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yoongsisbae · 3 years

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Caught! House of Cards - Chapter 2

WHOA I am amazed by all the love this story has received so far, chapter one has become my most liked post, huh?! I'm in shock, thank you! My thirst for muster Joon fueled this to be released earlier than anticipated, so enjoy! ;)

OT7 yandere!BTS x reader, Yoongi x reader & Taehyung x reader & Namjoon x reader focused this chapter

Warnings: 18+ dark themes, voyeur, masturbation A LOT of it, gaslighting & reader manipulation, shibari, intoxication, dubcon, choking, public nudity, sexual touching in public, dom!Namjoon & sub!reader

Word count: 5.3k

---

You press record and the red light on your webcam lights up. Your heartbeat races as you navigate the House of Cards website. You already have viewers and you’ve only just spent your time staring at the chat. You wish you had picked something sexier as you sit cross legged in an oversized shirt and sleep shorts. You wear a red eye mask to conceal your identity, part of an old superhero Halloween costume you pulled out from the depths of your closet. You felt like a dumbass. ‘Super Girl wouldn’t have to do this kind of shit.’

“Sorry, i-it’s my first time...m-maybe I could take suggestions?” You watch the chat move as you hold your breath. You wanted to sound sexy but you can’t stop stuttering out your words.

You’ve never been more anxious in your life, the ends of your fingers feel numb and you can hear your own pulse thumping in your ears. You’re openly inviting strangers to get off on your body, you’re about to expose yourself in ways you’ve never done before. This isn’t like sending a sexy photo to a boyfriend when you’re feeling needy, this is so much more reckless.

Just when you’re starting to regret doing this, just when you’re about to end the feed and hide in humiliation, a notification ding pulls you away from your thoughts.

Suga: take off your shirt

Your on-screen balance goes from zero to a hundred dollars. You gulp and your eyes go wide at the amount. A hundred dollars just to take your shirt off? That seems too good to be true.

‘Okay, this is what you signed up for, y/n. It's now or never!’ You mentally hype yourself up. You keep your mission in mind, make enough money to keep a roof over your head for this month.

Your shaky fingers find the hem of your shirt “F-for you-” you squint reading the username again, “For you, Suga.” You lift the shirt slowly off your body, exposing the curves of your breasts, revealing your red lace bra to your viewers.

The collar of your shirt gets stuck around your head. You feel like an idiot as you try to wrestle the shirt off your body without pulling off your mask.

---

Yoongi snorts at his screen, his lips curving up into a half smile. He sits behind two computer monitors. He watches as you stutter out apologies to your audience, entertained by your clumsiness.

He peers over his shoulder, to where his friends are playing a game of billiards. “Hey, we have a new one!”

“Oh yeah? It’s been awhile since someone joined.” Namjoon puts his pool stick down and walks over to Yoongi to get a closer look. He laughs, “What is she doing? Is this her first time?”

“It is,” Yoongi hums.

“Ah, well now I’m intrigued.” Namjoon pulls out his cell, quickly pulling up the website on his phone.

Yoongi licks his lips, “I think she’s cute.” He watches another hundred dollars add to your total as someone asks for you to remove your shorts. He notices the username and sends a glare to the man standing over his shoulder.

“What? Just trying to move the show along.” Namjoon gives Yoongi’s shoulder a shake. “You never did like sharing.”

“And you never knew how to properly take care of my toys.”

Namjoon laughs. He studies your figure and the way you move back and forth awkwardly on the bed. You’re trying to find the best pose for your request until you finally decide to lie on your back and lift up your hips, pulling your shorts down and off your legs so you’re in nothing but a bra and panties. He leans over Yoongi’s shoulder, eyes level with his monitor to get a better look at you. “She is very cute. I could have a lot of fun with her.”

Yoongi grunts. He watches you press the cups of your bra together to show your cleavage off for him. The chatroom viewer count jumps into 3 digits. You’re so eager to please your audience, he thinks, jumping at the chance to perform the simplest of requests. And he is eager to learn just how far he can push you.

Yoongi types a reply quickly and hits the donate button. He hears his friend let out a low whistle next to him.

---

A thousand dollars?! Someone just donated a thousand dollars. What the hell?

Suga: spread your legs for me. touch yourself.

Your breath hitches. You watch as another wave of viewers are added to the chat, another trickle of donations following. You feel high from their attention, and the money just keeps on rolling in! You've been so worried and stressed since lockdown happened and now you're almost guaranteed to accomplish your goal, finally something is going right, your heart jumps in excitement. It’s starting to feel...fun. You had discarded your embarrassment along with your clothes, thrown somewhere in a heap on the floor. You lean back on your palms and bring your knees together. You can feel the damp cloth of your underwear rub against your core. You’re ashamed to admit how turned on you are. The higher the viewer count goes the wetter you become. You slowly spread your legs to the camera, reveling in the game you're playing with your faceless admirers. Your eyes read over the chat, taking in all their praises of your body. Flattering compliments intermingled with salacious requests pass by the second, it’s overwhelming, and only serves to fuel your arousal.

---

Your sweet voice plays through Yoongi’s speakers, “Thank you Suga.”

“Oh fuck, she’s so wet.” Hoseok pulls up a chair next to Yoongi and Namjoon. They all stare at the screen, at the center of your light pink panties. There is a noticeable dark spot that propels the chatroom into a frenzy.

“Take a look at that view count, it’s one of our highest this month, right?” Namjoon asks Yoongi. He hums in acknowledgement. “They really have nothing better to do now that we’re all stuck in our homes,” Namjoon jeers.

The three men watch silently as your breathing escalates, taking note of how you shake and moan. Hoseok uses the camera on his phone to zoom in on your face scrunched up in pleasure and takes a snapshot.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at his friend. “I’m just showing Jin! She’s his type.” Namjoon laughs. Hoseok cocks his head to the side in confusion while Yoongi scoffs.

Of course you're Jin's type, Yoongi thinks. You're so beautiful and Jin loves to treasure beauty. Jin loves to admire his treasures, taking pleasure in finding the cracks within perfection to break them wider. He's going to have to watch out for Jin.

Yoongi’s and Hoseok’s phones ding with a notification. “Did you have to do that?” Yoongi questions Namjoon, starting to feel annoyed. He pasted a link to your stream to the group chat.

“They are probably already watching. Look,” he points to your view count, soaring into the thousands. The man on his side gives him a dirty look.

---

You place your hands inside your bra and panties, still not comfortable enough to bare it all just yet. You cup your breasts and roll your hips into your palm getting off on the friction. Your soaked panties pull on your hips, stretch against your knuckles, revealing parts of you every once in a while to the camera. How many men had their dicks out right now, how many were falling apart with you? The thought made you clenched down on nothing, covering your hand in your essence. You pull your hand away from your core and put your palm in front of the camera, showing off your wet fingers to your faceless admirers.

---

Taehyung groans. You wiggle your fingers to him, traces of your arousal drip in between, he imagines himself licking each digit clean. He imagines his own long fingers stuffing you instead, pulling sweet moans from your lips, you dripping all over him. Fuck he wants to taste you, he bets you taste so sweet, just divine.

His hands fists his hard erection, his tongue between his teeth as he watches you on his laptop. Each time you cry out in pleasure, he thrusts into his clenched fist, imagining your tight cunt wrapped around him instead. Taehyung almost loses it when you let out a needy whine, imagining all the ways he could make you cry and whimper at his hands. He wishes he had you here so he could taste and smell your body, god if you were here he would make you cum over and over again until you cry and beg him to stop.

---

Someone sends you five hundred dollars, the second largest donation of the night.

V: You’re so beautiful

No request, no lewdness, nothing other than the simple phrase that you didn’t realize how much you ached to hear. Your face goes hot. You let your hand speed up. You try to imagine the words spoken, whispered in your ear, focus on them besides the dings of your laptop and wet sounds coming from your soaking core.

You imagine a man on top of you whispering how beautiful he finds you. You throw your head back lost in pleasure, letting your fantasies overtake you until the heat inside you bursts. You gasp and shudder, forgetting about the camera on you, riding out your high for as long as you can. The fantasy man leaves your thoughts as you come back down to earth, alone again in your room. Finally, you open your eyes, staring at the ceiling of your room. The chatroom dings and dings.

Now that you’ve reached your high, the flames of your arousal abruptly extinguishes, an icy current of mortification at what you’ve done hits you in waves. You sit up shakily, wiping the sweat off your brow. Too scared to look at your reflection, you look down at your keyboard instead, trying to steady your breathing.

“Thank you for coming to my first broadcast. I’m going to log off now.”

Instead of shutting off the stream you hold down the power button of your laptop to turn your entire computer off. You lay back down as your phone vibrates with a notification. The total sum of what you made on your first live stream. You can’t believe it, laughing at the ridiculousness of it. You pull the mask off your face and throw the offending material across the room. As you steady your breathing you push down the regret that creeps over you, thoughts that ring in your ears like a lecture from your mother, feeling shame and disgust at what you allowed yourself to become. Whatever, you did what you had to do.

---

It’s an hour before you have to clock out on your last shift of the week. Your manager pulls you aside to speak with you. There’s concern in his voice and a frown etched on his face, “He is here again.”

“Oh,” you grimace, why is he so early?! “He’s, um, here to pick me up.”

Your manager’s eyes go wide. “You’re going to go somewhere with that psycho?”

“I-I can’t say.”

“If it’s money again I can see about getting you some more hours.” He grabs a clipboard off the back wall, flipping through the schedule.

You wince. “No, it’s just something I have to do and then this should all be over and done with. It will be fine.” Will it be fine? You hope so.

He gives you a skeptical look. “Are you sure? You’re sure you’re going to be okay?”

You don’t know, but you nod your head regardless, “Yes.”

“Okay,” He sighs, still looking worried, “I’ll see you Monday?”

You give him a reassuring smile. “See you Monday. Have a good weekend.”

---

An hour later you clock out and Yoongi makes his way next to you. You were grateful he didn’t make another scene, he had sat in the corner sipping on coffee, hardly paying attention to you. He didn’t have to, not when he had your store's camera system connected to his phone.

You look him over, Yoongi looks as posh as ever. He wears all black, and tight pants that show off his, well anyways, why does he have to look so good? You huff, staring anywhere else, motioning your arm, “After you.”

The man gives you a wicked smile and offers you his arm. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but reach for his elbow. You felt silly in your dirty work clothes holding onto him. Why did you even bother waking up early today to put on a face full of makeup when you just ended up sweating it off?

"Your manager doesn't seem happy to see me," he teases.

"I wonder why..." you send him a glare.

Of course this motherfucker has a Rolls Royce. You grumble next to him. Yoongi opens the passenger’s door for you and you slide inside. When was the last time someone has done that for you? Tinder culture has really screwed you in more ways than one. You watch as he circles to the other side, he looks so powerful and sexy.

Stop, what's gotten into you?! You push down the butterflies fluttering around in the pit of your stomach. When he starts the car, he leans over to you, invading your space and making you flinch.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” His eyes travel down your body, “Unless you want me to.” His face is too close to yours, you can feel his breath on your skin as he smirks down at you.

He reaches for the strap of your seat belt, his body now entirely pressed up against yours and he pulls on the strap and buckles it for you. Your face grows hot, it felt like he was teasing you, his presence leaving you as quickly as it came. You swallow down the lump in your throat, wishing you had water for your suddenly dry mouth.

He had smelled good. Manly. It’s been so damn long since you’ve been on a date, under the excuse of social distancing, but really you’ve just stopped trying to go out on boring typical dates with normal boring men so you can have boring vanilla sex. It was a hassle, you had gotten used to the instant gratification from your viewers. But now you had neither. That's why you were so wound up, not because you wanted this smug asshole, no way.

As he reversed, you realize you have to give him your address. You bite your lower lip, thinking what to do. Maybe you can get him to drop you off somewhere close by, but Yoongi is already setting up the GPS with another location.

“Umm, I thought we were going to stop by my house first.”

“Why?”

“So I can change?”

“Not necessary, you can change on the boat. I have clothes for you since I noticed you never cashed my check.” His piercing eyes flash with anger, the accusation making you shift uncomfortably. Cashing Yoongi's check made what was happening feel like a transaction, and you weren't willing to give him that power over you.

“I-I did not agree to get on a boat with you,” you frown, red flags popping up in your head at the thought of being alone in the middle of nowhere, out at sea, with a stranger who says he’ll hurt you if you ask him to.

“You agreed to go to a party with me. That’s how we get to the party, sweetheart.”

Dammit.

---

When Yoongi said boat you didn’t realize he meant yacht. It’s huge. He leads you into the main cabin, there are clothes already laid out for you on the bed.

He shows you how to work the shower before leaving you alone. You know you were washing off the sweat and grime of the day to make yourself presentable for this party of his, but why did you feel like you were cleaning yourself up for Yoongi specifically. It made you feel uneasy. You tried to silence the alarm bells ringing in your head and focus on getting ready. It's just one night out and then you can say goodbye to Yoongi forever.

The dress was black and tight. It hugged your curves and showed off your cleavage. You can admit it was a hot dress and you felt hot in it. It’s exactly the style you like, as if Yoongi had pulled it right out from one of your favorite Pinterest boards. You sigh as you look at yourself in the mirror, the dress came with a set of lingerie that you almost didn’t put on, embarrassed by wearing underwear picked out by a man you knew nothing about. This wasn't like the times you let your viewers choose your outfits for broadcast, this was different...right?

You decide to go all out with makeup, realizing there is no doubt going to be many beautiful people at this party that look as attractive and expensive as Yoongi, so you might as well try to blend in. You put on the finishing touches, a dark red lip, when there’s a knock on the door.

Yoongi walks in, he’s changed too. He's wearing a black button down and black pants, it matches your outfit. Almost all of his fingers are adorned with silver rings. His hair styled in an unkept bedhead way that makes him look younger. You try not to stare or think about how ridiculously handsome he looks.

You look breathtaking, Yoongi thinks, ‘Only one thing missing.’ He pulls out a black choker with a gold pendant from his pocket. “For you, I think it completes the look.” He gives you a genuine smile.

“I-I...Thank you.” you don’t know what else to say. His fingertips graze your collarbones, lighting a trail of fire across your chest. Yoongi clasps the choker around your neck, the pull against your sensitive skin gives you goosebumps. His pointer finger finds its way under your jaw to lift your chin up. “Ready for some fun?” You leave with Yoongi before you have time to inspect his present, notice that on the gold heart pendant there are initials delicately scrawled in the middle. ‘MYG’

---

You enter the party mesmerized. An island. A mansion. A secret paradise. A place where the party never needed to end.

The hall is decorated from top to bottom in gold and crystal, intricate glass centerpieces and art at every corner, but what caught your eye and made your heart drop into the pit of your stomach was an entirely different kind of centerpiece. Around the main room, suspended from the ceiling, gold ropes dropped in a dozen different areas. The most beautiful women you’ve ever seen hung under spotlights, the rope tied in intricate patterns around their naked bodies, each placed in a different position. Saliva pooled inside your mouth as you watched in awe.

Party goers gravitated to them, watching the women as they ate finger food and drank. Yoongi’s breath tickled the back of your neck as he whispered in your ear. “You look like you want to join them,” His dark eyes narrowed on you.

“I’m just admiring the view,” you try to act unaffected by his words, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m hungry,” you whine, changing the subject, you let Yoongi pull you through the crowd.

---

Jungkook grips his wine glass so tight the stem breaks in half, the glass pieces cutting the palm of his hand. He is so full of rage he barely feels the sting, letting the blood drip on his expensive suit. That conniving little man Yoongi has his hands all over your body. How did he have you? Had this been his plan all along? Did Yoongi convince you to leave the site so he could have you all to himself? And you fell into his trap! Jungkook knows it’s not your fault for being manipulated, he knows how devious his business partner can be, but he wants to punish you just the same. He has to tell someone. Taehyung will know what to do! He searches for his friend, before he goes straight to Yoongi and kills him instead.

---

“Min, please introduce us to your date!” The crowd parts as two men advance towards Yoongi. You were just getting used to Yoongi’s cold reserved demeanor when his friends’ beaming playful attitude catch you off guard. The pair is full of energy, they commanded attention, and you could tell by their looks they most certainly were used to being in the center of it.

“You know who she is,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, his hand around your waist pulling you closer to him. What did he mean? Were they-

“But we haven’t formally met! I’m Hoseok, you can call me Hobi.” He winks at you and gives you a bright smile. “This is Jimin!”

‘Jimin.’ That name is familiar to you. No way, this beautiful man is not your Jimin. Not one of your top donators Jimin. No way in hell-

“I’m so happy to have finally met you in person, Dahlia.” Jimin holds your hand in his and brings your fingers to his lips, giving you a small wink. Oh my god he’s attractive. This is the same man who paid you for late night private chats, crying about how lonely he was, he is that Jimin. You’re so astonished you don’t even register the way Yoongi’s fingers dig into your hip in jealousy.

Hoseok and Jimin are fun. The three of you drink another round of sparkling champagne as the duo takes turns telling you wild stories, making you dissolve into a fit of giggles. Yoongi sips on his whisky while he watches the three of you roar with laughter. He doesn’t mind, he uses their charm to his advantage. As expected around the extroverted pair you start feeling more comfortable, you let your guard down around Yoongi, so Yoongi doesn’t mind. You're his date after all, you’re his.

“Looks like everyone made it!” Jimin waves at a trio of men headed towards your group.

“Almost everyone,” Yoongi corrects. He drapes his arm over your shoulder and you lean into him, your body swaying from the alcohol in your system. Yoongi delights in the way the men looked at you in his arms, the visible shock and anger on their faces. “Y/n, this is Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook.”

You nod in their direction, barely regarding them, instead giggling at Jimin who is making a funny face at you trying to steal your attention.

“Namjoon says he’s sorry he couldn’t make it, something came up.” Taehyung addresses Yoongi.

Yoongi frowns at the information, it’s not like Joon to change plans so suddenly.

“I need to use the restroom, excuse me.”

“I’ll show you where it is,” Yoongi begins to take you, but Taehyung’s hand grips Yoongi’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Let the lady go, it’s been so long since we’ve all seen you, Yoongi. I missed my friend. You can make your way, right baby?”

Six heads turn to look at you and you feel hot under their intense stares. “Um, yea-yes, I’ll be right back.” You leave before Yoongi can protest.

---

This place is huge. You can’t remember how you found the bathroom or how to get back to Yoongi, and the room felt like it was spinning. The party had become louder, more obnoxious as drugs and alcohol loosened everyone’s inhibitions.

You shouldn’t have drank so much, you didn’t realize how much alcohol Jimin and Hobi had been feeding you until it was too late, and now you could barely make out people’s faces. What are you going to do? Yoongi had your cell in his pocket, why did you give it to him? Jimin had grabbed it out of your hand to put his contact information in, and handed it back to Yoongi instead. You didn't even protest, you were too busy being mesmerized by Hoseok as he swayed his hips to the music playing, rolling his body to the beat.

You lean against an empty space of wall, between two couples obnoxiously making out. You’re all alone in a strange house with no way to call for help, the gravity of your situation hits you all at once and your head begins to throb.

Maybe if you can make it to the second floor you can spot Yoongi and the others in the crowd. You stumble your way to the stairs, hoping your plan works.

You see Yoongi. The bastard is still drinking his whisky while his friend’s banter amongst themselves. You exhale, finally calming down. The fresh air away from everyone helps to take away your dizziness. You watch the six men, they are all so good looking. They have to be the most attractive men at the party. You didn’t notice how intimidating the group looks, finding it funny how party goers instinctively keep their distance from them.

The three new men are tall and big, they could be models, or maybe athletes, you should have paid attention when Yoongi was introducing you to them. What were their names, Junhyung? Taejung? If Yoongi was a House member, and Jimin was a House member, could they all be...no.

You’re about to turn to leave when hands cover your mouth and grab at your waist. Your scream is completely muffled out behind the stranger’s large hand.

He holds you in a suffocating embrace, covering both your mouth and nose, you realize you really cannot breathe. You try to pry his hand off your face but it’s impossible, he’s too strong and too big, easily overpowering you. The air in your lungs is trapped inside of you as you try to scream. Is this how you die?

“Hey baby.”

‘RM.’ The last time you met him, you had your vision taken, so you could never forget the unmistakable deep rumble of his voice.

Your mind is reeling. You stop fighting against his hold and he finally removes his hand, placing it around your neck instead. You gasp and cough out, inhaling air quickly, afraid your breath will be taken away again.

You guess it made sense, first Jimin now RM, were all the party goers members too? The thought terrified you. You had no idea what your viewers looked like, yet they all knew what you looked like naked. Just how many knew who you were? It made you queasy, you shudder against RM. RM, a top donator, plastered against your back, it felt like a fever dream.

You remember all the times you flirted with him behind the protection of your computer screen, now there were no digital barriers to stop his advances. No house rules to lessen his stifling touches.

“I missed you, baby. I’m a little upset you stayed away for so long, but seeing you here dressed up so pretty, like a present I get to unwrap, I can forgive you.” The hand that held your waist down against him traveled up your stomach, between your breasts, until it settled around your neck as well. “I’m so so glad you came back to us.” His deep velvet voice rumbled in your ear, making your legs tremble.

His strong fingers begin to massage your neck. It feels so good, you bite back a moan. Namjoon rubs deep circles into your shoulder blades. You can’t help but melt into his relaxing massage, your nerves had been wound so tightly before, his expert fingers finding each knotted muscle in your back. You try to sneak a glance behind you, but every time you try, Namjoon’s hands find your jaw, keeping your attention forward.

“How is Yoongi treating you?” RM knows Yoongi? You felt so out of the loop, you tried to make sense of it all but you could only concentrate on the way his fingers pressed against your skin.

“He’s being a perfect gentleman.”

“A 'gentleman,'” Namjoon laughs, “Are we talking about the same man?” You roll your head as his fingers work the tense muscles of your neck. His thumb runs underneath your choker, ever so slightly tightening the fabric around your skin. “He was planning to keep you all to himself,” Namjoon tuts.

Anger erupts inside of him as he notices the piece of jewelry, and he pulls you into another crushing embrace, his hands underneath the curves of your breasts. “Now what would he do if he saw you in my arms, hmm?” He makes you walk back to the balcony, hands groping your chest and body pressing you forward into the banister. Truthfully, you’re scared of what Yoongi would do if he saw you, you had no idea what he was capable of, but the pleasure RM was giving you was hard to fight against.

“RM, please...” you don’t know what you’re begging him for, to let you go, to touch you more.

“Look at him.” His voice deepens, his authoritative tone makes you whimper in his arms.

His arms travel to your waist, his fingers pulling at the hem of your dress, lifting it tortuously slow. His fingertips ghost over your lace panties. “Look at how wet you are, dirty girl.” He pulls them down your thighs. If anyone were to look up, they’d see you completely bare. The thought makes you pulse.

Taehyung and Jungkook had come to Namjoon to tell him what Yoongi had done. Namjoon almost felt bad, Yoongi was like a brother to him, so Namjoon knew how much he cared about you. But why would he parade you around in front of the others, like a sweet treat on a platter? Yoongi surely knew them all well enough to know they'd want to take a bite.

“Now keep your eyes on Yoongi, what is he doing right now?”

You start to speak and Namjoon pushes two fingers inside you, all the way in to his knuckles. You let out a gasp, and he pinches the sensitive skin of breast through your dress. “Answer daddy, baby girl.”

You fight back tears, your mouth goes dry as you try to hold yourself together. “H-he’s talking to Hobi.” Namjoon inserts another finger into you at the nickname you use for his friend, the stretch is bordering on painful, making you cry out. You try to stifle your whimpers, it just turns Namjoon on even more. He grinds his erection into your ass. His smell, his dirty words, his roughness, you've forgotten how much you craved it.

“Hobi, is it? When did you and him become so friendly? Baby, you’re making me jealous. Is that what you want?” With three fingers inside you, he sets a punishing pace. It’s been awhile since you’ve felt so full. Perhaps the last time you truly felt like this was by RM himself. You pulse around his fingers at the memory. Your legs shake as his thumb finds your clit, pressing into your sensitive hood. “P-please…”

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum, Daddy.”

He groans in your ear. “Hmm no.” He pulls his fingers out of you, you hold onto the banister as your orgasm escapes you. Your body shakes with need.

“You’ll come find me later tonight, won’t you, baby girl?” His warmth leaves your body, when you turn around no one is there.

---

Oh my so many questions, not many answers. Will you see your manager on Monday? Lol thank you again for enjoying my story, let me know what you think! <3

709 notes · View notes

fishstyx · 3 years

Text

featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole.

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy.

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?”

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material.

Perfect.

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so.

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away.

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges.

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation.

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them.

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.”

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds.

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill.

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?”

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response.

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber.

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you.

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell.

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds.

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom.

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast.

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe.

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion.

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays.

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn��t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.”

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground.

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax.

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze.

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?”

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

The night is long and never-ending.

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper.

“It’s not like that.”

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.”

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion.

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed.

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence.

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him.

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish.

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up.

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?”

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

#gojo smut #geto smut #geto x reader #gojo x reader #jjk smut #tw. dark.#tw. noncon.#tw. dubcon.#tw. influence.#tw. toxic.#tw. penetration.#tw. showoff.#tw. size.#tw. degradation.#tw. corruption.#🍣.food #fishstyx.jjk

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gotnofucks · 3 years

Text

A Man’s World

Pairing: soft!dark!Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: To advance in a man’s world, you must allow one to own you. He promises you success, as long as you give yourself to him.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Dub-con (at the beginning), smut, language, implied age gap, poor knowledge of law and legal system, 18+ ONLY

A/N: This is my late entry to Berry’s Sugary 4k Challenge (everyone go and send some love to @donutloverxo for being so awesome. I am also dedicating this fic to Lexi ( @bluemusickid ) who’s had a difficult few weeks recently. I hope you feel better my love.

Sweat was building under your top hat, the urge to itch making you frustrated with the delay. The officer before you was young, probably your age and fumbled with the papers you had handed to him. You tried to relax, almost as nervous as the man in front of you and tried to console yourself with the fact that he was far too jittery to look at you long.

No one will find out, you’re safe.

“Sir?”

You chewed your chip, feet tapping irregularly on the ground in agitation.

“Sir?” The officer said again, peering at you worriedly. You quickly pulled down the rim of your hat, still not used to being called ‘sir’.

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” You said, clearing your throat and trying for a deeper voice. The officer handed you your papers back, all signed and stamped. “Thank you.”

He nodded slightly and motioned for you to wait while your client was brought out. This was the first time you’d been out in the open alone, the fear of discovery clashing with the freedom that ran in your veins.

“Did you bail me out?” A rough voice asked. You looked up at Mr. Lane, a huge mountain of a man who towered over you. You nodded and offered him your hand to shake, wincing as his rough palms scratched against your soft ones. He looked doubtfully at you and you could understand why. You barely looked like a person who belonged in the police station, no matter as a man or woman.

“I am Mr. Barber’s assistant. He was busy with a hearing and sent me to bail you out. If you’d follow me to his office, he’d like a word before we proceed to your trial next week.” You explained, a little more confident. You knew the work, you knew the ways. You only needed to sell your lies to make your truth valid.

Mr. Lane nodded, following and entering the coach outside the station after you. He sat across from you, eyes narrowing as he ran over your soft features, the clip clop of the horses the only sound within.

“You old enough to be an assistant, boy?” Mr. Lane asked, and you scowled. Oh, how you’d like to tell him you were old enough and good enough to be not just an assistant but also a lawyer. You could be the one representing him in court and making him a free man. You should be that one. But, alas, this world doesn’t see women doing much rather than peeling potatoes and popping out a child every second year.

“I am.” You replied in a gruff tone that made it clear you weren’t about to entertain more questions. Your companion nodded, looking out the window and into the streets where peddlers screamed about discounted watches and handkerchiefs and buttons. Not many people had cushioned coaches like this, but Mr. Barber insisted one for your travels.

The journey to the office was quick and silent and you gestured Mr. Lane to follow you up to the top floor where your boss sat in his office. Some people nodded at you, now getting used to seeing you here though they didn’t stop to talk. You had never spoken much to anyone here outside of the receptionist who was deaf in one ear and considered every man under the age of 40 was a boy.

“Wait here, I’ll let you in in a moment.” You said and had Mr. Lane take a seat on the benches outside. Then, you knocked softly and entered, shutting the door after you. Andy was sat behind his desk, frowning at some paper, and beckoned you closer without looking up from them. You walked over to him, licking you lips softly.

“Sit.” He said, taking your hand and pulling you into his lap. You positioned yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. He scribbled something in the corner of his paper before pushing it away with a sigh, turning his face to you. His eyes, bluer than the ocean at the docks, glittered at you and a small smile curled on his lips. With a practiced move, he removed your top hat and released the band that held your long locks tied together at the top.

Running his fingers through your hair, he leaned closer to press a kiss on your lips. You instinctively kissed back, holding onto his shoulder and moulding your lips to fit his.

“How did it go?” He asked, caressing your cheek softly. You fingered his collar, not looking in his eyes.

“I was worried someone will see through me.” You softly murmured. “There were so many men out there.”

Andy chuckled, pressing another kiss on your lips as his hand sneaked around your waist to bring you closer.

“There are always going to be men around. But you must remember you’re better than them. Better than any other son of a dick out there pretending he is the boss.”

You looked at him at that, taking in his beautiful face that had you smiling and crying in equal parts. You could tell exactly how that well-groomed beard felt between your legs, how those lips could make you utter the filthiest of sounds and curses and how those large hands touched you in the dark of the night.

“Better than even you?” You tentatively asked and Andy smiled, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth.

“You’ve always been better than me.” He said. You blinked and looked away, his gaze far too intimate to hold. Try as you might, you could not figure this man out. Months you’d spent with him, living, and working and being his any way he asked, and yet he was as much a mystery as he’d been the first time you met.

“Uh, Mr. Lane is waiting outside. Should I call him in?” You asked and he nodded, squeezing your side before releasing you. You put your hair up again and wore your hat, hiding your face under its shadows and calling the client in.

When a girl turns a certain age, she is expected to find the most eligible bachelor and flutter her eyelashes in a bid to secure a match. Your mother threw grand balls for your sisters and was planning an even grander one for your introduction to the society. But you had had enough of dancing with lecherous bastards with as wandering hands as their eyes. You couldn’t stomach the thought of being bound to one of them, so you took your chance and ran.

Leaving behind your quaint town, you entered the bustling city with an assortment of clothes and a heart full of hope. It took you a week to understand that this was no place for you, no place for a lady who dreamt of being her own person. No one wished to employ you, a young girl who had no business demanding pay and rights.

However, in this bustling city of strangers, you found a man who wished to own you. Andy Barber told you in no uncertain terms that he would not hire you as long as you dressed like a woman, but he also promised that he could train you to be better than any other man. Provided, you give yourself to him. You weren’t naïve enough to pretend to not know what he was asking for, but you were desperate enough to say yes. This was better than a marriage anyway. There too, a man would have parched his thirst over your naked chest, but at least here you could learn and get paid for it without being bound to him.

Andy was not unkind. As a mentor, he was strict and meticulous. He worked you hard, taught you well, gave bitter feedback but praised you just the same. As a lover, he was exacting, exploring your chaste body with touches rough and soft, demanding response and reverence. The first night you laid with him, he spent hours worshiping you. His lips, lined by his bushy mustache, traced your face and neck, roving over each contour of your body until his mouth had tasted all.

The modesty you had guarded forever was bare to his gaze, but he didn’t lust like a man who cornered women in dark alleys. He had knelt before your open legs like men of cloth did at the lord’s altar, kissing the dewy folds of your sex with so much passion and delicacy that you had indeed felt like a goddess. Never had you imagined a man to put his mouth there, not when your mother had told you it was unclean. Andy, on the other hand, tasted it like he tasted absolution in your nectar.

He taught you more than simply law. The pleasures of flesh, of learning to please yourself and your companion were lessons that took place in the dark of night. He whispered things that Satan preached in your ear, seducing you into sin that you soon came to crave.

“Touch yourself”, a command he gave often. Nothing pleased him more than seeing you bring yourself to completion with your eyes trained on him, thoughts full only of him and how his body rocked yours.

You had done a great many things with him, things that had you flustered for days on end whenever your thoughts would turn to him, but what you were doing now was nothing short of scandal. It was blasphemous, something that would ruin you way more than if people found you falsely parading as a man in the city.

“Andy!” You hissed, pushing against him to no avail. He had dragged you into the men’s room inside the courthouse, cornering you against the wall and pressing his body flush to yours. He was wearing his best clothes today, about to represent an important man in a case that had made the front page for two weeks straight. Time together had been more work than pleasure, and it seemed Andy had reached his breaking point right before the trial started.

He started working on the buttons of your waistcoat, a frenzy in his eyes. “I need to take you now. This might as well be the most important case of my career, and I’ll begin it by being inside you, and end it just the same!”

You moaned, letting your hands roam his body as he finally undid your waistcoat and shirt, frantically ripping away at the bandages that bound your breasts. As he took one of your hardened nipples in his mouth, you palmed his pulsing hardness from over his pants, shivering at the thought of feeling it inside you again.

He scared you like this, for someone could walk in and see the illustrated Andrew Barber making a beast with two backs in the male room with someone who greatly resembled a man. He will be ruined. You would be ruined. And as of now, the very thought of that caused wetness to pool in your underpants.

“Get on your knees and taste me.” He urged, pulling out his cock and pumping it. “As you sit beside me today, I want you to have my taste in your mouth. One day, I’ll sit beside you too.”

You were a gently bred lady of impeccable reputation, but you sunk to your knees with the practiced move of a street woman to take him eagerly in your mouth. Oh, if your proper mother could see you, sucking a man like a whore in the damp men’s room, her teachings of propriety and modesty all but forgotten. But nothing made you feel more than a woman that receiving Andy like this. His desire, his need for you burned in his eyes and you lapped on those flames to quench the thirst in your heart.

His hand moved behind your head, easing you into taking him deeper. “Look at me” He whispered, and your eyes met his, shining with unshed tears. He did this to you, reduced you to who you loathed to be and yet loved. Swirling your tongue over his soft skin, you bobbed over his length, the squelching sounds filling the small room.

Just like always, you tasted his power and his yearning. The milky drops of precum coated your tongue, your nose taking in the smell of his musk as he groaned above you. He reduced you, but then why did you feel raised?

“Touch yourself, let me taste you too.” He ordered, and you complied. Your hand slipped inside your pants, finding your moist core. Generously lubing your fingers in your slick, you rose on shaky knees and presented your wet fingers to Andy who sucked them eagerly in his mouth. Warm, wet, his tongue took in your taste with relish.

You couldn’t stop but stare into his blue eyes, eyes that should have haunted your nightmares, but you only saw them in sweet dreams. “Kiss me” You begged, and he did. He kissed you like a man starved, like a man who could suck out your soul and draw it in himself. He kissed you like dew kissed the morning grass, like the colours of rainbow that scattered in the sky to paint it pretty.

“Tell me where you want me, how you want me.” He said, surrendering control. You stilled, hands resting on his chest. How were you to lead him when he was infinitely more experienced about the art of making love?

“I – I want you inside me.” You softly said, eyes fluttering as you shy looked away. Why was saying what you do so many times so difficult.

“Inside where?” Andy asked, tilting your chin up again. You gulped, your face and chest flushed.

“In my – in my” You stuttered, fearing to speak the word he spoke often. “In my pussy.”

You would have thought he would ravish you as soon as you said the words, instead he brought you closer and nudged your nose with his. His breath came out in erratic spurts, his need evident in his gaze. “You will put me inside you, however you want. It’s time I let you take some lead.”

Holding his gaze, you pumped his length gently before turning around and presenting him your ass. You struggled to position him, trying to place his tip at your opening. He didn’t move an inch to help you, only chuckling slightly when you huffed in frustration. Finally, you felt him at your slit, and you slid him between your folds carefully, trying to coat him in your wetness like you’d seen him do.

“What if someone walks in?” You asked, hesitating for just one moment.

“They’ll have to wait while we finish. You’re not walking out of here unsullied, so how about we hurry up?”

You pushed back into him, taking him inside your pulsing sleeve with ease. The stretch of his cock had always felt good, a pain that had a lasting effect and reminded you of him. As you moved back and forth, urging him to meet you halfway, you wondered why the self loathing never came. Andy had a way of making you feel like a queen when others may suspect you of nothing more than a whore.

“Andy” You brokenly said as he thrust inside you faster, “I want more. Please.”

He gave you more. He took over, holding onto your waist and sliding home inside you in deep, powerful strokes. You whined under his assault, jerking when his fingers found your nub and mashed it. Praises, curses, words of love and lust that had the power to destroy hearts and armies flowed freely from his mouth, as if the only thing tethering him to this earth was your body.

Your hands went to play with your breasts, a strangled moan caught in your chest. Suddenly, even when he moved inside you with such passion, you craved more intimacy than his cock could offer. You tilted your head to the side, offering him your mouth that he took in a sensual kiss. You were so close that you couldn’t decide what limb was yours and which was his anymore. In the age old dance of sensual love, you became one.

“What do you want?” He asked, and your eyes met his. He asked you this every time, and you had always answered the same thing. But today, this felt different. You were in the courthouse, a lawyer’s battleground and also the place of worship. He was more than your mentor and boss, he was also the man who you had grown to care for so deeply it could only be called one feeling.

“Inside me. I want you to finish inside me today.” You answered and his hands clutched you tighter. You’d never allowed that before, never allowed him to call you his so completely. But you felt compelled by his heat today, by the desperation he never bothered hiding from you. Once, this may have felt like a chore. Today, it was your blessing. “Andy, make me yours.”

He groaned, pumping in you with abandon and bringing you over the edge with his fingers that were running circles around your clit. You moaned loud, blubbering in pleasure that spilled from you, uncaring if someone were to walk in. His thrusts were getting irregular, hips jerking until you felt him twitch and release inside you in hot spurts. Warmth bloomed in your core, your essence mixing with his.

He hugged your sweaty body to his, the wool of his coat scratchy against your flesh. “You were mine, even before. Now, more so than ever. And one day, when you’re ready, I’ll claim you in front of the world as fully as my heart has done in private.”

You felt him run his thumb over your ring finger and licked your lips. He wasn’t asking, and you weren’t answering. But one day, maybe you will. Until then, you were happy to be his beautiful secret, posing as his assistant and learning from him.

“Don’t,” He whispered hotly in your ear, turning you around swiftly. “Don’t think too much. We’ve got a case to win.”

He helped you dress again, buttoning your shirt and waistcoat with nimble fingers. He was getting back to being your boss, and you couldn’t have been prouder of him at this moment. One day it will be you in his spot, you knew it.

“Just one question.” You said, fixing his tie and smoothening the wrinkles on his clothes. He raised an eyebrow at you, softly smiling at the mischievous look in his eyes. “What will happen once I am a lawyer too?”

Andy chuckled, pressing the softest of kisses on your lips. “Whoever wins more cases gets to be on top of course.”

You exited the men’s room with him, head high as any other man’s. As you entered the courtroom, you licked your lips and smiled as you tasted him on your tongue.

#sugary4kchallenge #soft!dark andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #andy x reader #soft!dark andy barber #andy barber

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adorerdraco · 4 years

Text

Malfoy’s Gone Soft! ✧ Draco x Reader

Summary: Draco, your boyfriend, is mean to everyone until you call him out for it.

Warnings: mentions of bullying :( and a couple profanities :0

Words: 2K

A/N: omg i wrote this on a whim while listening to the euphoria score soundtrack in like an hour idk if its all that but i have no idea what i’m going to do next for Healing Heart so for now i’m just going to write other things for Draco until i get inspired ! & feel free to send me requests ! also thank you for 100 followers you guys are amazingggg !!!!!!!!!!! *insert pouty emojy*

The sound of arrogant and boisterous laughter filled the courtyard, the Slytherin Prince and his minions were tossing around a book bag that a helpless 2nd year Hufflepuff was chasing around every time it was thrown to another boy. One of the boys yelled a foul,��“mudblood!” that made the boy tear up as he reached and jumped up for his bag that was in the air every few seconds. It was nothing new to the school, Draco and his band of bullies would bother anyone who they found as an easy target just for the fun of it.

Unfortunately for Draco, you had been passing by through one of the corridors with a group of friends when you had seen the fiasco. As much as you adored your boyfriend, you couldn’t deny the sometimes nasty persona that he had and how much it bothered you. He would always swear up and down that he would stop his antics, but you often encountered him or heard from other people of him being in the same situations that he had promised would stop.

You marched your way over to the group, a fire in your step and your eyes fixated on Draco who was laughing like a fool. You watched as Goyle rushed to elbow Draco’s side, earning him a look until he had pointed in your direction. All joy in the blond’s face quickly drained once he saw your vexed expression heading towards him.

The book bag had dropped from his hands onto the stoned courtyard ground, the young Hufflepuff hastily grabbed it and ran off in tears back into the castle. You stomped up to Draco, noticing how he had visibly swallowed in fear at what your reaction would be.

“What happened to, ‘I swear I’ll stop being a git to everyone!’” You asked him incredulously, mocking his voice as you quoted him.

“Malfoy said that?” Blaise chuckled as if it were a joke. Both you and Draco turned to give him a frenzied look.

“Y/N, I...” Draco trailed off, looking around at his friends who were awaiting his response with smug smiles on their faces. Then he looked towards you, a hope glittering in your eyes that he would reassure you and be the sensitive boy you knew behind closed doors and away from his every day reputation. “I...”

“So you have nothing to say for yourself?” you deadpan, a scowl making its way onto your face when you realized he wasn’t going to apologize.

“Why do you care what I do to a stupid little Hufflepuff?” He snickers. Whatever hope you had left went up in flames, he had chosen his reputation.

“Because it’s mean,” you sneered. “Why would I want to be with an arse like that?”

With that, you turned on your heel, walking out of the courtyard and back to your friends where you walked to your next class without turning back to look at the group of shocked boys.

“I think you just got dumped, mate.”

“Merlin’s sake, do you ever shut up Zabini?” Draco fumed, his heart breaking at the question and his mind running a million miles per minute. He began walking towards the entrance of the castle to head into the common room, bumping shoulders aggressively with Blaise as he did.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You weren’t sure whether or not you and the Slytherin Prince were broken up. Of course, it was the last thing you wanted but you were sick of the endless excuses and empty promises. You knew of the package deal Draco Malfoy came with when you started dating him, but there was a point when it all became too much. You were hoping in a last ditch effort, that if he genuinely really cared for you and respected your wishes, this would be the final push he needed to change.

It’s not like you were asking him to completely stop being himself. You were only asking for him to stop with the unprovoked teasing and pushing around of innocent bystanders. His friends especially, were a big reason why he continued to do it as he loved being the leader of the group and all that came with his positions as; the funniest, the most attractive and charming, the smartest, the wealthiest, the strongest. It was all just a game to him but he never saw the aftermath of his tormenting and how it could really affect someone or their day. You were like a broken record, repeating to him over and over again the same wish you had for him but he never absorbed it.

So now here you were, furiously writing your Potions essay in the library as your mind ran with thoughts of the aggravating platinum blond and nothing having to do with Calming Draught.

“Write any harder and you’ll break your quill,” a certain timid voice said from in front of your table. You didn’t look up, already knowing it was Draco. You didn’t want to give in so easily to his intoxicating nature because the second his scared gray eyes were to meet yours, you’d melt. “Y/N, I’m sorry. For what happened in the courtyard.”

You sighed, setting down your quill and shaking your head, eyes still trained on your parchment. “It’s not just what happened in the courtyard, Draco. It’s that you do this to someone new every single day.”

“I’ve been this way all my life, I can’t just change who I am,” he argues. You finally look at him, the both of you silently seething at each other.

“That’s not an excuse!”

“Shh! Quiet down, the two of you or you will be asked to leave,” Madam Pince exclaims angrily from her desk. You turned back to Draco, hard eyes trained on him as he glared back at you with the same irritated look.

“I would just like to know why my girlfriend feels the need to suck the life out of all my fun,” he says lowly to you. Your face goes scarlet as you try to contain your wrath from being let out on the whole library, and on Draco who wouldn’t even know where to begin to handle it. But as angry as you were, it was quickly replaced with anguish and pooling tears as you thought of the main reason why you had wanted him to be nicer.

“Because your ex-girlfriend knows how it feels like to get bullied and targeted every day for no reason,” you spit sorrowfully. “I know what it’s like to live on the opposite end of what you think is fun and I promise you it’s nothing near that.”

You hurriedly grabbed all your things and rushed out of the library with tears streaming down your face as Draco only stood there feeling like the biggest most insensitive idiot and asshole in the world.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It had been a week since the incident at the library and the both of you couldn’t be any more miserable. It had gotten to the point where Draco felt ashamed and gross if he was even accidentally rude to someone, let alone on purpose. The blond boy watched you intently from his Slytherin table in the Great Hall, his friends and their conversation sounding like a distant incoherent buzzing as he focused onto your sad and defeated face and figure from afar.

He had tried everything he could think of to get your attention, to get you to hear his apologies, but you wouldn’t give him the time of day; you refused to. You were beyond hurt. Not only because of Draco, but also because of the painful memories that had resurfaced that you spent so long trying to get over. It was all just a mess and Draco regretted everything he had said to you and everything he didn’t do for you.

“Just give it a rest, Draco,” Pansy sighs exasperated at the boy’s longing stares. “She broke up with you, stop pouting about it and move on.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Draco sneers. “Mind your business why don’t you.”

“I’m just saying, if I was her, I would never do or say anything to ruin our relationship,” she shrugs, peering up at the frowning Slytherin through her eyelashes.

“You’re not her though, are you?” Draco snarks, his eyes squinting at her as he shoots the mean remark her way. All the surrounding boys give an “oooh” at the interaction, cackling as they watch Pansy go red in the face before abruptly standing up and leaving the table in a rush.

Draco did the same and removed himself from the table to dart out of the Great Hall and towards an empty corridor near the courtyard where he liked to hide on an large windowsill. He had enough of his despair and enough of sitting around and doing nothing to win you back, so he got to work on something that would be his last and this time big gesture, to get you to listen.

A few hours had gone by, it was sunny and there was a nice breeze that was perfect for Draco’s plan on winning you back. He especially knew that when the weather was like this, you enjoyed sitting on a bench in the courtyard, the sun caressing your face with warmth as you read a book.

He walked out of the corridor and towards the courtyard, and just like he knew, he spotted you sitting at your favorite bench angled towards the sun and deeply entranced in whatever book was in your lap. He took a deep breath before nearing you, stopping a few feet away to where you didn’t notice his presence just yet. His hand reached into the pocket of his robes, picking out the small and large variety of origami birds notes he had written and charmed to fly over to you and around you in a pretty and gentle circle. A bouquet of red and y/h colored flowers had appeared in his hands behind his back, all he was waiting for was for you to accept him.

You looked up from your book, eyeing all the paper birds that were fluttering around you and across the way was a frantic looking Draco with his hands hiding something behind his back. You let out a deep exhale, reaching out to grab one of the birds and unfolding the note to read his perfect cursive.

I’m sorry.

Then you grabbed another.

Please forgive me.

Then another.

You are everything to me.

And another.

I promise to change my habits.

And then the final one, the biggest bird of the bunch.

I should have listened to you from the beginning and I’m sorry I haven’t been more sympathetic. I’m also sorry that you had to go through that in your past. You are so beautiful and strong and deserve everything good in this world.

You placed your book to the side and stood up, opening your arms in a hug for Draco before he bolted towards you and enveloped you into his arms with a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he apologizes again into your hair as he nuzzled into you. He pulled back, handing you the large bouquet of flowers that made you blush as red as the roses that were mixed into the assortment. “I can’t promise you I’ll be perfect, but I swear on everything I love, I’ll try.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, Dray,” you chortle. “All I’m asking is for you not to be such a terrorizing little git.”

“Done,” he grins, throwing himself into your arms again as you giggled and ran your hands through his hair.

The two of you plop onto the bench below you, Draco peppering kisses all over your face in glee and gratefulness that you gave him another chance to prove himself. He didn’t even dare remove himself from you when he saw his friends strolling by, snickering and pointing to the nearly snogging couple.

“Malfoy’s gone soft!” Blaise yells across the yard, the rest of the boys laughing in response as usual like the mindless bozo’s that they were. Draco rolled his eyes, throwing them the middle finger before nuzzling himself back into your embrace.

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its-me-im-coraline · 3 years

Text

Cry Baby // Ethan Torchio // Playist Fic

words // 1244

warnings // angst angst angst, mentions of struggling with mental illnesses but nothing graphic, but also fluffy caring Ethan

pairing // Ethan Torchio x GN!Reader

author's note // if you want to be on the tag list let me know. aghhhh this is the first fic on my little playlist thingy omg and i am excited although this is v angsty oops. If you don't know what this is supposed to be, i have a playlist tagged on my masterlist, you can send in a song from there or an entirely different one and I use that song, the lyrics and the feeling its music gives me to write a fic.

song is cry baby by the neighbourhood

also, maybe im projecting or maybe im affected by fallon carrington singing her wedding vows lol. also the photo of ethan here, sooooo cute

request // nope

summary // Reader has a hard time trusting people. When Ethan comes into their life it get’s worse. Reader is preparing for unavoided heartbreak but Ethan just might change their mind heart.

They were too stuck in their own thoughts for this relationship. Maybe it started at the wrong time or it was the perfect time but they had the wrong mind. They felt like a narcissist, making everything about them, while having a hard time hearing his side.

He was perfect, too perfect to ever be in this relationship, and maybe that thought scared them. Living around people who only cared about themselves, people who never cared how much they hurt Y/N, they were afraid to admit they might be doing the same to him.

They had not been together for long, only a few months, but the man acted as if he knew them forever. He did not care if they knew each other for a month or five, he was not willing to let them suffer alone. There were the two am panic attacks, calling Ethan at that time, waking him from his sleep, crying about the inability to calm their mind and sleep. He never complained. Or the days he spend at their house, Y/N having a hard time getting off bed, the depressive episodes hitting a little too hard; Ethan spend those days rubbing their back, making sure that they were alright.

Maybe that is what drove Y/N to be defensive, maybe their mind was alarmed by the man’s caring behavior -something so unfamiliar yet needed for them- that they felt defensive every time he was around. Maybe they spoke too much, and they thought the man would be scared away from them. “I’m not going away, Y/N, not for a long time, not at all if it’s on my hand,” he’d say after every fight, when Y/N would say yet another thing they did not mean. He was just too perfect.

“I really meant what I said that, Y/N,” he all but whispered to his lover. “I do love you.”

“Don’t say that, Ethan. How do you even know, it’s too soon!” Excuses, excuses, excuses and more excuses to plain and simple sabotage to themselves.

“You just know, when you know, amore, and I do.”

They could not look at his eyes anymore, afraid that with just one glance from the man their tears would fall, their guards would fall. And, if they let the guards fall even for a moment, it made them vulnerable to twice the heartbreak. So their eyes stayed glued to the floor, never leaving or daring to think about looking elsewhere. Every other place felt like a danger zone.

“You don’t have to say it back, amore, but you can not expect me not to.”

The fear never left, the fear that the young man was lying. He could not actually feel that way, could he?

Just as Y/N spiraled into yet another anxiety attack, there he was again with his soothing words and his soft touch on their face, his breath so close and so fresh hitting their face. “I’ve got you, it’s ok, follow my breath baby, come on, you are doing amazing, that’s it…” It did not take long for them to calm down a bit. Maybe it was the fact that a person finally respected their emotions rather than getting offended by them, but they felt safe even if only for a moment. “I’m here, I love you.”

It kept happening, over and over and over again. The man would profess his love but his love was not ready to believe him. It got him exhausted. He did not mind waiting for them to say the words back, he understood their past and their pain and how hard it is to vocalize something you feel. What he did mind was their active refusal to believe him, so it was the time to confront them.

“Hey, Y/N, do you have a moment?” If a single phrase could put their mind in a frenzy it was this one. The words could not form so they simply nodded their head, moving towards the sitting man.

“Look, Y/N, I-”

“If you are to break up with me just do it,” they said, the words leaving their mouth before even getting the chance to be filtered. They did not want to say that, hell they simply did not want Ethan to break up with them, but the fear was impossible to be hidden.

“What?! Amore, are you even listening to yourself?” He was exasperated. How could Y/N possibly think that, even now, after almost a year together. It hurt the man, it hurt him how much they refused to open up but it also hurt him that someone caused that fear to them before.

“I know what is happening, Ethan. I know I am hurting you with my inability to say those stupid words back. I’ve heard what you said to Victoria the other night -I did not mean to (!)-” “Hey, hey, let’s pause for a second there, amore. I’m not breaking up with you, that is not the problem. But, if you really heard what I said to Vic that night you would not be saying what you are,” he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, holding his lover’s face between his palms, “I’ve told you countless times I love you, and I will never take that back. I know you do, too. You don’t say it but you show it, but my love, the issue is not the words. The issue is you don’t believe me.”

Y/N was left speechless, not knowing what to say to the man besides that he is right. They’ve been having a really hard time believing that they even slightly deserve this love, the love that the Italian drummer in question has given them more than enough of. He was so kind, so caring, so loving that the more the relationship progressed the harder they found it to believe in his words.

“You can’t possibly truly love me, Ethan,” Y/N said calmly, tears in their eyes, mostly from anger, anger targeted at their mind.

“Then why are you even with me, Y/N? Huh? If you don’t believe that why are we together for almost a year now?!” The high volume of his voice was a stark contrast to the soft and collected tone he usually had, but his emotions were starting to take over and it was utterly obvious at this point.

Y/N did not know what to do, being left speechless for the second time in less than two minutes. Their mind raced for an excuse, a reason as to why they kept being with him if they really did not believe him, until the answer came to them and it was like a lightbulb going off: “Because I know that I love you.”

It came out almost as a whisper, as if the words were trying to not be heard. It was a strain of their voice, a sudden sob accompanying the words that broke Ethan’s heart. His love, his sweet, sweet love, the person he could not stop yearning for no matter how close they were… they were hurt, afraid of being loved - or more so afraid of being lied to. Ethan pulled Y/N into his arms, hands rubbing comforting cycles, lips letting the sweetest of nothings to come out.

“It’s ok, it’s alright, I got you, I’m here, I’m holding you, I am not leaving, I love you.”

tag list: @bieberhoodforever @tabi-toast @ginny-lily @moriro-da-regina @the-killer-queenie @makapaka11

#måneskin #maneskin imagine #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin #ethan torchio imagine #ethan torchio #playlist series

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iamnotparticularlyproud · 3 years

Photo

PPB Square: Possessive Behavior | @peterparkerbingo

word count: 1.7k rating: explicit warnings: rough s_x, degrading and possessive language, org_sm denial ao3 link: https://bit.ly/36dxXWh

“Do you have any idea how it felt, sweetheart? When I had to watch that piece of shit put his hands on you, and you fucking smiled like you do for me?”

Peter can barely listen, let alone respond. Although the gala just happened, the memory of letting that overly flirty businessman touch him a bit too much is so distant, it feels like a lifetime ago. All that matters now is the feeling of Tony drilling him into the mattress, pushing deeper than Peter ever thought possible.

“I had to pretend like I didn’t care, but I was seeing red, baby.” Tony continues, his breath fanning over Peter’s nape, “Had to keep talking to all those nobodies, when all I wanted was to show that asshole only I touch you like that.” His fingers dig into Peter’s hips, punctuating his point, “Isn’t that right?”

When Peter only gives a choking gasp at the combination of it all - Tony’s claiming words, his bruising grip, his unrelenting pace - Tony abruptly stops, mid-thrust.

“N-No, please,” Peter heaves, because it’s too good to stop, Tony needs to -

“Oh, now you talk?” Tony condescends, and when Peter just wriggles in response, shifting his hips back and forth in a mindless attempt to get that intoxicating feeling back, Tony adds, “Where was this enthusiasm when I asked you a question?”

Peter has to concentrate to recall it, and then to find the wherewithal to answer. When he finally accomplishes both, he responds, high and breathless, “Y-You, only you c-can touch me like that.”

Peter’s still pretty out of it, but he swears Tony growls before he counters, “Then why did you let him touch you?”

It’s still so hard to think - all Peter wants is the mind-numbing cacophony of sensations back - so instead of trying to find another answer, he begs, “I don’t - don’t know, ‘m sorry, jus’ please keep going,”

One of Tony’s hands comes up to Peter’s jaw, pulling his head up from it’s place against the sheets to meet Tony’s burning gaze. The angle is awkward, but Peter doesn’t even consider the strain as their eyes meet; the intensity of it all and the rawness in his stare surprises Peter, and a whine catches in his throat.

“I jus’ - “ Peter cuts himself off, trying to overcome the sudden wave of embarrassment, “I-I wanted to see what you would do.”

The searing look in Tony’s eyes turns incredulous. Tony moves his hand from Peter’s jaw to his hair and pulls hard, so much harder than he’s ever pulled before, and he starts thrusting into him again, still so rough but edging on frantic, now. Peter falls back into the bed, unable to hold himself up against the onslaught.

“What the fuck did you think I would do, sweetheart?” Tony’s angry tone is undercut by the breathless edge to his voice, “You know I don’t like sharing my toys.”

Being referred to as a toy - as Tony’s toy - sends a sharp spear of pleasure through Peter, and his cock leaks precome where it’s pressed between him and the bed. He can barely understand his own muttered words as he tries, “M-Mr. Sta-”

Tony cuts him off swiftly, pulling his hair again and saying, “No, none of that shit. I’m not fucking around. What the fuck did you think would happen, Peter?”

Peter can’t respond, because it’s all too intense in the best way possible. The slick slide of Tony’s cock in and out of him, hitting his prostate head on with each push forward while his own dick rubs against the soft sheets, is about to take Peter over the edge, and he can’t find the voice to warn Tony, only to moan wantonly -

But he knows, anyway. Tony uses his grip on Peter to pull them both upward, effectively sitting Peter onto his lap while leaning on his calves, then squeezes his hand around the base of Peter’s cock. It pulls him from the precipice and rips a mangled groan of frustration from his lips as he jolts in Tony’s embrace.

“No, precious. You’ve gotta answer me, first.”

Peter feels tears prickling in the corner of his eyes as he drops his head back onto Tony’s shoulder, face somehow burning hotter, “I ca-can’t remem - “

Tony doesn’t let him finish the question, saying into his neck as he gives sharp, short thrusts into Peter, “Did you think I’d roll over and let you pull that shit?”

Tony doesn’t even sound like he believes it as he says it, and Peter would laugh at the mere suggestion, but he’s too busy trying to push back onto Tony’s cock, to get him as deep as before. He only manages to shake his head, just a bit.

Tony hums, exaggerated, then continues, “Maybe you wanted me to get jealous? Did you act like a cheap whore to get a rise out of me, huh?”

The shame that courses through Peter from the words is piercing, but thrilling. He nods, hoping it’s enough for Tony to keep going, but he does Peter one better; he moves his hands to under Peter’s thighs and uses the leverage to lift him and drop him back onto his cock.

“Then I’ll treat you like a cheap whore, baby boy.” Tony promises, and Peter only has time to shiver before Tony’s moving him up and down like he weighs nothing, forcing his dick so, so deep into Peter, he wonders if it makes a bulge in his stomach.

Tony completely ignores his cock as Peter writhes on top of him, and when he tries to wrap a hand around his aching dick, Tony catches his wrist and pulls his arm behind his back, holding it there for just a moment before dropping his grasp and trusting Peter to keep it there.

“Nuh-uh,” he teases, “whores come hands free.”

Though Peter tries to blink them away, the tears fall, now. He’s so hard it aches, and it’s beyond any frustration he’s felt before. It makes Peter appreciate the toe-curling pleasure he gets from his cock hitting his prostate even more, and he starts rolling his hips in time with Tony’s.

“Fuck,” Tony groans, “you feel so goddamn good, my own little slut.”

Peter can only choke out a wet gasp in response. He’s lost in the pleasure of it all as they move together, Tony’s large, sturdy hands on his hips the only thing grounding Peter.

Tony pauses while he’s buried balls deep in Peter to grind into his prostate, keeping the pressure intense and relentless, and Peter knows it’s just moments, but it feels like hours before he’s coming with a strangled sob.

Although Tony stops aiming for Peter’s oversensitive bunch of nerves, he doesn’t let up his momentum, and Peter doesn’t have the energy to do anything but fall limp against his chest. He’s only distantly aware of Tony’s thrusts becoming more and more frenzied.

“You’re mine, angel,” Tony rumbles, “all fuckin’ mine.”

Peter tries to agree, but he can’t get it to come out, so he settles for a desperate, pitiful cry. All the sensations - Tony’s tight grip on his thighs and his warm body pressed against him, Peter’s burning lungs, his too sensitive hole filled to the brim - leave him convulsing, needing more and less simultaneously, and it has more tears spilling down his cheeks. Tony is lost in his own haze of pleasure above him, ignoring Peter’s quiet hiccups and squirming, as he keeps bouncing Peter on his cock.

Then, before Peter can realize what’s happening, Tony pushes him back into the mattress, wrapping his arms around Peter’s torso to pull his back to his chest. Tony drives greedy, aborted thrusts into him, and Peter barely musters the strength to bring his hands up to hold onto Tony’s arms, otherwise laying boneless below him.

With a deep, guttural moan, Tony comes inside of him, his hips jerking in uncontrolled, hectic movements. Peter whimpers as Tony’s pulsating cock nudges his prostate, making his dick twitch valiantly, despite Peter knowing he’s too exhausted for a round two.

When Tony starts to pull away, Peter has a difficult time letting him; his hold on Tony’s arms are tight, tighter than he thought he could hold right now, and he leans back into Tony as he tries to separate them. Tony wins the struggle, though, and as he eases his flaccid cock out of him, Peter can’t help but give another soft cry.

Peter’s hardly aware of Tony’s gentle shushing as he turns him over with accommodating touches and soothing murmurs of affection. He feels Tony reach across the bed, and then he’s easing Peter’s legs open and lifting him up carefully to clean the mess between them.

Peter whines as Tony grazes over his sensitive rim with a cursory wipe. He thinks he hears Tony speak, but it’s too far away for him to listen. Tony leans back, away from Peter, taking his comforting presence and heat with him. Peter feels the shifting of the bed as Tony gets off, leaving him alone in the expansive bed and soiled sheets.

Time is just a vague notion as Peter waits for Tony to come back, but he does eventually. If Peter had the energy, he’s sure he would’ve sobbed with relief - the return of Tony’s hands against him is grounding, and he’s suddenly filled with a desperate need to speak.

“’m sorry,” Peter mumbles, remembering the fierce look in Tony’s eyes when he admit why he let the stranger at the gala touch him too personally.

Above him, Tony sighs. “No, baby. I should’ve -- ” but he pauses before he finishes the thought, continuing instead with, “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

Peter nods weakly, then starts as a warm, damp cloth touches the skin of his inner thighs. Tony uses his free hand to stroke a line along his side as he cleans the remaining moisture, and Peter’s chest tightens with his overwhelming love for the man.

“Y-You’re -- ” and it’s Peter’s turn to cut himself off, swallowing hard and turns his eyes to the side, because although he needs to know, he feels too vulnerable asking it, “you’re mine, too... right?”

Tony doesn’t say anything for several moments. Peter’s heart falls a bit, but then he looks up to meet his gaze. It’s soft, a bit melancholy, even, and filled with so much fondness, Peter doesn’t know what to do with it.

“For as long as you’ll have me, angel.”

#peterparkerbingo2021 #starker #starker fanfiction #tony stark x peter parker #tony x peter #nff #i hope blanked the words out right so this shows up in the tags lol #that soft ass ending snuck up on me too okay #my writing

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pastelwitchling · 3 years

Text

Based on this prompt an anon sent to @manescosmic. Kaylie, don’t let me do any more of these. You have to forbid it. You must.

Michael needs Alex’s help.

“If the world was ending, you’d come over, right?”

Alex raised an eyebrow at Michael’s greeting. He supposed, after all they’d been through together, and now with Doomsday looming on the horizon in the shape of a clone and a clandestine organization neither of them could understand, that this opener was warranted.

Nonetheless, Alex had questions.

“Is it the end of the world?”

“I have no idea yet,” Michael huffed, “but it’s looking that way. It’s definitely the end of my bunker.”

Alex could hear metal on metal in the distance and a weird siren sound that he couldn’t place. He pressed his phone to his cheek and shut his eyes for a second.

Then he said, “Give me ten minutes.”

It took Alex eight minutes to make it to the junkyard. He heard more muffled scraping metal and the ground trembled slightly the closer he came to Michael’s bunker. He opened the door, the airstream conveniently pushed aside, and almost at once, a wrench flew into the air and fell somewhere in the distance.

Alex, eyes wide, called down, “Guerin?!”

“I’m here!” CRASH! “Just a second!”

Alex heard Michael’s grunts and cursing. More scraping metal and more heavy glass hitting the floor and more faint siren noises, like someone was circling the rim of the largest wine glass ever.

Then another piece soared up, and Alex barely managed to avoid it. Unlike the wrench, it fell almost straight back down, right into Alex’s arms. It was a large spaceship piece, broken off.

“Good,” Michael panted, “you caught it.”

Alex shook his head, handing him the piece. “What’s going on? Why’s your bunker going all SkyNet?”

He raised his hands, helpless, and sighed. “The turquoise,” he said. “I tried to forge the stones into the glass piece –”

“To see if that would mend whatever broken internal transceiver is keeping them from signaling anyone outside the atmosphere, right,” Alex said easily. “And?”

The corner of Michael’s lips tugged up with something like awe and fondness, and Alex blushed.

“And –” Michael started to say when another glass piece tossed itself out the door and into the sky. Michael caught it with a raised hand, and threw it back inside, along with the other piece, before shutting the door. “That,” he said. “This weird frequency started going off, and it won’t stop, and everything in the bunker – steel, glass, alien stones – it’s all gone haywire. Like –”

“—like the collision of the stones and the glass created a new code with a new frequency that accesses all other codes within all objects,” Alex finished in a mutter, his eyes narrowing at the bunker door as something else beat against it. “Like a master key code to . . . everything.”

Michael sighed. “Private, you are some kind of sexy.”

Alex cleared his throat and looked away. “Okay,” he said, “so why am I here?”

Michael titled his head. “Do you know anyone else that’s better at coding than you?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Alex scoffed. “I’m trained in hacking and algorithms. This is alien tech. You’re supposed to be the genius, do I need to explain to you the difference?”

“Look,” he said, “if I could ask for Liz’s help, I would.”

“That’s a lie,” Alex said. “You’ve been looking for any excuse to get me over here in the last two weeks!”

“I want to see you,” Michael said without batting an eye. “I won’t apologize for that. But this really is an Alex-only emergency. And you’re going to do it.”

“That sure of yourself, huh?”

“Me?” he snickered. “Not even a little bit. I’m just sure of you.”

Alex faltered, and shoved whatever stammered excuse he was considering giving to the back of his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you need?”

Michael smiled, and Alex knew he’d signed his own death warrant a long time ago.

Five hours later found Alex and Michael in Michael’s airstream, Alex at the small desk Michael had attached to his counter, Michael sitting on the table beside their steaming cups of coffee, the handles touching.

Alex had spent the first hour going over the security footage Michael kept for research purposes, and studying the faint lines of light that seemed to stretch from the stone to the glass and vice versa, like the two were melding together before they shattered apart, sending everything else within a ten-foot radius into a frenzy.

Now Alex was studying the symbols and lines of light he’d traced earlier, cross-referencing them with every photo, line of coding, symbols, and word he had on file, trying to make sense of where the glitch started and how to fix it. Michael seemed adamant on watching him the whole time.

“I don’t really need you here for this,” Alex had tried at one point. “If you need to work the auto shop today –”

“Nope,” Michael had said cheerfully. “I’m all yours.”

The implication alone left Alex red-faced, and Michael smiled like he was proud of himself for it. Alex was determined after that to pretend the cowboy wasn’t there. That plan went about as well as the day was going, because just when Alex thought he might’ve spotted something in the current of codes, Michael leaned in and Alex got a sight down his open flannel, all the way down to his bellybutton, and to the delicious hairy skin above his belt buckle.

“You okay?” Michael asked in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I’m fine,” Alex said through grit teeth. But then Michael’s thigh pressed against the back of Alex’s hand, and Michael’s thumb played idly with the hairs at the nape of Alex’s neck when he put a hand on the back of his chair, and Michael’s curls were close enough to brush Alex’s brow and leave him yearning for the touch of them against his fingers.

Alex rubbed his face, exhausted. When he looked up, Michael was looking at him with a dimmed smile. “Tired?” he asked.

“No,” Alex sniffled, returning to the computer. “I’m okay.”

Michael didn’t seem to believe him, and he put a hand in Alex’s hair, his fingers raking through the strands. Alex didn’t tell him to stop or turn away. It felt too good, the touch too soothing, and after this flirty distance they’ve kept, he wanted and needed Michael’s hands on him more than he wanted to admit.

So he worked while Michael raked his hair back, and as they hit the six hour mark, Alex found the glitch. He told Michael to consider it an on-and-off switch. He would have to do the one thing he hadn’t thought of doing; trying to combine the stone and glass again.

“It won’t meld them together,” Alex said, “but it will shut off the master key.”

Michael jumped back into the bunker without hesitation, even as Alex suggested he be the one to try it. “It’s my theory.”

Michael had only smiled like Alex was the cutest thing in the world, and touched his chin. “If it doesn’t work,” he said, “I don’t want to see a hair hurt on your head.”

Michael disappeared down the ladder before he could see Alex turn red. Alex waited and waited, and soon, the crashing stopped, the siren stopped, and he heard Michael’s bark of laughter.

When he climbed up, Alex expected a cheerful whoop!, or maybe a simple thank you, but Michael’s grin was wide as he stepped out, took Alex’s face in his hands, and crashed their mouths together.

Alex was startled, even as Michael pulled back and pressed their foreheads together, still grinning. “You’re incredible,” he breathed.

Alex was transfixed only for a moment before he pulled back. “D-Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

Michael’s smile faltered, the brilliant light in his eyes darker. “Why not?” he tried coming in close again, taking Alex by the waist, but Alex stepped back. “Alex, why don’t you want me touching you?”

Alex looked up.

“You – you used to love it.”

“Is that really what you think? That I don’t want you to touch me?”

He barked a humorless laugh. “What else am I supposed to think, Alex?”

“All I’ve ever wanted was you!” Alex growled, and Michael blinked, surprised. “After everything I’ve done, don’t you dare insult me by telling me I don’t want you to touch me. The only person whose touch ever mattered was you, Guerin, and you know that, so don’t pretend you don’t.”

Michael swallowed and shook his head, his expression turning hopeful and helpless at the same time. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, afraid.

“Then why?” he asked, his words like a plea. “Why won’t you . . . why won’t you let me near you?”

Alex pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t – I just – I don’t want to screw it up this time, okay?”

Michael was silent a moment. Then, “Screw what up?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between them. “Us. I can’t see us lose again, Guerin, I can’t. This might be the last chance we get, and – and . . . I can’t lose you again. If I do something wrong, if I’m – if I’m not careful –”

“Stop, stop,” Michael closed the distance between them and took Alex’s face in his hands tightly. “Look at me, Private. It wasn’t your fault, okay? It – hey.” He made Alex hold his gaze, despite his doubt. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. It – it was mine, Alex. You were brave, okay? You were so brave, and I – I was scared. And I chased you away –”

“And I left,” Alex whispered, his eyes glassy. Michael looked like his heart was breaking. “I left, and I shouldn’t have.”

Michael brushed Alex’s cheekbone with his thumb and gave a small, sad smile. “I ran before you did. I was just louder at blaming you.”

Alex clenched his jaw and took hold of Michael’s waist, terrified he would disappear without his touch. “I don’t want to break this again,” he confessed.

Michael smiled like he couldn’t believe how Alex was missing the obvious. “Baby,” he said. “You can’t break cosmic.”

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex fic #malex fanfic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 12

Masterlist

Winding down from the frenzy of the last chapter... Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤

Word Count: 5.9k

Recommended song: "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy

“Mon amour, wake up.”

Pierre’s sleep-heavy voice rouses you from the best sleep you’d had in a long time. You’d fallen asleep to the sounds of his even breathing under the soothing touch of his thumb tracing patterns on your side.

You crack your eyes open to see him silhouetted by the white light of the waning moon, his bare chest left uncovered by the blanket slung low over his hips. The sight alone has your mind instantly jumping into overdrive, fighting the need to sleep with the need to continue ogling the bare skin a foot from your face.

“I let you sleep as long as I could,” he says softly, reaching behind him for his phone. “We have to be on the M1 in about half an hour.”

“Mmmph,” you groan, snuggling back under the blanket and closer to him, chasing the warmth radiating from him. “The sun isn’t even out.”

His chuckle shakes the bed. “I figured you would say that which is why I made you breakfast and picked out your clothes. All you have to do is brush your teeth and get dressed.”

You hum appreciatively and press a kiss to his bare sternum. “Is this how you’re going out today? Because I won’t complain but you might cause a few heart attacks.” A kiss to your temple is a small reward for your comment, as well as a concession.

"Don't worry, this is reserved only for you." He stretches an arm above his head, grinning when your eyes immediately are drawn to the way the muscles ripple and pull under his skin. You stare shamelessly as he flexes a little for your benefit, the action going straight to your head.

"As it should be." You bite your lip and let your fingertips dance over his chest, memorizing the way it rises and falls so predictably with each deep breath. Against your better judgement you trail kisses up over his pectoral and spot them along his shoulder, dragging another light chuckle from him.

"My love," he warns, voice tinted with mischief, "we don't have time."

"Oh I think we do." You continue your path over his collarbone and to the hollow of his throat. Taking advantage of his biggest weakness, you flick your tongue over his prominent adam’s apple. The move has his hand engulfing your upper arm, giving you a warning squeeze.

"As wonderful as this is" -he sucks in a sharp breath when your teeth graze his neck- "if I'm late Horner will kill me."

"What's new?" You say, but draw back. The mere mention of his name made you see red and shattered the moment. "Do you really want to go back to Red Bull after how they treated you?"

"No," he admits, slipping an arm around you and tugging you up and into a sitting position, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of lust. "But if I want a shot with a top team when my contract is up, I don’t have much choice."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

Pierre studies you as you slip into the clothes he had selected for you. Nothing fancy, just an AlphaTauri branded navy and white hoodie and some light wash jeans. You don't miss the way his lips twitch upward when you notice it's his hoodie, his last name embroidered in block font on the cuff a dead giveaway even if the hoodie hadn't been ridiculously oversized on you.

Cheeky bastard.

"I think I would look good in sunshine yellow," he remarks. You make a show of looking him up and down under the pretense of imagining him in a Renault branded hoodie or their signature black race suit. Truthfully it was just another excuse to drink him in like the fine wine he was and recall how he had tasted on your tongue last night.

He would look good in any color on the grid but you don't grant him the satisfaction of pointing that out. Instead, you lean forward to toy with the waistband of the jeans he had hastily buttoned seconds earlier. "You and Daniel get along just fine." You snag him by the belt loops and yank him forward back onto the bed. "I think you should go to McLaren.”

“I’d still look good in orange.”

You wind your fingers under his waistband. “I think you’d look best wearing nothing at all, actually.”

“The time,” Pierre protests lightly when you pop open the button and undo the zipper. He groans when you yank the denim down around his thighs, finally submitting to your touch and lacing his fingers in your hair. Your lips explore the planes of his abdomen, any and all thoughts of speed abandoned on your end. "If you don't hurry up we're gonna be late."

"Maybe you'll just have to drive fast. I hear you’re good at that."

**********

"So how is it that they got your car all the way to London?"

"It's got its own private jet."

You roll your eyes and smack the hand resting on your thigh. His response is a light squeeze and a chuckle before he continues, "They've got a few spares they keep around for when drivers come to town. I can't be seen in a Mini or it would cause a scandal."

"Oh yes it would be quite tragic." His hand charts a dangerous path along your thigh. He knows exactly what he's doing as he slots a thumb between your legs and presses it tight to the apex of your thighs.

You snap your knees shut, effectively trapping his hand "Now you're just being cruel."

"Only dishing out what you did this morning," he points out and wiggles his hand free to rest on your knee instead. The message was clear: he had shaken you well enough for his liking and was perfectly content to leave you frustrated until he could get you home.

“So catch me up on what I’ve missed,” you say, determined to distract yourself from Pierre’s slight teasing. “What’s new in the life of the rising star in Formula 1?”

“Rising star,” Pierre mumbles and rolls his eyes. “Not yet, my love. Getting there, but not yet.”

“Please, you’re too modest. Last night when you fell asleep- you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, don't give me that look!” Pierre picks his jaw up off the floor and shakes his head as you continue, “I read plenty of articles that called you the next big thing, right up there with Max.”

The comparison didn't seem to sit right with him. He shifts in his seat, rolling words over on his tongue. “I’m sure you’re caught up then. I haven’t done anything really besides train and race.”

“I did notice you’ve beefed up a bit.”

“Yet another reason to thank Pyry.”

“At this point I should send him a fruit basket for his trouble.”

“Maybe you should.” Pierre grins, hand leaving your thigh for a split second to upshift. “What about you? How’s year four treating you?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” you groan. “My senior project is already killing me and I’ve only just started it. We have to design a building from the ground up- I mean I like architecture but I’m trying to be an engineer, not an architect. I dunno why I have to be the one to design a building! At this point it’s just a brick box.”

“Sounds challenging,” Pierre notes, flooring it when he merges onto the highway. Though the speed makes your stomach flip, you don’t miss a beat.

“My team doesn’t do much either, I’ve been doing most of it. I could rant for hours about it.”

Pierre glances at the clock, then back to you. The blue of his eyes is blocked by his signature purple tinted sunglasses, shielding them from the rising sun that casts him in a warm orange glow. “Humor me. We’ve got time.”

The hour and a half drive was by no means dull with Pierre's teasing touches and endless string of questioning along the way. He asked after every aspect of your life that had transpired in the last four months, only stopping you once in a while to interject with an opinion or anecdote. He didn't stop at your life either, even asking after Ben's relationship. You'd been happy to report that he had indeed wooed his crush and had officially asked him to be his boyfriend.

"Those secret French lessons paid off," Pierre jokes as he pulls up to the imposing glass fronted building that served as Red Bull Racing's headquarters. The sweeping curve of the entrance was flanked on either side by two-story red and yellow bulls; proof that the team's dramatics extended far past the track. Anyone approaching for the first time would have been intimidated by the sheer size of them that suggested they were ready to stomp on their competition at a moment’s notice.

“Guess it’s time.” You sigh and undo your seatbelt and fiddle with the buckle, doing your best to stall. There was no reason to be this nervous. You were no one to these people; the focus would be entirely on Pierre. You would be an afterthought, not that you minded because it made it easier to fade into the background.

Pierre picks up on your hesitation in a heartbeat. “I’ll keep them off your back,” he promises and you nod, the single sentence taking the edge off. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You reach for the door handle but Pierre tsks and you pause.

"You know better." You bite your lip to keep back the grin fighting its way to the surface as he comes around to open your door. He offers you his hand and you gladly take it and are pleasantly surprised when he threads his fingers through yours and heads for the entrance.

The atrium serving as the lobby is breathtakingly gorgeous. You had to hand it to the interior designer; they knew what they were doing. Sleek white marble floors are accented by red and yellow leather chairs scattered in small groups throughout the grand space. A tiered circular modern interpretation of a chandelier hangs above to offer guidance to the accountants, engineers and artists that weave through the lobby on their way to their respective wings or offices.

A waist high, glass front cabinet of drivers helmets serves as the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of a fresh cup of coffee hits you as you approach and the secretary hands a steaming paper cup to someone before they scurry off, presumably to a private office if they were important enough to warrant special attention. The first rays of morning sunlight glint off the silver Red Bull logo inlaid in the black marble behind the woman at the counter, making you squint.

"Bonjour Monsieur Gasly," she says in perfect French. "Ça va?"

"Bien," he says simply and switches to English for your benefit. "Has Christian come through yet?"

"He has," the woman says, glancing sidelong at you. Whatever conclusions she draws about you are insignificant enough that she writes you off immediately, angling her body towards Pierre and resting her chin in her hand. The posturing puts her ample chest on display, nearly spilling out of her billowing blouse, but Pierre's eyes don't wander. "He's not expecting you yet. Voulez-vous un cafe?"

"I'm good." The woman may have been determined to alienate you but Pierre was having none of it. Pierre turns to you, a grin playing on his face. This was your first test as an official couple and he intended to see how you handled it. "How about you, my love? Coffee?"

The woman's eyes slip to where your hand remains clasped in his. She cocks her head so slightly you think you might be imagining it until Pierre's grip tightens, a silent encouragement. Your confidence soars. If this was how Daniel's girlfriend felt when the two of them were out, you finally understood why they didn't hide. It was a rush knowing that everyone wanted Pierre but he only wanted you. No matter how blatantly women threw themselves at him, there was no doubt in your mind that he would never give a single one of them the light of day.

It was about damn time you afforded him the same unwavering commitment as he had shown you.

"No thank you," you reply sweetly with a mocking smile directed to the woman. You lean in and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might want to fix your shirt though, it’s… slipped. I know I'd hate for that to happen to me and no one tell me, especially at work. I don't think I'd ever recover from it."

Her face immediately turns scarlet as she stands straight and folds her arms over her chest. "If I were you-"

"Let Horner know I'm here," Pierre interrupts and it's somehow the hottest thing he's ever said. His purely commanding tone leaves no room for argument.

"Of course," she replies with a sharp smile in your direction that makes your spine stiffen. "Good luck. Christian is in rare form this morning."

"Just ignore it," Pierre murmurs and sweeps his thumb over the back of your hand as he leads you across the cold marble and down a carpeted hall. "You handled that well.”

“I may have gotten a few pointers from Daniel’s lover.” Your soft smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The short interaction had sapped most of your confidence, leaving you on uneven footing. “I would rather not have to deal with that again soon though.”

“I can handle the women easy enough when I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

The tightness in your chest eases further when the hall opens into another startlingly white space, this time packed with rows and rows of navy cubicles. But that's not where your attention is drawn- instead, your gaze is immediately snagged by the case of trophies towering high along the back wall. Cups of every shape and size shine within, each one representing a different podium for the team achieved in various years and tracks.

"There must be over a hundred," you breathe, mesmerized by the glinting silver and intricate craftsmanship. The case was easily thirty feet tall and you had to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the ones in the top row. Each one told a story of blood, sweat and tears, each one earned by a driver who had made countless sacrifices to be where they were and finish on a podium.

"A hundred and eighty five to be exact," he counters, laughing at your amusement. "Your inner architect is screaming isn't it?"

"Only a little."

Pierre laughs outright at your white lie and tugs you along. "You can stare on the way out. I'll even show you which ones were Max's."

"Did you memorize what all his trophies look like?"

"Hey, meetings with engineers get boring. It's one of the more interesting ways to occupy your time when they are going on and on about fluid mechanics and thermodynamics- you know, stuff you understand but not me."

"Oh whatever, you enjoy those meetings and you know it."

"Only a little," he quotes.

People recognize him as you pass and some nod or give a simple greeting as they go about their morning but no one stops him to chat. The air feels a bit hostile, like no one knows what to do with him now that he's walking through the building after a nearly two year absence.

"Do you miss it?" You ask after he smiles at someone for the millionth time.

"I miss the team," he admits, "but not the management culture. My team was great- they supported me any way they could but it didn't help that Horner didn't exactly encourage them to believe in me. It's hard to crank out results when there's no one on your side."

"I'm on your side," you point out, nudging him with your hip. "You've got me forever, no takesies backsies."

"I'm grateful for it," he murmurs and gives your hand a squeeze. He hadn't let go once; not when he had to open a door or the two of you had to walk single file to let people pass.

The building was a labyrinth and if it wasn't for Pierre you'd have been lost the moment you set foot inside. He navigates the twisting halls with ease, having no need for the countless signs posted along the way.

He leads you up a set of steel stairs after what seems like ages. When he knocks on a heavy oak door, his grip on your hand turns possessive like he suspects the office’s occupant would try to rip you away from him.

“Morning.”

God, even the one word makes rage simmer in your veins. The voice precedes the man and Christian Horner swings open the door, a plastic smile splitting his face. He doesn't bother acknowledging you with a greeting, instead addressing his driver directly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“A pretty face was needed around here,” Pierre snaps back without missing a beat. You bristle, free hand curling into a fist. If there was one person you didn’t mind teaching a lesson to, it was Horner. He had little respect for anyone he viewed as disposable- up to and including “underperforming” drivers.

Christian raises an eyebrow. “Sure. She can wait out here- you and I have terms to discuss.”

Fine, Horner wanted to play dirty? So could you. When it came to staring him down, you became fearless. He was the one person you refused to let intimidate you.

Drawing on your newly minted confidence you smile up at Pierre and silence the protest forming on his tongue with a grin. “Gimme a kiss, race winner.”

Pierre doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours. Cupping a hand to the back of his neck you draw him in and nip at his lower lip. The hand on your hip tightens at Christian's scoff but Pierre makes no move to break away. You linger a moment longer than necessary to drive your point home: you didn’t care what Horner had to say about you, you were here to stay and he would have to get used to it.

Pierre gives you a small, blissed out smile before dropping your hand and following Horner inside. The door clicks but doesn't shut all the way, Pierre leaving it cracked for your benefit.

Uninterested in eavesdropping on small talk, you lean on the metal railing to observe the research and development garage coming to life on the floor below. Hybrid engines in various stages of disassembly dot the space, small teams of mechanics and engineers tweaking components to reduce weight or increase horsepower. Pistons and valves are scrutinized and exchanged before being placed under stress to test their strength.

An FIA official in a red jacket wove through the garage to observe and jot notes down on a clipboard. He looks over the shoulder of an engineer pouring over formulas on a whiteboard, startling him when the official asks a question. Someone calls your name from below and you search for the origin, finally spotting the woman and waving back at her.

Management may have their qualms with Pierre but it was clear there were still some within the team that had his back. They were likely the same ones that knew he would have to leave the Red Bull umbrella to find any semblance of success. They may not have possessed the guts to stick their necks out for him when Horner had cut him but they were at least happy to see him back around headquarters.

"You sure you'll rise to the challenge?" Horner's question drags you back to the mezzanine.

"I'll take seventh. I'm only a few points away and we have plenty of races left."

He had five races to catch up to be exact. Pierre currently was comfortably ahead of the pack in ninth, Sainz was only three points ahead in eighth, and Norris ten points beyond in seventh. It would only take a DNF or two from his rivals and a few podiums to pass them up.

"Right," Horner starts. "There's a reason you've done so well this season and it's not luck. You've been racing exceptionally well and I don't want that to change."

"If there's something on your mind just get on with it." Pierre's voice is calm and collected in a way yours wouldn't be if you had been in his shoes. You've been dying to rip into Horner since the day he wrote Pierre off.

"There's been a fire in you the past few months since she has been gone-"

"Leave her out of this."

The tone sends a chill down your spine. It maintains the same level headedness that Pierre had perfected over the years and you had come to expect when he was backed against a wall, but it was laced with an unspoken threat. The intent was clear: he would walk out and abandon his chance for a seat at Red Bull if it meant protecting you.

You creep to the door to peer through the crack. Horner crosses his arms, a sly smile on his face. "You would sacrifice your chance at a championship winning seat for her? Everything you've worked so hard for, gone in a flash, because of her?"

"Without question," Pierre answers immediately. The conviction and commitment behind it nearly makes you stumble. "I'm sure there's plenty of other teams that would love to have me after the season I've had. She’s not going anywhere, so either you stop disrespecting her or I walk out."

You clench your fists, ready to burst in and demand Pierre stop being a fucking idiot. His long term plan saw him at another top team that would take care of him and nurture his skill- a long stint at Red Bull Racing was never in the cards. It wasn't an environment for everyone. Some people like Max thrived in it, letting the toxicity roll off their backs but for Pierre it was a cruel form of punishment. However, a seat at Red Bull for the 2022 season could mean the difference between an offer from Alpine and an offer from Haas when his contract was up for renewal.

The idea of seeing his number stickered to the floor in a Red Bull garage excites and intimidates you. Last time he hadn't been given the chance to prove himself. Would they still hold that against him? Knowing Christian, he probably would. On the other hand, it meant that they admitted their mistake in cutting him mid-season, whether they said it outright or not.

Pierre's redemption day was on the horizon and you couldn't wait to see the look on Horner's face when he finally won. And the longer Christian stays silent, the more potent the urge to throttle him grows.

Christian gives a slow clap. "Now there's the unwavering commitment that was missing during round one."

Your heart hammers in the dead silence as papers are shuffled. "Here's the contract. Terms are as discussed, you secure seventh in the world championship in 2021 and the second seat at Red Bull Racing is yours for the entire calendar in 2022. No demotions, substitutions, or shuffling of drivers unless medically necessary or mutually agreed upon by all affected parties."

"And the same spec car as the number one seat," Pierre insists, spine straight. "Same strategy."

Christian waves a hand. "Yes, that's in there too. Feel free to take a moment and read it over."

He does, allowing Christian time to pour a knuckle of whiskey and set the glass before Pierre. He pours himself an identical glass and waits until Pierre signs and initials all the boxes before raising it in acknowledgement.

"Congratulations. Welcome back to Red Bull- conditionally."

Pierre leaves the glass untouched and remains silent, staring his potential future team principal down. He gives the man no margin to question his abilities further, conveying all he needs to with a look that would have had you shaking at the knees. Even if you can't see his face, wrath radiates from him in waves and you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it when it explodes.

"Right then." Christian lowers the glass, his fake smile vanishing. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Don't worry. I'll deliver."

You step back and allow him to set the mood as he exits the office and slams the door behind him. Pierre sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You heard all of that right?"

You nod. "You wouldn't have really walked out, right?"

"I almost did."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should know that he would choose you over all of this, that all of his dreams and everything he had sacrificed to achieve them thus far meant less to him than you did. How many times did he have to prove his unwavering commitment before you realized it was true?

Pierre laces his fingers through yours, the heat welcomed by your ice cold skin. It was as much a comfort to you as it was to him. "I just have to grab some things from Max's office and then we can head out."

His jaw is still set after his stand off with Christian and you want nothing more than to ease his mind. Publicly comforting him with a touch to his chest or a kiss to his neck was out of the question so you settle on temporary distraction.

"Hey, you know what I want to see?"

"What's that?"

"That room full of all the old chassis. You know, the one that they hold all the fancy virtual events in? I wanna see those."

"I think I should be able to get you back there." He veers down a hall and you yelp, pulled along by his momentum. His attitude brightens a little at your laugh. The grin he throws your way is your own personal sun, warming your soul.

"Hey- hold on." You pull him to a stop and lead him into an alcove. The inch of space between your chests is charged with electricity, begging to jump from one to the other.

"Can I help you?" He asks and grins down at you.

"No," you say nonchalantly. "Just wanted to be selfish for a second."

You rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He melts into you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other finds the small of your back. You side your tongue over his lower lip and he presses you against the door leading to who knew where and opens his mouth to you. You sigh into the kiss, arms winding around his neck and losing yourself in him.

Now that you had gotten over your anxiety, everything was so much easier. You know there's press roaming about the building and any number of them could pass by at any moment but you genuinely couldn't care less. Let them talk; you were over caring what anyone thought or said.

All that mattered was the man beneath your fingertips. You would endure a lifetime of insults if he was the one to soothe the wounds afterwards. As long as you both were happy, no one could come between you ever again.

Pierre pulls away when someone passes by and coughs quietly. "You're trouble," he murmurs, leaving an arm propped next to your head and effectively caging you in.

"And you're dangerous," you tease, tugging on his hair and exposing his throat enough to nip at it once. "Together we're the perfect pair."

He groans and leans away. "Keep that up and I might have to stay in London an extra week."

You slip out of his grasp and give him an unrestrained grin. "Don't threaten me with a good time." You spin on your heel and set off down the hall, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

"You know where you're going?" He calls after you.

"Someone will point me in the right direction, I'm sure."

"Someone like me." He catches up to you and once again takes your hand in his. He was enjoying showing you off almost as much as you enjoyed hanging on him.

"Maybe we should head right to Max's office and hurry home, huh?"

"Maybe-"

"Pierre, there you are."

You both turn to a woman hustling up the hall after you. She’s slight and her brown curls bounce as she jogs to where the two of you pause at a bend. You glance up to Pierre to see if he's just as confused as you are.

"Hey Mary," he says cheerily. "How are you? Sorry I didn't check in with you when I got here."

"Oh it's fine- why aren't you in the Alpha samples I sent?” The woman props a fist on her hip and tips her head to the side. “I think I got your size right now that I’ve laid eyes on you. I was hoping for a shoot today since you've finally come by."

It takes you a moment to register that she's addressing you. You shoot Pierre a look and he offers you a tentative, closed off smile. "Um, what Alpha gear?"

The woman's chocolate brown eyes go wide. "The ones I've been sending to Pierre. Hoodies, dresses, jackets. All the stuff from the new line. They have been sending the samples to you, right?"

"Um, yeah I've gotten them," Pierre says, rubbing his neck. "I haven't given them to her though."

"Oh, I see!” Pink tinges Mary’s cheeks. “I must have missed a memo. I just thought that you'd want to do a shoot with her today, since we already had a quick one planned for you. After all, you talk about her all the time."

"He does?"

Mary nods. "Oh yes, we've all heard plenty about you. You're lucky to have someone so enamored with you. I just dropped off some more samples in Max's office as a little thank you for letting us steal him so often-"

"Okay, thank you Mary," Pierre says abruptly. "I'll get back to you on that."

Pierre steers you away and down the hall. "What was she talking about? Why would they want me to come by for a photo shoot?"

Pierre runs a hand through his hair and pauses outside Max's office. The Dutchman must have been away because Pierre pulls out his key and fits it in the lock. "I just- come on."

He waves you inside and you obey, letting him close the door and grant you some semblance of privacy before continuing.

"I never formally told anyone that we broke up. Most people came to their own conclusions once they didn't see you around for a while. Some people didn't get the message. Obviously Mary was one of them. I would still talk about you, I couldn't help myself. There was one shoot where Yuki and I were together and he mentioned off hand that you'd be a good brand ambassador. I tried to explain that it wouldn't work but Mary wouldn't hear it and she just kept sending me more and more samples.”

You draw a breath and interrupt his rambling. “But where-”

"I had it all in a box in my office but I struggled to concentrate with a reminder of you hanging over my head. I sent it over here to Max and that's where it's sat ever since. I used the excuse that Max was in town more often than I was and no one read too far into it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper. "I would've taken them. I'm sure you got an earful from Mary."

"Would you have?” Pierre pauses, your silence in the face of his frustration speaking volumes. “I waited four months to hear from you. Tell me that sending you thousands of dollars in unreleased merch wouldn't have made you even more hesitant to come back to me."

Not knowing what else to say, you let your gaze fall to the carpet. Sending you expensive things would have felt something like a bribe, like he was trying to influence you with fancy clothes.

Pierre shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. We can take it home today and you can wear it when I take you for dinner and Alpha will get the press they’re after. Everyone will be happy.”

He wasn’t happy. That much was plain to see. He hadn’t been able to stomach seeing something intended for you, even that minute of a reminder had been too much for him to bear. God, you had thoroughly wrecked him. You were lucky that there were still enough pieces of him left to heal.

“I didn’t realize you were hurting so bad,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you cross the cramped space to him, stepping over piles of strewn paperwork carefully so as to not disturb whatever random order they were placed in. You don’t dare reach out to touch him as his shoulders slump, any and all forward momentum he’d gathered suddenly sapped.

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.”

Unable to let him suffer alone with his thoughts, you wrap your arms around his middle and let your cheek rest between his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to alienate you. I was waiting for you, too.”

“You needed space and I gave it to you.” His hand rests on your arm with a gentleness you’ve come to expect when he lays himself bare like this. “There were so many times I almost gave in to the impulse and just messaged you but I made myself wait. I didn’t want to rush it and make things worse. You always need time to think things through- I knew you would come around eventually. It didn’t make it any easier though.”

You rub soothing circles on his side as you blink back the tears that spring to your eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I took so long and I’m sorry I made you wait. It had to have been torture-”

He turns in your embrace and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek, the metal of the ring on his middle finger biting into your flushed skin. “It’s alright. You had a lot to sort through and I had to respect that.”

“We lost so much time-”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to meet your eyes. “We’re together now. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that you can’t let missed opportunities control you or else you’ll never be happy.”

You nod, swiping your sleeve under your eyes. “What did they send?” you ask, nodding towards the box overflowing with tan and navy threads.

“Pull up a chair,” Pierre suggests, “there’s a lot.”

You roll over Max’s desk chair and tug on Pierre’s arm. Once he gets the picture and sits, you settle in his lap. He winds an arm around your middle, the close contact already soothing your frazzled nerves.

“That better?” he murmurs.

“Much better.”

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kashimos-hajime · 3 years

Text

reflection (4/8) | r.b.

summary: He thinks that’s what he clings to the most. The Candidates, and the chance to see you again, just to give what he wrote to you. Or, the truth comes out.

WARNINGS: angst!!! swearing, yearning pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 4.9k

a/n: part 4!!! time to get sad!!! a shorter chapter but the next chapters are MUCH longer until the end so enjoy!!

masterlist

crossposted on ao3

Reiner walks all the way back home to grab it.

His mom was blissfully unmotivated to interrogate him, and he slips the metal tin into his breast pocket, one he bought as soon as he returned to Marley as he leaves the house. It’s similar to the one he used to store Ymir’s letter to Historia. The only difference now is what it contains.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about it. No one knows he even has this little container of secrets—it’s been hidden underneath his mattress, wedged between it and the frame for four years, only removed on birthdays, holidays, days where he can’t even recall why he should get out of bed which seem to be more and more often as of late. If anyone found out, he’d probably be interrogated, possibly killed.

It’s treasonous, but he can’t bring himself to fling it.

The silence is nice. There aren’t a lot of people in the streets, considering the show. Not even his thoughts are raging against him, and the sun is warm even as it slips below the horizon to make room for the moon. Glancing up at the clouds, purple and yellow and red, he shoves his hands into his pockets and closes his eyes.

The wind curls against his face, all gentle-like, a caress almost, and his heart begins to ache.

“Isn’t that Vice Chief Braun?”

His eyes open, and he catches two kids standing by a mailbox, gaping at him and he smiles softly waving at them.

“Hi, Mister Braun!”

“Get to the show, kids,” he calls back, and they glance at each other, eyes alight with pure joy. It’s enough to make his smile last until they’re gone, and he turns his gaze back to the path he’s walking. With every step, though, the tin in his breast pocket seems to weigh heavier. The faint clinks and scraping noises of metal against metal accompanying his heartbeat, he sighs.

Not for the first time, he hears his mother’s voice in his head, chastising him for not continuing their honorary bloodline, and not for the first time he imagines a home by the sea, with kids of blonde hair and a certain twinkle in their eyes running along the sands.

Reaching up to his breast pocket, he pulls the tin out and cracks it open, looking down as his feet take him to the stage. The sunlight dies, and as the last rays fall on the gleaming metal band inside the metal container, he pinches it in his finger and lifts it up to the orange. The silver winks at him, all mocking, and he shakes his head, looking down at the letters inside.

A thousand apologies, confessions, regrets, inked down in crazed ramblings as his body tried to heal from the battle in Shiganshina on a ship sailing back to Marley. Some written after that. Sometimes, he can barely even look at what he’s jotted down or else he’ll tear it to shreds.

Most of the time, though, he wants to give it to you. He thinks that’s what he clings to the most. The Candidates, and the chance to see you again, just to give what he wrote to you.

Shaking his head, he puts the ring back into the tin and closes it with a tight click before sliding it back into his breast pocket. In the distance, he can hear someone whistling a familiar tune, and he frowns, trying to place it.

He still has some time. He could try to find who’s whistling, or he could just get to the show early.

It’s not like he’s exactly needed anywhere before hand.

Pricking his ears, he veers off the road and into an alleyway.

Reiner and Bertholdt might be traitors. Maybe it’s both of them, a voice in your head murmurs as you ascend up the wall.

Armin, why did you trust me to tell me about Annie?

Your shoulder and leg are screaming at you to stop moving, and the pull of the wires at your hips makes you feel like a million pounds as you manage to get to the top of the wall. Mikasa greets you there and you flash her a quick smile, one she returns faintly before procuring something out of her pocket.

Do you think I’m a traitor, too?

“My sling?”

“Put it back in before you lose all feeling in that arm.” You let out a relieved sigh as she helps you unbuckle your gear, and your hips feel like they’re melting at the relief. Sasha comes over as you clutch onto your shoulder. It feels inflamed and swollen under your gentle touch, and you wince as you bend your elbow, sharp pangs slicing through your joint.

“Here, let me help.” Sasha grabs your unequipped ODM gear as Mikasa pulls the sling over your neck and guides your arm through. Your limb feels like a pile of rocks, and you let it hang numbly in the bandage.

Maybe, I’m the weakest link.

“Thanks, guys. Really.” Mikasa only nods, patting you on your uninjured shoulder and you turn to see Eren pulling Reiner up the wall. The mere sight of him sends a shiver down your spine and you look away, clenching your jaw.

Him, a traitor?

Bertholdt gets to the top, climbing out all long-legged and lean, before helping Reiner ease down away from the ledge.

And Bertl? You, too?

Still, Hange’s orders echo in your mind and you remind yourself that nothing’s changed until it’s confirmed. Walking over to him, half-limping, you catch golden eyes and a half-smile. Cross legged, Reiner straightens up when he sees you and you feel a smile pulling at your own face.

What am I saying? How could I ever suspect them? They’d never betray us. We’re… we’re family. Maybe it’s all one big coincidence. Maybe Annie worked alone. That’s how it is, isn’t it? Annie works alone and I’m left hanging.

You wonder if this is why she never answered the letters you wrote to Stohess, asking how the MPs were. Reiner always said it was probably because she was busy. No. No. The more you think on it, the more the convoluted web in your head begins to straighten out and you shake your head.

“Hey.” You reach the boys as Bertholdt walks to the other side of the wall, leaning over with his hands on his knees as if calculating the distance, and his face is so innocently concentrated that you can’t help but stare, imagine him as that giant red Titan with soulless eyes. Electricty dances down your back. Deciding to leave him to his own devices, you slowly sink to a crouch beside Reiner as he reaches out to touch your shin.

“How’s the leg?”

“Been better.” Goosebumps rise along your arms and you swallow tightly. “We’ve got matching slings, now.”

Reiner smiles, and a soft, poisonous voice in your head crows, You never suspected Annie, and look what that got you. Civilians killed like sport.

Your blood chills. Everything feels so sluggish after the long night they’ve had, and they both look it. Your movements are dragged, like you’re swimming through honey as you reach out to touch his arm. He looks like hell’s beaten him up, and Bertholdt straightens up, sends him an uneasy look over his shoulder. Reiner’s flesh is warm through the bandages and a sick curiosity pricks at you.

If you’re really a traitor, you wonder to yourself, what would you do if I…

You let your fingers push deeper against a mark you feel through the sling only for him to flinch back.

“Son of a bitch!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” you whisper, hushed, and he sends you a scandalized look as Eren looks over his shoulder. “It seems bad.”

“You all right, Reiner?”

“Not by a long shot.” He covers his face with his hand, pain twisting his voice. “A Titan nearly gnawed off my arm. That was… pathetic. I thought I was done for.” Scooting closer, you rest your hand on his shoulder as his eyes slide shut. The words he says next sound like that of a soldier, and your eyebrows screw up as he talks mostly to himself.

Sharing an uneasy glance with Eren and Armin, you try not to say anything until—

Second time? Second time you nearly died? It bounces off your skull until your mouth opens and the words tumble out before you can stop yourself.

“Annie almost… killed you?” you breathe. Reiner nods numbly, fist to his brow and you look down at the stone. “Reiner…”

Then, you can’t be a traitor, you try to reason quickly. Why would she kill her ally?

But what about what Armin said? About how Reiner asked about Eren’s location? Carving it into her hand. He was always making excuses for Annie at every turn. For her skipping out on training, her being exhausted and sleeping in. No, this isn’t right. No, no, no—

And that realization only makes you nauseous as you sit back and stare at Reiner’s fractured expression. Reaching a shaking hand up to his face, your entire body freezes as his frenzied gaze stares right through you.

Reiner…

Stomach turning, you glance up at the tall boy who only looks more and more concerned with every passing second. He catches you looking and his eyes only widen even more almost guiltily. Jerking your gaze away, you press your lips into a thin line and look at the blond sitting before you.

Bertholdt…

Someone calls them over your shoulder and you see it’s Connie. Getting up much too quickly with a groan, you send one last look at Armin and Eren out of the corner of your eye before walking over to the others unsteadily. Your entire body feels tilted, your legs struggling to push forward as if trying wade through thick sheets of ice, and even though Sasha bounds up to help you forward, you don’t think you have ever felt heavier.

What have you done?

With the quick update from Hannes and the unsettling revelation that there is no hole in the wall, you cannot stop your eyes from flitting to Bertholdt again.

He speaks to Reiner as they begin to walk away, and you fall into step beside Mikasa, your limp only more pronounced now that they realize this was all for nothing. The adrenaline is drained from your body, and your boots drag along stone as your shoulders fall forward.

Silent, Mikasa slows down her pace so you can keep up and you stifle your wince with every step as you look out the wall.

The sky is as grey as ash. It looks like rain, soon. Not good if they have to fight in this weather, for their bodies or for their ODM gear. Visibility might be a near zero.

Reaching up to cup your shoulder on instinct, you sigh.

“Is your leg okay?” Mikasa finally asks, stopping.

You nod. “It will be.” Glancing back at her, you frown when you realize you’ve walked on without her and turn to look over your shoulder, only to find her glancing back at Reiner, Eren, and Bertholdt. Eyes narrowing at the confused anger warping Eren’s face, a thousand weights slam down into your gut. Mikasa’s stare hardens and you walk back towards her, ears pricking. You can’t make out the words from where you stand with her, but you can read the tone, and by whatever Reiner’s saying, it’s making Bertholdt nervous.

Your spine goes ramrod straight, and suddenly, you wish you hadn’t taken your ODM gear off so early. Glancing back, you wonder if you can ask Sasha to strap you back in before you realize what you’re thinking and your limbs turn to lead.

No, you realize. It’s too late.

When you look back at the three again, a cold stone lodges right next to your heart, chilling you from the inside out.

“Hey, we’re leaving!” Armin calls, but you don’t budge. Neither does Mikasa. Eyes widening, you can only watch as Eren crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head back. Mikasa’s hand moves to her hand grip, unholstering it and sinking it into a blade. The sound of metal scraping makes you blink as the wind begins to pick up. Something clicks. Your heart skips a beat.

Howling in your ears, your muscles lock Eren begins to walk back towards them, but your eyes stay on your best friends as the air seems to shift. It smells like static and iron and something bitter, too. The clouds drift speedily above them, and your boot shifts along stone just as one of the flags snaps in half, the wood splintering under the force of the beginnings of a storm.

Everything freezes.

The only sound is clattering wood against cobble and your rapid heart.

Then, against all odds, sunlight.

It’s blindingly white, streaming through the clouds that drift off in the current, and you swallow. You can hear something rattling and you know it’s Mikasa’s hand on her blades, fingers trembling against the triggers of her gear as gold spears through the dim grey, slamming into the wall and illuminating the stone. Your arm in its sling ways heavier by the second and you shift your forearm against the fabric, your hanging hand rolling into a tight fist.

Your eyes find Reiner’s back, staring as hard as you can, but he only hangs his head and you step forward against your will as his voice grows louder, more deranged.

The coldness in your chest spreads.

It sinks deep into your muscles, bites into your bones with fangs of steel until you think you hear them break as he lifts the sling off his neck and turns around.

“But the only choice for me now is to face the consequences of my actions.” Lifting his hand, you can see the blood begin to steam and your mouth drops open when it evaporates off his skin. “And as a Warrior, fulfill my duty to the bitter end.” The flesh begins to close, orange embers flecking off his forearm. Your knees lock.

“Reiner!” Bertholdt’s voice scratches with desperation—the sound of a horrified beast pulled out of its cave too early, too soon and all too against his will. A darkness overtakes his face, and it punctures you as Reiner flicks dried blood off his arm. “Are we doing this? Now? Right here?”

“We settle this… right here! Right now!”

You force yourself to move, but still, you barely budge as Reiner stalks up to a paralyzed Eren, and you feel it more than see it as Mikasa takes off to a sprint, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the air. She runs around him, slashing through his arms, blood spraying the stone in sickly splats. Lodging the blade through his forearm, there’s a ragged shout as she whirls around.

Blood seems to fly everywhere as metal swings to cut Bertholdt down next.

You stand, entranced at the mere sight of it; red droplets splash through the air like the crystalline water in that fountain in Trost, years, no, months, weeks ago. The memory strikes through you like a bolt of lightning, and for a moment, you are not on Wall Rose but in a café sitting in the sun, watching children flicking coins into the water, waiting for someone you weren’t sure would come.

“What do you say to a game of twenty questions?”

“Sounds perfect, creampie. I promise, I’ll be perfectly honest.”

Bertholdt’s ragged wet screams jolt you back into your body, and for a moment that is all you see. Mikasa running towards him as he falls onto his back, clutching at his neck, the image growing clearer and clearer, bigger and bigger, as she pins him down with a boot to a shoulder and a sword in two hands, poised to plunge through his throat. Blood spreads over the floor as his gargled screams, wretched and raw, scratch the heavens.

It is then you move.

Your feet slap against the stone as you lift the sling off your neck and toss it aside. Heart pumping, ears roaring, you don’t recognize what you’re doing until your hands are on Mikasa’s shoulders and you’re wrenching her off with a force you cannot recognize you muster. A burning ignites in your chest, spreading through your entire body, engulfing your heart until it sputters out flames.

For a moment, there is nothing; no colour, no blood, no sound. Only pure instinct and your best friend about to die.

“Bertholdt!”

Mikasa lets out a infuriated scream, blades flashing in the grey sunlight as she’s thrown back and you whirl around. Frozen over Bertholdt’s body, your eyes meet widened, bloodshot eyes and you whisper his name, fragile and full of broken glass just as the sound of footsteps patter behind you. Turning, you watch as Mikasa’s arms shoot forward, her knuckles white around the hilt of her sword.

Your thighs seize and Bertholdt’s hand lifts weakly, just barely brushing your shin. His lips are moving but you can barely make out a word. Is he speaking? You can’t hear over the blood flowing out of his mouth. “St-stop—“

Your heart beats in your head, once… twice… waiting for your legs to bolt into action, for Mikasa to see you.

But she isn’t stopping—not even if you stand in her way, she’ll cut around you if she can but in her eyes, you see it. The one question even you don’t know the answer of anymore.

TRAITOR? TRAITOR? TRAITOR? TRAITOR?

You’re shoved out of the way and blood flashes across your face, landing in warm, steaming droplets.

Falling aside against hard stone, your ribs explode in pain as Mikasa’s eyes widen. Her sword sinks deeper through Reiner’s eviscerated arm and she jumps back, releasing the blade with sharp, vicious breaths.

You struggle to your feet. Crackling yellow light burns into your irises yet you can only look into Reiner’s eyes as he stares through you, face resolute.

You think the sight will haunt you for the rest of your days as he only looks at you, as unfeeling as he ever has. Maybe more honest than he’s ever been.

“Reiner!“ You lunge forward but arms hook underneath your own, hauling you back and you kick out your feet as his name is torn from your chest. “Reiner, no!”

“Stay back,” he whispers harshly, turning away, and you struggle to your feet, boots sliding along the stone.

“No…” The word comes out so quietly you think he hears your heart shatter. “No… you—you can’t be—They can’t be right about you. They can’t. I know you! This isn’t you!“

And somewhere, lingering in the back of your mind, is his voice, promising you: “I’ll break you first.”

He doesn’t answer as the clouds begin to gather above them, and you hear Armin scream as your gaze tears to Bertholdt who only stares at you in guilt, regret, fear. Tears trace down his skin, and your hand reaches out for him as Mikasa wrenches you back one final time.

“No! Let me go!”

The other Scouts run towards them but there is nothing anyone can do as lightning spirals down onto the wall and cracks the stone, striking Reiner and Bertholdt. Wind howls in your ears until your skin is burning from the cold, and debris flies past your face. Steam erupts, burning away the numbness as chips of stone fly at your face. Throwing up your arms, you feel shards dig at your skin as hot steam swarms you. Scalded, you let out a piercing shout as you fly back, Mikasa’s arms only tightening around you as they’re flung off the wall.

Activating her ODM gear, she manages to catch them both and you let out a choked groan when you stop abruptly, your shoulder screaming, your body on fire.

Grabbing the arm firmly around your waist, you plant your feet into the wall and look up as ribs sprout from thin air and dig into stone, cracking it easily. Your eyes begin to sting, from tears or from pain, you don’t know. A huge shape appears out of the steam that sears your face.

Head swimming, you watch numbly as the blistering gales force them into stillness and the giant figure with glowing yellow eyes reaches for Eren.

Brushing the itch off your cheek, you adjust your grip on the sack of apples when you see Sasha standing there, packing her bag and you stop when she calls your name, watching for a moment.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you reply unsurely. You glance at the stables where you’re supposed to go to make sure your new steed is rested and well fed for their expedition. The past three months have passed in a strange sort of blur for you—whether it’s going to sleep late or waking up when the sun barely rises, sometimes both—you can’t recall ever being so alone. You don’t even remember the last time you spoke to any of your comrades outside of missions. Ever since the coup on the government, you’ve stayed out of the way. You helped mine the crystals from the Reiss Chapel cave, trained with the new Scout recruits, but you didn’t want to go out of your way to talk to them.

After all, what is there to say? You saved Bertholdt’s life back on the Wall. Even if now it means his powers can be transferred, you hadn’t know that back then. You just didn’t want him to die.

The blood of the Scouts lost getting back Eren is on your hands.

“Good luck on the mission,” Sasha says at length. You nod. “You could sit with us at the feast tonight.” Lips pulling back, you give her a fake smile. “We miss you.”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m not going,” you tell her. Sasha’s face falls and you look away, eyes fixing on the ground. “I don’t want to put a damper on your guys’ fun. Besides, I have some last minute preparation to do.“

“That’s a lie,” Sasha blurts, and your eyes snap to hers, but her eyebrows are arranged fiercely on her face, a warm determination burning in her eyes. “You’re acting just like you did when you first came to the cadet corps—we’re not strangers, you know? We don’t hate you.”

Your fingers tighten on the sack of apples you have in your hands. “Thanks, Sasha. That’s really nice of you, but I really have stuff to do.”

What you don’t say is that you find that hard to believe. With every waking second, you’re reminded of everything that’s happened. Preparing for the return of Shiganshina had only prompted another round of interrogative looks, whispers behind your back. You suppose you deserve it. Three years, and you’d been the closest to all three of them. What’s to stop you from being a fourth traitor?

There’s coincidence and then there’s correlation, and you’re more than aware of which side you fall on.

“It’s hard to kill your friends. We’re still with you. We understand—“

“I have to kill my family, Sasha. That’s who they are to me,” you murmur stonily, and Sasha’s eyes widen as you meet her gaze wretchedly. “I don’t want to go to the feast, but thanks for inviting me.” Again, quieter, softer, you tell her, “It was really nice of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You turn to walk into the stables, and you find your horse near the back-middle in the right row of stalls. Horses lift their heads at your approach, and you sigh. This has always been a quiet place for you—horses don’t judge nearly as much as humans do. One of the steeds near the front nudges at your shoulder, and you smile to yourself, retrieving an apple for the stallion before moving on to your own horse.

A pretty dappled grey mare, she nickers at your approach and you reach up to scratch her ear before running your hand down her nose, stroking at the dark grey specks between wide black eyes. Leaning forward, you kiss her snout and she huffs against your cheek.

“Alright, alright.” Reaching into your bag, you retrieve another apple and she lips at the fruit before taking a bite and you smile when she drops it to the ground by your feet, a huge chunk taken out the side. Bending over to pick it up, pangs collide with your chest when you see the juices dripping over the bright red peel.

The sound of hooves against the dirt catch your attention, and you look up, picking up the apple and straightening up again. As soon as you spot black, you already know whose horse it is.

“Captain Levi.” You dip your head to your superior as he passes you, leading his black steed back into the stall next to yours, and he only gives you a brief surveying look. You feed the apple back to your mare.

“I heard you were visting Leonhart earlier today,” he says, pulling the door open and his horse walks in dutifully, turning around so Levi can take the harnesses off.

Dipping your head, you hold the back tight in one fist and reach to cup your horse’s cheek, stroking the underside of her jaw to her delight. “Yes, sir.”

“She crack?”

“No, sir.”

He hums, as if he expected as much. Your shoulders drop. You know you shouldn’t relax, around Captain Levi especially, but the first month after the revelation of Reiner and Bertholdt had left the captain as your principal babysitter just to make sure nothing was out of sorts with you.

It meant you had to sleep in separate quarters as the rest of the Scouts, was on Levi’s beck and call with tea, medicine, food, whatever he needed while in the office or otherwise. You had to force him to sleep a couple of times, and although you weren’t in the mood to be persistent, it still nagged at you until the month was up and Levi told you to stop following him.

“I could read out the report I wrote to Erwin for you, if you’d like,” he had said dryly. “Quiet, keeps to herself. Complies nearly to a fault—a model officer of the Survey Corps. Which is what you are. You’re not a caretaker or an administrative assistant. Now stop taling me like a lost duckling and get to work.”

You shake your head and sigh, extending the bag to Levi. “Does he want an apple, sir?” He eyes the bag apprehensively before taking it, pulling the bag open and extracting another gorgeous red apple. Lifting it to his horse, he hands the bag back to you as your horse nestles her head against your chin and you smile to yourself at the warmth emanating from her.

She must be able to sense whatever’s off about you. Holding her head close, you kiss her quickly before stepping back but she lets out an impatient whinny, neck stretching to bump her nose against your cheek.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you whisper. “Get some sleep, girl.” Scratching underneath her chin, you turn to look at Captain Levi who eyes you for a moment, then gestures for you to follow to the back where the tack room is.

“I know what the stakes are for you, but you’re not the only one who is putting everything on the line here,” he says and you nod as he hangs up the leather harness before washing his hands. “Whatever happens, happens. We don’t have time to dissect your guilt over tea anymore.”

“With all respect, Captain, I just don’t think it’s wise for me to come.”

“Commander Erwin thinks differently.” You nod again and Levi meets your stare, flinging off the wet on his hands before grabbing a clean towel and wiping himself off. “We need all the soldiers we can get to reclaim Shiganshina for humanity. That includes you—no matter what your ties are to the enemy. You aren’t having doubts, are you?”

“No, sir.” You swallow, throat bruised. “I’m just scared the moment I look into their eyes, I’ll hesitate. And it’s not because they’re humans,” you add quickly. “Had my fair share of human bloodshed during the coup, but I should be angry, right? I should be so fucking mad, and I think I am, but mostly, I just want them back. There has to be something wrong with me.”

“I’m not here to psychoanalyze you,” he tells you. “But nothing’s wrong with you. You’re probably more sane than most idiots who join the Survey Corps.” Eyes widening, you meet Levi’s impassive stare, but he only continues, “Get something to eat tonight, then get some sleep. This is your nerves talking.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, he nods to you once more before hanging the towel up and walking past, out the stables. Looking down, your eyes find the sack of apples still in your hand and you lift it up, peering inside. Taking one out, you set the bag inside and head over to the sink nearby, washing the fruit off before looking up at the mirror hanging on the wall.

Closing your eyes, you take a bite and the sweet juices explode in your mouth. Smiling faintly to yourself, you can almost imagine a pair of lips teasing at the corner of your mouth and your heart aches when you realize you can barely remember what it’s like to kiss him.

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dynyamight · 3 years

Note

hiiii star 💫 may i ask for number 10. “I like that you make me laugh so much that my cheeks hurt.” tanksss uus sm ily 🧡💚

send me a writting ask

10. I like that you make me laugh so much that my cheeks hurt

“So, tell us! How did you two finally get together?” Ashido asks in song.

Immediately, Bakugou almost spits out his beer.

He chokes down a whole mouthful in his throat, left coughing in a frenzy. Lifting a hand to his mouth, Bakugou blinks rapidly at the blurriness in his vision, and looks over to his left.

Midoriya’s in a worst state; furiously blooming red in the face, and his eyes are blown wide and open. His mouth is agape, like a damn fish out of water, and brows raised up to his hairline. His wild curls terribly help to make him appear crazed.

“We’re not fucking.” Bakugou spats towards his damn extras, slamming a fist onto the dinner table.

Apparently, that’s the wrong answer. Midoriya twists his face towards him, upset. “K-Kacchan!”

Kaminari laughs loudly, shaking his head at Ashido’s face of confusion. “Living together, doesn’t mean dating, Mina. Even I know that.”

“Ohhh.” Ashido looks over to Kirishima, seated right next to her. She places a hand on his shoulder, as she leans close to his face, furrowed. “You told me they were.”

“I said they were moving in together. Not getting together.” Kirishima deadpans. Easily, he lifts up his cup of water towards her. “Now, sober up, before you try to start acting like Cupid.”

While Ashido pouts, begruindgly sipping her boyfriend’s water, Sero snickers, “Well, so how did you two finally live together?”

“Signing a lease? The fuck, what type of question is that?” Bakugou growls.

“I have no use for owning an apartment of my own. I basically paid for a place that I rarely stayed in.” Midoriya corrects sheepishly, “So, sharing rent would be easier for me, as I can still have a place to sleep, but it can still be taken care of, by someone else.”

“And, you didn’t ask a girl?” Kaminari whines outright, “Seriously?!”

Midoriya blushes. “I-I just needed a roommate. Anyone, really.”

“Haven’t you heard? Living with someone can bring your hearts closer! Make you fall for each other!” Kaminari groans, placing his hands over his face, “Midoriya, you could have totally bagged a wife!”

“I’m not looking for a relationship. Right now, I only want to focus on my career.” Midoriya admits, embarrassingly.

Sero raises his own can of beer in Bakugou’s direction. “That’s right! Cheers to singlehood!”

Bakugou scoffs, glaring. “I ain’t clinking my drink for that shit.”

“I will!” Kaminari yells, connecting his can with Sero’s. He grins stupidly, before raising a teasing brow towards Midoriya. “C’mon, bring your drink over, too! Mister Rather-Be-Working-Than-Ask-Anyone-Out!”

Weakly, Midoriya lifts his can, joining the duo.

With the other two idiots cackling, Bakugou rolls his eyes. Drinking with his group of idiots was always irritating at best. They’re all light weights, left in a giggling fit after only a couple rounds. He’s surprised the damn restaurant hasn’t requested them to get the fuck out.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring, until Midoriya meets his gaze, blinking. Immediately, Midoriya offers a wobbly smile, shrugging.

Usually, Bakugou goes out on his own, meeting up with his idiot friends without company. Taking a cab there, alone. Taking a cab back, by himself.

But, tonight was different. The group had begged him to invite Midoriya along, having not heard from him in a long while. They wanted to see him finally, as his usual self. Not the heroic facade he gives on the media and citizens.

And, it’s not like Bakugou had to bring him. If he didn’t want to, Midoriya could easily be back in their apartment, doing his Deku-like night activities. Journaling. Cleaning. Rewatching old movies. Being an absolute nerd.

But, as Bakugou looks away from Midoriya, taking a big gulp of beer, he remembers why he asked, anyway.

It’s the closest thing to a date. Without it actually being a date.

Well, at least in Bakugou’s mind.

Yeah, they ain’t dating, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to get there with Midoriya. Taking things slow. One step at a time. He doesn’t want to jump on Midoriya, freaking him the fuck out, with his emotions.

So, this was like a practice run for Bakugou. If he can survive tonight, then he can easily breathe and live out a night with just Midoriya.

Speaking of which, he feels a tentative tap on his thigh. With a glance, Bakugou meets Midoriya’s hesitant expression.

Fortunately for both of their sakes, the rest of the group was too busy chattering among themselves to notice how close they were.

“What.” Bakugou voices.

“I need to head home.” Midoriya whispers, looking up at Bakugou apologetically, “Media press, early morning.”

Giving a quick nod, Bakugou starts getting up, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s go, Deku.” He announces, "We're done here."

“Whaaaat? No, the night has barely started!” Ashido cries, expression disappointed.

“Yeah! Why don’t you stay just a little longer?” Kaminari begs.

Standing up from his seat, Midoriya shakes his head. He gives a smile towards the group. “I wish we could.”

Bakugou bites down his tongue. Damn lying bastard.

Graciously, Kirishima waves a reassuring hand. “Get home safe, you two.” He softly states, grinning over to them, “It was great seeing you together. Looks good.”

Shitty Hair purposefully said that shitty remark. Bakugou imagines multiple explosives hammering down on Kirishima’s face.

On the other hand, Midoriya remains oblivious. “Thank you, Kirishima. And, good luck with the rest of the night, everyone!”

After leaving a couple bills on the table, covering their meals, drinks, and tip, Bakugou and Midoriya say their goodnight’s and walk out. The city lights helped to brighten the streets of Tokyo, busy and crowded, despite it being so late.

They don’t say much, walking back to their apartment complex. But, after a couple blocks down from the restaurant, Midoriya coughs. “Everyone’s still vibrant, as before.”

“Yeah, vibrantly idiotic.”

He hears Midoriya snort. “Kacchan.”

“Don’t ‘Kacchan’ me.” Bakugou mocks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “God, can’t make a damn insult, without you calling me out.”

“That’s not what I sound like!” Midoriya defends. Though, there’s a resounding laugh behind the words.

“‘That’s not what I sound like!’” Bakugou makes sure his voice shrills high, breaking at the top.

Midoriya laughs out loud, shoving Bakugou lightly. “Stop!”

“Fucking hell, I’m quitting hero work. Book me as a damn Deku impersonator.”

“You are terrible!”

“You are terrible.” Bakugou huffs, feeling the corners of his lips upturn. “You continue to fucking deal with me, when you know this is the shit I put you through.”

“There’s plenty of things to like about you.” Midoriya justifies, smiling.

“Hell, you know there’s none.”

“I like that you make me laugh so much that my cheeks hurt, Kacchan.” Grinning, Midoriya tilts his head up to Bakugou. “That’s plenty enough, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, at your expense.” Bakugou scoffs, shaking his head. He shoves lightly at Midoriya, a return from before. “Dunce Face is right. You should have fucking asked a girl to tolerate.”

Sighing, Midoriya shrugs. “If I wanted a girl to live with, I would have asked one.”

“So, you deliberately wanted to live with me?”

“..Yeah, I guess I did.”

There’s an odd lightness in Bakugou’s chest, consuming him from the inside out. Forcing it down, he coughs. “Stupid, do you even know what you’re asking for?”

“A year’s worth of laughs and time with you? Why yes, I do.” Midoriya smirks, looking away. “On the other hand, you could have said no.”

“Ah, well I guess I didn’t mind.” Bakugou offers simply.

The rest of the walk is quiet, with only the bustling noises of the crowd around them filling in the space. But, it was a comfortable silence, easy and light.

Bakugou wonders if the damn nerd is just waiting for him to ask him out, and the whole sharing an apartment was meant to speed up the process. Which, if he is, and if this is all an elaborate plan, that’s fucked.

Though, it’s totally working.

#star responds #CKAI !! THANK YOU FOR THIS #super comedic & bakugou pining #meanwhile midoriya's pining just as hard aaah #also making bakugou kinda funny?? that was fun #fun fact: this was written during my plane from amsterdam back to the usa #so i was eager to see my friends & drink with them. hence. drinks in the fic #also snippet of kirimina we luv #the bakusquad in general. we STAN #bakudeku #bkdk #katsudeku #dekubaku #dkbk #ckatsudon #my beloved #FICLET

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mggpleasedontlookhere · 4 years

Text

pascal

summary: spencer has had a few late nights at work, which ultimately meant neglecting y/n and their baby. after he returns home, he attempts to console his child, only to find out that his son doesn’t recognize him

word count: 1887 reading time aprox: 8 mins

masterlist

My muscles were in complete repose, my eyes began to flutter against the sudden weight that forced them to shut, and reality around me began to dissipate. I drew in a long breath as I let myself succumb to the peaceful atmosphere of mine and Spencer’s bedroom, the moonlight that crept through the window enhancing the serene ambiance.

I felt the soft fabric of the duvet on the skin of my legs, pulling it over the entirety of my body as I drifted away into a well deserved slumber. Unfortunately, those plans were unmatched to the wails of my crying son in the nursery next to the bedroom.

I groaned, clutching my head while disdainfully throwing myself up from the bed and dragging myself to where my son laid in distress. Walking into the quaint, but pastel colored room, my eyes landed on the clock above the cradle. Exhaustion infiltrated my every move and the fact that the clock read 2:48 am made the occasion less desirable.

“Hey Pascal, hey buddy” I cooed, picking up the small infant that permeated the room with his blaring cries. It was Spencer’s idea to name him after his favorite French mathematician. At first, Spencer was definite on naming the baby Schrodinger after the Austrian physicist, which was followed by the explanation of Schrodinger’s cat and how that unveiled the misconceptions on Copenhagen’s theory of physics. Fortunately for me and the hospital, I was too busy in labor to retaliate by throwing him out of the hospital window for interrupting the birth of our first child with physics history. After a while of deliberation, we both agreed on the name Pascal.

“Shh, it’s okay baby, mommy’s got you” I reassured, laying him on my chest as I bounced on the heels of my feet while swaying side to side. I hummed the tune of Mozart’s Sonata No. 16, the melody subduing the child’s relentless howls as I placed him back into the cradle. I refolded the blanket that swaddled Pascal, tucking in any stray pieces that his tiny feet could slip out of. Finally, I walked over to a music box that rested on top of the baby’s dresser, winding it to play throughout the remainder of the night to encourage the baby’s slumber.

I wish I could be in the same circumstances as Pascal, considering he had a means of going back to sleep. My preferred method was, yet again, staying late at the FBI headquarters in order to assist in a BAU case.

It felt like the same night had been replaying over and over again for the past 2 weeks. I’d get up to soothe the baby, fall back asleep on a lonesome bed, then wake up to a man that would hurry back to work the second his eyes opened. Me and Spencer were becoming estranged, although my concern primarily derived from the possibility of our son not even recognizing his father.

I stumbled back to my room, practically dragging my feet as I tediously made my way back to the comforting sensation of the bed. My entire body screamed for sedation, begging for rest, yet my mind raced with troublesome thoughts about my relationship with Spencer.

My eyes shifted downwards to the emerald ring that Spencer had given me when he proposed. It was the same ring that his mother and grandmother had worn when they were ought to be betrothed. I slouched on the side of the bed, sliding the ring off of my finger and into the drawer of the nightstand and finally attempted to regain the will of maintaining a decent sleep schedule.

Though with my luck, that was yet to happen due to a loud bang that engulfed the apartment, followed by a string of curse words from Spencer’s mouth. With the inclination to investigate battling against my debilitation. I hauled my entire body up off the bed once again to meet Spencer in the living room, where I was met with the view of a lanky boy clutching onto several books that were scattered on the wood floors. If I weren’t in an irritated disposition, I would’ve laughed at the scene displayed in front of me, instead I mustered up a small ‘welcome home’ as I squinted at him.

“Hey Y/N, why are you still up?” He whispered, straddling the books he carried on his knee.

I sighed, wiping the wrinkles off of my forehead. “I-I don’t know, Pascal woke up and I was, yeah- I was just trying to sleep, but he started crying” I explained, stumbling over my words as the fatigue clearly impeded my cognitive ability.

“I’m sorry to hear that Y/N” He walked over to the table next to the door and placed the books back to where they were previously before heading over to the kitchen. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, love?” He suggested, reaching over the counter for the cappuccino machine.

“You’re staying up?” I inquired, ignoring his proposal completely. He sifted through the cabinets to find his favorite Star Trek mug for his coffee, but struggled to locate it. “-third cabinet to the left” I interjected, putting him out of his misery.

He nodded in gratitude, flashing me a tight lipped smile. “Yeah, I just have to finish the paperwork for some case files” He elaborated casually.

I stood over the living room couch, setting myself down on the edge of the cushions as I observed Spencer’s movements. “Are you coming to bed Spence?” I crossed arms, resting my eyes while I continued to feebly converse with him.

“Uhhhhh-” He prolonged his speech, deliberating on how he was going to answer the double edged question. “It’s a really long case Y/N, I’ll try to be in bed as soon as possible” He confessed, watching the steam rise from the coffee pot, indicating that his brew was almost done.

“Okay” I replied monotonously, not having the energy to negotiate with Spencer’s unhealthy work habits. “Do you mind at least checking on the baby next time he gets fussy?” I rubbed the temples of my forehead, feeling a migraine begin to ensue.

“Y/N I don’t think I can, I just have a lot to go over and Hotch is really on me for-”

“Spencer, I understand it’s been a long night for me too” I gripped onto the throw pillows below me as my migraine intensified. “I just- my head’s kind hurting and I just need you to check up on Pascal once and in a wh-”

“Y/N-” He began, pouring copious amounts of creamer into his cup of coffee. “I just need this night alone Y/N, and I really don’t think it’s a lot to ask” He justified, leaning on the counter behind him as he sipped on beverage.

Frustration battled with the almost unbearable pounding in my head, grateful for the dimly lit room that blessed my sensitive eyes. “But Spencer, you’re barely here at home and Pascal needs his da-”

“Yes, but his dad is out in the world, ridding it of all the bad guys that can cause harm to him” Spencer argued, an impatient tone evident behind his words. “Don’t I get any credit for that?”

“Spencer, I’m not saying that-”

“Y/N I’m just having a long night, I need to spend it alone-”

“Oh, just like me and Pascal do every night” I spat, gesturing to the nursery across the hall.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He interrogated, slamming his mug onto the coffee, but not forceful enough to spill the beverage.

“Spencer, I’m really not trying to fight” I emphasized, forcing my eyes shut as I felt my head pulse.

“Well, it seems like you are” Spencer scoffed, peering at me with an incredulous expression. “At least I’m supporting this household, what are you attributing to it?” He mocked, his voice elevating in volume.

“Spencer, can we not get into that, I’m just saying that I wished you spent more time with Pascal” I admitted, my voice fading out into the darkness as I tried to limit my speech.

“Y/N, don’t you understand that-”

“YES! I understand fully” I impulsively yelled in annoyance, regretting it afterwards with the thought of the baby in my conscience.

Unfortunately the sound of my voice had permeated the poor child’s ears, sending him into a panicked frenzy of deafening cries. I groaned in exasperation, running my hands over my face in exhaustion as the crying fit ensued in the middle a heated argument.

“God! See what you did now” Spencer complained, shaking his head as he made long strides towards the nursery.

“Spence- I don’t think you want to do that” I warned, running along after him. “Spence he hasn’t seen you in a long time, I don’t think he’ll recog-”

“He’s my son Y/N, I think he’ll recognize me” He jeered, mocking my apprehension. He entered into the small room with soft steps, reaching into the cradle with an amiable countenance before coddling the small human against his shoulders. Opposite to Spencer’s intentions, Pascal began to fuss in Spencer’s hold. He kicked and emitted loud screams, resisting against the foreign arms that were around him.

“Spence-” I whispered, although my attempt to gain his attention fell through as he continued to care for Pascal.

“Hey, it’s okay daddy’s he- hey no it’s- Pascal-” Spencer sputtered out, struggling against the infant writhing around on his shoulder. The lines were now apparent on Spencer’s forehead, indicating his exponentially growing frustration.

“Spence, give him to me. I can-” I interjected, but was ultimately shut down by Spencer’s stubbornness.

“I got this Y/N” He stated with determination.

Although even with all his motivation and determination to sedate the small child, the results were dissatisfactory. “Come Pascal- come on buddy” Spencer cooed, now bouncing him side to side. Pascal’s cries engulfed the entire room, giving me a heart wrenching feeling due to my motherly instinct.

A small part of me pitied Spencer’s attempts at reconnecting with his child as he found the results fruitless. By this point, his methods were futile; Pascal’s behavior becoming increasingly volatile. Instinctively I rushed over to Spencer, picking up Pascal in my arms.

Without a second passing by, the infant had calmed down instantaneous. I bounced him side to side, similar to Spencer’s actions, and snuggled him into my chest.

For a moment I caught Spencer’s gaze and what I saw was more than heartbreaking to witness. He looked at me and Pascal with a defeated look, but it wasn’t any ordinary defeated look, he seemed to be in utter despair.

My frustration at him dissipated and was replaced by empathy as his eyes began to water in chagrin. Setting Pascal back into the cradle after he fell back asleep, I turned to face Spencer with a lamentable expression; only to find him gazing at his hands with indignation.

“Spence” I whispered gently. Although without a second thought, he had rushed out of the room, grabbed his belongings, and left the apartment.

I closed my eyes in disquietude, reminded of the migraine I had previously. I waddled back into the bedroom to cuddle into the bed sheets as I let my mind roam the forlorn thoughts that swirled around my head.

part 2

tag list: @rexorangecouny

part 2 tmrw

#spencer #spencer reid #Spencerreid #spencer reid icons #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid imagines #spencer x oc #spencer x reader #spencer x you #spencer x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #Matthew Gray Gubler #matthew gray gubler imagine #matthew gray gubler imagines #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fic

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pedros-mustache · 4 years

Text

clandestine

summary: some things are best kept in secret.

word count: 3k+

warnings: smut (18+ only!): unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slight dirty talk, hand over mouth at least once. also: age gap (reader is legal but no specific ages are stated), language, x fem!reader.

a/n: uh—this is relatively unedited and i’m unsure about the ending, but what are you gonna do? it’s also my first smut piece and i am very anxious about it. please be kind.

as is wont with most affairs of the heart, your interest in the surly mercenary begins as a slow simmer.

he strikes you as unique the first time you lay eyes on his wide shoulders and bronzed skin. he stands in the manor courtyard, muted clothing and worn chainmail so different from his fanciful counterparts. though they have been hired to secure and protect the castle in anticipation of the king’s arrival during the spring festivals, he alone does not spruce his protective gear or tie a brightly colored ribbon around his upper-arm to signal his country of origin. he is simply there: a gray, brooding cloud amidst vibrant, high-flying kites.

you think that’s what interests you the most in the beginning.

there’s something unattainable about him from the very start. he is decidedly removed from it all: the joy of winter leaving at long last, the frenzied preparation for the week of festivals in two months’ time, the slowly encroaching haze of desire that pervades the manor and its inhabitants. while other mercenaries flirt endlessly and take the opportunity to relax before the truly wealthy and powerful arrive, he stands at his guard with a placid face. he does not so much as move a muscle when you do toss a curious glance over your shoulder as you pass him by. he simply… looks on.

he eats with abandon, as though worried one of his fellow sellswords will steal from beneath his nose. from your place at the high table in the great hall, you study his movements and the shift of his eyes. he does not appear nervous. no, he is too confident for that. he’s possessive of his time, his food, his belongings.

your sister discovers his name is tovar—pero tovar, a spanaird recently returned from the far east. she tells you the other men find him too grumpy and too arrogant for their own liking, and before you can question her further, she confesses her curiosity about another mercenary who makes her heart tremble with delight. several years older, it is the first time your sister confesses anything to you of great worth, and you spend the night buried beneath her covers, giggling and dreaming and hoping for her future.

still, when she finally falls asleep, you stare at the ceiling and wonder what sours tovar’s mood. like your sister is affected by her suitor, you are affected by tovar, though he is far from your suitor. he is just a phantom in the back of your mind, ever-present and mysterious. he’s nothing more than that.

yet the first time you hear him speak you feel your chest tighten.

he, as well as the other sellswords, have walked the manor halls for a fortnight, and he has plagued your thoughts for just as long. in all that time and in all your carefully arranged moments of passing, you have not heard him utter a word. he is silent as the grave, as gray and seemingly lifeless as one too.

but then, when you cross the courtyard one afternoon and richard, the pox-ridden son of your father’s dearest advisor, says something lewd in your direction, tovar comes to life.

he steps away from his post by the manor steps. it’s a single step, but it stops you dead in your tracks. he clutches the pommel of his sword and lays an unyielding stare on richard. “watch your tongue, chico,” he drawls.

and that is it. he says nothing more, merely waits for richard to scurry away, tail between his legs, before returning to his post.

for your part, you gape at him. you do not know what to say, how to respond, other than blink in stunned silence. his voice is deep, a rumble in his chest, accented with something unfamiliar but nonetheless sweet to the ears. you want to hear him speak again and again and again until you drip like spilled honey.

he looks at you, then, and your face feels as hot with hellfire. your thoughts are no different—especially when he looks you over, a long glance from the crest of your head to the satin of your slippers. the leather of his glove creaks as he tightens his hold on the sword pommel.

“go on, hermosa,” he says, his tone clipped with something akin to frustration.

you obey and lose yourself to the tasks of the day.

still, he remains in the back of your mind like a specter, and you resolve to keep him that way as the days pass. the festival draws closer, anticipation of the king’s arrival sending the manor into anxious exuberance. you nearly forget him, about the way his voice and his glance quickened your heart, as your mother gives you task after task and your sister spends her evenings waxing romantic about her paramour.

but then as you slip out of your sister’s room late one night, you see him in the hall, and you remember it all, and your gut twists.

it is dark. the moon hangs high in the sky, spilling its light on the stone floor of the outer hall. it casts a glow around tovar, something that makes him appear more angelic than you think he is. perhaps that’s what drives you forward. how can someone shrouded in such light be anything but a godsend?

you speak his name when you reach his side, but you imagine he already knows you’re there. still, his name feels right falling from between your lips, and you say it again when he does not immediately respond.

“tovar?”

he swivels his head to face you. moonlight catches on his faded armor and smooths the rough scar above his eye.

he kisses you before you can react, his mouth harsh against yours. it is a shock, but not an unwelcome one. you have dreamed of this—of more than this—since you first saw him, and to feel him against you now is ecstasy itself. until, of course, he brings you to new heights of pleasure in that very hall, beneath the moon, shrouded in darkness.

he is firm, but he is not rough, and he truly does not say much. you don’t need him to, you suppose. it’s enough to feel his hands roam your clothed body, his thick length slip in and out of your dripping core. his breathy moans shuddered against your neck sound like prayers, and you squeeze yourself around him when he mutters something in his native tongue as you find your release. he is not far behind, and he removes himself quick enough to spill his seed on the dirty floor.

then he tucks himself back in his trousers and pulls you from the ledge on which he’d taken you. you glance over your shoulder into the courtyard below and wonder if anyone had heard or seen two bodies tumbling together in the cover of night. your legs wobble beneath you, and he grips your hip to hold you steady. his eyes roam your face before he lifts a hand to cradle your cheek. it is such an intimate gesture after a chaotic embrace that you feel your gut twist again.

“go to bed, hermosa,” he whispers. “i will find you on the morrow.”

he kisses you—softly, sweetly, like a husband might his wife—and it ignites desire in you all over again.

dizzy with emotion, you obey him once more and go to bed.

***

it continues—quick fucks in the dark of night or in empty rooms or hay-filled stables—as the days progress and the festivals draw closer.

at first, you do not speak. words seem superfluous when your bodies can do the communicating. he alternates between gentle and soft some days to stern and commanding some nights. he shows you things, does things to you, that the stable boys you’ve run with before could never emulate even in their wildest dreams. he is all-consuming, an itch you find you must scratch whenever you get the chance.

no one can know, of course, that you have all but pledged your heart to the sullen mercenary. your father would never approve. it took all your sister’s will-power to convince him of her own genial and steady paramour. tovar is steady, yes, but hardly the amiable sort, and his is older by a fair many years. if you were to hazard a guess, he might be closer in age to your father than you. that would not sit well with your father; you know that without bringing the idea of your match with tovar forward.

besides, you aren’t sure if tovar wants you for more than you are now. though with each passing day your heart winds itself tighter around him like a vine, he has sworn no fidelity to you. in fact, there are times you are surprised he even remembers your name.

but it doesn’t matter. not when he feels so good and tastes so good and—

you will be content with what he gives you until his time in the manor is complete and he must move on.

to your great delight, as the king’s arrival draws nearer, you find your stolen moments with tovar grow deeper than simple carnal pleasure. he talks more, telling you stories of his long years wandering the wide world. he recounts the story of his many scars as he connects the dots littering your naked flesh. he brings you a trinket he saw in the marketplace that made him think of you and wonder what the pearls would look like nestled in your hair.

you think, on some level, he must care for you. at least, he’s grown to care for you. while he may not wear his affection for you like a badge on his chest, you can tell that there is something that keeps him coming back to your side. it’s in the way his head turns to watch as you walk by and the way his eyes find yours over the crowded great hall at meal time and the way he murmurs sweet nothings in your ear as he takes you by the firelight.

who would have thought—a highborn girl, barely a woman, and a grumpy goose of a spaniard?

on the first day of the spring festival, you don a virginal white gown, soft against your freshly washed skin, and decorate your head with a crown of wildflowers before departing to the festival grounds. it is customary to forego shoes in honor of the earth’s rebirth, and you find the soil beneath your feet chilly compared to the rest of your warm body. you laugh and dance along with your sister and other manor guests, twirling brightly colored ribbons over your head.

you catch sight of tovar several times throughout the day. he guards one of the king’s inner-circle and does not appear all too pleased by the post. of course, what does please tovar is illusive even to you.

he dips his head in acknowledgement when you grin at him from across the meadow. a friend whispers something devilish in your ear about his scar, and you dissolve into giggles, your stare still trained on his unmoving face. perhaps the mulled wine you’ve consumed throughout the day has made you giddy, but, really, the bright spring sun and warm air and smiles all around thaws the winter lingering in your bones. hearing your friend wonder about the size of tovar’s… other amenities as compared to his scar just somehow makes the day better.

he catches you—literally—by surprise late in the afternoon.

everyone is distracted by the king versing your father in a game of lawn bowls deep in the meadow. you hover by the refreshment table adjacent to tover’s post, deep in conversation with your cousin over the merits of satin hair ribbons. when your cousin rises to tour the stables, you rise too—

—and find yourself hauled by the wrist into a hidden alcove, tucked away from prying eyes and listening ears.

tovar’s lips are on yours, his tongue licking into your mouth the moment you grant him access. with a muffled grunt, he lifts you by the backs of the thighs and pushes you further into the alcove. instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer as you wind your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. the cool stone wall supporting your back feels firm while your limbs turn to gelatin under tovar’s attention.

“pero,” you breathe, dragging your lips from his to suck in a deep breath. “pero?”

“uh?” he draws back slightly, and if your eyes are as hooded with desire as his are, you are both doomed. “what is it?”

“someone will hear.”

“not if you keep your pretty mouth shut.” he latches onto your mouth again, and you sigh into the kiss, losing yourself to the feeling.

not a moment later, you feel him ruck your skirts up and around your hips. a rush of air tingles against your exposed thighs, and the dull throbbing between your legs ratchets to a painful ache. you wiggle your hips against his, searching for some form of relief. that blessed relief comes when tovar presses his thumb against your clothed clit. you whimper, the pressure both a blessing and a curse. though there is relief, you need more before you will burst at the seams.

“do you know how beautiful you are, cariño?” tovar’s words are hot on your throat, and you tilt your head back to allow him better access to your skin. “i don’t think you do.”

he moves his thumb in a slow circle, and you see stars.

“i watch you day in and day out, and you are so—” he grunts when your hips jerk forward. “dios mio, i would be happy to watch you forever in whatever you do. you are kind and gentle and i want to watch you—” he shakes his head, cutting himself off. “fuck.”

“pero, please.”

his eyes flick up. “what is it you want? tell me.”

you moan, and the sound echoes in the alcove. “please,” your murmur. “please.”

you’re sweating, sticky with desire between your legs and perspiration on your brow. words evade you as tovar continues his slow assault on your core, one long finger dipping down to run through your folds. you cry out at the touch, and he rushes to remove his hand and clamp it over your mouth.

“hush,” he says—and you think you hear a laugh on the edge of his voice. “do you want the king to find us?”

you scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, moving your hips against the bulge in his trousers. “if it will get your cock inside me, yes.”

“fuck.” tovar’s hands cannot move fast enough, so you aid him until he is freed from his trousers. he slides into you in one easy thrust, and you throw your head back with a wanton moan.

“oh mother mary,” you groan.

tovar chuckles at this. “i do not know if that is the type of call mariá is accustomed to answering, hermosa.”

he fucks you hard, then, his hips pistoning into yours. the wall behind you grates against your spine, but it doesn’t matter. tovar practically splits you open, and you can feel it all—every ridge and shudder and breath against the side of your face. you bite down on his shoulder, leather and all, to keep from screaming his name. tears prick the corner of your eyes, and you find your undoing when he returns his thumb to your clit.

“wh-where?” he mutters. “i cannot hold on—”

you silence him with a messy kiss, slanting your lips over his. “i’m yours, tovar,” you say, the words tumbling from your mouth before you can stop them. “mark me.”

without hesitation, he paints the inside of you with his seed, his body tight against you as he comes.

after a moment, he releases his hold on your hips, and you slide to your feet. your joints feel stiff from clenching every part of him so tightly, and the evidence of your tryst trickles down the side of your leg as you straighten your skewed clothing.

“hermosa?” his gentle voice pauses your efforts to appear less rumpled. you look up and find him staring openly, softly, at you. again, he lifts a hand to touch your cheek. “you cannot be mine. you—you deserve someone much more than me.”

“that is silliness, pero,” you say.

“but—”

shaking your head, you grab his hand. “i will hear no more on the matter. it is you i adore, and so long as you will have me, i will be by your side.”

he shakes his head, looks away.

heart lurching, you mirror his action and take ahold of his cheek. you rub your thumb over the hair peppering his jaw. “sweet pero, perhaps it is i who does not deserve you?”

he swallows hard then presses his forehead to yours. “you are… remarkable.”

“and you are one damn good fuck.”

at this, pero laughs. it is the first genuine laugh you have heard him utter, and it sends your heart bursting into one thousand butterflies. you grin, watching the delight break his face into a wide grin. when he has regained his composure, he nods to the festivities outside.

“we should return before they miss you.”

“pero?”

he turns at the exit of the alcove, his hand still clinging to yours. “hm?”

“one day—” you steady yourself, straighten your shoulders, and face him head on. “one day i want to tell my father about us. i want him to know. i want them all to know.”

pero blinks then adjusts to your words by stepping forward and sweeping his arms around the small of your back. he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “one day, chiquita. one day you will have that and all that you wish.”

“i wish only for you.”

“then you don’t wish for much.”

drawing back, you kiss him softly—as a wife might her husband. “for me, it is enough.”

a round of excited cheers and applause from the meadow breaks the moment, and pero releases his hold on you. he nods to the party. “come, hermosa,” he says. “for now, i will be your secret and you will be mine. but one day… one day…”

he shakes his head, and his words trail off, his eyes wistful.

you understand him clearly, though.

it might not be tomorrow or the next day or even next year. but you are content to wait. if he cares for you as he seems to, if he is willing to wait for the world to soften and ease, one day your clandestine meetings will be clandestine no longer. until then, alcoves and unfurnished bedrooms will have to do.

but who are you to complain?

***

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