#probably going to post to ao3 like 2 parts at a time?

[ateliersss]

He Shan‘t Lose

Pairing: Yautja x F!Reader Summary: Mere two months ago, you returned home after the incident on Earth. Now you were back, ready to indulge yourself and go on the weekly "date night" with your mate. If only your unborn pup had better timing… Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 6,716 Part 1: here Part 2: here

⇨ Oh, I missed my Mi‘ytiar.

⇨ I can't believe I finally got this done and I'm able to present this to you. Also, my birthday, guys! God, I'm 20 and I already feel old. Please spoil me with comments, re-blogs and likes.

“Toyou, go! Go! Good boy.” You laughed as you watched your four-legged companion chase after the trail he had scented.

Hell Hounds, they were called, and probably the closest thing to a pet you could get on Yautja Prime. You learned quickly, after your first encounter with them, that they were similar to the hounds on Earth, and like hounds on Earth, they had one purpose — hunting prey.

Unlike a curious Beagle, a devoted Pointer or a stubborn Basset Hound, Hell Hounds were more similar to Yautjas than dogs, both in looks and characteristics. But you still could recognize some traits that reminded you of your childhood dog.

You didn’t hunt with Hell Hounds often — it was more special and intimate when it was just you and Mi‘ytiar — but your mate had insisted that at least one of them should accompany you. As experience showed, the two of you had to split up at times; sometimes he also kept in the shadows, high on top of a tree, to watch you hunt on your own. It was simply a safety measure.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t handle the prey on your own. The creatures you hunted were either as small as a cat or as big as a horse. They were insignificant opponents, laughable for a Yautja and not nearly on their hunting standard, but Mi‘ytiar felt different. He didn‘t care how tiny or weak the prey was compared to him.

It wasn't about him, after all.

Those hunts were solely for you, so you could be a part of his culture without him having to worry about endangering your life. 

He had been ecstatic when you voiced your wish years ago for him to teach you how to hunt, how to track and kill as it was custom on his home planet. And even now, after you had exceeded his expectations, he still was immensely proud of you every time you succeeded.

No, Toyou wasn’t only there for tracking or for flushing out his targets, but also for guarding. You were in the final stages of your pregnancy, and your strength, your speed and your stamina had decreased, leaving you more vulnerable should prey ambush you. 

Speaking of Toyou, he had been gone for quite some time.

“Toyou?” You called, whistled, and waited for a moment for him to return to you.

When you neither could hear him bark or see him running towards you, you tried calling him again, “Toyou?”

And again.

“To–”

The other half of his name turned into a strained whimper as a stabbing pain pierced through your body, coming from your stomach. You stifled a scream, but when something wet suddenly ran down your legs, a shaky breath escaped your lips.

You knew what this meant.

Your water just broke.

“Oh no. Not now, my sweetling.”

Clutching your stomach, breathing in and out, you slowly approached a tree and practically slumped against it. One of your hands gripped the meaty texture of the tree trunk for support, the other snaked down and between your thighs. When you pulled your hand back, it was coated with the clear substance of the amniotic fluid.

And blood. There was also blood on your fingers, but it was nothing too alarming. When you had been pregnant with Akail, there had been blood too, but it was still an unsettling sight to you.

“Ahhh!” You cried out as another wave of agonizing pain washed through you, your head thrown back.

As much as you had enjoyed the mostly perfect pregnancy, you had completely forgotten about birthing the pup at the end. Maybe you had just pushed the whole thing aside, since the mere memory of Akail‘s birth was still able to install that deep-rooted dread within your body.

You went into labor when both moons were at their zenith.

Mi’ytiar, who had slept peacefully next to you, was hovering over you the second you tried to wake him up. 

It took one panicked look from you and he knew what was going on. 

He got up from his lying position on your nest and knelt beside you.

You had already pushed the furs you used as a blanket to the side and he saw your legs shining with moisture in the moonlight.

“My water broke.” You faintly answered his silent question. “Our little one is coming.”

Mi’ytiar was on high alert as he knew what that meant. 

He tried to lift you into his arms, his mind fully set on bringing you to Cahrein, the healer, but unfortunately a contraction hit you right at that moment. The pain plus the one you felt as Mi’ytiar lifted you up ripped a heart-wrenching scream from your throat. 

It hurt so very much that you punched him out of instinct, an instinct telling you to do anything to stop the pain, hitting him right in the face.

You looked up at him with wide eyes. “Oh God, Mi‘ytiar. I’m so sorry.”

His heart clenched at that. 

You shouldn’t apologize. He’d barely felt the impact anyways, your human strength too weak to actually hurt him, but he didn’t deserve to not feel anything. 

He should have felt pain, should have been knocked from his feet.

He had hurt you, had caused you more pain than you were already feeling.

You noticed the guilty expression on your mate’s face and grabbed his hand. “It’s okay, tahní. It‘s o–”

You cut yourself off as you pressed your lips together while another contraction hit you.

“–kay. It’s okay.” You panted, “Just get Cahrein.”

Mi’ytiar shook his head determinedly as he placed his free hand on yours, which clasped his other hand in a death grip. 

“Cannot leave you.” He growled.

Another contraction made you cry out, “Mi’ytiar, please!”

It took a lot of persuasion for him to finally leave your side to get the healer.

You understood that he didn‘t want to leave you on your own, out of fear something bad would happen to you if he let you out of his sight only for a second, but you needed Cahrein to deliver your son safely.

The healer had gotten to work as soon as his eyes met your tiny, withering body. Putting aside the various instruments he had taken with him — you recognized them from one of your visits where he had shown you which ones he used for births — he helped you to remove the panties that you wore with the little piece of clothing you called nightie, which you had already pulled up, over your bulging stomach, and out of the way.

Usually, you and your mate slept naked with nothing shielding you from each other’s skin, but since you got closer and closer to due-day you wanted to be prepared. You wanted to keep at least a little of your dignity, not wanting to lie completely bare in front of Cahrein. 

Even though you knew he wouldn‘t care, taking his job far too seriously for that, your body in all its naked glory was meant for Mi’ytiar‘s eyes and Mi’ytiar‘s eyes only.

With your mate on one side and the healer on the other, you spent hours in indescribable agony.

Mentally, you were so far gone, blacking out for a second here and there. You barely caught how Mi’ytiar was insistently talking to you, or how Cahrein alternately injected you with a transparent and a bright green fluid.

It felt like a miracle when the unbearable pain decreased bit by bit, but not fully disappeared. Your fuzzy mind and your blurry view started to clear. 

With the pain now more bearable, you could finally focus on the natural instinct that told you to push.

What you didn’t know was that the following screams and cries woke up the clan in alarm, gathering almost everyone in front of your home, eagerly awaiting the new addition. 

This occasion was special, after all. Their fierce and mighty leader was expecting his first pup, something no one had expected to happen. Ever.

The tense uncertainty inside and outside of your home dissipated as soon as the whiny squeals of your newborn pup finally filled the air.

“Such a bad timing, my sweetling.” You mewled.

Tears were gathering in your eyes and you quickly blinked them away. You didn’t know if it was because of the pain of the contractions, which were now four minutes apart, or out of fear of being all alone in a hostile environment.

With your tongue between your teeth, you waited until the pain subsided, fully intending to call for your mate, but when you did, his name only escaped your lips in a short-winded whisper.

It was like you couldn’t breathe.

Biting back a sob, you formed your hand into a fist and hit your chest repeatedly, trying to get yourself to breathe regularly again. And when you thought you had enough air in your lungs, you bellowed, “Mi’ytiar!”

Your breath hitched and tears finally streamed down your cheeks. You bend your upper body forward and towards the tree, and pressed the palms of your hands against the tree trunk. With your head facing the ground, tears left your eyes, rolled down the bridge of your nose before dripping down the tip to the forest floor.

You were crying and panting, your body clenching every time another contraction hit you.

“Mi’ytiar, please, please… I need you… please, please.” You begged, your voice barely audible.

Contentment.

That’s all you could feel as you adjusted your lying position on the soft fur and the woolen and cotton fabrics of your nest. It was living up to its name as it reminded you of an actual nest, a bird’s nest; just as round but with more comfortable materials. Mi’ytiar had been very picky, something that amused you to no end.

That and the fireplace embedded into the floor, enclosing the round platform the nest was on, kept you warm and cozy.

You and the pup that was sleeping on your chest.

Little Akail let out little purrs while he enjoyed the warmth of his mother’s body that kept him tranquil and happy.

Only ten hours old and he already had such a significant place in this clan and his parent’s hearts.

You hummed quietly to your pup, only looking up from the endearing sight when Mi’ytiar entered your home and came to a halt in front of your nest, taking in the very welcome view of his (tantalizing naked) mate and his newborn son.

“Don’t get any ideas.” You warned him playfully when you noticed his heated gaze racking over your body.

“Back on Earth, some parents hold their babies like this. The skin and warmth forges a strong bond between them and the baby can get used to its parents’ touch.” You explained, your fingers slowly caressing Akail‘s back.

Mi’ytiar only clicked his mandibles in acknowledgment before he started to take off his armor and his traditional clothing as clan leader. 

You had to bite your lower lip, reminding yourself of your own scolding words only seconds ago, but you simply couldn’t help yourself. Your mate was a fine specimen, a strong and gorgeous Yautja. You were one hell of a lucky woman.

You watched him get on the nest, now only dressed in his loin cloth, and he moved on his knees towards you. 

You wrapped an arm around Akail — still curled up into a ball with his head tucked under your chin and his feet resting on your belly — and got up into a sitting position.

Mi’ytiar grabbed you by your thigh and hip, lifted you up and pulled you to him so you were sitting on his thighs while your legs were wrapped around the width of his hips.

He lopped his arms around you, drawing you into an embrace, so little Akail was now nestled between both of his parents’ warm bodies.

The smile that had grown on your lips since the moment Mi’ytiar had entered your home was now so bright and wide your cheeks started to hurt. 

But you didn’t really care. You couldn‘t hide the sheer happiness you were feeling right now at this moment.

You felt movement against your throat and above the valley of your breasts, and when you looked down as best as you could manage, you saw Akail nuzzle his face into your skin while his tiny hand was now lying on your chest where your heart was beating.

You wanted to cry happy tears.

You had never expected to become a mother, never planned on it, never even remotely wanted it if you were being honest, but having your baby now in your arms made every antipathy disappear. 

You placed a soft kiss on Akail‘s head, using as little pressure as possible so he wouldn’t wake up.

“He’s perfect.” You whispered and looked up at Mi’ytiar who was already watching you intently. “Are you happy?”

He cocked his head to the side, his chest vibrating when he confirmed, “Happy.”

He felt Akail‘s small body against his own, felt his tiny body press against his every time he was breathing.

Breathing.

A beating heart.

Alive.

He loosened the embrace of one of his arms around your body to reach between the two of you and for his son, his fingers tracing from Akail‘s forehead to the back of his head — there, he had the same scale pattern as his father, only with reversed colors — and from his temple over the hints of dreads on each side of his little head with his thumb.

Akail was indeed perfect, just like his mother, and he loved him with all his heart already, but the price he almost had to pay for having him here…

“I thought I would lose you today.” He admitted, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

You lifted your head from where it had been resting on his chest to look up at him with a small smile.

“For a second, I thought I would never see you again. I thought I would never meet our son." You nodded, thinking about the sharp pain and the feeling of life leaving your body as your pup fought his way out of you. “But Cahrein had prepared me as well as he was able to. He helped me through it. Who knows, hadn’t he injected me with your blood…”

You trailed off when Akail began to stir. You quickly started to rock him up and down, luring him back to sleep.

“He’s a very gifted male. I’ve trusted him with my life since the first time we visited him together after my arrival here so many moons ago.”

You adjusted your arm and its hold on Akail, the other reached up and cupped Mi’ytiar’s cheek. You let your fingertips glide over the scaly texture of his skin and dragged them over his jaw to his chin, down his throat to the middle of his chest.

“He also told me that I would be able to give you another pup in a foreseeable future…”

Mi’ytiar frowned, asking skeptically, “After what you gone through today?”

You shrugged and leaned your head forward, your cheek pressed against his pec. “I’m not talking about now or tomorrow, my love, but someday. In a few years, maybe.”

Mi’ytiar bristled, a loud rumble shaking his torso. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” He shook his head, a very human gesture in your eyes. “You almost died.”

You smiled into his skin. Protective through and through, even when it came to his own offspring.

You were incredibly lucky to be chosen by a Yautja like him. 

It was rare for them to be interested in a human. It was rarer for them to treat that human like an equal instead of a slave or one of many lovers. It was the rarest for a human to be injected with Yautja blood to largely adapt to their DNA and enable life on their planet.

And Mi’ytiar told you himself — you were the only human ever being Life-Mated to a Yautja who carried his offspring and had a similar leading role as him as the mate of a leader; all in one.

You were the rarest of the rarest, a uniqueness, something completely new.

But humans had birthed Yautja-Human-hybrids long before you, most of them more than one or two.

“The next time will be different, Mi’ytiar. My body will be stronger and mentally I will be more prepared.” You told him and peppered his chest with feather-light kisses before you looked up at him again, a loving smile on your lips. “You shan’t lose me.”

You whimpered in relief when you finally heard the familiar growling bark of a Hell Hound. 

“Toyou!” You called, “I’m… here!”

You felt something move under you and fill the free space between your bend-over position against the tree. You opened your eyes, which you had closed to calm yourself and your breath, and looked down to see the Hound’s face already fixed on yours.

“N‘yaka-de. Get him.” You panted and watched as Toyou turned around to run.

When he suddenly stopped to walk hesitantly back to you, not liking the fact he was about to leave you behind who was obviously in distress, you stomped with your foot and yelled, “Toyou, fucking now!”

He darted off and you felt a tinge of guilt for lashing out. After all, he was loyal and a surprisingly good cuddle partner.

“Argh!” You cried out when another stabbing sensation almost made your legs give out.

Once again it felt like you were being torn apart, but at least you didn‘t feel like you were closer to death than life like at Akail‘s birth over 30 years ago. You were kind of proud of yourself, actually, considering you were still able to stand. 

Yeah, standing against a tree for support instead of lying in your warm and soft nest where you had actually planned to deliver your second pup. You didn‘t want to give birth in an unsafe environment, with no Mi’ytiar and no Cahrein. 

But who would have expected that your pup was ready to be welcomed into the world on a hunt?

You did. 

You had felt premature labor pains for two days now, but you hadn’t paid them any mind as Akail was born only six days after those pains had started. 

But even those pains had felt different in those two days, so why hadn‘t you just listened to your body when it undoubtedly told you “No!” while you answered Mi’ytiar‘s question “Hunt?” with an enthusiastic “Yes!” ?

You knew the answer to that, too. 

While women on Earth had to stop certain activities at one point in their pregnancy and were limited in their doings, Yautja females could still follow their everyday lives throughout their whole pregnancy. Meaning, they could still jump from one obstacle to another, chase their prey and kill it. 

Thinking that you were able to do that too had been utterly stupid and arrogant, but you just didn’t want to seem weak. Yes, the clan had accepted you and saw you as one of them, as the mate of their leader, but you couldn’t stop the suffocating need to prove yourself again and again.

It was unnecessary. Mi’ytiar had told you that, Cahrein had told you that, the Females you liked to spend your time with and considered friends told you that and, hell, even a few Males that were close to your mate told you that.

But here you were, crying and groaning, when another contraction cursed through your body. You regretted leaving your cozy home, regretted not being pampered by your loving mate in your nest, and regretted leaving your son behind, who had been by your side all the time, hovered over you in case he had to step in should you need anything in your state, followed you around like a lost puppy if you weren’t napping in your nest.

It reminded you of the time when he had been much younger and much smaller. He had been practically attached to your hip and everywhere you went, he was there. He had been such an adorable and shy little boy. Who were you kidding? He still was, but you missed those times anyway. He had grown up too fast.

You were nervous.

With your arms wrapped tightly around your body, you watched the hustle and bustle in the distance. They were preparing for the departure of the five Young Bloods who would soon leave for a faraway world to hunt and complete their initiation into Adulthood.

Among them was your son, your Akail, who would leave you for who knows how long to presumably search for the largest and most dangerous beast and kill it to prove himself.

Just like his father, you thought.

In the first year of your relationship, Mi'ytiar had told you everything imaginable about himself, and one evening about his own initiation ritual. He had told you how reckless and sure of himself he had been as a Young Blood, how he threw himself into danger to impress his clan.

Although that had secured his position as leader, he’d summoned his son the day before to admonish him to proceed with caution, to be logical and strategic, and to not let arrogance control him.

Lost in worried thoughts, you didn't notice as Mi'ytiar approached you, dropped to one knee and pulled you to his torso with his strong arms. He nuzzled his face into your hair, his mandibles running through it.

He loved your hair. It was just as soft as the rest of you.

“What on your mind, yawne?” He asked.

“I’m scared.” You breathed.

“On your home planet, oomans worry too when child leaves?”

You put your hand on one of his arms that was wrapped around you. “They do, but not like this. On Earth, human children leave the safety of their homes every day to go to school, to learn, and then they will return. In a few hours Akail will leave the safety of his home to finish school, so to say, but will he return?” You told him absentmindedly, your attention still fixed on the ship. “Human parents don't have to fear that particular day when their children go on a journey to possibly get killed just because of a custom.”

You felt his arms tighten around you. “Do not be scared.” He said.

“I can’t help it. I’m his mother.”

Mi'ytiar let out a chuckle that sounded more like a growl than an actual laugh.

“And I his father.” He said and turned you around, not loosening the close embrace. “I trained him well. Made him strong and made him smart. Doubting my skills, yawne?”

Although he had already lowered himself, reducing his height to be closer to you, you still had to raise your head to look at him.

God, you loved his eyes. Even though there were rare variations at times among their kind — sometimes a lighter shade, sometimes a darker shade, sometimes more orange than yellow — the eyes of all Yautja had the same color.

But to you, Mi'ytiar’s eyes were different, even though one couldn’t possibly spot a difference when he was standing next to other Yautja. To you, they were brighter, more intense, more expressive. Or maybe it was just the way he looked at you, with so much gentle affection and love you wouldn't credit a beast of his stature with.

“Of course I’m not. I could never.”

You suddenly could feel large arms engulfing your body from behind, pulling you into an upright-standing position, and you just let yourself instinctively fall into their embrace.

You knew those limbs, knew their warmth and their strength.

“Mi’ytiar, the pup… the pup is coming.” You panted and dug your fingernails into his forearm.

You felt him move behind you. He lifted you up, his arms supporting your back and the back of your knees as he held you to his torso. He briefly registered how you quickly wrapped your arms around his neck before he took off.

He ran like he never did. At the same time, he was careful not to let your body jolt around too much as he jumped over fallen tree trunks and climbed rocks to reach the Scout Ship while you clung to him.

Every time a contraction hit, he could feel your body tense in his arms and your mouth press against his chest as you muffled another scream.

Oh, how he wished he could take away the pain, but at least it wasn’t as horrible as it was at Akail’s birth.

Mi’ytiar remembered your glistening tears and your little withering body, how you had squeezed his hand so hard that even he had felt pain and how you had begged both him and Cahrein to stop it. Especially the fear of death in your eyes haunted him to this day.

He had almost lost you — you, his precious human — all those years ago and it had been his entire fault.

The possibility of becoming a father had been zero, non-existent, and at one point in his life, he had accepted the fact that he may be not meant to be a father. He stopped caring and someday just forgot about it entirely. The wish to continue his line like any proud leader faded away and instead he settled for the idea of passing on his knowledge and experiences to the pups and Younglings of his people.

Then he met you, this petite beautiful thing, when he was lounging on a building near an alley. He heard you before he saw you, heard you and them.

They were calling you strange names and were whistling after you before they decided to follow you down the street. Trying to escape them, you took a left turn and quickened your strides as you crossed the alley.

Mi’ytiar, who was attracted by the noises, slid down the rooftop and soundlessly landed on the metal balcony of one of the apartments. Even from the third floor, he had a perfect view of what was happening down in the alley as the men grabbed you, pushed and pulled on you, and he felt mildly impressed when you started fighting back; kicking, scratching and screaming.

The men’s playful, taunting behavior quickly turned fatal when one of them, fed up with your attempts to flee, slapped you so hard across the face that you stumbled back, tripped over your own feet and fell backwards to the ground.

Your screams quickly turned desperate when one of them pushed up your skirt and tore on your panties, mumbling something about teaching you a lesson, while his companions held you down.

At this point, Mi’ytiar knew something had been wrong. Mating between a Yautja male and female consisted of fighting each other, too, but not like this; not with more than one male and not with the female resisting long after the male fought the female into submission.

Your behavior told him everything he needed to know — you weren’t even close to being interested in mating with those males — and before things could get any worse, he jumped down and killed those who forced themselves on you.

By the time four bodies in various morbid states of dismemberment were littering the alley, your whole body was trembling as you stayed on the ground, cowering.

He had crouched down to your level and one of his bloodied claws reached out to touch your face, your horror-widened eyes watching him with caution.

To him you were what a kitten was to a human. You were so small, he noted, so small and soft and pink. He also thought you were beautiful, contrastive to what Yautja usually thought about your kind. He took you with him that night and the rest was history.

Even though you weren’t a suitable mate, his clan begrudgingly accepted the idea of a human being with their leader. He couldn’t have pups anyway, so why not just let him indulge himself and let him seek happiness and pleasure in other things?

And then, one day, you told him about your wish to carry his pup. He had been excited, absolutely ecstatic, but not about the image of your rounding belly with his offspring — he knew he was unable to have one — and rather about the fact that you were willing to mate with him in a way that could lead to a child. The fact you loved him and trusted him enough was all he cared about.

As much as he loved his son, he should have done something the second both of you learned that you were pregnant. He had been so overjoyed his human mate was extraordinarily able to have his pup that he never thought about possible consequences.

Anyone would have had serious doubts and would have objected because there was no way a human would survive that, but Mi’ytiar didn’t, too blown away by the prospect of becoming a father.

That changed as the day of the pup being due crept closer and closer, and slowly worry and fear set in.

And to make one thing clear: if you hadn’t been injected with Yautja blood from the beginning — first daily, then weekly, then monthly, until it stopped years ago — you wouldn’t have made it and Akail would have torn you apart from the inside out.

He was glad that Cahrein had kept a cool head and realized that his blood would help you when all other means had failed.

It was like history was repeating itself as he tried to focus on the task at hand — getting you to the ship — and not let the fluid running down his arms and body distract him. He wished he hadn’t dared to look down, to look down and see the blood you were losing, coming from a source that was his fault.

Why did he let you convince him to have a second pup? Why did the mere thought of getting you pregnant again make him so ignorant of your near-death experience? Why did he listen to Cahrein when he told the both of you that another pup was possible? Why did he forget that you weren’t like his kind?

His heavy, thumping footsteps suddenly sounded different, and when you pulled your face away from his chest to look around, you noticed the soft earth of the forest had been replaced by the cold metal of the ship.

As careful and gentle as he could in his rattled state, he put you down on the closest surface he could find — the table used for planning, briefing and orientation with several holo-maps — and slammed his fist down on the surface. He growled and hissed a few words you couldn’t understand. Your translating earpieces were perfectly fine, but your brain was only picking up the pain shooting through your body instead of noticing any stimuli from your surroundings.

You were so out of it, the tears blurring your view, that you missed the conversation between Mi’ytiar and the holographic image of Cahrein.

“Mi’ytiar.” Cahrein greeted his leader in the customary way of placing his left fist on the right side of his chest while slightly bowing down his head.

“The pup is coming.” Mi’ytiar said without hesitation, straight to the point.

Cahrein rounded the table to stand next to him and he leaned over you to get a better look at you. He reached out to grab your calves to open your legs, but his hands went right through you.

“Pauk. I can’t help her like this. You have to bring her here.”

“No.” You cried out, answering before Mi’ytiar could even open his mouth. “The pup is coming now.”

Cahrein looked conflicted, contemplating about what to do next as he was restricted in his actions. He could already tell that this was going to be hard.

“Mi’ytiar, I packed a Medicomp for emergencies when you said you two would go hunt. Get it.”

You let out a whine when your mate disappeared from your side, which was quickly occupied by the healer who noticed your distress. “Calm, (Y/N), calm.”

“It hurts so much.” You cried out.

“I know.” He retorted and eyed the red fluid running down your thighs to your calves, dripping down your toes. “You need to take off your clothes.”

With trembling hands, you started to open the pants-like cloth that hugged your legs like a second skin and circled them from your ankles up to your hips. You struggled with the complicated lacing and cursed as you began to rip on them out of frustration.

Bigger hands replaced yours and when you looked up, you saw that Mi’ytiar had returned and stood between your legs. He used his sharp claws to cut the cords open and he pulled the rest of the garment down. He was more considerate with the bloodied panties underneath and tried not to rip them, although you believed that they were irreversibly ruined.

The first and last time he had torn your panties to shreds, you had scolded him for it after he was done fucking you from behind like a dog in his rut. You didn’t have much of your human clothes left — most of it had been replaced by self-made clothes of local fabrics inspired by their style anyway — but what you definitely wanted to keep was your underwear. So when Mi’ytiar returned to you one day from a spontaneous trip to Earth with a dozen new undies, you had been more than thankful.

Mi’ytiar grabbed your ankles, placed both of your feet flat on the table and spread your thighs apart, stepping aside for Cahrein to finally take a look at you.

The healer’s holo-image got down on his knees and peered between what was happening between your legs.

You wanted to hide and press them back together, but you knew that it wasn’t much of help and just let him do his thing. Instead, you let your head loll to the side and looked at your mate.

Mi’ytiar had his hands in fists, keeping them tightly pressed to his sides, and he watched Cahrein with concern and something else in his eyes. You knew he was worried about you. He tried to hide it, tried putting his true feelings behind the mask of a collected and strong leader and warrior like he always did in dicey situations, but you could see right through it.

“And?” He urged Cahrein to finally give him an answer.

“She is ready. She has to push.”

“What about the blood?”

“Incidental. She has to push.”

So that’s what you did.

Taking a deep breath and gripping the edge of the table for the support, you strained every muscle in your body. The resulting, blood-curdling scream even got the two Yautja to flinch and Mi’ytiar lunged forward. He pried your fingers away from the table where you had been holding on for dear life, and intertwined them with his. You instantly squeezed them and Mi’ytiar let out a surprised hiss.

After a moment, your tense body slumped down. It simply gave up after not being able to endure the pain any longer.

“You need to keep going.”

“I can’t.” You hiccuped, choking on your tears as you shook your head vehemently.

“You can. You did this 30 years ago. It was impressive. I never expected such a tiny creature to survive, but you did. You will again.” Cahrein turned to Mi’ytiar and pointed to the Medicomp. “Take the syringe, take your blood and inject it.”

Rather reluctantly, he loosened the hold you had on him and opened the Medicomp. He rummaged through it, found the syringe, and jabbed it into the flesh of his arm, uncaring of the following pain. You were far more important than anything else right now.

While he filled the syringe with his fluorescent-green blood, Cahrein was talking to you and encouraged you to keep going. He tried to distract you and keep your mind from drifting off to a place of no return.

“Something is wrong.” He murmured after a while.

He had watched Mi’ytiar inject you with three doses of his blood already, but you still were in agonizing pain. You even had lost consciousness twice, something that hadn’t even happened when you birthed your first pup.

You squeezed your eyes shut and only opened them again when the pain subsided a bit. “W-What?”

“You should have started crowning already, but you don’t.”

“Why?” You asked in a long-drawn cry.

Cahrein, for the first time in over thirty years, looked baffled and completely clueless. He couldn’t explain it as he had no idea himself. There had never been complications when the females of his clan gave birth. You were the only exception.

“What are typical problems that arise for oomans during childbirth?” He asked, not knowing what else he could do.

It took a moment until you became aware that you had been asked a question.

“Am-Amniotic fluid e-enters the bloodstream… the u-uterus tears… the ba-baby is in an abnormal p-position… it’s s-stuck…” You offered between pained huffs, trying to come up with as many options as you could think of. “In most emergencies, w-when a natural birth isn’t possible, they d-do a c-section… they cut into t-the woman’s belly a-and get the baby out... and then…”

Mi’ytiar wanted you to stop talking. He wanted you to stop putting images of your cut-open body in front of him. He wanted you to stop making him think of your lifeless form after the pup was pulled out of it.

“You have to incise into her abdomen. I will instruct you.” Cahrein finally said.

Mi’ytiar immediately straightened his back and let out a roar. “No!”

“If you do it, either the pup and (Y/N) survive, or just the pup... but if you do nothing, then they will both die.” Cahrein pressed and eyed you for a second.

You were running out of time.

“I… I can’t.”

He sounded defeated. You had never ever expected to see him like this — so vulnerable, so hopeless, so broken. He was the definition of strength, of courage, of accountability, of resilience, and now only a hollow shadow of the man he was was standing in front of you, thinking about the chance of losing his entire world.

He couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t.

How could it be possible for him to live, breathe, without you?

He had a taste of a life he never wanted to leave, a life he wasn’t able to quit, a life only something as extraordinary as you could give him. Not because you were human, although that was probably one of the aspects, but because you were you.

He loved you.

You had taught him that love was the most valuable thing to a person. Love was worth more than anything else in life. It was such a strong, overwhelming feeling no one could put exactly into words until one actually felt it.

And he loved you.

“No, Mi’ytiar… you have to, you have to.” You urged him between panting breaths. “Save our… our baby. Forget me… ju-just save our son… please.”

Mi’ytiar looked down at you as you begged him to do something he wasn’t willing to do in a million years. Cahrein would have hesitated in his stead, but he wasn’t your mate and would have cut into you. Mi’ytiar, on the other hand, could never do something that would harm you.

But he already did, though. He had doomed you the second his seed took.

“Mi’ytiar!” Cahrein barked and pulled the male out of his thoughts.

His body was on autopilot when his hand reached for a scalpel-like tool from the Medicomp.

“Thank you, thank you!” You cried out.

The only thing you felt was relief as your body slowly went numb, tears clouding your view. Everything around you became blurry and Mi'ytiar started to disappear. The world around you grew darker and darker as he set the sharp blade onto your skin and slowly applied pressure, cutting into you until blood flowed onto the table, down to the floor of the ship, creating a red puddle.

You never even registered the feeling of him cutting you open.

Your body shut down before you could.

#predator #predator x reader #predator x you #yautja x reader #yautja x you #fanfic

[s4lv4tions]

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

1.

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands. 

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope. 

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

2.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business! 

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with. 

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone? 

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking. 

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest. 

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying. 

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard. 

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

3.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it. 

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning. 

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.) 

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke. 

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt. 

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

4.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly. 

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

5. 

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off. 

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need? 

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun. 

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

6.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate. 

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead. 

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up. 

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them. 

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

7.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you. 

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick. 

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living. 

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice. 

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

8.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all. 

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later. 

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it. 

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased. 

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness. 

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths? 

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns. 

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

9.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay. 

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will. 

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body. 

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised. 

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him. 

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw. 

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind. 

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of. 

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish. 

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die. 

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact? 

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves. 

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin. 

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata. 

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight. 

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry. 

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities. 

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless. 

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce. 

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release. 

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes. 

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever. 

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness. 

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more. 

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful. 

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far. 

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again. 

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you. 

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others. 

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips— 

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk. 

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

#gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo angst #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk angst #satosugu angst #satoru smut #geto x reader #geto angst #anime x reader #anime smut #anime angst #gojo fic #jjk fic #jjk x you #gojo x you #reading back over readers technique is suchhhhhh a trip #like blahblahblahblahblah yeah rock on little dude whatever u say #what was i on fr

[penny00dreadful]

Can't start another WIP she said, bitch she fuckin LIED. Personal Assistant Steve to Rockstar Eddie snippet. Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 AO3

Smoke curled lazily above them in the slightly chilly night air. Neither of them had bothered to put any clothes back on but they were still warm enough from previous activities so it didn’t really matter.

The guy, Jake? John? James? J- Julian! That was it. Julian was standing next to him just out of arms reach now that the horny haze between the two of them had worn off.

Eddie supposed that was to be expected.

The poor guy probably had no idea if he was about to be booted unceremoniously out of a rockstars luxury hotel room after crashing together under a fog of uppers and thumping music at the after party before they both had quickly fumbled their way into Eddie's bed for the night.

He had no idea if fuckin' security or some shit was going to burst through the door and drag him out half or fully naked now that Eddie was done with him.

And it probably hadn't helped that they had been walked in on, they'd barely been in the room a minute before Steve came looking for him, talking a mile a minute about tour schedules and pre-approved interview questions before he'd realised he was looking at Eddie practically humping the guy against a wall.

They'd stopped when Steve walked in obviously but it had been pretty clear what they were doing and Steve, ever the professional had just rolled his eyes and told Eddie he'd be back in the morning.

Julian clearly had no idea if he was safe here now that the deed was done but Eddie wasn't an asshole. He could be a bit callous all right but he wasn't opposed to his hook-ups hanging around for a little bit if they seemed like cool enough people. And the guy seemed nice enough so he didn’t mind letting him stick around.

Julian sighed a little heavily and ran a hand through his muddy blonde hair. “I feel kinda bad now.”

Eddie turned his eyes over to him. “About what? The sex?” He pulled in a drag from his cigarette.

“No!” Julian answered quickly. “No, the sex was great, really. I mean about your... Your assistant? Probably not the easiest thing for him to see.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Eddie shook his head. “Steve’s seen much worse, believe me. The stories that man could tell.” He laughed. “It's not the first time he's walked in and it probably won’t be the last but he’s practically immune to it at this stage. He’s dragged me by the hair out of celebrity drug dens, parties… he’s pulled me out of more orgy piles than I can count so you know… no skin off his back. ”

“That’s not really what I meant.”

“What then?”

Julian grimaced and glanced down with a look somewhere between guilty and sad. “You really don’t see it?”

Eddie ashed out his cigarette, shrugging and headed back inside. He wanted to get back into bed, his feet were cold and his body was aching from the show he’d just performed. Honestly he could do with as much sleep as humanly possible but he hadn't any idea what the guy was talking about. He'd meant what he'd said, Steve had seen him in just about every position it was possible for a person to be in pre-sex, mid-sex and post-sex. This was nothing new to him.

Julian followed him back inside and hovered awkwardly at the end of the bed, trying to pick his words and unsure if he should be picking his clothes back up from the floor or getting back into bed.

Eddie pulled the corner of the covers back. “I’m not going to kick you out, you can stay if you want or you can go. Up to you.”

Julian bit his lip but crawled in regardless, lying down to face Eddie. The darkness of the room and the way the two of them were lying facing towards each other felt like some kind of confessional.

“He’s clearly in love with you, dude.”

Eddie couldn’t help the full on belly laugh that came out of his mouth. “Steve?!” He asked incredulously. “No way, man. He’s my P.A. and one of my closest friends. Plus the guy is straight as an arrow. Your gaydar must be off or something.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well… I mean… look at him!”

Steve was… he was the straightest looking man around. All business suits, perfectly styled hair, slightly out of date glasses and ex-jock charisma and physique.

Julian didn’t answer, just cocked an eyebrow at him.

Eddie huffed. “Yeah, okay, I’m stereotyping but like… he fucks women.”

“You fuck women.”

“Rarely.”

“But you still do.”

“Okay… but… he… listen I know Steve, alright? The guy isn’t in love with me.���

Julian shrugged. “I dunno, man. I’m not trying to be an ass, I swear but it was very obvious… to me I guess.” He sighed again then muttered “Maybe I’m just very familiar with that look.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah." He tucked his hands under his head. "See it every time I look in the mirror.”

“Oh. Well shit. Who’re you breaking your heart over?”

“My best friend. Danny.”

Eddie hummed, rolling onto his stomach and shoving his arms under his pillow, rubbing his cheek against the fabric. “Tell me about him.”

Julian broke into a wide but bashful smile, so bright it was practically lighting up the dark room though it was sharply undercut with just a hint of melancholy.

“He’s the most loving, giving person I’ve ever met. He’d only just turned eighteen when both his parents died and out of nowhere he’s got three younger siblings that are now in his care and the guy barely knew how to look out for himself, you know? He once tried to microwave an egg to cook it. But he really stepped up. He grew up. Like, can you imagine being eighteen and having to go to parent-teacher meetings when you’d only just left school yourself and trying to teach his kid brother how to shave or talk his sisters through puberty… he’s just so… you know?”

Eddie wasn’t really sure he did know. This Danny person made him think of Steve, serial adopter of anyone even remotely younger than him. Sometimes older than him, if Eddie was to count himself. The kind of person who seemed to make it their life's mission to take care of others. He could see the appeal of Best-Friend-Danny, honestly. Steve probably had better hair though. He always had better hair.

“And Danny’s straight?”

“No.” Julian frowned. “He’s not. And I don’t know if that makes things worse. Because he could choose me. But he never has. Over and over and over again, he hasn’t chosen me. He probably never will. And I need him in my life. So I’ve learned to deal with just friends. It’ll... It'll be good enough.”

“Fuck, that’s heavy. I’m sorry man, sounds like it sucks.”

“It does suck. Sucks dick and balls, actually.”

Eddie allowed himself a little giggle at that but the whole situation had wound itself around his brain. Not for the first time he was forced to remember that there are other people out there, other people like him and other people nothing like him who use music, use sex, use drugs and drink and anything else they can get their hands on just to alter their minds for a few hours. Just to forget and get away from it all. Unfortunately this poor guy seemed stuck in the kind of tragedy poets have been writing about for hundreds of years.

They didn’t share any more words, both dropping off to sleep fairly quickly, lost in their own thoughts.

The next morning they shuffled around each other, lazy and easy now that any post-sex awkwardness had left, grumbling and sore from the show, the various substances they’d ingested, the after party and the sex from the night before.

They took turns in the hotel room's quite frankly obscenely fancy shower.

Julian slowly pulled his clothes back on, wincing whenever he had to bend his back while Eddie made it easy on himself, just throwing on his usual ancient and ratty lounging clothes.

The things Julian had said to him the night before were all but forgotten. Because it wasn't even something that was worth considering in Eddie's mind.

Steve? In love with him?

It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard in his life. Steve was like some kind of clean cut poster boy for straightness.

Even if he wasn't straight they'd just be downright incompatible in every other sense of the word. He was punctual, a morning person, he exercised for fun, he watched sports, he was a bitch and he was always so put together.

Eddie... Eddie was none of those things.

Maybe he could be a bit of a bitch.

Sometimes.

Plus, even if it was true and that was a big if, Eddie wasn't in love with him back, so like...

Nothing would ever come of it anyway.

Just before Julian left, Eddie beckoned him back over.

The kiss wasn’t romantic, or heated. If anything it was downright platonic, like closing the book on their short story together.

“For luck.” Eddie smiled and patted him lightly on the chest, watching as Julian turned and left the room, his own small smile on his face.

It was nearly a half an hour later and Eddie was really getting into whatever episode of Real Housewives he’d stumbled upon, he wasn't sure, when Steve walked through the door, carrying a large and violently pink strawberry frappuccino with him.

Eddie made greedy, grabby hands at it from his lounged position on the bed. “You’re a saint.” He said, snatching it up.

“I’m aware.” Steve replied with a dry tone, hands on his hips.

Eddie gulped back two bitingly cold mouthfuls. “No, seriously, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me I swear to god." He gulped down another mouthful, ignoring the sharp throb in his teeth. "You gonna watch?” He gestured to the tv. “I think we’re a few episodes behind.”

Steve scoffed. “While I’d love nothing more than to sit on your dirty sex sheets, I have an actual job to do. Y’know, I have to organise your whole damn life-”

“Excuse you, I have an actual job too!”

“Drugs are not an actual job, Eds.”

“Tell that to a pharmacist.”

“Whatever. Drink your disgusting sugar and cream concoction and try not to get into too much trouble today. We're back on the tour bus at 6am sharp!” Steve started slowly backing towards the door, pointing at him. “And do not watch ahead from the last episode we saw together. We’re catching up on it over the weekend.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Steve’s hands were back on his hips again and Eddie smiled around his straw.

“You’re the bane of my fucking existence, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

Something flashed across Steve’s face, there and gone before it ever settled. A tightening of his mouth, a clench in his jaw, a pinch in his brows, there and gone. Maybe if Julian had never said anything, Eddie wouldn’t have noticed. Maybe if the thought hadn’t been primed he wouldn’t have seen it.

How many times had he not seen it before?

Steve rolled his eyes, as bitchy as ever. “I’ll be back with the car in an hour. Try to look somewhat human by then, please?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

Well…

It was probably nothing…

Right?

Part 2 out now! Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 AO3

#steddie #steve x eddie #stranger things #eddie x steve #fanfic #steddie fic #penny00dreadful #stranger things fic #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar eddie #personal assistant steve #personal assistant steve harrington #modern au #somebody to love

[bunnyreaper]

𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝔞 𝔰𝔬𝔞𝔭 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝖕𝖙 1 — 𝖕𝖙 2 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 wc - 5.7k warnings - 18+/nsfw, dom sub dynamic, eventual romance/smut, medium burn? notes - first part of my owner!soap x pet!reader, woohoo! i already regret writing something centered around texting and calling lmao, crying!! the formatting is killing me!! anyway, also on ao3! and if you wanna send a request, pls do! ♥

Lonely girl looking for owner. 

Posting on this subreddit again was probably a mistake—but a deep-down part of you clings to the hope that this time will be the time you find someone, the time you get to go home to him. 

At least this time, you'll be better at spotting the signs right off the bat—if only you can take off the rose-tinted glasses long enough to take note.

Your inbox is flooded with the usual kinds of messages—unsolicited pictures, low-effort one-sentence wonders, and so-called doms jumping straight to the part where they call you a nasty whore with no actual consideration for the person you are. 

You're just about to give up, delete the post, and ignore all chat requests when a message arrives in your inbox. 

From: squeakycleanscot 

Subject: Lonely guy looking for girl

Hi,

Saw your post and knew I had to message. You sound like everything I'm looking for and more.

I'm a little younger than the age you put on your post, but I think I fit your other requirements. I'm 27, Scottish (yes, with the accent), and in the army, I hope that's a turn-on rather than a turn-off.

When I'm not deployed, I like cosy nights in, preferably with my love by my side. Don't mind a night at the pub either, especially if there's a Celtic match on, not that anywhere near here shows them. 

I'm looking for something longer term like you mentioned (would love to collar my girl one day, which is probably ironic considering I'm a wee bit scared of dogs.)

Happy to send a picture if you'd like :) 

Hope to hear from you soon, 

Johnny.

Johnny. 

You reread the message, turning his words over in your mind. 

Something about his message has your attention—it at least suggests he has a brain in his head and a heart capable of empathy, and that maybe he's serious. 

You begin typing your reply instantly, your fingers moving so fast you have to type and retype so many parts to rid the message of all of the overexcited mistakes.

hi johnny, 

scottish?! is it bad im already imagining how your dirty talk will sound? 

it's funny, i always wanted to join the army growing up, but it never worked out. maybe it's for the best as now i'm not immune to enjoying a hot man in uniform... which I'm assuming you are ;) 

cosy nights in are my favourite too! I'm a bit of a homebody and love being snuggled up more than anything. i have to let you know in advance that you have some stiff competition in the form of my giant teddy bear, barnaby. 

i'm looking for something longer term too, or at least not a one night kind of thing—a collar one day would be the dream <;3 

if you send a picture, ill send one back, nothing sexy just yet though, if that's okay? 

have you met up with someone off here before? just curious about your experiences! 

y/n

As soon as the message is sent, the overthinking kicks in—was that too much? Is he going to think you're weird? 

You shuffle in bed, turning over between the sheets and trying to flick through other apps as you wait for a reply—otherwise, you'd just be staring at the notifications bar waiting for that silly little robot face to pop up. 

Johnny doesn't leave you waiting long, only a few minutes passing from your last message.

Maybe you'll find out sooner rather than later just how my dirty talk sounds ;) 

I tried to sneak in before I was old enough, but they caught on. Served since I was 18 though, you'll have a lot of stories ready from me if you're ever willing to listen. Not sure if the uniform is anything like you're thinking though, in my unit it's mostly just t-shirts, tac vests and trousers. 

I'll prepare my best snuggling arms for if we ever meet. You should inform Barnaby now about his replacement, mind. 

Can't not send a sexy photo though, sorry lass, all my pictures are. I'm sure you understand, lol

Haven't met anyone, had a few conversations but nothing worth pursuing, and had kind of given up until I saw your post. 

His message is the perfect mix of sexy, sweet, and sincere—and if that is the essence of the man, you know he's everything you're looking for. 

You try not to think too hard about a hot Scottish accent calling you all your favourite names or telling you exactly what to do, or even those stories he has to tell, as the idea is all too exciting. 

Reading his message, you instinctively reach out to pat Barnaby when you see he may end up replaced—hopefully the poor bear will understand when he has to vacate the bed for this sexy soldier man. 

looking forward to it. can I start putting in requests now for bedtime stories too?

i still wanna see, maybe in your sexy-not-sexy pic? 

barnaby will be devastated by the news, and you may have to give him hugs too (but not for too long, or i'll get lonely!!!)

same here, about things not going anywhere... or people turning out to be a bit scary, so you're not allowed to let me down, okay? 

Maybe the last part of the message was too much, but your heart is already soaring with unbridled hope—along with that hope comes doubt too. 

Each second waiting for a reply drags, and you take to re-reading his messages and clicking on his profile to investigate. 

It's largely empty of posts, but there are tons of comments across different communities—including his aforementioned football team, r/Scotland, and eyebleach. 

Clearly, he's a softie at heart. 

When his next message comes through, it's an Imgur link with a short message. 

Here we go, a few months old though now. Don't have anything more recent from work :) 

You take a moment or two to steady yourself before you tap the link. While you definitely feel like you and Johnny have already started to click, if he's not your type then it probably won't go anywhere... 

It's a situation you've been in before—great conversation, similar interests but no physical attraction, and back then you didn't have the heart to break it off straight away.

You tap the link and are greeted by a full-body shot of a tall, well-built man in tactical clothes. His hair is a neatly trimmed mohawk, and while his face isn't crystal clear, he's clearly fucking handsome. His biceps bulge from the gray tee stretched over his torso, his large hands are covered with gloves and grasping a gun.

Your eyes trail to his long legs, thick thighs encased in camo and strapped with various holsters. All in all, the picture is perfect. You find yourself zooming in desperately to get a better look at his face, the handsome jaw lined with stubble that you can already imagine between your legs. The whole image and every new detail has you squirming in your bed, and cheekily wishing to save the image to your phone.

holyfwucj 

holy fuck 

Like what you see? 

i need a hug from you urgently. 

now i feel shy... 

It had crossed your mind ever so slightly that Johnny may be out of your league, or that he simply may not be attracted to someone like you, which would be a complete shame. Now you've set eyes on him, you want him even more—want to kneel at those feet and stare up at his hulking figure while he tugs on a leash around your neck. 

Hopefully, just like you, he'll be smitten from the first glance. 

Scrolling through your camera roll, you decide you don't exactly love any recent photos of yourself. The ones at your last work event have you looking far too corporate, and the only image from your last night out was taking in a bathroom mirror in the local Wetherspoons—neither of which is ideal. 

You crawl out from the warmth of your sheets, kneeling on the end of the bed and posing as you point your camera in the mirror that sits across the room and captures you perfectly. Before you start snapping, you adjust your top to make sure too much isn't on display, even though it's strappy and cropped, and definitely a little bit more on the tantalising side as far as your pyjamas go. 

Hopefully, Johnny likes the pose and the outfit... and you. You can see your smiling face just to the side of your phone as you press to capture the picture—and when you return to your inbox to send the picture link, a message is waiting for you. 

I already know you're gorgeous. Don't leave me hanging, bonnie. 

okay. this is me now, all ready for bed!! 

Holy fuck yourself.

And I'm assuming that's Barnaby in the background. 

If he notices the pose, he doesn't comment on it, instead delighting your heart by commenting on Barnaby instead.

sure is! he's ready for snuggles and sleep. 

Can you do me a favour? 

That message makes your heart skip because usually when something like that is asked, it's followed with a request for nudes or something sexual—and while that is a large part of something like this, you crave the connection first, crave someone actually sticking around and getting to know you. 

depends on what it is!

Tell Barnaby to keep looking after you until I get there, yeah? 

does that mean you're coming for me?

One day, if we're both lucky.

seems promising so far, Johnny. 

Get some sleep, yeah? Maybe tomorrow night I'll give you a bell. 

The idea of this conversation ending is heart-wrenching, but at least sleep will bring you closer to that possible phone call. Hearing his voice, now that will be even more incredible. 

how do you expect me to sleep after telling me that? so mean! 

Patience, bonnie. Be good for me? 

You clench, your thighs squeezing together as arousal rushes through you. It's like he knows exactly how far to go, what buttons to press, what you're looking for.

It's the right kind of commanding, toeing the line perfectly between flirtatious and in charge. A lot of guys you've talked to have rushed it made commands too early, and sent you running. Johnny's words, be good for me? You can't help but want to behave. 

okay, but I see how this is going to be :( 

Bet you look so fucking good with a pout ;) 

now you're just being a cruel tease, Johnny... 

Sorry, I'll stop. Sleep, yeah, for me?

cuddling up to barnaby now. 

You decide to attach another picture, your eyes screwed shut and cheeks squished as you wrap yourself around the bear and cuddle up under the sheets. 

talk tomorrow?

Of course, bonnie, sweet dreams <;3 

You lock your phone, your eyes feeling relieved as they adjust to the darkness. 

For a brief moment, you just clutch your phone to your chest and recall the picture Johnny had sent, how much you'd love to be wrapped up in his arms tonight. 

He's the only thing on your mind as you drift off to sleep.

-//-

Your dreams are tumultuous, starting off with a nightmare of being chased and chased until your legs give out, only for you to find salvation and safety in a stranger's arms—one who seemed vaguely familiar. 

The first thing you do when you wake is roll over to check your phone, elation overtaking you when you see a notification from Johnny already waiting there—already he's blessing you with a good morning message.

Good morning, sweet girl.

Attached under the picture is another image link, and clicking on it brings up an absolutely gorgeous picture of Johnny, lazing in bed. There's just enough light in the room for you to see the brightness of his eyes that you couldn't see before—his mohawk is mussed, and his smile is easy, drawing you in. 

He's even more handsome in this up close photo, you can only imagine what he looks like in person, right before you. 

morning Johnny <3 how did you sleep? 

Like a baby. Yourself? 

not the best, but I swear you were in my dream. 

Sorry to hear that, but oh already? What did I do? 

I mean, it was a bulky guy with a mohawk but he didn't have your name, I think it was meant to be you though. 

You recall the safety you felt in the arms of the strange figure, it was serene, and everything you hope to feel when you find the one—hopefully that's Johnny.

My dreams were shite, you didn't show up. 

i'll try harder to be there tonight!! 

Promise? 

promise. 

God, he's so fucking sweet. It's hard to imagine he's into all the things you mentioned in your initial post, at least right now. But you're all too familiar with how appearances can be deceiving—you wonder what else your sweet Scot is into. 

You peel back the covers and head out into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on mindlessly as you keep your eyes fixated on the screen—not wanting to be even a minute late to answering Johnny's texts, even though it seems there's a natural lull in the conversation. 

You return your focus to making your tea, and your thoughts don't drift from Johnny for even a moment, as you ponder ways to keep the conversation going. Admittedly, you have a million and one questions you want, but you don't want to come across too... eager? clingy? Like some serial killer fiending for information? 

It's crazy the way your heart yearns for him so soon—and it's crazy the way that you wish he feels the same as you do. You wonder how his day is going, and if he's staring at your phone waiting for your message.

With tea brewed, you set it on the coffee table and flop onto the plush couch, rushing to open the app when a new notification pops up.

What's your plan for the day? 

lazy day, binge-watching... texting you? wbu? 

I have to work for a bit, but I'll message you when I can. 

On a weekend? That's horrible, but I imagine they run a tight ship over there. 

You rush to follow up your message with something else. 

will you still be able to call tonight? 

Aye, give me your number, I'll save it! 

You send off your number and don't hear anything from Johnny for a good few hours. You pass the time watching one of your favourite shows, and trying to resist the urge to go scroll down Johnny's profile once more.  

The next time a message pops up, it's well past lunch.

Cute profile pic on whatsapp.

Johnny has clearly added your number to his contacts and spied your picture on the app. You blush thinking of him seeing you in that costume—especially after he knows what you're into.

it was Halloween, I swear!! 

You make an adorable little kitten, lass.

imagination running wild now? ;) 

Aye, but I'm a gent. 

hopefully not always...

Oh, you'll see. Talk to you tonight, kitty. 

talk to you then &lt;;3 

Now you're just itching, waiting for the hours to crawl by for Johnny's workday to end, so you can talk to him again, so you can finally hear his voice. 

What will it sound like saying your name? Whispering sweet nothings in your ears? 

The hours pass slowly until a different notification lights up your phone as you cuddle into your sheets.

Hey, it's Johnny! Just got home. 

You scramble to click on the pop-up, spying his own profile picture in the corner—tapping on it to view it closer. 

It's the Johnny you recognise, smiling wide with his arm slung around another man. He looks so ridiculously happy, probably due to the pint in his other hand. The more you look at him, the more you can't believe you're talking to this man, that he wants to talk to you. 

You quickly add him to your contacts, putting a heart next to his name, before you return to the chat and begin to type.

i'm not the only one with a cute pfp!! 

Three sheets to the wind in that picture, actually.

i can tell &lt;3

Ready to call? 

whenever you're ready!

The image of him floods your screen, the screen pulsing as it waits for you to accept. Your fingers tremble as you press the button, and you fall silent as you press the phone to your ear, nerves gripping at your throat. 

"Hi, bonnie." His voice drifts from the phone speaker, sweet like honey and warm like sunshine, with that gorgeous accent too. 

"Hi." You squeak out, silently cursing at yourself for being so nervous and seemingly unable to speak. 

A melodic laugh follows your words, amused but not cruel or mocking. "Are you nervous?" His voice is soothing, his concern and sweet nature evident. 

You cradle your burning cheek, feeling the way your blush spreads across your smiling face. "Just a little, can you blame me?" 

He's laughing again, and you hear a shuffling noise that suggests he's getting comfortable. "Don't be, I'll look after yer, I promise." 

Fuck. You could get used to hearing that. "I really like your voice." You admit, whispering into the phone with a ridiculous grin on your face. 

"I like yours too, you sound so sweet." 

You drop your voice lower, giggling mischievously. "Only sometimes." 

"That's what I like ta hear." The way Johnny's voice dips as he says that has your insides fluttering, but you can only assume he's returning the favour. His tone returns to its usual charming tone as he asks, "How was your lazy day?" 

"Well, I kind of spent a fair bit of it distracted, thinking about this important call I was going to have tonight..." 

"Oh aye, I should get off the phone so you can wait then." 

"Funny. How was yours? What do you even do day to day, anyway?" You ask, voice brimming with curiosity—there are so many things you want to ask, but you imagine his job can be secretive. 

"Lots of training, and sometimes paperwork, which is right shite." 

"Not when you don't have someone under the desk keeping you company." You laugh, taking the chance to flirt. If you were into Johnny after reading his messages, actually hearing his voice is only making your attraction soar. 

A quiet fuck can be heard, as the man on the end of the phone heaves out a breath. "I'll have ta look into getting you clearance if you keep talking like that, lass." 

"Glad to be of service, what can I say?" You find yourself in a giggle fit at your own silliness, a mix of nerves and joy at enjoying yourself so much.

"God, I love yer laugh." The deep sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. 

The drug that is Johnny is already so intoxicating. 

"I'm so glad you can't see me blushing." 

"I'm no'." He sounds so indignant about that. "But I could listen to that laugh all day, really."

If only he could see you pout too. "Now you're just trying to make me blush more." 

He chuckles, his voice dropping dangerously flirtatious again. "Maybe I am, nothing you can do about it."

"Now I'm pouting." 

"Better not pout in front of me, lass." His suggestive tone makes you shiver. 

"Oh, why's that?" You ask, playing coy. 

"'Cause I'll just have to start kissing ya, might even nibble on those soft little lips." 

You suppress a delighted squeak, already so flustered at even the idea of a kiss. "I'm not hearing a downside." 

"No?" 

"Nope." 

"Might not be gentle with you, though." 

"Good thing that I like it rough." The words are out of you before you can reconsider, but they have exactly the effect you intend as you hear Johnny inhale sharply.

"Ach, you and yer wicked mouth." 

"You have no idea..." 

He lets out a rough exhale, his voice turning gravelly and deep. "Fuck, bonnie." 

"Hey, I'm only repaying the favour, I've been squirming desperately pretty much since I picked up the phone." 

He whistles approvingly, his voice now teasing and playfully menacing. "Just you wait til I'm really in ya head." 

"You're already making good progress." You admit.

"Oh aye?" 

You hum contentedly, eyes flickering shut for a moment. "I'll be imagining your voice as I fall asleep tonight." 

"I'll just have ta send yer voice notes to drift off to, so I can end up in your dreams again." You can almost hear the smirk in his voice. 

"Already spoiling me, too." 

Fuck, how is it this man seems to know exactly what to say? Everything that comes out of his mouth takes root in your brain and sends your thoughts running wild—it's like he's already in your head, or as if someone made him in a lab.

"I'll spoil ya every day, if you're ever mine." 

You groan in frustration, unbelieving that a stranger can be so seemingly perfect. "How are you even single, Johnny?" 

"I could ask you the same. Taking everything in me to not ask for an address right now, if I'm being honest." He huffs a laugh. 

While the idea is thrilling, you know you should have at least some sense of preservation, and shouldn't blurt out your postcode for this strange man you barely know. "I'm worth the wait, I swear." You whisper your promise. 

"I'm sure yer are. But to answer your question, my work keeps me busy a lot, and this lifestyle isn't for everyone." There's a hint of vulnerability to his voice, and you sense such a fact is a sore point in his personal life. 

In the fantasy of all of this, you suppose the reality of the situation isn't something you'd stopped to consider. Life for a man in the military was surely so different from a regular 9-5. "I'm guessing that you're away a lot?" 

"Aye, sometimes for just a few days, sometimes for months, all depends." His admission is soft, as if you can hear in his tone that he's waiting for you to bolt. 

If that's the big 'catch' when it comes to Johnny, you can breathe a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I guess you need someone strong and loyal to hold on and wait for you." 

There's a tense silence, something lingering in the air. 

"Hard to come by, I've found." 

The thought makes your stomach twist in the worst possible way. Johnny, at least on the surface, seems so worthy of love. 

You chance the question that's on the tip of your tongue, hoping Johnny doesn't mind your reckless curiosity. "Have... you been cheated on?" 

"More than once, gets less surprising over the years." He finishes with a sad laugh, as you can tell he tries to infuse humour into the whole thing. 

"That's... horrible." 

Being sent away from your home to face gunfire and warfare, all to keep the people back home safe... only to be betrayed by the people back home who love you, who are supposed to wait for you. It's a gut-wrenching thought, and your heart aches for the man.

"A few of the lads here have a similar story." 

"So the army, not for the faint of heart, and dating an army man, not for the faint of heart." You sigh, though you don't feel put off by the thought.  

"Exactly. That you then? Faint of heart?" 

"No. I mean, inside I'm clingy as hell, and I'd miss you like crazy every day until you got back..." Your emotions overtake you, as you imagine a future where you'd have to kiss the man goodbye for maybe months at a time. "But I get the feeling that what we could have would be worth the wait. Hypothetically of course." 

At that, Johnny laughs, and his light tone returns. "Don't want to get too far ahead of ourselves, aye." 

You don't want to get ahead of yourself, you know you shouldn't, but the way you and Johnny have clicked is unlike anything you've felt before. "But... I have a good feeling." 

"I do too, already dreading putting down the phone." 

"I'm not planning on it anytime soon, even if I have to be up early tomorrow." 

"So do I, alarms set for 4." 

You do not envy his lifestyle one bit.

"That's awful! I'm gonna be so cranky tomorrow, I might have to use my lunch break for a nap." You admit, preemptively yawning into your hand. 

"You one of those perpetually sleepy girls?" 

You nod, even though he can't see it. "The sleepiest." 

"Barnaby is a lucky bear, getting to cuddle up to you so much." 

You burst out laughing at the hint of envy in his words. "Are you... jealous?"

"For now, but soon the tables will turn." He faked an evil laugh, that only makes you giggle harder. 

"Oh, you think you can give better snuggles than him?" 

"Oh, I know I can, bonnie. The bear can't wrap his arms around yer, can't whisper sweet things in your ear..." His voice dips back into that seductive, teasing tone. "... Can't trail his hands down to that pretty little pussy." 

Once more, you flush with desire, every nerve alight as Johnny's words wash over you—although it seems like almost everything he says has your body reacting. "You have an interesting way of cuddling, Johnny."

"Didnae say I was actually gonna do anything once my hands got down there." 

"Well, I wouldn't be opposed." 

"When you're in my arms, you wouldn't have a choice, lass." The dark, dominant voice makes you shiver, makes your submissive instincts awaken. 

"Oh yeah?" 

He hums slowly. "Once you're mine, you leave the choices to me. Johnny knows best, yeah?" 

"Johnny knows best." You whisper breathlessly, the words coming out automatically, like they just feel right.

"Steamin' Jesus, can already tell yer gonna be the death of me." 

"Can't have that, your family won't get your death in service payout!" You laugh awkwardly, before a sense of guilt rears its head. "Sorry, grim joke." 

"I don't mind. You should hear some of the ones my Lt. comes out with, he's a right sick bastard." He chuckles.

"Never want to make light of it and hurt you, though." 

"Telling jokes makes it easier hen, you'll be wishing me dead in no time at all."  

You gasp, shocked by the prospect. "I'd never!" 

"Not even when I deny you from touching yourself for my entire deployment? Months of nothing at all?" The sick grin is evident in his voice. 

"You wouldn't, that's so mean. You're too sweet for that." 

"Aye, for now, but don't you like a little bit of meanness, if yer into men like me..." The edge to his voice and the truth to your words has you trembling. 

"Maybe..." You singsong in response, not wanting to give away just how much you liked the idea of his mean side. 

"Bonnie..." He tuts disapprovingly. "Don't play coy." 

You shudder out a breath as you squeeze your thighs together for relief. "I just don't want you to bully me too much right now, I'm already soaked." 

"Is that right?" He seems delightfully surprised by such a revelation. 

"Mhmm." 

"I'm fucking rock hard if it helps, think I have been since last night..." You hear him shuffle, and you try not to imagine what's happening on the other end of the line, or how he looks lying in bed with said hardness.

When he groans hungrily down the line, you feel yourself quake once more. "The sight of you on your fucking knees... Christ alive." 

You can't help but giggle at your unintended teasing. "It wasn't on purpose, I thought it was cute more than anything." 

"Adorable and naughty, could cum just looking at it." He huffs. 

"You're just flattering me, besides, I could say the same about your picture."

Every part of you flushes thinking of the first photo he sent, all muscle and alpha male—it's like he was the physical embodiment of dominance, and just looking at him makes you want to kneel.

"You like the military get up?" 

"Love it, more than I probably should." 

"Oh aye, bet you'd love for me to order you around?" His words are playful, but underpinned with a hint of promise. "All in due time, eh?" 

"All in due time. What's your rank, anyway?" 

"Sergeant." 

"Wait..." You take a deep breath as you consider your question. "Can I ask for your last name or is it too soon?" 

"Mactavish."

Johnny Mactavish—you should remember to give that a quick Google search later.

"Sergeant Mactavish." You test the name on your tongue, trying to imagine him at work, following and giving orders. 

"Sounds too good when you say it, bonnie." He laughs. 

"Thank you, sergeant." Your affectation of the word is entirely intentional, as you attempt to rile him up with the use of his title. 

The throaty groan that leaves him is addictive.

"What else do you like to be called?" 

"Depends on what you want to call me really, but I like... sir." 

"I like it too, will have to remember that for the future, and just torture you with sergeant in the meantime." You can't help but giggle as you flirt. 

"Oh don't worry, am keeping score." He growls playfully. "Wait til I get ma hands on you, bonnie." 

"You're keeping score?" You gasp, a heady mix of fear and arousal coursing through you almost urges you to be even more of a teasing brat.

"Aye, spanking arm at the ready." 

"My pouting lips are ready." 

"Won't be the only thing you use them lips for."

Fuck fuck fuck. Not that you hadn't thought about it already, hadn't already let your mind drift to what his cock might look like—whether it matches the size of the man—now you're definitely thinking about it. Fixated on it, craving it. 

Some cards are best kept close to your chest so early on, so you change tack and go a different direction with his flirtation. "Yeah, with you in the room, I'd probably be smiling a whole lot." 

The two of you continue to chat, you asking what you can about his work as he asks about yours, and you fill him in on the boring world you live in, which seems especially boring in comparison to taking down cartels and traveling the world.

The conversation never stops being easy, the flirtation and innuendo always right there at the tip of your tongues as you tease each other relentlessly—giving as good as you get. All night, you're practically grinding against your duvet as you get lost in Johnny's dulcet tones, and you find yourself just letting him speak for the sake of getting to hear more of his voice.

As Johnny is about to ask you more about your background, you're overcome with a harsh yawn that you desperately try to stifle. Your eyes have been shut for the last hour at least, but with the command Johnny has over your nervous system right now, it's been easy to stay awake. 

"Tired, bonnie?" He asks, voice laced with sweet concern.

"Yeah..." Your voice falls quiet, as the thought of ending the call makes your throat constrict. "But I don't wanna stop talking." 

"Me either, but av got bad news." 

You know what's coming, and you know it isn't remotely anywhere near the end of the world, despite what your heart is telling you right now. "Go on." 

"I have to go." Even he sounds sad about such an outcome. 

"It's not even that late?" The clock reads 2 am. 

"Gotta get a wee bit of sleep before I hit the gym, and then get off ta work. Don't you have work too?" 

"Work from home tomorrow, so it's not too bad. Not fair though, I wanna keep talking." You admit quietly. It's too much too soon, but you're overwhelmed, the tide of your emotions crashing over the edges.

"Tell yer what. Next time we call, we can try leaving it on while we sleep."

Your heart flips, as you almost whimper at how cute the gesture is. "Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?"

"Obviously." There's that gorgeous laugh again. "Is it working?" 

"Just a little, but that might be the lack of sleep talking, I might be going slightly insane." 

Johnny sighs, and it's clear he's battling to keep a handle on his self-control. "Rest, bonnie, I won't be able to work knowing you're not sleepin'" 

You sigh too, accepting your fate. "Okay, just for you." 

"Just want what's best for you, you need your sleep."  

Your head spins at how utterly sincere he sounds—the care in his voice after such a short amount of time serves to drive you even deeper into this infatuation. "Already?" 

"Can't turn it off, am just protective by nature, bonnie. If you were my girl, you'd have a bedtime." 

And that makes your cunt clench and your heart soar. "Johnny..." You whine.

"Yeah?" 

You hesitate to say what you want to say next, but everything within you is calling out for him, desperate to be in his arms. "Don't make me wait too long to meet you, please." 

His laughter is sweet, conveying a sense of understanding more than anything. "I'll try ma best, supposed to be off on Friday." 

"5 whole days."

"Sure you don't wanna wait a bit longer?" 

You shake your head, mumbling a sound to convey your feelings. "Feels right, don't know how to describe it... do you feel it too?" 

Johnny takes a deep breath, his voice shaking slightly as he speaks. "I do, lass." 

"Good." You couldn't even attempt to fight the idiotic grin on your face, or how warm you feel inside and out. "I'll get some sleep, talk soon." 

"Goodnight, bonnie. Sweet dreams."  

You wait for Johnny to end the call, not wanting to push the button yourself and have his presence fade away. When your screen dims, you resist the urge to text him more, opting instead to put your phone on charge and roll over to Barnaby—wishing it was Johnny instead. 

#john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfic #soap mw2 #this is a crime against literature i swear #also a crime against graphic design #crimes all round??? #anyway posting and pretending this doesnt exist so the self loathing goes away xox #aaaaaaaaaaah #collars and cages

[owliellder]

Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of a Fight, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: Ahh thank you for 1,000 followers!! I don't even know how that happened!! Anyways, I think it's a little anticlimactic? I just feel like since I am definitely not the kind to raise my voice, a shy reader wouldn't either. Besides, disappointment hurts more than anger, right?

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 4:

Leon really did like you, honest. You were such a sweet girl, so innocent and clueless. Maybe it’s because he never gave his one night stands the time of day, or maybe it was just the sheer amount of time he had to spend with you to get this close, but now he knew he was a pretty terrible person for taking that bet

In the beginning he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt due to the words the frat spewed at him. He knew all the right questions to ask, all the right things to say, the sweetness of it all had you under a spell.  It was also such a menial thing to get, a single pair of panties… You probably wouldn’t even know it was missing!

But as time went on, it got harder and harder for Leon to stomach just what he was doing. You’d opened up so much to him about your home life, how stressed you were, how much pressure you were under. Doing this would absolutely ruin you so he did his best to convince himself that he was being the nice one by waiting to complete the bet until you had finished all your finals. All that time spent together had him second guessing, triple guessing, even quadruple guessing his decision to go through with this. The good grades were important to you, he didn’t want to draw your focus away from that.

It was a shame his friends couldn’t keep the damn thing to themselves even if their life depended on it. He’d explicitly told them that it’s done and there was nothing more to it, yet of course they just had to snicker and make snide little comments to each other the next day when they saw you in passing.

Leon wouldn’t admit out loud that you’d really grown on him over the months, so he could only brush his friends off whenever they’d tease him about getting angry whenever the topic arose. Chris was the worst out of all of them, being his best friend, it seemed like his mission was to dance on Leon’s nerves any chance he got.

“Delete that.” A scowl graced Leon’s features as he glared at Chris, who’d stepped back from the agitated man. Almost the entire frat had posed with the panties Leon stole from you, all of them making some form of exaggerated pose and face. What was only meant to be goofy on their part was making the man responsible furious.

“Relax, it’s just a picture. I thought you’d find it funny.” Chris chuckled, bringing his phone back in to look at it again himself. “You’re acting real sour for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re all acting like a bunch of fucking idiots and I’m sick of it. Now delete that damn picture before I smash your phone with a hammer.” The nonchalant attitude from Chris was driving Leon up the wall. He already knew he’d fucked up big time, and with the way everyone was acting would only get him into bigger trouble.

“Shut up, man.” Chris laughed, like this was all some big joke. Everything was a joke to him. “Acting like you’re gonna explode or something.” This man was an actual dumbass, never taking a moment to actually think about what consequences having photo evidence with the entirety of the frat’s members posing with something stolen would have.

Leon scoffed, holding his hands up before letting them fall dramatically to slap against the tops of his thighs. “No fucking way..” One hand came back up to cover his mouth, breathing out sharply through his nose. It was a sad attempt to keep himself from pouncing on the other man, seeing as not barely five seconds later he tackled Chris, hands scrambling to rip the phone from his hand.

Chris was a few inches taller than Leon, a bit stronger too, so the scuffle didn’t last long. Some punches thrown here, a few kicks there, and Leon had the wind knocked out of him at some point, thrown to the side and left to struggle to get up off the floor while Chris decided to make his way to a different part of the house, muttering under his breath all the while.

“God dammit-” Leon wheezed, on his hands and knees, one hand against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Sure he reacted purely on instinct, but Chris could stand to be knocked down a few pegs in his opinion. The guy is an ass.

After finally collecting himself, Leon slowly spun around to rest his back against the foot of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. He coughed a couple times and let his eyes fall closed, eyebrows furrowed as he silently seethed. Chris was most definitely going to send that picture around since he obviously thinks it’s the funniest thing to ever grace this planet. You were going to see the picture. That thought alone had his head falling forward in defeat, breathing out a weak sigh and a few more coughs. 

If he had just followed his own shitty advice, he would’ve taken a second to think about it. Why didn’t he just tell you in the first place? Why didn’t he just go to the store and buy a random pair of panties? Why did he follow through on such a meaningless bet?

Now that Leon thinks about it, he was the dumbass in this scenario. A royal one.

He probably sat there for an hour with his eyes closed, mind racing a million miles a minute. Trying not to make another stupid decision, he decided the best course of action would be to tell you before you saw that picture. You should hear it from him and not a total stranger. It was the right thing to do. Right?

He let out a few more strangled coughs and wheezes as he stood up off the floor and threw his coat on, beginning the walk of shame to your building. It wouldn’t have taken that long, but the snow and sludge on the ground made it a bit more dangerous, he needed to tread carefully. In more ways than one.

The extended walk left him alone with his thoughts, seeing as he didn’t grab his own phone to bring with him. With every step his mind grew heavier, an involuntary grimace scrunching his face up as he mulled over what exactly he’d done. He was mentally beating himself up over how easy it would’ve been to avoid this situation if he’d just thought outside of himself for one singular minute.

What had he done? 

Leon stomped the excess snow off his boots once inside of the dorm building, hands hidden in the pockets of his jackets as he meandered over to the stairs to get up to the second floor where your dorm was. He took his sweet time, practicing what he wanted to say under his breath as he stared down at his feet while walking up the steps.

Your dorm was down the hall around the corner, allowing him the few extra seconds it would take to get there to get his heart under control. You would be mad, rightfully so, but would you forgive him? Is it selfish to hope that you would?

He stood in front of your door for a minute longer, hand hovering just in front of it, trying to bring  himself to knock. Licking his dry lips, he quickly hit the knuckle on his index finger against the door three times, his eyes downturned. As much as he wanted to be the bigger person, it scared him to no end. He’s never cared this much before, so why was he so worried about it now?

Leon’s eyes shot up at the sound of the door opening, immediately showing his confusion when it was Sky on the other side. They didn’t say a word, but they looked mad, or at least very irritated. “Hey, I really need to talk to-,” they cut him off by simply holding up the palm of their hand to him, taking in a deep breath. “We saw it.”

Those three words made his heart drop to his stomach, his eyes quickly darting to look through the opening in the door to see if he could see you. “Please, if you would just let me explain I can-”

“Don’t embarrass yourself. Just go.” Sky was just about to close the door before they quickly looked over their shoulder, shutting the door almost all the way. Leon could hear them whispering to you, and though he desperately wanted to listen in, he decided to take a step back from the door and wait patiently. It was the least he could do.

He looked side to side to make sure no one was walking through the hallways, not wanting anyone to eavesdrop on such a sensitive situation. The door reopened, only this time it was you standing in the doorway. You looked so sad, so disappointed.

Leon hesitated before opening his mouth, yet you cut him off before he could even get a word in. “I trusted you,” you rasped quietly, a shaky sigh passing your lips, “I-.. I trusted you… and this is how you treat me..?” His shoulders slumped as he listened to you. He didn’t think he could feel any worse about this, but here you were, reminding him just how much of an ass he’s been.

“All that time we spent together.. all those kind, encouraging words you told me.. were all a lie?” You sniffled, arms slinking around yourself tightly. Sky was standing out of his view rubbing your back, knowing you wanted, no, needed to confront him yourself.

“No- I-..” Leon stuttered, trying to find the best way to explain everything. And no matter how many times he formulated it in his head, the explanation would never justify his actions. Instead he settled on something that would probably mean and do nothing for you. It was worth saying, though. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry,” his voice fell to a whisper as he repeated himself, eyes remaining on yours. What else could he say?

Silence fell between you as you only stared back at him with glassy eyes, your every breath shaky as you held back sobs. Crying in front of him would only give him more fuel, was your thought process. In your mind, he couldn’t even be trusted with your trash. 

By now, Sky had walked over and grabbed your suitcase, rolling it over next to you. You were leaving a day earlier than you said you would, Sky having offered to drive you back home since your hometown was only a couple hours away from where theirs was.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead taking the handle of your suitcase from your friend before silently walking out of the room, past Leon, and down around the corner. He only stood and watched you walk off with a deep frown, head turning back to look at Sky when he heard them lock the door behind themself. 

“You’re only sorry that you got caught.” They grumbled as they walked past him, giving him a quick yet harsh glare. They soon disappeared around the same corner you had, leaving him all alone in the now quiet hallway. 

You were the nicest, most considerate person he’s ever had the pleasure to know and he blew it. The worst part about it all was you didn’t even seem mad, just heartbroken. Disappointed in him.

You had put so much of your trust into him, even after he’d been so nasty towards you in the beginning, and what did he do with it? He basically spit on it, lit it on fire, and then flushed the remnants. He was only annoyed with you the first few times he had to help you study, the bickering the two of you shared easily becoming one of the things he liked about you.

Leon honestly liked you from the start, so determined to pass a class that you’d put up with what was basically harassment from him. When he told his frat buddies about you, they were quick to draw up that bet. Unfortunately, he’d known most of these guys since middle school, and you were just a girl he met on chance. His friends’ words blanketed his own morals, and because they saw you as a target, so did he, that subconscious need for peer approval leading him to make one of the worst decisions he’s ever made thus far.

If he was in your shoes, he’d raise hell, so your decision to leave was completely understandable. For some reason you’d let him off easy and he knew he didn’t deserve such light treatment. 

All he could do now was hope you’d come back next semester. He’d be fine just getting to see you in passing since you most likely wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him anymore, your friends would certainly keep him at a distance away from you. 

Would writing a message be okay? You need time before he approaches the topic with you. Should he leave you be? No, you deserve an apology, even if you don’t want it, nor accept it. 

Someone brushed by Leon, breaking his train of thought. He was still standing in the hallway in front of your dorm room. He needed to go and try to make this right, or at the very least rip everyone at the frat a new one. He wasn’t sure, maybe it was because he was angry at them and himself, but leaving the frat sounded like a pretty good way to start righting his wrongs. Not before he made sure that the picture was wiped from everyone’s phone and the panties he stole were kept far away from everyone there. 

Chris sent the picture to you, which means it was sent to a bunch of other people too. He’ll spend all winter break tracking down every last person it was sent to, tell professors what he’d done just so it didn’t spread any further. And if it meant he’d lose his scholarship, then so be it.

tags:

@kayotee4 @k-fallingstar @bobastayhigh @mi-zer-y @chasingkennedy @l30nva @espressonerd @jjouki @5tarx @bunnybreadloaves @whoisgami @cyanscribe @c4b3r1a @darichvep @mmmangel @kingtacocat @klee-iii @baby--vera @dakiniii @kenma-izhu @aliidarling @leonsmamacita @deadghxsty @nekoheist @dumbassmortal @cassiecasluciluce @iovewilliams @maeplayscello @deddiemunsonsblog @paranoid-but-android @mariesmain @tteokhwaa @bonnibuckets @eilonwykennedy @1dk-anym0r3 @papatyacikcik @animesnowstorm @lexi-zsy09 @mylifedoesntexist @ifeellikedying @yourmommylol04 @ravioli19 @dakiniii @papichulo120627

(few of your blogs won't work, i tried though 😭)

#college au my beloved #resident evil #bully leon #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x fem!reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #leon kennedy fic #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x y/n #leon scott kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy #multichapter #multi chap fic #re4 #re4 leon #resident evil leon

[gimmethatagustd]

definitely today, satan | knj

After having a strange dream about your hot neighbor, you realize it might be time to finally make your move. Dreams are a sign from the universe, right?

○ Pairing: DILF/Neighbor!Namjoon x f!Reader

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Neighbors to lovers, smut, crack

○ 11 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Neighbor)

○ Word Count: 1,076

○ Warnings: It's corny and horribly written and I don't know what the fuck came over me when I wrote any of these fics, cunnilingus (Namjoon eating it from behind while MC wears a skirt, god bless), nipple play, vaginal fingering, I have a really bad sense humor, reference to NSYNC fanfic

○ Notes: This fic was written for @mapleleaf000 for my "part 2 when?" follower milestone game. It's actually part 3 of what has turned into a mini-series about the "Demon DMV" LOL. The links for the other parts are below. For those of you who haven't read "Not Today, Satan," you don't have to read parts 1 and 2 to understand this fic, but I highly recommend it, or else this won't be as funny. Also, yes, there is NSYNC fic on AO3. In case you were curious. 💀

○ Post Date: March 12, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost

○ What was Jai listening to? Dangerous - TEN

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

Honestly, sometimes your ability to pull hot men shocks you. It doesn’t only happen at night when you’re weirdly dreaming about your hot, daddy-dom neighbor being Satan, tempting you with his sexy biceps and boobs. You’re actually here, in his apartment, sitting on said hot, daddy-dom neighbor’s thick thighs as he sucks on your throat and squeezes your tits. 

Namjoon is even hotter in real life than he was as Satan in your dreams, though you can’t help but think about your dream while he’s pulling off your shirt to trail kisses across your collarbones and reaching around you to unclasp your bra. 

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” Namjoon moans against your chest as he drags his tongue across one of your nipples, flicking it repeatedly until it’s hard and soaked with his spit. His tongue isn’t pointy and forked like it had been in your dream, but that’s fine!

“Not as sexy as you,” you insist with your fingers threaded through his hair. 

Namjoon’s hair is short and bleached with highlights, and you think he’s probably the only person in the twenty-first century who can pull off bleached tips without looking like Lance from NSYNC. 

Is there any NSYNC fanfiction on AO3? If there is, it’s probably Lance/Justin. 

Not to kink-shame anyone, but ew. 

You’re pulled from your distracting thoughts by Namjoon grabbing your ass and helping you grind against the bulge in his pants. He’s still wearing his slacks, having just come home from work. You were supposed to go on a dinner date since his daughter is staying with her mother over the weekend. 

As a respectful father (hot), Namjoon has avoided mixing his dating life with his family life. It’s what’s best for now since the two of you are still getting to know each other. Only recently did your dreams of Purgatory and Hell push you to ask Namjoon out. It makes sense that he wants to take things slow with introducing you into his daughter’s life. 

You’re definitely not taking things slow in other areas of your dating life, though. 

“Is it weird if I say that I dreamt about this?” you ask when Namjoon hooks his arms around your thighs and carries you out of the living room. His strength is impressive, even if his bedroom isn’t far from where you’d been. 

“Not at all. I’ve dreamt about you, too.” 

Namjoon seems shy when he confesses, but you suppose it actually is kind of weird, and the two of you are probably just weird together. Which is nice. Sexy or not, you wouldn’t be able to vibe with Namjoon if he couldn’t keep up with your weirdness. 

“Oh, did you?” you purr as Namjoon reaches under your miniskirt to pull your thong down your legs. 

“Mhm,” he hums against your neck when he hovers over you, slotting himself between your legs so he can grind his thigh against your exposed pussy. 

One of the buttons on his white work shirt catches on your nipple. The rough drag makes your body shiver with goosebumps. When you try to unbutton his shirt, he grabs your hand and pins it to the bed above your head. 

“Keep it on,” Namjoon whispers in your ear. 

His breath is hot against your face, and his voice is deep and scratchy. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine something darker in his tone, something demonic. It’s so hot you feel your pussy throb and slick up even more. When Namjoon pulls away, there’s a dark spot on his pants from how wet you are. 

“Can I eat you out?” Namjoon’s request is more like a plea, a hopeful lilt to his voice when he speaks. He runs his palms up your thighs to push your miniskirt further up your waist to expose more of your body.

“You don’t even have to ask a question like that.” 

“From behind?” 

“Fuck, yeah, oh my god.” You throw your head back with a dramatic groan before rolling onto your stomach and transitioning to resting on your forearms and knees. “Please, I didn’t even get to the fucking in my dream about you, so I need this.” 

Squeezing your asscheeks, Namjoon pulls you apart and uses his leg to push your knees apart more to open you. 

“I definitely got to the fucking part in mine,” Namjoon says with a chuckle as he runs his thumb over your pussy, first gathering your arousal from where it leaks at your entrance and gliding it up to wet your clit even more. 

“What,” you swallow the drool you’re afraid might come out of you when Namjoon picks up the pace, “What was your dream like?” 

“I don’t know if I should tell you. It was weird.” 

He circles your clit, occasionally thumbing at it with gentle flicks at the tip that makes your legs shake. When you start kicking your foot and moaning louder, he finally brings his mouth down to where you throb for him. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan against Namjoon’s bed sheets. 

You’ve got your face pressed into the bed because you can’t keep your head up as he fucks his tongue in you while he rubs your clit with his slick fingers. He moans against your pussy when he switches positions so he’s fingering you while he laps at your clit. His movements are languid, which drives you even crazier than if he’d been fingerfucking you hard enough to make your ass jiggle.

“Good?” he murmurs with his lips slick and his fingers still massaging your walls.

“So good, god, your lips are so perfect, fuck,” you moan and push back against his face. “Tell me your dream. Was it like this?”

Namjoon kisses your clit before bringing his other hand to rub it while he still fingers you. Leaning back on his knees, Namjoon increases the speed of his movements as he admits, “You were the Devil, and I fucked you so good that you kept me as a pet.” 

“I WHAT?” 

You turn around to stare at Namjoon with wide eyes and an inability to say anything more as your orgasm rips a whiny moan out of you, legs shaking and threatening to collapse. Namjoon wraps his arm around your waist and keeps rubbing your clit until you wiggle away from him when you grow too sensitive. 

Namjoon wipes his messy fingers on your thigh and shrugs. 

“I told you it was a weird dream.”

Join the 100 Drabble Challenge taglist.

@jooniesxbby @seokteoksworld @taegeum @dprmoon @chimmisbae @yoonminkookk @joonsmagicshop @shameless-army

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories. 

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd​ - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd & daddytaehyungie).

#namjoon x reader #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #bts x reader #namjoon smut #bts smut #dts #100 drabble challenge #part 2 when?

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 1)

—

Tw: one instance of canon-typical violence (DC), vivisection mention

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Prologue) - (Pt. 2)

(Subscription post/masterlist)

—

Danny has been working for Mr. Cobblepot for over a month now.

The first few weeks he was in the Penguin’s company, he couldn’t do much of anything. Instead, Mr. Cobblepot made sure that he was well-rested and beginning to recover.

Danny cried a lot in the first week that he was there.

He cried when he ate for the first time in years; the GiW had kept him on IVs and a feeding tube, so they wouldn’t have to move him from his surgical table.

He cried when he was given his own room to stay in, when he was brought clothes to wear, when he was given a bodyguard to protect him.

He cried when Mr. Cobblepot’s doctors told him that the damage to his vocal chords was likely permanent, and that he would never sound the same again. That he would find it hard to speak at any volume above a whisper.

Apparently, he had a lot more damage to him than he had thought.

The doctors said that the scarring in his brain stem suggested his entire brain had been removed and had regrown. Danny couldn’t really disprove that, and it did line up with a pretty substantial gap in his memory, but if that was the case then why couldn’t his voice recover too?

The scarring and incredibly new tissue that showed up in scans of several other parts of his body suggested that the GiW had done the same thing with most of his organs, as well as a few limbs, and all of the fingers on his right hand.

Danny could remember that. He just didn’t want to.

Perhaps it was the feeling of pity that kept Mr. Cobblepot so understanding of Danny’s slow recovery. That didn’t really matter much, though; Danny’s energy was focused on keeping his place here, ensuring that Mr. Cobblepot didn’t decide he was no longer worth the effort.

As it turned out, there was an easy enough solution to that.

Danny was the only one who knew how to properly operate and modify the weapons and inventions stolen from the GiW.

And so, Danny had a niche he could occupy. He could be useful, useful enough that Mr. Cobblepot couldn’t get rid of him, even if he wanted to.

And, as it turns out, Danny remembered quite a lot of the theories he heard while he was on the cutting board.

As soon as he had enough muscle control of his arms to do so, he was working away at the machinery created by the GiW and his parents.

No, not his parents.

Doctors Madeleine and Jack Fenton.

Regardless of their creators, he was able to understand them quite intimately.

Maybe it was because the ectoplasm flowing through the weaponry was his own, maybe it was because he had nothing to listen to for three years other than the excited chatter of his vivisectionists as they cut him open. Maybe it was because they were both simple weaponry without a purpose.

Danny found working on the machines soothing in a way that nothing else was.

The smell of oil and grease, the sounds of mechanical clanking and metal joints squealing, the feeling of cold steel beneath his fingertips.

The first thing he did to the machines was replacing the paint, from shiny white to a matte black. That way, they were recognizable as his own modified creations.

It was only a bonus that he didn’t catch his reflection in the metal surfaces this way.

Still, his reflection was starting to become more familiar to him. It was still strangely off-putting to see, but his face was beginning to plump out from consistent eating, and his skin was beginning to lose its unhealthy pale tone, going back to a more natural pinkish color.

His eyes still looked devoid of life, but that could be ignored as long as he didn’t look at himself for too long.

Danny sighed, leaning back in his chair as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was working on modifying the ectoblasters so that they could properly hit humans, as per Mr. Cobblepot’s orders.

He probably should feel some sort of moral conflict over it, but really, Danny couldn’t find it in him to care. Maybe it was some sort of deep internal flaw, or maybe it was because he knew that they wouldn’t be shot at anyone without blood on their hands. Either way, he didn’t have any qualms with what he was doing.

As Danny reconnected the circuitry within the gun, the indicator lights on the side of the muzzle blinked to life, a familiar neon green.

Danny would have to change that color too, he thought. Maybe red would be nice instead, or an icy blue?

He was pulled from his thoughts by the door to his temporary workshop opening. Danny looked up, and smiled when he saw that his bodyguard was the one standing in the doorway.

The man, known only as Derringer, was 6’2”, built like a tank, and known for his love of unusual firearms. He was also a big fan of card games, and had been teaching Danny how to play Blackjack during their meals.

He gently closed the door behind him, strolling into the workshop.

Danny hopped out of his seat, hugging the man tightly. Derringer laughed, patting Danny on the back as he clung to him like a koala.

“Good to see you too, kid,” the man said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, “you just about done in here?”

Danny nodded, letting go of the bodyguard. He picked up the gun on the desk, handing it to Derringer, and pointed to the target resting in the far corner of the room.

Derringer glanced down at Danny, shrugging before aiming the gun.

He pulled the trigger, and a large scorch mark appeared in the center of the target.

Derringer whistled appreciatively, walking over to inspect the damage.

There was a deep dent in the center of the metal target, around an inch in diameter, and a large scorch mark surrounding it. The metal of the dent was white-hot, and the area around it was somewhat warped.

“That’s real nice, kid,” Derringer said, “don’t know how you do it.”

Danny grinned, baring his teeth at the man. He smiled back, ruffling his hair.

“The boss is gonna go forward with the Arkham raid soon, so long as your guns are ready,” he said, “he’s eager to try them out for real. You think you’re up to talking to him?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, nodding to the man.

“Good,” Derringer signed back.

Mr. Cobblepot, not wanting Danny to be limited in his speech by the damage to his vocal chords, had ensured that all of the people who interacted with him knew at least the basics of ASL.

When he wasn’t working on the ectoblasters, Danny was practicing his ASL with a dedicated tutor, or with Derringer, who learned the language when his mother had gone deaf.

“Can I eat first?” Danny signed, “I forgot to.”

“You forgot, or you didn’t want to leave your work?” Derringer asked, signing as he spoke, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, “and yeah, the boss wants to talk to you in thirty minutes. You’ve got plenty of time before then.”

“Thank you,” Danny signed, “let’s go.”

“Hey, just a sec,” Derringer said. His face had dropped into something unusually serious.

Danny nodded, tilting his head as he signed a quick “what’s wrong?”

“You’re a good kid. Even after what you’ve been through, you’re…you’re a really sweet kid,” Derringer said, looking away. “But you…you can’t keep being sweet to everyone. You gotta act tough, alright?”

“Why?”

“You just…” Derringer sighed, combing a hand through his thick, curly hair, “a lot of the guys think that you’re too weak to be here. They’re calling you the Penguin’s pet project, and the problem is that they’re not really wrong. You gotta be scarier to survive, alright? Gotham’ll eat you alive if you don’t. Just make up a persona and roll with it.”

Danny nodded slowly, processing his words for a moment.

“Like a mask?”

Derringer laughed, a bittersweet smile on his face.

“Yeah, like a mask. Just don’t start fighting crime while you’re at it.”

“Okay,” Danny signed, his movements slow. “I can do that.”

“Good on you, kid,” Derringer said, ruffling his hair once more, “now let’s go get lunch.”

The two of them ate quickly, Danny’s mind on Derringer’s advice the entire time.

He was right, and Danny knew it. He’d seen the way that some of Mr. Cobblepot’s men had looked at him.

He wasn’t anywhere near big enough to pull off the looming intimidating look that Derringer did; his doctors back in Amity had told him that he would grow to be over six foot, but his time in the GiW seemed to have stunted his growth significantly. He was only around 5’6”, and it seemed that he was going to stay that way.

In the same way, he wasn’t nearly frightening looking enough to pull off the terrifying stares of the smaller individuals working under Mr. Cobblepot. He just couldn’t get the glare right; his face would always fall back to a blank, dead stare.

Though, maybe if he played into that…

A few minutes before they had to leave, Danny excused himself to go to the restroom. He stared into the mirror, looking into his cold, dead eyes, and let his face drop.

When he adjusted his stance, and kept his eyes a bit wider than usual, he looked downright unnerving.

Danny had already noticed that most of his mannerisms were…unusual, after his stay at the GiW base. Put simply, he had forgotten what it was like to be a human.

He had noticed that most of the people around him would avoid being in his presence, and had begun mirroring their body language as much as he could to seem more normal.

Maybe, though, it would be better for him not to.

He could lean into the whole thing. An unstable young adult, experimented on by the government for years.

Danny looked into the mirror, and wide, icy eyes stared back at him.

Danny left the restroom. Derringer turned to greet him, jolting when he did. After a moment, he nodded.

“That your new look?”

“Yes. Is it good?”

“Yeah. Freaky. Gonna take some getting used to, but yeah. Now,” he said, getting up from his spot at the break room table, “let’s go see the boss.”

Danny felt anxiety bubbling up in his chest, his entire body beginning to twitch. If Mr. Cobblepot didn’t approve of the weaponry, or if he thought they were underwhelming, would he be thrown out? Would he be tortured again, or killed?

Danny shivered when they came to a stop in front of the door to Mr. Cobblepot’s office. Failure wasn’t an option. He had to make sure this went well.

“You’ll do great, kid,” Derringer whispered, pushing the door open.

Mr. Cobblepot had been talking with a few other people, but their conversation died out when Danny and Derringer entered the room. Danny’s skin crawled.

“Ah, Danny! Just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Cobblepot said, a large smile on his face, “Do you have one of your guns with you?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, nodding.

“Wonderful. I was just telling my associates here about your work. Do you mind giving a demonstration?”

“Where should I shoot? Do you have a target?”

Derringer was quick to translate. Mr. Cobblepot nodded, gesturing for a hired hand in the corner of the room to pull out a small wooden board, holding it up in the air.

Danny paled. He would definitely burn the man’s hands if he hit the target, even if he aimed for the furthest corner of the board.

Still, he was more terrified of disappointing Mr. Cobblepot than he was empathetic towards the man, so he drew a blaster from the holster on his leg and aimed carefully.

The blast hit the center of the board. The man holding it howled in pain, dropping the target and drawing his hand close to his chest. The nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Danny breathed shakily, in and out.

Mr. Cobblepot, for what it was worth, looked like he couldn’t possibly be happier. He and the others inspected the board on the ground closely, ignoring the hired hand as he ran out of the room, still cradling his damaged hand.

A large hole had been blown into the board, and a good portion of it had been incinerated.

“Look at that, ladies and gentlemen! I told you that Danny would deliver, and deliver he did! Imagine if that had been a person instead! Danny, what would you say would happen?”

Danny paused, trying to wince when he realized that the question wasn’t hypothetical, and Mr. Cobblepot actually wanted an answer.

“It would give them S-E-V-E-R-E burns,” Danny finger spelled the word that he didn’t know the proper sign for, “mostly S-U-R-F-A-C-E. It can’t P-E-I-R-C-E, because there is no bullet, just energy.”

Derringer translated for him.

Mr. Cobblepot frowned, and Danny frantically continued, “but it can be L-E-T-H-A-L! Burns on the head kill fast. Burns on the body make S-H-O-C-K, and kill. Strong I-M-P-A-C-T, too.”

“So they do still kill, just not instantly?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, “they’re fast. They hurt bad. Bad way to die, hurts a lot.”

“Well,” one of the other men in the room piped up, “I guess he’s not completely hopeless.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Mr. Cobblepot replied, fixing a terrifying glare onto the man, “it was my idea to bring him in, after all.”

“Danny,” Mr. Cobblepot said, turning his attention back to him, “we’re going to be collaborating with these fine individuals in the future. I’m going to need twenty guns ready for use in a week. You can handle that, can’t you?”

Danny nodded frantically.

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Cobblepot said, waving his hand dismissively, “semi-automatic is preferable, but handguns and shotguns also work. Just make sure they work perfectly.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Well, that’s all. You can leave now, and I’ll finish discussing the details with my associates.”

Danny nodded, signing him a quick “thank you, goodbye,” and slipped out of the room alongside Derringer.

They made their way back to Danny’s workshop in silence. Once they were inside, Derringer heaved a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his hair.

“You really think you can make that many guns that quickly, kid?”

“Yes,” Danny replied, “but I need your help.”

Derringer groaned, a smile on his face.

“Of course you’re putting me to work. I should’ve expected it. Now, what do you need me to do?”

“Well, first, hold this…”

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #vengeful danny #villain danny #btw Derringer is named after a type of gun #dw he isn’t the focus forever #I just felt like Danny could use like. a single person who isn’t trying to manipulate him #also I think he would get along very well with the goons :) #aside from. yknow. the whole target thing HDJDNDND #also there IS a lore related reason that his vocal chords can’t recover but the rest of his body can #you just gotta wait to see what it is >:3 #anyways. Arkham time next chapter #Awwawaw

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader- Offscreen)

Sanji reaches out to Zeff for the first time in years.

I wrote this many, many months ago now, and it was the first fic i posted anonymously on AO3. I got a few requests after it was originally posted to write a second part, which I eventually did!

You can read Part 2 here! Original AO3 link

(I figured I should let my blog breathe a little in between the really heavy and emotional Law fic im writing, and what better way to cool down than some sanji fluff <3)

A sharp squawk awoke Red-Leg Zeff from his daze. With a grumpy expression and a low grunt, he peered towards the direction of the sound.

A messenger coo was seated on the railing of the Baratie's upper deck next to where Zeff stood slouched over with his forearms leaning against the wooden support. It cocked its head to the side as if it was deconstructing Zeff's appearance before reaching into its pouch and procuring a parchment envelope. Zeff found it strange. Messenger coos only usually delivered the newspapers or the latest bounty reports, very rarely were they put in charge of personalized letters. It must have been paid off by whoever wanted this delivered.

The gruff man took the parchment from the beak of the bird and watched as it took back off into the air, leaving a few molted white feathers behind in its wake. He looked at the envelope.

All it said on the front, in very elegant handwriting, was "Captain Zeff." He flipped the paper around, revealing a wax stamp holding the opening down, which he peeled off with a calloused thumb.

Tucked neatly inside the envelope was a white piece of paper, tri-folded over itself. Zeff slipped the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the written contents of the letter. The penmanship was impeccable, and the ink was very sleek. He knew immediately it was from Sanji, not many other pirates had handwriting as good as his. He had completely lost track of how many years it had been since the curly-browed boy left with that ragtag group of pirates to sail to the Grand Line, but Zeff had every single one of his bounty posters. He'd never admit it, but they were tacked up on the wall of his sleeping quarters. Every time Sanji's bounty increased, Zeff felt pride swell in his heart.

"How are you doing, you old geezer. It's been a little too long since we've had any contact, so I thought I'd write to you just to see how you've been. You're no slouch, I'm sure you've been keeping up with the world's events over the past however-many years. Do the Marines even bother to keep sending our bounty posters to the Baratie anymore? Well, regardless, I'm sure you can read right through me. I can't deny it, I miss you, old man. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, and such a huge part of that is thanks to you and the guys back on that old cruiser. Every recipe I try to make, I imagine you screaming in my ear and telling me that it tastes like shit. Some days I really wish I could be back there, but most of the time I'm joyful. Life has been really, really good. A few years ago, I met someone. Last year, we got married, and soon after our lives changed so drastically. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, and she's as sweet as an angel. I mean it, too. I know you'd probably think something along the lines of me playing up my affections again just because she's a pretty woman, but I mean it. You'd love her, Zeff. Living as a pirate is the most stressful thing anyone could ever do, but she makes every day worth it. The crew was discussing the possibility of returning to the East Blue a bit ago, and when we do, I'm going to introduce you to her. I've spent the last years talking all about you, how you taught me everything I know about cooking, and I can tell she's just as excited as I am to finally see you. This letter's gone on long enough and I don't want to use up all of Nami's paper.

-- Sanji"

Zeff felt a lump in the back of his throat. Sanji had grown into such a fine young man, eloquent with his words and his feelings. He knew how big of a deal it was for the boy to be so honest and open. But one thing in the letter caught him off guard. What did he mean by, "Soon after our lives changed drastically."?

Zeff peered into the envelope, where another, smaller envelope was tucked inside. He almost didn't see it. Pulling it out, he held the letter and original envelope in between his fingers while he opened the second. Sanji was thorough with his packaging, that's for sure.

Inside, there were three photographs printed on thin, matted paper. The first was of Sanji and you, the wife he wrote about in his letter, taken by someone else holding the camera. Sanji had his arm around you, holding you against him, and you had your face nuzzled into his neck. His other hand held a cigarette away from the two of you, like he was in the middle of telling a story. The two of you were smiling brighter than the sun, Sanji's eyes completely closed with the motion of laughter, and yours creased, your irises looking up towards him.

The second photo made Zeff's eyes water. A photo of you and Sanji on the deck of the Sunny, exchanging rings. Sanji was wearing a sleek navy blue tuxedo, while you were wearing a gorgeous white ballgown. For pirates, you cleaned up phenomenally. He could just make out tears in Sanji's eyes as the photo displayed you sliding a band onto his finger. A skeleton with poofy hair stood between the two of you, which Zeff found a little odd, but he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Zeff flipped to the last photo.

The tears that were welling in his eyes from the previous image finally slid down his cheeks in heavy, salty droplets. His lip quivered.

Sanji sat in a chair, beaming down at a bundle of cloth held gently in his arm. He was crying in this photo as well, and was reaching a finger over the top of the bundle, where a smaller hand was reaching outwards to grab onto it. A small glimpse of blonde hair could be made out from under the cloth securing the baby tightly. On the back of the film, Sanji wrote the birth date and the name of the baby.

Zeff used a sleeve to wipe his blubbering eyes. His lips quivered, but he couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face.

Was he allowed to call himself a grandfather now? He figured it was only appropriate.

#fem reader #reader insert #x reader #one piece x reader #op x reader #sanji x reader #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #special delivery

[spacedace]

Reluctant War AU Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Everything I know about Flash and the FlashFam (& Flash enemies) comes from fandom and theflashmuseum on tiktok so fair warning on that lol

Sorry if Barry is out of character or things don't line up with canon. Canon is a stranger I think I passed in a crowded room once, I did not ask for its number lol

Anyway, time to touch a bit more on that whole Ancient of the Speedforce Elle thing yeah? Here be a sprinkle more of that and I promise there's more to come haha

Gonna start posting this on Ao3 soon, probably Monday or Tuesday, so heads up I may stop adding these parts here on tumblr once I do

---

It lived beneath his skin.

For a long time Barry had never believed in magic. His world was grounded, scientific, made of predictable rules and laws. Tools that could be used to explain everything strange or supernatural away as just another odd twist of the massive universe they all belonged to.

It took perhaps a little longer than it should have to admit that magic was as real as thermodynamics and gravity and atoms. That the world was a great deal stranger than even science - for all its own wildness at times - could account for. There were things that went bump in the night. Hells below and heavens above and things that crawled and clawed their way out from the places in between.

It was almost a little embarrassing how long it had taken him to admit to such things, when considering his relationship with the Speedforce.

A force of the universe. Like gravity or time, pushing and pulling everything along. Something that could be explained with all the familiar scientific concepts that had buoyed him along in life for so long.

Except.

Except.

Buzzing, burning, blistering. Not painful but felt. Making his hair stand on end, his fingers tingle and numb. Sliding against his veins, bouncing between scar tissue and freckles. Pressing out from the confines of his sternum, rattling against his rib cage as it shifted and moved. Twining around each and every vertebrae. Coiling over and under itself within his skull, darting along the paths of his neurons and nerves. It hummed in every cell in his body. Darted and danced in the space between the atoms that made up his very existence.

The Speedforce lived beneath his skin.

Lived.

Not existed. Not contained. Lived.

He couched it in terms of science, but science - despite his long time refusal to acknowledge it - wasn’t really able to explain the full scope of what he could feel. Not just the power of the Speedforce, but the…the identity of it. The living part that made it’s home in his body, existing in a way that was separate from him. Distant and indistinct most of the time, but…sentient.

He could feel it. Warm and excitable, delighting every time he tapped into it. Pushing him from behind urging him on and on, tugging him forward from ahead beckoning to go, faster, faster. Joyful in his victories, despairing in his loses.

It lived beneath his skin.

Until it didn’t.

He followed its joyful calls, pushed beyond what he should, what he knew was safe. Chasing that welcoming chant of faster, faster until he was there. In the Speedforce. More even, was the Speedforce.

He was everywhere. Beyond everywhere. In every possible everywhere it was possible to be. Every world, every universe, every multiverse.

To enter the Speedforce, to merge with it, was to become part of existence itself.

He couldn’t remember everything about it once he came back. He got flashes, sometimes, quick moments in dreams of places, of moments. What stuck with him most had been the feeling of it all. That had been the hardest part of returning. The sense of terrible loss, of having been surrounded by such a giddy, delighted, devoted love only to be pulled back from the heart of it. Returned to how he had been before, drifting at the edge of it all, it had been painful, agonizing even.

He…adapted, eventually. The sense of it all was still there, just distant. Something he’d come to feel he’d see again, someday.

It had been different, recently.

His powers were the same, he just as fast as ever, but…there was something…off. Changed. A sense that while his speed remained, the Speedforce had become, for lack of a better word, quiet. Distant.

He’d been having dreams, since it started. Not the quick glimpses of his time where he’d merged with the Speedforce. No, instead they were more nightmarish. Not nightmares exactly, though he felt like they should be with what they contained, but something else. Something that felt unnervingly real, left him confused and reeling when he woke with the certainty that when he opened his eyes he’d see the same as what his dreams held.

In the dream, he was in a room.

Cement and metal, hostile and brutalistic in design. He was bound in place, standing upright with feet and hands spread wide and locked in place within strange devices. Gleaming chrome and brilliant green, a painful thrum of energy surging through his body - not the Speedforce, something else, deeply unpleasant pulsing through every cell of his being and freezing him in place more firmly then the restraints did. Projectors hung from the ceiling, displaying images of landscapes, changing every ten second or so.

The sight of them made him nauseous, body shivering and spasming with the burning, agonizing need to go, but at the same time there was something distantly soothed by them too. Like a gnawing hunger abated with water and crumbs. The need for food not gone but the pangs diminished by the false feeling of being full.

In the dream he felt like he was dying.

In the dream he was afraid that maybe he couldn’t.

That he’d be trapped alive in that state forever, watching places he’d never see in person again as he was trapped in one place. His mind spiraling his Core splintering under the weight of it all, scared so scared. He wanted his brother, wanted to see the cement walls explode into dust and debris and see him there, ready to save the day like he had so many times before.

He just had to wait. His brother was looking for him, would have everyone in the Realms looking for him. He just had to hold on.

Barry didn’t have a brother. He only remembered when he woke, heart hammering in his chest fast even by his own standards, mouth tasting of bile and body aching with the need to go.

He hadn’t been sleeping much these days, even before the King of the Dead declared war.

It was having its effects, as sleep deprivation always did. His mind drifting, catching again and again on the dream, attention far away from the world around him. How many times had he been startled by someone calling his name, touching his arm? How many times had they given him a pinched, worried look that told him they’d been trying to reach him for longer than they should have before he noticed.

He was aware, distantly, of the glowering, stern faces around him. The flinty looks of his friends’ and partners’ eyes as they stared at the image of Waller’s scowling mug.

She’d declined an in-person meeting, hunkering down in some bunker somewhere trying to avoid the consequences of her latest atrocities. Or maybe just trying to avoid the very real possibility that one of the members of JL Dark might try to kill her for what she’s caused.

Or JL light, for that matter.

Bruce and Clark had their rules that they lived by, but Diana certainly wouldn’t hesitate to splatter Waller’s brains across the nearest available wall. In reviewing footage of one of the last battles - she’d been at the other one at the time, trying to contend with a ghost in the shape of an ethereal dragon - she’d recognized the spectral figures of Amazons long dead, fierce even in death as they fought with a warrior’s pride along side the rest of Phantom’s armies. They followed a figure that towered even above the Amazons, four arms and gleaming armor and a name that Barry associated with ruin and forgotten hope but who was so much more to Diana. Heroes long departed to the fields of Elysium, stepping out of their well earned rest to fight once more.

A few hadn’t survived the weapons the GIW shot them with. Barry didn’t know what that meant, for a ghost to die. If they simply returned to their afterlife or -

He tried not to think about the or.

They’d been going back and forth for awhile now. Voices faraway, muffled. The world felt as if it was underwater, blurred and cold. Clark had gotten to his feet at some point, Waller’s grip on a pen so tight on the screen he expected to see if burst at any moment. It was an important meeting, an important discussion. One he needed to be apart of, aware of, but it all escaped him. Sand held too tightly, slipping through his fingers. On the screen, Waller hit a button on the computer beside her and the image changed.

The world burned back to life in sharp relief.

The dream.

The room.

Cold cement. Projections of unreachable places on the walls. Chrome and green machinery in a configuration meant to contain.

It looked larger on the screen.

Maybe it was how small the figure held prisoner inside it was.

She was young. A child, no older than Superboy Jr. or Robin. She looked like Phantom - her father - but there were differences. Her hair was white, but it didn’t look like the spun starlight of her father’s. Instead it burned, the bright hot crackling of the plasma of a lighting bolt striking. Skin the blur of shapes caught just at the corner of the eye as you ran past, Eyes -

Looking at him.

The image had come up, a live feed - he knew it was live, knew he was looking at her where she was at that exact moment - and she’d been as he was every time he tried to sleep. Trembling and shuttering, eyes squinting against the pain, trying to stay open so as not to miss a single moment of the flat images imposed on blank cement walls. Desperate to fill the fathomless hunger burning deep down in the Core of her.

But then a shuttering breath and her eyes - the burning green of an afterimage - snapped up to the camera. Snapped up to look at him, recognition in her young face. And despite never having seen this girl before, he recognized her too.

The Speedforce lived beneath his skin.

She lived beneath his skin.

He could feel her there. Buzzing, burning, blistering. Not painful, but felt.

Not as felt as she used to be.

The image snapped back to Waller’s face, smug and self-satisfied. Talking - lying - about the how the girl was there, what the GIW’s intentions for her were. Barry was on his feet, but so was everyone else. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, could only hear static, the rush of wind, the crack of the lightning bolt. A call for help.

It was then that the alarms began to blare. On the screen someone rushed in to whisper into Waller’s ear. Bruce was running out of the room towards the Zeta tubes and Barry was right there with him and there was so much chaos around them, men in white and Gothamites and Ghosts banding together to rain terror down upon them and something massive and horrible and living towering above it all and Barry let go of that last bits of logic and thought.

Instinct, older than he was. The echo of a voice that had called him for years now, carrying him along, biding him forward:

Run.

Someone might have shouted after him as he left Gotham behind. He didn’t know.

All he knew was the pounding of his feet upon the ground, the wind in his face, the Speedforce lashing and frantic and hopeful burning and sizzling beneath his skin. Calling him further and further away until he stood in a vast, empty field staring at a single, rusted shack near ready to collapse before him.

He wasn’t alone.

Wally. Bart. Max. More still. Not just his family and friends. Eobard. Hunter. Thaddeus. Everyone touched by the Speedforce.

They didn’t speak. Bodies humming and thrumming, crackling with energy and intent.

Minds as one, they focused on the shed, the hidden hatch inside, the base hidden deep below.

The Speedforce lived beneath their skin, and no one was going to steal it away from them.

#dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #barry allen #justice league #flashfam #dani phantom #danielle phantom #elle phantom #ancient of the speedforce elle #ever onward elle #amanda waller #eldritch speedforce #kinda #unsettling speedforce at the very least #cut to 20 minutes later to all of the speedsters & Elle at a waffle house having the world's most awkward family reunion #Dick gets a call from his bank about his card being used to buy several thousand dollars worth of breakfast food in another state #& immediate calls Wally like #Dick: YOU TOOK OFF IN THE MIDDLE OF A FULL ON WAR IN GOTHAM TO GO GET WAFFLES? #(because of course he gave Wally his card - he's bought Wally a god damn expensive ass apartment they're basically married) #Dick: I THOUGHT YOU WERE BEING MIND CONTROLLED #Wally: ....sorta? But like...in a good way? #Dick: How can there POSSIBLY be a good way of being mind controlled?! #Wally: you know what actually I'm gonna make our new mom explain this one #Dick: ...WHAT DOES THAT *MEAN*???

[arecaceae175]

Gratitude Part 1: Wild

Summary: Eight times Sky receives a gratitude crystal from the chain plus one time he gives some away

WELCOME this is inspired by this post chain by @linkvcr and @somer-writes! I'm going to post each section on tumblr until they're all done, then I'll combine (and edit lol) them for AO3 :D

This one is based on and uses some dialogue directly from the woodcarver comic by @linkeduniverse

Part 2. ART!

Wind blew lazily through the trees, rustling the leaves pleasantly. One fell and floated down onto Sky’s lap. He brushed it away and it fell next to the pile of wood chips from his latest carving. He was essentially finished; even the decorations were done. He was chipping away at any imperfections he could find– and fixing any more he created– to keep his hands busy.

A bird chirped in the distance. Sky eagerly looked up and followed its path over the forest. It was so cool. Sky racked his brain for a word to describe how incredible the bird was, but couldn’t come up with anything more eloquent. He laughed softly to himself and turned his attention back to his carving. 

“What are you laughing at, birdbrain?” Legend asked. Sky smiled at the nickname. 

“True to my name, I was watching a bird. It was cool,” Sky said. 

“Of course you were,” Legend said, as his eyes roamed the skies to find the bird himself. Sky smirked. 

“Food’s ready!” Wild called. 

“Perfect timing!” Sky said. He blew a breath over the spoon to knock off the loose shavings, then wiped it down with a cloth. It was perfectly smooth.

Sky hopped to his feet and walked over to the group with the spoon hidden behind his back.

“Okay, so it’s a light meal today, since we had that amazing soup earlier. Rice and vegetables over here, and then there’s some meat if you want. Cucco in that bowl and deer in that bowl. But I put some vegetables with protein in, so you’ll be fine without those,” Wild explained, pointing to the bowls as he talked. “Oh, and no peppers.”

Sky felt a warm feeling in his chest. Wild put so much care into their meals and ensured they catered to everyone’s individual preferences. It wasn’t easy to make one meal that suited nine people from different backgrounds, but Wild made it work every time.

“Oh, I need a spoon for the rice. Um,” Wild turned to dig through his cooking supplies.

“How about this one?” Sky said. 

Wild turned around and his eyes widened in surprise as Sky held out the spoon. His mouth dropped open slightly as Sky pushed the spoon into his hands. 

“You made this?” Wild asked. 

“I did! For you,” Sky asked. “As a thank you for always making us such good food.”

“Wow!” Wild said. He held the spoon up to his face, closely inspecting the patterns. A spark of orange flickered to life above his head. It wasn’t quite a full crystal, but the sight made Sky smile warmly nonetheless.

“This is beautiful work,” Wild said. 

Sky beamed. “Thank you!” 

Wild’s face fell from its smile. Sky mirrored the expression and stepped closer. 

“What, what’s wrong? Do you not like it?” Sky asked. 

Wild frantically shook his head and his grip on the spoon tightened. “No, I love it! I’m just… what if I break it?”

“You probably will,” Sky said with a chuckle. Wild looked up at him with wide eyes full of worry.

“But that’s okay. It’s meant to be used. If you use it enough to wear it down, I’ll know I did a good job,” Sky said. 

“Are you sure?” Wild asked. 

“Promise,” Sky said. 

Above Wild’s head, the spark rapidly expanded into a full gratitude crystal. Sky watched it with awe as it floated over and into his chest, where its warmth spread throughout his body. Sky wiggled in happiness.

“Thank you, Sky. I love it,” Wild said. 

“You’re very welcome,” Sky said, his smile bright and wide. 

Next Part ->

EDIT 01/19/2024: THERE IS ART NOW!!!! This art by @linkvcr :DDDD

#who should I do next? #feel free to throw any ideas my way #linked universe #legend and sky sitting together and being besties beloved #legend using birdbrain as a nickname for sky because he knows sky loves it my beloved #linkeduniverse #lu sky #lu wild #lu legend #ace writes #gratitude

[genshinluvr]

Anything for the Star 2

Pairings: Various Honkai Star Rail Men x Isekai'd!Reader

Summary: After being sandwiched between Gepard and Sampo's chest due to March claiming you wanted to be sandwiched between the two men from Jarilo-VI, you fainted. You soon regained consciousness and now have to deal with the aftermath and you're also on the hunt for March around the Astral Express.

Note: I think a few people on Tumblr and AO3 wanted to see another part of this fic. Therefore since I am posting mini-fics for this week, I have decided to make a part two! Yes, this is a crack-ish fic, and mini-fics do not have a huge impact on the overall HSR isekai world :> It's almost 6 AM, and I did not sleep at all. Anyway! I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).

Warnings: None that I know of

Word Count: 3.6k

Read Part 1 of Anything for the Star [HERE]!

Your ears are ringing.

“[Y/N]!”

The voices shouting out to you are muffled— almost like you’re underwater.

“Gumdrop, wake up!”

You feel like you’re floating through space. The darkness around you welcomes you with open arms while you drift into the abyss. Unaware of what is going on outside of your unconscious state. What happened?  How did you end up in the void? You hear voices around you, but you’re alone in the darkness, floating through the void. Speaking of the void, not even Nanook is present with you. 

“Everyone, move out of the way. Give them space.”

The voices continue to get louder and louder as the darkness around you soon fades around you. The ringing in your ears ceases, and you jolt in someone’s arms, eyelids flying open, gasping for air as if someone was holding you underwater for who knows how long. Faces peer down at you, gazing at you with worry.

You blink at them, still groggy from what happened. Seriously, what did happen? You’re cradled in Nanook’s arms, your head resting on the Aeon of Destruction’s arms. You groan and rub your eyes with the heel of your hand. Your mind is still foggy, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been knocked out.

You clear your throat. “What happened?” You croak, eyes darting around to look at every person, searching for answers.

Nanook sighs. “You fainted forty minutes ago and were unresponsive,” replies Nanook, resting his cheek on your head. 

Unresponsive? That’s odd. What could be the sole factor behind your fainting and being unresponsive for forty minutes? You sit up in Nanook’s arms, rubbing your eyes again. The men are crowding around you, making sure you’re okay and not going to faint for the second time. They’re still wearing maid costumes— oh. Right. Memories from before you fainting start rushing back to you at full speed.

“You had a nosebleed, but luckily, Luocha was able to stop the bleeding,” Mr. Yang says, sitting across from you on your bed.

You nod, looking away from the older man. You can’t take him seriously when he’s wearing cat ears headbands while wearing a maid costume. The refined Mr. Yang, the strongest, the wise and intelligent Mr. Yang… wearing a cat ears headband and maid costume. What a time to be alive to witness such a sight. 

Dan Heng crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows furrowing with worry. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Dan Heng asks softly, sitting on the other side of your bed.

Dan Heng is also wearing a maid costume. You’re not sure who did his makeup— most likely March— but he looks cute! The exaggerated blush on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose was adorable. If he was actually blushing, it would be hard to notice. Unless the blush creeps up to the tips of his ears. 

You nod, smiling at Dan Heng sleepily. “Of course, I’m okay! I probably didn’t get enough sleep last night, and it’s probably the reason why I fainted,” you lie.

You wish that was the case. Being sandwiched between Gepard and Sampo’s beefy pecks is something you would love to experience again! However, you sure as hell do not want to experience it in front of other people— other people who you’re also attracted to. On another note, Sampo gives the best hugs, and so does Gepard. You snap out of your thoughts when Gepard presses a cold, wet paper napkin on your cupid’s bow. You blink and look at Gepard quizzically. Gepard pulls his hands away from your face and steps back, clearing his throat softly.

“You still had a bloodstain above your lips,” Gepard mutters softly, cheeks bright red.

You smile at Gepard, well, attempt to smile at him. The smile ends up being a grimace rather than a smile. You gesture to the men’s costume, trying to find the right words to say without looking stupid. You’re not sure how March was able to get the maid costumes in her hands so fast, but you’re thankful for it, and you sort of wish March didn’t conduct this experiment. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Are you guys not going to change out of those maid costumes?” You ask shyly.

“Oh? You want us to change out of it already?” Luka asks, his eyes widening with shock as he turns to look at the other men.

Your eyebrows furrow with confusion. What does Luka mean by that exactly? You search around the room for March, only to realize she’s not in the room, nor is Himeko. In fact, you’re alone in your room with the ten men. You press your lips into a thin line, making a mental note to pull March by her ears when you see her again.

Blade narrows his eyes at you, tilting his head to the side. “Why do you look confused? Did you forget about how you informed March that you wanted to see us wear the maid costume until it’s nine-thirty sharp?” Blade asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sigh and run your hands through your hair. “Blade, you know how terrible my memory is, right? I forget the simplest things,” you say, leaning back against Nanook.

Nanook’s arms snake around your waist, pulling you close. As much as you don’t mind cuddling with Nanook, you don’t think you can cuddle with Nanook in front of the other men. Especially when they’re all wearing maid costumes. Plus, you have a bone to pick with March because her experiment seems to be something else other than wanting to see if the men will comply with your wishes.

You tap on your thighs. “Does anyone know where March is, by any chance? I want to talk to her about something,” you say.

Jing Yuan searches around your room, rubbing the back of his neck. Your eyes automatically zero in on Jing Yuan’s biceps when he rubs the back of his neck. The way his biceps bulges with little movement, the way the sleeve of the maid costume raises, the way the ruffles of the skirt move when he shifts in his spot. Dear, Aeons. You look away and pretend to search for the pink-haired menace. 

“Huh. I didn’t even notice her leave the room after you fainted,” Jing Yuan says, laughing to himself.

You nod slowly. It’s either you remain in your room with ten people in maid costumes or leave your room and hunt down March and give her a piece of your mind. While you are thankful for her theory and sudden announcement, you sure as hell don’t appreciate her not telling you what she has in mind for these experiments. You want at least a warning or a heads-up before she throws you into the lion's den. You slowly remove yourself from Nanook’s warm, welcoming arms and get off your bed. You straighten your clothes and turn to the rest of the audience in your room. 

“I am going to search for March. You guys can tag along if you want. However, I can’t promise I’ll be civil when I see her,” you say, walking out of your room.

The men stare after you and watch you leave. They weren’t sure what you meant when you said you can’t promise to be civil when you see March. Nanook is the first one to follow you not long after you step out of your room. Soon, the other men start following Nanook, wondering what you’re going to do when you find March. 

Long story short, you tried searching for March around the Astral Express, but she was nowhere to be found. You went into her room, and her bedroom was empty. You tried talking to Pom-Pom and Himeko about March’s whereabouts. Unfortunately for you, the redheaded woman and the conductor of the Astral Express did not see March at all. 

“Are you sure she’s not in her room? The Astral Express is traversing through space, and there’s no way March could sneak to the Xianzhou Luofu, Jarilo-VI, and the Herta Space Station without anyone noticing,” Himeko says, crossing one leg over the other while stirring her coffee. 

You sigh, running your hands through your hair. “Well, thanks for letting me know. I was hoping to find March and pull her ears when I saw her. But I guess that will be saved for next time,” you grumble, turning around and walking off.

Himeko looks at the men and presses her lips into a thin line. The men have yet to change out of their maid costumes, and Himeko can’t help but find it amusing. After receiving a text message from March with a couple of attachments, Himeko wanted to tease them for doing whatever you said. Even if you didn’t directly tell them what to do. Yes, March texted Himeko multiple pictures of you encountering the ten men in maid costumes. The photos are taken discretely and sent to Himeko.

The first picture is your initial reaction to the men walking out of your bathroom in maid costumes. The second image is of you touching Luka’s biceps— your reaction was hilarious. March made it your contact picture, but she’s not going to let you know about it until way later if you end up seeing it and want to know the context of the icon. The third picture is you getting sandwiched between Gepard and Sampo’s chests— you looked like you were about to pass out. And finally, the last image March took and sent to Himeko was you fainting with a stream of blood coming from your nose.

After taking that last picture of you, March made a run for it because she knows that once you’re conscious, you’re going to be going after her ass, and that is what you’re doing. Well, you were going after her ass because you couldn’t find the pink-headed girl, and the Astral Express is still traversing through the stars. You’re going to have to wait for March to reappear because you sure as hell do not want to search around the Astral Express for the umpteenth time.

You end up forgetting about your hunt for March because now you find yourself sitting in the Parlor Car of the Astral Express, trying to convince the men to change back into their clothes. As much as you love to see the men wearing maid costumes and cat ears headbands, you don’t know how much longer you can deal with it. Maybe getting a picture of them in the maid costumes doesn’t sound so bad if you were brave enough to ask for pictures.

“You know,” March pops up from out of nowhere, resting her arm on the cushion of the couch, “if you want to take a picture with your admirers in maid costumes, why not just ask them? I’m sure they’ll be okay with it as long as the person asking for photos is their precious star,” March coos, pinching your cheek.

You wince and smack her hand away from your face. “Why don’t you do it for me instead? I’m too shy to ask,” you mumble.

March smirks and rolls over the couch, and nods. “If that’s what you want, then I shall ask on your behalf then!” March fixes her clothes before strutting over to the group of men standing in the center of the Parlor Car, quietly conversing with one another. 

March taps on Mr. Yang’s shoulders and begins talking to the older man. Mr. Yang looks confused while the other men around him burst out laughing, except for Blade. They all look at you from where they’re standing, and seeing the look on their faces, you’re starting to regret telling March to ask them for you. 

Before you know it, the men walk in your direction, with March trailing after them from a safe distance. March is most likely to make a run for it in case you faint again. March gestures for you to stand up, making you assume you are going to take a picture with the men. However, when Blade steps forward, you look at him with confusion.

“Your request is ridiculous. However, I will not deny you of your request since you asked so nicely,” Blade says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your eyebrows knit together as you stare at him quizzically. “Huh? How is my request ridiculous? What did March tell you exactly?” You ask, leaning over in your spot to look at March.

March looks away, swaying side to side while whistling. You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue and glare at March from afar before looking at the men, who are quietly snickering. Really, what is March up to, and why are the men giggling like children? A picture request shouldn’t be making them giggle like this. Unless March said something else about the pictures?

Blade takes a deep breath and closes his eyes before looking you in the eyes. “Uwu,” Blade deadpans.

Your brain short circuits. What did Blade just say? You slowly look at March, who’s covering up her laughter with her hands. The men around you and Blade burst out laughing, doubling over one another while howling with laughter. That wasn’t your request, but you’re not complaining. Seeing and hearing Blade say ‘uwu’ with the most serious expression will forever be engraved in your memory. 

“Why do you look confused? Is this not your request?” Luocha asks, stifling his laughter behind his hand.

You press your lips into a thin line. It’s not what you requested, but since it’s comical and also cute, you’ll let March off the hook for this. Just this one time, of course. You have yet to forgive her for the stunt she pulled in your bedroom. She could at least let you be aware of what she’s up to, you know? Especially if it involves you.

You clear your throat. “Yes, but I did not expect Blade to follow through with it,” you say, scratching the back of your head.

March snickers. “Yeah, me neither,” March mutters under her breath. “Anyway! Gentlemen, please gather around for the picture [Y/N] has been anticipating!” March claps her hands and gestures for the men to stand in a line.

The men get in a line, making sure the tallest are in the back row while the shortest is in the front. They made sure to leave a space in the front for you to stand. You reluctantly hand March your phone and walk to the group as Luka and Sampo gesture for you to come forward. You stand between Dan Heng and Caelus, mentally preparing yourself for the picture. March holds your phone up but pauses, staring at you intently. You stare at March, worried about what she’s up to after seeing a sly smirk appearing on her face. A sense of dread falls over you as March sighs dramatically and props her hands on her hips.

“This picture would look cuter if [Y/N] matched with the rest of you,” March sighs, feigning sadness. 

You stare at the pink-haired girl owlishly. You? Matching with the rest of the men behind you? You shake your head at March, giving her a look. March continues to sigh and plops on the couch dramatically, draping her arm over her eyes. March actually didn’t get you a maid costume— that would go over her budget, and she wants to see how the others react if she suggested you wear a maid costume with cat ears to match with the men.

“It would be cute if you matched the others! Plus, I bought you a maid costume too! You wouldn’t want it to go to waste, now, do you?” March asks, peeking from her arms and batting her eyelashes at you.

You narrow your eyes at March as she continues to give you puppy dog eyes. If March wants to test her theory out, you might as well put it to the test yourself. So, you put on a mask and try not to cringe.

You turn to the others, pouting and batting your eyelashes at them while giving them the puppy dog eyes yourself. ��I don’t know if I’m comfortable with wearing a maid costume. The costumes look cute, but I don’t think it’ll look good on me,” you sigh, rubbing your arm and looking away dramatically.

Oh, ew. You feel a small part of yourself die a little on the inside. The act your pull reminds you of those pick-me’s you see on the internet. Dear, Aeons. You have the urge to skin yourself alive after pulling that stunt. You refrain from showing visible disgust and continue to uphold the act.

Mr. Yang hums, nodding. “If you’re not comfortable with wearing it, you don’t have to. We don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, nor do we want you to feel like you have to wear a maid costume,” says Mr. Yang.

“Yeah! Even though we know you’ll look cute in a maid costume, we don’t want you to feel pressured. Dress however you want,” Luka says, ruffling your hair.

The others murmur in agreement, nodding their heads. You turn to March and stick your tongue out at March. March huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, getting off the couch while muttering under her breath. You smile with satisfaction and get in your spot for the pictures you were promised. 

You fix your hair and make sure you look decent— since you did faint not long ago and had a nosebleed before fainting. March sighs and holds your phone up, waiting for everyone to get situated before taking multiple pictures of you with the men in maid costumes. After a few minutes of taking pictures with the men in maid costumes, March finally hands you your phone back.

You pull March to the side. “Did you really tell them that I wanted them to wear the maid costumes until it’s nine-thirty?” you ask.

March giggles and nods. “I know it’s a very specific time, but I had to say something! I can’t space out, or else they’ll know what I’m up to!” March says, shrugging her shoulders. “Besides, this experiment went swimmingly.”

March wasn’t wrong about that. The experiment for her theory turned out how she expected it to go. As curious as you are regarding how far this experiment could go, you don’t have the heart or the energy to test it out. The eventful day was draining, and all you want to do right now is to take a nap. 

“I think we should cut the experiment short. I want to take a nap,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket and stretching your arms in the air with a yawn. 

March stares at you. “Why do you take so many naps?” March questions, propping her hands on her hips.

You shrug. “Don’t ask me. I don’t have the answer to your question— aside from my awful sleep schedule,” you reply. “Now, before I go to bed, I will test out one last thing.”

You yawn and plop on the couch, sprawling across the red couch in the Parlor Car with a groan. The others look at you curiously, wondering what you’re doing and why you’re sprawled out on the couch.

“Gumdrop! What are you doing, sweet thang?” Sampo asks, sitting at the edge of the couch.

You mumble and rub your eyes. “I’m exhausted, and I want to take a nap, but I don’t think I can make it to my room,” you mumble, closing your eyes and curling into a ball.

“If you want, I can carry you to your bedroom,” Caelus offers, holding his hand in the air.

You sigh. “But I also want someone to cuddle with me while I nap. Or at least get me a plushie to hug,” you say, cracking one eye open.

Jing Yuan strokes his chin, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not sure if I can cuddle with you in a dress. The fabric is scratchy, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable cuddling with someone wearing scratchy fabric,” Jing Yuan says, rubbing the fabric of the skirt with his thumb and index finger.

March deadpans, smacking her forehead with an infuriated sigh. These men seem to be stalling, but it’s sort of understandable because of the murderous look Nanook is giving to each man who offers to carry you to your room and cuddle with you as you’re napping.

“Do you want to sleep on the couch then? I can get your pillow and blanket for you,” Dan Heng offers.

You shake your head. “Thank you, Dan Heng, but no thank you. I don’t like sleeping in places like the Parlor Car. I’m more comfortable sleeping in my bedroom,” you reply.

“I’ll carry you to your room,” Gepard offers, walking toward you, only for the Aeon of Destruction to block his path.

Nanook shakes his head. “No. I will be the one to carry them to their room and cuddle with them while they sleep,” Nanook says.

March throws her hands in the air with frustration and sighs. March knows Nanook is attached to you, but seeing Nanook preventing the other men from getting their chances of becoming close to you is driving March insane. Aside from Nanook being a cockblock, March finds it amusing (but also adorable) how these men are willing to do things you ask them to do. Even if you weren’t the one requesting certain tasks to be fulfilled. 

Note: So, Blade saying uwu is "inspired" by this video my dear friend and moderator sent to me on Discord. It was a video of Blade's voice actor saying uwu in Blade's voice, and I had to include it in this part because I forgot to do that for the first part 😭 I have this one idea in mind for this upcoming week's update, but I'm not sure how I will execute it. I'm just hoping it turns out fine, but at the same time, I'm not sure if it'll turn out how I wanted it to. To my new and/or returning readers, please keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!

Taglist for the HSR one-shot series: @ashwasherelol, @mompt2, @elegantnightblaze, @lunavixia, @jadedist, @reversearrowhead, @pinksaiyans, @ixchelhernandez4, @kukiiyo, @n8mareee, @aurelia-xyt, @lilliansstuff, @ssunset0, @starrry-angel, @kaoyamamegami, @rnnmg, @kodzuvk, @aponia-yue, @for3very0urs, @a-cosmicdawn, @g3n0dtt, @theblades, @wntrsblvd, @raaawwwr, @immahuman, @irisxiel, @siaracarroll, @crazydreamcat, @sen-nes, @sagekun, @orichalcumthief, @dyingsweetmackerel, @rosiesareblue, @sociallyakwardpanda, @ichikanu, @undecidingfate, @dearest-yeosang, @phngix, @c00kie-cat, @asoulsreverie, @angelmican, @rururinn, @Osiritheous, @misdollface, @4-34-am, @nightmarebeaxst, @sxftiebee, @hispasian-otaku, @cloise, @the-dumber-scaramouche, @shizunxie, @inapileofbooke, @thedarkwinterrose, @soobinsgirlfriend

Read more of my works on my Masterlist / Masterlist 2 | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories on there too, but who knows. You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like as a way to show support! ^^

#Honkai Star Rail x reader #Honkai Star Rail imagine #Honkai Star rail fanfiction #Honkai Star Rail fanfic #HSR x reader #HSR imagine #HSR fanfiction #HSR fanfic #Dan Heng x reader #Gepard Landau x reader #Sampo Koski x reader #Welt Yang x reader #Blade x reader #Jing Yuan x reader #Luocha x reader #Caelus x reader #Nanook x reader #Luka x reader #genshinluvr

[tachvintlogic]

Hoof Trimmers IN SPACCCCCCEEEE!!!!

Based on the post about aliens probably having more than our mere 2 sets of limbs and the post about how our domesticated animals could be unusually large and dangerous compared to other planets.

longer AO3 version: link here (for people with AO3 accounts only)

Words: 1972

Summary: The newest human crewmate's background in farming ends up being able to help a coworker with a sore, injured foot more than anyone could've predicted.

Jósűrha took a step and bit back a hiss as zir middle left leg touched the ground. Ze flinched and lifted the leg back up while zir sore front and back legs took on the extra weight. The block on the middle leg had worn away, and zir leg hasn’t gotten any better since. Now ze needed someone to help zem put a new block on. Katársmun, who put it on last time, was busy at the moment, but ze knew exactly who ze could ask.

Humans were strange with their measly two legs, so unlike most species they were perfectly capable of doing their own first-aid without help, but they were more than happy to assist their fellow sapients who couldn’t reach their back half by themselves. The ship’s newest human crewmate would have a much easier time applying the block than zir other coworkers.

“Hey Officer Mackenzie! I need your help with something.”

The ship’s new resident human turned around as ze walked toward kem, and then frowned and bent to the side looking at zir feet. “Is there something wrong with your feet?”

“Yes, actually. The block on one of my claws has worn away, and obviously I can’t put another one on myself.”

Ke bent down further to get a better look at zir painful hoof. “Yeah, I can tell block on it is barely there. It explains why you’re walking like a lame cow. Have you gotten your feet trimmed recently?”

“Well, no. There aren’t many good places that can trim Zágjós feet. Wait, how did you know I needed a trim?”

“Your feet pretty closely resemble ungulates on Earth. You see my fingernails? On ungulates, their nails are giant pads made of keratin that they walk on like your hooves. Most of the other sapients I’ve seen don’t walk on the very tip of their limbs like ungulates or yourself.” That was true. Zágjós were one of the few species that needed to get their entire feet trimmed, which is why places to do that became scarcer and scarcer the further from Zágjós space you were.

“You seem to know a lot about feet.”

“Well, I used to work on a cow and sheep farm on Earth. A lot of our domesticated livestock are actually ungulates.” Having livestock species was quite common among spacefaring species. It was considered an important part of the path to FTL technology. While humans didn’t have the largest livestock species, they did have the largest livestock relative to their size.

“So do you think you can help me put a new cushion on?”

“Sure.”

They walked to zir quarters, where ze had a suspension bed (as zir species slept standing up), personal effects, and a basic first-aid kit specialized for zir species. Mackenzie opened the med kit and pulled out a block without ze having to tell kem what one looks like and a hoof trimming knife that came standard with the kit (not that ze knew how to use it).

“So does the block go on with glue or--?”

You remove the cap on the sticky side and then hold it on the claw for 30 seconds to set.”

“Alright, can you get in the suspension bed? It would be easier if you were standing without putting weight on your feet.”

“Sure.” Ze got in zir suspension bed and immediately felt relief with zir feet not entirely on the ground anymore. Mackenzie took some time to improvise a stand to hold up zir hoof and keep it still. It was a similar setup to the one at a trimmer (not that ze had been to one in a while).

“Wow, your hooves look…exactly like a cow’s hoof.”

“Should I be offended? Isn’t that livestock?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that I spent a lot of time trimming cow hooves back on the farm to keep them healthy. Hell, your hoof trimming knife looks about the same. It’s sharp on the sides with the hook on the end. I’m assuming I can remove the block with the knife, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Mackenzie started trimming away at the block, muttering this would be much easier if ke had a grinder. When the old block was gone, Mackenzie hummed and ze turned zir neck to see what ke was doing. Ke was pursing kes lips in a way that zir emotional recognition course in diversity training told zim meant the human did not like what ke was looking at.

“Something wrong?”

“What does the pain feel like?”

“Kinda like a pressure in my hoof.”

“Sounds like an abscess with some detached horn above it. One your bad claw, there’s some definitely detached horn at the heel of your outer claw and a white line defect near the toe, or at least it would be if the resemblance to a cow hoof isn’t just superficial. The wall horn is also thicker than it should be on a cow, which could be overgrowth or just what hooves of your species are supposed to look like. There’s also some slight bruising on the inner portion of the claw you had a block on, and it has small crack between the wall horn and the sole horn which could turn into a serious white line defect if it isn’t taken care of.”

Ke put the foot back down. “Hold on, I need to do some research on Zágjós feet.”

Mackenzie left and ze tried really hard to relax and ignore the pain in zir foot until Mackenzie came back with the captain. Mackenzie looked excited.

“So good news! Your feet are extremely similar to cow’s feet. The only main difference is that your foot is supposed to be held 5° steeper.”

“So?”

“So I can help your foot!” Mackenzie pulled zir middle left foot back on the stand and started slicing away at the bad claw with the trimming knife. It hurt, feeling the trimming knife put more pressure on the claw that felt like it was about to burst.

“Mackenzie requested that you have some time off because you’re having trouble walking,” said the captain.

“Yeah, there aren’t a lot of places to get my hooves trimmed at our ship’s recent stops.”

“Well, tell me next time our ship routes force you to go without care or routine maintenance. And that goes for all crew so this kind of thing never happens again.”

“Thanks captain, I—” Ze gasped as the pain in zir feet suddenly lifted. The pressure inside the hoof was gone! Ze turned zir neck around and saw Mackenzie wiping pus off kes face.

“What happened?” asked the captain.

“Well, I found the abscess. There was a lot of pus in there. Do you feel better?”

“Yes! That is so much better!”

“Let me see,” said the captain, walking behind Mackenzie. “Stars, that was under your foot!?”

“Yeah,” said Mackenzie, “it’s worse than it looks, too. You see this dark hoof horn above where I opened the abscess just on the border? It got darker as I thinned it out, so it’s not pigment. It means there’s a cavity under there, and all this horn is detached and needs to be removed,” ke explained as ke lifted the detached horn around the abscess and cut it off in circular cuts with the hook of the knife, revealing more pus and opening the hole.

After just a few cuts, ke revealed the abscess stretched the entire width of the sole horn, and then ke started shaving down the horn between the abscess and the heel to remove the bulk of it.

“Now that I’ve revealed the abscess,” ke continued to explain, “I know how much I can shave off. Fortunately, it seems to be only filled with pus. I haven’t found any lesions or ulcers. It’s just a giant cavity.”

“What could’ve caused it?”

“Probably an accident,” ke said, “could’ve bumped the hoof against something or turned too sharply on a corner. With regular trimming, it could’ve been nipped in the bud before it was a problem, but without it, it just got worse and worse.”

“And at the heel, there’s this detached horn I can just lift up, which tells me,” ke said as ke put the knife under the horn and cut down, “that it goes all the way to the abscess.”

“That’s the entire foot,” said the captain.

“Yep,” said Mackenzie, “can’t imagine trying to walk on that.”

“I don’t need to imagine,” said Jósűrha.

Mackenzie started trimming the good hoof, getting rid of the crack and modeling out the area with the bruised horn to take some of the weight off that area, and then searching through the med kit to find something to help grind the tips of the toes to bring both claws to the same length. The “grinder” at the bottom of the med kit wasn’t as good as the grinder ke used to use on cows on the farm, which ke was more than happy to complain about.

Once it was suitably prepared, ke put on a different, curved block that would avoid the bruised horn area on the good claw. Ke pressed it into the claw for 30 seconds to make sure the glue bond was secure.

“So given your foot’s condition. I’m going to have to cut most of your ship duties. Rest up and heal. Understood?”

“Yes captain.”

“And Mackenzie, you’re doing a great job, even though it’s not the job you were hired for.”

“Thanks, captain,” ke said, nodding.

“You know, speaking of routine care important for the health and comfort of our officers, Katársmun has a condition that prevents xe from shedding xis coat when xe should. You wouldn’t know how to do a full body shave, would you?

“Hmm, if it’s like shearing a sheep, then I could take to xem about it. I’d want to take a course on it and get more familiar Katársmun’s species first if xe doesn’t need shearing now.”

“Of course, it’s just something I wanted to mention. Well, as you were. I’ll call the cleaning bot to take care of the mess,” said the captain gesturing to the pus and cut horn on the floor.

As the captain left, ke stopped pressing into the block and tested its fit to make sure it was secure, then ke dressed the bad claw with supplies from the med kit. “Okay, I’m going to put your foot down. Try to stand on it in a way that feels natural.” Ke put zir foot down and checked the angle. It was steep enough for a cow but not enough for a Zágjós. Ke pulled the foot back on the stand and started cutting the block to adjust the angle.

When ke put the hoof down again, the angle was perfect, and Jósűrha didn’t feel any pain. It was almost unreal after feeling that pressure in zir hoof for so long. “Now for the other claws since you did say you haven’t gotten a trim in a while. I’m start with the back left.”

Jósűrha didn’t have a way to argue with that. “That’s fine,” ze said as Mackenzie moved to the back left foot and started trimming. “There’s a little bruising on the inner sole area that I can model out, and some overgrowth on the toes. Remember to tell me if there’s any soreness or pain.”

“Sure. That foot feels fine.”

“Good. It’s nice working on someone who can talk to me for a change.”

“People are better clients than cows are, aren’t they?”

“Well, yeah, and people are also polite enough to not start pooping while I’m doing their back legs.”

Ze suppressed a chitter and tried to keep zir foot very still as ke worked. Yes, asking the human crewmember was the best choice.

#humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans are awesome #humans are space fae #tach's fics #speculative biology #it's pride so neopronouns for everyone

[byuljoonie]

moonlight // knj

I’m sorry baby I’m just really hot…

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: one shot, slight angst, fluff, growing tension, boyfriend material, extreme smut, desperation, succubus intentions…

word count: 5k+ (sorry)

warnings: mentions of mature topics, spit, namjoon driving lmao, thigh humping bcs desperate, throat goat, dom!sub, dom rm!sub reader, alcohol consumption, probably a good amount of swearing, post-gym namjoon, grocery store activities, slight car play, teasing, oral, summer night, riding, overstimulation, a little masochism

summary: namjoon promised to go to the grocery store with you after the gym (extended ending on ao3)

note: just had what cody ko and noel would call a “power thought.” I literally just had a spark of inspiration bcs it’s really hot in the south right now and Namjoon’s vogue cover is to die for. enjoy and feel free to check out any of my playlists while reading. Sorry for any little mistakes. gonna make a tag list after I post 10 works! -ash (wrote this draft a few months ago so it might be slightly more extreme than expected.)

My reflection stared back at me, tracing the movement of the cloth against my skin. The long slit of the black fabric starts by the left knee and leaves an opening at the bottom of the dress. My manicured feet sat firmly against the hardwood bedroom floor, grounding me away from my persistent thoughts. I grabbed my sunglasses from the stand mounted on the cream walls and turned swiftly on my heels. Abandoning the mirror with a grimace on my face.

I loved this dress very much, the long sleeves light and airy protecting me from the harsh summer rays. The way it hugs my figure is like someone familiar. The same someone that bought this dress for me. He crossed my mind once more sending another surge of anger through me.

Namjoon promised to come along to the grocery store with me today but he’s been at the gym for almost 2 hours now. He said he’d only be gone an hour but an hour quickly turned to two, now I’m dressed and past ready to go. I hated going to crowded stores, at this rate we’ll never beat the after-work rush.

I sat on the bed putting on my anklet he gifted me for our 3 year anniversary. Yet another gift that I’m wearing today, being spoiled ruining my plans of holding a grudge tonight on our date. I slipped on some black socks and made my way towards the door. Listening as the front door swings open with a beep of the automatic keypad.

I excitedly descend the stairs, my black dress sweeping the floor behind me beautifully like a wedding gown flowing in the summer breeze. The second step I’ve already failed at trying to be mad at him.

“Baby! Where you at?” He says deep voice roaring through our apartment. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs almost running into his chest. He smiled at me taking in all of my body, returning to my eyes after his brief but thorough inspection.

“Right here NAMjoon,” I stated putting extra emphasis on his surname. I watched as his chest rose and fell with every breath, his skin glistened with sweat. Tan skin accentuating his muscular frame, my mouth parted slightly at the sight. He looked heavenly I almost lost my composure.

“I’m sorry I took so long Y/N my trainer wouldn’t let me leave until the workout was complete,” he said walking towards me. Smirking at the way my eyes followed his every movement.

“You look so gorgeous Princess, this dress is perfect for you,” he said pulling me into a tight embrace. Grabbing a handful of my ass as he reached over to rest his chin on my shoulder. I yelp in surprise at the sudden groping, melting into his body and giving up on being angry. I wanted to take him right now but first, we need food or we’ll be eating out for another week before we have time to shop again.

“Whatever Joon go shower we have to leave as soon as possible and you’re stinky,” I said pulling away from him and then standing on my tippy toes to kiss him quickly. He kissed me back beginning to deepen it before I push him away again. I give him a knowing look and bid him goodbye as I walk to the kitchen to make him a snack to eat in the car. The store was about a 25 minute drive from us but it was worth it for the produce.

I grab a few ingredients from the fridge to make him a nice sandwich with an everything bagel. I prepared everything quickly and put it in a small ziplock bag next to my purse. I heard Namjoon exiting our bedroom 15 minutes later, humming a sweet tune in his beautiful vibrato.

“Come on babe I already have the car warming up,” he said grabbing my hand and lightly pulling me next to him. He’s wearing a light brown shirt with a pair of distressed blue jeans. Looking as handsome as always I drink in his appearance for eternity. We walked to the elevator quietly, Namjoon tapping away on his phone until the elevator doors opened to be let us out.

As we walk towards our car I begin to sweat a little, the setting Sun still scorching my skin like its’ noonday twin. I started to speed up a little pulling Namjoon along so I could feel the relief of the A/C sooner than later. He swung the door open for me making sure my dress wasn’t in the way before shutting the door.

Namjoon jumps in quickly closing the door before the heat could penetrate the closed air. It still wasn’t cool enough in here, with the sun beaming directly on our vehicle the A/C felt like lukewarm hell. I let down the window hastily fanning myself as we pulled out of the parking lot.

After I few minutes of fanning and desperation, I looked over and behold a sight that would make any woman yearn in an instant. A head of sweat moved swiftly down the expanse of Namjoons golden jaw. Resting at the base before dropping down onto his slightly exposed shoulder. His lips rose colored from his unconscious biting. I wanted to reach over and swallow him whole, I crave him so bad I can’t help but squeeze my legs together at the thought.

I was so caught up in my sinful thoughts I didn’t notice him glance over at me. A twinkle in his eye set off the indication of a torturous idea. Namjoon placed his large hand on my thigh, causing me to tense up instantly. Before I could utter a word he reached over my leg and grabbed his sandwich from my lap.

His smile turning into a stifled laugh as he continued to stare straight ahead. I must have let out the small noise I was holding in because he seemed to know exactly what would tick me off right now. I turned my attention towards the windshield trying to focus on the passing cars and people watching. Then an idea popped into my head.

I pull out my phone and open the group chat I have with our 6 best friends. I stop and think of what to type before another brilliant idea is brought to me. I pose provocatively making sure my cleavage was “present,” in my photo. I took a couple of pictures, some with sunglasses and some staring at Namjoon. He patiently drove, oblivious to my sly intentions. He hummed along to one of his favorite songs looking over at me to shoot me a wink.

I giggled and looked away almost feeling bad for what I’m going to do. Yet not bad enough because I went ahead and sent the photos with a message. “Should I post these on my close friends? I don’t know if I look good enough today…” I said ending with a sad face. It didn’t take long for our phones to simultaneously vibrate. Secretly glancing over at Namjoon, I unlock my phone knowing he can’t check his until we’re in the lot.

Hobi ddaeng: You look great !! Of course, you should post it, Namjoon talk some sense into her.

Me: He’s driving right now. I didn’t ask for his opinion yet I want to hear you guys first :)

Park Chanel: ooooh…I see…

Park Chanel: If you don’t post the pictures I will! Wow wow you look beautiful. Nice..dress and necklace.

I looked down at my neck realizing I didn’t wear a necklace today. Oh Jimin you’re evil Namjoon is going to kill me and you. I laughed a little at his crude behavior and read the next incoming message.

Yoongi: You’re gonna get hit Jimin *laughing emojis*

Me: mmm just because you guys said so I will post it hehe

Before I could read the next response I felt the car shake as we pulled into the grocery store parking lot. I quickly went on my sns and posted two of the pictures on my close friends. Picking the two the boys liked the most. I was starting to get nervous, I know how possessive he is with me and I’m the same but I want revenge for making me frustrated.

Namjoon pulls into an open parking spot almost near the front of the bustling building. I take off my seatbelt with a click grabbing my purse from my lap and swinging the door open. I wanted to beat Namjoon inside before he could read the texts and catch me. As I hurriedly closed the door I saw him reading the messages, jaw tensing with rage.

I hear him call my name from the car and a slam of a car door followed behind the sound of his sexy voice. His long legs easily closing the space between us as he grabbed my hand, squeezing it while looking at me. I put my shades on ignoring his questions. Stroking the back of his hand as I never break eye contact with the automatic sliding doors.

“Can you get us a cart pet?” I froze at the nickname. He knows what he’s doing, and I don’t plan on breaking that fast. I let go of his hand briefly going to grab the first cart I saw. Cleaning the handle before strutting back over to my boyfriend as he eyed me intensely.

I let him grab the cart from me but not before pulling him down to whisper in his ear. “Anything for you Daddy..” I say in a hushed tone. Making sure to leave a kiss on his sensitive earlobe as I pull away.

I walk forward trying not to laugh at the silly nickname I used to get him riled up. He trailed behind me, failing to hide his blatant staring at my ass. We make our way down the aisles trying to speed up the process as people begin piling into the store.

“Joonie baby I can’t reach this,” I said struggling to reach the box of goldfish on the top shelf. He moved over to me in a flash, pressing his front flush against my back. I heard his breathing stop as I purposely pushed my ass against him.

“This one, this one, this one, or this one…” He trailed off purposely picking the wrong boxes to tease me. He finally grabbed the correct item and tossed it in the cart. Walking away as if he didn’t leave me speechless and flustered on the cracker aisle.

I follow him to the snack aisle after grabbing a few bottles of wine and champagne for our date tonight. The empty aisle presents another opportunity for me to assert my dominance. I walk over to the chips looking at them inquisitively as if I’m mocking a character.

“Honey do you want this kind or this kind?” I said while bending over. Making sure to sway slowly as I wait for an answer. “Babe? Which-“ I was cut short as a hand firmly grabbed my ass causing me to yelp in surprise and sit up straight.

“I want this one right here,” he growled in my ear. I turned around and looked at him, watching his eyes darken with hunger. “Let’s get outta here yeah?” He questioned looking into my eyes. I nodded furiously ready to exit this hell and get home to what’s waiting.

We race to the self-checkout line, scanning and bagging groceries like a 5000-dollar prize is awaiting the winner. Namjoon grabbed my hand after he paid and pulled me along with him as he pushed the basket with his other hand. He was so warm, skin clear and kissable. I wanted to pull him aside and cover him in kisses, not caring about the people around us.

Namjoon unlocks the car as we stop beside it. I move to walk around the cart but he stops me in my tracks. “Let me help you get the groceries in the car love,” I say looking confused at his sudden maneuver.

Unexpectedly, he opened the car door and motioned for me to get inside. I insisted again that I help but he gave me a look that I know better than to disobey. I got inside praying I didn’t anger him too much. I set myself up for this one, didn’t I? It’ll be worth it in the end right? Maybe I went a little too far with the texts but I can’t help but shiver with anticipation. I pull out my phone to text Jimin about my bad decisions.

Me: I think I fucked up lol

Park Chanel: you’re welcome ;)

Namjoon slams the trunk shut causing me to jump in surprise. I close my phone sitting it in the cup holder beside me. He gets in the car, jaw still tense as he turns the key in the ignition. I thought about breaking the silence but the tension was so thick a knife would recoil at the slight pressure of penetration. Namjoon puts on his seatbelt then proceeds to look at me.

“ I don’t want to hear another peep from you Y/N..” he starts lowly not breaking eye contact for a second. “You’ve done enough for tonight, if you do anything stupid I swear I will pull the car over and take you on the side of the road. I promise you wouldn’t want that.” He deadpans and looks away from me, pulling out of the parking spot. I utter a soft okay and prepare to behave the rest of the way home.

I slide my palm over to his free hand resting on his thigh. I stare firmly at him, giving my best puppy eyes in return. He doesn’t look away from the road but I watch as his lip twitches into a small smile. He grabs my hand, rubbing his large thumb over the back of my hand. In love can’t begin to describe how I truly feel about this man.

I laugh as he tries to sing along to Smoke Sprite, raspy voice blending well with Soyoon. I rap along to his part of the song, stealing the spotlight and making him bop his head in excitement. The song finishes and we’re about 10 minutes from our place. I check my phone and see a text from our group chat, making the recent grocery store escapades flash through my mind. I want him to touch me again, I like it when he’s desperate and needy for me.

Another terrible idea floods my brain accompanied by a mound of outcomes. I suddenly let go of Namjoons hand causing him to spare me a confused expression. A smile graced my face as I turned my body forward, grabbing the slit of my dress and opening it over my legs. I let my left hand run down the front of my dress, stopping at my panties hesitating even.

I slide my hand under the fabric immediately coming in contact with the soft skin. I dip my fingers and get to work. I began letting out dramatized moans and grunts. I moan Namjoon's name and furiously let my hand lose control. I looked over and saw Namjoon gripping the steering wheel in frustration. Sweat adorned his angelic face, veins prominent in his hands. I let this go on until we reached the last stop light near our apartment building. I sat up and closed my legs acting like I didn’t just masturbate next to my boyfriend in a moving car.

We pull into the lot entering our designated spot. Namjoon quietly turned off the engine and released a sigh that he seemed to have been holding in. He looks absolutely pissed and it’s so sexy. His erratic breathing only made me wetter by the second.

“You’re going to follow my instructions carefully. I don’t want to hear a word from you or tonight will be your worst fucking nightmare got it?” He questioned angrily letting his eyes trail over my body once more. I nodded too scared to move an inch more.

“Go upstairs, get undressed, wait in the middle of the bed. If you’re not in that spot when I come up there in 15 minutes, you better pray you can stop time.” He seethes hotly. “Yes sir,” I say scared and ready for more. He gets out of the car walks around and opens my door. He grabs my purse from my lap holding eye contact, his brown almond eyes dark and predatory.

“Go.” He states motioning for me to exit the vehicle. I get out swiftly, grabbing my purse from his hand and sprinting towards the entrance of the building. The elevator took an eternity to bring me to our floor. I ran to the door and shakily put in the passcode, messing up a few times before it finally let me in.

My shoes are off in a flash, I leave my purse by the door as well abandoning my shades on the counter as I run past to the stairs. I burst into our room, slipping my dress off. Almost fell as I grabbed my silk lavender robe hanging on the wall. I threw it on and climbed onto the bed. My anklet glowed in the natural light seeping through the parted curtains. The front door swung open slamming against the wall.

I heard shuffling, cabinets opening and closing for 10 more minutes before his heavy footsteps echoed through our hallway. He walked into the room eyeing me before raising an eyebrow. I started to sweat nervously hoping I did what I was told.

“Who told you to put on your robe Y/N?” He questioned in amusement. He slowly walked over to me, grabbing each side of the robe and ripping it open. He discarded it onto the floor and stalked around the bed, he stood at the front motionless. “On your knees in front of me, now.” He said and I immediately left the bed. I swung my legs over the side and dropped to my knees.

Namjoon watched me through lidded eyes as I crawled over to him on my knees, stopping directly in front of his growing bulge. I was quick to unlatch the hook of his buckle, the metal of the belt clinging as it hit the hardwood floors.

“I’ll excuse the robe mishap since you’re so eager to taste me doll face,” he said reaching down to grab my chin. A loud moan echoed through the room as he grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. He looked down at me, motioning his head back as if telling me to open up. I did as I was told and watched as he spit in my mouth and closed it back. He pulled his pants down and kicked them to the side.

“Good girl, now eat.” He said intensely. He hummed in satisfaction, eyes never leaving the way I wrapped my fingers around his cock and finally engulfed his length into the warmth of my mouth. I took him in slowly inch by inch, his girth heavy against my tongue as I extended my jaw wider and wider. I choked a little as he hit the back of my throat.

“You look so fucking gorgeous with your lips wrapped around me, pet,” his fingers tightened into my hair, his gaze stoic and heavy on me. Pet. The pet name earned a moan from me as I began a steady rhythm of sucking. My fingers were coated in a thick layer of saliva, Namjoon’s cock easily sliding against my pressured grip as my cheeks hollowed, jaw growing sore from my strenuous movements.

He groaned loudly, fucking my throat faster until I could no longer take it. I let my jaw go slack so he could use me as his personal toy. He grabbed my face and fucked it harder until I was seeing stars. A beautiful repetition of my name strung from his tongue, stilling as he came into my mouth. I happily swallowed every drop, coughing around his cock one last time, sending a shiver through his body.

“Good job, get on the bed I want to taste you. I can see you dripping on the floor,” he smirks as he picks me up and helps me onto the bed. He walks around and gets in the middle of the bed, watching me as I sit patiently waiting for instructions.

“Come here baby, sit on my face,” he motioned for me to come to him. I slowly crawled towards him, bracing myself on his lap. He kissed me roughly, tasting himself on my tongue, running his hand down to play with my chest. Nipples sensitive to the touch, he pulls away from me, taking my right breast in his mouth. Sucking and nibbling on me, teasing me. He pulled off with a pop, scooting further down the bed and then lifting me so I could move towards his face.

I place my hands on the headboard hovering over his face in anticipation. He suddenly grabs my thighs and pulls me down onto him. I scream out in pleasure as he dives into my center. Feverishly lapping his tongue at my pussy like it’s the last time he’ll have me. His moans send intense vibrations through my body, making me scream his name. We’ll have a noise complaint tomorrow.

I felt my orgasm coming on, riding his tongue until my legs were sore. He let go of my left thigh to slap my ass hard, signaling me to cum on his tongue. I came with a loud groan of his name. Shaking and twitching as I came down from my high.

Namjoon grabbed my hips, gently guiding me down to his lap. His face was covered in my essence, from nose to chin, he glistened like an Angel. He smiled and rubbed circles on my tummy as he watched me shake.

“Don’t think we’re done darling, I’m not finished until I see my cum dripping down your pretty legs.” He gave me one last smile before his eyes darkened once more. He grabbed my hips and lifted me slightly, sticking his girth fully inside me. I sank slowly, letting him fill me to the brim. Tears streamed down my cheeks loving the painful stretch in my core.

“Ride me until I say stop.” He deadpanned motioning for me to move or else. I started to ride him painfully slow, not being able to take much more. This was my opportunity to finally seize control. I picked up the pace, rhythmic grunts and sounds of skin slapping filled the room. I put my hands on his chest and let my hips do the talking.

I ground down harder, spelling his name with every swift motion of my hips. I felt his cock twitch inside of me, indicating he was close already. Now that I have control I’m going to make him feel everything he did to me. I moved faster, causing the bed to shake and tremble with every shout of his name.

He grabbed my hips trying to make me slow down but I only grind down harder. Clenching and tightening around him to send me him over the edge. I watched as his orgasm roared through him, eyes rolling to the back of his head. I kept moving, milking everything from him. Getting closer to my orgasm, I let myself go with one last yell of his name.

Squeezing my eyes shut as I finally stilled. The sound of heavy breathing filled the room, the bed creaking as I rolled off of him. Shivering as the empty feeling overtakes me when he’s not inside of me. “I hope I didn’t get too carried away,” I started while looking over at my completely wrecked boyfriend.

“That was perfect.” He said smiling over at me. He slowly stood up, going to our bathroom to retrieve a towel. He returned momentarily, cleaning me off and then cleaning himself. Throwing the towel in the hamper against the wall. I was so exhausted I could barely move. I got under our giant duvet, getting comfortable fairly quickly.

Namjoon glanced at me, nestled under the warm blankets, my eyes getting heavy with exhaustion. He promised me a special date night and he was determined to make it happen, even if he just put me to sleep. With a gentle smile, his aftercare continued.

“Hey, babe,” he whispered softly, brushing a strand of loose hair from my face. “I know you’re tired but I don’t want our date night to go to waste.”

I yawned in response and mumbled sleepily, “Joonie I’m so comfy right here.” Earning a chuckle from him, my reluctance seeped through the atmosphere. “I know, but trust me, you won’t regret it. I’ve got something in the living room set up for us.”

That caused me to sit up, curiosity overcoming my fatigue. “Oh? What is it?” I said carefully. “It’s a surprise, but I promise it’ll be worth it.” He said leaning in to plant a kiss on my forehead.

With his gentle encouragement, I reluctantly pushed the covers aside and allowed Namjoon to help me out of bed. He passed me the discarded robe and my slippers, and together we made our way to the living room.

Where soft candlelight flickered with a movie on the screen waiting to be played. As I settled onto the couch I couldn’t help but smile at the effort Namjoon had put into creating this romantic haven. A charcuterie board with our favorite snacks and 2 bottles of the wine we purchased earlier were on the coffee table.

Namjoon plopped down beside me, taking my hand in his. “See princess? Our date night in the living room isn’t so bad, is it?” He said grinning like he won the lottery. My fatigue began to dissipate as I basked in the warmth of Namjoon's love and effort. “Not bad at all,” I said, feeling grateful for his consistency and thoughtfulness.

“Let’s start the movie I’m so excited!” I exclaimed pumping my fist in the air embarrassingly hard. Namjoon laughed and mimicked me, making me laugh even harder than before. The first half of the movie went by as we stuffed our faces with food and downed wine like it was our last supper. I was starting to feel tipsy and before I knew it my thoughts started wandering again.

“Mmm, these snacks are-“ Namjoon started as he reached for the charcuterie board. I interrupted his thought by grabbing his hand. Namjoon looked at me puzzled, “huh?” He says in surprise. I move closer and settle onto his lap. “I want to be closer to you,” I said, hands resting on his toned chest.

Namjoon blinked at me, a tipsy smile forming on his lips, “Well I can’t argue with that pet.” I look into his eyes exploring the galaxies I can reach within them. “You know, I love nights like these, just you and me, a movie, some wine…” I rambled to him.

“Yeah, me too. It’s moments like this when I realize how lucky I am to have you in my life baby.” He said while lost in my eyes. Searching for something, something that he knows I have. I leaned in slowly, our lips almost touching, “I love you Namjoon.” I kissed him before he could respond. Feeling his emotions spill into our kiss. He pulled us apart gently, rubbing his hand on my cheek. “I love you too Y/N.”

He grabbed my face and captured my lips again. A thief that could do no wrong in my eyes, I deepened the kiss craving more of him. Needing to feel something more. I slowly began moving my hips on his thigh, grinding down onto the exposed skin, earning a guttural groan from his throat.

His hands moved down the side of my body, exploring every curve, touching every mark he left on me this evening. He landed on my hips, guiding me to my last orgasm with his strong hands. The air was hot once more, soft moans and sweet nothings penetrated the quiet.

The movie is long forgotten, the candlelight coating the walls in a beautiful golden glow. I felt my orgasm building quickly, still sensitive from the earlier assault on my clit. Namjoon began bouncing his leg, adding more pressure on my center, and sending me over the edge.

I kiss him one last time before I fall fast asleep on him.

The end.

#bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts #bts imagines #namjoon x reader #boyfriend namjoon #gym namjoon #slight angst #bangtan #bangtan fanfic #bts rm #rm smut #rm x y/n #rm one shot #bts one shot #one shot #bts angst #bts army #bts jimin #bts hobi #bangtan rm #bangtan boys #im sorry #why is it so long #bts namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon x y/n #yoongi #jung hoseok

[violetsaffron5]

Dirty Little Secret (1)

Taglist • Ao3 • Social Media • Discord 18+ • Masterlists • Chapter 2 →

↳ 1 | Unholy

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x f!Reader

Gojo Satoru is many things: family man, politician, someone the public believes they can trust. It’s how he’s gotten where he is in life. Hidden beneath the façade is a man with many guilty pleasures – you being one of them.

words: 7.3k

cw: explicit drugs use, mention of alcohol, infidelity (not on reader), vaginal fingering, rough sex, spit kink, spit as lube, breeding kink, degradation, dacryphilia, exhibitionism

an: This was just going to be a oneshot based on the song "Unholy" by Sam Smith, but then I had an idea for a small part 2

an2.0: if you would like to read part 2, that one got tagged with a community lable. Please make sure you have those on, this post will tell you how to enable that as well.

His wife probably thought she was the luckiest woman in the world when he got down on one knee, professed his love and said he wanted to spend the rest of his life by her side.

She probably felt even luckier, everything going according to their life plan when she found out she was pregnant with his children, starting a loving family with one of the most prominent politicians Tokyo has to offer.

She’d kick him out if she ever knew the way you stand between his legs, moving your shoulders, chest and hips to the beat of the bass blasting in the club. The way his eyes watch your hands trailing the length of your body before putting his own on your skin.

She’d divorce him on the spot if she knew the way you grind on his hips, the way his fingers caress every inch of your skin when he comes to see you.

She would never let him touch her again if she knew how he touched you, in all the ways she won’t let him do to her, in all the ways he really wants, the ways he enjoys.

Of course you’re aware of the wife - it would be impossible not to be. The picture-perfect family, an ideal trophy wife, two children. That’s his spiel, how he got into office and maintained his position over the years. He’s a father, a family man; understands the struggle and just how hard it is to maintain a happy healthy family - just like the average working person.

A politician you can trust because he’s just like you.

You’ve never seen or met her, steering clear of anything that has to do with Satoru during the day, but from your understanding he spends a lot of time with his kids when he has free time in the mornings and afternoons.

In the evenings he finds himself with you. Long legs spread wide as he sits back on the plush couch, you dropping your hips down onto his, grinding on him until you feel his cock harden from your touch.

It’s a miracle she hasn’t found out about the shit Satoru does behind her back; it’s a miracle nobody has. Sure he tries to be as discreet as possible, entering clubs through the back, paying for private rooms, private dances all the while spending thousands on sex, drugs and alcohol.

That’s how the two of you met. You were on stage, twirling, spinning and sliding your way down and around a pole in the most provocative positions. Satoru walked in with his three best friends; a man with long raven locks, one with a scar over the right side of his lip, and another with several tattoos over his face.

Satoru immediately caught your attention, with his messy hair, white as freshly fallen snow hanging over his eyes, eyes that were covered by dark square sunglasses, shielding them from your view. You watched him lick his lips, talk to your manager and head to a room in the back with his friends.

You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel his gaze burning into you with every flip of your hair, shimmy of your waist and hips in his direction.

You didn’t realize who he was at this point, not that it has ever really mattered.

It started with him coming to see you, paying to have you as the lone private dancer - sometimes for just him, sometimes with his friends. He’d tip you an exorbitant amount each time, enough of you to buy the Gucci handbag you’ve had your eye on for some time.

Eventually, when he realized you figured out who he is and weren’t talking about the shit you’ve seen him do, he easily charmed you with his honeyed words and wicked ways, inviting you to continue to the party elsewhere when your performances had ended.

Satoru likes to spend money, always seems to have too much of it, if the tips he leaves you with are anything to judge him by. Always enough to buy the latest Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Versace without batting an eye.

All because you’re so good to him, he says.

He likes to get his hands on the finest white powders money can buy; likes to snort lines off your tits before rolling the remaining into dainty joints for you to smoke; likes to watch you with his own lazy, crooked smile as the smooth burn fills your lungs.

You’re consistent, staying out of his life and daily affairs. It’s part of what he likes so much about you.

You never ask for more, knowing he’s not willing to give it. It’s why he keeps coming back to you, there’s no desire to be a part of the drama that would ensue if anyone outside of his circle of friends ever found out about you.

It’s why you had no problem signing the NDA he presented on your first night out together.

Satoru knows when he needs it, you’ll be there; when he wakes in the morning, you’ll be gone. Not wanting any part of the lives you lead outside of the clubs and hotel rooms you frequently find yourselves in.

The bright lights from the city faded from the rear view mirror some time ago. Things are different tonight, seemingly calmer than you’ve ever experienced before with the man sitting to your right over the year you’ve been seeing each other.

He shifts gears while humming along to the tune playing softly in the background as the two of you sit in a comfortable silence. 

The car is extravagant. It suits him and you wouldn’t expect anything less to be honest. It’s the kind of car where the doors open up, rather than out, the leather seats are a dark black while the exterior is a stark white matching his hair.

The small space smells like a mix of his cologne, bergamot and honey, along with the perfume you always put on before going out with him.

This is the longest you’ve ever spent in his vehicle, unless he’s pulled off to the side of the road or in an abandoned parking lot either with you on his lap or spread out in the back seat as he fucks into you. 

Satoru hasn’t spoken a lot tonight, just asked if you wanted to hang out after work and ushered you into his car on an empty street like usual. Obviously he’s taking you away tonight but you’re not sure where and trying not to care too much, so you don’t ask.

Doing that would change the aloof nature of your relationship and you’re not ready for any of those dynamics to be different, nor do you think he would be receptive to it.

“I can’t stay long,” he breaks the silence first, pulling into a hotel roughly forty five minutes away on the outskirts of Tokyo, “and I need to be sober. But, you can have fun and I’ll drive you home later.”

Satoru’s never taken you home before, though with his connections and power you wouldn’t be surprised if he knew where you live regardless. When you’ve stayed the night together before, you’re always up early and make sure to leave before he wakes up. Not only because you shouldn’t be with him, but also because you’ve never been one to stick around for awkward morning conversations or expectations.

You nod with a quiet “okay,” while he hands you a basic black face mask while putting on his own. He also takes off his tie, throwing it in his pocket and undoing a few of the top buttons on his shirt before putting on a matching black sock hat to cover his hair.

Stepping out of the car, you adjust your tiny black dress and hair before looping your arm in with Satoru’s making your way into the glamorous hotel, past the concierge and to the elevator.

Even when trying to be discreet, Satoru and his friends can’t help the luxuries they like to surround themselves with. He says he can’t stay and has to be sober, but that didn’t stop any of them from choosing a hotel with chandeliers, gold decor and marble floors covering every inch of the lobby.

When you get to the top floor of the hotel, there are only a few doors in the hall. Satoru knocks on one a few times before it’s quickly opened, allowing the two of you in. The space is more akin to an apartment than a hotel room - a small kitchen off to one side, a large bedroom with its own door separating the space from what serves as the living room.

There are floor to ceiling windows covering every inch of wall space, overlooking the small, lively city below. Chandeliers hang in this room too, the bathroom has similar marble flooring to the lobby with a shower that could easily fit ten, along with a jacuzzi.

Suguru is sitting on a chair reclined back with a woman who could easily be a model on his lap. He has a joint between his fingers, bringing it to his lips and taking a drag before holding it up to hers. She accepts with a grin, hand on his chest while the other fiddles with his hair.

Toji and Sukuna are sitting on a love seat next to Suguru, doing what they always seem to be doing - cutting too many lines of a soft white powder on a mirrored plate with a credit card before rolling one of their bills and inhaling, taking turns.

There are several other women in the room with a few other guys you don’t recognize - they’re all busy grinding to the beat of the music playing, glasses of champagne in their hands.

You never know who Toji and Sukuna are going to have with them - it’s seemingly a new girl each time you’re around. Aside from yourself and the girl on Suguru’s lap you’ve seen a few times, you’re the only constant.

Then again, you don’t know what goes on, on the other nights of the week that Satoru doesn’t come to whisk you away. You’ve never bothered to ask, never wanting to know how many other women he has, just like you, waiting to have his attention for the night.

Toji walks over, the mountain of a man that he is, emerald green eyes gleaming with mischief as he looks you up and down, biting his scarred lip before saying, “lookin’ great, as always.”

You’re smiling, unable to help the blush that creeps onto your cheeks from his intense gaze, but don’t respond because Satoru has moved his hand to your waist, pulling you in closer to him.

“Can you fuck off and leave my girl alone?” Satoru says without a trace of humor and you’re reeling more from his words than you should be.

His girl.

You don’t let yourself think too hard about it. You know what this is, what it always will be.

What it can never be.

You’re shrugging as Satoru pulls you away, moving his hand from your waist down to your ass, grabbing a handful before removing his hand completely, sitting on the couch next to Suguru, across from where Sukuna was before, who is now missing.

Satoru likes it when you wear the things you buy with his money - showing him you appreciate what he’s given you. Every once in a while you’ll buy a new handbag or jewelry to show off but mainly you spend it on little dresses to flaunt around in front of him, something easily accessible and removable, the way he likes it.

Sitting on the couch, resting your head on Satoru’s shoulder listening to the way his voice reverberates through his chest as he talks with Suguru, you absentmindedly draw little shapes on his chest wondering why he brought you with him tonight. The only thing you’ve been doing since you got here is listen to them discuss things you’re not interested in talking or hearing about, things that have to do with their work.

A soft quiet sigh leaves your lips as you watch Suguru pack and roll another joint for himself and his guest. Satoru hears and cocks his head in your direction before capturing your lips with his own quickly.

“You can join them. I’ll take care of you tonight.”

“It’s not fun without you,” you’re running your thumb across his lower lip, wiping away the lipstick that’s smeared on the corner. He grins before biting the tip of your thumb, swirling his tongue around it.

After a few moments, you pull your thumb away and he clicks his tongue before reaching into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and a little clear plastic baggie with a white powder that was embedded deep within, “this would be fun for you. Just need a little.”

Your brows are furrowed; it’s a different soft crystalline powder than you’ve seen him have before, “what is it?”

“A stimulant,” he replies generically, his grin is wide as he puts his wallet back in his pocket. Satoru tells you to take the water bottle that’s on the table beside you and drink it because you’ll want to stay hydrated and then to wet the tip of one of your fingers with your tongue.

You grin, looking up at him through thick lashes before putting your index finger in his mouth. He chuckles before rolling his tongue on it a few times. Listening to his instructions, you dip your finger into the baggie and suck the powder off - it doesn’t taste like anything. All you’re able to taste is the slight spearmint flavor from his spit.

After dipping your finger back into the baggie you hold it up for him. He watches you, eyes dark, stern and unamused. Satoru sees the way your shoulders slump slightly when he doesn’t accept it and the way your lower lips juts out slightly, pouting - it’s barely noticeable, but he sees it.

You’ve never asked for more from him over the last year, and you’ve been so good to him during that time too.

“Fuck, okay, but this is it.”

“Okay.” You reply quietly, the corner of your lip tugging upwards.

The boys continue their conversation and you’re not sure how much time has passed but as you watch Satoru’s sharp jaw as he speaks, the planes of his cheeks and slope of his nose you also realize his pupils have dilated tremendously. They’re more black than blue at this point.

You’ve also noticed you’ve been drawing little circles on the palm of your hand this entire time - the touch of your own skin feels so good that you can’t help but reach for Satoru and run your nails up and down the length of his arm. He tilts his head towards you, smirks and pulls you closer so your legs are resting atop his as he follows suit on your bare legs.

The contact feels incredible, like little tingles of electricity each time his nails run up and down the length of your legs slowly. Every once in a while he moves his hand up your thigh, towards the hem of your dress which makes you gasp, more and more slick pooling in the center of your panties with each pass of his hand.

“So, the wife is finally suspicious about where you go at night, huh?” Suguru asks smoothly as Toji and Sukuna come back over and sit on the small couch across from you.

Sukuna lights another joint, taking a long drag before adding, “everyone is suspicious about what we’re up to. That’s nothing new.”

Satoru sighs before leaning his head against the back of the couch, “just need to make sure nothing gets out. It’ll affect more than just us and our families if it does.”

“Awe,” you coo, “trouble in paradise?”

Satoru is snide with his remark as he glares at you from the corner of his cold blue eyes, “why? Wish I was married to you?”

You grin, leaning up to whisper in his ear, “you wish.”

“What about you?” He asks suddenly, “hiding me from anyone?”

Satoru grabs the little bag of powder and opens it again, so you do the same as you did last time; lick the tip of your index finger, dip it in and place a little on your tongue before doing the same for him.

“Nope, not worth it.”

This is the first time either of you have really acknowledged your lives outside of what you do when you’re together, typically avoiding any and all topics that have to do with personal lives.

Tonight is different and you don’t know why though you’re not exactly putting in any effort to change it.

Satoru has never worried or cared if his friends made a comment about how good you look or showed interest in hooking up with you but tonight he’s more possessive of your interactions. Holding you closer, letting details of his family and day to day life slip in conversation like he never has before.

“This feels so good,” you rasp out, taking in the feeling of his hands moving along your legs and mostly thighs at this point, so you move to straddle him. Satoru runs his large hands up your thighs slowly and under your dress to your ass, gripping hard as you press your body up against his chest, “need you.”

“I can’t tonight,” it’s a whisper filled with desperation because he wants to.

Satoru’s grip on your hips tightens as he lowers you down onto his lap so you can feel just how badly he wants you too. A whimper leaves your lips when he guides you to roll your hips on top of his before moving his hands to the insides of your thighs.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He hisses when he feels your arousal running down your leg and quickly loses his resolve, moving your panties to the side and running two fingers through your soaked folds.

It’s easy to forget, with the way he’s easily able to insert two fingers into your pussy and find your sweet spot, that the two of you aren’t the only ones in the room. Foreheads pressed together, mouths agape as you cup his cheek, rutting your hips in time with his hand as he brings you closer and closer to the brink of your release.

Satoru moves a hand from your hip to your throat, squeezing gently at the base while your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure. Each touch, each pass of his fingers on your g-spot is euphoric.

There’s slick coating his hand, up to his wrist - you’re wet, wetter than you ever have before and you’re doing everything in your power to move your hips with his hand so his palm stays tightly pressed against your clit. You’re mewling, whimpering, never wanting this feeling to end, almost ready to beg him to keep you like this forever.

You’re so taken back with each others touch, the way you hold him close, card your fingers through his hair and drag your nails through his undercut; the way your breaths are mingling with one another as you’re so overcome with desire and pleasure you can’t even warn him that the thread barely keeping you together is about to snap before you’re moaning out his name and he’s whispering “fuck, that’s it,” as you absolutely gush on his hand.

Capturing your lips again the kisses are messy and needy until you’re both snapped back to reality by the sounds of Toji laughing, “damn, that was quite the show. You gonna need some help with her?”

Satoru sighs, running his thumb across your lips before moving you off his lap and standing, entwining his fingers with yours, “fuck off, Fushiguro. Find someone your own age to hang out with.”

He leads you out of the room and back down to the lobby of the hotel. You’re sure you’re about to leave for the night, before he lets temptation ruin him but rather than leading you out, he stops at the receptionist's desk, where a young man is standing, asking for a room.

There’s a smile that spreads across your face and you can’t even help it, a feeling of superiority spreading through your body that he’s choosing to spend the night with you, rather than whatever obligation was holding him back earlier.

“Hi,” you smile and wave at the receptionist while biting your lip. His eyes are flicking between you and Satoru as he looks for an open room.

It’s thrilling, being out with Satoru - there’s always that underlying thought, the excitement around potentially getting caught, even though that isn’t something either of you actually want.

Your heart is threatening to beat out of your chest, either because of the reality of the two of you being caught due to a snap decision on his part to stay the night or because of the drugs you took earlier, you’re not sure but you don’t let yourself dwell on it.

Satoru tilts his head in your direction, eyeing you up and down with a frown, “don’t fucking flirt with another man in front of me.”

“Oh, jealousy is not a good look on you.”

Before Satoru is able to reply, the receptionist cuts in, handing Satoru the keycard to a room along with a pamphlet of information about amenities the hotel provides. When the receptionist finishes his spiel Satoru carefully looks him over.

“If anything leaks from here, I’ll know it was from you and I will make your life a living hell. I will take anything and everything you hold dear to your heart and ruin it. You will be nothing but a broken man by the time I’m done with you. Understood?”

The man stands with wide eyes as he replies in a hurried, shaky voice, “o-okay. Understood.”

And then Satoru grins like an angel before pulling you along with him, to take you up to the room and fuck you like the devil he truly is.

He pulls you into the elevator, hiding both of your faces from the camera by pushing you into the wall of the confined space, lips latched while your tongues glide against one another, hips rutting into the other looking for stimulation.

When the elevator dings, he stumbles backwards dragging you along with him, keeping your lips connected until right outside the space where he lifts you, and you wrap your legs around his waist while he pulls the keycard out of his pocket. You busy yourself with kissing along his jaw and neck while he finds the room you were assigned, swiping the card and kicking the door closed once he’s walked through the threshold.

The room is large, and grand but nowhere near as extravagant as the one you were in earlier, not that it really matters considering the only focus is the plush king size mattress he lets you softly fall onto.

Satoru doesn’t waste any time unbuttoning his shirt and slacks, throwing them haphazardly across the room while you slip the dress off, along with your panties, waiting in the center of the bed for him to join you.

And he does, with a salacious grin spread across his face crawling over to you, pushing you further into the mattress while you spread your legs, feeling his long, thick cock press against your soaked entrance.

“Wait, wait,” you gasp out, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek, “condom.”

He stares at you like you’ve just shot him square in the chest before furrowing his brows, “No. We’ll- I’ll- fuck- I’ll pull out, I have to feel you.”

Satoru doesn’t have many rules - first and foremost, above all else, stay out of the limelight and his family's business and do not talk to anyone about the details of your relationship with him without a lawyer present if anyone should find out.

After that it’s simple, really only two other rules to abide by; take your birth control pills on time and wear a condom. And he’s been adamant about that until tonight. He’s always stated he didn’t want to risk getting anything and passing it to his wife because that would be a fucking nightmare to try and explain his way out of, but it would be an even bigger problem if he were to get you pregnant.

All of that seems to be out of the window tonight because he effortlessly pushes in past your entrance. He moans sinfully at the feeling while your eyes roll to the back of your head and arch your back, “you’re so wet, this- oh fuck- fuck, you feel so good.”

“What about your wife?” You manage to gasp out, mouth open, eyes half lidded, nails digging into his shoulder as he moves so painfully slowly that it’s amazing.

The heightened sense of touch, the feeling of him with nothing in between is intoxicating, makes your head a little dizzy, feeling every inch of his length as he pulls out and pushes back in.

“You jealous, baby?” He mutters, eyes hazy with lust, “want me to fuck you the way I do my wife?”

He pulls almost all the way out before snapping his hips back into yours causing you to stutter out, “fuck, n-no, no.”

“Think I’ll leave my wife, leave my family for a stripper?” His cock twitches at his words but he doesn’t move his hips again, doesn’t give you what you need so you wrap your legs around his waist and rock your hips against him the best you’re able, “I’ve fucking thought about it, having you like this every day.”

His large hands span your hips, halting your movements as he sits back up and pulls out to your dismay.

“Beg me.” He demands, running the red tip of his cock across your hypersensitive folds, nudging your clit a few times in the process just to watch the way you squirm below him, “beg me to fuck you.”

He takes a handful of your tits massaging them roughly before leaning down, swirling his tongue on your hardened nipple. He tweaks the other at the same time he tugs the other between his teeth.

“S’toru,” you whine needy and shamelessly, “I- fuck- please, please fuck me. Just- want to feel you, need you, please.”

Satoru watches you through his lashes the way you wriggle and writhe with your nipple tugged gently between his teeth. Cock is straining, leaking precum from the slit on the sheets of the bed - he’s just as needy as you, dying to be touched, to get the stimulation he’s craving just as badly as you but he’s being incredibly patient tonight.

His length is longer, harder and thicker than usual, twitches with your words and every whimper that leaves your lips but he still doesn’t fuck you - he’s waiting. Waiting for you to say he can fuck you, unimpeded and raw.

“Please, Satoru, baby,” tears are forming in the corner of your eyes, threatening to break free if he doesn’t work to extinguish the fire that’s burning in the center of your belly, to give you the release your body is screaming at you to have, “fuck me, please- so hard- always wanted to feel you-”

He can’t hold back anymore, not when you’re laying so pretty on the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks and begging him to give you what he knows only he can. Before you’ve realized what happened, he has you flipped over lining his cock with your entrance before slamming his hips flush with yours.

You cry out his name as he moves his hips with reckless abandon, finally, finally feeding the flames of desire burning in your core. His crystalline eyes are hooded with lust and desire as he grabs your hair at the roots and tugs harshly, other hand on your hip helping keep you in place as he pumps his hips faster and harder.

“You take all of me so fucking well,” he moans, “nobodies ever taken all of me.”

Wet, lewd squelching noises fill the space of the hotel room. You’re so wet from the jolt of electricity that thrums through your body with every touch and every time the tip of his cock grazes your sweet spot, and you’re only getting wetter as he continues to fuck into your rougher and rougher.

You know he’s comparing you to his wife when he babbles aimlessly like this, but you’ve learned to not let it bother you, not to think too much on it. After all, he’s spending his free time with you.

Sex with Satoru has always been good, he always seemed to know what you needed before you did, but tonight is different. Better somehow.

It’s all so much, so euphoric that there’s no way you’re able to hold back your impending orgasm; unable to help the way your thighs shake when the tip of his length kisses your cervix so deliciously you know it’ll ache in the morning. 

The moment Satoru drapes his body over yours, fingers drawing small tight circles on your clit is the moment the flames erupt, warmth and pleasure coursing through your veins as your walls spasm and constrict around his cock so hard he has to slow his pace and take a deep shaky breath in order to not follow along right beside you.

He lets go of your hair, kissing your shoulders and center of your back several times before sitting back on the balls of his feet before taking both of your wrists in one of his large hands and holding them behind your back.

Satoru moves his hips slowly a few times before pulling you up so your back is flush with his chest. 

“Like it when I fuck you like the filthy slut you are?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before hooking his fingers in your mouth turning your attention to him. Your tongue immediately finds his fingers, swirling over them as you look up to him, eyes so dark and filled with lust you can barely see any of the color anymore. He lets a tail of saliva fall from his mouth into yours and you moan the moment it hits your tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He lets go of your wrist, splaying one hand over your stomach to feel the bulge from his cock each time he recklessly fucks into you, while the other finds its way to your breast, squeezing and gripping as he looses himself to pleasure inside of you.

There’s a mirror across from you, above the dresser in front of the bed - Satoru’s cheeks and the tips of his ears are pink, down his neck to the top of his chest. Lips parted with eyes on you as he watches and listens to the way you moan and whine from each stroke of his long cock.

“Satoru, cum in me,” his hips falter at your words, “fill me up, please.”

“Baby, I can’t.” But he absolutely wants to.

He pushes you back down on the bed, hand in the center of your back keeping your face pressed against the silky sheets. He takes the opportunity to grip your ass and spread your cheeks, watching the way you take all of him down the base without complaint. He lets his spit fall from his mouth, and watches the way you jolt when it makes contact with your other entrance unexpectedly and slides down to his cock, mixing with your arousal.

Satoru feels the way your pussy has a death grip on his cock again, knows you’re about to cum and he can’t bring himself to pull out. Not when you look and sound so pretty for him, not when you were literally begging for him to cum inside you earlier.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” he’s moaning at the thought, getting lost inside you, “I’m gonna cum. Gonna fill you so fucking full of me.”

His words are enough to set you off, having your pussy tightening around him like a noose as he paints your walls white, letting out a guttural groan as he rocks his hips back and forth, working you both through your releases.

There’s so much dripping out from between where you’re connected that his efforts to keep it all inside are fruitless. The view is absolutely obscene, cum mixed together and dripping onto the bed sheets below, the sounds are vulgar but it doesn’t stop him from fucking it deep and deeper inside, rolling his neck and head back through the hypersensitivity of his his tip.

Eventually he rolls you over onto your back, both panting, trying to catch your breaths. He’s still half hard, both hissing at the sensation when he runs his cock up through your puffy folds, dragging his wet, heavy cock on your stomach when he leans up and places several languid kisses to the center of your chest.

He licks a strip from your chest to jaw before sucking several small red starbursts on your neck, shoulder and down to your tits. Your nails are on his shoulder and back digging into his skin - he groans, loves the feeling, the sharp to dull pain that comes with it.

There’s been an unspoken rule between the two of you, no marks. Not on him at least. It’s more important his body be free from any unknown scratches and little red marks, should the press decide to have a field day seeing them and decide to investigate.

“Love leaving marks on you,” he whispers, voice low, gravely with desire again. “Everyone knows you belong to someone else, don’t they?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Tell me baby, who do you belong to?”

“You. Satoru, I’m yours.” You answer a little too honestly, holding his face a little too lovingly. He groans at the confirmation, knows he shouldn’t have made you say it but couldn’t resist hearing it.

You place several kisses on his lips and cheek. Everything is getting progressively sloppier, starting to come down from your respective highs. Satoru’s eyes are half lidded, not only from lust but from a tiredness that’s starting to seep through.

He returns the kisses languidly before you kiss along his jaw, sucking a small spot just under his jaw, nipping at the skin playfully a few times in the process. He doesn’t stop you because he knows that despite not being able to give you all of himself, he’s yours too.

Probably even more than he’s his wifes.

Slowly, he presses his tip against your entrance again, easily slipping past the ring of muscles while you wrap your legs around his waist. He hooks one of his arms under your knee, pushing it up so he’s able to get deeper.

Satoru fucks into you hard and fast like this. It’s messy, wet and sticky with your mixed arousal and cum connecting the two of you. Slick wet sounds fill the room again until you’re both on the brink of another imminent release.

“Think I might fucking love you.” He admits, voice low, filled with lust.

You want to say it back, but you know it’s not true, the shit he says when he’s buried ten inches deep in your cunt, cock bruising your cervix as he fucks into you.

“You’re so wet, already so full of me,” he moans at the thought of cumming inside you again. “G-gonna give you a baby, gonna give you part of me.”

“S’toru,” you gasp at his lust filled desires and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want that too so you move your hips up wantonly, eagerly, “yes, please.”

It’s a bad fucking idea, to let him say these things, to agree with him. But you let him move your knees back to your shoulders, holding the heels of your feet for leverage as he presses his hips into you until you’re both cumming again.

He collapses on top of you, heavy breaths fanning your ear. You lay like this, chests rising and falling against one another until you’re overcome by sleep.

There’s light peeking in through semi-closed curtains, a beam of light hitting your face at the perfect angle, right into your eye. Knitting your brows together, you stifle a yawn before stretching out, feeling a warm body pressed into yours.

Your eyes flutter open, focusing on the dim light of the hotel room. It’s the same as it was last night, pristine, perfect. All except the sheets and blankets that are askew on the bed from your passion filled night.

The silky white sheet is covering most of you, but only on Satoru up to his hips. He must have gotten hot last night, threw everything off him in his sleep.

Looking up to him, his eyes are still closed, eyes moving slightly behind his lids. Soft white lashes flutter slightly with each movement while his arm that’s wrapped around your waist twitches slightly.

Your naked body is pressed against him, skin to skin. One leg is tangled between his while one hand is on his chest.

You let yourself take in the sight, not something you allow yourself to do frequently, but last night was indulgent, so this morning might as well be too. Satoru looks peaceful when he’s asleep. He’s always so calm and collected when you’re with him but never quite like this.

Truly without a care in the world with his eyes closed. No stress about someone finding out about you, exposing his lies and his secret life.

You stay like this for too long, watching him sleep, letting your index finger run along the scar on his chest. He says your name quietly, and you smile, just slightly at the thought of him dreaming about you.

You’re still high, you can tell, feeling light and airy and great about everything, but you know better than to let it last. You’ll be coming down again soon and everything will feel mundane, pointless, bothersome.

So you go to move, push yourself away from him to do your normal routine of getting ready for the day, pretending you were never here with him. His grip around your waist tightens, halting your movements.

“Stay…” Satoru whispers so quietly it’s barely audible.

Pursing your lips you look up at him, eyes still closed, no identifying feature signifying he’s woken up and is really, truly asking you to stay by his side, despite all the shit that would come along with it.

Your heart is beating fast, irregular, but you’re sure it’s from the stimulant. It has to be. Any other reason would be less than ideal.

After all, he probably thinks you’re his wife right now. Laying next to him, snuggled in close like she probably is every other day of the week.

You let out a single low wry chuckle at the morbid thought, licking your lips and shaking your head and whispering, “that’s not a good idea.”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down and you mentally kick yourself for leaving the incredibly obvious fucking hickey just below his jaw. Satoru’s grip loosens just enough for you to wriggle out of his grasp.

Something you quickly learned after getting involved with Satoru is to have a bag packed at all times. That way in the mornings you can shower, removing the sweat and scents of not only the alcohol or drugs but also his cologne from your skin. It’s important to make it appear like you were never with him, to never leave in the same clothes you’ve arrived in.

After showering, you do your normal daily routine. Moisturizers, hair products, make up. You bring it all and you do it all - it would be no different if you were sitting at home, getting ready for your day.

That’s all this is, isn’t it? Just a routine. Meet a man, party, have mind blowing sex, act as if you’ve never met each other afterwards. Over and over again.

When you step back into the living space of the room, Satoru is no longer lying on his back, but rather his stomach, face buried into the pillow you used last night. His own overnight back is open, evident he had rifled through it for some reason when you were in the shower before climbing back into the bed, ignoring your presence.

Sitting on top is a black Versace sweatshirt. Looking back over to him, he’s unmoving aside from his back raising and falling slightly with each breath. Pursing your lips you quickly decide to grab it out of his bag and throw it into yours.

It’ll smell like him, even if only for a few days.

Picking up your garments from last night, you throw them into your bag before pulling out oversized sunglasses to hide your obviously still blown pupils and throw them on before turning the knob of the door to exit the room.

You don’t bother turning around, checking to see if Satoru watched you walk out. There’s no point. You know he didn’t. This is all routine.

After ensuring the door closes completely, you take a few steps down the hall while the elevator dings and a woman steps out of it.

She’s tall, in a pressed black pencil skirt and blazer. She looks classy with the way her ebony hair falls over her shoulders in soft curls.

She heads down the direction you’re coming from. Neither of you acknowledge the other as you pass by, on your own separate missions. Your breathing picks up, and the air feels tense after noticing the scowl spread across her features. And you all but jump at the sound of her banging on the room door you just walked out of moments prior.

You press the button to the elevator a few times, palms growing more clammy by the second, afraid the two of you might have been caught, that the boy from the front desk didn’t heed Satoru’s warning.

You watch from the corner of your eye as Satoru groggily opens the door, complaining about the loud sound. At least he had enough sense to put on a shirt beforehand, hiding the marks you left across his chest and back.

“You missed our counseling appointment. Is this some kind of joke to you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes adjusting to the bright light of the hall and you could swear his eyes flicker to you for a split second before finally speaking.

“No, of course not. I went out with the guys last night and lost track of time. You know how it is.”

“All too well.”

She pushes past him into the room and you know he didn’t have enough time to do any clean up of his own, that the room still reeks of alcohol, sweat and sex. And if she even bothers to look around, he’ll have to explain why the shower is wet from having been used when he clearly hasn’t washed up.

“Good lord. What have you been doing here? And what is on your neck?”

His hand goes to his jaw instinctively to try to hide the mark you left last night, “uh, cigarette burn. The guys were messing around last night and I got mixed up in the fray.”

He doesn’t seem to be too worried about his wife’s line of questioning because he looks over to you, just as the elevator dings, giving you a smirk.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, biting your lip as you return the sly smile, stepping into the elevator once the doors open knowing he can’t and won’t stay away from you for long.

Taglist: @petalsrdead @sofiaconlaz @lovelylashawnalee @s-witch-bitch @watyousayin

#jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #violetsaffronfic #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #oneshot #unholy #dirty little secret #DLS

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

I really really hate to be that person - especially because I know a lot of people are under the impression that fanfic authors are greedy and we should be grateful for any comments we get, even if those comments are full of unauthorized concrit, even if they're kind of rude, even if they're weirdly self-shaming (sometimes insinuating that people should feel bad over reading the dark or smutty content in the fics or that we should feel bad for writing it in the first place even though you're also reading it??).

But like, lately, I have been getting so many comments along the lines of "this fic should be longer!!" "I wish this was a series!!" "please turn this into a series!" "I would read endless sequels of this!!!" - today someone literally commented on one of my fics saying that it was a war crime that the fic was 30k instead of being 'a whole series'. And I totally understand the mindset that if something is good, you want more of it. If you enjoy something, you want more of it. But these comments are definitely not as flattering as people think they are.

When reading those comments - it doesn't always come off as a compliment. Most of my fics range from 5k to 30k on average, and they are usually oneshots or oneshots that I have split into multiple parts in order to be more readable - most of my longer, ongoing series are abandoned because I didn't have the steam to maintain them. (Most people don't know at all how hard it is to write a good, coherent, well-plotted 100k fic and actually keep up with it.) After I post the fic I have written later this week, I will have written over 400k this year alone, with my entire AO3 having over one million words split between 79 different fics.

So often, having people look at my fics and having their only comment be to 'write more' - feels like an insult. Because I do write more. I have written more. I write consistently. (It just sucks that people have almost nothing to say about what I have already written.)

Having people look at my fics - usually very long fics - and go "hey, this would be better if it was longer!!" or "hey, that was good, but the only productive thing I have to say about it is: make it longer" - it always feels very discouraging.

It doesn't make me want to rush to write more of that fic. In fact, most of the time, I actively avoid working on sequels to fics where the only comments are 'more please' because I know the only thing people will say about the sequel is 'when are you gonna make more?' - and oftentimes, I don't intend to make more.

I have said this in another post, but the ending to my fics are always intentional. I don't write fics with the mindset of turning them into a 100 part series. I write fics with the mindset of making them like a film or a short TV series - telling a capsule of a story with a very intentional beginning, middle, and end. And if I write a sequel, it's because I feel there is more to be told - but I will also cap off that sequel with a very intentional ending.

(Also, don't get me started on the complex of - if fics don't have the classic 'happy ending' people feel like every single thread needs to be resolved until it gets to a more classic happy ending, when I love writing intentional melancholic and thoughtful endings.)

Also - in general, I feel like people don't understand how much work goes into a fic. It might take you about 2 hours to read a fic that's 30k (and a lot of people who are avid readers probably read faster than that, reading it in an hour or less) - but concepting that fic, writing that fic, and meticulously editing that fic so that it can be readable and pleasant for people takes upwards of 20 hours of work. I would say realistically, upwards of 30 hours. And those are just working hours - hours sitting at the computer actively working. That doesn't include the time spent in between workshopping the ideas in my head while I am doing other mundane tasks in life.

It's very, very easy to consume a 30k oneshot in one sitting and then hold out your plate and go "more please!!" without putting any thought into how much work went into the original fic.

All of this just to say - please think about these things next time you are commenting on a fic (or even closing a fic without commenting at all), or doing something stupid like generating a fic with AI - which steals from everyday hard working fanfic writers. Fanfiction is hard work - it's a labour of love, and it shouldn't be about blind consumerism where you finish one and then rapidly start looking for the next one. You should appreciate each one like a good, hand pulled taffy instead of gobbling them all down like cheap candy mass made by factory machines.

Yeah - I think that's it.

-your local over worked (but still passionate) fanfic writer

#uuugh #either nobody will see this or everyone will and they will complain about it #sundrop speaks #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #ellie williams x reader #spencer reid x reader #abby anderson x reader #mike schmidt x reader #fanfiction #fandom #vanessa shelly x reader #gar logan x reader

[asbealthgn]

(the thrilling conclusion. also posted on ao3! here's some art of the kitten i did. part 1, 2, 2.5, 3)

The Corroded Coffin fan base find out about Steve entirely by accident.

It starts, of course, with the kitten. After Eddie’s had her for a few days he decides to make an official post on his Instagram, which is a big deal because he normally just lets his PR people handle posting. All he normally does is post shit to his story, but the kitten deserves more formal recognition than that.

So he picks his favorite pictures of her (his camera roll is filled to the brim at this point) and posts them with the caption meet the light of my life, Lemon Verbena Deathclaw Goblikon Munson (Lemon for short). It’s like kicking a wasp’s nest, but, like, the good version: everyone and their dog shares the post to their stories, edits set to any number of Corroded Coffin’s hit songs are spread across TikTok, coffintwt is in an uproar.

Several hours later, Eddie posts a video to his story. He films Lemon on the couch and asks her, “Miss Lemon, how does it feel to be the best, most famous cat in the world?” She responds by meowing loudly and trying to bite his camera. Steve is sitting on the couch, so part of his thighs end up in the video.

Aside from having great thighs, the odd sliver of Steve’s legs or torso or arms showing up in various photographs and videos that Eddie puts on his story over the next few days does not draw a lot of attention from the Corroded Coffin fanbase. If Eddie were to guess, he would probably say they assume it’s just Eddie or one of his bandmates. It’s not until Eddie posts a video of Lemon trying to climb onto the couch on her own and Steve’s hands make an appearance steadying her that people take notice. More specifically, the Twitter account that’s dedicated to posting close-ups of the members of Corroded Coffin’s hands posts a screenshot of the video with the caption those hands do not belong to our boys.

From there, it becomes a wild source of controversy on Twitter as coffintwt tries to figure out for sure if those hands belong to anyone in the band. There’s a lot of back and forth, but ultimately they seem to agree that the original poster is The Authority on the matter. Then it becomes a game of going back through other pictures of Lemon and trying to figure out if the guy showing up the background of so many of them is also someone outside the band. A lot of screenshots start flying around with captions like none of the corroded boys would wear yellow or the rest of the band other than eddie were in LA when this one was posted and so on and so on. 

A consensus is reached: Eddie has been spending a lot of time with someone not in the band, quite possibly a boyfriend.

On a rainy Tuesday three weeks after they met, Eddie lays back on his couch with Steve laying on his chest and Lemon laying on his chest. “They’re onto you, Stevie,” Eddie says. 

“Who’s onto me?” Steve asks, not looking away from the basketball game on the TV. He’s terminally offline and has been blissfully unaware of the saga unfolding. 

“Twitter,” Eddie explains. “My fans have noticed you in the background in a lot of pictures of Lemon and they’ve started putting the pieces together.”

Steve scratches Lemon under her chin and she purrs happily. “Why are they looking at me instead of her?”

“Hell if I know,” Eddie says, reaching around Steve to rub Lemon’s head. “It’s not like you’re super drop-dead gorgeous or anything.”

Grinning, Steve turns his head to kiss Eddie. “Thanks, baby.”

Before Steve can turn his attention back to the game, Eddie hooks his finger under his chin to keep Steve’s eyes on him. “I have a question for you,” he says, “Well, two questions.”

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“First, do you want to be my boyfriend?” Eddie knows that three weeks is kind of ridiculously fast, but Steve has practically moved in already, spending all his free time here and sleeping in Eddie’s bed most nights. So Eddie’s not super worried about what his answer is going to be.

Sure enough, Steve smiles. “Yeah, I do,” he says. He kisses Eddie before asking, “What’s the second question?”

“Well, since you said yes, do you mind if I post something about us to stop the speculation?”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, “But can I tell Robin first so she finds out from me?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah, of course. Do you want to go ov—?” But oh, Steve is already pulling out his phone and calling Robin. Okay then. 

“Hey, Robbie! Just wanted to let you know that Eddie’s my boyfriend now….No, he wasn’t already….Well, we hadn’t talked about it….Okay, that’s kinda mean….No, it’s okay….Yeah, Lemon is great! Do you want to talk to her?” Steve holds the phone up to the kitten and she bites the microphone. Steve puts the phone back to his ear. “That was her….Okay, I actually have to go. I just wanted to tell you….Bye, love you!”

Steve puts his phone back in his pocket and then grins at Eddie. “Alright, I’m ready.”

“If there’s one thing about you, baby, you’re a go-getter,” Eddie says, laughing. He gets his own phone out and holds it out to take a picture of them. Lemon, who is fascinated by phones, looks up at the camera as he snaps the photo. Perfect. 

Eddie posts the picture with the caption the rumors are true, Lemon has two dads. she gets her looks from Steve’s side. Then he puts his phone down and wraps his arms back around Steve. He can worry about his fans’ reaction later. Right now, he has other plans.

“What do you say, boyfriend?” he murmurs in Steve’s ear. “Should we go put Lemon in the bathtub?”

tagging: @nburkhardt @stargyles @csinnamon-fox @manda-panda-monium @silly-jellyghoty @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring @starquirk @lightwoodbanethings @dramaticwriter @adaed5 @freyaforestafay @roaringgoodshow @sherrylyn628 @stevesbipanic @stevethehairington @henderdads @artiststarme @softboisteve @gregre369 @korixae @kokoshka67 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @piningapple @iwouldsail @thesuninyaface @aftermidnightwriting @hamiltonsteele @brassreign @bitchysunflower @homosexual-having-tea @adelicioustragedy @trashpocket @dramaticwriter @eddiemunsonswife @blackpanzy @bitchysunflower @adelicioustragedy @thegingerrapunzel @overhillunderhill @beckkthewreck @glittergluekintsugi @elyondelannoy @somegirlsomewhere @pluto-pepsi @shinekocreator @goodomensgurl @savory-babby @blues-tunes @babyblender @221b1tch

(tagging is having issues so i'll tag the rest in a reply)

#not pictured: dustin repeatedly calling steve the second the post goes up because he's had eddie's post notifications on for years #thank you to the people who gave me kitten name ideas btw! #i ended up giving her like six bc i couldn't decide #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #ficlet