. 

Because without warning, Toji’s roughened hand clings to the side of your waist and pulls you until you’re landing cutely to straddle his manspread lap. “Toji…”

“S’alright, sweet thing.” His familiarly heady musk and cologne invade your senses like fog, and Toji’s nose slides alllll the way up and down your gulping throat. Slowly. “M’kinda…starved.” Your hand twitches towards the hem of your dress- before Toji stops you gently. “Nah- keep it on, pretty lady.”

Oh?

Oh.

“O-oh, fuck–!” You’re squealing before long, straddling Toji’s sprawled head, the halo of his unruly bangs tickling your tender inner thighs. Laid out on the matted floors beneath you and leaving a wet peck near the sheeny splatters of slick coating your outer pussy.

Squelch after raw squelch he was ripping out of you with only a few innocent glides of his lips on your own, “No underwear? What a sweet girl ya are f’me.”

You’re gasping as his tongue swirls over a few gumdrops of escaping sap, opening his rugged maw wiiide open to let you see the way they slip n’ slide all the way down Toji’s ravenous gullet. 

“Ride. Ride my face- c’mon, ride my face like you own it.”

Hiking your newly-bought dress further up the curve of your ass, your knees ricket in tiny gyrations on top of his maw- needing more. A bullet of beaded sweat drips down your temple, “Stop- teasing, Toji.”

“Demanding now, aren’t we?” A soft spank leaves your mouth cracking with shrilling whimpers, head throwing back at the calloused drag of Toji’s fingers grabbing your ass and pushing you in deeper. A French kiss. “Let me- mm- let me taste ya first, at least.”

Oh, he was mean.

And the only thing meaner than Toji was that damn sinful mouth of his. Purposefully latchin’ his plush lips where your swollen folds were all puckered, letting your legs twitch with each vibration of his throaty groans. 

“Wanted this for so long- so long.” He’s letting his spit-glossed tongue swipe suddenly between your drooling slit, a faaaaat drag of his ridged tastebuds. “So long- n’ you’re so fucking sweet.”

“F-fuuuuck– your tongue-”

Toji snickers, hot gusts from his lungs heating your pried-apart core - his widely prolonged tongue flops out eagerly to drink up every sploshing wad of slick that trickles down from your sloppy entrance. Cock twitching at the lacquered gloss hitting his chin, “Mhm- ya like that, right? She likes that- riiight?”

You did. He didn’t even need to fucking ask - your syrup sweet liquid gluing to his tastebuds was enough of a clue. 

And Toji didn’t need another sign for his girthy tongue to inch towards your quivering hole, slithering. Sensually, so that every passing second meant you felt the grating scratch of his sensory buds. 

“Now–” His nose crinkles in excitement at the thundering sluuuuurp he hears once his mushy tip presses inside your rubbery cunt. Stretching and stretching out your tight channel with a few slashes of his muscle, “-hello to you, too, sugar.”

Was he…giving nicknames to your pussy? Your tear-trapped lashes flutter awake, “Toji- wh-what are you-”

“Shhh- s’alright, doll.” With only one of his hands locking on your waist, he’s easily hoisting you onto your knees- fuck, you didn’t even have to burden your weak limbs with your weight because he was holding you up anyway. Scar-decorated mouth murmuring, “Upsy daisy- you just keep those pretty legs wiiiide open f’me and ride, okay? M’gonna take care of you…”

Words seeping with a dangerous whisper now that he had the perfect view of your pouted pussylips, it made Toji want to lick his own lips in desperate salivation. 

Breathy, “Gonna take good- good-” Surging upwards until the tip of his high nosebridge bangs into your treacly clit. Hard. “-good care–” Tongue making a mess, humping up into the air. “-of her.”

You’re whimpering, hands bunching up into your dress to lift it higher once he brutally squeezes past your tight first ring of muscle. Enveloping eeeeevery nook and cranny inside you with his relentless tongue-

“Ngh- Toji–” Your hips restlessly roll into every barreling push of his swiping muscle, thighs flinching with every flick of his curling, dexterous crown stirrin’ your innards. Filling you up until it was maddening.

Just about all he can manage out right now, muffling a lil’ ‘mhm—?’ right when his tongue pokes into one of your earliest tender spots. Treating it like a dart board, he’s stretching his tongue as faaaar and wide as it could go to hit it repeatedly.

Vulgar. 

He’s massaging his stinging maw into your saturated pussymound over n’ over until every bit of your steaming hot slick is piled onto his lips. With a harsh grip of one of your asscheeks, and a thumb lugging lazily over your throbbing clit - Toji was sloppy.

And you were simply crying from both ends, bubbling tears clogging up your throat at the bruising pace he was making out with your honeyed cunt to. “H-how are you even- reaching-”

To Toji, it was a personal insult that you were riding his handsome face like this and still had the time to ponder your pretty head with nonsense like that. 

Well and fully intending to gnaw on your teary pussy until you were stupid, one of his free hands traverses a sneaky pathway underneath you. The thick, rounded stretch of one of his fingers circlin’ your hole making you moan. “Wh-what- hngh!”

That was more like it, he’s smirking something dark as you clamp around his bulky finger with your dripping wet core. Warm and soft. 

So soft. He really can’t help but stare down in pure awe with those sultry hazed eyes of his, watching through partly-open lids when he slaps his tongue down on your perky clit and takes the opportunity as you gasp-

“Fuck! Toji–”

-to rummage in another girthy finger, canines bared back in the tiniest of snarls while he unapologetically pumps back and forth to try and shovel them deeeeply inside. Hissing at the slight resistance, scouring fingertips scraping way inside your flooded wet depths. 

And he doesn’t know who’s louder - you or this sweet pussy of yours.

Fuck- with a joint furrow in his brow, Toji’s holding back his rasping pants in an effort to memorize every squelching noise you were letting off from between your legs. “Tha’s it- atta girl, talk t’me.”

Scissoring his knobbled digits all the way until his knuckles are striking your plump lips, lurching out filthy slurp after slurp. 

You were just too damn sexy for your own good, and before the next few whimpers of his name can formulate on your tongue, Toji spits a weighty glob of spit down your bulging slit and chases it. Like a moth drawn to flame, he’s pressing the flat of his hot tongue everywhere. 

The stray spaces where he was viciously thrusting away inside your entrance, the hood of your clit, the glittering layers of slick caking your inner thighs. 

Anywhere, in long depraved licks until your back begins to arch. Voice cracking at a lilt he found familiar, “Please- please please please m’so c-close, Toji-”

“Close, huh?”

You’re damn near falling straight onto your face if it wasn’t for the way Toji holds you up, sobbing when he only dips his fingers ever-deeper right where your nerves were on fire. Slapping a stinging bruise over the patch of your g-spot. 

“S’that r-right, sugar?” He gasps through pitched pecks, kiss after kiss of his swirling berry-pink tongue that makes your eyes twirl comically. His own thighs squeeze together, aching for any friction between, “Gonna- gonna cum? Gonna- ngh- cum on my face, sugar?”

Fuck- and every time his pearly white teeth latch on animalistically to the fleshy nub of your clit, your puffy pussy practically screams out answers. Tugging on your perked hood until drool seeps like a river from your lips. 

Both pairs, and Toji loved it. Loved what a pretty mess he could make of you. 

“S’that so? Uh uh–” He nods, and if you weren’t rendered stupidly speechless right now you might’ve just said a thing or two about the way that he was talking to your dripping cunt. “Mhm? Oh? Oh really…” Before spying over at you through lowered lashes, “Says she’s gonna heh- cum, doll.”

Almost as if he spoke it into existence, you’re hitting your high at that very moment. 

“Shit- shit shit shit m’cumming– ngh, m’cumming.”

Rolling his eyes with fondness, “Oh yeah? Give it t’me- give it all, m’fucking ngh- starving.”

“All- all.” Your voice reaches a fever pitch inside those papery-thin walls.

Vision shattering with tears, and you might not have seen the way you’d cum - what with your eyes permanently finding a home at the back of your head - but Toji certainly did. 

And fuck, he’s never wished more that ghosts could show up on camera. 

Because you weren’t just pretty when you were finally overcome with your orgasm, you were gorgeous. Toes arching cutely, mouth plastering with a fresh lipstain of moisture, throat parched over and over with the sound of his name. 

“Pretty girl.” Plopping in another finger with a wet splotchy sound to fuck you through your euphoria. His lengthy tongue aches with the slippery squeeze of your walls, grinding up with every rolling push of your hips. “Pretty pussy.”

You’re cumming and he’s tugging down his currently see-through pants to furiously pump his rock-hard length. Fucking you with his mouth the way he needed to with his bloated cock.

Your body lurches in sparking sensitivity-

Only to be hauled back down unceremoniously by his hand resting upon your throat, “Nuh uh, no runnin’ away.”

Just pouring wet, and Toji was more than happy to drink up every ounce and sappy wad. The treacly slabs of his saliva so weighty and thick that you could almost taste it on your own stinging buds.

Toji’s kiss-swollen scar smeeeears down your clit one last time n’ stays there playfully, “Heh- had my fill, pretty lady. Now about that dress…”

It’s only then that you’re gathering all your bearings enough to gaze down at your dress- well, initially supposed to be the drenched hem of your new clothes.

But instead what your eyes are drawn to was the way that big, bad Toji looked so ruined.

His sparse chest hair glinting in the dim-lighting with a lamination of fervent sweat, flushed a clammy crimson all the way down to his collarbones. And the look in his eyes- oh, Toji was drunk on all the sweet, sweet juices of your pussy. 

Half-lidded, woozy, dilated until his gaze was almost all Stygian black - he doesn’t take his stare off of you for even a second as you remove yourself with a sappy pop!

Breath hitching at the way your slick slobbered until it was dripping down his chin, creeping all the way up to Toji’s cheekbones. He grins– and you don’t think you’ve seen Toji look so accomplished, freeing you of your soaked-through dress. 

Staring at your nude figure in worship, “How about a bath. Together?”

“Mmm- that sounds…” Your sensitive eardrums crane towards a lowly incanted muttering that came from one side of Toji’s bedroom walls. “-s-sounds…”

He’s instantly raising his thick brows in confusion, brushing away a sliver of sweat away from your face. “You alright, pretty lady?”

Yes. You want to say yes, but the electrified vibrations invading your body say otherwise - and you’re staring at that particular blank wall like a deer in headlights. 

Toji couldn’t figure out for the life of him what was going on, following your beeline of sight towards the edges of the thin wall adjacent to you two - the same one he shared with Ijichi next-door. Ijichi who was scared of you and- oh. 

Straining his ears urgently, he’s managing to catch a few snatches of the man’s conversation from the other side-

“-s-strange noises————louder——p-please get rid of-” Overlapping with the constant utterance of something that sounded like a…mantra…

Oh, shit.

He’s snapping his head to you - faint, “No. No no no no–” Fuck, how could he forget? That ‘cleansing’- you were being exorcized in front of his very eyes.

Toji Fushiguro has never moved faster in his entire life than when pins you down on your back and plugs your ears with the knobbled globes of his digits. Blocking out that damn incantation that might have you slipping from his very fingers. 

“Don’t listen.” He rasps, watching at the twinkle gleams back in your hazy irises. Mouth crashing into yours, “Don’t listen- please, don’t listen- Stay with me, try not to think of-” But how could you not when the scratchy voice from beyond the wall only seemed to grow more determined, louder?

Shit- a distraction. He needed a distraction. 

Suddenly too aware of the way your thighs were trembling around his toned waist, your naked middle rubbed scratchily with the peeking curls of his pubes- you drown out the mantra with a moan.

Your head tilting down-

Baritone growling with a slightly dark glint, his cock sags even heavier out of his pants at your intense stare. “What do you want me to- oh.” Following your line of sight, Toji’s jade eyes twinkle. “Nasty girl.”

Oh, you had the perfect idea to ignore that damn exorcism.

The trilling mewl that escapes your lips is nothing short of music to his ears once he’s tightening his vice-like hold on you and forcing your eyes permanently onto where his big, leaking cock was pulsing for attention. 

Red and huge. 

Swollen so tautly that it was bobbing from above his waistband, the chilling bedroom air making precum weep out in stringy splatters and hit right on the bullseye of your hole sloppily. 

“So much precum…” he’s muttering to himself.

He was so ridiculously big that it made you thighs tremble - and not with fear over the happenings next door anymore, the incantations still distantly resounding.

“Take it then-” Distraction or not- this was a wet dream he’d been having ever since he moved here. He’s letting his throat tear with a primal growl, “Take it all- feel it, n’ you better only think about my fucking cock.” A lecherous idea pops into his head, “N’ you better count.”

It takes you all of one second - and two direct smacks of his fatly bludgeoning cockhead on your dripping mound for you to finally understand what he meant. Oh. 

Round and pretty, Toji’s blushing a ruby red at this strawberry divot. Plump against your puffed-up pussylips, he’s angling his hips to position the curvaceous mushroom tip against your flooded entrance. Rubbin’ up and down your slippery slit sweetly-

“Count.”

“O-one.” Your sweet voice is enunciated with a quiet whimper, watery eyes slipping down to make note of every one of his branding, mazing veins. One twisted cozily around his base, one pounding near his split-ended tip. He wanted you to count his inches. Each and every one. “Two- three.”

With a smoky moan, Toji’s throwing his crown back- forehead slicking with a thin lamination of sweat at those pretty noises drawing out of you. “Mhmmm, good girl. K-keep going.” 

Stretching you open so wiiiide, that you were temporarily stupid. His left-leaning cock was positively covered in curling veins, snagging and snagging your gummy walls they were molding to his hugely rotund circumference.

He cracks open one heavy eyelid to watch the way you gawked downwards, “Four- no, five.” One hand carefully letting go of your ears- the incantations growing fainter, he flies it down to his squelching wet length, fap! fap! fapping! it just to try and fit.

You’re pausing momentarily to ogle the flexing ripples of his working biceps. 

“Talk- fuck, talk. Could cum from just the sound of that ngh- voice of yours, pretty lady.”

“Six…”

Sploshing out a heaping pile of pre somewhere into your heated core simply by the way you talked. It pat-pat-pats down in goopy, translucent dewdrops that slither to the saccharine bottom of your pussy.

He’s twisting his fingers to scratch that carnal itch on the line between his stimulated balls, probing you with the deeply rounded underside of his crown. Deeper. Deeper. Thighs shaking, breath harrowing, ears popping- a steady line of perspiration drips down his temples at the way he touched your walls with a final, filthy vein peeking out at you from underneath. “Yeahhh–? And? C’mon l-let me in–”

You’re gasping, “Seven-”

Oh- it was almost like a countdown for Toji but in reverse.

A countdown until his sanity snapped, and he was crawling a hand midway down your tummy. The mountains of his palm massaging your front when he pumps his hips a few sultry millimeters back and pushes- 

Bottoming out.

“Ten–” Your mouth cracks open into a goopy mess as the remaining rest of his inches shovel ruthlessly inside you. Second high of the night hitting you like a truck, “Ten.”

He gasps at the way you’re cumming already. Already. 

“Ten.” Toji echoes in a slight hiccup, heftily-lidded gaze roaming over the stout hill he was drilling into you. The outline where his crowned head was smooching the mushed sponge of your cervix, digging in deep. And if he sprinkled out just a singular jetstream of cum early then- well, he was only glad that you were too fucked dumb to notice the second skin of sap cascading down your walls. 

“All the way…” He’s cooing at the way you twitch n’ whimper as he draws an invisible line up, up, up and down from the tip top of your cunt to your cylindrical bump. “-to your heart.”

Ten entire inches.

Toji starts to move in short, rapid little thrusts to batter the your cervix with a cratering circle of his cock tip. The bulging girth of his fat sides sensually giving your g-spot repeated hits, “Biiig stretch- isn’t it, pretty lady?”

“Hngh- y-yes—” You moan at the sloppy spanks, frothing out bursts of creamy buttery pre cum from the space between your puckered hole. Still oh-so-gone with the embers of your last orgasm.

Gasping, when his crownhead slopes in and out minutely - he’s so damn big that even that makes your hips thrash stupidly. 

“Now now, what did I hah- tell ya about that damn f-fucking runnin’.” Toji grunts, watching as your folds throb palpably. Pinning you down with the ridges of his chiselled abs, one hand pulls you to him by your hips. “Won’t let you run. Breathe girl- breeeeathe n’ take it all.”

“B-breathe-” But it was so difficult considering how every mushy bump of his pulsating cock left you gasping for air. Lungs burning with strain-

He’s pinching your flared nostrils and blubbering out a drunken giggle, watching the way your shrieks lilt cutely higher. “See-” Your ears pop! “-see how much better it is when ya ngh- breathe? So take it like a good girl n’ ngh- say it with me, ‘biiig stretch.’”

Folding you like a lawnchair until until your chin hits the jiggling mounds of your tits, you stare dazedly at the way Toji’s eyes flit down to your gulping pussy and dilates. “B-big-”

“No no—” He starts driving into you with thorough, solid inches, reaching tender spots you didn’t even know existed. And you’re ringing the four walls of the room with your trilling wails, “S’a biiig stretch- not a ‘big’ stretch-” Finally cautious enough to dart his second hand down to roll your cloying clit, “-isn’t that right, sugar?”

It was apparent he wasn’t even talking to you anymore, watching your cutely contorting expression as Toji slouches his knees and pushes and pushes.

“Yes- yes yes yes yes–” Your ass stings with the ferocity of his strikes, and Toji’s toned pelvis was already starting to redden with the slamming impact. Babbling, “S’a biiig stretch- a biiig stretch.”

Sleazing a scarred grin when your capped knees start trembling, “Yeah- yeahhh atta girl. My poor baby needs a hah-hand?”

With a ricketing creak–! of your poor knees, you’re being pressed into the sloppiest mating press possible. Your heels digging bruises on his proud shoulder muscles, instinctively clenching ‘round his bustling length. “O-oh my god- fuuuck, Toji-”

“Oh…so fuckin’ wet. So fuckin’ pretty…” He’s breathing out in a quiet huff that hits your mouth, hungrily lapping up the few stray drops of saliva that string out from your parted lips. Toji’s intense gaze is so adoring that your skin prickles with goosebumps, “Makes me wanna…wanna ngh-”

“Wh-what–?” Your head tumbles back into the scratchy surface of the tatami, urging an answer. 

And oh, Toji’s only pounding you harder into the ground in response. Again and again and again until your legs are numb.

Striking your throbbing g-spot with a dead-on whack, whack, whack. So hard that every ramming jackhammer from the curving mound of his red-tipped cockhead to his hilt makes the floorboards tremble. 

Feverish. Desperate. 

A pornographic groan breaking off from him, “Wanna- wanna ngh- cum inside. Wanna breed this pretty pussy.”

Oh, it’s like something had snapped inside of him. Every gobbling inch vigorous.

Toji’s trembling, thighs jolting- ramming into you so hard that your brain was all stupid with static electricity. And the only thing you could think to do at this very moment was stick your face into his clammy crook and whine- “Please- inside. All inside, Toji.”

“Fuh-fuuuck–”

With those words in mind he’s collapsing his sculptured body on top of yours as if he was shattering, and you’re catching sight of his rounded ballsack flinching dangerously at your targeted words.

Sucking his velveteen lips back into his teeth, one hand twisting on top of your crowned, sweat-matted head to push you down. “I-I’ll pump you so full of hah- cum that you won’t be able to keep it all inside you.” The other twisting on your clit, “Gonna breed you right, sugar.”

And you don’t know who cums first - but it makes you sob.

Your eyes turning pure white as his cock searches deep, deep, deeply to hit the back of your pussy with ribbony knots of cum. 

It’s so wet down under, so much seed being pumped into you - just about two or three thick wires glueing to your insides with each passing second - that you’re flooding out. Great, heaping torrents he mercilessly thrusts into you after every one of your high peaks. 

“Cum- cum- cum a lot.” Toji gravels out into your buzzing ear, pinching your fragile clit until you’re shattering underneath him. Faster. “Cum. Get- get pregnant with my ngh- child.”

You bawl out belatedly, “Cumming– cumming, Toji- don’t m-miss…” 

“Never, pretty lady.” He’s biting down on your lollling bottom lip, larynx scratching with grunt after grunt with every hit. Every plummet of his plummy, cum-candied cockhead turning your brain into melted mush. “Gonna get you pregnant- get-”

Two knobbled fingerpads dip down to plug your leaking hole back full with the glittering globs of cum spilling out of you. 

Scarred lips curving into a smile, crazed. “Get pregnant- get–” With a final few slams, he’d milked himself dry and was still aching for more. Pressing down on your bloated tummy bulge of cum, “Ohhh look at th-that, all mixin’ together. All yours.”

You wince, your heart thundering at the way he was making even more of a mess down there to meanly push back into you.

And every lazy, directed pound leaves you gasping for air– Looking down at the dolloping cream, you’re mumbling out a fatigued, “M-mine?”

“That’s right, doll.” 

Heart racing, the lights flicker as your spectral powers yield out- and you’d already known that Toji was the only one you’d tie your soul to this way, till the ends of time - immortality for him.

But now was the moment - that burning question finally on your tongue. 

“Be mine?”

He leaves a slight smack at the adhesive sheen overtaking your thighs and makes you shake. Eyes half-shuttered, blush burning, maw drooling– Toji throws his head back as his aching tip twitches wildly for a second round. “All yours.”

.

.

.

And it was by the time that your second round turned to thirds, your thirds into fourths- fifths, sixths, fuck- Toji couldn’t even keep track.

It might as well have been a draw.

The only thing he could register was the yolky light of dawn filtering through the windows, and the way that every inch of the bedroom was a mess beyond recognition.

A few holes were made in the neat tatami, his bed broken into splintering pieces, desk shattered. 

He now had himself pushed back into the cool wall of the snug closet, restless lower half papping up where your hips were straddling his. Ruined. Toji creeps a hand down the humid skin of your spine and pants, “So f-fucking wet, s’like a damn ngh- water…park…”

His sluggish eyes flap and fight to stay open, words sluuurring - and so do his hips. 

“T-Toooji—” You drag out like a broken record, your hands resting precariously on his bulky deltoids. Scrambling to swivel n’ swivel in lazy hearts and circles, drool dripping out of you like a waterfall from both ends. “More- ngh moooore.”

“Holy shit- what sorta s-stamina, doll-”

Though, he really wasn’t complaining. Not when Toji lets his sweat-dropped head hit the back of the wall with a gruff call of your name, aching red cock loading out just a few more wispy strings of sap.

“Yours. Yours yours yours-” He whimpers- whimpers. Head spinning once you’re huffing out a pout and swerving your hips in a sexy figure eight, bouncing ever-so-slightly to milk him dry. “Stainin’ me all nghhh- white n’ creamy.”

A soft spank on the tippy-top of your clit makes you see stars - cheek nuzzling his own and Toji thinks it’s so cute. 

“C-cute?”

Oh, shit, did he say that out loud?

Judging by the twitching corners of your lips, he’d said that part out loud, too. “Mhm– k-keepin’ me hostage. Squeeze me like that n’ I’ll- ohhh- one hell of a ngh- woman.”

By this point, the inflated bulge at your tummy was jiggling with each plap! of skin stickily slamming down onto skin. You’re whimpering as you start veering into fatigued grinds instead, scraping the outside of your clit down on his drenched happy trail.

“Tha’s right- fuuuuck, gimme those h-hips- those damn birthin’ hips, my lady.” His vision muddles with a few tears, and Toji has to grasp your neck to keep guidin’ your cunt to that pinpointed target of his tender inches. Big, fat cock sending shots of electricity darting along his veins, “Squeeze me t-tighter.” Fingers getting tighter, “Tighter- c’mon g-grind those ngh- pretty hips a lil’ bit.”

“L-like this–?” 

He’s using up all his strength to bounce his knees - heart stuttering just as much as his words were. Toji could barely feel his spasming pink tip, “Back and f-forth- back n’ forth back n’ forth–”

You’re letting yourself be manhandled like some glorified doll, your slurping walls sucking the soul out of him with every swash of that weighty cum jostling inside of you. “P-please.”

Ah, and that was all it took a thoroughly overstimulated Toji to keen out yet another wringing orgasm. Though, this time filling your swampy cunt up with nothing but a few twitches and jolts, he’s cumming dry– still fucking up into you like he was pumping you with severe bouts of seed.

“Pregnant-” He’s rasping out mindlessly, parched. “Preg- ngh! Gonna breed you all pregnant, sugar…” The syllables tumbling out like a babbling mantra. 

And that was when the final shreds of his rationality spark, tear-polished lashes fluttering as he listens intently beyond your four walls. Only to discover…nothing.

No mantras.

No exorcism.

Nothing taking you away from him.

“Scared off, huh?” Toji catches your eye and smirks, “Hope they heard.”

You giggle, “You’re a sick man.”

“M’your sick man.”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[fromdove]

HOW I THINK SOCIAL MEDIA IS LIKE IN ㅤㅤㅤㅤ GOTHAM CITY

tiktoks where people are like “day 54 of trying to get batman to notice me by looking helpless and holding a brick outside of wayne tower.” and then like. a day later they upload another one like “guys it worked. i threw the brick at a window and he SWOOPED DOWN AND YELLED AT ME. i think we’re engaged now.”

BATMAN FAN ACCOUNTS. “batm4nslut6969: yall i saw him last night and his thighs were THIGHING. i can’t.” “i want him to run me over with the batmobile. respectfully.” “what does it say about ME that i’m in love with a man who beats people up in alleys.” “he punched my cousin and now my cousin’s life is on track. king.”

you’ll see a tiktok like “get ready with me to testify against the penguin 😘” and they’re curling their lashes like “trial’s at 10 i’m wearing valentino. hope the DA is hot.”

facebook moms in gotham be like “hi!! anyone else’s toddler develop shadow powers after playing near the narrows??? normal or???”

“guys u wont believe what just happened i was literally just tryna get a tuna sandwich and then scarecrow gassed the 6 train again 💀” followed by: “ok but like did anyone else get lowkey productive on fear toxin bc same”

and like imagine those "what's in my bag" videos but it’s like “what’s in my gotham emergency kit” and they pull out like mace, an inhaler, one (1) batarang they found in an alley, a granola bar, and a tiny bottle of holy water just in case it’s some demon this time.

every batman chase has like. three angles. one guy from his apartment, one guy hiding in a dumpster, and one guy who just happened to be doing a GRWM video when batman crashed through the laundromat window behind him like a medieval poltergeist in kevlar.

there’s also that one tiktoker who’s like. always posting “day in the life as a gothamite 🥰” and it’s literally her dodging debris from a police chase while trying to get a matcha. like she’s got wireless earbuds in while the riddler is detonating something in the background. caption: “when i said i wanted chaos i meant eyeliner not explosives 😭😭😭😭”

people be going live from literal crime scenes. like “hey besties so i’m outside ACE chemicals rn and idk what’s going on but i just saw a clown sprint past. anyone know what’s happening???” and everyone’s commenting like “GIRL GO HOME” and “go inside nowwwwww” and “live laugh leave gotham.”

you'd see youtube videos like “i lived in gotham for 2 days and here’s why i left” and it’s just footage of a man watching fire rain from the sky while eating a pretzel in pure silence.

twitter’s a HELLHOLE. people tweeting like “batman knocked over my hotdog stand again. this is the third time. i’m filing a restraining order” and “why does bruce wayne look like he hasn’t slept since 2003” and “if the joker had a podcast i’d listen. just being honest.”

ALSO fancams of villains??? OF COURSE. edits of scarecrow like “your mental health isn’t scary but he is 😍🔥” and joker fan edits with lana del rey playing over it like “he slayed literally. like a bunch of ppl.”

there’s discourse about EVERYTHING. “does batman exploit underage sidekicks??” vs “no they CHOSE to be there 🙄”

imagine gotham love confession tiktoks like “i met him in an alley while harley quinn was robbing a jewelry store” and the comments are like “literally gotham's version of a meet cute 💘💘💘💘💘💘💘”

theres podcasts like “the ethics of vigilante justice” and then they go off topic and start debating if bruce wayne and batman have ever been in the same room and one of the hosts is like “they have different jawlines 🙄”

the gentrification discourse?? YEAH. “just moved to crime alley!! rent was SO cheap!! the vibes are kind of ✨✨ except for the screaming at night. also someone left a human tooth in my mailbox. i think that means i’m accepted into the neighborhood??”

and of course. OF COURSE. the joker thirst edits. like i wish i was kidding. i wish. but someone posts “what if he kidnapped me actually. like what if i let him.” and it’s a picture of him looking crazy with 15 different filters and a caption that says “he’s literally me (i need therapy).”

and GOTHAM INFLUENCERS. OH MY GOD. the way they would be the WORST. “hey guys today i’m doing a billionaire morning routine <3” cue 6 am ice bath in the wayne building gym someone does a house tour and people in the comments are like “i think that’s *insert famous rich socialites name's* old penthouse????”

homeless ppl getting filmed for fake charity clout. omg. “today we’re giving a makeover to this unhoused gotham citizen 🥺”

gotham meme culture is top tier. like they’re actually so funny. because they have to be. it’s trauma response meets terminal irony meets "oh the joker blew up a costco again time to live tweet." they have memes like: “you vs the guy she told you not to worry about” - it’s a pic of bruce wayne (or some rich socialite) in a suit and then batman looking like roadkill in a cape or something like “just got mugged by harley quinn and she said i have bad taste in shoes. kinda valid tbh.” or “why is scarecrow hot now. like when did that happen.” “penguin looked at me sideways in the club. should i press charges or kiss him idk.”

some of them are rich rich. and also literally host giveaways with captions like: “win a week in my tower penthouse if you repost and comment ur favourite crime i’ve survived 💋”

the drama is UNREAL. like gotham reddit?? a cesspool. like there’s this one post every week like : “AMA: i dated bruce wayne for 3 weeks in 2018 and he ghosted me after i found a batarang under his couch.” and then batman side of reddit is like “this guy tried to sell me fake kryptonite at a gas station AMA” and the replies are like “was it the guy in the trenchcoat outside the CVS?? i knew he was shady.” oh and you know there’s a gotham reddit thread called r/gothamCitizenSupport and it’s just “does anyone know how to get joker gas out of your vents” “batman smashed my windshield again how do i file an insurance claim” “my roommate joined a cult and now she glows in the dark?? normal or should i move out?”

you know the “hot takes” girlies?? yeah they’re deranged. “ok but like… what does batman really do for the economy.” or “i’m just saying gotham has more billionaires than public libraries and i feel like that’s not a coincidence???” or “why is no one talking about the gentrification of *xyz place name* just because ivy turned a building into a forest resort spa”

the comments are always fighting for their lives like: “he saved my life leave him alone??” or “girl i got evicted because catwoman turned my apartment into a goth club shut up”

ALSOOOO there are entire sides of gotham tiktok like:

“batman sighting alerts”

“gotham thrift hauls (featuring actual riddler merch)”

“bruce wayne conspiracy theory corner”

“citizen thirst traps featuring blurry robins”

“updates from people who work at arkham: the podcast”

and every time a villain escapes it’s like “uhhh guys. just saw mr. freeze at the bodega. he said he wants vengeance.

"guys...my parents just told me we're moving to gotham because its cheaper...help me what should i expect?"

OH AND BATMAN WOULD HATE IT. and there are so many compilations like “BATMAN GETTING FED UP WITH CITIZENS PART 7” where it’s just clips of him looking pissed af. dramatically because someone asked for a selfie mid-chase or tried to ask him to do fit check in their video.

[junojoel]

Cake and Candles

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel never forgets your birthday.

Warnings: fluff, reader is implied younger than joel through one piece of dialogue, Joel's love language being acts of service/gift giving, reader had a mom, dad and little brother

ITS MY BIRTHDAYYYY!!!! ellie birthday episode and my birthday being in the same week was too much fate for me not to write this.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It had rained the night before, which meant the alleys smelled worse than usual — sour and metallic, like the city was rotting from the inside out. The puddles on the concrete looked more like oil than water and the sky hung low and mean.

The drop was supposed to be quick. A supply run from an abandoned ration depot near the North Wall to a safehouse two zones over. Painkillers, batteries, something with an industrial chemical label that Joel warned you not to breathe near.

You were three hours in, already soaked through, and the mood had turned to shit.

Joel barely said a word the whole time. Tess did most of the talking, leading the three of you through narrow side streets and broken corridors like she’d lived in the bones of this place for decades. You kept your eyes up, finger close to the trigger. Your boots were too loud, your nerves too exposed.

“Two more blocks,” Tess muttered, crouched beside a rusted-out vending machine. “Then we sit tight.”

You nodded, Joel only grunted.

And you told yourself not to think about it. About what day it was. About what it used to mean.

But you did. Of course you did.

The thought kept coming back like a compulsion: If things were normal, I'd be home right now.

Your mom would’ve been waking you up early — warm kitchen light, the smell of sugar and cinnamon, her telling you not to peek while she decorated. Your little brother would’ve made some half-glued card with stick figures and misspelled words, and your dad would’ve tried to act cool while holding out whatever he'd managed to barter for that year. Cheap jewellery. A book. A cassette tape. Whatever felt like something.

Now the idea of cake and candles made your stomach hurt.

But still. You remembered. You kept track.

You weren’t even sure why anymore.

Tess glanced over her shoulder as you cleared the alley and stepped into the shadow of a half-collapsed parking garage.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, voice low.

You tried to shrug it off. “Just tired.”

But her eyes narrowed, suspicious in that way she got when she knew you were lying but didn’t feel like calling you on it yet.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t lose your edge. We’re not safe yet.”

Joel gave you a sidelong glance, like he’d caught the lie too.

The handoff went fine. Quick, quiet, almost clean. You met the contact in an old laundromat with half the ceiling caved in. Joel stood near the back, one hand resting casually on his pistol, eyes cold and distant.

You did your job. Took the crate. Loaded the bags. Moved through the checkpoint tunnels without drawing attention.

You didn’t say a word the whole way back.

By nightfall, you were holed up in the safehouse near the old subway tracks. It wasn’t much — one small room, a gas lamp, sleeping bags, and a metal table with one leg shorter than the others. But the door locked, and now that was enough.

Tess peeled off her jacket, wrung out the rainwater, and looked between you and Joel like she was trying to decide which of you would implode first.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her pack. “I’ve got another deal to check on. You two hold down the fort. Try not to brood each other to death.”

Before she left, she paused in the doorway and shot you a look. Her voice softened.

“You doing okay?”

You hesitated.

You could lie. But something about the way she looked at you — not pitying, not prying, just… knowing — made your throat go tight.

“It’s just a day,” you said finally.

Tess nodded slowly, her gaze flicking briefly to Joel. “Yeah. That’s what we all tell ourselves.”

Then she was gone.

You sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, staring at your hands.

Joel was already at the table, stripping and cleaning his gun with mechanical precision. Every movement deliberate. Detached.

You listened to the sound of metal clicking, cloth brushing steel.

Finally, he spoke.

“You gonna tell me what the hell’s eatin’ at you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”

He snorted. “You’ve said less than ten words all day. Even Tess noticed. And she’s usually too busy talking to hear herself breathe.”

You huffed, reluctant, but the words were already pushing forward.

“It’s stupid.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just waited.

You looked down at your hands again.

“It’s my birthday.”

That made him pause. He set the cloth down slowly and looked up. Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to catch.

You laughed, but it was hollow. “I know. Dumb thing to care about now. I just— I always used to. My family made a big deal out of it. Even when we didn’t have anything. And now… I don’t know. I guess part of me keeps expecting someone to remember. Even though they can’t.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. He looked away. “Birthdays don’t mean much anymore.”

“I know. That’s what I keep telling myself.”

You stood, pacing now, energy suddenly too restless to hold.

“But it’s like… this twisted kind of hope, right? You spend all year just trying to survive, and then one day rolls around and you remember you used to feel important. Used to feel seen. And now it’s just another reminder that you’re alone.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

You didn’t see him move at first — just the rustle of his coat, the sound of the door unlatching.

You turned. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.

You sat in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window boards. The minutes stretched. You tried not to think about him. Tried not to wonder if he’d come back, or if maybe you’d said too much, crossed a line he didn’t want crossed.

Then the door creaked open and Joel stepped back in, face cold, holding something wrapped in a rag. You blinked as he walked past you, set it down on the table, and unwrapped it slowly.

A dented metal can.

You stepped closer.

Peaches.

The label was torn, but you could still make out the picture — bright orange slices swimming in syrup. It looked like something out of a dream.

You stared.

Joel didn’t meet your eyes.

“Found it near the East checkpoint. Took it off some jackass who was trying to trade it for antibiotics. Almost got himself shot.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “It’s a one-time thing.”

You sat slowly.

He cracked the can open with his knife. The scent hit instantly — sweet and sharp, syrupy and thick. It brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them.

Joel handed you a spoon.

“Happy birthday,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You looked up. “Thank you.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Just sat and shared the can between you, passing the spoon back and forth in silence. It was too sweet, too sticky, but it tasted like something close to memory.

You should’ve left it there—quiet and safe, something unspoken you could both pretend didn’t matter tomorrow.

But the sugar and the warmth of it, the bitter nostalgia curling behind your ribs, made your guard slip. You stared down at the last peach in the can, barely more than syrup and pulp now, and said it before you could stop yourself.

“Do you remember yours?”

Joel didn’t look up. “My what?”

“Your birthday.”

He stilled. Spoon halfway to the can, hand clenched just a little too tight.

“You don’t have to answer,” you added quickly. “I just— I don’t know. You did this for me. Made me feel like I mattered today. Thought maybe that meant birthdays meant something to you, too.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. The sound was flat. Dry. Almost a laugh, but not.

“They don’t.”

You looked at him carefully. “But they used to?”

He stared ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the room. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped.

“Long time ago,” he said. “When things were… different.”

“Family?”

His jaw tightened. You regretted asking, wanted to take it back.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight, carved in by time and grief and things he’d never said out loud.

“Had a daughter,” he said finally. Voice low, rough-edged. “She used to make me pancakes. Every year. Even when she burned ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on some point far away, like the past was something he could still see if he squinted hard enough.

“After… everything,” he said, “I stopped keeping track. Seemed easier that way.”

You were quiet for a long time.

Then he said it. Quiet. Flat. Like something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times but never let pass his lips.

“September 26th.”

You felt the air shift. The weight of it settle between you.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.”

He just gave a small shake of his head, like he didn’t know what to do with your sympathy. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I was at work,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Didn't mean to be that late. My daughter wanted to bake something, asked me to bring a cake home. She was real excited. Kept asking me to stay home that night.”

You didn’t breathe.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop.

“Anyway. It was that night."

You nodded, throat tight.

Joel reached out and pushed the last piece of peach toward you with the spoon.

You took it.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For this.”

“Won’t make a habit of it,” he muttered.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You woke before the sun, the cold biting at your nose through the cracked window. The room was dark, quiet — just the soft hum of wind threading through boarded slats. Another day. Another job. You told yourself it was just that.

You sat up slowly, pulling your jacket closer, and tried not to think about the date. But of course you did. The date. It nestled in your jaw like a bad tooth, aching every time your mind circled back.

It was your birthday.

You hadn't told anyone. Not this year. Not after how last year had gone, with Joel’s voice going flat when you asked about his own birthday, the air going still when he’d muttered September 26th, and your stomach flipping when you realised why that date mattered. You hadn’t meant to open a wound — you’d just wanted to share something.

So this year, you didn’t bring it up. You told yourself it was fine. That birthdays didn’t mean anything anymore.

Still, you hoped — foolishly, silently — that someone might remember. That Joel might remember.

“Pack light. We’re headin’ to Bill’s.”

You glanced up from where you were tightening the strap on your boot, heart giving a soft lurch. “Supply run?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt — not exactly a yes, but not a no either — and turned back into the hallway without another word. Typical.

You exhaled slowly. Today of all days. You couldn’t decide if it was a relief that he didn’t remember or if it stung more because you’d spent the last few days nervously rehearsing whether or not to bring it up. Your birthday had crept up again like it always did now — not with excitement, but with that same sharp pang of twisted anticipation that you couldn’t fully shake.

The truck ride was long and uneventful. Joel didn’t say much beyond the occasional grunt when a pothole jostled the tires or a flick of his hand to indicate a change in route. The countryside passed in blur — dead trees, skeletal remains of billboards, rusted-out signs and roads that had long since stopped leading anywhere. He’d said they needed extras. Ammo from Bill, spare wires, maybe some of Frank’s dried herbs.

You kept your face turned toward the window and tried not to count how many birthdays you’d had since the world ended. It didn’t matter.

Bill and Frank’s compound came into view as the sun was dipping into its late-afternoon golden hour, the light casting long shadows across the fence line and orchard. The gate creaked open automatically — someone had been watching. Of course they had.

Bill met you at the entrance like he always did: with a gun over his shoulder and a permanent scowl on his face.

Joel nodded at him. “Need to pick up some things.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bill muttered, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Something unreadable passed across his face.

Frank, ever the gracious one, stepped out onto the porch and beamed at the sight of you. “Oh, good! You made it.”

You were still pulling your pack off your shoulders when you noticed something strange: the smell. Not just smoke or stew — something sweet. Spiced.

“What's that smell?” you asked.

Frank smiled wider. “Dinner. You’re just in time.”

Joel clapped a hand on your back — that rare kind of Joel-touch that said move along without words — and steered you toward the house.

You turned to him, brow furrowed. “I thought we were here for supplies?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door and motioned you inside.

And then… you saw it.

The table was already set. Not with mismatched tin and rusted forks like you were used to, but with real plates and silverware. Frank had pulled out linens — actual cloth napkins, even candles in old mason jars. There were roasted vegetables, a stew simmering, warm bread, and at the centre of the table — a cake. Small, imperfect, decorated with little wildflowers and what looked like foraged berries.

It took a moment to register. You stared, heart pounding in your ears.

Tess was already inside, leaning back in one of the chairs with a glass of wine, smirking.

Joel brushed past you with a low, almost dismissive grunt. “Figured we’d eat while we’re here. Been a while.”

You stood there frozen for a second too long. You didn’t know what to say. The warmth in your chest warred with the confusion, and just behind it, that flicker of shame — for hoping. For thinking it might mean something.

“Frank,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”

He beamed. “A proper meal. For a proper occasion.”

“What occasion?”

Frank glanced at Joel, then at Tess. Neither of them said anything. Tess just raised her glass.

And you knew.

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Tess,” you said quietly, “Did you—?”

But she cut you off. “You hungry or not?”

The meal passed in a haze of laughter. Frank filled everyone’s glasses with the wine he’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and even Bill joined in with a dry story about nearly electrocuting himself fixing the generator.

You smiled and laughed where appropriate, but your mind kept wandering — back to the cake, to Joel’s deflection, to Tess’s knowing glances.

You still thought Tess had orchestrated it. It was the kind of thing she’d do, drag Joel into playing along.

It wasn’t until later, after the plates had been cleared and Frank had started a record in the other room, something jazzy and low, that you found yourself alone with Tess in the hallway. The candlelight from the kitchen cast her in soft gold, and she was sipping from a chipped cup, arms crossed, watching you with that same half-lidded look she always had when she knew something you didn’t.

“So,” she said. “Nice night.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is. Sorry I'm just overwhelmed— Thank you, honestly.”

“You think I planned all this, don’t you?” she asked.

You blinked. “Didn’t you?”

She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Hell no. I just helped Frank make dinner.”

Your stomach dipped.

She tilted her head, her voice quiet now. “This was all Joel. Every bit. He’s the one who remembered,” she said. “He’s the one who asked Frank to make the cake. Told Bill to keep his mouth shut. Hell, he even insisted we make it look casual so you wouldn’t freak out.”

Your heart stopped.

“He said he didn’t wanna make a thing out of it,” Tess added, “But he’s been planning this for weeks.”

You were quiet for a long beat.

“But… he didn’t say anything,” you said, the words a whisper.

Tess’s smile turned a little sad. “He’s not good at saying things, but he remembers.”

Later that night, when the others had drifted off and the music had faded into the background hum of insects and wind in the orchard, you found Joel on the porch. He was leaning against the railing, watching the dark. You stepped beside him, your heart thudding hard enough to drown out the world.

He didn’t look at you when you approached. Just spoke low.

“You enjoy dinner?”

You nodded. “It was perfect.”

A pause.

“You remembered,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t hard.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to make it weird again, like last year.”

His voice was low. “Wasn’t your fault.”

You turned to him. “Thank you.”

You reached for his hand. You didn’t expect him to take it — but he did.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft, slow, uncertain — but it wasn’t one-sided. Joel met you there, warm and still, his hand brushing lightly against your back like he’d been waiting, too.

When you pulled back, he kept his eyes on yours.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

This time, the words didn’t hurt.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It rained for three days straight.

The kind of cold, spitting drizzle that soaked through your coat no matter how tightly you cinched it, that made your boots squelch with every step. The wind howled through broken barns and trees stripped bare, and every shelter you found smelled like old rot and abandonment.

You trudged through it with your shoulders hunched and your hood pulled low, your boots squelching with each step. Every now and then, Ellie would grumble something under her breath, mostly complaints about the cold, or how the rain made her hair look like a wet mop, or how she was going to die of trench foot.

Joel, as always, didn’t say much. He just led.

You were somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, miles from anything even remotely familiar. The landscape blurred — trees, collapsed fences, skeletal houses too picked over to be worth stopping for. You’d passed a rusted water tower around midday and Joel had muttered that there was a town not far off.

No one said it, but you were all tired. Supplies were low. Joel had slept in fits, always with one hand on his rifle, and you could see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen by the hour.

Your back ached. Your ribs still twinged from a bad fall two weeks back. You could feel the day’s date sitting heavy on your tongue.

You weren’t sure if he’d forgotten this time. Or if he remembered, and just decided this year, there wasn’t room for sentiment. It was stupid to care. It always was. Especially now. Anyway, it wasn’t like you could blame him. You hadn’t seen anything resembling a candle in months.

Still, it sat in your chest, heavy and hollow and echoing.

You didn’t say anything about it. Not this year. Not with Ellie around, and Joel already stretched taut with exhaustion and responsibility. You hadn't said anything last year either, but back then it had been different — the ghost of a good night with Bill and Frank, a flicker of something soft in Joel’s eyes, a secret truth Tess had given you like a gift.

This year you felt like a burden for even remembering.

By late afternoon, you reached the outskirts of the town Joel had mentioned.

It was nothing more than a collection of crumbling buildings, storefronts with glass long shattered, faded signs swinging in the breeze. A gas station sat caved in at the edge of town. A church steeple leaned crooked over a few blocks like a snapped spine.

Joel’s eyes swept the horizon. “We’ll hole up here tonight. Find shelter, stay outta the open.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. Ellie sighed and muttered something about praying for a haunted mansion.

What you got was a busted-up diner with broken windows, a torn-up vinyl booth, and a kitchen that smelled like grease and mildew. But it was dry, and it had a back room with a door that locked. That was enough.

Joel checked the place with his usual precision — every room, every corner, even the roof. You stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping water, hands shaking with cold, watching the ghosts of an old world flicker in your memory.

You remembered diners.

Birthday pancakes. The sound of your mom singing off-key while stirring coffee. The way candles flickered when the waitress brought out cake with sparklers on top.

You shook your head. That was gone.

You shrugged off your pack and sat on an overturned crate while Ellie stretched out on a dusty counter, flipping through one of the comics she’d scavenged.

Joel stood by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street.

Ellie rolled out her sleeping bag and plopped down onto it with a theatrical groan. “So glamorous. When do the spa treatments start?”

You laughed, sitting beside her and rubbing warmth into your frozen fingers. Joel didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked to you for a half-second.

Then, abruptly, he muttered, “I’m gonna check for propane. Maybe see if there’s any storage behind the hardware store. Stay in here. Lock the door behind me.”

You perked up. “I can come.”

He shook his head. “No. Stay here. Get warm. Lock the door behind me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “You already said that.”

Joel shot her a look and was out the door before either of you could respond.

The rain slowed around dusk. The wind picked up, scraping against the glass and groaning in the walls. He was gone longer than you expected.

The minutes crawled. You tried to help Ellie pass time with a round of card games using a half-destroyed deck she found in a laundromat weeks ago. Her jokes got weaker. Her eyes drooped. Eventually, she curled into her bag, comic book in hand, and let sleep claim her.

But the silence in the room settled heavy. And with every passing minute, you grew more convinced Joel had forgotten.

The funny thing was, you weren’t even angry. You didn’t expect anything — not really. What could anyone do? You were in the middle of nowhere with a teenager, a man whose burdens you could feel like a shadow following him, and enough food for maybe two more meals if you stretched it.

But it still hurt — that tiny, stupid ache under your ribs.

You told yourself you were being childish. That birthdays didn’t matter anymore. That survival was the only thing worth counting.

But then the door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside, soaked from the knees down, his coat dripping. He was carrying something wrapped in a tarp and a small dented tin. He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room, dropped the bundle near the fire, and lowered himself with a quiet grunt.

Ellie stirred but didn’t wake. The fire crackled. Joel adjusted the tarp and looked over at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

Then he pushed the tin toward you across the floor.

You looked down. “What’s this?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a nod — go on.

You opened it slowly. Inside, nestled in worn paper, was a chocolate bar. Slightly melted, slightly warped, but real.

You blinked at it.

You blinked at it.

“I—what?” You looked up at him, heart stuttering. “Joel…”

“Found it in an old vending machine. Back by the rail yard.” He cleared his throat. “Still sealed. Figured it might be okay.”

“Joel… I haven’t had chocolate in—”

“I know.”

You stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he reached for the tarp and unwrapped it with deliberate care.

A book. Its spine was cracked but intact, the cover a faded storm-blue cloth with the title in gold: Wuthering Heights.

You gasped. Your hand went to your chest.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, glancing down. “You told me once. That your mom used to read it to you. I saw it a few weeks ago in some house. Had to double back. Took a while to get to it.”

“You… you went back for this?”

He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I wanted to get you somethin’. I know it don’t fix anything. But…”

His voice trailed off.

You stared down at the book and the chocolate, your throat thick with emotion.

Joel shifted again. Looked at you, then quickly away.

“I know you didn’t wanna bring it up,” he said, voice low, “and maybe you thought I forgot.”

You felt your chest cave inward.

“I don’t know what this day means to you now. But I know it ain’t right that someone your age has to spend it freezing in some busted-up diner with nothin’. You should’ve had… more.”

“I had this,” you whispered. “This is more.”

He gave a dry, almost-bitter smile. “Maybe I just… I’m glad you’re still here. That we’re still here.”

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, like it hurt to say: “I look out for you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart in your throat. “I know.”

“And it ain’t just… ‘cause of Tess. Or the job.”

Your eyes lifted to his. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening every line of sorrow carved there.

Your hand moved to his — fingers wrapping over his, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know what you mean.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

You shifted closer and leaned in. Your lips brushed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. A test. A promise. When he didn’t pull away, you kissed him softly — long, tender, and steady.

His hand came to rest on your back, warm and protective, holding you there for just a moment longer.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

You smiled, tears glistening. “It is now.”

Later, after the fire burned low and the storm outside quieted, you curled beside him on your sleeping bag, the book tucked between you, the warmth of his body pressed into yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep not with a rifle in your hands — but with his arm around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time with yours.

You didn't even care about the jokes Ellie would make.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You knew what day it was.

You didn’t need to mark it on a calendar. It lived in your chest like something raw and coiled, like a bruise you’d pressed your thumb into just to see if it still hurt.

Even in the early years after the world ended, you'd tried to mark the day — a scavenged piece of candy, a lucky pair of socks from a trading post. Something. A way to remember who you were, who you used to be, before the world fell apart and took your family with it.

And then you'd met Joel. And Tess. And Ellie. And for the first time in years, someone had remembered. Joel had remembered.

Although, Joel had said nothing last night. He’d eaten dinner with you like he always did and kissed your forehead on the porch before heading to his own cabin across the way. No words. Just warmth, familiarity.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant anymore. If he kissed you because he loved you, or because it had become habit — part of the quiet routine you’d built together.

Routine had settled into your bones. You worked supply runs twice a week. Helped repair fencing. On Sundays, you took guard shifts with Maria. You had a room in one of the old lodges — warm blankets, real soap, even a bookshelf that you slowly filled with whatever Joel found for you.

You and Joel hadn’t put a name on what you were.

You’d shared nights. Touched hands in quiet kitchens. Kissed, softly, like it might break something inside you both. But life moved differently now — slower, more careful. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Sometimes, you did the same.

It was two weeks before your birthday when you first noticed Joel acting strange. He was quieter than usual — and for Joel, that was saying something. He didn’t meet your eyes as often. His hands lingered on tools longer than needed when you passed them over. He volunteered to help with fence repairs even though Tommy had told him to rest his knee.

And then he did the one thing that gave it away: he started asking questions.

“What kinda food d’you miss the most?” he’d asked one night, seemingly out of nowhere, while you washed dishes in the lodge kitchen.

You shrugged. “Pasta, probably. Like… real pasta. With too much cheese.”

He grunted. “Noted.”

Two days later, he wandered into the rec center where Ellie and a few others were playing cards, and asked what kind of music you liked.

She later told you — with a devilish grin — that he pretended it was about planning a patrol route and needed to know how to boost your morale. Ellie lived to embarrass him now.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t bring up the date.

Last year on the road had meant more than you could put into words — the chocolate, the book, the warmth of his body beside yours. And the year before that, Bill and Frank’s. But this time felt… heavier. Safer, sure, but somehow harder.

Because now you were stable. And that meant facing things you used to avoid — feelings, fears, memories that hadn’t knocked for years.

You let the covers fall off your shoulders and sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms. You dressed in silence, pulled on your boots and stepped outside.

It was still early. The sky was the color of ash, the town wrapped in the hush of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys in slow spirals. Your breath fogged in the air as you crossed the quiet streets, your boots crunching softly beneath you. A few neighbors nodded as you passed. One of the children in the community handed you a tiny knitted bracelet without a word and ran off. You stared at it for a second before tucking it into your pocket.

You slipped into the warmth of the dining hall, nodding to a few early risers. Maria stood behind the serving counter, already ladling out bowls of oatmeal and pouring coffee.

She spotted you and smiled. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said with a shrug. “Habit.”

Her smile widened just slightly, as if she knew something you didn’t. “Big plans today?”

You blinked. “Uh… no. Just patrol, I think.”

“Mm. Right.” She slid a mug of coffee toward you.

You sat at the corner table, your usual spot, and picked at your breakfast. The oatmeal was warm, sweetened with something, but you barely tasted it.

Then the door opened, and there he was.

Heavy boots. That worn flannel you liked. His hair still damp, his jaw clenched in that familiar Joel way. He walked over to you, slow and purposeful.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning,” you returned, wary.

He looked around, then leaned down a little. “Got a job. Maria wants us to check the old supply cabin. South side of the river.”

You furrowed your brow. “That hasn’t been used in months.”

He gave you a blank look. “Still gotta check it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “On foot?”

“Nah, horses. Not far. But we gotta leave now.”

You stared at him, heartbeat skipping.

“Is this about today?”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing.” You stood slowly, collecting your tray. “Let me get my gear.”

He nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. But his eyes lingered on you as you turned away.

It was just the two of you on horseback. The trees lining the trail were coated in snow, branches low and heavy. Joel rode ahead a few paces, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

It felt normal, and that made it worse. You didn’t know if you were mad at him for pretending today didn’t matter — or mad at yourself for still hoping he’d remember.

But then Joel turned off the main trail.

You frowned. “Joel? This isn’t toward the storage cabin.”

He didn’t look back. “Shortcut.”

“Uh-huh.”

You followed him another five minutes until the trees thinned out and you saw it — a small cabin tucked between two birch trees. Smoke rose from the chimney.

You halted your horse. “Joel, what is this?”

He dismounted. “C’mon.”

You followed, suspicious.

Inside, the cabin was warm. The table was set and steam rose from a pot in the center. The scent of tomato, herbs, something rich and warm hit your nose.

He walked in behind you, rubbing his hands together. “Figured if I tried to do this in Jackson, or if I told you, you'd find some excuse not to come.”

You swallowed hard. “You cooked?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda. Got help from Maria. Ellie made fun of me the whole time.”

He stepped closer, slower now. “I know we don’t always say things the right way. I don’t. But you’re…” He looked down, jaw working. “You’re important to me. And this day’s important. Not ‘cause of cake or candles or whatever. But because you made it. You’re here.”

“Joel…”

He finally met your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Still.”

You took a shaky breath. “You remembered my book last year. The chocolate.”

His voice was low. “That wasn’t enough. Wanted to do somethin’. For you.”

“I told you I didn’t need anything.”

“I know. That’s why it matters.”

You blinked back sudden tears.

He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I remember everything about you.”

He took a deep breath, as if deciding something. You looked at him, eyes wet.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small box — old, metal, a little rusted. You opened it carefully. Inside was a ring. Simple, silver, with a faint scratch on the band. It was beautiful.

“It’s not for anythin’ fancy,” he said quickly. “Just… wanted you to have somethin’."

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I love you,” he said, low, like he’d been holding it in for years. “And I’m not good at this. But I want more. With you. Here. However you want it.”

You stepped forward and kissed him, fiercely, your hands curling into his jacket. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his mouth slow and reverent on yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He stilled — just for a second — before his arms came up and folded around you.

You stood like that in the cabin’s quiet warmth, holding on.

“I don’t need big things,” you whispered into his chest. “Just this. Just you.”

He didn’t respond right away. But his grip tightened. His lips brushed your hair.

“Then you got me,” he said. “Today. Tomorrow. Long as I’ve got breath.”

Later, after dinner, after laughter and a glass of something Joel had insisted was aged but clearly wasn’t, you sat beside the fire with a blanket draped across both your legs. He rested his hand on your thigh.

And when the fire burned low, and your eyelids drooped, you leaned into his shoulder and let yourself fall asleep there — warm, safe, remembered.

[hatethysinner]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀʏ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱᴇʟʟᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The bell over your bookshop door rings at midnight, and a stranger steps through. Tired eyes, old voice, and a hunger he tries to hide. He says little, but lingers like he's waiting for permission to need you. You should send him away, but something in you wants to see what he'll do if you don't.

ᴡᴄ: 12.8k

ᴀ/ᴄ: firstly, thank you so much to everyone who enjoyed and interacted with let the wrong one in! i am so proud and so disappointed to be posting this because it's so shameless. if the fbi showed up to my door i'd let them take me to whatever white padded room they had waiting. i was up past midnight multiple times writing this out and it shows. just a completely unhinged self-indulgent mess. do not read without a rose toy (/j). as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, remmick is truly a fucking loser (pathetic!remmick supremacy), remmick will not leave the reader alone, reader is a know-it-all manipulative ass thought daughter, she's lowkey evil actually, don't read unless you support womens rights and wrongs, mutual yearning and obsession, vampirism, dacryphillia, overstimulation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it exhibitionism, sub!remmick, dom!reader, cunnilingus, p in v, ride 'em cowgirl, spit kink, praise kink, matching each other's freak, offscreen but confirmed stalking, excessive divider usage, probable excessive usage of "ain't" because i got worried about my accent skills, amateur knowledge of 1930s literature and bookstores, religious undertones if you squint, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

You were one of the lucky ones.

That’s what folks said when they stepped through the little wood-framed door, brushing snow from their shoulders or sweat from their brows, depending on the season. They always paused in the entryway. Like the air was thicker inside. Warmer, gentler, laced with something that asked them to hush their voices and unshoulder their weariness. Most folks did. They’d glance around slow, wide-eyed and awestruck, like they’d just wandered into a place stitched together by warmth and paper. Because they had.

Your daddy built it like that.

He opened the shop before you were tall enough to reach the counter, when your shoes still lit up when you walked and your teeth were missing in the front. A modest space, more narrow than wide, with walls that sometimes whispered when the wind pressed in. It was tucked between a shoe repair, where the scent of leather and oil clung to the brick, and a bakery that changed hands too often to name. But the bookstore never changed. It stayed.

He fought for it with every drop of charm he had and a stubborn streak the size of a mule. The bank didn’t make it easy. Nor the city. Nor the neighbors. But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled, signed the lease, and started sanding old shelves he bought for cheap from a shut-down place across town.

It wasn’t grand, but it had room to breathe.

The shelves didn’t match. The floors creaked. The ceiling had water stains shaped like cloud spirits. But the space had rhythm. Light pooled in through the front windows in the early afternoon, catching the golden flecks in the pine wood counter he carved by hand. You watched him do it over the course of a summer. His shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sawdust settling in his hair like snow. That counter had curves in it, places smoothed by a thousand passing fingers, elbows leaned, coins slid, mugs thunked down in thought. It remembered everyone who ever stood there.

The aisles were just wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders, if one of them turned slightly. In winter, the windows fogged from the warmth of breath and the hiss of the radiator under the front table. In summer, he cracked the front door and the back one just right so the breeze cut clean through, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and newsprint. When the light hit right, the dust in the air sparkled, like it was carrying secrets you could almost read if you squinted hard enough.

He dreamed of it since he was a boy, back when books came secondhand and beat-up, passed along like contraband. Borrowed if you were lucky. Bought if you were white. His eyes always got faraway when he talked about those days, like he was watching some other version of himself hiding from the world with a paperback gripped tight like a life vest.

“There’s magic,” he always said, tapping your chest lightly with one thick finger, “in knowin’ a story nobody else does.”

So he painted the sign himself and hung it crooked on purpose, because he said perfection made folks nervous. He sold trinkets and newspapers and penny candy at first, just to keep the lights on. He let local kids read in the back for hours so long as they didn’t dog-ear the pages. And when folks started to drift in off the street, curious, then charmed, he opened the door wider.

People noticed.

Not all approved.

But he smiled at the right times, kept his voice low when he had to, and stayed on his side of town like they told him to.

But inside those walls?

He was king.

You took it over after he passed.

Not because you wanted to. You hadn’t planned for that. You thought you’d leave, travel, study something big with a title hard to pronounce. But when he died, sudden, quiet, the way only the kindest men seem to go, it was like the shop exhaled. And no one was there to breathe it back in.

So you stayed.

Not because you had his gift for conversation. You didn’t. Your voice didn’t carry like his. You didn’t know how to make strangers feel like they’d known you all their lives. But you had his steadiness. His eyes. His love of ink.

And the shop had raised you.

You’d spent your childhood curled between the shelves with your knees pulled tight to your chest, the pages of books flaring open like wings in your lap. You used to fall asleep in the window nook under stacks of fairy tales, the glow of the streetlamp outside pooling on your shoulders. You learned to read by tracing the letters with your fingertip, mouthing the words like spells.

You grew up there. Quiet, clever, a little too serious for your age, and always full of questions. The kind of questions books were made for. You learned the world in chapters, one page at a time, growing taller alongside the stacks.

Even now, the shop holds you like a memory refusing to fade.

The floorboards creak the same way when you step heavy by the register. The bell above the door still dings off-key. There’s a worn spot in the paint where the heels of his boots used to rest, and you never painted over it. The walls know your heartbeat. The ceiling hums with it.

The place smells of paper, cedar, and something floral you still can’t place. Not perfume. Not fresh. More like dried petals tucked in a forgotten book. There are candles flickering low behind the counter, their flames soft and steady, casting halos of gold on the spines of the hardbacks lining the shelves.

Outside, the windows are tinted now. Reflective. You can see yourself in the glass, wrapped in lamplight like a ghost caught in the pane.

It’s not strange for you to be up this late.

You have a habit of rereading old favorites until the pages feel like skin. You like the quiet. The familiar shuffle of turning pages. The low creak of the chair under your legs. The steady tick of the clock in the corner, marking time nobody’s watching.

The radio went quiet an hour ago, the static fading to silence when the last gospel track drifted away. Now there’s only the sound of night outside. The rustle of trees, the distant hum of a train slicing through the dark, far beyond the city line.

But tonight, something feels off.

You don’t know why. Not yet.

But your candle’s flame flutters suddenly, like it’s caught a breath. Not a wind. A breath.

You look toward the door.

There’s no bell. No sound.

But the air feels... thick. Like it’s waiting.

You don’t move right away. You sit there with your thumb hovering over the page, caught between the lines of a sentence and the prickle on the back of your neck.

You don’t want to turn it.

Not yet.

Then the door creaked.

A sound so small it barely pulled your eyes from the page. Your heart didn’t jump. Not right away. It didn’t need to.

The bell rang just after. Clear, bright, and true. Same one you fixed the summer it snapped off in a storm so thick the trees bowed like they were praying.

So that bell was yours. It knew what time it was. It didn’t ring wrong.

That’s what made the sound feel off now. Just a shade too sharp, too clean, like a voice cutting into a dream you didn’t know you were having.

The sign still said “Come In.” Your fault. You’d meant to flip it hours ago but got lost in the pages, lulled by the rhythm of ink and stillness. Still, no one ever actually came this late. Not really. Not unless they were meant to be here.

You closed the book. Not slammed. Just firm. A quiet full stop.

And there he stood.

Tall. Pale.

A white man.

Out of place in every way that mattered.

He filled the doorway like he didn’t know whether he wanted to be let in or turned away. Light from the streetlamps slanted behind him, casting his face in half-shadow, like the world couldn’t decide how much of him to reveal.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers curled around the spine of the book, thumb against the front cover, the weight of it grounding. The silence stretched between you.

He just stood there, breathing slow like he didn’t want to startle anything. His eyes swept the room, not lazily, but searching. Hungry. And when they landed on you, they stayed.

His voice came quiet. Almost careful. “Evenin’.”

You stared.

“We’re closed.”

Your tone was even. Flat. Not rude. Not kind, either.

Still, he didn’t leave.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move at all, not really. Just shifted the weight of his stare, like he was trying to remember a script. Like he’d played this scene in his head a dozen ways and still didn’t know which one this was. His smile was a flicker. Half-done. It twitched and died on his lips before it could mean anything. But under it, something desperate. Thin and frayed, like he was holding on to a thread he couldn’t name.

“Apologies,” he said with a shaky drawl, dipping his head toward the window, where the sign still swung faintly in the breeze. The porchlight caught the paint in the glass. “Saw the sign.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Nobody came here by accident. Not after midnight. Not across town lines like these. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Supposed to go.

He was tall, yes, but not in a way that meant anything. His frame was lean, his movements all hesitation and nerves. His coat didn’t fit right, like it had belonged to someone stronger once, someone he was still pretending to be.

You stood slowly.

The book stayed on the chair. Your skirt brushed the floor as you crossed barefoot to the counter, each step deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just weight.

You weren’t afraid of the man. You were afraid of what kind of story this was turning into.

He watched the whole way, his eyes flicking between your face and your hands, trying to read the space between your breaths. Like he expected you to call for someone. To yell. To throw something. To raise your voice.

You didn’t.

You let the silence answer.

“What can I do for you.”

No question mark. A line drawn in the sand.

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to cause any trouble,” he said, voice thinning out at the edges. “Just… seemed like a place a man might find a bit of quiet.”

You raised a brow, not moved.

“You always find quiet in closed shops?”

He scratched the back of his neck. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with his hands, which kept twitching like they missed holding something heavier than a coat hem.

“Only the ones still lit up inside.”

He tried for a smile again. It trembled. Didn’t hold.

“Then I’d suggest you pass through quick,” you said. “I need to lock up.”

“Right,” he said, nodding too fast. “Of course. Sorry. I just-”

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped forward, just an inch, like something was pulling him. Then stopped himself and stalled in place, weight shifting foot to foot like the floor might open up if he stood still too long.

“I… don’t suppose you’ve got anything by Hughes?” he asked suddenly. Then, without pause, “Or Hurston?” His voice cracked a little on Hurston, like the name had caught on something inside his throat.

You blinked.

That was new.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him.

A white man. Midnight. The wrong side of town. Asking for Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit.

Men like him didn’t read voices like theirs. Not unless they had something to prove. Or something to steal.

He met your stare but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides again, tugging at the seams of his coat like he could pull himself together if he just gripped hard enough.

“You from around here?”

He laughed. Short, sharp, like he didn’t mean it. “Not anymore.”

Then quieter, “Ain’t got much left to be from.”

That silence stretched again. Wider this time. You didn’t try to fill it. You let it grow heavy.

He looked down at the floor like it might offer him a script.

You should’ve told him again to leave. Should’ve flicked the light off and locked the door and gone back to your chair and the soft, safe pages waiting there.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Hughes is second shelf, left of the register. Zora’s in the back, top shelf”

You paused. Watched him.

“And they ain’t alphabetical. You’ll have to look.”

He blinked.

Lit up like you’d handed him something holy.

“Right. Thank you. I- thank you.”

He stepped into the shop like the floor might vanish beneath him. Light. Careful. Fingertips trailing along the spines of the books nearest him, like the wood might spark or whisper if he touched it wrong.

And you watched him the whole way.

You didn’t trust him. Not even a little.

But something about the way he stood there, asking for voices not his, trying not to tremble. Something about his need made you pause.

It intrigued you.

You tried not to listen.

Tried to stay still behind the counter, eyes fixed on the book you’d set aside, though your finger hadn’t moved past the corner of the page. You heard the soft drag of his coat brushing the shelves, the sound of someone trying to move quietly without knowing how. The occasional squeak of a shoe sole. The low shuffle of indecision.

Then his voice floated back.

“Sorry to bother, miss. You said left of the register?”

You closed your eyes.

He’d been in the aisle all of sixty seconds.

“Second shelf,” you called, sharper than you meant it. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A pause.

“It’s just, uh… the labels are all faded.”

You exhaled through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not one.

You pushed off the counter and stepped out from behind it, your skirt catching the air as you moved. He was standing a little too close to the shelf, squinting at the bindings like the titles might blink first. His coat hung open now, revealing a loose button-down tucked half-heartedly into worn slacks, belt twisted like he’d dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp at the edges from the relentless humidity outside. It made you wonder why he was wearing something so warm in the first place.

He looked up when he heard you.

Not just looked. Jumped.

Shoulders startled up an inch, like you’d crept up behind him with a switchblade instead of bare feet and a mild expression. His eyes flicked to your hands again. You noticed that. Clocked it.

“Ain't mean to pull ya from your reading,” he said quickly. “Just didn’t wanna grab the wrong thing.”

You said nothing.

You crouched low instead, running your fingers along the lower shelf until they stopped on the slim spine of The Weary Blues. You tugged it free, checked the inside cover, and stood.

Then you crossed past him, just enough to brush by the nervous way he lingered too close to the wood. At the back shelf, your hand found the worn copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God with the creased corners and sun-faded cover. You held both out to him.

He hesitated.

Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Like touching them would make it real.

When his hand reached for them, it touched yours first.

Only for a second. Less than. But it landed like heat.

You watched his fingers twitch at the contact. Watched him pull back slightly, then steady himself like a man who’d stepped into unexpected water. His skin was cold, lonely. Like someone who hadn’t had cause to brush against kindness in a while.

You gave him the books anyway.

He took them with both hands, careful not to touch you again. His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.

That should’ve been it.

But something in the way he flinched, not in fear, but in startled awareness, left a strange twist in your stomach. Not danger. Not quite.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Watched how he shifted. How he clutched the books like they were lifelines. How still he got under your gaze.

And maybe you should’ve gone back to the counter. Maybe you should’ve left it there.

But you didn’t.

You leaned just slightly closer, voice low. Baiting.

“You always get jumpy when someone tries to help you?”

He looked up again, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, too fast, like agreeing might save him from saying the wrong thing.

And that, that, made you want to keep going.

Just to see what else he’d do.

You led him back to the front in silence.

He didn’t try to fill it this time. Just followed, books clutched against his chest like they might steady his breath. You could feel his gaze brush the curve of your shoulder, your hands, the soft glow of the lamps pooling on the floorboards.

You stepped behind the counter, but didn't fill the space.

You stayed close. Leaning forward in a way that was probably too obvious.

The register clicked open with a metallic sigh. Your fingers moved slow over the worn buttons, each press deliberate. He laid the books down gently, almost mechanically, their spines aligning like he'd meant to do it. Like he’d practiced.

The light caught his face now, full on.

He looked younger in the shadows. But here, beneath the gold of your lamp, he was something else entirely.

His face was long and wide, covered in stubble that somehow looked neat and unkempt at the same time. Hollowed cheeks. A narrow nose that sloped like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. His mouth was set in a line that kept trying not to tremble. But his eyes...

They were wrong.

Not in a way you could name, not in any way you’d heard told, but wrong just the same. Too dark, too deep. And old. Old. You didn’t know how you knew it, but it pulled at the back of your neck. Some instinct deeper than language whispering that those weren’t eyes meant for a man that looked barely thirty.

Then there were his teeth.

You saw them when he smiled, faint and soft, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. A little too sharp. Animalistic, almost. Pointed just enough to make you question how close you wanted to stand.

And still, you didn’t move away.

“That’ll be four even,” you said, and held out your hand.

He blinked. Fumbled in his pockets. Fingers pulling out a crumpled bill like he hadn’t checked how much he had. When he offered it, your hand met his again, and this time you didn’t let go too quick.

Your touch lingered.

Not an accident.

Your fingers brushed his palm, smooth and dry and colder than before. You watched his throat shift like he’d swallowed something wrong. The money crinkled between you, forgotten.

You dropped it in the drawer without looking down.

Counted back the change slow. One coin at a time. Let your fingertips ghost over his as you pressed each one into his hand, watched how he tried not to flinch, not to twitch, not to breathe too fast.

There was something in his mouth now. A hitch. A tension.

You tilted your head.

His accent. It hadn’t struck you before. Too quiet. But now, with him this close, you could hear the undercurrents. Southern, yes. That lazy hush to his vowels, that slant that curled around the ends of his words like smoke. But buried beneath it was something else.

Not from here.

A roll that didn’t come from any county near yours. A roundness to the vowels that didn’t quite match the cadence of Mississippi. It had weight to it. History. Like old hills and cold winters. European, maybe. English, Scottish, Irish? Or something older still.

But the twang was real, too. Earnest. Like he’d worn it long enough to convince even himself.

You watched him shift under your gaze, trying to shrink inside that too-big coat.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

Simple.

But your voice dropped half a note, low and steady like it was loaded.

His eyes flicked up again. Held yours.

“Remmick, miss.”

Just that. No last name. With an unusual politeness in tow.

You didn’t smile. Nor did you give your name. You wanted him to work for that.

“Right,” you said. “Remmick.”

He shifted the books under one arm, his free hand ghosting over the edge of the counter like he wanted to say more, ask more, be more, but didn’t dare.

“Well… good evenin' to ya,” he said softly. The words caught at the edges, like they didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer at first. Just watched him take a step back, then another, boots creaking against the old wood floor.

Then, finally, you raised your hand.

Not a wave, exactly. Just a slow lift of your fingers in something halfway between farewell and warning.

He seemed to understand.

The bell over the door chimed once as he slipped through, swallowed by the dark.

You didn’t move.

Not until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely.

The next night came heavy with quiet. Midnight again. And you were sitting in the same chair, same blanket folded over your knees, same book splayed in your lap. Different pages, but you hadn’t turned one in ten minutes.

The lamp cast its familiar pool of amber over the counter, the window, the shelves. Everything was still. Too still.

You hadn’t flipped the sign.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was habit, that your mind had simply been elsewhere. The story had you hooked, maybe. Maybe you were chasing some lost line between chapters, maybe that’s why you kept glancing at the door without realizing it.

The “Come In” flickered faintly in the glass, reversed in the dark like a whisper only the street could read.

You licked your thumb, turned the page. Tried to focus on the words. You didn’t remember them, even though you read them yesterday. Or maybe it was last week. Or maybe it didn’t matter at all.

It wasn’t like you were waiting.

You just hadn’t gone to bed yet.

You shifted. Crossed your legs under the blanket. Then uncrossed them. Stared at the “Come In” again. Just a sign. Just a little slanted piece of painted wood that always tilted left because the hinge was loose and you never bothered to fix it.

The wind slipped through a crack in the front window. Barely there, just enough to nudge the edge of the lace curtain and carry in a scent from the dark. Not smoke, not rain, something earthbound. Loamy. Cold.

You turned another page. Didn’t read a word.

Your candle’s flame danced sharp again, almost gleeful. You rubbed your thumb over your palm without thinking, the way you did when something was close. Some old habit from childhood, back when your parents told you to trust your instincts, even when they made no sense.

The bell rang.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a single chime, clear as a knock to the chest.

He stepped through like he’d been summoned.

No coat this time. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Sleeves rolled just past the wrists in that careful way that said he’d redone them three, maybe four times. His hair was a little less wild, tamed with pomade and willpower. His boots were clean. Like he’d stood outside brushing dust from them just to make a better second impression.

And yet, nothing about him looked natural. Not the tidiness. Not the polish. He wore it like a child wore Sunday shoes. Tight across the toes, heavy on the ankles, stiff enough to slow him down.

His eyes, still dark, still glinting, scanned the room like he already knew you’d be there. They landed on you. Lingered. Not just in greeting, not just in recognition, but in reverence. Like he was taking inventory of you. The slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the tight, coiled crown of your hair haloed in the light. Like he was memorizing every feature he'd never had the right to admire this openly before.

And when they did, he smiled. A small, practiced thing. One that almost reached his eyes.

Like he was proud of himself for coming back.

And like some shameful, stubborn part of you was glad he had.

“Evenin’.”

Same greeting, but not quite the same voice. Still quiet, still that drawl sugar-coated in something older, something foreign, but this time with the faintest edge of self-assurance. Like he’d practiced it on the way over. Maybe even out loud. Like he hoped it’d sound natural if he said it just right.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You rose instead, slow and smooth, letting the silence stretch as you crossed the shop in bare feet. Your skirt brushed the floor again, soft as a whisper, trailing you like smoke.

He stood straighter when you neared. Or tried to. You watched the twitch in his shoulder when your fingers reached toward him, the way his breath caught behind his ribs. The little gold chain around his neck winked against his shirtfront, barely there, nearly hidden beneath the buttons.

You reached for it without asking.

“It’s crooked,” you murmured.

It wasn’t.

Your thumb grazed the thin line of metal, adjusting it ever so slightly, letting your knuckles drift down the hollow of his chest. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cloth. Just enough to make sure he noticed.

He noticed.

Froze like someone struck dumb. Not like he didn’t want the touch. No, not that. Definitely not that. But like he didn’t know what to do with it. His lips parted on a soundless breath, his eyes locked somewhere over your shoulder like he was staring down a spectre only he could see.

The pulse under your fingers thudded once. Hard. Then again, faster.

You watched it.

You leaned in, just slightly, letting your hand linger longer than it needed to. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But you could feel the tension ripple through him. Tight. Brittle. Wired.

When you finally let go, he exhaled like he’d been holding air since last night.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, mouth opening like he might say something, then closing again when nothing came. His eyes met yours, flicked down to your mouth, then jerked back up with a flicker of something like guilt.

It was a touch.

That’s all it was.

But the way he looked at you now...

It had unmade him.

You let the silence sit for a beat longer, watching how he stood there like he didn’t dare take a full breath without permission. Then you spoke, softly, like an idea you hadn’t quite finished shaping.

“I’ve got a thought,” you said, turning back toward the shelves. “Wait here.”

But you didn’t mean that.

Because you paused, half-turned, eyes sliding back to him, that little hook in your voice coiled just so, and added, “Actually… no. Come with me.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

No question, no protest. Just a nod, and then his steps fell in behind yours like they were always meant to. You didn’t look back to see if he was following. You already knew he was.

You smirked before you even realized you were doing it.

He’s learning.

The rows of shelves narrowed the deeper you went, books stacked tall and mismatched. Some still had penciled notes in the margins. Others bore names and stamps from a dozen different hands. You moved with practiced ease, fingers gliding along the spines, then stopped sharp in front of a little patch of well-loved paperbacks with sun-faded covers and creased corners.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured.

His brow knit faintly. Then he reached out, tentative at first, letting his fingertips hover above the titles before settling on one with a cracked pink spine and a watercolor couple leaning too close beneath an umbrella.

You raised your brows but didn’t speak.

Interesting.

He held it up like he was asking permission.

You nodded. “Good. Take that. Go sit by the window.”

Again, no hesitation.

He moved, soft steps, book clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t glance back once as he settled into the reading nook. A curved wooden bench carved into the front window’s alcove, piled with cushions in muted tones, threadbare but clean.

The light from the lamp behind the counter cast the glass in warm gold, bouncing off his hair and skin in a way that made him look more real than he had last night. Less ghost. More man.

You watched him a moment longer, then followed.

Your feet made no sound on the floorboards. You crossed the space and sank onto the bench beside him. Not too close, but not far. Not far at all. The cushions dipped with your weight, the fabric between you folding with tension that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He sat stiffly, book unopened in his lap, hands folded atop it. Like he didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You.

Your gaze lingered on the side of his face.

The light revealed the fine things. His lashes, full and surprisingly long. The faint lines around his mouth that didn’t come from smiling, but from pressing his lips together too tight for too many years. His skin was fair in a way that didn’t come from the sun but from time, the kind of pallor that hinted at long shadows and colder places. Places you couldn’t name.

His hair had been combed, too. Not just finger-swept like last time, but deliberately styled, though it curled stubborn at the ends like it wanted to fight back. That little gold chain still gleamed at his throat, straighter this time. Not crooked, like you convinced yourself it was.

Still, he hadn’t changed enough to fool you.

Not with those eyes.

Ancient, heavy, and out of place in a face that didn’t look old enough to carry them. They flicked toward you briefly, then darted back to the book in his lap, as if afraid to hold your gaze too long.

“You gonna read it?” you asked, tone soft but edged with amusement.

He blinked like he’d forgotten that was the point.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Yes ma'am.”

You watched him flip it open with care, thumbs brushing the pages like they might bruise. The moment hung quiet, thick with unsaid things and the scent of paper and dusk. His breath was steady but shallow, as if he were still adjusting to the shape of this closeness.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him, letting him pretend he was focused on the words.

When both of you knew damn well he wasn’t.

It was the way he held the book that told you first. Not the usual adulation you got from the diehards who lived and breathed these novels. No, this was different. His hands didn’t cradle it like treasure. They held it like a bomb. Like one wrong shift in pressure might set the whole thing off and scatter the pieces between you.

His thumbs rested too gently on the pages, barely pressing enough to keep them open. Like he was worried his fingerprints might offend the paper. As if the book itself might recognize him as an intruder. He wasn’t turning pages so much as he was coaxing them along, seemingly afraid they’d snap if he asked too much.

He read strangely.

Slow.

Stilted.

Each word passed through his lips like it needed permission. Like it carried weight. His lips parted with the occasional word, mouthed in silence, and then closed again just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to let them slip. There was something priestly about it. Ritualistic. A prayer offered in secret.

His eyes, those impossibly ancient eyes, scanned line after line not with hunger but with hesitation. A wary sort of awe. Like he hadn’t held a romance novel in centuries. As if the softness written into the pages was a dialect he’d nearly forgotten how to understand.

And every time you moved, even just a flicker of a shift, a breath caught a second longer than usual, he looked up.

Not startled. Not afraid.

Attentive.

You scratched your cheek, his head lifted.

You smoothed your skirt, his eyes snapped upward.

You uncrossed your legs, then crossed them again, he swallowed, too loudly.

At first, you thought he was just skittish. Just someone not used to sitting this close. But then the rhythm set in.

He matched you.

Without realizing it.

Without even trying.

You leaned back in your seat, slowly. Felt the cushion press against your spine.

A second later, he leaned back. One beat behind you, stiff at first, then settling.

You tilted your head, absently, the way you always did when thinking.

He mirrored it. Not perfectly, but close enough to notice.

You shifted your breathing, let it slow. Long inhale through your nose. Shorter exhale.

So did he.

So precisely that it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like mimicry.

Like you were the song, and he was trying to follow along without missing a note.

You frowned slightly, gaze narrowing. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into the silence, into the soft rhythm shared between bodies in the same room.

So you changed it.

Inhaled twice quick, then held the third.

Exhaled through pursed lips like you were cooling tea.

He matched it. Exactly. No hesitation. No thought.

Your pulse gave a slow thump. Not fear. Not quite delight.

You did it again, even stranger this time. Shallow breaths, uneven tempo, a stutter at the end.

He copied it like he’d been waiting for instruction.

Not a second too soon, not a second too late.

Not even pretending he wasn’t. As if he couldn't fake it if he tried.

It was eerie.

Unnerving.

You’d had admirers before. You’d had men try to get close. Men with charm and swagger, who leaned too close too fast, who spoke in low voices like they were offering you a secret. Men who wanted something.

But Remmick didn’t want.

He ached.

He ached to stay.

To keep.

To not mess it up.

It wasn’t that he feared you.

It was that he feared what being with you might require of him.

He feared being found unworthy.

And something in you, something cold and clever and mean, maybe, was curious enough to let it keep going.

You watched his knuckles flex where they held the spine. Watched his breath stutter when you shifted forward ever so slightly. Watched his gaze flick to your lips before darting away, embarrassed.

There was devotion in the way he sat.

There was hunger too, yes, but buried under layers of control so tight they might as well have been prison bars.

He wasn’t scared of you.

He was scared of doing anything that might make you not want him here anymore.

He was scared of disappointing you. Of offending you. Of being sent away.

Like he’d never had the chance to be with a woman like this. Not just someone beautiful, Not just someone sharp, but someone who saw him and hadn’t yet told him to go.

Someone who let him sit.

Let him read.

Let him exist.

You leaned back, let your fingers curl loosely around the edges of the cushions. Not looking at him this time. Just listening.

His breathing matched yours again.

You heard it.

Felt it.

Let it echo in your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t read more than five pages. Probably hadn’t retained a single one. But he was trying. Oh, he was trying.

Trying not to ruin the moment.

Trying not to ruin you.

Trying not to ruin himself.

And you watched it all. Watched him struggle to be small, to be quiet, to be acceptable, and something in your chest twisted. Not out of pity. Not even out of care.

Just fascination.

You wanted to see how far this would go.

How far he’d go.

And more than anything, you wanted to see if he could keep it up.

He hadn’t turned a page in three minutes.

You timed it without meaning to. Just sat there, letting your own gaze blur against the shape of his fingers still resting on the edge of the paper, and noted how still they’d gone. How he stared not at the next sentence, but straight through it. Breathing shallow. Body gone tense in the shoulders, like he was bracing.

Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Ya always light the window candles,” he said softly, not looking up.

The words were nothing at first. Just air. Noise.

But your stomach still curled.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t move. Just let the silence soak it in.

“Every night,” he added, quieter now. “Right ‘round eleven. Even if ya ain’t got customers.”

Still, you said nothing.

He turned another page, finally, but you watched his eyes. They didn’t scan. They didn’t read.

“You notice that just now?” you asked calmly.

He hesitated.

You leaned forward, hands steepled under your chin. “Or’ve you been noticin’ for a while?”

His lips parted. Closed. He looked over at you now. The air between you suddenly sharper.

“I-” he started, then tried to smile. “It’s just… somethin’ I seen. That’s all.”

You cocked your head. “From where?”

He faltered.

“That little inn down the road don’t got a view of this side.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I walk at night. Helps me think.”

“Does it?”

He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Sometimes I pass by. That’s all.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Funny. You said yesterday you just stumbled in here.”

His jaw twitched.

A beat passed. You let it stretch like taffy, long and slow, until it thinned to almost nothing.

“I... did,” he said eventually, voice paper-thin. “Didn’t plan to come in that night. But I-I'd seen the place before. So I guess it felt familiar.”

“Familiar.”

“Mhm.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

His whole frame stiffened. A flicker of shame, or panic, or both, ghosted across his face. But it wasn’t the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. It was older than that. Worn. Like being cornered in a truth he thought he could keep buried.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You shifted in your seat, leaned in just slightly.

He didn’t move away.

“You been starin’ at my windows from across the street, Remmick?” you asked softly. “That it?”

He flinched. Not from your tone, which stayed silky smooth, but from the shape of your words. The accuracy of them.

“I ain’t mean no harm,” he whispered. “It weren’t… like that.”

You gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Then tell me how it was.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. You could see the effort it took not to wring them.

“I just… I saw ya. Few nights in a row. Sometimes through the window, sometimes outside closin’ up. You’d have your book in one hand, your keys in the other. Didn’t even know your name. Just-”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ya looked steady,” he said. “A place that don’t change. Like you’d always be here if I needed to come back.”

That should’ve sounded sweet.

But it didn’t.

It sounded like a confession. A possession waiting to take root.

And for reasons you weren’t yet ready to name, you didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw him out.

Didn’t call it wrong.

Instead, you asked, poised and deliberate...

“How long you been watchin’, Remmick?”

He looked like you’d just asked him to open his ribs and let you see inside.

But you didn’t repeat the question.

You didn’t need to.

The pause spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Then, finally, his lips parted. “Few months.”

Your brow twitched, just slightly. Enough for him to see it.

“I-I ain't mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands lifted like he was surrendering. “I just- I saw you one night and then… it was easy to keep passin’ by.”

You leaned back slow, fingers dragging along the wood between you.

“You been lurkin’ outside my shop for months?”

His face crumpled like the word hurt. Lurkin’.

“I wasn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “I wasn’t tryna frighten you. Weren’t like that. I ain't know how to come in. Ain't think I should. Thought maybe if I stayed far enough back, you wouldn’t see me.”

“I didn’t.”

He winced.

You could’ve pushed. Could’ve watched him stammer his way deeper into the hole he’d already dug with his own too-honest mouth.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “So why now?”

His mouth opened. No sound came. Then...

“I got tired of bein’ scared.”

You stilled.

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the woodgrain of the table, like it might open up and swallow him if he wished hard enough.

“I been scared so long, I don’t know how not to be. But I kept watchin’, and you kept bein’ here. Kept leavin’ that light on. And I thought… maybe that meant somethin’.”

He finally looked at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the last fire in a dead city, made your breath catch.

He wasn’t lying.

And that was the strangest part.

You were used to men who talked. Who wrapped their hunger in charm, or cleverness, or teeth. But Remmick… he was bare. He didn’t even try to be anything else.

“You think I leave that light on for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, fast. “I- no. I ain't mean that. Just that… I hoped it meant I was allowed to come in.”

That did something to your chest you didn’t expect.

And suddenly, you didn’t want him to look at the table.

You wanted him to keep looking at you.

Only at you.

You leaned forward again, chin resting in your palm. “Well. You’re in now.”

He blinked. Almost like he didn’t believe it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you added, slow and sweet.

And Lord help you, he nodded like it was a commandment.

You watched his eyes. Watched how they clung to you like a lifeline, like the mere sight of your face was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You could see it, plain as anything. The panic winding tighter beneath his skin, the quiet horror that he’d said too much. And maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t said enough.

And then you smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“Well,” you said, slow as molasses, “that still makes you a liar, don’t it?”

His shoulders tensed.

“I ain’t-”

You raised a hand.

He stopped.

“Watchin’ me for months and pretendin' you just stumbled in? That’s dishonesty, Remmick.”

His mouth opened again, then shut.

He looked like he wanted to explain. Wanted to pour out the right words, dig his way out of the pit he’d slipped into. But the silence between you left no room for excuses. And you didn’t fill it for him. You just stood, smooth and sure, brushing imaginary dust from your skirt like you were done with the whole performance.

The way his breath hitched…

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

His voice cracked, desperate before he could tuck it down. “I ain't mean no harm. I swear it.”

You walked to the door.

Unlatched it.

The bell above gave a soft jingle as you pushed it wide, letting the warm night air curl inside like smoke. The light spilled out into the dark, carving a golden archway he didn’t dare cross.

“You can go now.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I- what?” He stood too fast, nearly knocked himself over. “I ain't mean nothin’ bad. I just- don’t send me off like that. Please.”

You turned, hand still on the doorknob, gaze calm.

His breath was coming faster now, eyes darting like he was trying to find the version of you that wouldn’t be doing this. “I’ll sit quiet, won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here. Just don’t make me go.”

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

“Please,” he said again, voice ragged now. “Please don’t make me leave you.”

Leave you.

Not the shop. You.

And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing you’d ever heard.

You tilted your head, quiet.

“I said you could go,” you repeated, soft this time.

That made him stumble.

But not back.

Forward.

Toward you.

But not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to be seen.

And you let him sit in it. That want. That begging.

The humiliation of it.

You could see how tightly his hands were balled at his sides. How his throat bobbed with every failed swallow. How badly he wanted to collapse to his knees and sob at your feet.

“You can come back tomorrow,” you said lightly. “If you behave.”

He swallowed so hard you heard it. Loud in the hush of the room.

Then he nodded.

Not like a man, but like a child handed a punishment he knew he deserved.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

You gave him time.

Let him make the choice.

And when he did, it was with slow, aching reluctance. Every step backward like a string snapping off of him one by one.

“Evenin’, Remmick,” you said, voice sugar-sweet now, hand still resting on the open door.

He stood there a moment longer. Still. Wrung out.

Then, quietly: “G’night, ma’am.”

You didn’t answer.

You just watched him go.

Watched the dark swallow him.

And made no move to close the door until long after his shadow disappeared.

You knew he’d come back.

There was no need to check the sign. No reason to glance toward the door, or listen for the bell. You didn’t need to do anything at all. The air had already shifted, thickened with the weight of what was inevitable.

You were curled into your chair like you’d been there all night, though you hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. You told yourself it was the book. It was always the book. But your eyes traced the same paragraph for the third time, and your fingers tightened just slightly at the edges of the page.

Still, you didn’t look up.

You wouldn’t.

The clock ticked. Somewhere, a train whistled. The candlelight wavered once, then stilled.

And then you heard it.

The bell.

Soft. Perfect. Like a cue whispered by the world itself. The clock chimed midnight.

You didn’t lift your gaze, but you heard him. Felt him. The uneven shuffle of his steps. The small hitch in his breath.

He was back.

You turned the page.

The scent hit you first. Not bad. Just weary. Tired. Like sleep had refused him all night, and he’d wandered instead. Rain-damp clothes. Paper. Something earthy, mineral-like, maybe even metallic. Like he hadn’t meant to be anywhere but had found himself out in the wild with only his thoughts for warmth.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t dare.

The sound of the door shut behind him.

“I been good,” he blurted out.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Still, your eyes didn’t leave the book.

“Real good,” he continued, voice cracking slightly with the rush of words. “Ain’t even come near the shop. Walked past it, but that don’t count. That’s just the sidewalk, right? Just pavement. I didn’t linger. Ain’t even look in the window. Well, I peeked, but only ‘cause I missed the smell of it. Missed you.”

That earned a slow blink from you.

He stepped further inside. His boots dragged slightly on the floor like they were too heavy to lift. Like his shame lived in his heels.

“I sat still all morning,” he said. “Didn’t wander, didn’t do nothin’. I thought ‘bout what you said. Over and over. Thought about why it was wrong. What I did. Even wrote it out. I did. Wrote it out.”

You closed the book softly.

Still, you didn’t rise.

Remmick stood in front of you now.

And good Lord, he looked a mess.

His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, sleeves rolled and uneven. His hair had a wild, raked-through look like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours. The shadow beneath his eyes was sharp, and the line of his jaw was clenched in barely-held desperation. Not even his chain looked presentable. He didn’t smell unclean, but there was a wildness to him now. Like if you stood too close, you’d hear the hum of his blood vibrating beneath his skin, frantic and restless.

“I didn’t lie, not really,” he said. “Just… held it. In. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna scare you off. Ain’t had someone like you before. Not in a long time. Maybe not ever.”

His accent pulled at the words, thinner now, stretched tight with pleading. That strange, syrupy Southern lilt gave way to something raw beneath. Sharper, guttural, not quite human in the way it frayed at the ends. It slipped, like his mask was crumbling, revealing a voice that hadn’t begged in centuries. Not just a borrowed twang anymore, but a whisper of whatever place had taught him that hunger in the first place.

You finally looked up.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like the world trembled beneath him, he knelt.

He didn’t say another word. Just lowered himself to the floor like it was natural. Like the hardwood was the only place he deserved to be.

Your legs were crossed, the hem of your skirt brushing his boots. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just sat with his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You studied him.

He tried not to move under your gaze. Failed.

You tilted your head slightly.

He flinched.

“I ain’t sleep,” he admitted. “Couldn’t. Just kept seein’ your face. Thinkin’ of how soft your hands were. How still your voice is. You’re not like other folk. You look right through me, and it-”

He broke off, jaw flexing.

“I want to do right,” he said, softer. “Tell me how. Please. I’ll listen. I’m yours.”

You leaned forward.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes, not at first. Not until your fingers brushed the side of his face.

His head snapped up slightly.

You cradled his cheek in your palm, watching as he leaned into the touch. Like the heat of your skin might be the first kindness he’d felt in years.

He was trembling.

Not from fear.

From want.

His eyes closed, lashes fluttering like moth wings. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. Cooler than expected, but not cold. Never cold. Not with you.

His hands rose without thinking, resting on your legs. Then his shoulders followed, and soon, most of his weight was against you, folding like a supplicant at an altar.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Let him rest there.

Let him need.

Because that’s what this was. Not desire, not lust.

Need.

He was breathing in sync with you again, like your rhythm had become his only truth.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth moved against your knee.

Not in a kiss.

Not yet.

Just a whisper.

A plea.

You cupped the other side of his face, anchoring him.

He let out a sound. Quiet, fractured, grateful.

And stayed right there.

The weight of him on your legs wasn’t light. But it wasn’t heavy, either. It felt like gravity doing what it was always meant to. Like he had been built to collapse right here, in the hollows of your thighs, the shape of him fitted to the shape of your waiting.

You ran your thumb along the corner of his mouth, picking up a string of saliva along the way. Drool, thick and abundant. His lips parted. A breath spilled out.

He didn’t dare look up.

So you said it.

“Kiss me.”

Not a whisper.

Not a barked command.

It landed like a fact. Like dusk falling, like snow melting into earth. A truth that didn’t ask to be believed. It just was.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He lifted his head like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes, those beautiful, imperiled, bloodshot eyes, searched your face for any sign that you might take it back. That it might be a test.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t flinch.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, and his mouth met yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you read about in the first chapter of a romance novel. It was the kind that belonged in the final act. The kind that felt like something was ending just as something else began.

His hands fumbled for your waist, your back, your shoulders. Any part of you he could grab to prove you were real. He held you like he was scared you’d vanish between blinks. Like you were smoke and he’d never had lungs strong enough to keep you in.

He moaned into your mouth. Low and wounded and starved. Not loud. Not filthy.

Desperate.

And grateful.

Like this was more than he thought he’d ever be allowed to have.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the rumpled linen, and he gasped against your lips like the pressure burned. He kissed like someone who hadn’t touched another soul in a hundred years. Thousands, maybe. Not properly. Not intimately.

Like every part of this might be the last.

He pulled you closer, though there was nowhere left to pull. His teeth caught against your bottom lip, breaking skin. Not intentional. Just too much, too fast, too hungry.

He pulled back immediately, breath hitching in horror.

“I’m-” he started, but your hand curled in his collar and you kissed him again, harder this time, and it unraveled something in him so completely that he made a noise against your mouth, something guttural and ruined.

Your hand tangled in his hair.

His arms caged you in, trembling with restraint, with fervor, with some old broken thing inside him that was only now waking up.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His mouth chased yours, like instinct, like starvation.

He was panting.

You were panting.

And his forehead dropped to yours.

“I didn’t mean to-” he started again, but you shook your head. Barely a gesture.

He was still gripping your waist like the floor was about to give out.

He pressed his lips to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. Softer now, but still with the same unbearable urgency.

“I dreamt of this,” he whispered, voice all but crumbling. “Every night. Since I saw ya.”

You believed him.

How could you not?

He kissed like this moment was the dream. And he was scared of waking.

His breath shuddered against your cheek as he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, feral. Stripped down to the fundamentals of human existence.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to- can I-”

His hands were already moving, slow and reverent, like he was scared you'd vanish beneath his touch. They skimmed the sides of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

He swallowed hard, throat working. “I wanna see ya. All of ya. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it. Wakin’ up in a sweat, reaching for something that ain’t there.”

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, toying with it. Not lifting. Not yet.

“Please,” he said again, softer. “Lemme see ya. Lemme-”

He cut off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt coming out. Like they'd been buried in some deep, untouchable place inside him.

“I won't touch,” he sounded so earnest. So wrecked. “Not ‘less you want me to. But I swear, if you lemme, I'll worship every inch. I'll-”

He broke off again, jaw flexing. His eyes were pleading, desperate, broken.

“I'll do anything,” he breathed. “Just... please. Lemme look at ya.”

Your heart was beating too hard, too fast. Like it was trying to reach for him through your ribs.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can look.”

And that was all it took. The floodgates opened. He surged forward, hands suddenly urgent, suddenly everywhere. He was mapping your skin like it was the only geography he'd ever need. Like you were the only country left to explore.

He peeled off your shirt, slow and cautious, like he expected you to change your mind. Like he expected you to pull the rug from under his feet, again.

But he didn't linger. Didn't stop. Shaking but determined, tugging at fabric, pulling at buttons, dragging clothing aside until there was nothing left between his gaze and your skin.

And then he just froze. Stared. Took you in like a dying man taking his last breath.

“God,” he whispered, voice sapped. “You're...”

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. Just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking all his life. The beginning and end of every prayer he'd ever whispered.

And you smiled, being looked at like that. Like a God. A deity that commanded his unwavering, exclusive devotion. And like any God, you demanded more.

“Undress for me,” you said softly.

It wasn't a question.

His breath shuddered out unevenly, and he nodded. Not a hesitation in sight.

He stood slowly, like his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. Like he could feel the significance of this moment in every bone.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt first, trembling just slightly. He fumbled once, twice, then let out a soft, frustrated noise and just tore the fabric open. Buttons scattered.

You didn't flinch.

He shrugged the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His undershirt followed, tugged over his head in one fluid motion.

And then he just stood there, chest bare, skin seeming to tighten under your gaze. Like your eyes were a physical touch.

His boots were next, kicked off with barely a thought. Then he went to his belt.

He paused for just a second, looking to you for confirmation.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the buckle. It came undone easily, the leather sliding out of the loops with a soft hiss.

He toed off his socks, then shoved his pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside.

And then he was bare. Completely. Not just in body. In everything.

He stood before you, chest heaving.

His cock was hard, achingly so. Thick veins wound up the shaft, pulsing with each shudder of his heart. The head was swollen and pink. Glistening. A bead of precum pooled at the tip before spilling over, tracing a slow path down his length. He twitched, but made no move to touch himself. As if he didn't consider it a possibility until you allowed him to.

And you wouldn't. You had him exactly how you wanted him.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive. He looked up at you, his eyes laced with desire and something more profound. Veneration is the word that came to your mind.

“Please,” he pressed, as if trying to convince himself that he deserved it more than convincing you to relent. “Lemme taste ya. Just a taste. I swear I'll make it good for ya.”

His lips brushed against your thigh. A soft, tentative kiss that sent shivers down your spine. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin. He squeezed your thighs gently, urging them to part.

You could feel his desperation, his need for your permission. He was squirming, his body aching for more, but he held back, waiting for your consent.

“Please,” he begged again, sounding tortured. “Need to taste ya. Need to feel ya on my tongue. Need to-”

You cut him off with a nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes. You can taste me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was moving, hands urgent and eager as he pushed your thighs apart, his body leaning in, his mouth already seeking your core.

He started at your knees, kissing his way up your inner thighs, his lips soft but his touch urgent. He was a man possessed. Gripping your thighs. Worshipping your skin. You could feel his hunger, his need, his desperation to please you.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, his breath hot against your most intimate place. Then, with a slow, deliberate lick, he tasted you. His tongue slid through your folds, a long, slow lick that made you gasp, your back arching off the surface beneath you.

And then he dove in, his hunger relentless. His tongue explored every inch of you, hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he feasted. He sucked and licked and nibbled, his movements desperate and urgent, like a man starved and finally given a meal.

His groans of pleasure vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending waves of sensation through your body. You could feel his enjoyment, his pleasure in pleasing you, and it only served to heighten your own.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and feral, mouth glistening with your wetness. “Ya taste like heaven,” he growled against your skin. “Even better than my fuckin' dreams.”

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his sucks more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as he devoured you.

Remmick didn't slow, didn't pause, didn't come up for air. His tongue was a relentless force, moving from your folds to your clit and back again at a breakneck pace. Each flick, each suck, each lick was a testament to his insatiable hunger for you.

You could feel the tension building in your body, a coiled spring ready to snap. Your hips bucked against his mouth, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, holding him to you as if he might try to escape the torrent of pleasure he was creating.

His groans vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. He was as lost in this as you were, his actions fueled by a primal need to satisfy, to please, to devour.

“Remmick,” you gasped, pleading. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

As if to answer, his tongue moved faster, his sucks more insistent. He pulled your hips tighter against his mouth, gripping your waist, holding you to him as he feasted.

You could feel yourself falling apart, your body tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world around you narrowed to the point of his tongue, the suck of his mouth, the grip of fingers

And then, with a cry that tore from your throat, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he rode out the storm with you, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault.

But Remmick didn't stop. Even as your body began to relax, he continued, his pace slowing but his hunger undiminished. You were overwhelmed, your nerves on fire, every touch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your skin hypersensitive, your mind a blur of ecstasy. He looked up at you, his eyes wild, mouth soaked, a sinful smile giving you another look at his predatory canines.

“Again,” he was near unintelligible, now. “I wanna feel ya come again.”

“No,” you whispered, hoarse from your cries of pleasure. “Remmick, no more.”

He froze, his body tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. The fog of lust cleared from his eyes. Replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. “Did I hurt ya? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” That tone of genuine, unabashed fear returned. As if he was standing in front of that open door again, begging you not to send him away.

You smiled gingerly, your hand still cupping his cheek. “You were perfect, Remmick,” you assured him, gentle yet firm. “Now, I want you to move to the reading nook. I want to see you there.”

He nodded immediately, a mix of relief and eagerness in his eyes. He stood up hastily, his body still glowing with a sheen of sweat and desire. But before you could even think about moving, he was there, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, appreciating the strength and support he provided as you stood on legs that felt like liquid.

He didn't just lead you to the nook. He made sure you were steady on your feet the entire way. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he guided you to the cozy corner by the window. The nook where he read to you. Mimicked you. Begged you.

His body was still tense with anticipation, his breath slowly returning to normal. You could see the mix of emotions in his gaze. Desire, fear, hope. Something deeper, too.

“Remmick,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I'm not goin' anywhere. Not tonight.”

He let out a shaky breath, a deeply insecure smile playing on his lips. “I wanna make sure you're happy. That I'm doin' this right.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You are. Now, just relax and enjoy this. Enjoy us.”

He nodded, a small, content smile playing on his lips as he leaned back, though not fully. You followed, straddling his hips as you positioned yourself above him.

“Lay down,” you commanded softly, and he complied without hesitation, his body molding to the contours of the nook as he stretched out beneath you. Those prismarine eyes bore into you, filled with nothing but adoration.

You could feel the length of him, hard and ready, pressing against your entrance. You took a moment to admire the sight of him, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, his muscles taut and defined.

“Hold my hips,” you instructed, and his large hands immediately gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you with a possessive, desperate strength.

You began to lower yourself onto him, inch by slow, agonizing inch. You could feel every vein, every ridge, as he filled you completely. His eyes rolled back, a guttural, incoherent moan escaping his lips, a sound so primal and raw it sent shivers down your spine.

You bottomed out, your body flush against his, your breasts pressing into his chest. He let out a shaky breath, body trembling beneath you. “Please, move, please,” he begged, hoarse with need. “I need to feel you move.”

You smiled, a slow, sensual curve of your lips, and began to ride him. You started slow, a gentle rocking of your hips, feeling him slide in and out of you, the friction building with each movement. But it wasn't enough. Not for either of you.

You picked up the pace, your hips slamming down onto his, taking him deeper, harder, faster. Each impact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your nerves alight with sensation. You could feel his hands on your hips, guiding you, urging you on. His fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks that would fade but never be forgotten.

He chanted in an old language you weren't familiar with, likely the mother tongue of the faraway place you guessed he came from. His head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut,

You leaned down, your lips capturing his in a fierce, hungry kiss, your tongues dueling as your bodies moved in sync. You could taste his desperation, his need, his sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You pulled back, looking down at him, his face a portrait of pure bliss and agony.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded, and he complied without question, his lips parting, tongue resting heavily in his mouth. You spit, a slow, deliberate stream of saliva that dribbled down his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed reflexively, his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes never leaving yours.

You could feel his body coiling tight, his muscles tensing, his breath hitching. You changed the angle, your body leaning back slightly, giving him a new depth to explore. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body quaking beneath you as he found his release, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely.

But you didn't stop. You kept moving, your hips slamming down onto his, riding out his orgasm, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from his body. His cries turned to whimpers, body shaking and trembling beneath you, hands gripping your hips with a desperate, almost painful strength.

And then, the tears came. Silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his body, tears streaming down his temples, disappearing into his hair. You leaned down, your lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Shh, it's okay,” you cooed, almost taunting. “Let it out, baby. I've got you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with unshed tears, body still shaking with sobs. “You're so f-fuckin' beautiful,” he managed to choke out, completely spent. “So fuckin' p-perfect. I can't… I can't even…”

You smiled, merely shushing his whines. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so raw, so real.

You could feel your own orgasm building, nerves on fire as your muscles instinctively clenched. You changed the pace again, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind, feeling every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way he completed you.

“I'm close, Remmick,” you gasped, raggedly so. A far cry from the steely demeanor you always carried.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide and intense, body still trembling with exertion. “I know, darlin’. I-I can feel it. You're somethin’ else when you're like this,”

His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as you moved, as you chased your release. He was still hard, still pulsing inside you, but you could feel the tension, the strain, the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold on. To be there for you in this moment.

“You're doin’ so good,” he encouraged. “Just let it go. I'm right here with you. Ain't goin’ nowhere.”

And with that, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, body trembling, hips bucking, nails digging into his chest. He let out a low, guttural cry. A sound of pure, selfless pleasure. His body tensed as he rode out your orgasm with you, hips moving in sync with yours, giving you everything he had left to give.

The world outside the window was still black.

Not the kind of black that came with sleep or stillness, but that deep, oceanic kind that pressed against the glass like it might swallow the shop whole. A cold wind tapped once, then again, against the panes, but the sound was too soft to pull your focus. The only thing you could hear was Remmick’s breathing. Still ragged, still uneven, like he hadn’t quite landed back in his body yet.

Your own chest was rising slower now.

The adrenaline had drained out of your limbs, leaving only warmth behind. Thick and heavy and strange. The cushions beneath you were slightly askew, the throw blanket hanging off one edge like it had tried and failed to cover something uncontainable. The air still smelled like him.

You weren’t sure you could breathe without pulling him deeper into your lungs.

Your hand rested low on his abdomen, where the tremors hadn’t stopped yet. He was flushed, head tilted back, mouth parted slightly as if waiting for something. Maybe breath, maybe words. The slick between you had cooled slightly in the open air, but neither of you moved.

The moment didn’t ask for motion.

Outside, the wind howled once. Higher this time, almost mournful. But no lights flickered. No car passed. No one knocked.

You were still alone.

Still unseen.

Still safe.

There was a thrill in that. Not just privacy, but secrecy. The knowledge that the two of you had made something here, something raw and holy and utterly indecent in a world that would never, ever be able to comprehend it. No one would guess. No one would imagine it.

You leaned forward slowly.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed, desperate. Still begging, but quieter now. Not for forgiveness. Just for the chance to stay.

You kissed him.

Gently, firmly, like sealing a letter before sending it somewhere far away. He melted into it. Helpless again, the way he always was with you. And you tasted the salt at the edge of his mouth, not knowing if it was his tears or your sweat, and not caring either way.

When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, chasing the kiss without knowing he was doing it.

His breath hitched.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

You rested your forehead against his.

He let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I wanna be better,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanna deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

He froze. Just for a moment. Then his throat worked, and his whole body shuddered.

But you weren’t cruel about it.

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair, and let your voice drop to a hush. “You don’t need to earn me, Remmick. That’s not how this works.”

He blinked at you like that didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t say another word.

You let him stay there. Small and grateful and unraveling against you. One hand resting at your hip, the other fisted weakly in the blanket like he might drift off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

You stared past him, at the darkness beyond the window.

There was no morning yet. No birdsong. No hint of light. The world hadn’t returned.

And you liked it that way.

His breathing was steadier now. Shallower. Slower.

His lips moved once, not quite forming a word. He was trying to stay awake. You could tell. Trying not to miss anything.

“Hey,” you said softly, pulling his attention back.

His eyes opened again.

You traced a slow line across his jaw, following the path of stubble like it meant something. He watched you like it did.

Then, finally, you said your name.

Quiet.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Just that.

Just your name.

His eyes went wide, and then impossibly soft. His mouth parted in disbelief.

You’d never told him before.

You weren’t sure why. It had always seemed too personal, too final. Like once he had it, he’d have a piece of you no one else did. But now that you’d said it, now that it was in the air between you.

You didn’t regret it.

He mouthed it back to you.

Once. Twice.

Then again, this time with sound. Reverent. Fragile. Yours.

You smiled.

Not the kind you gave to strangers or ghosts.

The real one.

And in that tiny, echoing silence, while the window fogged from the heat of your bodies, and the shadows stayed long and untouched, and the world outside forgot to turn, Remmick finally let himself exhale. Finally let himself rest.

You held him through it.

And didn’t let go.

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[heavenlybodies333]

The Vest Stays On -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | secret relationship |

The first time you saw Spencer Reid in the tactical vest, it short-circuited your entire nervous system.

It happened during a joint task force case with SWAT, just outside of Portland. You were half-caffeinated, bloodied from crawling through brambles to get a GPS fix on a suspect’s last drop point, and very much not expecting to be visually assaulted at seven-thirty in the morning. But then he stepped out of the SUV, FBI gear snug around his narrow chest, the black straps cinching in just right, the embroidered letters bright against the navy blue. Hair tousled. Glock holstered.

And you? Useless. Every neuron in your brain screamed: climb him.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Morgan had laughed when you choked on your water. JJ had side-eyed you when you pretended to stare at the street signs just to avoid looking at Spencer’s chest. “That’s the fifth time you’ve looked,” Emily mutters under her breath beside you, handing over her report.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh please,” she snorts. “You’ve been ogling Reid like he’s the last glass of water in the desert.”

And Hotch—of course Hotch—was the only one oblivious, laser-focused on briefing SWAT while the rest of the team collectively ignored how suddenly, unfairly hot Dr. Spencer Reid looked in tactical gear.

Which brings you to now. Because apparently the BAU’s got a knack for hotel fuck-ups. There’s only one room left tonight, and surprise—it's yours and Spencer's. Two twin beds, one broken thermostat, and five days into a case that’s frayed both of your nerves to ribbons.

And Reid? He’s still wearing the damn vest.

It’s past midnight. You’re in a tank top and boyshorts, pacing in front of the single working AC unit like it’s your job. Spencer’s sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees, posture impeccable—like he’s trying not to look at you. Like the thought of you in so little isn’t killing him. It’s mutual.

“I can take the floor if you want,” he offers.

You raise a brow. “Why? Scared I’ll kick in my sleep?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I just—I figured you’d be more comfortable. With space.”

You stop in front of him. Your eyes drift to the vest. It’s still zipped up, snug over his chest, the collar slightly popped against the base of his throat. “You gonna sleep in that thing?” you ask, stepping into his space. “Or is it permanently fused to your body now?”

He swallows. “I was—I didn’t want to—I didn’t think—”

“I don’t think I ever told you,” you interrupt, running your hand through his hair, “how unfairly hot this vest is.”

“I-I got that impression.”

You grin. “You know what I want?”

His breath hitches. “What?”

You lean in close, your mouth brushing his jaw as your fingers trail over the vest’s chest straps. “I want you to fuck me in it.”

With a firm hand, you shove him backward onto the mattress. He goes willingly, vest thudding softly against the cheap polyester sheets. You climb over him, knees straddling his hips, your fingers curling around the edge of the vest to anchor yourself. You roll your hips down, slow and deliberate, grinding against him. He groans.

“Tell me something, Doctor,” you murmur, tugging at one of the black buckles. “Statistically speaking, how many times can someone come in a single night?”

He chokes on a laugh—half arousal, half disbelief. “I—uh—five to six, depending on... variables.”

You smirk. “Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?” He grips your hips tight. You grind against the hard line of him through his slacks and he groans—a soft, helpless sound that goes straight to your core.

Spencer kisses you again—slower this time, purposeful—then pulls your arms above your head. He grabs his belt from where it hangs on the bedpost and uses it to bind your wrists, leather tight but not painful.

“You move,” he murmurs, “and you don’t come.”

Your thighs squeeze together, aching. “What if I beg?”

“You can beg all you want.” He leans down, lips brushing your collarbone. “I like the sound of it.”

He trails kisses down your chest, nips at the waistband of your shorts. His hands skim your thighs, teasing, torturously slow. He drops his gaze to your boyshorts, now pushed aside, and hums softly under his breath like he’s filing away the image for later. You arch involuntarily when he strokes a thumb across your clit, featherlight. Just enough to make you crave more.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmurs. “Is it the vest?”

You whimper. “Spencer…”

He tilts his head, mock-serious. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes. God. Yes.”

“Noted.” He leans down and kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and indulgent. You twitch in his hold, desperate for friction, but he tuts. “I said don’t move.”

You nearly whine. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m teasing you,” he corrects, licking another maddening stripe up your center. “Big difference. Trust me—I’ve done the research.”

You buck your hips before you can stop yourself. Spencer freezes. You feel his breath against your skin, just before he pulls away entirely. “No,” you plead, straining against the belt.

He raises a brow, expression cool behind the heat in his eyes. “I warned you.”

“Spencer, please—”

He slides back up your body until he’s straddling your hips and fuck, he’s so hard. The fabric catches on the outline of his cock as he pushes them down just enough to free himself. He doesn’t bother undressing further. The vest stays on, snug against his frame, and you can see his chest rising with each breath.

He fists himself once, twice—lining himself up with you—and then pauses, cock pressed at your entrance. Sliding it up and through your wet slick before slowly pushing in. You moan—loud, wrecked, your head tipping back against the pillow. He’s big and slow about it, pushing in deep and staying there, letting you feel every inch of him.

You whine under him, tugging instinctively at the belt binding your wrists. “Spence baby please—”

He groans deep in his chest and leans down, the hard ridge of his vest pressing tight against your nipples, the friction causing you to whimper.

“Yeah?” He thrusts harder. “You like the vest?”

You nod wildly. “God, yes.”

“I’ll wear it every day if you want.” You laugh—breathy, desperate—then cry out as he hits just the right spot.

The headboard slams into the wall. You both freeze. From the hallway, a door slams. Spencer presses his forehead to yours, panting. “We’re gonna get caught,” you whisper. He thrusts again. Hard. “Not if you stay quiet.”

You bite your lip. He watches, transfixed. “Be good for me,” he whispers. “Stay quiet. Let me fuck you like this.”

Your eyes roll back. You’re going to come, and he knows it—knows by the way your hips stutter, how your fingers curl into the Velcro on his chest.

“God, you feel good,” he groans against your jaw. Spencer doesn't stop—grinds you through it, cock buried deep, watching you like you're unraveling every scientific principle he’s ever believed in.

“Fuck,” he pants, low and harsh. “You’re so—God—”

You feel him start to lose rhythm, hips jerking erratically. “Inside,” you manage to gasp. “Come in me. Please.”

He groans your name, deep and broken, and spills into you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel it—hot and thick and endless.

When he finally lifts his head, you’re still trying to catch your breath. He brushes damp hair from your forehead and presses a kiss there, soft and startlingly tender.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You tug weakly at your wrists. “Untie me before I find a way to punish you.”

Spencer grins—actually grins—as he reaches for the belt. “Promise?”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a dangerous game, Doctor.”

He drops the belt to the floor and pulls you into his chest, arms winding around you, vest rough and warm against your cheek. You settle there, content and fucked-out, and sigh.

“You know,” he says, absently running a thumb over your thigh, “in the Victorian era, women were diagnosed with ‘hysteria’ when they experienced… symptoms like yours.”

You lift your head. “Symptoms like what? Being feral for their boyfriend in tactical gear?”

He nods earnestly. “Exactly. Increased heart rate, flushing, rapid breathing, erratic behavior. The prescription was often—well, manual stimulation. Administered by physicians. It’s where the invention of the vibrator comes from.”

You gape at him. “Spencer.”

He shrugs, still tracing nonsense patterns on your thigh. “Just a historical fun fact.”

“You are the weirdest, hottest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive, you know,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Intelligence and arousal activate adjacent neural circuits in the limbic system. That’s why people find brains sexy. It’s science.”

“You’re science,” you mumble, tilting your head. “So. Statistically, how long is the average refractory period for men your age?”

He flushes, then smiles like he’s being challenged. “Well, the median is about fifteen minutes. But there’s a huge variation depending on stimulation, emotional connection, hormone levels—”

“So we could test the upper limits of that, is what I’m hearing.”

He pauses, eyes darkening. “Do you want to?”

You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, your voice honey-sweet and dangerous. “Only if you keep the vest on.”

He practically groans. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

And it’s only round two.

a/n: raw raw rawwww

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[stopaskingme]

A Note on Watches

part 1 / part 2 / part 3

was watching Conclave with my friend and being a watch nerd, he notes:

Lawrence

Lawrence was wearing something like an Orient Bambino (possibly passed down). Watches like that are from the eighties.

Clearly, it's not embellished, and worn over time. A used Orient Bambino exudes decorum without being flashy. Pragmatic and cultured.

__________________________________________________

Bellini

Bellini's watch was quite simple as well.

Potentially an Omega De Ville or more likely a classic Seiko Dolce. Also an old model, implying that he's worn it for some time.

(Apparently, the Omega De Ville doesn't have the same angles) Regardless, people who opt for tank faces (square watches) tend to be ambitious. Simultaneously, they want to project humility.

'He's been doing all the right things to get what he wants,' says my friend. 'He's been curating his image.'

__________________________________________________

Benitez

Benitez's Casio f-91w is a functional watch.

'It exists just to do its job,' says my friend (Nate). 'No fanfare. It tells time and like [Benitez's] character, it's not trying to show up anybody. It just does its job.'

Considering this Casio costs 12 TIMES less than Bellini's Seiko Dolce, you might think this is a humble watch.

But it's not even that. It's an 'I exist' watch.

Additional note: Some people have said Benitez is wearing a Casio F-105, but my friend disagrees. Benitez’s watch face is too large (sorry for the typo) SMALL to be the F-105. Regardless, both the Casio models tell us the same thing about Benitez's character.

Additional note 2: Casio f-91w is apparently considered a god-tier watch, which is above luxury watches. It's earned that ranking because:

It's battery lasts for 10 years

It keeps time accurately

It has alarm & date function (both 12h or 24h)

It has a backlight

Water resistance for up to 30m

It can stand a tough beating.

It's versatile. You can wear it with a suit or overalls. Anything.

It's cheap, i.e. easily accessible. Just like God.

It has an annual sales of 3 mil units per year, making it the most sold watch in the world.

Side note: The current Pope (Francis) wears a Casio MQ-24-7bldf, which has similar connotations as Benitez's. The only difference being that Pope Francis's Casio is analogue while Benitez's watch is digital, showing the role age plays in preference. Both watches are hella cheap, but Benitez's watch is a tad more expensive by virtue of being digital and having more features like an alarm and backlight function, which better fits his situation in Kabul.

🐢 Conclave watches part 1 / part 2 / part 3

[sukeruton-san]

Sorta Maybe Blind pt 2

First Next

It has been four hours since the initial discovery of his appearance and he's come to figure out it's not just that he looks like he'll kneel over and die with a small breeze but he feels like it too. side effects just keep coming!

Apparently his eyes are extremely sensitive to the light now. he opened them fully once and it hurt like hell, even with the smog. his internal temperature has always been a little bit on the cold side but now he feels like a freezer and his rugged t-shirt and jean combo is not helping. he's a little frustrated with how much he's shaking especially on his left side

Oh he thinks he forgot to mention that his left side now has a huge lichtenberg figure on it, starting from his hand going all the way up his arm and spreading across his back and chest swirling where his heart should be it also goes all the way down his left leg into the bottom of his foot, some of it is even peeking across his neck. He thinks it's the scar that was supposed to show itself when the accident happened but it didn't.

it's here now and it constantly aches too, another aspect of the ectoplasm levels here. He thinks he's become more fatigued but his sleep schedule was already shity to begin with, 4-5 hours a week can do that to a person. same with his appetite, food was more dangerous than edible most of the time at h- Fentonworks.

He ducked into an alleyway to search through the duffle bag that was packed for him, squinting to lessen the light in his eyes. and he found a lot. Hygiene products, a new phone and modified Phantom-phone courtesy of Tucker, notebooks, files, a lot of snacks, bottled water, Med kit, wild survival kits courtesy of jazz, bunch of the Fentonworks inventions now phantom-tech that he and Tucker modified and improved together, some clothing items courtesy of Sam, and a bunch of other miscellaneous items/small bags he didn't want to look into right now except for

Oh. . .

Oh ancients the fuck Sam!?!?

Sam gave him a crossbody satchel filled with big money, and when he says big money he means probably thousands in big money!?!? taking two 50s out and shoving the satchel inside his chest he looked to see what the notebooks and files were about.

One of the files was the necessary paperwork for his new identity that Tucker and Jazz helped create together, and judging by the glowing green sticky note Clockwork helped them too, probably about the sorta maybe blind thing he got going on. The other files containing pretty much all the Fenton works blueprints and or recipes for chemical compounds like the ecto-dejecto and the cleaning spray for ectoplasm.

The notebooks were small but thick, they hold a variety of things ranging from tips and tricks, locations that may be useful, information about Gotham in general, several were blank, and others had other little things he won't get to. One notebook was dedicated to everything he has done as Phantom, his battles, achievements, and things they learned about his weird biology. some of it was clearly done by Clockwork cuz he hasn't told anybody the full story about Dan or the clones or the other fights and challenges he faced.

Did he forget to mention that besides the necessary paperwork everything was written in Braille? No? because it was.

Deciding that he was done searching through the bag for now he put on a black hoodie with blob ghost sewn on the front, took out his new phone, and put the Phantom-phone in. He turned on the blind aid in the accessibility function and turned the brightness down significantly. He pulls up Google to look for a place to rent. They all begrudgingly agreed that they won't call or text until a month has passed so suspicions won't be as tight on them. Finding something close and cheap and pulling up the directions to speak audibly he goes on his merry way.

Hopefully the owner will be nice enough to him even though he's barely 16 trying to rent an apartment.

--------------- *Hour and a half later*------------------

The building fucking abandoned

No like the top half of it looked like it exploded years ago and Google still says it's for rent!?!?

Why!?

You know what fuck it! he's already made his way over here and it geting dark fast. he'll find a decent corner in there to sleep tonight.

Squeezing his his way through a hole that was supposed to be a door, tripping, and landing face first on the broken disgusting floor below him.

_______________________________________________

Batman and Robin were investigating a weapons deal that was happening later tonight in an abandoned apartment complex, half the building gone from an explosion courtesy of Two Face. 30 minutes before the deal they were doing a quick sweep of the two floors that remain when

*Smack*

Someone face planted 5 ft away from them.

"Ow " they rub their face for a minute before sitting up and

" That's a blind child " Robin was slightly bewildered by the black haired, blind and before closing his eyes he was able to make out the dull icey blue color. He was ill looking 13-14 in age.

A blind boy that was deathly pale, warringly skinny and most importantly alone.

He points in the vague direction of Robin before stating "I'll have you know I'm almost 16 and you don't sound much older than I do" he feels across the ground searching for the phone that was a few inches away from his reach.

Batman grabs the phone off the floor before standing the boy up himself and handing it to him. " The apartment building you have been following is out of service "

" Oh, why is it still operational on Google?"

" Tch, It seems someone has failed to inform the online networks of this buildings status, which is a incompetence on their part" Robin walked up to be beside the boy.

" what's more important is why you were looking for an apartment building in the first place. You're alone as well, when someone should be there with you when you cannot see or you should at least have a cain. It is also heading to a time of night where you should not be walking outside."

" What is this an interrogation, why should I be telling you what I am doing, who even are you." The boy crosses his arms backing away slightly

" We are Batman and Robin and we are only concerned of your safety" the big bat himself States in a softer than usual for his Batman growl.

Robin looks over at him giving him a look before signing ' are you serious ' then folded his arms. Batman ignores him.

Multiple footsteps could be heard across the floor, Batman grabs a hold of the child before grappling up and away from sight. Robin does the same in a different direction.

_______________________________________________

Holy SHIT

Fenton luck strikes again because he just walked in on The Batman and fucking Robin on an investigation and he interrupted. Being held in Batman's arms he realizes that either he's tiny or Batman's huge because he's at least three times his size.

This is turning out to be one of the more fucked up situations he has ever been in. Let's hope he won't fuck up the situation even more then he already has.

(sorry for the cliffhanger I need to rest my brain a bit with writing, but here is what I've written Hope you enjoy also I saw the reblog from @athyriaceae and took it into consideration thank you for rebloging)

[p1astr81]

just a prank - op81

in which: Lando has his friends over, and while his roommate is taking a shower, they decide to play a prank on her. Oscar is the one to come to her rescue.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x Lando’s roommate!reader

warnings: uni au, fluff, bullying lowkey, use of y/n, a little objectifying, my first fic on here so pls don’t be rude

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧

Y/N just got off work, and she desperately needed a shower.

Wanting to become a physiotherapist, she worked part-time at a private secondary school alongside the athletic trainer to make some money while she studied at uni. She was helping one of the football athletes. He’d sprained his ankle earlier in the season, and she was having him do a few exercises to rebuild his strength in that foot.

Long story short, three boys came in asking for her to tape up their knees. Before she could say anything, one of the boys “tripped” and spilled an entire can of Red Bull down the front of her. The nice football player offered his shirt to her, but she politely declined. She’d remained in the sticky clothes for the rest of the day. And as soon as she got home, she jumped in the shower.

Conveniently, her roommate, Lando Norris, forgot to tell her that he invited a bunch of his friends over. So a quarter of the way through her shower, the shared apartment became filled with boys.

“What is taking her so long? I have to piss,” Keegan complained. Lando just shrugged. “Oh!” Carlos exclaimed, like a lightbulb just went off in his head. “Let’s play a prank on her.” He suggested. “Like turn off the lights?” Max Fewtrell asked. “Or turn off her music.” Ginge grumbled. The pop music was blasting, filling the apartment with the vocals of various pop girls.

“I was thinking more like take her clothes,” Carlos said, a mischievous tone about his voice. Lando laughed. “Just say you want to see my roommate naked, mate.”

Oscar thought they should leave her be, but he wasn’t friends with everyone in the room. Only Lando. And he didn’t want to be labeled as a kill joy, so he stayed silent.

“It’s not just me, I think everyone wants a piece of her.” Carlos defended himself, glancing at the others in the room who hesitantly nodded along—well, except for Oscar. “You’ve got your share already, haven’t you?”

Lando shook his head. “Nope, she sees me as a ‘friend’.” He shared, unamused. The room winced at the fact he’d been friendzoned. Carlos got up from the couch, and headed down the hallway where the bathroom was located.

Y/N heard the door open and groaned. “Lando how many times do I have to tell you, you have to knock before coming in.” You scolded, but instead of the usual sassy response you’d receive, it was silence. The door clicked closed, and you peaked your head out, not noticing anything different immediately.

Carlos emerged from the hallway. “Got the clothes, and the towel.” He held up the items proudly. The group of them cheered. Something inside Oscar’s stomach twisted. These aren’t the people he thought he befriended.

after around fifteen minutes, the shower water turned off, and her music followed quickly after. “Lando!” She shouted but got no reply. So she stuck her head out of the door. “Lando! Give me my stuff back!” She demanded. This time, she was met with laughter. She quickly realized it wasn’t just Lando in the apartment. Panic set in.

Her roommate seeing her without clothes on was one thing. She could live with that embarrassment. He accidentally walked in on her changing once before. But by the sounds of it, there were at least five other people out there. The status of their phones—whether they would be recording or not—was completely unknown to her.

She shut the bathroom door, and began scheming. Her first thought was the shower curtains, but the rust had fused the clips of the cheap hangers together. She could use the hand towel, but that wouldn’t cover much. Toilet paper wasn’t an option, as there was so little left in the roll that it would help just about as much as the hand towel. She was left with pleading.

She stuck her head out the door again. “Lando, come on. Just give me a bath towel at least.” All she heard was laughter. “I’ll buy you take-away for a week.” She tried to bargain. Again, only laughter. She huffed. Knowing most of Lando’s friends were pining after her, she tried to bargain with, “I’ll kiss every one of you if you just give me a towel.” There was no laughter immediately, as if they were actually considering it. It gave her a little bit of hope. But it shattered moments later as they began to laugh again.

Seeing as bargaining didn’t work, she was reduced to begging. “Lando, please.” They only laughed harder, but their laughter was soon replaced with cries of disappointment. “Mate, don’t.” “Come one man don’t be a wet blanket.” “Dude she was gonna have to come out eventually.”

Her saving grace appeared at the end of the hallway, her towel in his hands. While the hallway was dimly lit, the floppy hair on his head couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. Oscar was always her favorite out of all Lando’s friends.

He stopped in front of her. The bathroom light illuminated his face enough for her to see his small smile. “Thank you so much.” Her words came out with a sigh of gratitude. His smile widened as he nodded, his hair flopping along with his head.

She closed the door on him, and re-emerged seconds later with the towel wrapped about her. “Oscar,” she called to the man who was stood at the end of the hall. He turned to her with a raised brow as she caught up with him. She took his arm, passing the group of booing boys on the way to her bedroom.

She brought Oscar into her room and locked the door behind them. “Oh, no. I didn’t do that to get anything in return.” He quickly said, his eyes wide. He did not want her to feel like she was obligated to give him something.

“Trust me, I know.” She smiled. “You’ve always been my favorite out of all of Lando’s friends. You’re the only polite one.” She shared while digging through her dresser for new pajamas. Carlos was still holding her other ones hostage.

“Oh, uhm, thanks.” He scratched the back of his neck. He was looking everywhere except at her. “Turn around for me.” She requested, and he quickly listened.

His cheeks went red when he heard her towel drop. He wanted to take a peak. Like the other boys, he did think you were very attractive. But unlike the other boys would have, he didn’t try to steal a glance at you. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very good looking?” She asked.

“My grandma called me handsome once.” He shared. Her laughter rang out, the angelic sound floating right to his ears and making his head feel a little lighter. “Funny, good looking, and polite. It’s a wonder you haven’t been locked down yet.” She laughed again.

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that, so he just laughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I’m probably making this really weird. I just wanted to thank you.” She apologized, her voice sincere. Oscar shook his head quickly. “It’s not weird, and you don’t need to thank me.” She heard in his voice how nervous he was, and smiled softly at him. “You can turn around now, by the way.” He did, and bit back a laugh at the set of hot-pink pug pajamas she’d put on. “Don’t laugh. They’re all I have clean.” She sighed.

“‘M not laughing.” He stated, though his voice was very clearly on the verge of breaking into hysterics. He couldn’t help it, and after a few seconds let out a little chuckle. “Yeah, alright. You can get back to your friends now. Sorry for keeping you.”

“Eh,” Oscar stammered. “I’m a bit afraid to go back out there, if I’m honest.” He confessed with a nervous glance toward the door. She shrugged. “You could stay here with me. I don’t mind. I was just going to watch a few episodes of Brooklyn 99 before going to sleep.”

He hesitated. “If you truly don’t mind.” She shook her head and scooted over to make room for him in the bed next to her.

Morning arrived, and when Oscar stretched his limbs, he found himself unable to move a great part of the left side of his body. Glancing down to investigate the problem, he found y/n at it’s source. He realized he never left her room last night, and as a result, they fell asleep together.

Slowly, he sunk back into the mattress, doing his best to keep her from waking. She looks inexplicably tranquil beside him. A small smile graced her lips as her head laid on his chest. An arm of hers was draped across his torso, and she had a leg laying cross his, disabling his ability to move them freely. He didn’t mind, though. In fact, he found himself at peace.

Despite his attempt at not disturbing her, she began to stir. She blinked repeatedly, trying to wake herself up. She let out a sigh before lifting her eyelids. She looked up at Oscar through her lashes. “Oh,” she muttered, lazily pulling herself away from him. “Sorry about that.” She apologized. Oscar found her groggy voice somewhat endearing. “I suppose you should get going, then.” She stood, stretching her arms toward the sky.

Oscar nodded. “Only if you let me take you out tonight.” He didn’t know where the confidence came from, and as soon as he got the words out, he began apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally- I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.” She interrupted his fumbling, smiling warmly at him. “I’ll walk you out.”

On their way out, they passed Lando, who was toasting pop tarts. “Have a fun night?” He asked bitterly.

“Calm down, we didn’t fuck.” She rolled her eyes before adding, “If we did, you definitely would’ve heard.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He waved her off. “All the guys aren’t too fond of you now.” He told Oscar, who shrugged. “They’re not the kind of blokes I care to be friends with, anyway.” Y/n smiled up at him.

“Oh!” She hummed, facing Lando. “and you’re going to have to cook your own food tonight. We’re going out.”

Lando rolled his eyes as the toaster popped from behind him.

[arkaiveofurown]

you got drunk and seduced him

Pairings: Zoro x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, Sanji x Reader

You had too much alcohol, so you decided to have a little fun.

Word Count: ~500 - 1,000 words

tag: suggestive

my masterlist here ♡

——

Zoro

The Thousand Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, the afternoon sun baking the deck as you sprawl on a crate near the training area, a jug of cheap booze in hand.

You’ve been tossing back shots for the better part of an hour, watching Zoro slice through the air with his swords, sweat glistening on his scarred torso.

That single-minded focus, the raw power in every swing, the way he grunts with effort—it’s doing things to you, things the alcohol only amplifies.

You’ve always liked pushing his buttons, seeing how far you can take it before that gruff exterior cracks.

And right now, with your head spinning and inhibitions gone, you’re ready to say some downright filthy things to the Swordsman of the Straw Hats.

You stand, wobbling a bit, and stride over just as he sheathes Wado Ichimonji, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Oi, Zoro,” you call, voice thick with liquor and intent, stopping close enough to smell the salt and steel on him.

He glances over, one eye narrowing, already sensing trouble.

“What?” he grunts, short and sharp, but you just grin, leaning in so your words are for him alone.

“Y’know, I’ve been watchin’ you swing those swords, and I can’t help wonderin’ how good you’d be at handlin’ somethin’ else. Bet you could fuck me so hard I’d forget my own damn name, huh? Slice right through me with that big, hard—”

His face goes from annoyed to stunned in half a second, mouth dropping open before he snaps it shut, a rare flush creeping up his neck.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” he barks, but there’s a roughness to his tone that wasn’t there before.

You laugh, low and dirty, stepping closer.

“C’mon, tough guy, don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it. Pin me down, cut loose— I’m ready for ya.”

Do you think he’ll bite, or just swing a sword at you to shut you up?

Zoro’s grip tightens on the hilt of Shusui, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, you think he might actually draw it just to scare you off.

But his eye locks on yours, burning with something that ain’t just anger, and he steps forward, towering over you.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and you’re gonna regret it,” he growls, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine, the heat of his breath close as he glares.

You don’t back down, tilting your chin up defiantly, your smirk daring him.

“Make me, Zoro. I fuckin’ dare ya.”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken challenge, and his hand twitches—not toward the sword, but toward you, hovering just an inch from your arm as the Sunny’s deck creaks under the weight of the tension.

——

Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick sways under your unsteady feet, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the sharp burn of rum on your tongue.

Lanterns swing overhead, casting golden flickers across the weathered wood as the Whitebeard Pirates roar with laughter, their voices a chaotic melody against the crashing waves.

You’ve had one too many, the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through your veins, making your skin prickle with reckless abandon.

And there he is—Portgas D. Ace, lounging against the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, his freckled chest glistening with sweat from the humid night air.

That cocky grin of his, the way his dark eyes glint with mischief under the brim of his hat—damn, it’s doing things to you.

Why not play with fire tonight?

You stumble forward, a sly smile curling your lips, your heart thumping like a war drum as you close the distance.

“Hey, Ace,” you purr, voice low and dripping with intent, “you look like you could use some company. Or am I too hot to handle?”

His brow quirks, that grin widening as he straightens, clearly intrigued.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You sway closer, the rum making your movements bold, your hand brushing against his bare arm—skin on skin, electric.

His muscles tense under your touch, and you can’t help but linger, fingers tracing the edge of his tattoo, the black ink stark against his tan.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in so your breath ghosts over his ear, “I’ve always wondered how much heat you can really take. Care to test that with me?”

Ace lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he turns to face you fully, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’,” he drawls, voice rough like gravel, but his hand finds your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The heat of his palm sears through your thin shirt, and you press yourself against him, chest to chest, daring him to push back.

Your fingers slide up his neck, tangling in the dark waves of his hair as you tug lightly, whispering, “I like danger. Don’t you?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of raw hunger flashing through them, and you know you’ve got him hooked.

But then, in a swift move, he spins you around, pinning you against the railing, the cool wood digging into your back as his body cages yours.

“Keep teasin’ me like that,” he growls, lips hovering just above yours, “and I might just burn this whole ship down.”

Your breath hitches, the tension crackling like wildfire between you, and you can’t resist reaching up to graze your nails down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

What now—do you push him further, or let him take the lead?

——

Law

The Polar Tang’s dimly lit mess hall hums with the quiet clinks of mugs and the low murmur of the Heart Pirates unwinding after a long day.

You’re sprawled at a table, a half-empty bottle of sake in hand, the buzz in your head making the submarine’s steel walls feel less claustrophobic.

Across the room, Trafalgar Law leans against the counter, his sharp eyes scanning a medical text, completely oblivious to the party—or to you.

That stoic, calculating demeanor, the way his long fingers turn a page, even the damn spots on his hat… it’s infuriating how much you want him.

You’ve had enough of his cool detachment tonight.

With a smirk, you slam your bottle down, the noise cutting through the chatter, and decide it’s time to rattle the Surgeon of Death.

You stagger to your feet, the sake sloshing in your system as you saunter over, hips swaying with purpose.

“Captain,” you drawl, voice dripping with mischief, stopping right in front of him.

Law’s gaze lifts, those piercing gray eyes narrowing as he takes in your flushed state.

“You’re drunk,” he states flatly, already turning back to his book.

Oh, hell no. You’re not letting him dismiss you that easily.

With a daring grin, you reach for the hem of your top, peeling it off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your bra—black lace, clinging to your curves.

The cold air of the sub hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in your core as Law’s eyes snap back to you, widening for a fraction of a second before his jaw tightens.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice low, but you catch the faintest flush on his tattooed neck.

Leaning forward, hands braced on the counter beside him, you let him get a good look, your smirk wicked.

“Just givin’ you a reason to pay attention, Doc. Wanna check my vitals now?”

His fingers twitch around the book, and you swear you see a crack in that icy facade—will he snap, or keep playing the untouchable captain?

The room’s gone quiet, or maybe it’s just the blood pounding in your ears as you hold his stare, daring him to react.

Law slams the book shut with a sharp thud, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re starting.”

But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t call for Bepo to drag you off.

Instead, his gaze drops, lingering on the swell of your chest before flicking back to your face, a storm brewing in those eyes.

You tilt your head, tongue darting out to wet your lips, pushing him further.

“Then show me, Law. I’m all yours to dissect.”

His hand shifts, inching toward the hilt of Kikoku propped nearby—not out of threat but pure instinct—and you feel the air thicken, your skin prickling as you wait for his next move…

His long fingers hovering just above the blade’s grip.

——

Sanji

The kitchen of the Thousand Sunny smells of fresh herbs and simmering broth, a late-night sanctuary where Sanji works his magic.

You’ve wandered in after a few too many drinks with the crew, the buzz in your head making you bolder than usual as you lean against the counter, watching him chop vegetables with that effortless precision.

His blond hair falls over one eye, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air, and damn if he doesn’t look good in that apron.

You’ve always known how to push his buttons—he’s a hopeless romantic, after all—and tonight, you’re in the mood to be his muse.

Swinging your legs playfully, you lean forward, letting your voice dip into something sweet and teasing.

“Sanji, darling,” you coo, drawing out the words as you twirl the bottle in your hand, “you always make such a fuss over Nami and Robin, but what about me? Don’t I deserve a little of that special treatment?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide behind that blond fringe, and the cigarette nearly falls from his mouth as he stammers,

“M-my lady, of course, I—anything for you!”

You hop off the counter, closing the distance, and pluck the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke right in his face with a wicked smile.

“Then how ‘bout you serve me somethin’… personal? I’m starvin’ for a taste of you, chef.”

His face turns beet red, hearts practically popping in his eyes, but there’s a nervous swallow as you press closer, your hand brushing his apron.

On the other hand, Sanji’s no fool—he knows when he’s being played with, doesn’t he?

He recovers fast, a suave grin spreading as he sets down his knife, turning to face you fully.

“Ahh, my sweet, you wound me with such temptation! But I am at your service—name your desire, and I’ll whip it up!”

His voice drips with flirtation, but you see the way his hands fidget, the slight tremor in his fingers.

You step even closer, your chest brushing his as you murmur,

“I want the main course, Sanji. Hot, messy, and all mine.”

His breath catches, eyes darting to your lips, and for once, the smooth-talking cook seems at a loss for words.

The pot on the stove bubbles over with a loud hiss, steam rising, mirroring the heat building between you as his hand hovers near your waist, hesitant but oh-so-close to touching.

[tonycries]

P*SSY POWER!

Synopsis. Jujutsu powers are to be used only in battle? Funny.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, using their powers in bed, ratio technique, unlimited void, overstím, dúmbification, PÚSSYDRÚNK MEN, creampíes, p talking, p spánking, reverse cursed technique, MARATHONS, bIood manipulation, cúmplay, ínappropríate use of cursed techniques, cervíx kíssing, true form Sukuna, dp, SUKUNA’S SECOND MOUTH, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. PHEW I just had to…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - SUPERHUMAN!

Toji’s powerful pounds didn’t just leave you stupid - they left you in shambles. 

Vulgar, thorough strokes where all it takes is a few handfuls before he’d already broken your creaking bedframe, your desk, your couch - and you were probably not all that far behind.

Not when Toji was still unstopping. Still not even slowing down - he needs more. 

And he’s rolling his willowing eyes with a husky tch, not even breaking a sweat when scooping up your tiredly boneless body with just a singular big, beefy arm. Scarred smirk curling, “Ya have some real cheap furniture, doll.”

“N-no I don’t-” Your barely coherent syllables aren’t as meaningful as you’d like them to be when you sounded so ruined. “You just hafta stop using your pow- ah!”

“Huh, what was that?” In mere sultry nanoseconds, he’s splaying you out unashamedly right then and there on your bedroom floor. Two engulfing palms positioning underneath your jittery thighs to throw them over his broad shoulders and bend- “Seriously- better hope I break you before I break this heh- floor.”

Before you can even open your mouth to retort, Toji’s taking all the pleasure to smear open your desperately bloated pussy lips with one prying thumb. The fat curvature of his fingerpad drawing ravenous lines up and down your bawling slit.

“Well helloooo, ma, how are ya doin’?” He’s biting down on his plump lower lip, guiding the bulky crown of his mushroomy tip to press innocent peck after peck where you were the most swelteringly hot. “Missed you these p-past…three seconds.”

“Stop teasing n’ just p-put it in, Toji–” you’re huffing out in clouded pants, dangling ankles locking around the back of Toji’s sweat-sheened neck in an effort to try and get him to do something. 

“First yer telling me ta take it fuckin’ slow, now yer begging for it-” He’s scoffing sassily, superhuman reflexes blocking the cute punches you don’t even get to think of landing on his puffed-up chest. “Seriously- ya should be more honest…like this pretty pussy o’ yours.”

And you’re just about to babble away about why he’s nodding in conversation with the saturated slurps from down below. Emanating where he was drawing leaky little hearts right on your slick-flooded entrance with the very globe of his swollen tip. Just about to.

Before you feel so full you think you’re being bludgeoned into your very lungs-

“This all you can take?” Toji’s chuckling out, but you can already see the way his handsome face beads with pearly dewdrops of perspiration. The way the edges of his sleazy smile twitch into something more simpering, more drunken. “Come on- come on come on- just one more inch.”

Blinking up at him with lashes lathered in overstimulated tears, “J-just one more?”

Well, a few more copious inches more like - but you were already too struck by the blissful massage of Toji’s bumpy veins probing into your sweetest spots to realize.

Already cockdrunk.

“Mhmm—” Toji’s nodding along, bending and jostling your body according to every whim and want. He loved how you were simply putty in his hands. Mouth watering at the lazily oozing sprinkle of cum beading out from the ends of your slit, one he can’t help but swab a few fingers along and plug into your parched mouth with a greedy plop! “S-so you jus’ sit here n’ let your ah- Toji here take care of the biiiig stretch, hm?”

Taking everything that he was giving - wanting more. You were yearning for him, and every heated fat inch of his girth bullied past your elastic ring only made your insides feel even hotter. 

Needier. 

“H-heh fuuuck yeah that’s it-” Throwing his head back, you could feel the way that every delirious ah! spilling from between your pathetically parted lips only made his rotund strawberry end twitch inside of your glutinous walls. Bumping into the excess dredges of cum sugarcoating you from just before. “-fuuuck take it l-like a good girl-”

And fuck no, Toji Fushiguro wasn’t just talk - he walked the walk and he owned it.

But it’s times like this - when your clingy walls were sticking ‘round his girthy cylindrical shaft like a soppy second skin. When your mushy pussy lips give his toned abdomen a quick mwah! Finally all inside. All surrounded by you once more.

It’s times like this when he finds his breath hitching-

Thick brows furrowing darkly, Herculean pecs hefting up and down vigorously. And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d have registered the complete n’ utter whine in Toji’s rumbling bass, “F-finally.”

SLAM!

And it’s so easy for him to let his massive palm come striking down onto your polished floor and make a crater. Barely even using a fraction of his superhuman strength, but your heavenly pussy was just driving him out of control. 

Whoops, he’s cracking a droopy eye open to gaze upon the perfect outline of each of his fingers indented permanently onto your floorboards. You really are a dangerous, dangerous-

“Oh?” That ferally cocky look on Toji’s sexy features never boded well for you or your poor cunt, and without another word he’s splaying out a few calloused fingers on top of your tummy. Huffing, “Yer close already- new record, huh, doll?”

How- how the hell did he know before you?

And at this moment you’re too far gone to even remember that Toji’s extra strength also meant extra heightened senses. 

Already feeling the tightly coiling ball building up inside your tummy when he’s reeling his slutty hips back to plant a bruising ram straight onto the bullseye of your cervix.

Hit after hit.

They’re battering.

You’re sure you’d be flying lengthy feet across your floor if it hadn’t been for one of Toji’s palms clasping onto the very top of your head and pushing you even further down all his copious inches. Feeding you with slobbering thuds gifted right into the back of your gooey pussy that you feel all the way up at your fuzzy mind.

Maw slagging open with such great difficulty to mumble, “T-Toooji- I’m-”

“Close?” He’s cutting you off, running one flirtatious thumb over the plump peak of your clit. Each and every syllable interrupted by his favorite punctuation mark - a good, vicious jackhammer of his angry cock. “Yeah yeah, I know- m’girl should be cummin’ in…three…two…one-”

Ah, right on time, Toji’s musing. Boring his half-lidded verdant eyes down at you when you’re falling apart all over his girthy length.

Spritzing geysers of your orgasm formulating a dribbling sheen all the way down to his hefty base, adhesive walls gripping around his bulk so tightly that Toji almost finds himself tutting about what a tight fuckin’ fit your pretty pussy was.

And he only gets harder - faster. Fucking you through your high until you’re crashing into more orgasms upon orgasms. 

Nails dragging red raking patterns across his heavily toned back, and he can already feel himself slowly losing his grip. 

Shaggy black bangs sticking to the tender crook of your neck once Toji lets out a gasp and lets his head loll, peeking canines digging into your heated flesh. Pistoning you with such devious thwacks and spatters of buttery pre into your most forbidden insides, the sheer force behind Toji’s heavenly gift has both of you feeling raw. 

And it’s just about all he can do right about now to look at the slight indentations on your wood-covered floors and scoff. Just in time for his blushing crownhead to dangerously twitch, “Dammit, the floor’s still not broken, ma…yet.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Target practice.

It only takes a few vulgar hits of Nanami’s thoroughly bloated cockhead into the cushy target of your g-spot before you’re rendered completely speechless. 

Utterly fucked dumb with every recoiling clash of his rounded mushroom tip, skidding along that particular geysering orifice over n’ over like he was trying to brand it with his exact circumference. 

And you can’t do anything but strain your knees further and take it-

“K-Kentooo—” You’re scrambling to burrow your nails further into the cool mahogany platform of his office table when you cum for the nth time tonight. Veins boiling, eyes sliding to the very back until they were pure ivory, splatters of saliva waterfalling never-endingly from the corners of your mouth. 

“Droolin’ again, my love?” Nanami’s cooing, engulfing palm budging upwards to smear away that overspilling lather. Clammy ends of his fat thumb pry your lips gently shut so that he can plant an innocent peck. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing- ah- nothing–” It’s a wonder you could mumble even that. Hips perking with every shockwave into an angle that might somehow help keep your sanity, might somehow have your husband’s merciless jackhammers missing- As if he would ever miss. “Just so…”

So much. Too much.

And no matter how much you’re trying to pathetically escape - it only results in you being manhandled by a gruff Nanami into every pliable position he could think of.

You feel like you could almost sob when your husband is tutting away from behind you, drawling out a long, long condensed puff of breath by your ear - before curling a hand around your throat and ramming. 

You swear you hear the crackle and pop! of cursed energy halting every atom in the air.

Blond brows knitting together at just how snug of a fit it was, “Use your ngh- big girl words, darlin’. I know you can.”

But oh, it feels like anything but with the way that Nanami was punishing you with so many heavy-handed pounds and pounds that had you whining. Babbling away, “Can’t- ngh- caaan’t-”

“Sure you can.” One more slam. Then another. And another. “You’re my clever girl, riiight?”

Your head lolls half-lucidly backwards against his broad shoulder, bumping into every ridge of his flexing muscles. Throat exposed just right for him to sink a few neat marks of his teeth. Bite after greedy bite. It makes your drunken tongue lacquer out even more stupidly thick wads of dribble before you can finally answer, “Your- your…cursed technique.”

Ah, you should’ve known that this would happen when your husband was an expert in the ratio technique out of everything. 

And, well, you did. You’d begged for it, in fact - and who was Nanami Kento to go against anything that his dear wife wished for? Whatever you wanted, you got.

Even if you found your melty mind ruined. Incoherent thoughts swirling around dizzily with every mush of his plummy, split-ended shaft right into your saccharinely sweetest spots. Such masterful motions.

“T-told you I’d be a little…rough.” Nanami’s whispering, and you can feel the deep vibrato of his chuckle against your back. Shoving you with every glissade of those sculptured pecs up and down up and down- “Don’- don’t tell me you wanna stop?”

Of course, you didn’t.

And Nanami sounded oh-so-devastated at the very idea. 

Rasping baritone tremoring with something feral…dangerous once he only hiked up one muscular thigh to leverage those powerful thrusts even more ruthlessly. Jujutsu powers pressuring your bodies and making your skin break out in goosebumps.

Like he couldn’t stop. 

Couldn’t - flexing hips out of control every time he was hitting the very backs of your candied pussy with a gummy thwack! Just that split-second of bouncy recoil enough to make Nanami hiss and sink back in ravenously for more more more-

“N-noo–” You’re gasping out once his stern mouth entraps the especially tender skin just below your ear - because with Nanami’s 7:3 powers it didn’t just mean that he knew every sweetest spot inside. He knew each and every one inside, outside, everywhere and anywhere he had to worship to drive you wild. “Jus’ feels too good th-think m’gonna cum again-”

“Awww, my pretty wife can’t heh- handle it?” Such gentle words accompanied by a rough few critical hits right into those magical spots. One. Two. Three. Pap-pap-papping away repeatedly at the velvety sponge of your walls. “S’alright, darlin’, cum.”

When you do it’s with a drawling Kentoooo that rings across his four-cornered office and his ears his favorite song. Your high nothing more than just a few tingling shockwaves that leave you breathless.

And before you can even say a word, Nanami’s shrugging off that familiar yellow tie dangling haphazardly from around his bobbing Adam’s apple. So warm and smelling of his raw masculine musk when he wordlessly tilts your pretty face and muffles you with it.

“Hngh!” You’re hiccuping, when Nanami wraps the ribbony extra fabric of his tie around one staggering hand and pulls. Arching you deliciously into an almost-perfect semi-circle against his feverishly hot front.

Tying off a cute bow at the back of your head, “Shhh sh sh- s’alright. S’alright, dear.” Nanami’s fingers work fast, but his hips are even faster. Not stuttering or slacking off for even a second when he rewards you with a few lazy probes of his veined shaft massaging into your innermost core. “Kento’s here, Kento’s here. Hold onto your Kento, m’kay?”

It’s just about all that you could do - dangling hands latching around his sweat-dampened blond locks and pulling. 

And you swear that only made him plunge in even deeper. You could count every thrumming imprint of his lightning bolted veins. You swear you could feel your knees weaken with the weight of his thick, syrupy strings of buttery pre warming up your insides. 

Only for Nanami to position his thighs directly underneath your own and push and push, fucking you until your heels were almost hanging in midair-

“Jus’ ta keep anyone from overhearin’ those beautiful noises.” He’s humming away, finally finishing up with the knot to let off one big smooch onto your lips through the muzzle. “Because now…m’not gonna go easy on ya, my love. And I plan on hitting the bullseye riiiight–” Globed end of one index straying up, up, up until he was pressing down onto your very womb. He already knew his target. ”-here”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Munchies

“Ohhh, gorgeous–” Geto’s pinkish tongue was so long swiping its way across his plumpened lips, colored with a glossy treacle of your own sappy juices. Enough of it clinging onto his pretty face that it almost makes you feel shy. “-you taste even heh- sweeter than usual. Are ya ovulating?”

You’re squirming your hips - uselessly, of course. 

Barely even able to arch your spine in even a slight degree off of Geto’s face before he’s pulling you back to sit on it with one big, beefy forearm around you’d just tried to steal away his favorite sweet treat.

“S-Sugu—”

But he’s relentless - drunk. Still eating you out through your flimsy, bunched-up mess of sheer panties with such utter greed.

Earning a hot kiss against the perked hood of your clit, twice more. Thrice. Five more times until Geto can even bear to part with a resoundingly loud smooch! “Now now, don’t tell me that pretty lil’ head of yours is fucked dumb enough ta think that you can ah- run away?”

Because the only thing meaner than Geto Suguru’s mouth was the way he made out with your cunt. In a way that no one else ever could.

Years upon years of swallowing curses always made him such an expert for when he had wrapped around his cerise lips was much…sweeter. 

Enough so that you’d caught him many, many times with his five-o’-clock shadow bleached a tawny golden because of your pussy. And he wore it like a medal of honor. 

You’re flinching at the splat! of a syrupy rivulet of saliva hitting smackdab onto the most tender parts of your slit, and the ruggedly fat part of Geto’s thumb flicks away the messy wads. Swirling around in lazy circles over and over, “Got nothin’ ta say for yourself, huh?”

“I c-can’t—” Fisting fingers rovering into the dampened roots of his long, inky locks, you only have to pull for Geto’s sharp jaw to hang slack with a barely-there mewl. “-because it feels too-”

SMACK!

“Was talkin’ to her, y’know?” He’s rolling his eyes, free set of digits curling into the rubbery orifice of your cunt and dredging out such a spraying geyser that lathers every inch of his lower face. “Isn’t that right, my girl?”

You can’t even look away, heart racing when he’s nodding and humming along as much as possible as if he was in conversation with your soaked cunt. 

Geto was ruined - eyes half-lidded and locked only down there, face veiled in a hot maidenly blush, it’s like he was on the very verge of cumming himself. 

Steady fingers lustrous and drenched with all your mess when Geto’s curling them around your sensitive nub to give a good pinch. He’s babbling away, “This turn ya on? Heh- just kidding…of course, this turns ya on.”

God, he could already feel the way something hot and melty floods his veins when your sloppy cunt only lathers in another sheeny coating of honeyed slick. Motioning in slobbering grinds up and down up and down up and down the flat plane of his roughened tastebuds.

Head thrown back, thighs burning with aching fatigue. You were milking yourself on him, and he could use this cute cunt of yours to wash out his expert mouth any day. 

Geto was in heaven. And you think you were close - very, very close. 

“Hck! Fuck—” Your maw parts into an uncontrollable oh! once Geto’s sharp button nose presses down on the soppy target of your clit. And his tongue only bullies between your folds to peak it’s way upwards, “I’m so-”

“What? Already?” He’s tugging ever-so-slightly harder at the puffed-up lips of your perfectly pouted pussy, angling even deeper. More. Slippery muscle smushing against your gummy walls and colliding repeatedly against the most tenderest spot that he could reach. “Hear that? She says- haaaah- that you’re gonna cum already. Might as well jus’ fuckin’ use me, huh.”

You’re whimpering once his jaw grinds up so far into your swivelling mounds that you think you might bruise. Extra gapingly flexible with his technique. 

A steady stream of sappy juices bubble down the slacked corners of his mouth, reaching anywhere and everywhere it could - his handsome cheekbones, his jaw, his neck-

“Oh my god-” And it’s a fucking wonder that you could even manage to formulate your spinning thoughts into coherent words. Two palms latching desperately onto his flowing tresses, your eyes latching onto him, “M’gonna- ah- Suguru, m’gonna c-”

But oh, you didn’t think that was the end of it - did you?

It never would be when he’s plopping you cleanly off of his ruthless mouth with two massive palms hoisted onto the small of your back and a sickly saccharine mwah!

Before you can even blink, you feel the delicious stretch of being split apart.

Of having Geto rip off the now-tattered remnants of your panties. Before letting his rounded, right-leaning cockhead bustle with three exact spanks to your treacly slit, sinking past your slick-flooded entrance - so hot and hefty. 

You’re being stuffed with so many inches upon bulky inches that you swear you could feel him poke into the edges of your lungs. Bloated mushroom head puffing up with greedy ounces of blood even more swollen until you can only keen. 

Grappling to fasten your nails into the cushioned padding of Geto’s generous pecs-

“Just kidding…” He’s bringing up a hand to sniff your sodden panties, and you swear there’s a raspy tremble of pure awe in Geto’s rich voice. Full lower lip being bitten at the sight of your ravaged pussy soaked and bulging around just halfway through his angrily aching length. “L-lemme stare into those pretty eyes when you hah- cum on my cock.”

You can’t help but shuffle your hips for more more more- “S-so big- fuck! Wh-what if it doesn’t fit?”

“Nuh uh, gorgeous–” Geto doesn’t know what’s louder - the waterlogged plap! of his sap-covered fingerpads gifting your stuffed hole with another thickly viscous volume of spittle, or the sound of his own heartbeat thundering. Amethyst irises so unabashedly turned into heart-eyes when he shoots you with a soft, simpering grin. And you swear the edges of his faintish scruff were already bleached copper- “-my good girl s’gonna ngh- take it.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Blood, Sweat, Tears

“C-can I please, baby-” Choso’s panting out through murked clouds of breaths, dewy mahogany eyes staring deeply up into yours. His cutely quivering lip only makes you evermore drenched, “Can we go…again?”

Oh, Choso just couldn’t get enough of you. He thinks he probably never could - not even after hours upon hours upon hours of you riding him fucking stupid like this.

Couldn’t get enough of the way your soppy walls were clinging onto his lazily softening cock with the tightest of French kisses. So warm and wet inside that he could feel your teary slit trickle down a splotchy puddle of slick and sappy cum all down his sweat-shimmered abs. 

And Choso - poor, blushing Choso - simply glazes his fingers to slip n’ slide all down the glossy load of your mess before perking his honeyed fingertips into his mouth-

Sucking - gazing drunkenly dead straight into your eyes. He was ruined. “Please- can I use…that, ma’am?”

Your fluttering cunt clenches around those probing fat veins of his, nudging his blossoming fat tip to glissade riiight across the bruised target of your pulpy g-spot. Humming, “Choso, baby, are you sure?”

Choso’s never been more sure in his entire life. 

“Ngh- yes—” Comes out the breathy slew of an answer, and Choso can’t help but let his handsome buttoned nose crinkle ever-so-slightly once numerous digits of his curl around the bulky circumference of his base. Maw falling slack when that only makes his strawberry divot overfill your goopy insides with a few more steaming hot lathers of his buttery remnants of cum. “I can- I will. N-not gonna let you ngh- down, my baby. Really wan’ just one more, p-please?”

Fuck, you loved it whenever he begged like this. 

And how could you ever say no to that face?

All that it takes for you to roll your hips a few more inches in an ever-deepening angle and nod, all that it takes for the atoms in the sickly sweet air around you to pressurize. 

Stilling your body like it was stuck in molasses before that sexy line tattooed across Choso’s fucked-out features grows-

“F-fuuuuck-” He’s groaning out, baritone timbre cracking with something pained. Desperate. And positioned deliciously on top of him like this, you could practically feel the jujutsu power Choso uses to make himself harder. 

“Will it-”

“Trust me- trust me, baby–” Spitting out through hiccuping swabs of all his staggering length inside you, “I-it’s gonna work- it- ngh- has to…need to fuck you again, baby. Need to be inside–”

It only takes a few more filthy strokes before bit by bit - inch by inch - your tautly stretched walls were being stretched to their limits once more.

“Cho-”

“Jus’ a liiittle more-” He chokes out, “-a little- harder.”

Feeling the throbbing weight of Choso’s shaft only get thicker. So swelteringly hot and girthy when he’s mazing open the gluey orifices of your drooling cunt, rounded tips of his soft digits latching onto your waist and mushing your hips in languid circles round n’ round.

It was a damn good thing that Choso’s technique was just as lecherous as he was. And you almost wondered if he could go on for days - because he was exactly pounding into you like he could.

“Shiiit, Cho-” Your head tumbles backwards with a delirious gasp! when the fleshy mounds of your hips plap! plap! plap! down with sticky stings after each and every battering ram. Nails clawing precariously onto the mountainous curve of his well-defined deltoids, “Th-think you’re even harder than you were ngh- before.”

Ah, he’s slipping out a thickly viscous few gumdrops of pre already down the slippery ends of your cervix. Toned hips jittering up so viciously into yours that you can almost spy the reddening marks formulating across his slender waist like a permanent branding.

“So- so it feels good?” He’s breathing out, like a mantra. You’re being bored at with complete and utter loving in Choso’s tear-welled eyes. “D-does my pretty baby feel gooood w’me inside?”

Tangling your fingers into the silken strands of chestnut brown plastering all over his smooth forehead, ever-perspiring with just how much Choso was focusing his energy. His power. 

You crane your spine into the perfect curvature to plant a saccharine peck right here, something that only makes him whimper. “Mhm– feel s-so good, Cho. You’re doing so well.”

“Really?” He’s blinking those teary lashes in a way that makes you coo at how adorable he was, “M’I hard enough? The blood manipulation is- good?”

“More than hngh- good, baby–” Chuckling at the way that every word only makes his rounded, cum-filled balls thwack! up into you even more riotously. Tight globes of fat squeezing so solidly that Choso has to suck on your blemished lips to even keep his fucking sanity. But that never stopped you. “I love it.” 

Fuck- fuck.

What you certainly didn’t expect was for that little comment to have Choso’s entire Herculean body stiffening, his eyes twinkling with bulbously pearly tears of overstimulation. Sprinkles of sheeny drool sloshing out of the pouty corners of his lips when he’s letting his hang open with a cry of, “N-nooo- wait-”

You’re intertwining your hands with his and it makes his heart race, damn near sending him over the edge. But what really does it are your next words, “I love you, Choso.”

Bumping spheroid of his bloated mushroom cockhead curving up right into the knocking entrance of your womb before he’s heaving. Hunching. 

Before he can only cum-

“Wh-why are you s-soooo–” Choso’s letting his coral pink lips pull back into something that looks almost as feral as a snarl. Is as feral as a snarl. Lolling head faltering into the tender crook of your neck, you almost flinch at just how steamily warm the feverish blush on his cheeks were. Accompanied by the drizzle of something wet n’ warm that you’re sure were delicate tears, “-why do you- d-do this t’me.”

And the abuse of his blood manipulation only made Choso’s tipping point even higher. 

Such massive torrents of cum already flooding into the bottom of your slobbery pussy until you were much, much more than completely filled till and past your puffed-up pussy lips. 

“L-love you-” He’s hissing at the extra sensitivity, sparks of white and heaven and you exploding with bliss behind his scrunched eye-lids. “Love you love you- ngh-”

Choso’s basically melting into you, bulging biceps wrapping around your body so tightly you could count every copious bump and flex of his muscles. You were so stuffed that you felt fit to burst, and Choso’s only managing out husky breaths watching the goblets of creamy ribbons paint rings upon rings around his seething red cock. 

Almost as if on autopilot when he dips down one hand to smear across the decorative slather of ivory white, popping it with a wet fwop! into his greedy mouth. He couldn’t help it.

And by the bolting voltage of jujutsu busting in the heady air, and the rugged twitch of Choso’s treacly-topped head - you already knew what he was about to ask next.

“Baby…just one more?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - BOAF?

“Both? Both?” And despite just how sleazily mocking Ryomen Sukuna’s smirk was, you could hear the way his rumbling bass lilted at the end. Octaves higher. You could feel the tight swell of his breeder balls perk up against your drooling pussy at those particular words, “Keh…so the lil’ human wants both, huh?”

And oh, your sickly saccharine mind had no idea how he was so agile even when towering well above seven feet. 

So staggeringly large - with four big, beefy arms, and two angrily swollen cocks that were more than matching. A monstrous second mouth slashed across about halfway down his incredibly toned abs, drooling and licking its greedy lips just at the heavenly sight of you.

So big. 

So…extra. 

Sukuna was made to ruin you.

Rendering you dizzy already when he flips your positions to splay-out like such a slut underneath you on the king-sized bed. The king of curses giving you power over him. 

The only one he would give it to - not that he would admit it, of course.

Pastel pink hair crowning out like a halo on the decadent silken sheets, Sukuna’s jerking his handsome chin at you like a challenge. One thick brow raising, “So?” Barely even giving you the time to register being letting off a solid spank on the rounded curve of your ass, “Fuckin’ show her t’me.”

“S-so mean…” you’re grumbling, though it’s more to hide the steaming burn of your cheeks when you’re jostling your knees to strain around his waist even further. To show him exactly the heated core he wanted.

Shit, if this was anyone but Ryomen Sukuna then he thinks he could’ve fucking cum from just this. 

The sight of your pretty pussy all puckered and ready to give his cock a big smooch, your swollen folds positively trickling with a neverending rivulet of sticky sap.

He can’t help but drag out a few thickened fingerpads along your syrupy slit, the sharpened textures of his elongated nails making you whimper. 

“Phewww- what a slutty pussy.” Sukuna grins - grins at the way you’re squirming and twitching all on top of him. How cute. “Now, stretch her wiiide open f’me, brat. Lemme see if she can really take heh- both.”

You can see the way that Sukuna’s strawberry-red divots start bawling the very moment you’re plunging in a few trembling fingers past your flooded entrance to present just how badly you wanted him - both of him. Warm, streaming dredges of creamy pre forming a slippy cap on both mushroomed tips. 

Ones that drag slowly between your soppingly wet lips when Sukuna curls a singular hand around his bulky bases, messy and painting your pretty pussy soaked. And another hand to latch onto his favorite spot at your waist.

“Hmmm, fine-” There’s something dark in his hiccuped words, something that makes your toes curl at the way that Sukuna’s boring up at you with devilishly red eyes. “You’ve proven yourself- heh- now ride me, woman.”

You didn’t know who wanted your sloppy pussy to take up every one of Sukuna’s inches more - you or him. 

Because you’re only letting your snug ring of muscle slip n’ slide a drenched trailway only about half an inch down Sukuna’s cylindrical girths before he’s doubling over with a gasp. Before he’s choking out a shaken, “Oh- Ohhhh shit s’tight-”

You’re flinching at the sloshing pool of something so sweltering hot that weighs down your drooly entrance - thick, ribbony spurts of what you thought was precum. What you thought.

But a singular sneaking glance downwards made your heart stutter, a fucked-out little smile of smug satisfaction breaking out across your features when you’re spotting those voluminous ounces of creamy white. Pulpy goblets of white that seep down into a settled ring at the dual bases of Sukuna’s achy lengths. 

You’re breathing out in disbelief, “Did- did you-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Sukuna snarls, elongated canines beared from both sagging maws before his secondary tongue lolls out and slurps up every stringy wad of cum with a deafening squelch. Pushing and pulling to alternate between letting it sliiiide all down his throat and fucking it back into your leaky hole.

So nasty - tasting himself. Tasting you. 

How you loved his cursed body.

You can only gape as he plants numerous other spanks onto the fleshy mounds of your ass with a sharp thwack! thwack! thwack!

“Shut up and-” And you can’t help but ogle the way every perfectly defined muscle on Sukuna’s Herculean body flexes when he jerks his hips and bucks. “-and- t-take it- all- ride me.”

“Kunaaaa–” You’re still feeling the swashing splotches of seed trickle out from you with every one of Sukuna’s dabbing thrusts just to fit inside. More and more - he always came so much. But with two cocks? It was double the torrential waves taking over your steaming insides. “-s’okay to cum earli-”

But, oh, whatever Sukuna wanted - he got. And right now all he wanted was for you to shut that pretty lil’ mouth of yours.

Manifesting his cursed mouth onto one of his free palms before covering the lower half of your face and making out with you. Swabbing the lustrous muscle into the heated cavern of your mouth, you can only gurgle and suck-

“Remember yer talkin’ to yer king, ya puny thing-” Letting him lick up spattered excesses of spittle bubbling from the drunken corners of your mouth with each inch after incredible inch that you were milking. “Shut up and- ride me. Milk me.” More. More. Until you felt like the bustling stretch of your adhesive-like walls would end up with you exploding. “-so ya better be a good fuckin’ girl f’me. And if ya are…”

Sukuna’s tone was just dripping with barely-held back desperation, words tight. Deep.

And the only thing deeper was just how thoroughly inside he was rummaging your gooey channel, pressing an innocent peck against the pulpy exterior of your cervix with a heaving ram. 

Battered and bruised over and over when he sinks in-

“O-oh–” Sukuna’s ravaged lips fall open ever-so-slightly, delicate wires of saliva formulating and snapping from his own mouth now. Brows furrowing, he huffs out a sudden gasp at the sight before him, “If- if ya- ohhhh–” 

But, shit, he was so fucking pussydrunk now.

From the way your slobbering cunt was taking up all of him - he didn’t even think it would be possible. But you always did manage to surprise him. 

Your bulging cunt stretched widely agape around the gleaming lengths of his thickened cocks, all the way until your perked clit was bumping into his wildly tufted happy trail. Slowly glittering a sappy little snailtrail where he was buried until his rotund hilts, a treacly coating of your slick sticking his hefty balls againsts your ass.

And Sukuna’s in heaven - utterly on cloud nine when he rolls his powerful hips upwards with a ringing pap! Shovelling all the way until your rubbery hole was just kissing his ruby red cockheads goodbye, and all the way back-

“S-since you’re my ngh- good girl-” He’s letting his palm part with your lips with a sopping mwah! waterfalling volumes of spittle following right after. “-you should hah- know that…”

Pound after pound. 

He only needed one hand to move you up and down those thirteen-inch shafts like his own personal ragdoll. Another two more to guide them in making sure they poke and probe every one of your most tender spots.

And his final one? Rovering your hands upwards to squeeze one of Sukuna’s generous pecs. So large and cushiony. He’s snickering out, “-that if you squeeze hard ‘nough, you can get milk.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - I lose control.

“I-is this really okay…” Ino’s voice wobbles so cutely - so pathetically that he’s forced to sink his teeth into his peachy lower lip. “-don’t wanna lose-”

“But I want you to, baby—” Your cooing tone is enough to make Ino’s blushing fat head pump out a steaming hot mess of velvety pre between your inner thighs. Thick and sticky. And he lets you - encourages you - to do as you please when your greedy fingertips lather in the slippery puddles of translucent ribbons.

Eyes half-lidded and glossed over with such primal need, a bright burning blush overtakes his cheeks. Maw falling parted when you’re popping your soppingly wet digits inside his mouth. 

He sucks on them like his favorite gummy candy, looking right into your eyes whilst hanging onto every single syllable of yours. “I want you to lose control.”

Oh. 

Oh.

And you never realized that it would mean this-

“G-gonna break you-” Ino’s hiccuping out, overstimulated globs of his tears lathering his long lashes with a fresh coating all over again when one more trembling ram past your slick-filled entrance makes your clingy channel squeeze. Makes Ino’s softened palm plant down a harsh spank right onto your drooling clit, “-fuck- fuck m’gonna break this cute cunt oh-”

Head tumbling lecherously backwards, it’s all he can do to glissade one eager thumb over those extra tender spots of your pretty pussy and work his reverse cursed technique. 

Making you flinch at the axioms and crackles of cursed energy sprinting in white-hot streams down your arched spine. Your words are oh-so-breathless, “Shit- d-didn’t know you could do ngh- this, Taku.” 

“Don’ wanna hurt my pretty girl- n-no matter how rough I get.” 

Years and years of training making your poor bedframe sing out in resonating creaks, and your cunt cry out even louder. 

Saturated squelches emanate all around and make him jut his plump lips out in a pout. Brows raising once a sneaking glance downwards between your filthy thighs shows off such a filthy mess. 

You’re getting wetter and wetter by the second, gushes of your geysering juices spraying out across his rippling abs sinfully. And Ino’s just awestruck when he throws your legs on top of his toned shoulders and bends. Into the meanest mating press ever possible. “But you’re g-getting turned on by this, huh, sweetness?”

Shit- you can’t lie. Not when Ino had his inflated length stuffed so deeply inside you, touching each and every sweetly hidden spot in a syrupy swab. So long n’ girthy that it almost had you cockdrunk already, “Y-yes…”

And the sleazy grin that smears all down his drooling lips is so sexy. Head tilting downwards at you from his best angle, “S’that so?”

Before you can even blink - before you can even register your beloved boyfriend’s response - he’s trekking his mean fingers down to press another one of his mean smacks onto your puffed-up pussy lips. And another. And another-

“My f-filthy girl–” Ino’s drawling out, grin wider than ever when his rounded fingerpads pinch around your plump clit and buzz. Flickering with spasms of vibrating jujutsu that make you squeal, “-wan’ me to go…rougher?”

You’re nodding - nodding and nodding and nodding when that pillaging staccato grows wilder. Bumping Ino’s rounded crownhead into the fleshy parts of your cervix. Balloony curve skidding out ribbony slathers of pre across your soaked g-spot in a way that’s heavenly.

“Harder-” your fingers encircle Ino’s tender throat and squeeze. “You can do it- haaah- harder, Taku.”

“Mhm–” he’s humming, one hand guiding to your trembly wrist and helping your sultry digits tighten. Enough so that his skin burns with the crescent indents of your nails, marking. He’s shifting his hips to jostle a few bumpy veins into your softest patches, “Anything- anything for you, h-heh.”

Enough to make his hips snap! with copious thundering hits that tenderize your melty insides. So many, many times - so harsh that it has Ino’s slender waist reddening. Bruising with every pap! against yours-

“Ch-choke me more, pretty.” Ino’s spitting out, mouth stumbling into yours in a messy, messy French kiss that’s all teeth and lips and sheer need. “Your turn to go harder.”

And when you do, Ino doesn’t give a shit about his blossoming marks and grazes. In fact, he’s slamming! down one hand to leverage himself into an ever-deepening angle. It’s like he was spearheading open every single nook and cranny of yours - no sweet orifice left unturned. 

Ruining himself on your soppy pussy. 

Through your fucked-out heart-eyes you can already see the way cursed energy is rolling off of him in flickering bolts of lightning. Out of control. Burying his head into the crook of your neck with a keening ah! ah! ah! after every second fucking you into the sodden blankets of your bed.

Fuck, and he doesn’t even seem to notice. Smoothing his palms over your stinging mounds with even more overpowering reverse cursed technique. 

Part of him was proud at just how well and thorough he was fucking you, and that other part of him was letting his kiss-bitten lips part with a low whine at how badly he wanted all that evidence to just…stay there.

“S-swear m’gonna break you…” Ino’s mahogany brows furrow together when your gluey walls cling onto his generous girth, something powerful churning behind those droopy lids fighting to stay open. 

“Mhm–” you’re batting your lashes up at him in a way that makes him blush. Teeth glinting in the dim lighting as he snarls, and you’re chuckling as you gift him a slow kiss.

“D-don’t tease me, sweetness- swear m’gonna- haaaah- gonna make sure you don’t forget that I can’t use my ngh- reversed curse technique riiiight–” Knees shuffling apart to widen your own boneless legs, to leave a fat drag of Ino’s leaky mushroom tip in a straight line across your cervix. Slow. Solid. Knocking at your readily pliable womb- “-here.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “Cum…dump?”

Those were the first words repeated out of Gojo Satoru’s pretty mouth tonight - and they might as well just be his last…ever. 

Because as soon as they’re spilling out into the headily warm air, Gojo can feel his slender fingers twitch at the curve of your hips. Can feel them buzz with such sheer fucking power and need-

The need to give his dear Mrs. Gojo exactly what you’ve been yearning for. 

“H-heh-” Something in Gojo’s lilting voice hitches, cracking just as his mind was right now. Hovering above you as if on autopilot, you catch the way that Gojo’s eyes flicker with something glowing. Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulps, “Ohh– Christmas came early, huh?”

And times like this, you can’t forget that your husband is the strongest.

Because it only takes all of two nanoseconds for you to find your perspired back laid out cozily against Gojo’s toned front in such a filthy full nelson. Your shoulders mushed up against the curvaceous mounds of his sculptured pecs, head lolling back beside his-

“T-Toru–” you’re squealing when he doesn’t give you even a word of hesitancy or warning before sinking in inch by fucking inch. Unstopping. “-did- did you just fucking teleport–?”

And it was meant as a half-joke - something to get your cottony mind off of the dizzying stretch of Gojo’s thoroughly swollen, rotund head working your glutinous walls open. Mapping in only a few inches from his neverending length before hitting the bullseye of your forbidden sweet spot and making you yelp-

So sinfully good that you almost don’t hear his breathy, rasped-out answer. “Maybe.”

“Wait- what?” You’re snapping open your weighty lids, head jostling over to sneak a glance at Gojo’s pretty features. “You don’t know if you telepor-”

But nothing could have prepared you for just how feral Gojo Satoru looked right about now. Just how gone. 

His cerulean eyes widened and crazed; leering grin plastered all over his face until you couldn’t even see his delicate dimples. Breaths coming out in pants - heaves - until your own body was being motioned up and down with his own like your very own rollercoaster. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Rumbling voice so pained - it sends a shuddering bout of shivers that wrack through your entire body. Gojo’s tilting his head to nuzzle your clammy cheek, “All I know s’that the h-haaah- view is prettyyyy.” 

You startle as the dim bedroom light flicker once he plants a thundering French kiss onto your fleshy cervix with a deafening plap! Then another. And another. And another and- “And my wife? Even prettier.” 

Only a few vulgarly deep hits against the feverish depths of your cunt and Gojo was already pussydrunk.

“G-gonna be my…” Words straining out midway like he couldn’t even bear to finish his sentence, he’s rolling his hips. Hard. Fast. “The prettiest- gonna make you- make you my ah!”

You feel something drenching plat! plat! plat! the curve of your shoulder, and with a sharp jolt you’re realizing that he’s crying. 

Big, fat tears crinkling at the corners of Gojo’s hazily half-lidded eyes, streaming down right along with the honeyed wads of drool trickling from between his lips. 

“Satoru…” You’re craning over a few trembly fingers to brush over the dampened curtains of white blocking his forehead. “-are you-”

It’s only then that Gojo gasps-

Eyes flying open as if he’d been shocked by a burst of electricity the very moment your sensory pads had made mere contact with him. Bucking his hips in such a flexible degree upwards- with such staggering power that you think he’s fucking out any and every thought inside your melty mind right now.

In a flash, Gojo has your hands clutched with one of his; pressing his mouth onto your heated skin in a tender, tender kiss. Murmuring with broken vibrato, “I- I want you. I need you, Mrs. Gojo. R-really need you as my…cum…dump-”

Oh.

Fuck- this was what had him crazed. Depraved. 

“Gonna f-fuck you with ngh- unlimited void–” he’s sputtering into your ear, free hands leaving buzzing spank after spank on your perked clit. Powerful. And you swear you could feel the cursed energy on his fingertips, “-g’na be my cumdump forever then. H-hehhh forever and ever and oh!”

Gojo’s catching his delirious gaze onto where he was greedily disappearing from between your puffy lips. And with a mewl, you’re realizing that the corners of his eyes were just trailing with flickers of bright blue lightning. 

Locked on where you were pursed and poised to take every hit after hit. He leaves your slick-sheened entrance molding open even wider, and your sultry g-spots all battered and bruised. But that wasn’t what had Gojo entranced, no- 

He’s letting off a snicker, “Awww- would ya look at hah- that. Yer so close ta cumming, sweetheart.”

“H-how do you know-” You’re rambling away, only to realize that shit, this was what had Gojo bludgeoning his rounded cockhead with almost scary accuracy. This was what had your head spinning after every sticky thwack! of Gojo’s hips. “-y-you’re using your six eyes, Toru?”

“Ohhh, much more than that, my girl-” Followed with a slippery swat right onto your pulpy nub that leaves your eyes rolling to the back of your head. And Gojo’s bloated pinkish balls soaked through with another fresh wave of your sappy arousal, “M’gonna do exactly as you asked-” 

Watching and watching - Gojo’s mouth waters at that perfect picture of his cylindrical length ruining your insides. How he wished you could see just how perfectly your dewy walls were milking him.

Sighing - oh, he’s so in love. “Gonna be my- my h-heh- ohhh! Here she comes…”

And it’s just as Gojo predicted. 

Just as he saw - you’re falling apart underneath him with just a few more fat thuds right into all your favorite spots. Shooting up such heavenly bliss all throughout your veins; you’re grappling onto Gojo’s shoulders, his hair, his forearms-

“M’cumming-” Just about all that you can strangle out from your straining throat, hips jerking up and down in vicious gyrations to drag your peaks out for even longer. “Cumming- ah- m’cumming m’cumming–”

“I already know.” Gojo’s rolling his eyes - yet, you don’t see. Hell, you don’t even see the way that he’s twitching his free fingers into a hand sign that looked so familiar. “L-let’s see if the strongest fucks- e-even stronger.”

All you know is that the lights shatter. 

All you can hear is the creaking drag of furniture as they drag loosely towards where you and Gojo were ricketing the bed - as if attracted by some sort of magnetic force field. 

And the only thing you can feel is every atom in your body has been supercharged to the max. Pure energy flashing red and white behind your eyes when Gojo hooks a thumb into your elastic ringlet and makes just enough room for the sheer torrentials of cum he’s flooding you with.

“S’gonna b-be a biiig stretch, sweetheart–” He’s musing out, sweat-shimmered head tilting into yours like he could barely even manage to keep himself upright. He couldn’t. “Deep breaths- deeep breaths, m’kay? Take it allll f’me.”

You couldn’t waste a single drop.

And it was so hard to breathe when it felt like you were being filled to the very brim. Even more than that, in fact. Long, viscous-like rivers of his treacly cum being pumped into you with every needy rut.

Gojo’s slurring out wet streaks of his sobbing cock down your innermost core, frosting out such a weighty coating of seed that sloshes around like a gluey second skin. Smearing it round n’ round until you could only babble stupidly following every one of his pokes into your tenderest spots.

So much. He was cumming extra tonight, the slightest massage of your sweltering walls overworking his overstimulated mind into cumming again. And again.

And again until you were wondering how your snug cunt even had the-

“-space?” Gojo’s finishing off your thought for you. And you’re not sure if you’re prattling them out loud or whether he could read minds. You’re not sure if Gojo himself knew. “Let’s j-just say I- ahhh- used a little- ngh- unlimited void…”

Unlimited void? 

“Ngh- what- you really used unlimited void to-” you’re squealing pathetically, only to be shush-ed delicately by a reverent Gojo Satoru. His hips still jackhammering away sloppily into yours-

His cock softening - just for a split-second until he clasps a stray hand around his sap-coated base and radiates a few emissions of power. Tugging in filthy jerks until he was once more achy and rock-hard. Using reverse cursed technique on himself - then on you to make sure you don’t break any bones…yet.

Oh god, you’re not making it out of tonight alive.

“J-jus’ a little ah- experiment.” He places one lingering peck at your temple, and then another one drilling into your g-spot. “-but experiments always hafta have t-twenty-five trials, right?”

A/N. No Higgy this week, sowwy Higuruma nation <3 Hope you all have a lovely week!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[ozzgin]

Have you ever wanted to date your very own Dostoyevsky-inspired protagonist? content: gender neutral reader, obsessive and violent behavior, utterly miserable yandere

Yandere!Soldier never wanted to join the military, you see. He's an intellectual, a philosopher whose cards were dealt by a cruel hand. He had no choice but to find something to do, a guaranteed ticket out of poverty. His family came from a crumbling village, another source of great frustration; ragged imbeciles with no dreams or ambitions. They lived to survive, nothing more, nothing less. He was the outsider.

Yandere!Soldier hated every minute of his training. Oh, the misery of having to share a room with violent brutes. They didn't care to discuss Julien Sorel's struggles within the French aristocracy in Stendhal's The Red and the Black. How could they understand? If only they had a glimpse into the harsh truth of life, they wouldn't display such moronic smiles on their faces.

Yandere!Soldier was an inveterate nihilist. That, of course, until he met you. Perhaps life wasn't so pointless, after all. It was a mere coincidence, an accidental encounter. His fatalism had eaten him from inside out, and he was looking for an excuse to end it all. If you rejected his approach, he would've found the nearest bridge. That was his plan. Except, well, you went along with it. God, and what bright eyes you had, looking up at him without any hint of disgust. He could see his own sunken face in their reflection.

Yandere!Soldier frequently smells of alcohol. The strong, handmade kind that he keeps stashed in large water jugs. You've been offered a glass once, but it turned your stomach upside down and burned your throat. Moreover, he's a heavy smoker, especially if you're not there to keep him company. You always marvel at the abrupt difference in conduit, his deep frown turning into a genuine smile whenever you're nearby.

Yandere!Soldier has many bouts of utter despair and crippling jealousy. What are you doing with a plebeian like him? Condemned to follow the orders of highly ranked pigs, drowning in debt, and without anything to offer. He's a pathetic, pitiful miser. Surely that grin of yours is a nothing but a mockery, a bone thrown to a tramp. His grip around your throat tightens. "My bad," he croaks, "I must've...I wasn't paying attention. Forgive me."

Yandere!Soldier is determined to conquer the world. He'll crawl his way up on all fours if he has to. His newfound willpower is all thanks to you, and only you. You've now become a vital part of his existence, the mechanism that keeps his gears spinning properly. He could never let you go. He'll prove to you just how worthy he is of your blessing, of your warmth, of your innocence.

Yandere!Soldier is in a particularly good mood. He lifts you up and spins you around, overwhelmed by rapture. He's going to make it. He just knows it, deep in his heart, that he's not like everyone else. Indeed, me may very well be a Napoleon of his times, forced to do with scraps. No matter: if he wasn't given the fortune, he'll snatch it with his own claws. And you - you better be at his side once all of this ends, and he's mauled his way to the top. A great man needs a great partner, and for him, there's no one else but you.

"Let me be clear, this is just a placeholder," he says, sliding the ring further down your finger. "It's rather cheap, and not too stylish, but it will do for now. It's a symbol, you see, a mere reminder that you're mine. Don't ever remove it."

[All Yandere Stories]

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part

Pairing: Assassin! Choi Seungcheol x Assassin! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Slight Angst | (Fake) Marriage | Based on the movie 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith' | Undercover Assassins | Hidden Identities | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence, guns

Wordcount: 14.5K (Yikes, my longest one yet.)

Playlist: 'Flawless' - The Neighbourhood | 'War of Hearts' - Ruelle | 'See You Bleed' - Ramsey | 'Scorpio' - Pour Vous | 'Terrible Thing' - AG

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral receiving (F.) - Rough Play - Hair pulling - Face slapping (y'all, they try and kill each other before doing the dirty) - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Next chapter: Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

The chicken is roasting in the oven, filling the open-concept kitchen with the smell of lemon, garlic, and rosemary. You stir the sauce on the stove slowly, absently, the motions muscle memory after five years of this routine. The marble counters gleam under the recessed lighting. The wine—your favourite Châteauneuf-du-Pape—is already breathing on the island beside two empty glasses. His glass is always on the right. Yours on the left.

You glance at the clock. 6:42 PM.

Right on time.

The sound of the garage door humming open cues your body before your mind catches up. You smooth your blouse, run a hand through your hair, and put on that soft, wifely smile you’ve perfected over the years. Not too eager. Not too cold. Just domestic enough to look real. Even if everything about your life is a lie.

Seungcheol walks in like he owns the world. Black slacks, white shirt rolled up to the elbows, collar slightly unbuttoned—just enough to make you pause for half a second longer than necessary. His wedding band gleams under the kitchen lights when he sets down his leather satchel by the counter. Not too fancy. Not too cheap. Just believable enough to pass for a self-employed contractor with a few wealthy clients.

“Smells amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek like he always does.

“Roasted lemon garlic chicken,” you reply, turning off the stove. “Figured we should use the good thyme from the garden before it dies again.”

He chuckles and pulls his chair out at the dining table. “You mean before you forget to water it again?”

You raise a brow. “I have a busy job, babe. Not all of us get to spend our afternoons measuring structural load capacities.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing his fork at you once you plate the food and set it down in front of him, “developing office towers and commercial buildings is an art.”

You laugh, sipping your wine as you sit across from him. He leans back slightly, watching you for a moment, and there’s that fleeting flicker in his eyes—the one you’ve never been able to pin down. The one that makes you think he’s hiding something. But then again, you are, too.

“The curtains look different,” he says, eyes drifting toward the large windows facing the garden. “When did you change them?”

You glance toward them. White, linen, sheer, with silver grommets. “Yesterday. The old ones were too heavy for spring. I wanted light, breezy. Open.”

He nods. “Makes the room feel bigger.”

Silence settles between you for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar. Until he says, almost casually, “Thinking of redoing the backyard.”

You spear a piece of asparagus, chew, and swallow before replying. “Again? That’s the third time in two years.”

“The koi pond doesn’t flow right. Feng Shui’s off,” he mutters.

You hide a smile behind your glass. What a load of shit. He doesn’t believe in Feng Shui. But the first rule of your kind of marriage is: always let the lies live in peace. Challenging them only brings unnecessary fire.

“We’re invited to Kim and Soojin’s baby shower,” you say next, leaning your chin into your palm. “Next Saturday. You’ll come, right?”

He exhales a sigh that borders on a groan. “Do I have to? It’s gonna be baby-themed everything and forced small talk with people pretending they like children.”

“So… normal Saturday then?”

He grins. You grin back. It’s routine. Polished. Perfect. This suburban domesticity you’ve curated over five years of marriage—it’s nothing short of an illusion built brick by brick. The neighbours believe you’re the golden couple. You believe it, too, sometimes. Right until the phone in your shoe closet buzzed this morning.

“By the way,” he says, reaching for more wine, “I’m going to be out of town this week. Client in Busan wants me to redesign his outdoor deck. Real high-end stuff. Might take three days.”

You take another sip of wine to give yourself time. “That’s funny,” you say carefully. “I’ve got to fly out for a case, too. Some corporate merger—kind of messy. I’ll be in Tokyo until at least Friday.”

You both pause for a moment. You tilt your head. He doesn’t blink. There’s no suspicion. Only understanding.

Of course, what you don’t tell him is that your “corporate case” is a sheikh in Shibuya who’s been secretly funding illegal arms trades across the Pacific. The briefcase hidden within a closet contains three fake passports, a suppressed Glock 19, and a single vial of poison discreetly hidden in a lipstick tube.

You think he’s consulting engineers and overseeing concrete pours. He thinks you’re in meetings arguing over contracts and legal strategy.

“I’ll be back Friday,” he says.

“Me too,” you lie.

You both smile.

After dinner, you rinse the dishes while he dries them. He hums a song—something old, you can’t place it—and you listen, eyes scanning the subtle tension in his shoulder. The way he tucks away the wine bottle too precisely. The too-casual stretch of his fingers over the dish towel. You wonder—not for the first time—What if he knows? What if he suspects me?

But no. That’s just habit. Paranoia bred into your bones after a decade in the field. You’re too good to get caught. Too careful to leave traces.

You fall asleep beside him like you always do. His body warm and steady, one hand slung lazily over your waist. His chest rises and falls, breath even, slow. But you can feel it; your instincts have never failed you before.

A shift in the air. Something is about to change.

Tokyo glitters beneath you like a fractured mirror. Sleek, sharp, reflective. Just like you.

The job is simple—child’s play, really. You’ve done more complicated hits in less time and less forgiving cities. But what makes Tokyo special is the sheer absurdity of how easy this one is going to be. All it takes is a certain kind of lingerie, a well-composed photo for your “ad,” and the universal male weakness: ego.

You don’t even roll your eyes when your target—the sheikh with too much money and far too many skeletons—responds within six hours. The meeting is set at the rooftop bar of his hotel. You’re already three steps ahead.

By the second night, you’ve laughed at all his jokes, played coy, offered just enough intrigue for him to feel like he’s getting something exclusive. He discusses his preferences like he’s bartering over silk—submission, obedience, a woman who knows how to give orders and isn’t afraid to bite. You smile, legs crossed, swirling your drink with one finger as you look at him like he’s a king. He believes it. They always do.

By the third night, the suite door clicks open. You’re in your trench coat, tall black stilettos clicking against the marble as you step inside. The lights are dim. You glance around, clocking everything: one camera, unplugged. Two exits. No bodyguards in sight. Idiot.

He’s sipping champagne, eyes glittering with anticipation. You face him, slowly undo your coat, and let it fall to the floor.

The look on his face is pure awe.

The black leather lingerie hugs your curves like sin. Thin straps, silver hardware, strategic cutouts. A blend of dangerous and divine. You step forward, heels clicking against the tile.

“On your knees,” you command, voice low, sultry.

He lets out a chuckle, half-impressed. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? Someone who knows how to take control?”

He kneels. You circle him slowly, like a lioness. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down the back of his neck. That’s his final mistake.

In one swift, silent movement, you grab his head and twist. The crack is sharp and clean. He slumps forward.

You step over him without blinking, grab your phone, snap the picture, and send it to your handler.

Within minutes, you’re back in your coat and heels. Earlier that afternoon, you had already stashed your luggage, passport, and backup cash in the hotel’s laundry chute. Everything else is clean.

You keep the lingerie on underneath the coat. Always easier that way. No suspicion. No loose threads. No wasted time.

At the airport, you change in a bathroom stall. Simple wrap dress. Low heels. Hair in a bun. Lipstick wiped clean.

Back to your other self.

You arrive home first.

The late-afternoon sun casts long golden lines across the immaculate front lawn. You park the sleek black sedan in the driveway like any respectable suburban professional might—precise, not showy. Your eyes sweep the cul-de-sac before exiting the car, a habit you’ve never shaken. Two kids ride their bikes across the street. Someone’s dog barks. Mr. Park is watering his azaleas again. Perfect suburbia. A flawless, manicured illusion.

The moment you step inside, the temperature shifts. Cool, quiet, untouched. Home.

You close the door silently behind you and lean against it for a breath. This is the part you hate the most—returning. The shift between identities. Going from the woman who killed a man, to the woman who folds laundry and shops at the farmers market on Saturdays.

But you do it.

You carry your luggage upstairs, heels clicking against hardwood. Once in the bedroom, you head straight to the walk-in closet and kneel beside the third shelf from the left. With practised ease, you access the hidden panel and slide your suitcase inside the compartment. You place your heels neatly in their usual spot. Everything in order. Everything back to “normal.”

Inside the bedroom, you drop your coat over the chair, peel off your dress, and let it slide to the floor. Then comes the lingerie. You unbuckle each piece with methodical care and toss them into a loose pile with your dress. You’ll hide it in a minute. Right now, the steam of the shower is calling, and the ache in your shoulders is starting to settle.

He won’t be home until later, you remind yourself. He said evening. That buys you time.

You step into the ensuite bathroom and turn on the shower, the glass fogging up almost instantly. The water is hot—too hot—and that’s the way you want it. You stand under the spray, letting the pressure hit your spine and loosen your mask.

And that’s when you hear it. The front door.

Your breath stalls in your chest.

“Honey, I’m home,” Seungcheol calls from downstairs.

Shit.

“You’re back early?” you manage, pitching your voice into that sweet, casual tone. The one you use at neighbourhood barbecues.

“Took an earlier train,” he replies, his voice carrying him to your bedroom. “Got bored in Busan. You just got in?”

“Just now. Thought I had a little time to unwind before you arrived.”

You run your hands through your hair and try to slow your heartbeat. You can’t see him through the foggy glass. You pray he didn’t walk too far into the room. That he didn’t look down.

“How was the job?” you ask, still facing the tiled wall.

“Same old corporate mess,” he says easily, his tone not betraying anything. “Engineers screwed up the plan, had to clean up after everyone. Nothing new.”

You smile like you believe him.

“Join me?” you offer. Better to keep him close than to let him wander around.

He pauses for a beat too long. Then: “Absolutely.”

You hear him undress behind you, the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of his belt against the counter. You keep your eyes closed as his arms wrap around your waist under the stream. You press your body back into his. You touch him like always. You even kiss him the same way. And he responds. His hands are familiar. Comforting. Steady.

Seungcheol heads downstairs first. Something about garlic and butter and “making up for all the garbage food I ate this week.” You nod and wrap a towel around yourself, moving into the bedroom with practised calm.

The first thing you do is gather his clothes from the bathroom floor. His shirt, socks, pants—crumpled and smelling faintly of clean sweat and travel. You carry them into the bedroom, where your dress and lingerie still lie in that careless heap.

Stupid, you scold yourself, picking up the leather and bundling it in your arms with your dress. You walk toward the hamper in the corner of the room, shifting your hold.

And then—something falls.

A soft thud on the floor. You frown and bend down.

It’s a badge. Rectangular. Laminated.

Grand Palace Hotel Busan – Event Staff

You blink once. Twice.

This wasn’t part of the story he gave. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near an event space. Especially not as staff. This isn’t a building site. It’s something else entirely.

Your blood chills.

Slowly, you crouch, pick it up, and study it again. What the hell?

You slip it into the pile of his clothes in the hamper and push it to the bottom, hiding it beneath his pants.

You’ll retrieve it later. When he’s asleep. When the house is still.

Your expression smooths again as you grab your brush, run it through your damp hair, and slide into a fresh sweater and leggings. You head downstairs, footsteps light, shoulders squared.

He’s plating dinner when you walk in. The scent of garlic and butter wraps around the kitchen like a warm lie.

“You used the fancy pasta,” you comment, voice airy.

He grins over his shoulder. “Only for special occasions. You made it back in one piece, didn’t you?”

You kiss his cheek. “Barely. Tokyo traffic is a nightmare.”

He pours wine. You set the table. You talk about “contracts”, “clients”, “blueprints”, and “boardroom blowups.”

You laugh at his jokes. He holds your gaze just a little too long. The wine is smooth, the dinner perfect, the rhythm between you effortless. But as you lay awake that night, Seungcheol sleeping peacefully beside you, your mind drifts back to the ID card in your hamper.

From the outside, Lim & Associates looks like any other high-end boutique law firm in Gangnam.

The fourth-floor office has all the trappings—frosted glass doors, minimalist furniture, soft grey carpeting, and tasteful art in the hallway. The name etched above the door in elegant serif font gives off the exact kind of authority clients expect from corporate litigation experts.

But once you pass the seemingly standard reception desk and slide your hand across the biometric panel behind the framed Business Insider article on “Female Founders in Finance,” everything changes.

The glass seals. The lighting adjusts. The air shifts from ambient calm to calculated intensity. No paralegals. No phone calls. Just encrypted servers, blueprints for extraction routes, and a killboard that updates in real-time.

Welcome to the real Lim & Associates.

Not legal. Lethal.

You’re in the war room this morning—sleek and sharp, like everything else in this place. A long table stretches across the space, the wall lined with oversized displays streaming drone footage, internal comms, and heat-sensor readings from satellites you’re not supposed to have access to.

You sip your Americano in silence as Reina, your tech lead, flips through the feed. She’s always first in, last out, perpetually in dark lipstick and heels sharp enough to stab.

“Target codename: Jackal,” Reina announces, pulling up a grainy image of a man half-hidden by shadows. “Real name unknown. Hacker for hire. Specializes in creating secure logistics software for some very unpleasant people—cartel brokers, traffickers, smuggling syndicates. Lives completely off-grid somewhere in the desert, near the New Mexico border.”

Jiwoo whistles under her breath. “Is this the guy who ghosted an entire CIA comms network last year?”

Reina nods. “Same signature. This one’s a ghost. Doesn’t trust anyone. Doesn’t surface. Doesn’t stay in one place long. Even the locals are afraid of him.”

You set your coffee down and cross your arms. “And the bounty?”

“Twelve mil, dead or alive,” Reina replies without looking up. “But dead is preferred. No one wants this guy alive long enough to talk.”

Hyerim leans forward with a smirk. “Which means we’re not the only ones going after him, are we?”

Reina confirms it with a simple nod. “Intel shows chatter from at least one competing agency. Possibly more. First come, first kill.”

You stare at the flickering map overlay. It’s red, dry, dotted with heat zones and blinking movement pings. A fortress of heat sensors, drone tripwires, and scrambled signals. The man built a paranoid compound.

“So infiltration’s out,” you murmur. “He’s not gonna fall for anything face-to-face. Too smart. Too cautious.”

Samira rolls her eyes, perched as always on the edge of the table like a cat. “So you’re not going to slap on one of your lingerie sets and waltz into his trailer like you did in Tokyo?”

You smirk. “Not unless his type is women with RPGs.”

That earns a chorus of laughs until Bora says, “Alright then, Gwisin. What’s the play?”

You narrow your eyes at the monitor. The team’s teasing you with your code name again—Gwisin—equal parts fondness and awe. It started as a joke after your first kill with the company, but it stuck. Probably because it makes you sound like some legend to be feared in the dark.

Perhaps that's exactly what you are.

“He’s got a self-sufficient power grid, solar backup, and an underground comms relay. The place is a bunker.” You pause, then point at the screen. “We can’t get close, not without setting off every countermeasure he’s got. We’re going to have to take him from a distance. High-precision rifle. Possibly drone strike.”

“I’ll start prepping satellite positioning and recon angles,” Reina says, already moving.

“We’ll need at least a week,” you add. “Maybe more. I’ll go in. Do the groundwork myself.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hyerim raises a brow. “You sure your doting husband will survive a week without you? I thought he was going to implode the last time you were gone more than three days.”

You chuckle softly. “He’ll manage. He knows I work long hours.”

“Yeah, but does he know what kind of hours?” Jiwoo quips.

You smirk and grab your coat. “That’s classified.”

But as you leave the war room, your smile fades. You’re already spinning the lie in your mind. New York. That’s what you’ll tell him. Complex corporate case. High stakes. All-consuming.

It should work. It always does.

The house smells of braised soy and garlic by the time Seungcheol walks through the door.

You’re at the stove with your sleeves rolled up, watching the rich brown sauce bubble around glistening short ribs, carrots, and daikon. The scent of galbijjim fills the kitchen like comfort.

You hear his steps before you see him—soft, unhurried—and then the creak of the door closing.

“You’re home early,” you say, not looking back yet.

“I missed your cooking,” he says as he walks up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, warm and solid. Presses a kiss to the curve of your neck.

You stir the pot gently. “I thought you hated galbijjim,”

“I hate the bones,” he murmurs. “Not the flavour. And definitely not the cook.”

You smile faintly. But it’s automatic.

You eat together at the table like always. Warm light. Matching bowls. A small side dish of kimchi between you. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s aware of itself.

Halfway through the meal, you speak.

“I have to leave again,” you say softly. “New York this time. High-profile merger. Might be gone for more than a week.”

You watch him, the way he doesn’t tense. Just nods, as if he already knows.

“Actually,” he says, pausing to set down his spoon, “I just got word from one of my old clients. A hospitality group in Dubai. They want me to fly in—finally starting construction on that coastal resort. I’ll be gone about the same time.”

You blink. Smile. “Really? What are the odds?”

He chuckles. “We’re always in sync.”

You clink your glass of water to his. “Power couple.”

But your hand doesn’t feel as steady as it should.

The New Mexico desert doesn’t breathe.

It bakes. It stretches. It waits.

It’s the kind of place where everything is wide open and still somehow claustrophobic. The silence stretches too long between radio pings. The air is dry enough to crack skin and make your lips peel.

For the last three days, you’ve been waiting.

You’re perched inside the creaking shell of a forgotten farm shed, abandoned sometime before the world got smart. Its rusted bones groan with every gust of wind, but it provides the cover you need. You call it the crow’s nest—high enough, shielded enough, just barely out of reach from Jackal’s tech-laced scanners. You’ve checked the thermals. Twice. Then again, for good measure.

Your rifle rests steadily against your shoulder, nestled into a carefully constructed groove in the shed wall. You’ve adjusted the bipod angle a hundred times. Calculated wind, dust, temperature, and solar position. At this distance, everything matters.

You don’t miss.

Not unless someone else gets in the way.

Back at the safehouse—hidden in the skeletal outline of a closed-down auto shop on the edge of town—Reina and Jiwoo are monitoring everything. Screens line the makeshift desk they’ve rigged up with cooling fans and portable comms. Reina’s fingers fly across the keyboard while Jiwoo tracks movement through satellite pings.

The girls are locked in, just like you.

“Jackal’s gone quiet,” Reina says through your earpiece, her voice a hushed echo of static. “Minimal movement. Looks like he’s gone full mole mode. Bastard hasn’t left his house once today.”

“He’s prepping,” you murmur, eyes still on the house through your scope. “He knows the deal is risky.”

“And get this,” Jiwoo cuts in. “We finally confirmed the client: Ricardo Delgado.”

Your pulse flickers.

Ricardo Delgado.

A trafficker so brutal, entire border towns whisper his name like a curse. If Jackal’s about to sign with him, he’s moving up in the world—from data mercenary to kingmaker. The kind of connection that could make him untouchable.

Or a bigger target than ever.

“Delgado wants to meet in person,” Reina adds. “We think he’ll show today. Still waiting on final satellite confirmation.”

“Jackal never meets face-to-face,” Jiwoo says, sceptical.

“Money changes minds,” you answer, low and steady. “Everyone has a price.”

You settle further into your nest, pulling your scarf higher to block the sun. The scope is aligned. The distance marked. The wind is calm. You wait, like the predator you are.

And then—

“Convoy incoming,” Reina says. “We’ve got eyes on three black Suburbans coming in from the north ridge.”

You squint through your scope and spot them—kicking up dust as they make their way toward Jackal’s compound. The sun glints off their armoured bodies like black beetles crawling across sand. You hold your breath.

One car. Two. Three.

They come to a slow, calculated stop.

Doors open.

Men get out—Delgado’s men, judging by their posture and the high-end weapons. Then comes the man himself. Dark suit. Sunglasses. And that aura of arrogant menace, even from this distance.

You don’t need to hear the words to know this man smells blood in everything he touches.

Then finally—

Jackal emerges.

He’s cautious. Almost jumpy. Wearing a hooded vest, shoulders hunched. You’ve studied him for days, memorized his gait. He walks like someone used to moving through walls, not around them.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles softly in your ear. “That’s him. Target confirmed.”

“You’ve got one window,” Reina says. “If you miss, we’ll lose him again.”

You don’t answer. You watch.

Jackal steps forward. The two men approach one another, wary but curious. You feel the moment stretch, breath caught at the edge of your ribs.

This is it.

The wind is perfect.

You steady your finger on the trigger.

But then—

Flash.

A glare of light. Just a second. Just long enough for your trained eyes to catch it.

You shift your scope instinctively—away from Jackal, toward the rocky ridgeline to your far right.

There. Tucked into the edge of the hillside. Another perch.

Another sniper.

“Reina,” you bark. “Talk to me. Someone else is here. Right ridge, northwest. I saw a scope glint. Can you confirm?”

Reina curses under her breath. “Give me five seconds. I’m shifting the satellite angle.”

You realign your sight, but it’s too late.

The other sniper fires.

The sound is distant—muffled by distance—but you see it. The bullet rips through the air and grazes Jackal’s arm. He stumbles backwards with a shout.

Chaos erupts.

Delgado’s men react instantly, almost too fast. A bag goes over Jackal’s head. They drag him to the second car. Tires scream, kicking up clouds of red dust as the convoy peels away.

You swear loudly. “Dammit! Dammit, dammit!”

“They’re on the move!” Jiwoo says. “Southbound highway, but we don’t have eyes beyond the ridge.”

You leap from your perch, adrenaline boiling. “Reina, track that shooter. Now.”

“Already on it,” she mutters. “Give me a minute to isolate heat signatures.”

You throw your rifle into its case and strap it to your back, jumping onto the quad you hid behind a brush wall earlier. The engine growls to life beneath you as you tear across the dirt, heading toward the opposite ridge where the mystery sniper took their shot.

The trail is faint, but you see it. Flattened brush. Dust still settling. Tire marks. Another quad. But no shooter in sight.

You dismount and crouch low in the sniper’s nest. Still warm. Still fresh.

“Empty,” you hiss into the comms. “He’s gone. Left no trace.”

“Still scanning the sat feed,” Reina says.

You grit your teeth. The kill was stolen. Jackal is gone. And someone else is playing this game far too close to your level.

The hum of electricity is the only sound in the room. You stand over Reina and Jiwoo as they re-run the satellite footage frame by frame.

Every flicker of motion. Every shadow. Every heat signature is pulled apart under your scrutiny.

“He’s good,” Jiwoo mutters. “He knew how to avoid camera angles. Hid his face the entire time. Tactical blackout gear. This isn’t some merc-for-hire.”

“Freeze it,” you say suddenly.

Reina does.

There—on the edge of the screen—the sniper climbs onto a quad and turns away from the camera. But the wind catches the back of his shirt.

A flicker of skin. A mark.

“Go back. Zoom in,” you say, heart hammering.

The image sharpens.

A tattoo.

Just below the neck. Barely there. A tree. Roots. Branches.

You don’t breathe.

“What the hell is that?” Jiwoo says.

You say nothing.

You reach for your phone with numb fingers and swipe through your albums until you find it. A photo from a summer in Bali. Seungcheol in the pool, his back to you, laughing. You zoom in.

Same tattoo. Same ink. Same impossible detail.

You connect your phone to the screen. The photos are side by side now—one from the desert, one from the pool.

Reina is the first to speak, her voice nearly a whisper.

“That’s your husband.”

You’ve only been back in Seoul for four hours.

The sky outside is the colour of ash, stuck between dusk and full night. Traffic hums below the windows of Lim & Associates, but up here, above the city’s glittering noise, the office is thrumming with something far more chaotic: curiosity.

The second you stepped through the biometric doors, you felt it. The shift in energy.

The subtle glances. The way conversations stopped half a beat too long. Even the silence tasted like blood in your mouth.

By the time you make it to the war room, it’s no longer a rumour—it’s evidence.

Reina’s pulled every image from the last five years of your marriage.

Honeymoon photos. Anniversary dinners. A weekend in Jeju where he made you coffee with cinnamon and called it your signature. Your wedding—Seungcheol’s hands on your waist, your smile so real you remember feeling it in your ribs.

Jiwoo has financials pulled up on another screen. “His offshore account matches the timeline of that Riyadh hit we missed last spring,” she says aloud. “Same week, we got beat to the contract.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Hyerim mutters, dragging a file onto the main screen. “The Novgorod job, too. S.Coups took it from under our noses. We assumed it was Black Wing Agency. It was him.”

You’re standing still, arms folded, lips tight, eyes dark.

But inside, everything is shattering.

You don’t speak. Not really. Just nod when asked something directly. Your voice feels caught in the hollow space between rage and disbelief. You know they’re not trying to be cruel. They’re doing what this job requires: gathering intel. Building profiles. Pattern recognition.

But it’s your life they’re peeling back.

Your marriage. Your memories.

“Gwisin,” Samira says gently, using your codename with an edge of caution. “Did you know?”

You shake your head. “No.” Voice clear. Controlled. Flat.

And it’s the truth.

You had no idea that the man who held you at night, who kissed your neck before work, who made you laugh when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking after a job—was the same person beating you to every high-level target for the last five years.

Seungcheol—S.Coups.

The most elegant chaos you’ve ever encountered in the field. A ghost of his own making.

Second only to you.

Your colleagues believe you. They can see it—your silence, your withdrawal, the shell of who you usually are. They’ve seen you after bad missions, messy kills, intel gone sideways. But not like this.

This isn’t mission failure. This is betrayal.

Still, Reina says it out loud, her voice quiet but not unkind. “Do you think there’s a possibility he might’ve known?” She glances at Jiwoo, who replies softly. “It’s possible. He’s good. Maybe better at long-game infiltration than we realized.”

“You know what they say,” Bora adds, not meeting your eyes. “Keep your friends close…”

“But your enemies closer...” Samira finishes.

The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow, but your throat is dry.

You stare at the wedding photo still up on the screen. Your hand in his. Your laugh caught mid-movement. His eyes on you like you’re something rare.

Was it a ploy? Was any of it real?

Did he kiss you because he loved you—or because he wanted to know your pulse?

You drift through the rest of the night in the war room like a ghost.

They keep talking. Listing hits. Mapping overlaps. Everything you lost—every target you missed, every mission that slipped through your fingers—lined up beside S.Coups’ confirmed contracts.

And there it is: the pattern.

You’ve still got more kills. More high-level hits. More precision.

But he’s your closest competitor.

You’ve been unknowingly locked in a rivalry with your own husband for five years.

Five years.

Five years of brushing your teeth beside your biggest threat.

Of sleeping with your enemy.

Of loving him.

Hours pass. One by one, they begin to gather their things.

It’s almost midnight. No one’s gone home yet. Not with the storm you dropped into their hands. But they don’t press you any more. Not tonight.

Jiwoo lingers last, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We believe you,” she says. “But we need to know you’re not compromised.”

You finally look up, your voice low and controlled. “Don’t worry.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer.

You manage a smile so convincing it hurts. “I know what I need to do.”

You sleep in one of the auxiliary offices—a cold couch and a folded blanket left by some junior operative who probably thinks sleeping here makes her look ambitious. The overhead lights stay off, and you don’t bother changing. You just curl in silence, arm under your head, eyes wide open.

You think about the way he held you. The softness no one else got to see. The long showers. The bruises left on your hips. The secret glances in public places. The night he said, I could kill for you.

You thought he meant it metaphorically.

Now you wonder if he was warning you.

At 3:45 AM, your phone buzzes on the table. You reach for it, heart already hollow.

The message reads:

Target: S.Coups

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen glows against your face.

You don’t move. You don’t sleep.

You’re a ghost.

But tonight, you’re not sure who you’re haunting.

Seungcheol’s office doesn’t look like much from the outside.

It’s nestled between a dental clinic and an architectural firm in a sleek high-rise in Mapo, hidden in plain sight. Floor twenty-one. Clean lines. Frosted doors. A minimalist logo stamped in bronze: ARGOS CONSTRUCTION & DESIGN

Officially, it's a boutique firm known for luxury hotels and high-end corporate real estate. Beautiful portfolios. Flawless branding. Seungcheol’s name is listed as Senior Project Lead. Clients think he spends most of his time in Dubai or Busan, consulting on zoning permits or high-rise scaffolding.

But once you pass the biometric scan and elevator override, everything changes.

The real heart of the operation lies beneath the surface. Literally. Two floors below ground. A bunker of blinking servers, reinforced steel, and silence so absolute it hums in your bones.

It’s here that Choi Seungcheol—known across the world’s most elite kill networks as S.Coups—stumbles back into reality.

The mission was a failure.

Jackal is gone.

And he missed his shot.

He never misses.

He walks into the main debriefing floor around 1:45 PM, still dusty from New Mexico, carrying tension in his shoulders like a weight welded to his spine. His eyes are bloodshot. His jaw is locked. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for someone to hit him.

They don’t.

Instead, his team is already there. Mingyu, Woozi, Wonwoo, Joshua—all gathered around the central command table, every screen alive with footage. Satellite captures, thermals, drone loops, and stills pulled from the perimeter cameras. Joshua looks up first.

And he doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t smile. Just says one word:

“Hyung...”

Seungcheol freezes. His hand twitches slightly at his side.

Mingyu turns the main monitor toward him with a grim expression. “We found out who the other sniper was.”

Woozi, who rarely shows emotion unless someone’s bleeding out, actually exhales before adding: “You’re not gonna like it.”

Seungcheol steps forward.

And there you are.

Frozen in time, high-res satellite shot, sunlight catching your jaw and cheekbone as you shift just enough to reveal your face through your scope. Your hair is tied back. Your eyes deadly calm. Your rifle perfectly aligned.

“No,” Seungcheol breathes.

“That’s her,” Mingyu confirms. “Codename: Gwisin.”

Another screen pops up. Kill logs. Confirmed contracts. Locations.

Dozens of missions—some he knew about. Others he’d missed because of you. Targets that disappeared just before he reached them. Jobs he thought were rerouted or reassigned.

It was you.

The person who’s been beating him, matching him, trailing him and haunting him for years... Was you.

His wife.

The silence breaks all at once.

“Hyung, what the fuck—”

“Did you know? You had to know, right?”

“There’s no way she got this close without—”

“What kind of long game is she playing? Five years married? That’s next-level infiltration.”

“She’s better than we thought. Shit—she’s better than almost anyone.”

Seungcheol doesn’t speak. He stares at the image like it’s going to shift. Like it’s a glitch.

But it doesn’t. It’s you.

His mind races, grabbing for anything—a mistake, a sign, a moment—but the truth settles in slow and cruel:

He had no idea.

Not once did you slip. Not once did you flinch. Not once did you let the mask fall.

Not even with him.

And then the grief rises. Ugly. Raw. Red.

He slams his fist into the wall.

The first time, it cracks.

The second time, it bleeds.

The third time, the others rush to pull him back.

“Hyung, stop!” Joshua grabs him from behind, dragging him away from the dented panel, blood dripping from his knuckles.

Seungcheol breathes like a man drowning, shoulders heaving, chest too tight. He sits down hard in the nearest chair. Joshua hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word.

He takes it. Unscrews the cap. Drinks.

The warmth hits his throat, but it doesn’t settle. Nothing does.

He leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The memories start to rush him. And he hates that he can’t shut them out.

Their wedding day. Your laugh echoing off the high ceilings of your home. Your hand in his on long walks. Your moans in the dark. Your head on his chest after a stormy night. The time you surprised him with a bottle of bourbon after his mother died.

Five years. Of everything. Of you.

And now he can’t tell if any of it was real. Or if he was just a mark—another mission. A long-term assignment you handled better than anyone ever has. What if you married him to stay close? What if the way you touched him was all a lie?

He doesn’t want to believe it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“You think she knew?” he asks the room, voice raw.

Wonwoo answers quietly. “She had to. No way she didn’t. Not with your record. You’ve crossed paths too many times.”

“She married me,” Seungcheol whispers. “She married me while stealing jobs out from under me.”

“Maybe it was about dominance,” Woozi mutters. “Take down your rival and smile at him over breakfast.”

“Or maybe...” Mingyu says hesitantly, “She didn’t know either.”

“No,” Seungcheol snaps, suddenly venomous. “She knew. No one’s that good without knowing.”

He stands and drinks again. And again.

The others leave around 2 AM, after enough whiskey has numbed most of his edges. Mingyu throws him a look that says call if you need me, and Woozi doesn’t bother hiding the sympathy in his eyes.

Seungcheol stays.

Alone in the office, he sits at the edge of his desk, tie loosened, shirt rumpled. One hand bandaged and bloodied, the other gripping the bottle. He doesn’t turn off the lights. Doesn’t turn off the feed.

Because he can’t stop watching.

Watching you.

The way you moved behind that scope. The way you tracked your shot. The way your lips moved when you muttered commands to your team.

The way you looked like a stranger in skin he’s touched a hundred times.

3:45 AM.

His phone buzzes once. The tone is different. Urgent. Priority.

He blinks the alcohol-induced haze from his eyes, swiping across the screen.

New Contract Uploaded

Target: Gwisin

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen burns.

His fingers curl around the phone. His chest aches like something inside him has cracked clean open. There’s blood on his knuckles, whiskey in his veins, and your name on the hit list.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol feels truly, utterly lost.

Because no matter what the file says—

he loves you.

You wake before the lights do.

The room is dim and cold, your body curled up uncomfortably on the worn leather couch in one of the smaller offices. Your neck aches. Your back is stiff. The blanket you used is halfway to the floor.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. You drifted in and out of hazy dreams, caught between the heat of memories and the frost of betrayal. His voice haunted the edges of your mind. His laugh. The scent of his cologne on your pillow. The feel of his lips at the nape of your neck, from a lifetime that feels like yesterday.

The first sound that drags you fully awake is the faint click of heels and muffled voices outside. Your colleagues are arriving.

You sit up slowly, blinking through the grey light.

Get up.

You push off the couch, shake the sleep from your limbs, and make your way to the restroom down the hall. The mirror is merciless. Your hair is tangled, your eyes shadowed. You turn on the faucet, splash cold water against your face, and force yourself to breathe. One. Two. Three.

Then, you meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You stare too long. You don’t recognize yourself.

You crack your neck once, wipe your face, and tie your hair back. When you emerge again into the hallway, your mask is in place. Crisp. Composed. Not a crack in sight.

The war room is quieter than usual.

Your girls are already gathered—Reina, Jiwoo, Samira, Bora, and Hyerim—all doing a masterclass in pretending not to be watching you.

“Morning,” you say as you walk in, voice smooth, calm.

“Morning, Gwisin,” Jiwoo replies gently, the nickname laced with caution today.

You nod. Set your coffee down. No one mentions the message from last night. But it’s there. Humming in the air like static. You feel it on your skin.

Then, your tablet buzzes.

You glance down.

Message from LIM HQ: Report to Executive Level – 9:15 AM

You check the time.

9:14.

Your breath stills. You lift your gaze and meet Reina’s eyes briefly. She nods once, understanding everything without needing a word.

You straighten your jacket. The floor falls silent behind you as you head to the elevator.

You rarely go to the executive level. Most assassins don’t. The higher-ups keep themselves wrapped in glass and shadows, their voices drifting down through encrypted comms and one-way messages. So when you’re summoned, it means something irreversible is about to happen.

The elevator doors open onto a floor that doesn’t look like any other in the building. It’s brighter here. Sleek. Clinical. Too clean.

The door to the boardroom is already open when you arrive.

Three of them sit behind the curved obsidian table: Madame Lim herself in the center, flanked by Director Oh and Mr. Kwon, both stone-faced and unreadable.

You step inside, your spine tall and your heels precise.

You greet them. They waste no time.

“Gwisin,” Madame Lim begins, “you understand why you’re here.”

You nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your judgment is not under question. Not yet,” Director Oh adds. “But the situation has become... delicate. Dangerous.”

“S.Coups has proven himself a formidable asset,” Mr. Kwon continues. “Which makes him an even more formidable threat. Not just to you, but to this organization as a whole.”

You say nothing.

“We do not take betrayal lightly,” Madame Lim says. “We understand his appeal. Handsome. Charismatic. Intelligent. But even the sharpest agents sometimes fall for the wrong weapon.”

You clench your jaw, but your face does not change.

“We don’t care about your marriage,” Director Oh says coldly. “What we care about is the information he may have extracted from you.”

“Knowingly or not,” Mr. Kwon adds.

“This is your one chance,” Madame Lim finishes, voice cutting like glass. “Your marriage was a mistake. But you have the opportunity to clean it up. Efficiently. Permanently.”

They watch you.

You inhale. Hold it. Then:

“Understood.”

“Do you have any objections?” Director Oh asks.

You shake your head. “I know what’s expected of me.”

A pause.

Then Madame Lim nods. “You are dismissed.”

Back in the war room, your girls are waiting.

Not subtly.

They look up the moment you enter, expressions shifting between concern and restraint.

“So... what did they say?” Samira asks finally, carefully.

You’re just about to answer when your desk phone rings.

Jiwoo, sitting closest, picks it up with practised ease. “Mrs. Choi’s office. This is her assistant Jiwoo speaking.” Her eyes narrow. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Her expression changes. Freezes. Her breath catches.

She puts the phone on mute.

“It’s your husband,” she says, barely a whisper.

Everything in you goes still.

You stare at her.

If your cover was still intact, he wouldn’t know you were back.

He knows.

He knows.

You lift the receiver slowly, your voice light as air. “Honey,” you say, the smile on your lips a perfect weapon, “you know you’re not supposed to call me at work.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Then—

“I wasn’t expecting you to be back in town already,” Seungcheol replies calmly. Measured. Unreadable.

Your pulse ticks up, but you breathe through it. “Contract fell through,” you say sweetly. “Competing firm swooped in. Happens.”

He hums. “That’s a shame.”

You flip the script. “I thought you were still in Dubai?”

A beat.

Then his reply: “Had a little... ghost from a past job show up. Complicated things. Now I’ve got a mess to clean.”

Your stomach turns.

Still, your voice doesn’t flinch. “Will you be home for dinner? Since we’re both in town.”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. Seven, right?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“See you then, babe.”

You hang up.

The room is dead quiet.

You look up. Your mask drops—just a little—and you meet their eyes.

“It’s official,” you say.

You leave the office the second the line goes dead.

You don’t wait to explain. You don’t give your girls more than a look. They don’t follow, but they don’t stop you either. They saw your face. They heard the call. The game has changed.

You drive like a woman possessed—silent, laser-focused, heart pounding beneath the illusion of calm. The city blurs around you, neon and shadows slipping past the windshield. When you pull into the driveway of the house you built with him, the sun is beginning to dip below the skyline.

Your house is quiet. Still.

Too still.

You park in the back, kill the engine, and enter silently through the side door. Every footstep is light. Calculated. You’ve walked these floors a thousand times before. In heels. In silk robes. In nothing but a towel and a glass of wine.

You sweep the house. First the kitchen, then the hallway, the garage, the basement. Your breathing is low and controlled. When you reach the second floor, you head straight for the master bedroom and pull the closet door open.

Inside, your armoury waits—hidden in secret compartments behind shoes, false panels, inside the lining of old garment bags.

He never knew.

You pull out three weapons: a Glock, a semi-automatic Sig Sauer, and a compact shotgun that fits snugly under your arm. You load them quickly, efficiently, your hands as steady as your heart is wrecked.

Ammo in your waistband. Glock in your thigh holster. Sig against your back.

You wait.

And when you hear the click of the backdoor handle—fifteen minutes later—your breath catches in your throat.

He’s here.

He moves quietly.

No keys. No footsteps. Just the low shift of floorboards under careful weight.

You can hear him moving through the kitchen, then toward the hallway. His pace is slower than usual—like a man searching a house he already knows is dangerous.

You’re perched on the second-floor landing, crouched behind the hallway mirror, shotgun firm in your grip. And then—you see it.

His reflection.

Tall. Broad. Dark eyes scanning every corner. A gun in his hand.

He sees you, too. His eyes flick up. You fire.

The bullet punches through the wall and splinters the wood frame, but he dives behind the doorframe just in time.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” his voice calls.

You don’t respond. Your answer is the clink of a new shell being slammed into place.

The house erupts.

He fires up from the stairwell. You dart down the hall, ducking into the guest room as bullets tear through drywall behind you. You spin around the corner and return fire. You graze his shoulder as he rolls across the dining room floor and smashes into the wine rack.

“This what marriage looks like to you?!” you yell as you move, switching the shotgun for the Glock.

“I should ask you that,” he barks back. “What was the plan, huh? Marry me so you could win every job?”

You scream as you fire again. “I didn’t know who the hell you were!”

He grits his teeth, vaulting over the coffee table, firing as he moves. The hallway mirror shatters beside you.

You fall back into the living room, ducking behind the couch. Your shoulder’s bleeding. You don’t even know from what. You reload with a snarl.

“Liar!” he roars from the hallway. “You think I didn’t recognise the pattern? Gwisin always beat me by a step. You were right there. In our goddamn bed.”

“You think I knew I was married to S.Coups?” you shout back. “You think I’d sleep next to you every night if I did?”

You both burst into the living room at the same time—guns drawn, bodies moving too fast—and collide.

Your weapons hit the floor with a twin clang as your fists meet flesh.

You throw the first punch. He blocks. He shoves you back into the coffee table, and it shatters under your hip. You swing a silver vase at his face. He ducks and kicks you square in the ribs.

The wind rushes out of you.

You collapse but sweep his legs out with yours, dragging him down. You scramble, blood running from your lip, hand catching a glass tumbler and smashing it against his shoulder.

He grabs you by the waist and slams you against the wall.

“Was it real?” he growls into your face. “Any of it?”

You spit out blood. “You want the truth? I don’t know anymore.”

You break his grip, duck under his arm, roll across the carpet, and reach for your Glock under the couch.

You stand—gun in hand, and you turn.

But he’s already there. He’s holding the semi-auto.

Both of you freeze.

Guns pointed. Breathing ragged.

Your finger trembles just once.

He doesn’t shoot. Instead—he lowers his weapon. Slowly.

Eyes locked on you. He looks at your face—bloodied, cut, lips split; something inside him snaps.

“Do it,” he says.

You blink. Confused.

He steps forward, just one step.

“You want the bounty,” he says, softer this time. “Take the shot. Isn’t that what this is?”

Tears blur your vision. Your hand tightens around the grip as your jaw clenches shut.

“Come on,” you scream. “Fucking do it! Shoot me! Come on!”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hands. He just… stands there.

No defence. No deflection.

Just him. Standing still. Silent surrender.

“Shoot me,” you whisper, voice shaking now. “Just fucking shoot me.”

He shakes his head. Slowly.

He lets the gun fall.

A soft clatter as it lands on the floor.

The Glock in your hand trembles.

You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The air is thick—hot with adrenaline, grief, and rage. The scent of smoke and gunpowder still clings to your skin.

“I love you,” Seungcheol says, and it’s not a whisper. It’s a confession dragged out from deep inside, full of wreckage and devastation, the sound of a man who’s lost something he never thought he could.

You stare at him. For a long moment, nothing moves. Not the wind outside. Not your finger on the trigger. Not your fractured heart.

And then—he makes the choice for you.

He moves faster than your breath can catch. A sharp flick of his wrist sends the Glock clattering from your grip, skidding across the wood floor. You don’t react in time—not with a punch or a step back or a scream. Because before you can, his hands are on your face.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like a man possessed, like he’s been choking and you’re the pull of oxygen back into his lungs. It’s messy, bruising, desperate. You gasp into it, shocked and enraged—but that flame turns into something else, something hot, and your hands grasp his shirt, pulling him closer.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

This is years of love and fury and betrayal colliding between your teeth.

Your back slams into the nearest wall with a muffled thud, and the sound you make is halfway between a gasp and a groan. You want to scream at him, hit him, hurt him for what he’s done—but instead, your nails dig into his shoulders, and your mouth crashes into his again.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping your hips like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You pull at his shirt, fists curled in the fabric, and when you feel the buttons tear loose beneath your hands, the sound only fuels you both.

“You think this changes anything?” you hiss against his lips.

“No,” he breathes, dragging your shirt over your head. “It changes everything.”

The wall digs into your spine as he kisses down your neck, your chest, his hands frantic. Your bra is unhooked and discarded in seconds. You’re half-naked, heaving, trembling—not from fear, but from everything else you’ve buried for five long years suddenly clawing to the surface.

You shove him hard, dragging him through the wreckage of your once-pristine home, stepping over shattered glass and kicked-over furniture. Neither of you cares. The cuts on your face sting. His knuckles are split open and bleeding. It doesn’t matter.

He backs you into the kitchen. It’s the only part of the house not completely wrecked.

You end up pressed against the island, his mouth claiming yours again, slower now, deeper. His touch is still rough but laced with something gentler beneath it, something like regret.

“Say it,” you whisper between kisses, voice shaking. “Say it wasn’t fake.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“It wasn’t.” His voice is hoarse. Honest. “Not for a second.”

Your breath catches, and then he’s lowering himself to his knees.

You blink, watching him.

“What are you doing—”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses the skin of your belly, trailing lower.

You grab onto the counter’s edge as he slides your pants down with a roughness that feels like an apology and a plea in one. He leaves kisses across your thighs as you kick them away. Then his hands go to your underwear.

He looks up. Eyes locked on yours. And you’re staring back, equal parts hunger and hesitation, rage and need. And then—he tears them.

The lace snaps, cool air rushes over the glistening skin of your cunt, and you don’t have time to say a word before he picks you up and places you on the counter. His mouth descends on you, lips wrapping around your pulsing clit.

You cry out at the sensation, hand shooting into his hair, anchoring yourself to him and gripping him tightly as his tongue moves with the kind of precision only a devoted lover could master. Every flick, every slow lick of his tongue between your folds has you gasping, trembling, moaning his name like it’s been carved into your body all along.

Your head tips back, mouth parted as you suck in sharp, broken breaths. You feel his hands steadying your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your hips, grounding you but also not letting you move away from his onslaught.

“Cheol—Fuck.” you gasp, the name caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

One of his hands leaves your hip, and then two of his fingers slide inside your core—slow, deliberate, coaxing. The sensation is too much and not enough, and when he curls them just right, hitting that spot deep inside you only he seems to find, you nearly sob from the relief of it. Seungcheol can’t help but groan out in pleasure himself, your walls gripping his digits like a vice.

“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

But then—he stops. His fingers don’t stop curling inside of you, but his mouth leaves your core.

Your eyes fly open. “What—” You stumble out.

“Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gravelly and low, broken in all the right ways. “I want your eyes on me when you come.”

You try. You really do.

It takes everything in you to lift your head and find his gaze. But when you do, the sight undoes you. His mouth glistening with your arousal, his hair a mess, pupils blown wide. And those eyes—God, those eyes.

You nod, unable to speak.

And then he lowers his mouth again.

You keep your eyes open—barely—as his mouth and fingers bring you over the edge, your body tensing, breath catching. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, the sensation crashing through you like a tidal wave breaking all the walls you’d built.

“Seungcheol—Yes. God—Fuck.”

And he guides you through it. But he doesn’t stop.

Even when you’re gasping, trembling, barely able to breathe, he keeps going—his tongue soft, slow, patient. It’s too much. You’re too raw.

You whimper, hand pushing at his head weakly. “Cheol—stop, please—too much.”

Only then does he lift his head, lips swollen, chin wet, gaze still locked on yours.

He doesn’t speak. But that smirk? It says everything.

You don’t give yourself even a second to recover before you’re dragging him up by his neck, crashing your mouth into his again, tasting your release on his tongue.

The kiss between you hasn’t stopped—it’s just changed. Slower, deeper, heavier. You’re breathing into each other’s mouths like the air outside of this is too thin, too sharp, too cold.

But something shifts.

This time, you take control.

You slide off the counter, legs trembling slightly beneath you, but your hands never leave him. You tilt your chin, deepen the kiss, and spin the two of you with a firm grunt, forcing his back to the kitchen island.

He lets you. His chest heaves and you feel the way his breath hitches in surprise. But the moment you reach for his belt, he groans—low and guttural.

“Baby...” he rasps, his voice raw and strained as your fingers work his buckle, undo his button and slide the zipper down.

You hum against his lips, tugging the fabric down just enough to feel the heat of his hard member pressing against the fabric, your touch brushing over him as he throbs beneath your fingers.

“Let me,” you whisper, beginning to lower yourself.

But his hands catch your arms—firm, trembling.

“No,” he breathes, eyes burning. “Not tonight. I need to be inside you. I need—” His voice catches. “I need all of you.”

You don’t argue. The desperation in his voice floors you.

He shucks off the rest of his pants and boxers in one motion, and his mouth is back on yours before you can draw another breath. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, dragging him closer.

Together, you stumble toward the floor.

There’s broken glass everywhere. Bits of plaster and wood from shattered frames. Ruined furniture lying in jagged silhouettes around you. But neither of you cares. Not really.

You fall together, skin against skin, your bare back hitting the floor.

You hiss.

“Ow,” you wince, a sharp piece digging into your shoulder.

“Shit—” he tries to shift, to help you up, but you shake your head with a breathless laugh, hand catching the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” you whisper through a smile. “Don’t be soft on me now, Cheol.”

He looks at you for a beat—bruised and bloodied and smiling beneath him—and his heart clenches painfully.

“God, I love you,” he says before his mouth crashes on yours again like he’s never going to get the chance to say it twice.

And then he’s lining himself up between your thighs, his tip probing your entrance.

His hips press forward, one steady thrust, and your gasp gets lost in the curve of his throat as he fills you. You both cry out at the stretch, the relief, and the way everything that’s broken suddenly makes a kind of violent, perfect sense.

“Jesus, baby...” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your back arching to meet him. “Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.” And he doesn’t.

He finds a rhythm quickly—urgent, deep, relentless. His cock slams into you with force, but every thrust is layered with something else—anger, heartbreak, love so twisted it feels like it could split you open.

You cling to him. Your nails scratch down his back as he pants against your mouth, your name escaping him like a curse and a prayer.

“Cheol—harder,” you whimper, breath catching.

He groans at your voice, his hand curling into your hair, tugging just a little too sharply.

You yelp, then slap him. A clean, fast smack across his cheek.

He freezes, stunned, blinking at you. But you’re grinning—feral and breathless. He lets out a broken laugh. “You’re insane.”

“You married me,” you fire back, grabbing him by the face and dragging him down for another kiss.

The sounds in the room are frantic—moans, gasps, skin slapping against skin, the scratching of glass shards against hardwood floors under your movements. Every kiss is frantic. Every bite leaves a mark.

Your body tightens around him, trembling. He feels it.

“You close?” he asks, voice ragged, lips at your ear.

You nod, helpless. “So close—don’t stop—please, Cheol—”

His hand snakes between you, finding your clit easily, rubbing fast, tight circles.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

You fall apart beneath him with a sob, your whole body convulsing as the orgasm crashes over you like a wave you never saw coming. He watches you, eyes wide, lips parted, whispering your name like it’s salvation.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. Just like that.”

You barely register his thrusts speeding up, his breath stuttering.

He groans into your neck—long, low, desperate—as his cum spills inside you, hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against your chest, spent.

The only sound for a long while is your breathing—shaky, uneven, tangled together.

His weight is heavy, but comforting. His hand slides to your side, his thumb gently stroking your ribcage, careful not to touch the bruises blooming your skin. His breath fans over your neck.

You run your fingers through his damp hair and the back of his shoulder blades.

And when you finally find your voice again, it comes out as a whisper—barely a sound. “I love you.”

He stills. You think maybe he didn’t hear it.

But then he lifts his head slowly, eyes locking with yours, and you see it there—the emotion breaking over his face like ice shattering on a frozen lake.

He doesn’t say it back. He doesn't have to.

You wake up in the aftermath.

The sun is already high in the sky, soft gold spilling in through the cracked blinds and dust-speckled windows. It touches the edges of your ruined home—highlighting the bullet holes in the walls, the debris scattered across the floor, the stillness that follows chaos.

You’re wearing one of Seungcheol’s shirts.

It’s oversized, hanging off your shoulder, barely buttoned. The collar is stretched, and there’s a streak of dried blood near the cuff—yours, probably. Your hair is a mess, and when you reach up to scratch your scalp, your fingers brush against something soft.

A pillow feather.

You snort. Of course.

After last night’s explosion of violence and desire, you somehow made it upstairs to what was left of your bed. It was mostly frame, broken slats, and torn linen—but you made do.

Now, your bare feet pad carefully down the stairs. You avoid the glass fragments and splinters with the expertise of someone who has navigated minefields—literal and metaphorical. The floor creaks beneath your steps, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t sound like a warning.

Seungcheol is already in the kitchen.

He’s standing in front of the open fridge—barely hanging on its hinges—wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey pyjama pants. His hair is wild, sticking up in tufts, and his back is covered in faint scratches and bruises—yours. His fingers move slowly through the wreckage of what used to be a well-stocked refrigerator.

You watch him for a second before stepping in.

“Any luck?” you ask, voice soft.

He glances over his shoulder, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “We’ve got orange juice... one slightly bruised apple... and what I think might be cereal.”

“Luxury,” you murmur, joining him, peeking inside the fridge beside him. “Any milk?”

He scoffs. “Glass bottle took a bullet. It was a clean kill.”

You both laugh, and it surprises you how natural it feels. How easy. Like this is just another morning, and your home doesn’t look like a war zone.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of your hair back—fingers grazing over the feather tangled there.

“You’ve got something,” he says, tugging it free with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes but lean in when he kisses you.

It’s slow. Unhurried. Familiar.

His hand cups the back of your head. Yours rests over his bare ribs. No weapons, no lies, no blood between you this time.

“You sore?” he asks, murmuring against your lips.

“Everywhere,” you smirk. “But especially my shoulder. Got stabbed by something sharp on the floor last night. Could’ve been you. Could’ve been a piece of a chair leg. Hard to tell.”

Seungcheol huffs a short laugh and grazes your shoulder with the backs of his fingers, eyes narrowing where the skin is slightly red. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the broken glass from the vase. That thing exploded like a grenade.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “You shouldn’t have thrown me into it.”

He raises a brow. “You tackled me through the coffee table.”

You grin. “Fair.”

There’s an unspoken truce between your bodies now. Your muscles ache, your joints are sore, and you’re both peppered with bruises—some purple with impact, some half-faded fingerprints, others... not entirely from violence.

The two of you end up sitting side by side on the floor of the living room, backs against the only intact wall, legs stretched out over the wreckage of your home, your salvaged breakfast lying between you.

You pass the box to Seungcheol. He pours a handful into his palm and tosses it into his mouth like it’s nothing.

“So,” you start, still a little out of breath, “you were the Istanbul embassy hit?”

He turns to you, mouth still full. “2020? Yeah.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, laughing. “I almost took that one. Client offered me triple last minute, but someone reported the route was compromised.”

He raises a brow. “That was me. Took out one of the scouts on the perimeter. Probably spooked ‘em.”

You shake your head. “You know how many contracts I lost because of you? I thought I was cursed.”

“And I thought someone was copying my blueprints,” he admits, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “Every time I planned a clean hit, someone beat me to it by hours or days.”

You blink slowly, realization dawning.

“Oh my god. Jakarta. The oil exec.”

“I was on a rooftop two blocks away,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Had my sights lined up, trigger halfway pulled, and bam—he drops dead. Heart shot.”

You grin. “Silenced pistol. Through the crowd. Red scarf.”

He stares. “That was you?” You shrug.

You pass him the juice bottle. He swigs.

“Kuwait?” you ask. “Royal cousin, private airstrip, 2023.”

He squints. “Nope. Morocco that same week, though. Oil refinery director.”

You nod slowly. “Close... but still not the same contract.”

You lean into his shoulder, warm and bruised. For a while, you just sit in the silence. Sharing cereal. Trading names of cities like souvenirs. Comparing scars. You hold out your left arm, turning it over. “Costa Rica. Machete. Wasn’t even the target—just his cousin.”

He flexes his hand, then touches his ring finger and pinky, his wedding band still on, catching the light. “Vietnam. Lost feeling here in a blast. Pipe bomb rigged under a bar stool. I leaned in to light a cigarette, and the damn thing blew.”

You hiss. “How long to recover?”

“Ten weeks. Didn’t tell my team.”

“I went deaf in one ear,” you admit. “Turkey. Close-quarters detonation. I still sleep on my right side.” He tilts his head to look at you. “I know.” You glance at him. “You noticed?” He nods. “Always.” You breathe through that.

And then, you ask the one question that’s followed you your entire career.

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping? After?”

He doesn’t even pause.

“No,” he says simply.

You nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“You know,” you start, voice soft, “my first contract was in Singapore. Hotel hit. Clean. Nerve-wracking as hell, though. Didn’t sleep for three days after.”

Seungcheol, who had returned to the kitchen in search of a surviving bottle of water, turns slightly, raising his brows at you still sitting on the floor. “First?”

You nod, smiling faintly. “When I joined the game back in 2015. Back then, I had to smuggle the gear in a violin case like it was a goddamn spy movie. I was twenty-one, still using my real name. Green as hell.”

He laughs as he leans against the counter, unscrewing the cap of his newfound treasure before taking a sip. “You? Green? I don’t buy it.”

“Swear to God,” you grin. “Nearly botched it. Took me forty minutes to get into the suite. He walked in while I was setting up. I had to improvise with a steak knife from room service.”

He winces, impressed. “That poor bastard.”

“Nah,” you reply. “He was a war criminal. No one misses him.”

You’re about to ask Seungcheol about his first hit when something catches your eye through the living room window. A flash of movement. A shape walking past the hedge by the front walkway. A mail truck parked across the street.

Your brows draw together. You shift up slightly on your knees.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?” he answers, still in the kitchen.

You squint. “Why the hell is the mailman out on a Sunday?”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he’s at your side in seconds.

He moves so fast that the bottle of water still in his hand clatters against the floor as he drops it mid-stride, crouching beside you and peering out the same window.

“Our mailman doesn’t work Sundays,” he mutters, voice instantly low and cold. You don’t move. “Then who the hell is that?”

Before he can answer, a clinking noise rattles from the front door. You both snap toward the sound at once. The mailbox slot creaks.

Something metallic drops through.

And in a split second—his body slams into yours.

“Flashbang!”

You’re dragged across the floor in one fluid motion just as a deafening pop erupts behind you. A white flash floods the room, followed by a shockwave that rattles what’s left of the walls.

Your ears ring. Your vision blurs. But you’re on your feet a second later, adrenaline surging through your blood like fire.

All warmth is gone. There’s no time to ask questions. You’re running.

“Garage!” he shouts. “Now!”

Bullets rip through the hallway drywall behind you as two armed men breach the front door, already firing. The wood splinters, glass explodes in a cascade from what’s left of the windowpanes.

You both sprint, ducking low, weaving through the wreckage of your own home as if it’s muscle memory. He covers you with a hand against your back as you reach the inner garage door.

It slams shut behind you.

He locks it. Not that it’ll hold for long.

“Which car?” you gasp, spinning toward the two luxury vehicles parked beneath the hanging light.

He points. “Mine has ammo inside.”

“Mine’s faster.”

“Mine’s armored.”

“Fine,” you mutter, already rounding toward the matte black Audi Q8. “But I’m picking the music.”

“Like hell you are.”

You reach the passenger side and yank open the door, only to pause.

“Where’s the—” you begin, gesturing.

He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching under the dash with a practised hand and flips a latch under the steering column. A panel in the centre console pops open with a mechanical click.

“There,” Seungcheol mutters. “Top tray. Guns and extra clips. Take your pick.”

You reach in and grab both handguns without hesitation. Toss one to him.

“You could’ve told me we had an armoury in the car,” you snap.

“You married me. I thought you knew I was full of surprises.”

The garage door starts opening with a mechanical groan as he slams the car into reverse. The moment the path is clear, he floors it. Tyres scream against the concrete as you rocket backwards, then spin into a clean arc down the driveway beside your home.

Bullets fly as the gunmen breach through the garage door. The back window shatters.

“They’re following!” you shout, twisting to return fire through the shattered rear glass.

You hit one of the attackers in the leg. he falls down, but the other keeps up the pursuit on foot.

Seungcheol veers around a corner, nearly clipping a fire hydrant and barrels down a side street.

It takes thirty minutes to ensure nobody is following you—twisting through the city, cutting through narrow alleys, blasting through tunnels, jumping red lights with seconds to spare.

You finally pull up to a rusted building tucked between two loading docks on the edge of the port. It looks condemned. Empty. But the moment you step out of the vehicle and scan the perimeter, you know this place isn’t what it seems.

“Where the hell are we?” you ask, sweeping your gun up automatically.

Seungcheol rounds the car, guiding you toward the side of the building. “Safe house. Belongs to a friend.”

You eye him. “Define friend.”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him to a rusted steel door that looks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade. He raises his fist and knocks—four beats, short-long-short-short.

You wait.

Footsteps.

The door creaks open—and standing there, in a robe, dishevelled, and holding a toothbrush in one hand—is none other than Mingyu.

Your eyes widen. “You?”

He blinks at you. Looks from you to Seungcheol, then down at your bare legs, the blood stains on Seungcheol’s naked chest, the pistol still in your hand, the way you’re both still in your morning clothes.

Then he mutters, “Jesus. What the hell happened to you two?”

Seungcheol shoulders past him with a mutter, “You tell me.”

You trail behind, brushing past Mingyu, who still looks completely stunned. He glances around before slamming the door shut and locking it with three bolts, then follows you both into the industrial-style kitchen.

You drop your gun on the counter, exhaling heavily.

Mingyu plants his toothbrush in a mug.

“You bring your wife to work often?” he asks dryly.

“You and Mingyu work together?” you turn to Seungcheol, the words half an accusation.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose and tilt your head, arms folding tightly over your chest. “So that whole speech at our wedding about how you and Mingyu ‘went to college together and grew apart’ was just another lie?”

Seungcheol doesn’t miss a beat. “You had eleven aliases on our wedding registry. I think we’re even.”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you step away. “Unbelievable.”

“Is this really the time for an argument?” he snaps, rubbing his temple with one hand.

You’re about to fire back when Mingyu sighs dramatically behind you, arms crossed as he leans against the counter.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, tone lazy but eyes sharp. “You two wanna pause the little lovers’ quarrel for a sec? Because you are, in fact, in deep shit.”

Seungcheol turns toward him, exasperated. “No shit. They shot at my wife and my damn car. I’m aware.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes like an exasperated sibling. “No, you’re not. Hold on.”

He’s back a moment later, laptop in hand. He tosses it onto the counter and opens it, the screen’s glow casting sharp light across his face. With a few taps, he spins the laptop around to show you both.

“Argos posted a bounty on your head,” he says, eyes flicking to Seungcheol. “It’s live. International boards. Deep channels. They’ve basically lit a beacon over your body for every hired gun from Moscow to Macau.”

Seungcheol stares at the screen, silent.

His hand shoots out, dragging the laptop closer. He scrolls down with a twitch in his jaw, reading every line, every bounty detail. Finally, he speaks, voice tight:

“What?”

Mingyu’s voice stays calm, but beneath it is a warning. “All of our contracts were terminated this morning. No explanation, no reassignment. Nothing. They gave you—what—twelve hours? Maybe less. They expected proof of your kill. When they didn’t get it, this was their answer.”

You blink, reeling. “But... Cheol’s their top asset. Why the hell would they—”

“Because,” Mingyu cuts in, “he didn’t pull the trigger. That’s all the proof they needed that he’s compromised. He failed to kill you. That makes him a liability.”

You feel your pulse in your teeth. “Okay... but why cut the rest of you loose?”

Mingyu shrugs, only half-joking. “I’m just waiting for my bounty to go live any day now.”

You raise your brows.

“Seriously,” he says, tone turning grim. “They know we’re loyal to Cheol. Everyone on his team is. Argos knows if they kept us around, we’d try to protect him. Help him go underground. So... clean sweep.”

Seungcheol is still staring at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes burning. His voice is low when he finally speaks:

“That explains me... but why were they shooting at my wife?” He glances at you, eyes hard. “You weren’t part of this. Yet you were a target, too.”

Mingyu sighs, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I only have their side of the board. For all I know, someone jumped the gun. Or they wanted to ensure you didn’t get a second chance to prove loyalty.”

You frown, folding your arms as you turn toward him. “Is this thing encrypted?”

He gives you a long look. “I’m the tech lead, Gwisin. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes and pull the laptop toward you. Seungcheol grins softly at the familiar exchange. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in a series of commands only a seasoned ghost like you would know.

After a few seconds, an encrypted video line blinks to life on screen.

Two rings.

Reina’s face appears.

“What—” she starts, then her expression twists into visible relief and panic at once when she sees your face. “Holy shit. You’re alive.” Her voice is louder than expected. “We thought—God, I saw the bounty hit, and then everything went dark and—”

“Reina,” you say firmly. “Slow down.”

She exhales sharply, calming just enough to speak. “Lim & Associates has gone dark. Completely shut down. Doors are locked. HQ’s offline. We think the top brass has scattered. No comms. No trace. And about twenty minutes after you were supposed to confirm the kill—” she gestures, “a bounty for your head goes live.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mingyu says, leaning in.

Reina’s gaze shifts to him—and darkens.

Her voice flattens. “You.”

Mingyu grins, dimples showing. “Hi, Sweetheart. You look good.”

“Don’t.”

Seungcheol watches, confused. You, however, know exactly what this is. And so does Mingyu.

“Reina,” you warn, amusement tugging your lips. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” she bites, eyes not leaving Mingyu. “I’m just surprised he’s still breathing. I figured karma would’ve taken care of that by now.”

“Now honey,” Mingyu says, pretending not to be amused. “you know how much it turns me on when you're mad at me.”

Seungcheol blinks.

You sigh. “Long story. Don’t ask.”

“Gyu,” Reina snaps, crossing her arms. “Can you please, for the love of God, not think with your dick for two seconds?”

“You’re right,” Mingyu says, pulling the laptop toward him. “Let’s table our unresolved sexual tension and uncover corporate conspiracy instead.”

You and Seungcheol exchange an exhausted look as both techs begin furiously typing—throwing jargon and protocols across the feed faster than either of you can keep up.

“Did they just start flirting mid-catastrophe?” he murmurs.

“Apparently,” you reply, massaging your stiff neck.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of keys clacking rapidly. Your pulse ticks higher.

Finally, both Reina and Mingyu stop. Mingyu stares at the screen.

Then, softly: “Oh my god.”

You and Seungcheol lean in instantly. “What?” you ask, sharp and focused. Reina’s voice is brittle. Controlled.

“Lim and Argos have been playing under the same table.” You go cold. “What?”

“They’ve been bidding against each other for years—driving up contract values, undercutting competition to steal clients, making the freelance market a bloodbath... all for mutual profit. Every ‘coincidence’? Every ‘competing company’? All engineered.”

“The hit on both of you...” Mingyu continues, voice low now, “was pre-planned. They marked you as a threat years ago, even before you married each other. Too skilled. Too independent. Too close.”

Reina nods. “They wanted to burn it all down. Kill the evidence. Clear the board. They weren’t expecting you two to survive.”

You feel like the floor’s been ripped out beneath you.

“Thank you, Rei,” you say, fingers hovering just over the laptop’s keyboard. “Truly. I mean it.”

On the other end of the call, Reina’s features soften.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she replies. “I’ll rally the others. We’ll get you everything we can. You say the word, we’ll move. You know we’ve got your back. Always.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll end this. I swear it.”

Reina holds your eyes for a beat longer, then the line cuts off.

The screen goes black.

You close the laptop slowly, and when you look up, Seungcheol is already watching Mingyu. The younger man is still frozen in place, arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm building just behind his eyes.

“What is it?” Seungcheol asks him, voice level but taut. “You’ve been quiet since she hung up. What are you thinking?”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Hyung... look. I hate to be the one to say this... .” he starts, then hesitates. Finally, he does. “But if you two separate, you have a shot at survival. Not a good one. But a shot.”

You feel Seungcheol tense beside you, the words like acid between them.

“If you stay together,” Mingyu continues, “you’re dead. They’ll find you. You’ll be too busy trying to keep each other alive to do it properly. You know I’m right.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, about to snap something back, but you cut him off before he can.

“He’s right.” The words fall out before you even realize you’re saying them. And the moment they’re spoken, the air in the room changes.

Seungcheol turns to you, disbelief and anger flickering through his eyes. “So, what...” he says, quieter now. “You want me to leave you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t want that—not at all—but you also know it might be the only thing that buys you time.

The silence between you stretches until it’s taut. Until it’s unbearable.

He stares at you. You stare back. And in your shared look, there’s more said than either of you can articulate aloud. Fear. Anger. Love. Frustration. That goddamn sense of duty that’s somehow stronger than either of your instincts.

Mingyu’s voice cuts the silence with a well-placed sigh.

“You’re safe here tonight,” he says, voice intentionally casual. “Reina will loop us in with the rest of her team tomorrow. You can figure it out then.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond.

Mingyu pushes away from the counter, walks to a cabinet and tosses a fresh towel onto the table. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a closet full of old gear and clothes—should fit.”

You nod silently.

“I’ve got some rice, eggs, and canned soup. It’s not five-star, but it’ll feed you.”

Seungcheol glances at him. “You going somewhere?”

Mingyu shrugs, heading for the door. “Yeah. Wonwoo’s. Now that I’m harbouring the two biggest walking bounties in the world, I figured I should be... I don’t know—armed to the teeth.”

You raise a brow. “Wonwoo, the quiet, lanky guy with the glasses from our wedding?”

“Yup. My best friend and Argos’s designated weapons guy. His safe house is basically a missile silo. I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before either of you can say anything else.

Later, after showers, dressing your wounds and forcing yourselves to eat what little you can keep down, you’re both lying side by side on a stiff mattress in one of the spare rooms. The sheets smell like old laundry detergent and sea salt. The room is dark except for a sliver of streetlight coming through the high window.

Neither of you is asleep. You’re staring at the ceiling. So is he.

You can feel the weight of the last two days in every inch of your body.

The silence is unbearable, so you speak.

“My default plan,” you say softly, “was always the Alps.”

Seungcheol turns his head toward you slightly. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Cabin in the Swiss mountains. Remote. Disconnected. Wood-burning stove, solar panels. Buried communication line. I have everything I need stashed there—documents, money, identity resets. It’s quiet.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then—

“Mine’s a fishing boat.” His voice is hoarse. “Docked off an island near the border of Venezuela and Trinidad. Nobody ever asks questions there. Just sun, salt, fish, and radio silence.”

You nod. Let the silence stretch again.

Then you speak again, even quieter than before.

“We could leave tomorrow.” You feel his head turn toward you more fully now. “Leave it all this shit behind. Run. Disappear. You go south. I go east. No one finds us.”

His voice is so low you barely catch it. “Is that what you want?”

You close your eyes. The answer aches in your throat. “It’s not about what I want,” you whisper. “It’s about what keeps us safe. What keeps our teams safe. What keeps you safe.”

Another pause.

You feel him shifting beside you, his muscles tense.

“Cheol,” you say gently. “Please say something.”

And finally—he does.

“You run now,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, “and you’ll never stop running. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Cabin or boat, it doesn’t matter. There’s no cave on this planet that can keep us hidden forever. They’ll find you. They’ll find me.”

You look at him then; his profile is drawn tight, jaw clenched.

“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m fighting.”

His hand finds yours in the darkness, rough fingers curling around your palm until they reach the ring on your finger. His thumb brushes over it slowly.

“I made a promise,” he says. “I said, ‘Till death do us part.’ I’m not abandoning that. Not now.”

You close your eyes and exhale—long, slow, exhausted. But your fingers close around his hand.

A/N: Soooo, this happened? For those who know me well, know that Cheol is my second ultimate bias, so I couldn't not write for him at one point. What was intended as a short piece turned into whatever the hell this is. Hope y'all enjoy! 💟 PS: I have plenty of ideas for a second part, so if anyone is interested, let me know! (Maybe even a separate story featuring Mingyu? 👀)

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)