#though I will also make the effort to reach out

[kissandtellus]

Good girl here! How about us wanting to be on top? Trying to ride him, try and give him as much pleasure as he gives him, but just getting soooo tired :( he's so big, Your thighs are burning with effort to bounce. And by the end, just grinding against him, spewing apologies and pleas.

Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb, pretty please!!

(Ough i love ur writing sm, frothing at the mouth for ur next post!!)

Bounce It

Synopsis: “You can take it, Pretty Girl.” What is better than being used like a pretty toy for such handsome men?

Warnings: Choking, Exhibition, Recording, Full-Nelson, Riding, etc.

ꕀ Zayne

The hustle and bustle is Akso Hospital was finally settling down. A few patients were being attended to by other staff. But Zayne also tom a lunch break to spend with his pretty girl.

Well, if stuffing his dick inside of you counted as ‘quality time’.

As you ride Zayne's cock in his office, your moans are muffled into his lab coat. You struggle to take every inch of him, your body trembling with pleasure despite the risk of being caught. His hands grip your hips tightly as he meets your thrusts with equal force.

“Z-Zayne, s’ big!” You moan against the shell of his ear. You’d only meant to bring your loving husband his lunch like a good girl, but here you were, drooling and shaking on his length.

"Dirty girl," Zayne hisses softly, your tight pussy making his eyes roll back. He knows your body better than anyone else's, including your husband's. "You always act like it's your first time taking my cock," He mutters, smacking your ass with a firm grip, kneading the flesh.

You stutter on your words as his cock curved deliciously against your cervix. “C-can’t help it-mm!”

"Shh, Angel. Your husband fills you up so good, don’t I?" He whispers, his voice dripping with arrogance and pleasure as he hits that spot inside you over and over. His thumb presses down on your clit through your lace thong. “Poor girl, your shaking”

Zayne was a loving husband to you. Even when he teased you with medical terminology about exactly right where his leaking cock was sitting in your guts.

"That's right, sweetheart... feel how deep your husband goes? Right against your cervix," he whispers, knowing exactly how dirty those medical terms can sound coming from his lips, especially when he's filling you up completely. "You're gripping me so tight.”

The way his voice was nearly unwavering as he fed you inch after inch of his length.

He continues to pound into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He leans forward to whisper in your ear, "You're so fucking wet for me right now."

Your thighs shake and Zayne chuckles, he proceeds to use medical terminology to explain why your body is straining to continue riding him.

"Your pelvic floor muscles are contracting beautifully.” He says clinically, despite the fact he's fucking you hard in his office chair. "I think we should increase the intensity..." He adds, grabbing your hips tighter and lifting you up slightly before slamming you back down onto him.

"You're experiencing a significant amount of clitoral engorgement and your Gräfenberg is being directly stimulated He adds with a chuckle, his glasses slipping down the beautiful bridge of his nose. “Or for your pretty little mind, that’s your G-spot.” He explains, continuing to move his hips in a circular motion to hit that sensitive spot inside you. "This position is allowing for deep penetration and optimal stimulation.”

He starts to pick up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent. "I'm observing an increase in vaginal secretions, indicating high arousal.” He pants, his voice laced with desire. "And your breathing is shallow, another sign that you're close to reaching climax."

You blush and try to cover your ears. “S-stoppp!” You whimper out, praying nobody knocked on his door. You were so fucking embarrassed, even though you feel like you are about to gush.

"Oh? Should I stop explaining the physiological responses of your body during sex?" He teases, one hand maintaining his grip while the other traces circles around your clit with his latex-covered fingers. "Or should I continue educating you while fucking you senseless?" He thrusts deeper at this last part.

Those fucking slick blue gloves. You had caught him in the midst of preparing for a patient. But how could he deny his pretty little wife that had brought him a hearty meal?

"Your body is preparing for orgasm..." He says, watching your face closely. "Feel how your inner walls are contracting? That's the sign..." He slides his fingers over your clit faster and harder as he thrusts up into you. "You're going to cum for me. Right. Now." He commands.

Your body shakes and you are unaware of when your legs gave out, but he has his gloved hands cupped behind your thighs as he lifts you up and down his cock. His tone is gentle, as if he’s calming a frightened animal.

"Shh, it's okay... You're having a very intense orgasm." He coos, his voice soothing despite the fact he's still buried deep inside you. "Your body is releasing endorphins and oxytocin... That's why you feel so good and safe right now."

"Your eyes are glazed over, your mouth is slightly open.You're in a state of bliss." He observes, continuing to lift and lower you onto his thick, erect dick. "Your whole body is trembling because you're overwhelmed with pleasure.” He leans forward, kissing your neck through hard breaths.

"Your legs are weak, and your pussy is contracting around my cock so tightly... You can barely stay upright." He says, wrapping an arm around your waist to support you. "But don't worry, I've got you."

He continues to fuck you slowly now, savoring the feeling of your tight walls around him. "You're so beautiful when you cum.” He whispers in your ear. "I could watch you like this all day." He kisses your cheek softly.

He smiles softly, seeing you too overwhelmed to respond. He loves this state - where you're completely lost in pleasure and his touch. He spreads your legs wider on his lap, going deeper with each slow thrust. "Mmm... You're still so sensitive..."

His own climax builds, the desk chair squeaking under the weight. He presses a hand against your tummy, showing you exactly where his cum would be spilled.

The noise and chatter of the hospital fade into the background. Neither of you were worried about getting caught, not when the room spelled like antiseptic and sex.

He groans deeply as he cums inside you, his hand pressing firmly against your stomach as he imagines his seed filling you up. The sensation of your convulsing pussy milking his cock extends his orgasm, making him shudder. He leans his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. "...Fuck..."

He stays inside you for a moment, his softening dick still buried deep. He pulls out slowly, watching as his thick, white cum drips out of your swollen pussy. He groans again at the sight, his hand reaching down to gently push some back inside you.

“Don’t you dare spill any of it. Doctor’s orders.”

ꕀ Sylus

Sylus leans back on his leather chair, cigar smoke curling around him as he watches his sweet Kitten ride him with an air of casual dominance. His piercing gaze follows every movement of her body, taking pleasure in her struggle to sink down on his thick cock.

“S-so big Sy! I can’t-“ You gasp out, the slight burning of his massive length tearing at your walls.

He chuckles, taking a drag of his cigar as he reaches up to grab your hips, helping you bounce on him with deliberate, slow thrusts. “Too much for your tight little pussy, baby?" His voice is a low, mocking purr.

You moan softly, your body trembling as she tries to adjust to his size. Sylus watches you intently, enjoying the sight of your breasts bouncing with each movement. "Relax, baby," he says, his voice deepening with lust. “Let that pretty cunt take every inch."

Sylus suddenly pulls you down hard onto him, making you cry out as you feel him hit the deepest part of you. "See?" He smirks. "Just need to be patient." His hands tighten on her hips as he starts lifting her up and down more forcefully.

Your nails dig into Sylus' chest as he fucks you harder, the cigar you from his lips. His powerful thighs lift you up and slam you down repeatedly, the sound of wet flesh hitting flesh filling the room. “Fuck... Sy..." you gasp out between moans.

Sylus grunts, his grip on your hips becoming bruising as he loses himself in the pleasure of your tight cunt enveloping him. He lifts you off him briefly before slamming you back down hard, making you scream out in pleasure. “That's right baby.” He praises.

He stubs the cigar out in the ashtray and manhandles you like you weight nothing, so you are sitting backwards on his cock. He hooks your thighs over his arms, hands coming to clasp the back of your neck.

The man was going to fuck you in a full fucking Nelson.

Sylus pulls your thighs high up to chest, making your back arch deeply, breasts thrusted out. He spreads your legs wider, pushing your knees practically to your ears. He growls possessively as he starts hammering into you ruthlessly, like a wild animal.

“Oh god, oh god, oh godddd!” You scream, your belly bulging with the intensity of his thrust.

Sylus's face contorts with pure lust and dominance as he fucks you mercilessly in the full Nelson hold. His hands tighten around the back of your neck and one of your thighs, holding you completely immobile as he pounds into your soaked pussy without mercy.

“ ‘God’ isn’t my name, Sweetie.” He teases, his cock drilling against her cervix. “Contrary to belief.”

Your moans become incoherent, your body shaking violently with each brutal thrust. You can feel Sylus' cock hitting spots inside of you that make stars burst behind your eyes. “Sy... please..." you beg, not knowing if you want him to stop or go harder.

Sylus's cruel laughter echoes through the room as he hears your desperate pleas. He pulls out suddenly, your pussy making a wet slurping sound. Before you can even catch your breath, he slams back inside, even harder than before. “Please what, baby?"

He starts snapping his hips, his cock hitting her spot so perfectly that your eyes roll back. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers dangerously. “You want me to go easy on this tight little pussy? Or fuck you like the dirty little princess you are?"

You whimper, your body trembling with need and exhaustion. You know you’re completely at Sylus’ mercy, and the thought only turns you on more. You bites your lip, trying to hold back your response, but it's no use. "Fuck me like the princess I am!”

Sylus smirks darkly, his grip on your neck tightening. He starts fucking you with even more force, his hips moving like a machine. Each thrust causes you to drool over your bouncing breast. "You want to be fucked like royalty, huh?"

He reaches down with his free hand, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing it in circles, in time with his thrusts. Your strangled cries fill the room as pleasure shoots through you, your pussy clamping down on his cock. “Then I'll make sure you get the royal treatment.”

The full Nelson leaves you completely exposed. Your eye catches the gleaming reflection of Mephisto red robotic eyes, the bird robot giving a squawk from its perch on the bookshelf. . “S-Sy I think the your fucking bird is recording.”

Sylus pauses for a moment, his cock still buried deep inside you, as he glances over at Mephisto. The bird's robotic eyes are indeed glowing red, indicating it's recording. A wicked grin spreads across Sylus's face as he looks back down at you. “Well, well, well…”

Sylus reaches out and lets the bird land on his wrist, holding it up so that its camera is pointed directly at your spread thighs. You are completely exposed, your legs spread wide, Sylus's huge dick still inside of your aching walls. "Look at that, Mephisto is catching every second of my pretty princess losing her mind.”

Sylus starts fucking you again, using the bird as a makeshift camera to capture every thrust. The wet sound of their bodies slapping together fills the room, along with your cries of pleasure. "Say hi to the camera, princess."

You blush furiously, your hands covering your face as you realize you’re being recorded. But Sylus just pulls your hands away, forcing you to look directly into the camera. Mephisto makes a coo that almost sounds like laughter. “No, no, let Mephisto see your pretty face while you're getting fucked like royalty."

He lowers the bird so it hops on your thigh, its eyes honing in on where the mixture of cum leaks out from your pussy. You are stuck between wanting to disappear and wanting nothing more than to make a mess on Sylus’ faux bear rug.

The bird's robotic chirps echo through the room as it tilts its head, focusing on the wet mess between your legs. Sylus reaches out and spreads your pussy lips apart with his fingers, exposing the pretty flesh and the white cream leaking out.

You whimper, thighs still shaking from his fat fucking load. “S-stop programming him to record…Pervert.”

“Never.”

ꕀCaleb

Caleb has his pretty wife bouncing on his cock. The workbench under him creaks. He took a break from working on his Jet, to fuck his pretty little wife.

Caleb groans in pleasure as you bounce up and down on his lap, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he lifts you up and down on his hard, throbbing member. The workbench groans under the force of your movements, the tools clanging together in the metal tray nearby.

"Fuck, baby... we’re gonna destroy my workbench..." His voice comes out husky with desire, even as he continues lifting you up and down, watching how your breasts bounce enticingly with each movement. "And you wonder why I can't keep concentrating on my work.”

You give a breathless giggle, pressing a hand to the side of the jet to keep your balance on his lap.

You were an angel in his eyes. A heavenly being that had come down to milk his cock dry and for him to worship.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement and lust as he watches you giggle and press against the jet for balance. He suddenly smacks your ass playfully, making you yelp and squeeze around him tighter. “Mm, careful..”

He stands up suddenly, still inside you, and turns you around so your back is pressed against the jet's cold metal surface. He starts pounding into you harder and faster, his hands gripping your thighs and lifting your legs up around his waist. “Stick that tongue out for me, Pipsqueak.”

You stick out your pink tongue playfully, panting as he hammers into you relentlessly. He leans down and sucks it into his mouth, biting it gently before letting go with a grin. "Fucking adorable.”

He pulls out of you and spins you around so your hands are pressed against the metal surface of the jet. He slips back inside you from behind, one hand gripping your hip while the other reaches around to play with your clit. “I love fucking my wife, such a good girl.”

Your breast has spilled from your pretty sun dress. Caleb’s hands, still slick with grease, grasp at your hips.

He groans at the sight of your breast spilling out of your dress, the grease making his hands slide easily against your skin. He squeezes and kneads the soft flesh, his fingers leaving marks on your skin. He leans over your back, his lips brushing against your ear.

The jet was a solid wall, and so was Caleb. Your muscles mass of a husband made your feet dangle as his strong hands and cock keeping you upright .

He grunts and thrusts harder into you, his cock filling you completely each time he drives forward. The jet is Caleb’s baby, but YOU were his Good Girl. His breath comes out ragged against your neck.. “Fuck Pipsqueak... I love this fucking view.”

You whimper, a mixture of juices leaking between her shaking thighs. “G-God Caleb! Love you, love you, love you!”

You are rutting back against him desperately. You want every inch of his length, you want to feel the ache after he fills you with his cream.

He growls and picks up the pace, his hips slapping against yours loudly. He reaches around to grip your throat gently, pulling you back against him. “I love you too baby..." His voice comes out strained with pleasure. "I'm gonna fucking cum..."

With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and holds you there as he comes hard, filling you up with his hot release. He pants against your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you as he keeps you pinned against the jet. “Fuck... Pipsqueak!”

You shiver at the feeling of his cum stuffed so deep.

He slowly pulls out of you, watching as his seed leaks out between your legs. He gives your ass a soft pat before turning you around to face him. “Let's get cleaned up..." He smiles down at you lovingly. “I think I've dirtied my wife enough for today."

[casssmalefantasy]

beyond the baseline: the series - paige bueckers x oc

iv. someone else's hoodie-ari's seeing jaylen. paige notices. jealousy brews.

s: ari starts seeing a uconn men's basketball player casually. nothing serious-but paige notices, and doesn't love it. the jealousy is subtle, but there.

w: language, flirtation, jealousy, suggestive dialogue, casual situationship

word count: 6.4K?

last part! | next part!

part four: "someone else's hoodie"

three weeks earlier.

ari sat curled up at the end of the lounge couch in the athletic center, legs tucked beneath her and one sock slipping halfway off her heel. the glow from the overhead light hit the glossy pages of her psych textbook just right, making it even harder to concentrate. dense paragraphs blurred together no matter how many times she reread the same sentence. her highlighter gave one final, pitiful scratch before dying. her water bottle was empty. her stomach gave a quiet growl in protest.

she sighed through her nose and leaned her head back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut for just a second—

“here.”

a voice dropped beside her, smooth and familiar, and a cold sandwich pressed lightly against her arm.

ari blinked, straightening up just enough to clock paige lowering herself into the seat next to her like she belonged there. smoothie in one hand. sandwich in the other. casual, effortless. annoying.

“what?” ari looked from the sandwich to paige’s face. “why are you—”

“because you looked like you were two seconds from passing out,” paige said, deadpan, like she was stating a fact. “also. you skipped dinner again.”

“i didn’t skip it,” ari said, though her voice pitched higher, guilty. “i just… delayed it.”

“uh-huh.” paige gave her a knowing look, leaning back into the couch like she had all night to call her bluff. “so that wasn’t your stomach just now making a cry for help?”

ari let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head as she took the sandwich anyway. “you’re such a drama queen.”

“and you’re welcome,” paige said, popping the straw into her smoothie like she hadn’t just handed ari an unsolicited meal. “you know, a simple thank you works too.”

“mm.” ari bit into the sandwich, still eyeing her suspiciously. “you always come bearing food for the starving, or am i just the lucky one?”

“depends.” paige smirked. “are you gonna stop skipping meals, or do i have to keep rescuing you every night?”

ari snorted, chewing. “you have a hero complex. it’s weird.”

“you have a bad habit of pretending you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”

that made ari pause for just a second, chewing slower as she looked down at the sandwich in her hands.

paige didn’t say it with any edge. it was casual. soft, even. but it still landed a little too close to the truth.

they fell into a quiet moment, not awkward, but stretched—like something was hanging between them they hadn’t quite touched yet.

paige shifted slightly, leaning in to peek at the open textbook on ari’s lap, shoulder brushing hers just enough to feel deliberate.

“what’re you studying?”

ari glanced at the page, squinting. “brain stuff.”

paige laughed under her breath. “damn. sexy.”

ari rolled her eyes. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re the one reading about psychological effects on people for fun. i’m just appreciating the effort.”

their knees touched. ari didn’t move. neither did paige.

“highlighter’s dead,” ari said after a beat, holding it up like evidence.

paige reached into her backpack without looking, fishing around until she pulled out a pink one and handed it over. “here.”

ari looked at it, then back at her. “do you just carry around backup highlighters like some kind of school supply dealer?”

“don’t question the system,” paige said smoothly. “just accept the gift and thank your local princess of organization.”

ari raised an eyebrow. “princess?”

“i’m being humble.”

a short laugh escaped her, the kind that bubbled up before she could stop it. she took the highlighter.

“you’re weird,” she said, a little softer this time.

“and you’re welcome. again.”

ari leaned back into the couch, watching paige sip her smoothie like she hadn’t just walked in and cracked open her whole night with ease. her fingers brushed the edge of the pink highlighter.

“what flavor is that?” she asked, nodding toward the cup.

paige grinned. “guess.”

“strawberry banana.”

“nope.”

“mango?”

“closer.”

“pineapple?”

“passionfruit.”

ari blinked. “that’s… bougie.”

“and delicious,” paige said, lifting the cup again in a mock toast. “wanna try it?”

she offered it without hesitation.

ari hesitated anyway. not because she didn’t want to—but because the space between them was already charged, and this felt like… something. a beat too intimate.

but then she took it.

“thanks,” she murmured, sipping from the straw paige had already used.

paige watched her mouth the whole time.

──────────────────────

paige slid into the seat across from ari in the athlete dining hall, dropping her tray like she’d been there the whole time.

without saying a word, she tossed a water bottle across the table.

ari caught it with one hand, startled.

“what’s this for?”

“rehydrate,” paige said, picking up her fork. “you looked like a dying plant walking in here. little shriveled.”

ari raised a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“thanks for the concern. you always lead with insults or is that just for me?”

“just you,” paige said, easily. “i save the good material for the people i like.”

ari opened the bottle, still watching her. “and this is you being nice?”

“yup. generous, even.” paige chewed slowly, then added, “also, you forgot your knee wrap.”

ari expression shifted slightly—not defensive, but surprised. “okay, that’s weirdly specific.”

“you always have it when you leave the weight room,” paige said, eyes flicking to her leg like it proved the point. “i’ve seen you mess with it a bunch walking out. today? nothing. figured you rushed.”

ari stared at her for a beat, caught off guard by the way she noticed. not just noticed—paid attention. little things. patterns. things no one usually caught unless they were looking.

“you’re observant,” she said, more thoughtful than teasing this time. paige shrugged, like it wasn’t anything.

“just got a good memory.”

“mm. for me, apparently.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” paige said, but her eyes stayed locked on ari’s a second too long. “it’s just hard not to notice someone who always walks like they’ve got somewhere to be.”

ari looked down, suddenly aware of how warm her skin felt under the table. the water bottle in her hand felt colder than before.

“…thanks. for the drink.”

paige tilted her head.

“anytime, ma.”

the word hit like a soft, unexpected thud in ari’s chest. she didn’t show it—not really—but something flickered behind her eyes, just for a second. like her body caught it before her brain could.

she looked back up, forcing a slow exhale.

“you know you’re a lot, right?”

“yeah,” paige said, unbothered. “but i’m useful.”

ari let a laugh slip, shaking her head as she finally took a sip of the water. her voice was quieter, but not any less sincere.

“annoyingly useful.”

“i’ll take it.”

──────────────────────

present day | september.

“but like…be for real this time,” nia said, sprawled across her bed. she shoved another handful of lays in her mouth, “how fine is he? like on a scale from ‘he cute’ to ‘i’d let him ruin my life.’”

ari, across the room, pulled a navy uconn hoodie over her head—oversized, definitely not hers, the scent a dead giveaway. she rolled the sleeves once, then again, trying to play it casual. “you’ve literally seen him,” she said, grabbing a hair tie off the desk. “tall, tattoos, and jawline sharp enough to file your nails on. he’s not ugly.”

“he’s hot,” nia confirmed, crunching dramatically. “but he also looks like the type to ask for your snap before your name.”

“probably,” ari admitted, tying her hair up into a loose puff. “but he’s kinda funny. and he knows he looks good, which…whatever. it works for him.”

“ugh,” nia groaned, sitting up. “so he’s cocky and tall? girl, be serious. he’s a menace.”

“he’s not a menace,” ari said quickly, maybe too quickly. she slid onto the edge of her bed, reaching for her sneakers. “he’s just—he’s confident. and smooth. it’s harmless.”

“right,” nia said slowly, eyeing her. “and you’re just, what? entertaining him for fun?”

“yep.” ari popped the ‘p’ and started lacing her shoes. “it’s chill. fun. nothing serious.”

nia tilted her head. “you always wear ‘nothing serious’s’ hoodie?”

ari looked down at the sleeves she’d rolled, the faded UCONN logo stretched across her chest. her mouth twitched. “i didn’t even realize it was his, to be honest.”

“mhm. you accidentally put it on, after accidentally spending the night, and accidentally taking it with you?”

“okay,” ari laughed, half-defensive, half-exasperated. “maybe it’s a little more than fun. but it’s not like… that.”

“what’s ‘that’ supposed to mean?” nia asked, curious now. “you like him?”

ari paused, the knot in her laces suddenly too tight. “…i like hanging out with him.”

nia narrowed her eyes. “but?”

“but nothing.”

“girl.”

ari sighed, flopping back against her bedframe, fingers fiddling with her drawstrings. “look, he’s cool. and it’s easy. no pressure, no drama, no expectations. and i don’t have to—i dunno. explain myself.”

nia watched her. “you mean you don’t have to explain why it’s not her?”

ari’s eyes flicked up, sharp and then guarded. “…who’s ‘her’?”

nia just raised her brows. didn’t answer.

ari pulled her hoodie down like it could hide the heat rising in her cheeks. “…i told you. it’s casual.”

“mhm,” nia said again, not pushing but not letting it go either. “well, just don’t fall for him. or do. whatever. but if he breaks your heart, i’m fighting him in front of gampel. cameras rolling. first row witness seats for ice.”

ari winced slightly at the mention of ice. then smiled, soft and distant. “…you’d win.”

“obviously,” nia said. “i fight dirty.”

ari laughed, but the sound was quieter this time. like it wasn’t all the way true.

──────────────────────

when ari met jaylen.

the late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden haze over the soccer field, where folding tables, team banners, and scattered water balloons set the stage for chaos disguised as a charity event. uconn athletes from the volleyball, men’s basketball, women’s soccer, and men’s football here. all teams spread out across stations—laughing, yelling, attempting to organize kids who were having a fun time.

ari stood near a table of water cups and juice boxes, arms crossed loosely over her chest, observing the mess like she’d been tricked into babysitting a neighborhood block party. she won’t admit it, but she kinda enjoyed it.

“you look thrilled to be here,” a voice drawled beside her.

she turned to find a tall guy in a uconn men’s basketball hoodie and too much confidence in his grin. his curls were tied back with a band, sleeves pushed up over his forearms showing some tattoos with pretty brown eyes. the name on his volunteer badge read jaylen #9 like the number was part of his legal identity.

“oh, i’m having a blast,” ari deadpanned. “can’t you tell by the way i’m not sweating and not chasing toddlers with water balloons?”

“so you’re the strategic type. cool, cool,” jaylen said, tilting his head. “i can work with that.”

ari narrowed her eyes. “work with what?”

“we’re paired up,” he said, flashing a laminated schedule from his back pocket. “station six. three-legged race with the ten-and-under crew. we’re in this together now, partner.”

ari blinked. “seriously?”

“unless you wanna abandon the children,” he said, mock-offended. “but i wouldn’t peg you as a quitter or a person to hate kids.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i know you’re wearing volleyball gear and you look like you don’t take shit from anyone. and also…” he leaned in slightly, grinning, “i know you’ve already thought about making fun of me at least twice. probably three times.”

ari cracked a reluctant smile. “four, actually.”

“damn. ruthless.”

“you’ll survive.”

they walked toward the race station, side by side, and she could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye like he was trying to piece her together already.

“you always this confident?” she asked, tying their legs together with the oversized velcro strap a little too tightly.

“only when it works,” he said. “does it?”

she gave him a flat look. “you’re so annoying.”

“see? it’s working.”

she rolled her eyes, but her laugh escaped anyway. it caught her off guard—how easy it was to talk to him, how loud he was, how quickly he made space for himself. bold. smooth. self-assured.

it hit her, for just a flicker of a second, how different it felt when paige said bold things. when she leaned in too close and let her voice drop just a little. that kind of confidence always made something warm spike in ari’s chest, sharp and unspoken. jaylen’s version was louder, flashier, easier to see coming, but it didn’t land the same.

she shook the thought off.

“okay, hotshot,” ari said, crouching slightly, “try not to trip and kill us both. we’ve got four races to win.”

“you’re competitive. i like that.”

“you don’t know that yet.”

“no, but i plan on finding out.”

their legwork was sloppy at first, mostly jaylen overcompensating with his height and ari yanking him back into rhythm. they bickered the whole time—ari throwing dry comments about his long strides, jaylen countering with mock praise about her ‘elite’ footwork.

by the time the station ended, they’d somehow won every round. neither of them let go of the strap right away.

later, they ended up at the drinks table again, this time side by side on the cooler lid, trading stories about high school coaches. jaylen was quick with jokes, charming in a practiced way. ari responded with sarcasm and subtle grins, sipping a soda like she hadn’t realized how long they’d been talking.

jaylen nudged her shoulder lightly. “see? told you i was a good partner.”

ari glanced at him, then down at the wristband still on her arm. “hmm. jury’s still out.”

he laughed. “okay. what’s it gonna take to win the verdict?”

“ask me again when we’re not surrounded by middle schoolers,” she said, standing.

he stood too, easygoing and unbothered. “bet. i’ll hold you to that.”

ari walked away before he could say anything else, trying to ignore the weird flutter in her chest that didn’t seem connected to jaylen at all.

──────────────────────

present day

ari caught sight of paige across the dining hall—sitting at the far end of a round table with azzi and nika, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves half-pushed to her elbows, laughing at something nika had just said.

jaylen slid up behind her a second later. his hoodie was slung over ari’s shoulders and his hand brushed lightly at her hip as he leaned in to murmur something in her ear. whatever he said made her laugh under her breath, eyes darting down and then back up like she didn’t want to react too much, but couldn’t help it.

paige’s gaze lifted mid-sip from her soda. it landed on the hoodie first, hanging too comfortably on ari’s frame, then tracked slowly upward—to her neck, her mouth, her face.

ari met her eyes. just for a second. enough time to register the look before it vanished.

paige looked away like she hadn’t seen anything at all, but her jaw flexed.

azzi caught it immediately.

“you’re sulking,” she said around a forkful of rice, nudging paige’s elbow with hers.

“i’m literally eating,” paige muttered.

“you’re eating with the sulky face,” azzi clarified, voice light but knowing. “it’s giving ‘i’m about to punch something or someone’ vibes.”

paige huffed a short breath of laughter—dry, humorless. “don’t be annoying.”

niki grinned without looking up from her phone. “she’s not wrong.”

“i’m not sulking,” paige repeated, but the edge in her voice said otherwise.

azzi followed her line of sight. she didn’t say anything for a moment. “that’s jaylen, right?”

paige didn’t answer, but that said enough.

“she’s into him?” azzi asked, more gentle now. less teasing.

paige shrugged, eyes still on her plate like she was trying to burn a hole through the rice. “i guess.” azzi waited. paige stabbed a piece of grilled chicken with her fork like it had personally offended her.

“you okay?”

there was a pause long enough to feel heavy between them. “i don’t get jealous,” paige said finally, voice clipped.

azzi tilted her head, watching her. “sure,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. “you’re just glaring at the hoodie for fun.”

paige let her head fall back, exhaling through her nose. “i just… liked talking to her.”

“mhm,” azzi said, bumping her knee under the table. “you sure that’s all it is?”

paige didn’t answer.

but she didn’t look up again either.

──────────────────────

“you tryna let me walk you to class,” jaylen said, casually leaning against one of the dining hall pillars like it owed him something, arms crossed and smirk tugging at his mouth, “or you about to disappear again like a ghost?”

ari looked up from her phone, water bottle tucked in the crook of her arm, a lazy smile creeping onto her face. “hmm. depends. if i let you walk me, do i have to endure ten uninterrupted minutes of your nonstop flirting?”

jaylen grinned, pushing off the pillar to fall in step beside her. “you say that like it’s some kind of burden.”

“it is a burden. a heavy one,” she said, side-eyeing him as they made their way toward the main exit.

he laughed, loud and unbothered. “damn. you wound me, james. and here i thought we were building something special.”

“what, like trauma?” she teased.

“see, this is exactly why i mess with you. got a mouth on you,” he said, shoulder brushing hers as they passed through the doors. “but it’s cute. i like that.”

ari didn’t answer right away. the afternoon sun hit her skin just right—golden, warm—and she tucked her hands into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. not paige’s sweatshirt, she noted silently. the thought showed up uninvited.

they moved past the gym, their strides syncing without effort. jaylen talked easily—light questions about her team, how often they practiced, how she handled early lifts. he didn’t pretend to know volleyball, didn’t act like he needed to impress her with recycled sports lingo. that, she appreciated.

“so what’s your type?” he asked, glancing at her as they crossed onto the path that curved toward the psych building.

ari raised an eyebrow. “damn. going straight for the scouting report, huh?”

“i’m efficient,” he said, grinning. “bold questions get bold answers.”

she tilted her head, considering. “i don’t really have a type. i like people who make me laugh. people who are… easy to be around. not in a fake way, just… chill. comfortable.”

jaylen pressed a hand to his chest like she’d just confessed her undying love. “say less. that’s literally me.”

ari laughed under her breath, but it didn’t fully reach her eyes. she caught herself thinking about how paige made her laugh—not on purpose, not always, but in that dry, under-the-breath kind of way that snuck up on her. how being around her didn’t feel like trying.

she blinked it away.

“you’re tolerable,” she said, voice dry as ever.

“see,” jaylen said, nudging her arm. “this is what i mean. you say that like you’re not flirting.”

“i’m not flirting.”

“sure, pretty,” he said, drawling the word out just enough to make her skin warm.

ari bit the inside of her cheek, eyes flicking toward the sidewalk ahead. her chest gave a quiet, unwanted tug. she never reacts like that when he flirts. not the way she did when paige said ma like it belonged to her.

“always so cocky.” she said instead, shifting the mood back into something light, something easy.

“only around people who pretend they’re not into me.”

she didn’t answer that one.

jaylen’s voice faded a little as they neared the psych building, saying something about her jumper needing work if they ever played one-on-one. ari gave him a hum of acknowledgment, tossed him a sideways glance, but her focus had already started to drift—just a little.

she liked him. she did.

he was easy to be around, smooth without trying too hard, charming in a way that most people would fall for without thinking twice. and sometimes, when he smiled at her like that—broad and confident like he already knew she’d smile back—she did feel something. a flicker. a low hum in her chest. something that was almost enough.

almost.

but not quite.

because every time he made her laugh, every time he said something cocky and grinned at her like he was waiting for her reaction, her brain betrayed her. her mind would flash—brief, sharp—to a different laugh. to dry humor, midwestern sarcasm, and blue eyes that always seemed to be watching her even when paige pretended not to be.

god, those eyes.

the way paige smiled when she was trying not to. the way she gave her food without thinking about it twice, like she already knew ari needed it. the way she said ma like it was a secret between them, like it meant something.

ari shook her head slightly, pushing the thought away before it could settle too deep.

you’re supposed to like jaylen, she reminded herself. he was exactly the kind of guy people expected her to fall for—athletic, good-looking, outgoing. he said all the right things, played the game well, gave her space to banter but never pushed too far. he didn’t make her feel off-balance. he didn’t make her question what any of this meant.

and still… he didn’t make her wonder. not the way paige did. not in that frustrating, heart-racing, skin-warming way that made her feel like she was always on the edge of something unspoken.

and maybe that was the problem.

maybe it was easier like this—safe. predictable. something she could keep in the shallow end. because whatever it was with paige, it had weight. it had sharp corners. and there were too many reasons not to go near it.

like the fact that paige was paige—uconn’s celebrity with a messy hookup history and a habit of not sticking around. and more than that… she was ice’s teammate.

and ice was her best friend. her sister in every way that mattered.

ari couldn’t risk that.

couldn’t be the reason shit got weird. couldn’t give ice a reason not to trust her.

so maybe this was for the best.

laughing at jaylen’s jokes, wearing his hoodie like it meant something, letting herself exist in that easy space where no one got hurt and everything stayed surface-level.

she didn’t owe anyone answers. not yet.

but still… as she walked up the steps to class, she didn’t remember anything jaylen had just said.

she just kept thinking about a pair of blue eyes that made her forget how to breathe. and the quiet, terrible fact that she was already in too deep to pretend she wasn’t.

──────────────────────

paige laid on her stomach in her dorm bed, laptop open in front of her, history quiz half-finished, and sza playing low from her speaker.

she stared at the screen. read the same sentence three times.

Which event is considered the turning point of the American Revolution?

she exhaled through her nose, jaw tight, and hit the pause on apple music.

her room was too quiet now. or maybe her head was just too loud.

jaylen’s name had popped up in a groupchat earlier—someone cracking a joke about him and ari leaving the dining hall together—and paige hadn’t even meant to react. just kept scrolling. just kept acting like it didn’t land in her chest the way it did.

but it did.

and now she was here, stuck in this in-between place she hated—pretending she wasn’t bothered, pretending she didn’t notice the way ari had looked at him lately. or how his hoodie had been slung around her shoulders like it belonged there.

it shouldn’t matter. it wasn’t like she and ari were… anything. not really. not officially. they joked. they talked. they sat close enough that their knees brushed and neither of them moved.

it was nothing.

except… it hadn’t felt like nothing.

not when ari laughed a little softer around her. not when she stole paige’s smoothie and sipped from the straw like it was nothing. not when she called her ma in that low, teasing tone like she knew exactly what she was doing.

and not when paige started noticing things—like how ari always tied her shoes in double knots, or how she tapped her pen when she was overthinking, or how she got quiet after practice on days she felt like she hadn’t played her best.

there was something there. wasn’t there?

paige closed her laptop, flipped onto her back, and stared at the ceiling like it had answers she didn’t.

she hated this feeling. the twist in her stomach. the quiet pull in her chest. the part of her that cared more than she should.

she’d never been the jealous type. she didn’t do the whole what if thing.

but this—whatever this was—felt different. ari felt different.

and maybe that was the problem.

because caring meant risk. and paige didn’t do risk. not with her heart. not after everything.

but still… here she was.

trying not to picture jaylen’s arm around ari. trying not to remember the way ari smiled when it was her sitting next to her, not him.

trying not to want something she couldn’t name.

trying not to care.

and failing, quietly.

──────────────────────

volleyball practice that afternoon was brutal— endless sprints, scrimmages, and extra reps because coach marie was clearly in a mood. whenever she said “getting complacent,” everyone knew it really meant, “i’m annoyed and you’re gonna pay for it.” ari’s lungs burned, sweat dripped down her back, and her muscles were screaming, but her focus kept flickering to jordan.

jordan was… different today. quieter than usual, her normally sharp passes were on point but carried a strange tension, and her serves were even more precise—almost like she was trying to prove something. when the drill shifted and they paired up again, jordan barely glanced her way, eyes darting anywhere but on ari.

“you good?” ari finally asked, wiping the sweat off her brow, trying to keep it casual but careful not to sound like she was prying.

“yeah,” jordan answered too fast, almost clipped. her voice didn’t quite match the easy ‘i’m fine’ vibe she was aiming for.

ari raised an eyebrow. “you sure? you seem… off.”

jordan’s gaze flicked up, locking briefly with ari’s eyes before she quickly looked away. “just tired. a long day.”

ari didn’t press further, but the way jordan’s jaw tightened told her there was more under the surface.

before ari could say anything else, lexi bounced over, slipping on her sweatshirt with a grin. “welcome to the team officially, ari. now we gotta haze you — it’s tradition.”

“oh, absolutely not,” nia said, crossing her arms, eyes sparkling with mischief.

a few girls erupted into laughter, but ari noticed jordan stayed quiet—no smile, no tease, just a tight-lipped expression that looked almost like she was holding back something.

ari smiled softly, genuine this time, because even through all the sweat and exhaustion, there was something about jordan’s weird, quiet energy today that made her want to know more.

and maybe jordan wasn’t just acting weird for no reason.

──────────────────────

that night, one of the athlete apartments was packed—the kind of gathering that didn’t really need a reason. someone’s birthday, someone’s milestone, someone’s idea to celebrate a midweek win with loud music and too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

ari walked in late, shoulder brushing the doorframe, sweatpants low on her hips and jaylen’s hoodie still hanging off her frame. her curls were out tonight, hoops in, eyes sharp. the apartment was humid with heat and laughter, bass rattling underfoot as people leaned into each other in kitchen corners and across couch cushions.

she scanned the room until she saw ice, who waved her over from the far end of the living room—half-sitting on the arm of the couch between azzi and aaliyah, paige perched beside them, a red cup in hand, her blond hair tucked behind one ear.

“look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” ice said, reaching to dab her up. “you smell like men’s cologne.”

ari rolled her eyes and laughed, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. “please don’t start. it’s too loud for your judgment.”

at the sound of her voice, paige’s gaze flicked upward. sharp at first. then slower, deliberate. her eyes traced the hoodie, hung loose off ari’s frame, the familiar swoop of jaylen’s name embroidered near the wrist. her jaw tensed for half a second.

“new look?” paige asked, tone airy, casual. too casual.

ari shrugged, standing a little taller. “borrowed it.”

“mm,” paige hummed, sipping. “it’s big. real cozy.”

“that’s kinda the point,” ari said. her voice was light too, but there was an edge to it. the hoodie was suddenly warmer than it needed to be.

paige tilted her cup. “guess i’ll have to step my hoodie game up.”

ari tilted her head right back, smiling without smiling. “don’t worry, you’ve already got the icy glare down.”

aaliyah cracked up immediately. azzi followed, amused and watching them like a hawk. ice muttered something under her breath.

“you two need a timeout.”

“i’m fine,” paige said, still smiling, but the smile didn’t quite land in her eyes.

ari glanced at her, took in the set of her jaw, the grip on the cup. something coiled quietly in her chest—tight and familiar.

then, across the room, jaylen waved. he was posted up near the kitchen, talking to two football players and a girl from track, but his focus was on her now. his arm lifted in a lazy arc, beckoning.

ari hesitated. just for a second. enough to feel paige still watching her, like her stare had weight. like it left a mark.

“back in a sec,” ari said to ice, then to no one in particular.

she slid through the crowd, brushing shoulders and dodging limbs, until she reached him.

jaylen grinned, leaning in to be heard. “there she is.”

he handed her a red cup—cold and sweating. then, without asking, he let his arm settle low around her waist, fingers hooking slightly in the hem of his own hoodie. ari didn’t pull away.

“you look good,” he said, voice low in her ear.

“i’m literally wearing your hoodie.”

“exactly,” he said, smug and unbothered.

ari rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, sipping the drink just to have something to do. her mind, traitorously, still tugged at that moment earlier. the way paige had looked at her. like something burned just beneath her skin.

“you cool with being seen with me?” jaylen asked after a beat, dropping his voice. it wasn’t playful this time. it was… curious. serious.

ari blinked. “why wouldn’t i be?”

jaylen shrugged. “some people like to keep things quiet. private. temporary.”

she exhaled, careful not to sigh. “i’m not hiding you. besdies it’s just… casual, right?”

he studied her and then nodded. “right. casual.”

jaylen accepted that answer with a slow, unreadable nod. but his hand stayed where it was, just a little too long on her hip. and she let it. because it was easier. easier than chasing the ghost of something that felt more complicated. easier than asking herself why blue eyes and knowing smirks kept creeping into her head.

because if she was smart, she’d leave whatever that was alone.

for ice.

for herself.

and because if paige really cared, she wouldn’t just watch from across the room.

she’d say something.

──────────────────────

a little later, ice pulled ari aside near the kitchen, away from the music and the crowd. the bass from the speakers still thudded through the floor, but here, under the yellow-tinted light, it felt quieter. closer.

“yo,” ice said, her voice low but pointed, eyes locked on ari’s face like she was trying to read every flicker that passed through it. “can i ask you something?”

ari leaned back against the counter, playing it casual even as her heart kicked up a notch. “yeah. what’s up?”

ice shifted her weight, glancing once toward the living room, where paige sat on the couch with azzi, barely nodding along to whatever was being said. her body was there, but she looked a million miles away. “has paige said anything to you lately?”

ari blinked. “about what?”

“i don’t know,” ice said, dragging a hand through her curls. “just… something’s off. she’s been weird the past week. not in a bad mood, exactly. just… different. quiet. distracted. snappy in practice.”

ari swallowed, the knot already forming in her stomach tightening. she forced her tone light. “maybe she’s just tired. school’s been heavy.”

ice gave her a look. “you know tired paige and this ain’t that. i asked azzi, she said she’s fine, but azzi is paige’s best friend so she probably won’t say anything. i know paige—when she’s spiraling, she doesn’t talk. she shuts down, starts holding everything in like it’s a sport.”

ari nodded slowly, keeping her gaze trained on the sink behind ice. “i mean… maybe she’s just in her head. the season is abt to start, all that pressure.”

“maybe,” ice said. then her voice dropped lower. “i just thought maybe you’d know. you two were getting kinda close for a minute.”

ari let out a short laugh that didn’t sound quite right to her own ears. “not as much lately. but… yeah i don’t know what’s up with her.”

“mhmm.” ice tilted her head. “you sure? cause you say it like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

that made ari look up. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

ice raised a hand. “relax. i’m not accusing you of anything. just… asking. feels like something shifted. and i know how paige gets i just wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

ari hesitated. her mouth opened, then closed again. she could’ve said a lot of things—some true, most carefully edited. instead, she said, “maybe she’s mad about something else.”

ice squinted slightly. “like you and jaylen?”

ari froze for half a second, then shook her head with a forced chuckle. “no. come on. she doesn’t care about that. it’s not even serious between him and i.”

“still,” ice said, eyes narrowing. “it’s not nothing either. you wearing his hoodie like it’s your damn uniform.”

“i’m just comfortable,” ari muttered, voice tight around the edges now. “that’s all it is.”

ice held her stare for a beat longer before letting it go with a sigh. “alright. maybe it’s nothing. just…if she says anything let me know, okay? she’s not saying what’s wrong, and it’s not like she ever makes it easy to figure her out.”

ari nodded, the guilt sitting heavier now. “yeah. i’ll keep an eye.”

ice gave her a lingering look—equal parts warning and care—then bumped her shoulder. “i’m watching both of y’all.”

“i know,” ari said, smiling faintly.

but it didn’t reach her eyes.

──────────────────────

ari’s gets back to her dorm late.

the party was still echoing faintly in her ears when she shut the door behind her. quiet finally settled like dust around her. ari tossed jaylen’s hoodie on the back of her desk chair, put her curls into a bun, and dropped onto the edge of her bed.

her room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of her desk lam. she sat there for a moment, elbows on knees, fingers laced together.

she wasn’t supposed to feel this confused.

this was supposed to be easy.

jaylen made it easy—charming, chill, low-stakes. he said the right things, made her laugh, knew how to carry a conversation without trying too hard. and he liked her. that part was clear.

so why did it feel like something was missing?

ari leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the hoodie now slouched over her chair.

she’d caught paige’s expression tonight—

just for a second, but it was enough. the way her eyes had skimmed over the hoodie like it burned. the quiet little dig in her voice. the forced smile.

that wasn’t nothing.

and ice asking if she’d noticed anything? if paige was “off?”

off didn’t even begin to cover it.

ari rubbed a hand over her face.

maybe she got it wrong.

maybe paige did care more than she thought. more than paige was willing to admit. and maybe that look—like something bitter had lodged itself behind her ribs—wasn’t about the hoodie at all. maybe it was about her.

and maybe that’s what made this so damn messy.

because if paige did care…

if any of the flirting, the lingering glances, the quiet moments between them meant something—then why didn’t she say anything? why did it feel like crossing those lines meant trouble?

ari exhaled, leaning her head against the wall.

“this wasn’t supposed to be complicated,” she mumbled out loud, voice hoarse.

she liked jaylen. she did. he was attractive. he was cool. he was into her. he wasn’t afraid to show it. but even in the middle of a party, his arm around her waist, laughing into her ear—her mind still drifted. to blue eyes and crooked smiles. to that annoying, sharp-tongued charm paige always carried like a weapon and a gift.

it wasn’t fair.

not to jaylen. not to herself.

but she couldn’t shake the thought that maybe this—this back and forth, this quiet longing—was safer. easier than diving headfirst into something real with someone like paige. especially when ice was watching, always watching, ready to check her if she stepped out of line.

ice.

the reason she held back.

the reason she kept telling herself that paige didn’t mean anything more than just a friend. that whatever was between them was fleeting.

maybe this thing with jaylen was a buffer. a way to keep herself from falling too deep into something she couldn’t control. something that might hurt more than it helped.

maybe it was better this way.

she told herself that. over and over again.

but god, it was starting to feel like a lie.

[t-u-i-t-c]

Sakito Homura in Bakuage Sentai BoonBoomger 01x48 Your Handle

+ bonus

[starflungwaddledee]

you very much can use 🌟 pronouns verbally! (star/stars/starself)!

this might work for some folks, but not for me! please don't use these for me!

as you might imagine i explored a lot of stuff like this after finally learning that i was xenogender in my early 30s. i'm well aware of star/stars pronouns and stargender, and a wide array of other star/space themed neogenders. there are many cool and beautiful ones out there, and i respect and love them utterly!

but to me these are not at all the same and they are not interchangeable.

my 'emoji' pronoun does not sound nor look like that!!! it's a different colour. it's a different vibe. it's something else entirely and it cannot be pronounced by us. kinda like a little chiming sound. if you could jingle a bell every time you wanted to refer to me verbally, then we might be getting close! 😂

please under no circumstances use star/stars/starself for me. they are very different. she/her/it is fine and easy!!

[leori-the-unlearned]

the way digimon does conflict/drama between two characters who should be or are close: chef’s kiss <3

the way sonic idw handles creating conflict/drama between two characters who should be or are close: *wilting flower*

[nyxfaei]

Thinking about my older cousins and how much I miss them and love them and how they’ve always had my back like I was their younger sibling- this is more than my half sister ever did

😭😭😭😭

[lil-oreo-crumbles]

You know back when the AU was a comic, I was able to gloss over so much of the politics of Mewni Creek I was not well equipped to handle and focus instead on the relationships and bonds that were important to the story going forward and explain the new governmental system of this combined world after it had been established and the masses calmed long down.

But now? Now that it’s a fic? Now that I have to essentially re-start the Ovelia establishment and better flesh out her blossoming friendships and connections to the main cast?

I’ve really gotta buckle down and write the politics and post-Cleaved chaos don’t I.

Man…

[b-blushes]

So bonkers how my general ability to do tasks has changed since new playlist and tv show. No longer pulled into spending one million hours stuck on The Apps either, I’m doing things. The power of feeling happy and excited…….

​silly. but I’ll take it!!!!!!!!!!

[yume-no-miya]

look i love making sae be the one who's so in love and showering hajun with so much love and affection but it's much more fun to think that HE fell harder than her

[hotsugarbyglassanimals]

I have this continual fear that if i keep telling people about deadlines i set for myself and failing to deliver that they're going to get increasingly impatient with me and Dislike working with me. this is more specific with the research program im in ftr but like. the worry is that aspect of me will be seen as such a sore point that it will negate all other positive aspects they see in me. and then i get shocked when people verbalize how much they enjoyed working with me or how much they like my work

[gf2bellamy]

surprise — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: garcia and derek go into spencer's apartment, while you're sleeping in his bed. the problem? no one knows you and spencer are dating content warnings: secret relationship , reader also works in the bau a/n: hiii !!! i'm back to my secret relationship roots and i hope you like this <3 bc i had so much fun writing this ( i've been writing it for ages and i'm finally happy with it)

"No, no," Spencer shook his head frantically, his voice almost pleading as Derek maneuvered the car into the parking spot at his apartment complex.

"Why not?" Garcia's voice was full of curiosity as she looked back at Spencer from the passenger seat.

The trio had spent the whole afternoon shopping for your birthday, which was just around the corner. Garcia, as usual, had already gotten everything ready—gifts, decorations, the whole nine yards. She even had a closet near her office packed with presents for you, waiting for the big reveal at the surprise party she was planning to throw at the BAU.

The whole mission was meant to be a fun, collaborative effort, the three of them picking out something special for you to celebrate.

But now, as Derek parked the car and they were all about to get out, Garcia’s sudden idea was making Spencer break into a cold sweat.

"I mean, we can just hang out at your place for a bit, right?" Garcia asked, her tone more like a suggestion than a question. She had already unbuckled her seatbelt, clearly excited about the idea.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the seatbelt.

"I don’t know if that’s such a good idea," he said quickly, trying to sound casual, though the nerves were practically radiating off of him.

"I have… stuff to do." His words stumbled, but Derek caught on immediately.

"You've got a date or something?" Derek teased, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Reid, live a little."

Spencer’s face turned a light shade of pink, but he quickly deflected with a nervous laugh. "No, no date," he replied, but the nervous energy in his tone was giving him away. "I just—uh—need to get inside."

Garcia didn't miss a beat. "Come on, Spencer," she insisted with that gleam of excitement in her eyes. "It’s been forever since we just hung out at your place. You know, a little downtime."

But Spencer’s mind was racing, heart pounding.

The last thing he needed was for Derek and Garcia to come upstairs and see you there.

He knew you were in his apartment right now, sound asleep in his bed, curled up in one of his sweaters. This morning, you had practically melted into him that morning, clinging to him as he reluctantly told you he had to go.

You had been so warm, your face tucked into the side of his neck, holding him like you didn’t want him to leave. He’d rubbed soothing circles on your back, whispering that he’d be back soon, but you hadn't been ready to let go. Eventually, he had managed to peel himself away, promising to return as quickly as possible.

Now, his heart pounded as he watched Derek and Garcia hop out of the car without hesitation.

"No, no, no—" Spencer muttered under his breath, scrambling to open his own door. He practically stumbled out, rushing after them, but they were already making their way toward his apartment building.

They didn’t even wait for him.

"Of course," he thought bitterly as he hurried behind them. He knew he was too late. There was no way he could stop them now. His only hope was that you were still asleep.

And there was a high chance that you were.

Spencer knew your sleep schedule well—knew exactly how you curled up beneath his sheets, how deep you slept when wrapped in one of his sweaters. If he could just get inside before them and shut his bedroom door, everything would be fine.

As they reached the top floor, Spencer’s fingers fumbled in his pocket for his keys. His hands were practically shaking as he yanked them out, quickly jamming the correct one into the lock.

Slowly, he pushed the door open just a crack, peeking inside, praying you weren’t—

"Dr. Reid. What are you doing?" Garcia’s voice was laced with amusement as she leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a smirk.

Before Spencer could stop her, she pushed the door open wider, stepping inside.

Panic surged through him. His breath caught in his throat.

But—

You were nowhere to be seen.

His eyes darted toward the bedroom door. It was closed.

No sign of you.

Spencer swallowed hard, trying to compose himself as Garcia and Derek strolled inside, completely oblivious to the absolute terror he had just experienced.

Spencer quickly shut the door behind them, tossing his jacket over the nearest chair—something he never did. Normally, he was meticulous about hanging it up properly, but right now, his priority was making sure nothing seemed off.

Slipping off his shoes, he warily watched as Garcia and Derek made a beeline for his kitchen.

As they rummaged through his cabinets, Spencer seized the opportunity.

He darted down the hallway toward the bedroom, his socked feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek inside, and there you were, still fast asleep, curled up under the blankets with his sweater draped loosely over your shoulders.

The sight made his chest tighten with affection, and a small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips.

He closed the door gently, careful not to make a sound, and hurried back to the kitchen before they could notice his absence.

Crisis averted.

He stopped in his tracks, however, when he saw the disaster unfolding before him.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, exasperated, watching as Derek and Garcia rummaged through his cabinets like raccoons.

Garcia, mid-bite into a granola bar, waved a hand dismissively. “Relax, genius, we’re just looking for snacks. By the way—” she held up the granola bar with a raised brow, “—I thought you hated these?”

Spencer froze.

He did. He never ate those granola bars.

But you did.

You loved them, so he always kept some stocked just for you.

He scrambled for an excuse, clearing his throat. “Uh—I just wanted to give them another try,” he mumbled, avoiding Garcia’s sharp, suspicious gaze.

Derek, now chewing a piece of toast, barely looked up. “Yeah, okay,” he said, mouth full.

Spencer shot him an unamused glare. “Can the two of you stop eating my food?”

“No,” Derek replied, taking another bite, completely unbothered. 

Spencer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know, most people ask before raiding someone’s kitchen,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. 

Garcia giggled, popping the last bite of granola bar into her mouth. “Oh, come on, Genius. You love us. Besides, you’re acting super weird today. What’s going on with you?” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly looked away, busying himself with straightening a stack of papers on the counter.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, his voice a little too high-pitched. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.” 

Garcia and Derek just exchanged a look.

Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to get them out of here before they found something they weren’t supposed to. 

Like, say… you.

“Do you think she’ll like my gift?” Garcia asked, peeking at the bag on the counter, her fingers fidgeting with the ribbon.

“Most definitely, babygirl,” Derek answered without hesitation, dusting the crumbs off his hands after finishing his toast. “She’s been talking about it for weeks.”

Spencer, still trying to recover from his near heart attack, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, she’ll love it,” he said, meeting Garcia’s eyes with a small, reassuring smile.

Garcia beamed, clearly pleased with herself. “Oh, she’ll love yours, boy genius,” she added, pointing at Spencer. “You know her so well.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, her grin mischievous.

“Maybe too well,” Derek chimed in, eyebrows raised as he leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. His grin was knowing, smug.

Spencer stiffened.

“When are you finally gonna ask her out?” Derek asked, his grin widening.

Spencer felt his face heat up instantly. He blushed, but not for the reason they thought.

He blushed because he remembered the day it happened. 

The way his heart had pounded in his chest, his palms sweaty as he rehearsed the words in his head over and over. He’d been so nervous, he’d almost convinced himself to back out.

But then he’d seen you—your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you noticed him approaching—and all his doubts had melted away. 

When he finally asked, his voice trembling slightly, your reaction had been everything he’d hoped for. Your face had lit up, and you’d nodded so quickly, it was almost comical.

“Yes!” you’d said, your voice filled with so much enthusiasm that it made him laugh. In that moment, all his anxiety had washed away, replaced by a giddy, almost overwhelming sense of relief and joy. 

“Aww, how cute!” Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she pointed an accusatory finger at Spencer. “He’s blushing,” she sang, her grin stretching impossibly wide. 

Spencer groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. “Did you two come into my apartment just to eat my food and make fun of me?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Pretty much,” Derek said, completely unfazed as he made his way back toward the fridge.

Spencer let out a sharp breath, trying to mask his anxiety. He knew you were still asleep, but that didn’t stop the lingering fear that their loud voices might wake you up.

But then, Derek stopped in front of the fridge.

His eyes locked onto the calendar hanging there, and a slow, amused smirk spread across his face.

“Look at this, sweetheart,” Derek said, turning toward Garcia, his voice thick with amusement.

Garcia leaned in, her eyes widening as she saw what Derek was pointing at. There, on the calendar, your birthday was circled in bold red marker, surrounded by a carefully drawn heart.

Garcia gasped, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh. My. God,” she said, her voice rising with every word. “Spencer Reid, you are down bad!”

Spencer felt his face burn even hotter. He wished he could disappear into the floor—or maybe just teleport to another dimension entirely. Anything to escape this moment.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t been the one to draw that heart on the calendar. It had been you.

He remembered the moment perfectly.

The day he hung the calendar up, you had been standing right there beside him, watching with an amused little smile. Then, without hesitation, you had grabbed the nearest marker—a red one, of course—and went straight to your birthday month, drawing a huge heart around the date.

"So you don’t forget."

He had chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. Then, he had pressed a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring against your skin—

"I don’t forget anything. Especially not something like that."

You had giggled.

And Spencer had loved making you giggle.

Now, standing in his kitchen, faced with his coworkers’ relentless teasing, he was struck with the embarrassing realization that Derek and Garcia thought he was some hopelessly lovesick teenager who had scribbled hearts around his crush’s name in a notebook.

(Which—if he was being completely honest—wasn’t that far from the truth.)

But what was he supposed to say?

Tell them the truth? Admit that the woman he’d been secretly dating for months—the same woman they were here shopping for—was currently asleep in his bed down the hall?

Absolutely not.

But then—

The choice was taken away from him anyway.

Suddenly, the sound of running water echoed from down the hallway, causing both Garcia and Derek to freeze mid-sentence. Their heads snapped toward the source of the noise, their eyes widening as they stared at Spencer.

Spencer stared back, equally wide-eyed, his mind racing. You were in the bathroom, happily brushing your teeth, completely unaware that two of your—and Spencer’s—coworkers were standing in the kitchen, mere feet away.

“Spencer Walter Reid,” Garcia gasped, her voice loud enough to carry through the apartment. She clutched Derek’s arm like she was about to faint. “Is there someone here?”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so vigorously that his curls bounced. “It’s probably just my washing machine turning on.”

As if on cue, the bathroom door creaked open, and then closed again. Spencer’s heart sank.

“Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots.

And then, there you were.

You padded into the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the chaos you were about to unleash.

You were wearing Spencer’s boxers, which hung loosely around your hips, and one of his Star Wars shirts that was far too big for you, the hem brushing against your thighs. Your hair was slightly messy, and you were still rubbing sleep from your eyes.

Then you stopped.

Blinking, you finally seemed to register the two extra people in the room.

Garcia. Derek.

Standing there.

Staring.

At you.

In Spencer’s clothes.

Two pairs of eyes stared at you. And you stared back, your own eyes wide, your brain struggling to process the scene in front of you. Spencer, meanwhile, was staring at the ground like it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole.

Garcia broke the silence, her voice low and uncharacteristically quiet—something almost more shocking than if she’d screamed.

“Am I… dreaming?” she whispered, clutching Derek’s arm like a lifeline. She looked pale, her usual vibrant energy replaced by sheer disbelief as she took in your disheveled state.

Derek, for once, seemed just as stunned. “I… no, I don’t think so,” he said hesitantly, his usual confidence replaced by uncharacteristic uncertainty.

He blinked at you, then at Spencer, then back at you, as if trying to piece together what exactly was happening.

“Spencer,” you hissed, your voice low but urgent. “What the hell is happening?” You tugged self-consciously at the hem of his Star Wars shirt, trying to pull it down further.

Normally, you were the picture of professionalism at work, always impeccably dressed and composed.

But here you were, standing in Spencer’s kitchen in his boxers and an oversized shirt, your hair a mess and your face still flushed from sleep.

It was beyond awkward—it was mortifying.

Spencer finally looked up, his expression a mix of guilt and panic. “I, uh… this isn’t—” he started, but Garcia cut him off.

“Oh no, no, no,” Garcia said, her voice rising with every word, her hands flailing dramatically. “You do not get to ‘this isn’t’ us right now. This is happening. This is definitely happening.”

She pointed a finger at you, then at Spencer, her eyes wide.

“You two. Together. In his apartment. Wearing his clothes. Oh my gosh, this is the best day of my life.”

You froze, your cheeks burning as you tugged self-consciously at the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Penelope, it’s not—” you started, but she cut you off with a wave of her hand.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she said, shaking her head so vigorously that her curls bounced. “No explanations, no excuses. This is happening. I have been waiting for this moment for years.”

Spencer groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Garcia, please—”

“No,” she interrupted again, her voice rising an octave. “You don’t get to ‘Garcia, please’ me right now. This is huge. This is monumental. This is—”

“A disaster,” Spencer muttered under his breath, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Derek, who had been quietly observing the scene with an amused grin, finally chimed in. “Man, Reid, I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is so embarrassing,” you muttered, though there was a hint of laughter in your voice.

Garcia, meanwhile, was practically bouncing on her toes, her excitement palpable. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to tell—”

“No!” Spencer and you said in unison, your voices sharp enough to make Garcia freeze mid-sentence.

“You are not telling anyone,” Spencer said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Garcia pouted, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Fine, fine. But only because I’m feeling generous. For now.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, this is going to be the best office drama ever.”

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going back to bed,” you muttered, turning on your heel and heading back down the hallway.

As you disappeared into the bedroom, Garcia and Derek turned to Spencer, their expressions a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Pretty Boy,” Derek said, his grin widening.

Spencer sighed, knowing there was no escaping this. “Yeah,” he said, his voice resigned. “I know.”

[nadvs]

the power play (part one)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

tags college au. fake dating. grumpy athlete/sunshine tutor. reader is bubbly, talkative, and passionate about literature. very slowburn. he falls first. alcohol use. suggestive moments, but no smut.

power play (noun)

an offensive tactic in a team sport; a deliberate attempt to manipulate someone.

════════

You hoped it wouldn’t feel the way it used to, but as you sit in the stands behind the home bench next to Lyla, it’s all the same.

You’re watching Beck zip across the ice with a painfully familiar sense of longing hammering into your chest. Falling for him always felt inevitable; you just didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be there to catch you.

When you and Lyla became friends in the ninth grade, you quickly grew close to her family, spending more time at their house than your own, tagging along to watch her twin brother’s hockey games.

The more you got to know Beck, the more you fell under his spell, charmed by his warmth, by every part of him that made him the most captivating person you’d ever met.

He stole your heart. Considering the way he treated you, you were sure you’d stolen his, too.

You spent most of last semester helping him with a class, even though you were in the same overwhelming throws of being a college freshman. Every study session in his dorm room drifted by with an undercurrent of certainty that he felt something, too.

It crushed you to realize that it’d all been in your head. A few weeks ago, you’d met him after his final exam, which he said he knew he nailed thanks to you.

You thought he was finally going to make the move that felt like it’d been hanging over you for years. But all he did was pull you into a side-hug and say, “You’re more of a friend to me than my own sister.”

Thinking about it still makes you cringe. You hate how weak you feel ruminating over this, trying to get over someone you were never even with.

It’s a Wednesday night two weeks into the spring semester, and you’re at the first home game you’ve been to in a while. Although you’ve always loved the loud, buzzing atmosphere of a hockey game, you’ve been staying far away from the campus arena and the man who hurt you.

You haven’t spoken to Beck. And he hasn’t reached out. What he did was an indirect rejection, his way of saying, It’s obvious that you like me and I need you to know once and for all that I don’t like you back.

Since then, every time your best friend has asked you to come to games or parties, you’ve told her you’ve been too busy, using your new position in a tutoring program as your excuse.

You prefer a distraction from Beck, and helping other students with a subject you’re passionate about has done the job.

But you can’t blow Lyla off forever, so now, you’re sitting with her in the stands among a small crowd of spectators.

The championship season begins in a month. Every seat will be full then. But you wish more people were around now. You welcome any noise to drown out your thoughts.

Everyone else cheers when Beck smashes the puck against the back of the net, securing the team’s first goal. You find it hard to join the celebration. Even though you’ve always thought of him as kind, you wonder if he could tell how much you liked him. If he consciously led you on.

For years, you’d watched him date other girls, hoping he’d finally realize you were the right one for him all along. You daydreamed far too much about him, imagining that he’d become your first boyfriend and take you on your first date and give you your first kiss.

The alarm blares to signal the end of the second period, pulling you out the haze you’ve fallen into a thousand times since that day in front of his exam room.

“You want to get some snacks?” Lyla asks.

“Sure,” you reply, doing your best impression of a girl with nothing weighing on her.

Once you walk up to the end of one of the arena’s concession stand lines, Lyla recognizes the people standing in front of you, greeting both girls with smiles and hugs.

Through introductions, you learn that Emma and Gabby are friends Lyla made at a party last semester. After some small talk as the line shuffles forward, Lyla points back to the rink.

“The seats next to us are empty if you want to sit with us,” she offers.

Emma and Gabby happily join you as you settle back in your seats soon after. You gaze ahead at the empty rink as they chat, the 3-1 score glaring above the ice in red neon numbers.

“No way the coach isn’t chewing them out right now,” Lyla says with a shake of her head.

“Why do you know on the team again?” Emma asks.

“My brother, Beck,” Lyla says. “You?”

Emma’s mouth twists into a tense smile.

“My ex,” she says, her voice lowering. “I wish he didn’t play, because I actually really love coming to these games.”

“Bad breakup?” you surmise.

“Brutal,” Gabby chimes in. You can tell by her expression that she’d supported her friend through the fallout.

“I just don’t want him to see me here and think it means something,” Emma sighs. “If he thinks that I want to get back together, it’ll be a disaster. We broke up a month ago and he’s still bothering me.”

You hardly know this girl, and you know her ex even less, but your reflex is to feel bad for him. You’re well acquainted with the pain that comes with caring about somebody who doesn’t want you.

“Oh, yeah,” Lyla remembers. “Rafe, right?”

Emma nods.

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs.

The three girls share a knowing look, something unsaid passing through them.

You don’t know much about Rafe. On the rink, he’s a strong, aggressive defenseman, a sophomore who spends more time in the penalty box than any other player. You’ve seen him at a couple of parties, too, but never exchanged any words.

You don't understand the girls’ tense reactions to the mention of his name.

“What am I missing?” you half-whisper.

“You’d be missing nothing if you actually came to the parties I invite you to,” Lyla teases.

You can count on one hand how many parties you’ve been to since you started college. But it works for you. A party every few weeks is enough.

“I come when I can,” you reply, nudging her playfully. “Fill me in.”

“He’s a trainwreck,” Emma explains to you. “He has a million red flags that I ignored because I thought he was hot. Literally all we ever did was fight.”

“Yeah,” Lyla huffs, raising her brows. She looks at you. “Maybe it’s actually a good thing you don’t come to every party.”

You consider their words. They must have had a penchant for making a scene, shamelessly arguing in front of a crowd.

“I couldn’t take how mean and moody he was anymore. I dumped him and he won’t let it go.” Emma breathes a laugh. “It’s pathetic. He even called me crying the other night.”

Again, a confusing pang of sympathy for him hits you. It has to be your own heartbreak influencing you. You can’t imagine you’d normally feel bad for a guy described as having a million red flags.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“I’m over it,” Emma says carelessly.

“He’s not,” Gabby murmurs.

The players storm out on the rink again moments later, blades slicing the ice. They’re all so fast and powerful, and knowing that Rafe, the most forceful one of the group, is going through a version of the pain you are is oddly comforting.

A couple of minutes in, he gets thrown into the penalty box for charging an opponent. He skates to the opposite side of the rink, Cameron stitched across the black polyester of his jersey.

He stares at the floor as he waits out his penalty, tense, still. You think that if someone who looks so big and strong can hurt just like you, maybe you’re not as weak as you think.

════════

Rafe swings open the library entrance door with a scowl, irritated as hell that he has to be here. It’s annoying that the athletic department gives this much of a shit about players’ grades. Rafe knows he’s one of the best on the hockey team. He wishes that were enough.

Freshman year was fine, but he barely made it through last semester. He just failed his first assignment in a half-term literature course that was supposed to be an easy A.

Coach wasn’t pleased, saying it could screw up his GPA and deem him ineligible to play. Rafe tried to convince him that he’d do better on the next one, but Coach set him up with a tutor, unwilling to hear him out.

He’s already hardwired into a constant state of anger. Life has always been a storm, and now more than ever, there's no refuge in sight.

He's dealing with a coach who has no hope in him, on top of a painful breakup, on top of a shitty loss last night, on top of the fact that now he’s being forced to talk to a stranger about some boring book.

He can’t catch a break.

He looks at the email on his phone again. Study Room 205. He eventually finds the open door and taps his knuckles on it to get your attention.

You lock eyes with the person you’ve been waiting on for the last ten minutes. You had no idea who was coming up to meet you – just that the athletic department set it up.

But you know him. Or of him, at least.

A second ago, you were thinking about how you’ll have to ask whoever you’re meeting to be on time for future sessions. Now, your mind is consumed by the harsh words you heard about him last night.

“Hi,” you say politely. “Are you here for Lit Arts?”

He nods tersely in confirmation, stepping in. He drops his bag onto one of the empty chairs surrounding the square desk in the middle of the small room. You introduce yourself and when he sits down diagonally opposite to you, he murmurs, “Rafe.”

Discomfort swirls in your stomach. You’d heard something so personal about him at the rink, gazed at him in the penalty box from a distance, feeling like he’s a kindred spirit, and now you have to pretend like none of it happened.

“You’re on the hockey team, right?” you ask.

He realizes he’s seen you before. He can’t figure out where.

“Yeah.”

“I was at the game last night. Tough loss.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically. You clear your throat, figuring it’s best to skip the small talk.

“I took this class last semester. I know exactly how the prof grades, so you’re lucky to have me in your corner.”

Rafe is many things right now. Lucky isn’t one of them.

“Do you have your laptop?” you ask.

He unzips his bag and pulls out his computer.

“You can go to the course portal,” you tell him. He lets out an exhale as he navigates to the webpage. You lean closer to make sure that the class is currently on the book you brought with you.

You pull out your copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, page edges littered with different colored sticky tabs.

“Did you get a chance to start the book?” you ask.

He shakes his head. He’s not hiding that he really doesn’t want to be here. Nonetheless, you’re determined to crack him.

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, picking up that he planned to coast through the class, not even bothering to buy and read any of the books.

“Do you like reading?” you ask.

“Nah,” he says with a grimace, as if he’s offended you’d assume that.

“You might like some of the books on the syllabus. This class is a lot of fun.”

“Fun,” he echoes with a stare that makes him look like he wants to bolt out of the door he just came through.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you reply with a smile. “Your idea of fun is skating around and getting slammed into walls. I should be the one judging you.”

He gazes at you like you’re from another planet, blue eyes hard on you. It’s nothing short of amusing.

You pull his laptop closer, hovering the cursor over the ‘My Grades’ tab, and ask, “Do you mind if I check how you did on your last assignment?”

“I bombed it,” he says.

As you gaze at the screen, Rafe clues in on where he’s seen you before. With one of the team’s freshmen.

Varsity athletes who live on campus are lumped together in the same dormitory block, and he’s seen you hanging around with Beck, going in and out of his room.

He wouldn’t consider Beck a friend. He’s a teammate and at best, an acquaintance. The guy’s a kiss-ass to Coach, and does everything by the book, skipping most parties and never drinking.

It makes complete sense that a rule-follower like Beck would date a good girl like you. Who the fuck calls a class fun?

You click to see his failing grade percentage for the first assignment of the semester in bolded red.

“Did you get any feedback on where you went wrong?” you ask. You know he’s going to shake his head before he does it. He doesn’t seem to care at all. “You have a whole semester to get your grade up. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.

“Well… maybe you should worry a little bit,” you say lightheartedly. “I know your coach is serious about grades.”

Rafe figures you must have heard that from your boyfriend. Maybe Beck took this class, too. It’s popular among busy student athletes because it’s supposed to be an easy way to fulfill a humanities credit.

He could just convince Beck to give him copies of his assignments. He’d have to change stuff around, but at least he’d get out of tutoring.

“Did you help Beck with this class?” he asks.

You’re taken aback by the sudden reminder of him, brows knitting together, a shift in your breezy demeanor.

“You’re his girl, right?” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“No. We’re– we’re friends.” You chew on your bottom lip. Tutoring is supposed to be a distraction from Beck, not the topic of conversation. But your curiosity burns in you and there’s no chance of putting it out. “Did he talk about me or something?”

“No,” he says, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I just figured ‘cause you’re with him all the time.”

“Right,” you say. All the time. Like a lost puppy, no doubt. Embarrassment pricks at your skin. “I helped him with another class. We’re friends.”

Rafe cracks his first smirk since he walked into this stuffy little room. You said friends twice, both times with uncertainty.

“You sure?” he chides.

“What?” you say stiffly. “Yes. I am.”

You crack open the book.

“So, A Portrait is about a man named Stephen who navigates the idea of identity,” you say quickly, trying to shake off your nerves. “We should look at the discussion question.”

You shut the book abruptly, then turn your attention to the laptop.

“You need to write a 1,500-word reflection for each book,” you ramble. “You’ll do better if you find a personal connection to the text. Maybe we start there.”

Rafe watches the nervous way your eyes dart around the screen as you scroll. His joke threw you into a tense, awkward panic that he has no interest in being around.

“You can relax,” he says. “I don’t care if you like him.”

You don’t look at him. You thought you were relaxed.

“Well, I don’t.”

You scroll to the question, one word in particular striking you.

What role does Emma play in Stephen’s growth and how he defines himself?

Of course. As if you needed another reason for this to be even more awkward.

Seeing Rafe’s ex’s name makes what she’d told you about him echo through your head again. Despite his teasing, the sympathy you felt for him comes back tenfold.

You know things about him that you shouldn’t. You feel a responsibility to balance the scales, but the air is too tense, the unfamiliarity too uncomfortable.

“Did you take a look at the question?” you ask.

He shakes his head, still slouched back. At this point, his apathy is starting to get to you.

“Listen, I can tell you don’t want to be here, but could you please try to meet me in the middle?” you say.

Rafe’s lips pull into a firm line, but he relents and leans closer to look at the screen. His body goes cold when he sees her name. He’d rather not be reminded of the girl who broke his heart right now.

“Emma is Stephen’s love interest,” you begin, trying to act like you don’t know a thing about his past relationship. “He sees her as something she’s not.”

You leaf through the book, finding a note you’d written in the margin.

“She represents idealization,” you read. You look up at him again. “Stephen sees by the end that she’s just a normal person, not this perfect girl he thought she was for so many years.”

You open a blank document on his laptop.

“We can write up some notes to start us off,” you say. “This prof grades high when you relate to the text. He likes the sentimental stuff, so until you read the book, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”

You chew on your lip again, unsure if you should bring up what you heard in the stands. It feels unethical either way.

“It doesn’t have to be a person,” you say. “It could be a place or an experience. Have you ever thought something was great and then realized it wasn’t?”

Rafe’s stomach is in a knot. The thought of being tutored and having his hand held through a class was bad enough. Now he has to get into his feelings with you?

“I don’t know,” he says.

You look at the blinking cursor, your head cocked in thought.

“Maybe relating it to a person would be easier, then?” you ask.

Nothing can make this easier. Rafe rakes his hair back, gazing down at your hands stalled over his keyboard.

“I get that this is awkward,” you say. “But it doesn’t have to be anything super personal. You could even make something up if you want.”

He only purses his lips, eyes fixed on your hands, as if he hopes you’ll give in and just do his work for him.

You take a deep breath and interlace your fingers on the desk. You figure that if you’re a little vulnerable, he might be, too.

He’s unknowingly feeling the same pain you are and saying the truth out loud to someone who gets it might even be a relief. There’s a risk of it getting back to Beck, but something tells you Rafe’s not much of a gossiper anyway.

“To be honest, yes, I like Beck. I thought he felt the same, but he doesn’t. Between you and me, sometimes I think he took me for granted and led me on. I idealized a friendship and it ended up hurting me. If this were my assignment, I’d relate to the book with that.”

Rafe is thrown off by your sudden honesty. It’s actually refreshing, considering all the bullshit he’s been dealing with lately.

He looks at you wordlessly.

“It’s just an example,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I did well in this class because I found pieces of myself in every book. All you need to do is read the material, find something you can relate to, write a decent report, and you’ll get a good grade. Well, that and prepare for the midterm and the final.”

“This class was supposed to be easy,” he finally says under his breath.

“Can you let me know when you’re going to be done complaining?” you ask playfully, looking up at the clock. “It’s been five minutes and you’re still going.”

Rafe huffs an almost-laugh. He adjusts his posture again, pulling at the collar of his hoodie.

“You really don’t have to be specific,” you reassure him. You tap your fingers over the keyboard again, just light enough to not press any buttons. “If you can relate the character of Emma to someone, you don’t have to say their name.”

Your eyes stay glued to the screen, your shoulders stiff as you wait. You’re acting weird again. The way you said Emma’s name looked like it pained you.

And it dawns on him.

“Should’ve known she’d talk shit,” he realizes. “What’d she tell you?”

“What?” you say, meeting his gaze.

“What did Emma say about me?” Rafe drawls, his deep voice reverberating through you.

Your lips part, but words refuse to form. For a guy that doesn’t like to read, he’s very good at doing it to you.

Rafe leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. You can now see what makes him so intimidating on the ice. Every edge of his face is sharp now, apathy replaced with intensity.

“Nothing,” you reply. “It’s not my business.”

How did he not clue in before? If you run in the hockey team’s social circle, of course you heard about their breakup.

Emma never cared to keep things private. And you’re so willing to share your own personal stuff because you know more about him than you’re letting on. Because you pity him.

“Come on,” he scoffs, frustrated.

“I met her at the rink last night. She just mentioned you used to date.”

He shrugs impatiently, a silent request that you keep talking. You sigh.

“She said she likes coming to games, but it’s hard to because her ex is on the team.” You grimace. There’s no way you’d actually tell him all of it, all of the insults she muttered. “It’s not worth repeating, but… basically, she told me she broke things off and you won’t move on.”

Rafe nods, lips twisting. The way she’s been ignoring his texts and his calls to try to fix things stung enough. Talking to strangers to embarrass him hurts on an entirely different level.

He didn’t know Emma could be this cruel. This is mortifying. He’s done trying to make things work with her. No matter how hard the loneliness is hitting him.

You slide the book across the desk towards him, desperate to move past the tension.

“You can start reading,” you say. “And you don’t have to buy any of the books. I’ll just lend you mine. I’ll get some notes down for you to work from and you can do the personal connection part on your own.”

You start to type and immediately wonder if he’ll drop the class. You’ve never had that happen with someone you tutored before, but you wouldn’t blame him.

It must feel crappy to hear from a girl you don’t even know that your ex is saying bad things about you. A girl that you have to see every Thursday afternoon for the next three months.

Rafe cracks open the book in the middle to fan through the pages, a weight sitting on his chest. The pages are worn, words underlined, notes scribbled in the margins.

“You put this through the washing machine or something?” he murmurs.

“I’ve read it a few times,” you say simply. You keep typing.

Emma said he’d called her crying. It’s hard to imagine the man sitting next to you crying. It’s weird knowing something about someone that they wouldn't want you to know.

Rafe’s already bored with the first sentence. It’s long and confusing and completely uninteresting. His eyes drift up, absorbing the way your face softly creases in concentration as you type.

Now that you’re not talking at a thousand words a second, he can actually take you in.

You’re the type of girl he’d approach at a party. There’s no doubt about that. But once you’d start yapping about reading like you just did, about finding pieces of yourself in a book, he’d find a way out of the conversation.

Playing hockey at the college level is demanding; he likes the other things in his life to be fun and easy. Keeping up with a girl like you and pretending he’s interested in whatever you’re rambling about would be neither.

As he studies you, he doesn’t get why Beck friendzoned you. You’re pretty. And you’re the same type of person as Beck: straight-edge and so cheerful it’s annoying.

Rafe is typically one to outright say what he’s thinking, but he has the restraint to keep the idea he just had to himself. He needs to sleep on it. He’s done some crazy shit since Emma broke his heart and he’d rather not add to the tally.

You notice him looking at you in your peripheral vision.

“You’re not thinking of dropping the class, are you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. His eyes stay on you for another beat, then find the words on the page again.

════════

You thought Rafe came to your first session in a bad mood. Compared to how you feel right now, he was peachy.

Lyla called you on your way to the library and mentioned in passing that her brother asked about you last night. She said Beck seemed like he missed you, all sympathetic when he asked, is she doing okay?

She’s oblivious to the real reason he brought it up. And it’s irritating. Because he doesn’t even ask you himself. Because he’s right. He knows that his passive rejection left a wound.

“You’re on time,” you say in surprise when Rafe saunters into the study room.

“You talk a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m not interested in a lecture after you told me not to be late.”

Despite your bad mood, you crack an amused smile. You’d ended last week’s session telling him that tardiness was not only disrespectful to you, but to his own academic success. He rolled his eyes, but he clearly listened.

Rafe settles in the same chair as last time, holding your copy of the book he was supposed to read.

“Did you read it?”

“Mostly.”

“What’d you think?” you say with hope.

“Boring.”

“Fair,” you say. You gesture for his laptop. “Let’s see how far you got on the report.”

Your brows drop in disappointment when you see how much he added to the file. It’s a bunch of pasted summaries and disorganized thoughts, taking up only half the page.

You eventually reach the end of your hour-long session and have him read over the assignment one last time before submitting it. You check the syllabus to confirm what the next book is, then shut his computer.

“Try to have more for us to work with next time,” you tell him. “And you should have the next book totally read by then, too, okay?”

You hand him your copy of Pride and Prejudice and push your seat back, ignoring his frustrated sigh.

“You talk to Beck lately?” he asks after a beat.

“What?” you say, face screwing up. You’re reminded all over again of what Lyla said. “No. Why?”

“You’re still pissed at him,” he says. He’s confident, coming to the conclusion himself instead of waiting for you to admit it.

“Why are you talking about this? We had a perfectly nice hour together,” you try to joke.

Rafe finally gives a voice to what’s been swirling in his mind since last week. He’s used to being mad, to feeling spiteful, but the way his ex broke his heart has never made him want revenge more. He wants to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wants to make her regret leaving him.

“We should get back at them,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” you say, your chin dipping as you stare at him.

“Hear me out,” he tells you. “We’re going to keep seeing Beck and Emma around, right? We could make it look like we’re better off without them. Make them jealous.”

You squint, waiting for the details. Rafe draws in a sharp inhale.

“She said I’m not over her, right? And you said he took you for granted. If they think we moved on, I bet at least one of ‘em will realize they fucked up.”

You consider it. Admittedly, making Beck think you’re perfectly fine – no, thriving – after his rejection is enticing.

“Okay, how do we get back at them exactly?” you ask.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck. It’s the first time he seems kind of nervous to you.

“We pretend we’re together,” he says.

“You and…” You look over your shoulder, because he must be talking to somebody else who snuck into the room at some point. “You and me? Together together?”

“I know. It wouldn’t ever happen.”

You can’t even be offended. He’s right. He’s a skilled hockey player and undeniably good-looking, but that’s where the compliments end.

Two afternoons of working together and making small talk have shown you that you have nothing in common. And frankly, while you do laugh off his bad attitude, it gets on your nerves.

A relationship would never work, let alone even begin.

“But they don’t know that,” he continues. “All they’ll see is that someone they lost is happy without them.”

Your mind starts racing. The years of pining over Beck, the pain of his rejection, the frustration over him asking his sister how you’re holding up. They’ve all left cracks in your heart.

The more Rafe thinks about rubbing his happiness into Emma’s face, even if it’s bullshit, the more he hopes you’ll be on board. But you’re not saying a word.

“If you’re not in, fine,” he sighs, pushing his chair back to start to leave. He should have figured you’d be too uptight to do it. “I’m just saying I bet you wouldn’t hate making Beck sweat.”

He stands up, but you hear yourself say, “Wait.”

Then you hold out your hand.

Rafe breathes an amused chuckle, flashing the first sincere smile you’ve seen on his face, when he realizes what you’re doing.

Your hand slips into his, touching for the first time to seal the deal and shake on it.

“This is insane,” you say. “Count me in.”

next >

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘 divider credit.

[luvleyshif4]

bf!rafe Cameron x gf!reader

Summery~ bf!rafe coming back home from work to find a flustered and horny gf!reader but she can’t say it cause she’s shy.

Content~ Sexual tension, shy reader, slight humping, neck kissing, use of words like ‘princess, baby’ etc…

Authors Note~ Heyy!! I’m kinda trying out a new format so that’s why this looks like what it looks like… also this was so yum to write idk why but I just lowkey love this so much. Enjoy💗💗

Pt2

Rafe walks through the front door, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, tie loose around his neck, and hair messy from a long day at work. He drops his keys on the counter, letting out a sigh before he catches sight of you leaning against the kitchen island.

you stood there, clutching a glass of water in an effort to distract yourself from the way your stomach flips every time you see him.

"Hey, princess," he greets, his deep voice tinged with affection as he crosses the room in a few easy strides.

He reaches you, his hands immediately finding your waist like they always do, and presses a soft, casual kiss to your lips.

You're breathless by the time he pulls away, though he doesn't notice, already moving toward the fridge. "Miss me?" he teases lightly, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he grabs a water bottle.

"Always," you mumble, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. He shoots you a quick grin, but you can tell he doesn't think much of it. He's too busy twisting the cap off the bottle and leaning against the counter opposite you, taking a long sip.

"So," he starts, setting the bottle down and resting one hand on the counter behind him. "Dad had me running in circles all day. He's got this big deal he's working on, and guess who got stuck doing all the legwork."

You nod along, trying to seem like you're listening, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his chest looked with the first few buttons open, the way his throat moves when he talks. His voice, low and casual, is like a drug, making your pulse race.

He's oblivious to your inner turmoil, stepping closer to you as he continues talking. His hands naturally find your waist again as he leans in slightly, not because he's trying to fluster you, but because it's just second nature for him to be close to you.

"And then-" His words trail off as, without even thinking, he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. The movement is so smooth, so casual, that it barely registers for him.

But for you, it's like a spark to a flame.

Your breath hitches as he sets you down, his hands still lingering on your hips.

He doesn't notice, though. He's still talking, still distracted, one hand on the counter beside you and the other lazily brushing against your hip.

It's too much. You can't take it anymore.

You slide forward slightly, your hips brushing against his, and suddenly, his voice falters.

He looks down at the contact, then back up at you, his expression flickering between confusion and realization.

"Oh," he breathes, his voice dropping an octave.

You feel like your face is on fire, but you can't stop yourself. Your hips roll gently, testing the waters, and you swear you see his jaw clench.

"Baby..." His tone shifts, softer, deeper.

His hands tighten on your hips as he steps closer, his body completely flush against yours now. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

You mumble something incoherent, too shy to respond, but the way his lips curve into a grin makes it clear he understands now.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, "Too shy, huh?" He chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

His mouth trails down your jaw to your neck, peppering soft, teasing kisses along your skin. Each press of his lips leaves you breathless, and before you realize it, your hands are tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Your breathing grows heavier, the sensation of his lips on your neck too much and not enough all at once. A quiet sound escapes your lips, a soft moan that you can't hold back, and he freezes for a moment.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice dropping further as he effortlessly lifts you off the counter and walks towards the bedroom. "Let me take care of you."

Authors Note~ I was thinking If there could be a part 2 for this…and if there could..how would it be? LEMME KNOW IF I SHOULD MAKE ONE💗

[holdinggrudges]

i can be your antidote - sam winchester

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, sex curse, fuck or die, mildly dubious consent (because of the fuck or die of it all), fem!reader, mutual pining, unprotected piv sex, cumplay (just a little), nipple play, size kink

word count: 6.3k

summary: You fucking hate witches. Especially the one that hit you and Sam Winchester, whom you've been harboring a crush on for years, with a sex curse.

notes: i don't usually even read sex curse/fuck or die fics. i have no idea where this came from. i think i was possessed by some sort of horny demon or something. anyways i've been looking at this one so long that i have no idea if it's even good anymore. hope you all enjoy it lmao. also, divider by @cafekitsune <3 EDITING THIS TO MENTION THE TITLE IS FROM DISEASE BY LADY GAGA OKAY BYEEE!!!

crossposted on ao3

You fucking hate witches. 

Some of them are alright. Some of them are kind and generous and only use their magic for protection and good luck and they only put hexes on people who really deserve it. You don’t mind those sorts of witches. Most of them, though, like the one currently throwing you across the room, are the fucking worst. 

Your back slams into the wall before you tumble to the ground—maybe two, three feet away from where Sam is currently stumbling back to his feet—and the impact knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You groan, shoving up on your hands; you don’t have time to try and catch your breath. This witch is, frankly, kicking your asses. But right now, she’s focused on Dean on the other side of the room. If you’re quick, you might be able to get the jump on her. 

You drag yourself up to your knees, just high enough to be able to access the gun in the waistband of your jeans and to aim it straight for her fucking head. Once you’ve got the gun in your hands, though, several things happen in quick, extremely unlucky succession. 

The witch gets Dean on the ground and turns her head just as you raise the gun to aim right between her eyes, and she begins to chant, crackling, magical energy sparking in the space between her hands. You have just enough to time to think—fuck it. If I’m going down, I’m taking her out with me—before that energy is shot straight at you. You squeeze your finger on the trigger just as Sam, who has apparently recovered enough to try to take a bullet for you, jumps in front of you, knocking you back and sending your aim way wide so the bullet hits the wall instead of the witch’s skull.

And the worst part is it doesn’t even work. Six feet and four inches of pure muscle barrels into you, has you slamming right back against the wall with a pained, breathless grunt, and still, you feel the magic when it hits you, the energy of it spreading over your skin and sinking into your bones like an electric shock. Either you hit your head when you hit the wall, or the spell is making your head swim, leaving you too disoriented to tell which way the witch goes when she runs out the door. 

Sam groans where he landed half on top of you. You blink in an effort to clear your vision, blindly reaching out to touch his face, to check if he’s okay. You don’t know exactly what that spell did, you were too far away to hear exactly what she was chanting, but you can feel it tingling across your skin, settling in like it’s making a home there. Sam got blasted too, that much is clear when your hand lands on his cheek and magic sparks across your palm. 

He sucks in a breath, flinching away from the foreign feeling at the same time as you yank your hand back. “What the hell did she do to us?” he asks, shoving up on his arms to look down at you. And isn’t that just the million dollar question?

You’re on the phone with Bobby almost before you’ve even made it back to the Impala. All three of you agree whatever is going on with this hex you’ve been hit with, you’re in over your heads. You need some expert help. 

“You get the witch?” Bobby greets, just rubbing salt in the wound. 

“Uh. No,” you answer, climbing into the backseat of the car. You and Sam have been avoiding touching as much as possible, and it’s been shockingly hard. Honestly, you never noticed how closely you usually walk until every brush of your shoulders or hands sent sparks cascading over your skin. “There’s been a bit of a…complication.” 

There’s silence, and then an exhausted, beleaguered sigh from the other end of the call. “You idjits managed to get yourselves cursed, didn’t you?” Bobby asks, his tone exasperated. 

Ugh, God. The sun must’ve recently peaked in the sky, beaming down on the car and cooking you like you’re in a damn oven. You don’t remember it being this hot before. “Jesus—Dean, can you turn the air up?” you call out to the front before deigning to answer Bobby’s question. “Yeah. Yeah, she hit me and Sam with some sort of spell before I could shoot her. Problem is, we can’t really tell what sort of spell it actually is. It’s sort of creating like…static electricity? Every time we touch it’s kind of sparking.” 

“Well, did she say anything?” Bobby asks. 

You frown, irritated.  “Don’t you think if I knew what spell she cast, I would’ve told you? I was too far away, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.” 

From the front seat, Dean says, “I heard it, sort of. She was speaking Latin for sure, something about cupid?” 

As Dean says this, you watch Sam’s eyes go wide and his face go a little pale, which really doesn’t seem like a very good sign. “Cupiditas?” he asks. And it’s strange, looking into the front seat, you notice Sam’s face is a little red, a sheen of sweat starting to build on his forehead. Clearly, he’s noticing the heat as you are. And though you have a bit of a hard time drawing your eyes from Sam—though, when don’t you?—you can see that Dean doesn’t seem to be hot at all, not seeming bothered by the way the car is cooking you. 

“Yeah! Cupiditas con… something,” Dean confirms. 

You repeat what Dean said to Bobby, and you hear the pages he’d been flipping through stop turning. “You know, I wish you three would stop putting me in situations where I have to explain shit like this to you,” he mutters. 

You feel as out of the loop as Dean, which is not a very comfortable feeling to have. Sam seems to have some idea of what’s going on, if the look on his face is to be believed, and Bobby’s long-suffering complaints make you believe he knows exactly what spell you’re suffering from. “Explain shit like what?” you ask. 

“She hit the two of you with a damn sex curse, is what,” Bobby says, and you feel your stomach drop out your ass. 

“A sex curse?!” you repeat, incredulous. Of fucking course this would happen to you. “You’re joking. That’s not a real thing.” 

“It certainly is. And deadly, too,” Bobby says, and you hear the turning of pages start up again until he finds what he’s looking for. “Says here you’ve only got about two hours before the, uh…lust heats you up too hot, cooks your brain inside your damn skull.” 

Well. That at least explains why it’s so damn hot in here. “Well, how do we make that not happen?” You’re pretty interested in not getting so horny you literally die, thanks. 

Bobby is silent for a moment, his discomfort with the subject warring with the knowledge that time is of the essence. “You’ve gotta…sate it,” he says haltingly. “You’re an adult, I’m sure I don’t have to explain how. It won’t break the curse completely, but it’ll buy Dean time to find the witch and kill her; that’s the only way to actually break the curse.” 

Oh, fucking hell. “So…we’ve got two hours, unless we…” you trail off, your stomach flipping at the thought. Sam’s hands desperately tugging at your clothes, needy, he’s got to have you or he’ll die, literally. You tug at the collar of your shirt, sweating for real now, and shake it off. “But if…if Dean finds the witch before then, then we wouldn’t have to. Right?” 

“If you wanna tempt fate like that, be my guest. But it’s gonna be uncomfortable as hell. Soon enough, it’ll be pretty hard to remember exactly why you’re tempting fate in the first place.” You hear Bobby slam the book shut. “But if you do decide to sate the curse, keep it to yourselves, please. I already know too much about this, and I don’t wanna know any more.” 

You swallow, your mouth dry with the images swirling through your head again. Familiar ones, sure; this is certainly not the first time you’ve ever thought of Sam like that. But these images are so vivid, so intense, shooting arousal down your spine and building in your gut faster than you’ve ever known it to do so. “Alright. We’ll just…let you know when we—when Dean gets her, then.” You hang up the phone, turning your attention to the front seat where both brothers are staring at you, eyes wide. Right. They could hear your side of the conversation. 

“A sex curse?” Dean asks, voice flooded with disgust. Like Bobby, he probably already knows way more about this than he’d like to. 

Sam though…his expression is strange, a little unreadable. You wish you could get a better handle on his thoughts here because you have pretty mixed emotions, yourself. On the one hand, you’ve wanted Sam…God, since you met him. The only thing the curse is doing is amplifying it, turning that desire into something deadly. But this was never how you wanted it to happen, although you’re not sure who would ever want a sex curse to be the reason they finally got to kiss their crush. 

You relay what Bobby told you to the boys, everything Bobby told you, even when the mention of sating the curse makes Dean’s lip curl in disgust. It doesn’t escape your notice that Sam visibly relaxes when you say that you don’t necessarily have to do anything, so long as Dean is quick enough, and it stings a little, the idea that he would rather push through the discomfort of arousal burning him up from the inside out than touch you. 

Dean nods, untwisting his body to face the front of the car again. “Alright. We’ll get you two back to the hotel, and then I’ll kill the bitch.” 

By the time Dean drops you and Sam back at the room, the effects of the curse are in full swing. You’re so hot, stripped down to shorts and your sports bra and still sweating buckets. Sam is in a similar state of undress, his shirt tossed somewhere across the room after the heat became unbearable. Of course, you only know this from quick glances because if you look at him too long, the urge to touch him, lick him, bite him, starts getting almost too strong to ignore. Every time you see his pecs out of the corner of your eye, your mouth starts to water. It only takes half an hour for it to start to get a little bit too much. 

“Do you think Dean’s found her yet?” you ask, striking a conversation just for any type of distraction from the ache between your legs. And it does ache; you think you may have ruined both your underwear and these shorts from the way your cunt is dripping. 

Where you’re looking at him in your periphery—in an effort not to exacerbate the flooding of your panties—Sam shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is low and rich and almost rasping, and you squirm where you’re sitting as it hits your ears. “He texted me a few minutes ago, said he thinks he’s getting closer, but…” But it’s not looking good. The words hang unsaid in the air. 

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “We might not have a choice,” you mutter, glancing at him through the gap between your fingers. Your eyes zero in on the hollow of his neck, your entire body buzzing with the need to attach your mouth to it, to see what noise he’d make if you did. You can’t drag your eyes away. “He’s not gonna find her in time.” 

Sam’s gaze turns to you, and you finally manage to lift your eyes to watch his drag down your body, his pupils blown so wide you can no longer see the hazel of his irises. “He might,” he protests, but the argument falls flat with the way his eyes are locked on your cleavage, glistening with sweat. 

“And if he doesn’t?” you ask, lifting your head from where you’ve been hiding behind your hands. Seeing him full on, no hiding in your periphery or stealing quick glances, it’s like staring straight into the sun. Blinding. You have to take a deep breath and dig your fingers into the sheets beneath you to keep from reaching out. “How long are we gonna push it? Are we gonna let it kill us just so we don’t have to—”

He interrupts you with a rasp of your name, and you almost groan out loud at the sound of it. Fuck, you’ve never needed anything like you need him right now. Like air, like water. “That’s the thing, I don’t want to have to. I—God, it feels like…forcing you. It feels wrong.” 

Is that his hold up? He thinks you don’t want this? Jesus, you’ve gone this whole time thinking he’d literally rather die than fuck you, and it turns out he was just scared you didn’t really want him, that the curse was making you feel things you’d never feel otherwise. “Sam, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you’re hot. I’d way rather have sex with you than die.”  You watch his hands flex, his fingers spreading before he balls them into fists, and your cunt flutters. “Actually, the list of things I’d rather do than fuck you is probably significantly shorter than the opposite. Not…not just because of the curse.” Of course, the curse is definitely making it worse. You can’t stop thinking of how good his thick fingers would feel curling inside you, imagining how attentive he’d be. How generous. Normally, you can curb it a little, save those thoughts for late at night, guilty and shameful. But right now they’re sticking at the forefront of your mind, no matter how hard you try to think about literally anything else. 

You watch the conflict in his mind playing out on his face before he groans and rubs his hands over it. “You don’t get it; it’s not—I don’t want to just be someone you fuck, I want…I want everything,” he tells you, and if your heartbeat wasn’t already erratic, it would be skipping in your chest right now. “And this is just absolutely the last way I wanted you to find out, but that’s why I’m not…I just don’t know if I can do this if this is all I’m gonna get.” 

“Oh, Sam.” His name falls from your lips before you even realize you’re saying it. You stand up and cross the room to sit next to him on the bed, and you don’t miss the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his eyes flick down your body for just a moment, the way he twists his fingers into the sheets. You set it aside for now; this is more important. He is more important. “You really don’t know?” 

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes searching your face; although for what, you don’t know. “Know what?” he asks, his voice quiet as a breath. 

You lift your hand to touch his face, and this time, when the magic sparks across your skin, it feels like a salve, cooling the skin of your palm. From the way he sighs, you imagine he’s feeling the effect as well. “Of course I want that. Who wouldn’t want everything with you?” You’re so engrossed in the look on his face—wide-eyed awe, as if he truly never believed you could want him too—that the sparking of his hand touching your waist makes you jump. Oh, but God, the relief is instantaneous. If just this, your hand on his cheek, his hand on your waist, feels this good, how good would it feel to kiss him? To drag his shorts down his legs and sink down onto his cock, feel the way it stretches you out— “Now if you’re properly reassured, could you please, please fuck me already?” 

Sam may have the self-control of some sort of divine being, but he is, in the end, only human, and the curse is deep, and hot, and needy. You can see it the moment his restraint snaps, and even if you couldn’t, he drags you in and plants his lips on yours. Every feeling is amplified tenfold, and as you gasp at his hungry kiss, Sam takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, his free hand coming up to the back of your head to hold you close, guide you how he wants you. It’s not how you imagined he would kiss you, not really, but it’s exactly what you need right now, and the magic sparks down your spine in a wave of cool respite from the heat that had been eating you up. 

Then he pulls away—to speak, or maybe just to breathe—and the heat surges back in instantly, stealing your breath and leaving you panting into his mouth as you frantically drag him back in. “No,” you groan, shoving your hand into his hair to keep him from pulling back again. “We have to keep—oh, fuck.” 

The feeling of his hand shoving under the fabric of your sports bra, pushing it up to expose your breasts, shuts you up quickly. He brushes his thumb over your nipple, and you moan, pleasure sparking across what feels like every nerve ending you have. He doesn’t pull away to speak this time, well aware now that the relief you’re both feeling is very dependent on the contact. “I wish I could take this slow,” he mumbles, and you feel his voice buzzing against your lips. “Lay you down and taste every inch of you until you’re begging for my cock.” 

As if you needed to be any hornier. “I’m already begging for it,” you tell him, before dragging his bottom lip between your teeth. The noise he makes goes straight to your cunt, and you scramble to climb onto his lap. Fuck, you can feel how hard he is underneath you as you straddle him—even through the layers of fabric separating you, he feels huge. You need him inside you yesterday. “Next time—” you start, although it’s a little hard to speak with Sam’s tongue dragging over yours on nearly every other word— “we can have slow and sweet and whatever you want. But if you’re not inside me in the next two minutes, I’ll kill you before the curse even gets a chance, I swear to God.” 

Sam laughs, like you’re joking. You’re absolutely not. “Alright, I got you,” he mutters, and your brain registers the magic sparking across your skin before his hand as he shoves it under the waistband of your shorts. Your entire body jolts as he brushes a finger over your center through the fabric of your panties, but only because it feels so good, more intense than it has any right to be. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” 

You hardly have the brain power to even kiss him anymore, but it doesn’t matter as much now. His hand in your pants is providing infinitely more relief than kissing him could hope to achieve. You drag your lips down his neck before laving your tongue over the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat that’s gathered there. “I need it so bad,” you mumble against his skin, and apparently you’re so fucking desperate for it that you’ve been reduced to cheesy, porny dirty talk. 

Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He tips his head back on a groan as you scrape your teeth over the thin skin of his throat. “Yeah? I can tell. You’re soaked,” he says, and then his fingers deftly tug the fabric of your underwear aside so he can press a finger inside you. You’re pretty sure you see God. From the look on his face, Sam might be in the same boat. “Fucking hell—off. Off, take them off.” Tragically, he removes his hand from your cunt, and you could actually cry at the way the overwhelming heat comes slamming back into you the second his touch leaves. But it only takes a moment before magic is sparking over your skin again as his hands brush your hips in his efforts to drag your shorts and underwear down your legs. 

You take over once he’s got them halfway down your thighs, crawling off his lap in favor of ridding yourself of the offending garments. And while you’re at it, you drag your sports bra over your head too. In the time between you crawling off him and tossing your bra carelessly aside, Sam has followed suit. When you turn your attention back to him, he’s entirely bare, having tossed his pants and underwear to the same careless void you’d abandoned yours to. 

Despite your desperate urgency, you take a moment to let your eyes fall to his lap, and fuck, your mouth waters at the sight of him, hard and leaking. He’s…God, you expected him to be big—he’s six foot four for fuck’s sake, of course he’d be big—but this is just absurd. You can’t help but reach out, gingerly wrapping your fingers around his length. You’re so engrossed in the way your hand looks wrapped around him that you almost miss the choked little moan he gives, his body bowing towards you. 

“Please,” he groans, and then he reaches out to grab you by the shoulders, tugging you back in close again, urging you to reclaim your perch on his lap. “I wanna feel you, I need to—God, you’re so hot; please let me fuck you.” 

You aren’t sure if he means it as a compliment, or a comment on the insane waves of heat radiating off your skin. Either way, you’re more than willing to fulfill his request. “Yeah. Yeah, anything,” you murmur, ducking your head to press your forehead against his. From this angle, you can almost see as you use your grip on him to guide his cockhead to line up with your entrance. Where you touch, the magic between you sings. It’s nearly automatic; you sink down onto his cock without so much as a second thought. 

Despite Sam’s…considerable size, somehow, you expected the slide to be easy, what with the aching desperation of it all. You’d expected your dripping cunt to suck him right in, make the stretch of taking his cock bearable. It seems even sex curses can’t work miracles, though. “Fuck, Sam—” you choke out, dropping your head to rest on his shoulder. The stretch doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but it’s so much—would be so much anyway, even without the curse amplifying it and making it so much more. You have to stop and take a moment just to remember how to breathe before you’ve even sunk to the top of your hand, wrapped no less than halfway down. 

“I know.” His voice when he speaks is rough, teeth gritted like it’s a real test of his strength to keep still, to keep from fucking up into you, to keep from making you take it. God, you almost want him to, but the soothing tone of his voice is nice too. It rumbles in his chest, echoing through your body just as sure as the pleasure of his cock stretching you out. He brushes his hands over your shoulders and down your back to finally land on your hips. You think maybe he means to keep his grip gentle, because the pressure of his fingers digging into your skin fluctuates, like he’s fighting the urge to bruise you. He’s not doing a very good job of it, though, and it sends a thrill up your spine to know he’s going to leave his mark there, even if that’s not his intention. “I know, take your time. I’ve got you.” 

It’s a sweet sentiment, but you both know time is something you actually don’t have a lot of right now. You can feel the heat crawling up your spine even now, though Sam’s cock spearing you open is holding it at bay. Somewhat. So you dig your fingers into Sam’s hair to steel yourself, and you sink down. And down, and down, until you can’t imagine how there could possibly be more to take, and then, finally, your hips kiss his, and he’s bottomed out inside you. “Fuck,” you groan, panting against the skin of his shoulder as you try to catch your breath. It feels like your lungs emptied out in an attempt to make room, like he’s buried so deep inside you they can’t quite fill right anymore. “Oh, fuck.” 

Sam makes an attempt to soothe you, laying hot, open mouthed kisses over your neck and shoulder. “So good, you’re so good, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling over your skin. His hands abandon their stations at your hips to pull your face up so he can press those same kisses all across your face. “Taking me so well, so perfect for me.” 

Fuck, but he’s got your number, doesn’t he? The praise hits like a drug, zipping down your spine to your cunt and making you flutter around him. It’s frankly entirely unconscious when you shift your hips, but the stars that erupt in your vision when he moves inside you have you moaning in tandem with him. 

“Shit—” He drags you into a messy kiss, all open mouths and panting breaths, his hands buried in your hair. “Can I—God, please, can I move?” You’ve never heard him sound like that before, just the very edge of a whine in his voice as he pleads against your lips. He sounds wrecked, and it feels…good, heady. Powerful. You want to drag that voice out of him a hundred more times, make him whine for you like that for the rest of his life. 

You shake your head, tilting your head down to press a biting kiss on his jaw. “No. No, I’m gonna…” With that, you brace your arms on his shoulders and your knees on either side of him and lift your hips until you’ve nearly moved off him entirely, just the tip of his cock still pressed inside you. And then you drop back down. You feel every inch of it as he drags along your walls, and though it’s easier to take this time, the stretch is still intense, still nearly makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

You force yourself to keep your eyes forward, though, because the look on Sam’s face is almost as good as the stretch of his cock. His brows furrow, face twisting in his pleasure, and his mouth falls open, like he wants to moan but something is holding him back. And, well. That just won’t do. 

You lift yourself up to drop down again, satisfied when Sam groans and drags his hands down your back to dig his fingers into your hips again, pressing into familiar aches. You duck to press your smug smile against his neck, and find it so slick with sweat that you can’t help licking a stripe up his throat. “I’m gonna ride you so good, Sammy,” you mutter, your lips brushing his skin as you speak. His hands help guide you when you bounce this time, and it only makes the slide more delicious, makes your words drag out into a moan before you can continue, “Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this? See your face while I make myself come on your cock?” You start up a steady rhythm with Sam’s grip spurring you along, lifting up to slam back down again, his cock spearing you open again and again and again. 

Once you’ve got into the rhythm, his hands move from your hips to your upper back to drag you closer until he can lean down and press his face in the valley between your breasts, kissing and biting and licking the soft skin there, and all the while his hands keep pressing you closer, keeping your chest arched into his mouth. “How long?” he asks, his voice muffled as he drags his lips over the swell of your breast to leave his biting kisses there too. 

You drag your hands up into his hair as you roll your hips, moving in more of a grind now than a bounce, and the new movement means his cock is frankly unrelenting against your g-spot, the pressure of it never leaving, only shifting. The feeling is near overwhelming, has your hips faltering so much that Sam has to bring his hands back to your hips just so you keep moving. “Mm, God, forever, feels like,” you answer, once you’ve gathered enough brain power to even process that he had asked you a question. “Since the first time I saw you, probably.” Saying it out loud, it feels a little bit creepy to confess that you’ve been fantasizing about riding him since the moment you met him, but you’re a little too blissed out at the moment to feel embarrassed about it.  

Besides, judging by the way Sam groans against your chest and fucks up into you, he clearly doesn’t find it creepy at all. “Guess I’d better make it worth the wait, then,” he mutters, before dragging the blunt of his teeth over your pebbled nipple and then moaning against it when the shock of pleasure makes your grip tighten in his hair. And, fuck, if you thought it was good before…

He digs his heels into the bed to brace and starts thrusting up to meet every roll of your hips, his cock pounding so deep inside you now that you swear you can almost taste it. If there was enough room in your mind to even process it behind the fog of lust, you’d realize he’s fucking needy, desperate little moans from your throat with every thrust. And all the while he keeps his face buried in your tits, despite the way they bounce with the force of his thrusts. He drags his teeth over the skin between them, laves his tongue over your nipples, making noises like there’s no place he’d rather be. It’s intoxicating. 

And you’re so close, toeing the edge and hurtling ever closer with every thrust Sam pounds into you. The entire energy of the curse settles in your core at the same place the coil of your impending orgasm grows ever tighter. “Sam,” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, and you use your grip in his hair to drag him up, to kiss him messy and deep. You swallow the sweet, hungry noises he’s making, and he nips at your lip, and you are so fucking close. “Please.” 

Sam’s got you. Of course he does. He brings one hand from your hip to press between your legs and rub his thumb over your clit in quick, firm little circles. “Come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “let me feel you come on my cock.” 

And who are you to deny him anything he wants? You cry out as your orgasm explodes through you, whiting out your vision with the force of it. You’ve never come so hard in your life, and it just keeps going, burning up your spine like it’s singlehandedly eating up the energy the curse had created in your body. You’re just conscious enough to feel when Sam’s cock twitches and spills inside you, the frantic spasming of your cunt milking him for all he’s worth. 

You do come down, eventually, your fingers aching where they’ve been white knuckled in Sam’s hair. You bury your face in his neck and try to catch your breath, and his nose presses against your hair as he seems to do the same. It takes you a moment to notice—and you think you can be excused, considering you just came so hard you saw God—but despite the cum that you can feel slowly beginning to seep out of you, Sam is still hard, and doesn’t seem to be softening. Like, at all. And once you notice that, it’s a quick step to realize that the heat at the base of your spine, while significantly lessened, has not completely subsided. 

Fuck. “She’s not dead,” you groan, which morphs into a whimper when an involuntary shift of your hips makes Sam’s cock press against your oversensitive sweet spot. “God, we’re still cursed.” You can feel the awful heat starting to build again, that same devastating arousal eating at you despite the way you’re still trembling all over with the aftermath of your last orgasm.

You feel Sam’s lips press against your hair, soothing hands rubbing up your sides as they do. “We’ve probably bought enough time,” he offers, smoothing his thumbs over your hip bones. It seems sweet, until he smooths his hand down your thigh and keeps talking, “If you can’t go again.” And that? Well, that sounds like a challenge. 

Pushing through the oversensitivity, you rock your hips down, dragging your nails down the back of Sam’s neck and shoulders in an effort to dull the feeling. “Oh, I can go again,” you retort, with a confidence that you’re not sure you’ve really earned, considering the way your thighs are shaking. “Just…not on top.” 

The rumble of Sam’s laugh in his chest is your only warning before you’re suddenly bouncing on the bed on your back, a shocked yelp passing your lips at the sudden movement, and the sudden emptiness—your cunt clenches around nothing but air, Sam’s spend spilling from your fluttering hole.  

“There,” Sam says, his face smug as he climbs over you. “Problem solved.” 

You roll your eyes, ready to shoot back some sassy retort of your own, but Sam’s not looking at you. Not at your face, at least. Instead, his eyes are trained between your legs, and simply because it seems like it would be more effective than a sarcastic comment—and not because of the way his eyes glaze over a little while he’s staring, definitely not—you let your legs fall open a little further. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and then he reaches between your legs to press two fingers in your cunt. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pushing his cum back in, gathering up whatever had spilled from you when he pulled out and fucking it back into you with his fingers. 

You groan, tossing your arm over your eyes. It’s not really something you’d thought you’d be into, but now that he’s doing it… “Fuck, Sam…” 

Sam laughs, but it comes out a little breathless, and you lift your arm to watch him as he draws his fingers from your cunt and brings them right up to his mouth to lick them clean. Holy fucking shit. “Yeah,” he mutters, tucking his hand under your thigh to lift your leg up onto his shoulder, “That’s sort of the idea.”

He doesn’t waste much time after that, lines himself up and pushes in. You’re so sensitive; it’s so good it almost hurts, and though this angle doesn’t allow him to get nearly as deep, it’s clearly better for him to drive into you. His thrusts are quick and punchy, drawing little ‘ah’s from your throat as he drags you back to the edge faster than you would’ve thought possible. Maybe that’s the curse. Maybe he’s just that good. 

“Come on, baby,” he mutters, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face, down your neck. “You can give me one more, yeah?” You don’t even notice his arm move, but between one blink and the next, he’s got his thumb back on your clit, rubbing circles over the sensitive bud. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his back as you arch your own. “God, don’t stop, fuck—”

You feel it the second it happens. It’s completely instant, the sudden and total disappearance of the magic that had been consuming your and Sam’s bodies. The witch is dead, the curse is broken, and the complete relief in tandem with Sam railing you into the fucking bed sends you careening over the edge in an instant, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you squeeze them shut. 

Sam groans and digs his teeth into your shoulder, following right after you as the curse dissipates from his body as well. 

The two of you don’t talk for a long while after that, going about the motions of recovery and cleaning up in silence. He pulls out—the both of you hissing with oversensitivity at the motion—and heads into the bathroom to get a rag. He wipes himself down and then you, mindful of the way you wince when he presses too hard. 

You catch his wrist when he goes to walk away. “I meant what I said.” You wait until he turns to look at you, and then you tangle your fingers in his. “It wasn’t just about the curse for me.” 

You can see it on his face, the hesitance. Like he really never thought he could have this. Fuck, if you had known, you’d have told him years ago, just to make sure he knew how adored he was. How adored he is, always. 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice quiet as he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. It’s sweeter, much more tender than any of the kisses before, and this is exactly how you had always thought Sam would kiss you. With his entire heart on his sleeve. “Me too.” 

Maybe you’ve got a little to thank witches for after all. 

[tender-rosiey]

What about sukuna with his shy babygirl when reader goes away for a week and hes left alone to take care of her?

I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOUR SUKUNA WITH HIS SHY BABYY

silence speaks — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: my favorite duo ever and this is really centered around them cuz they so cute but you do make multiple appearances also BIGGGGGG thanks to @bluebell33 for beta-reading <33

sukuna rarely concerns himself with trifles. the great and feared king of curses has no patience for the mundane.

yet, when it comes to his daughter—his little, bashful shadow—he finds himself tackling challenges he never imagined, especially now that you’ve gone to visit your ill mother for the week.

and left him alone with her.

you had reassured him it would be fine, and he had sneered at the implication that he couldn’t manage a child for a mere seven days.

but now he finds himself cursing you as he stares down the wide-eyed girl standing in the middle of the courtyard.

she’s clutching her favorite stuffed fox, her tiny fingers squeezing the fabric tightly as if it’s her only anchor in the world.

her big eyes flit up to him and then dart away just as quickly, cheeks pinkening as she retreats into herself, the same way she always does when the world feels too big.

sukuna huffs, scratching the back of his head. “what?” he grumbles, his voice rough, but she doesn’t flinch.

not anymore. she’s long since grown used to his tone, his presence, his towering frame. still, she doesn’t answer, only fiddles with the hem of her little kimono.

he exhales sharply through his nose. “if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

her lips purse into a small pout, and her voice comes out barely above a whisper. “...hungry.”

of course.

sukuna crosses his arms, his four hands resting against his broad chest as he glances toward the kitchen.

he knows how to prepare a meal in theory—he’s watched you do it countless times—but actually doing it? for her?

“fine. sit,” he commands, gesturing toward the veranda.

she shuffles over without a word, sitting cross-legged with her fox in her lap, her gaze following his every movement like he’s some kind of unapproachable deity—which, to most, he is.

the kitchen is uncomfortably quiet without you bustling about in it.

sukuna’s hands work awkwardly, chopping vegetables with precision but lacking the rhythm you make it look so easy to achieve.

he scowls as he tastes the broth, finding it bland despite his efforts. still, he’s not about to admit defeat.

when he finally places the bowl in front of her, she looks up at him with wide, unsure eyes. “you made it?”

“who else, brat?” he snaps, though there’s no real bite to his words. he sits down beside her, his knee brushing against her tiny one as he watches her cautiously take a sip.

her lips curve into a small smile, and her voice is soft but earnest. “it’s good.”

he grunts, looking away to hide the faint twitch of his own mouth. “damn right it is.”

the next day, sukuna finds himself in the garden, sitting on the terrace with his arms crossed, watching his daughter as she toddles around, her fox clutched tightly to her chest.

she sticks close to him, circling the area but never straying far, her wariness of the world evident in her every hesitant step.

she pauses by the small patch of wildflowers, her tiny hand reaching out to pluck a bloom.

with the flower in her grasp, she shuffles over to him, her gaze flickering between the flower and her father’s intimidating figure.

“what’s that?” he asks flatly, raising a brow as she stops just short of his shadow.

“for...you,” she mumbles, her voice so soft he almost misses it.

sukuna narrows his eyes, leaning back against the wooden pillar as he watches her extend the flower toward him with trembling hands.

“what the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he scoffs, though his voice carries no malice.

her lips press into a nervous line, and she steps closer, holding it out insistently.

her little brow furrows in determination, and for a moment, she looks so much like you that it pulls a rare flicker of amusement from him.

he grunts, snatching the flower between two of his massive fingers as if it’s an inconvenience.

he twirls it once before tossing it onto the porch beside him, his crimson eyes meeting hers. “now what?”

she fidgets, her gaze darting to the ground. “it’s...pretty,” she whispers.

he leans back further, waving her off. “get out of here before you start thinking I’ll entertain you all day.”

she scurries off, her fox in one hand and her quiet laughter trailing behind her. sukuna glances at the discarded flower, its petals soft and vibrant against the wooden boards.

with a grunt, he flicks it off the edge with his finger, muttering under his breath. “ridiculous.”

the days that follow are...strange.

sukuna quickly realizes that his daughter is quiet by nature—content to play alone, to sit with her little fox and hum softly to herself.

she doesn’t demand his attention often, which leaves him both relieved and unsettled.

he’s used to people begging for his time, his favor, his mercy.

but she? she seems perfectly content with the simplest gestures—a pat on the head, a rare smile, his presence alone.

it’s on the third day, however, that she tests his patience.

the rain starts in the afternoon, a light drizzle that quickly turns into a downpour. sukuna is inside, reviewing a scroll, when he hears it—a soft, hiccuping sob from the other room.

he’s on his feet instantly, his massive frame filling the doorway as he finds her curled up in the corner, her fox clutched to her chest, her face buried in its fur.

“what the hell are you crying about?” he asks.

she sniffles, peeking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks. “it’s...loud,” she mumbles, her voice trembling.

it takes him a moment to realize she means the thunder.

he sighs, running a hand down his face before crouching down in front of her. “you’re afraid of a little noise?”

she nods hesitantly, her bottom lip quivering.

“pathetic.”

but instead of leaving her to deal with it alone, he picks her up, her tiny body fitting easily against his broad chest as he carries her to the main room.

he sits down on the tatami mat, cradling her against him as the storm rages outside.

she buries her face in his chest, her small hands clutching at his robes, and for once, he doesn’t push her away.

“you’re fine,” he mutters, his hand smoothing over her hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “it’s just noise. nothing can hurt you while I’m here.”

and somehow, she believes him.

by the time the week is up, sukuna is more than ready for you to return.

he won’t admit it, of course, but the sight of you walking through the gate fills him with an odd sense of relief.

your daughter, however, is the one who reacts most visibly.

“mama!” she cries, scrambling out of sukuna’s lap and running to you.

you scoop her up, laughing as she babbles about everything that’s happened in your absence, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement.

sukuna watches from the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame.

“well?” you tease, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “how’d it go?”

“she’s alive, isn’t she?”

you laugh, stepping closer as you shift your daughter in your arms. your free hand brushes against his arm, a small, fleeting gesture that he doesn’t pull away from.

“she is,” you reply softly, tilting your head as you study his expression.

he’s looking past you now, crimson eyes sharp but distant, his gaze lingering on the garden beyond the estate gates.

it’s quiet for a beat too long, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

“did you miss me?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, but there’s a genuine curiosity beneath it.

he scoffs, his lips curling into something that’s not quite a smirk.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, but he turns his back to you, and you can’t help but feel it’s to hide a specific thing.

you smile knowingly, shifting your daughter higher on your hip as she snuggles into you, her fox tucked safely in her arms. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will make you drink pure ginger

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[sttoru]

.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. it’s late at night and you try to cuddle with sukuna. keyword; try.

wc. 1.2k

tags. true form!sukuna x female reader. fluff, angst (+comfort). heian era. size difference (readers referred to as small). sukuna’s a bit mean, but he also has a soft spot for you. miscommunication ? it gets solved. reader gets called ‘woman, doll’.

“what are you trying to do?” sukuna sighs. you’re up to something again, he figures. his red eyes follow your body as it crawls up to him on the bed.

you’re both tired after a long day of fulfilling some duties here and there around the estate. all you need is a big beefy man wrapping his arms around you to keep you warm and safe.

the perfect man for that is sukuna. those four arms of his wrapped around your small body feel like heaven.

“it’s called cuddling,” you retort. the sarcastic tone you used triggers a deep sigh from the sorcerer. sukuna holds back the urge to say something sarcastic as well.

he doesn’t utter a single word once you snuggle up to his chest. you’ve taught him how to cuddle during the first time you asked him to hold you. sukuna was awkward with showing any type of affection back then.

. . he still very much is.

“hug, please,” you remind him. the cold-hearted man scoffs, though listens to your polite request. all four of his arms imprison you against his chest, your small body nearly disappearing behind his limbs.

that’s what you like most about those cuddles you share together; how you fit so perfectly in his strong arms. it’s much more comforting than you thought it would be.

a pair of hands rests on your waist, the other pair on your hips. sukuna glances down at you and immediately notices that smile on your lips. even after all this time, he still cannot fathom why you’re so carefree around a monster like him.

and that inability to understand you and your love for him is accompanied by an urge to push you away.

“you got your hug, now get up,” sukuna interrupts the silence. his voice is cold and devoid of emotion—he uses that voice when he talks to other people. not with you, “i have better things to attend to.”

thus, it hurts. when he talks to you like that. like you’re not the person he secretly cherishes most. though, you remind yourself of sukuna’s own words. the ones you heard him say a while ago.

‘love is meaningless’, he said. you remember. and yet you kept hoping that he’d change his mind about that statement. you hoped and eventually saw exactly that: your presence and your affectionate gestures mellowed his heart of steel.

but all that effort seems to go down the drain every time sukuna pushes you away.

you know it’s because he’s unfamiliar with the feelings of love. he may not say it nor show it, but you know that sukuna’s afraid of hurting you. so, he creates a gap between you two every now and then.

you know and yet you’re patient.

“oh, ‘kay,” you nod in understanding. you pull away from his embrace and get up from the bed. your bottom lip trembles.

sukuna is not gullible. he’s anything but oblivious. especially if it’s about how you feel and act. he notices every single change in your mood; whether you mask it or not.

you walk to the sliding doors—ready to open them and step out into the hallway. your eyes are a bit watery, but you quickly blink the tears away and take a deep breath in. you reach for the door.

“come back here, woman.”

sukuna’s booming voice makes you stop. you glance at his form over your shoulder. he’s leaning against the headboard of the bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.

is he. . . upset?

“why? you said you had better things to attend to.” you answer with a shrug. you try your best to not make it seem like his earlier words had effected you. you turn your head towards the word with a huff, “go on, then.”

sukuna narrows his eyes. he sucks at communicating what he actually desires—what he actually wants. right now that want is for you to stay. even though that completely contradicts his previous words.

the sorcerer doesn’t know what to do. when you’re with him, he pushes you away out of guilt. when you’re away, he wants you back with him.

love is complicated.

“you. . .” sukuna grunts in frustration. all those feelings for you inside of his heart are playing with his rational thoughts. he doesn’t like seeing you upset. he wants the usual you back, “tsk. fine then.”

silence, followed by the creaking of the bed frame. seems like sukuna’s getting up to do whatever ‘business’ he needed to attend. at least, that’s what you thought.

you slide the door open and set a foot outside of the chambers. before the other could follow, you’re suddenly lifted up in the air by a strong pair of hands. your vision turns upside down as your body is effortlessly hoisted onto a shoulder.

“woah!” you gasp and feel the blood go to your head. your eyes are fixed on the back of your lover. you kick your legs in protest, but only get a smack to your ass in response. you whine at that, “put me down!”

“watch it, doll,” sukuna hisses at your fierce demand, a warning to fix your tone. he puts you back down on the soft mattress. he’s surprisingly gentle when he settles you in place—not throwing you on the bed or anything similar, “should’ve listened when i told you the first time.”

your eyes meet sukuna’s and you notice how much they’ve softened. that alone makes the lump in your throat disappear. your love for him isn’t one sided—you’ve always kept that in the back of your mind—yet your thoughts made you overlook the little things he does for you.

his actions speak louder than his words. that’s the kind of man he is.

sukuna’s trying to open up more, though that process is slow. you’re fine with that.

especially when there’s that faint pout on his lips as he stares at you. his eyebrows are still furrowed, his crimson eyes sharp yet warm.

“oh, you want me back in bed this bad?” you tease once you get the opportunity. the man in front of you clicks his tongue and grabs your cheeks with one hand, turning your head up to face him.

sukuna’s eyes are focused on yours. the eye contact is intimidating, but you’re hypnotised. you physically can’t look away. he leans in and bites your lip with his sharp canines, “shut up.”

that raspy whisper alone confirms your assumption. you giggle at his attempt of refuting your point. you’re used to all those intimidating words and actions he pulls to get you to stop your teasing.

those empty threats—it’s becoming rather cute with how hard he tries to deny everything. he fails nearly every time, however.

“come,” sukuna lays back against the pillows after placing a quick and sloppy kiss against your lips. he pulls your body against his and presses your head against his chest, right where his heart is beating, “continue with your.. ‘cuddling’ thing.”

he put your ear right above his heart, because he remembers listening to his heartbeat calms you down. you told him that a while back. sukuna doesn’t understand why you like it, but his fingers massage your scalp either way.

that’s also something that brings you comfort.

you’re surprised by how much he knows about you, but appreciate it anyway. he remembers both the big and small things about you. ‘that’s how he probably shows his love,’ you conclude silently.