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tropes-and-tales · 6 months

Text

Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11: Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4096

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains. It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache. You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south. The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue.

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply. “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal.

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly. The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly. The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention. You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten. Maybe that’d be better. You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. It means nothing.

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap. You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself: you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him. Turning him over and over in your mind.

Soap MacTavish. Handsome, almost unbearably so. He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious. Friendly. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile. He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply. You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.” He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.” You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.” You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter. “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong. Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains. You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap. But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another. You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission. Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all: Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever. Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke. He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price. He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured.

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you. You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match. When you walk past, he notices, sits up. Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes. He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff. “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own. “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.” You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you.

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing. “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree. You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission. You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing. “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.” You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you.

You’re not sure what spurs your next move. You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger. You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move. But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought. Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess. Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise. His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it. His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you. You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?” His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink. Refuse to look away. “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.” You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm. “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back. He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters. Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke. You could still back out. Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him. It could change the tenor of the team. And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day? Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity? Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both? Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him. Sweet Johnny MacTavish. Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing. Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone. “If you do. If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name. “Wasn’t joking at all.” Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face. It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy).

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says. He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first. Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse. He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative. It’s uncharted territory. He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either. But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours. One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Everything about him is warm, really: the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you. And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed. You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless. He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking: when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on. Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy. He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks. He pats his upper chest. “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is. Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing. But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown. Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate. There’s a lot of trust on both ends: he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck. And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…” You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl. I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide. The accent is not fighting fair. Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair. It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed. But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own. His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him. Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him? Do you straddle him lower and scoot up? You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned. Any other man? It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too. He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are. His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all. There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core. “Tell me what is working for you, yeah? Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser. It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine. He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance. He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does.

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him. Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair. He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny. Just like t-that.”

“Good?” It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.” You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too.

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.” Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.” And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs. His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone. But there’s something about this position. You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you. You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out. “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks. Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway. He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless. You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days. You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment. You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh. “Yeah, that was good. Especially for someone who’s never done it before.” A beat. “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again. “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex. Coming makes you stupid. “Huh? When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head. “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him. He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.” He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him. He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation: the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed. Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees. “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms. You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

#john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap imagine #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish imagine #soap x reader #call of duty modern warfare #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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kashimos-hajime · 16 days

Text

—dissolve | fushiguro toji

summary: he tosses the pregnancy test aside, digs into his pocket, rips out his wallet, and flips it open, fishing out the few bills he has and sticking his hand out towards you.

“take the money and get rid of it.”

WARNINGS: pregnancy, angst, violence, mentions of sex work, emotional constipation and rep of ptsd pairing: fushiguro toji x fem!reader word count: 18.5k

a/n: came back from the dead to post this. i swear TO GOD!!! that this is not a pregnancy fic. in fact, it's arguably worse because it's a plot point instead. excuse any editing mistakes.

obligatory toji might be ooc warning, but we literally have never seen him act normal outside of his job so i make due w what i got.

inspired by dissolve by joji

on ao3 woohoo

(exposition)

Toji’s made a fair few mistakes in his life. It’s hard to count on his fingers alone how many he’s made, but this has to be on the top of the fucking list.

“What do you want me to do with this information?” he spits as he pulls his pants on past his waist. His skin is burning, flushed red from the haze of sex, or maybe it’s the scoring of your nails down his back. His chest feels like it’s stinging.

You’re standing before him, raw power, untapped fury. You’re an unpredictability he has never encountered—you drive him crazy.

You’re also an avid, self-proclaimed misanthrope (ironic, given your profession, and more than a lie, given that Toji knows you), so the fact that he’s still standing here and you haven’t flung a bottle at him once during this whole charade they’ve got going on is admirable.

You don’t look at him, but there’s slick dripping down your thigh, and he’s honestly surprised you’re standing so soon after he’s made a permanent indent into the bed in the shape of your body, but then again, he’s known you for a while now. You’ve always been stubborn, proud, and never want to be seen waiting on anything, so while he’s standing there, staring apathetically at your back, you busy yourself with straightening out bed.

Red neon lights. Men, women, people, all roaming halls, hidden behind purple gauze and thick smoke.

They said the one he’d paid for would be the last one on the left.

Shit, he’s sweating like crazy.

“I don’t know,” you say, tossing the stick behind you without looking. He catches it easily, and stares at the tiny plus sign before looking back at you. You’re rubbing your face with the heel of your hand, and when you turn your head, he sees the frustration etched onto your face. “I don’t know what you can do.”

Toji pulls the door aside, and the figure on the bed looks up, painted lips parting in surprise. He beats you to the punch. “You’re the doctor.”

“You’re the fucked up guy from the clinic.”

And, because Toji has faced real commitment once and lost it just as quickly, he does the one thing he knows best.

He tosses the pregnancy test aside, digs into his pocket, rips out his wallet, and flips it open, fishing out the few bills he has and sticking his hand out towards you.

“Take the money and get rid of it,” he says, but it edges more on an order. You slant your body, frustration dissolving into disbelief at his offer, and your eyes flutter from his hands to his face before your eyebrows furrow together. Your mouth drops open and snaps shut just as quickly, then you’re bending over to gather the closest thing you have to cover yourself.

You shimmy into a shirt you’ve stolen from him, the one with the worn hole at the back of the neck, and threads coming loose at the sleeves.

Just another mistake he’s made letting you steal from him.

“You don’t get to fuck a kid into me only to tell me to get rid of it, Toji.” You straighten up, and walk up to his proffered hand. Snatching the bills, you smash them into his chest, your palm hitting him square in the sternum. His lungs hitch, but you walk past him to the kitchen and he’s left to watch the bills flutter to the ground.

Turning around, Toji walks after you, ignoring his hard-earned money smearing the floor. It’s the last thing on his mind, nestled somewhere at the bottom with sex and affection.

Your presence, mellow and tired and unsure, mirrors him.

It’s probably the realest thing Toji has right now.

“Do you want tea?” you ask without turning around to make sure he’s followed because you know he has, setting the kettle on the stove with a bit less finesse than normal.

“It’s three AM.”

“I didn’t know my question was made redundant,” you snap, and Toji wants to throw a book at your head, so he settles on scowling and grabbing a mug that’s designated as his and sets it on the counter, sliding it over to you. You stop it before it can crash and when they’re pouring over their cups of chamomile in the dead of night, on opposite sides of the kitchen island and illuminated by the single lamp turned on overhead, Toji thinks of you as a mother, carrying a child on your shoulders.

The image comes to him at an uncomfortably quick pace, and he checks his phone. He has a contract, and race bets to make, and he looks at you again. You’re already watching him, mouth hidden behind a mug with a dog painted on the side.

“Megumi is coming over,” he grunts, setting his phone back down on the counter and lifting his mug.

“And if I’m busy?” you ask, because it’s routine that you say it whenever he decides to leave his son in your hands. And they need routine. They need this charade to avoid the storm growing above their heads.

“I’m dumping him on your doorstep,” he answers, “and I’m leaving.”

You don’t text him while he’s out on the job, not even your usual restrained good luck.

It’s three days before he comes back, and when he lets himself in with the spare key you keep behind the loose ninth brick on the right of your door, in the fifth row off the ground, you don’t bring it up.

Mostly because Megumi is fast asleep under your arm, and you’re asleep with him, curled around the two-and-a-half year old baby like he’s the one thing you have to protect with your life. Toji doesn’t wake you, but he does remove your arm to pick up his little boy and Megumi knows his father better than anyone. The tiny bundle immediately tries to make fists at Toji’s shirt, and lets out an incoherent whine at being disturbed before burying his chubby little face into his father’s chest.

You shift in your sleep, muttering nonsense. You’re sweating, the back of your shirt soaked when Toji leans over to look. There isn’t anything on the nearby low table except for paracetamol, a barely-finished bowl of okayu, countless tissues and a thermometer. The apartment is mostly a mess, with dirty dishes in the sink, and ingredients left on the countertops.

Toji can still hold his son with one hand, so he uses his free hand to touch the baby’s forehead to find it slightly warm, and then, because he has nothing better to do, he crouches beside you on the couch, and touches your brow, too. Your face is shining with more sweat, and there’s a feverish twitch in your face when his fingertips meet your skin. You let out a soft snorting noise, and he grins blandly.

“You’re pregnant, huh,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Your eyes flutter open, and find his with a tired precision, before you let them shut again. “Hey.” You turn your face into the couch, and let out a crackled moan.

“Your son is sick,” you tell him instead, voice muffled by the couch. “He has the fucking flu.”

“His fever broke,” answers Toji. “Get up and shower.”

“I can’t. My body molded to the couch.” Your voice is thin with fire, hoarse with exhaustion. You’re a burnt out candle still smouldering, and when he touches your simmering cheek, you hiss, slapping his hand and grabbing the nearest cushion, burying your head beneath it. “Stop it. Just take your son and leave me the fuck alone.”

“Shower,” he barks.

“Go fuck yourself,” you reply with the same burning annoyance.

Megumi yawns, ignorant of it all.

You work at a clinic, but call in sick for the next two weeks. Toji knows because he walks past the clinic sometimes on habit on his way back home, depending on the hour. You go on your smoke break at the same time if you can help it, and he’d catch you in an alleyway two blocks down because no one wants to see that their doctor smokes. There’d be a Mild Seven dangling from your mouth, and you’d eye him with an arched eyebrow, but you never questioned his appearance.

Sometimes, he walks you back even though you never ask him to, a new-burning cigarette slung from his lips, and he complains about your shitty taste in cigarette brands.

And you will always ask why he always takes the Mild Seven you offer, and he dismisses it with a shrug, some flimsy excuse of never biting the hand that feeds you.

Toji’s accustomed to stalling coming back just so he can walk past the clinic on his way home, or sometimes, he leaves the apartment with an excuse of groceries for Megumi just in case you’re there, doctor’s coat shed and a ratty hoodie pulled over your frame to hide the scrubs you don’t bother to change out of.

You aren’t smoking on your break when he finds you on one such ‘grocery trip’, but you’re still in the same alleyway.

“Toji,” you say before he’s even fully appeared at the lip of the alley, and you look up, pulling the hood away from your face. You look awful—swollen eye bags, peeling lips. There’s barely any life to your face, and you regard him wearily, something clicking in your hand. Upon closer inspection, it’s your lighter, and your thumb flicking it open and shut.

“What’s wrong with you?” He walks closer, but doesn’t lean on the wall. You look like you’ll lash out if he even so much as breathes in your direction. A rat skitters by his foot. “Don’t tell me it’s that fucking flu and you’re still contagious.”

“I’m pregnant,” you answer dryly. “And I have a nicotine addiction.”

“Smoke a cigarette,” he suggests, moving a hand to his pocket.

“I’m keeping the baby,” you reply. He pauses, blinks, and you only lift your chin at him, folding your hands behind you against the wall. Stretching your legs farther out over the concrete, you sink a few inches down. “So, I can’t smoke.”

“You’re keeping it?” Clenching his jaw, he scowls. “If this is to spite me—“

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? I don’t use human lives as playing cards.” Tilting your head back against the wall, you close your eyes. “Or human lives-to-be.”

“So, why the fuck—“

Your head jerks up. “Because I want this kid, okay? Is that so hard to fucking understand?”

“Maybe.” He shoves his hands into his pockets before laughing. “You’re barely a functioning person. What makes you think you’re fit to be a parent?”

“Like you’re the perfect father for Megumi,” you retort dryly. “I don’t have to justify my choices to you, and I don’t care if you’re in your child’s life. For all you care, this isn’t your child.”

Defensively: “But it is.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’m giving you a way out,” you dismiss aloofly, pushing off the wall and straightening up. Meeting his gaze, you square your shoulders to his, and cross your arms over your chest. “I’m just that bitch you fuck when you’re bored, and you dump your son on me whenever you feel like it. You walk all over me, and I let you. At least you used to pay me for my services.” Toji’s blood begins to burn at the utter disgust and disappointment in your expression. “Do you think I don’t know what I am to you?”

And for a brief moment, Toji is speechless. Not because you’ve shocked him into silence, because he isn’t shocked, but because he genuinely doesn’t know what to say next. Every possible answer he has is shot down by rationale, and you search his face for any sort of response.

You find none.

Another mistake he’s made in his life is tallied down in some imaginary record when he runs out of time.

With a scoff, you shove past him, and disappear around the corner.

He doesn’t chase after you.

Toji’s just not that kind of guy.

Instead, he takes the newly-purchased box of Mild Sevens from his pocket, flips it open to retrieve a fresh cig, and lights it, cupping the end and inhaling as deeply as he can.

Pinching the cigarette between two fingers, he leans to the side in that alleyway and spits out a wad of saliva, the taste of the cigarette even sharper than normal.

“God, it tastes like shit,” he sighs to no one before inhaling again.

Toji’s kinda sorta fucked up.

He knows that doesn’t escape your notice. It’s how they first met after all—him a nineteen year old lumbering mess of blood and bruises, walking into the clinic mere minutes before your shift ended. You’d just been an intern taking the graveyard shift, and he’d pushed in, chin lifted high, eyes narrowed, finding yours.

“You the doctor?”

How did it spiral into this?

You snip the final suture shut on his shoulder and set the tools down, carefully piling the packaging together.

“Get outta here,” you tell him, slapping his shoulder to urge him off. You turn, disposing the trash, ripping off your gloves in the process.

“How’s the kid?”

“Megumi’s fine. He likes avocados now since I gave him slices with condensed milk on them,” you reply shortly. “Can you leave now?”

“I meant the baby,” he informs brusquely.

If it surprises you, you don’t let it show. “That is none of your business. Leave me alone.”

When he doesn’t budge, you stand there for a moment until he turns to look at you. In your scrubs, face clear but weighed down by exhaustion, you remind him of an exasperated cat owner. Hands on your hips, you worry your bottom lip until you realize he isn’t going anywhere he doesn’t want to and you sigh, gesturing for him to move over on the examination bench. Wedging yourself beside him, you grab onto the lip of the cushion and lean forward, shoulders hunching, head bowed.

“What do you want to know?” you ask acridly. “I crave sriracha on everything, I puke, I feel exhausted, I want to smoke all the time, and I cry pretty much every night.”

Blinking, Toji opens his mouth to say something witty. He only barely manages out a quiet: “You don’t even like sriracha.”

“I know.” Miserably, you lift your head and let out a sigh that seems to take all the strength with you. “What do you want from me, Toji?”

“I was just asking how you were doing.”

“You never do that unless you want something,” you counter, looking at him. Your eyes are swollen, but Toji doesn’t know if it’s from crying or some other reason, and you smell like three day old clothes. Your gaze searches his, then flutters to a slightly crooked nose, to his lips, to the scars littering his chest. “I’ve known you for years. You disappeared on me, and you came back with a son and a new name, and I never asked questions, but you had to have known.”

“Known what?”

You don’t answer him. Toji isn’t sure if he’s grateful or irritated for it. “What happened to you, you idiot?” Your tone is somber, unbearably faint. It makes your words that much more nauseating. “Why did you come back to me?” He blinks, staring, and your gaze lowers. You quietly tag something to the end of your sentence only to yourself and he is punched by every syllable of the word you utter, every syllable you aren’t aware he can hear.

“Fushi-guro, huh.”

Sliding off the examination table, you smooth out your scrubs and make to leave. “Never mind. I think I’m just exhausted.”

You reach the door handle. He watches. Footsteps softened by the sound of your crocs, you don’t bother to hide the effects of him keeping you overtime at three AM in the morning, because he’s bleeding and soiled and disgusting, has done to your spirit.

“I got married,” he calls, halting you by the door. Your shoulders have fallen, and your hand on the door goes limp. Toji stares at your back, and wonders when he became so intimately aware of the slope of your shoulders and how they sink even more in defeat when you understand what he’s saying. “She died when Megumi was… nine months old? I dunno. Blood disease, some shit like that.”

Your head turns enough that he can see a sliver of your face—you look pretty in the dim lights of the exam room. All soft edges, sad melted honey at the bottom of cold tea. Forgotten, distasteful. Like you can hold him carefully, and none of the jagged pieces he’s made of will slice your palms open. You look so much younger.

Like the nineteen year old you were when he came to you in that room of purple silk and candlelight. So tender. Human. It’s been nearly ten years since then, and it feels so much longer.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him, and he knows you mean it.

You leave to change, and come back to find him waiting in the receptionist area, a shadow in the pitch black as you set the security alarm before you go.

“Get out,” you tell him again, and this time, he complies and waits for you in the chilly night instead.

Toji walks you home, despite your unvoiced protest, and he pretends he doesn’t notice that his hand brushes against yours until their index fingers are hooked onto one another. Your gaze flits to him every once in a while, but he merely rakes his other hand through his hair, lips puckered around a smoke before he’s sliding that trembling hand of yours into his pocket.

“Megumi’s still asleep,” you tell him at the door. He leans over without meaning to as he watches your hands fiddle with the lock and key. Turning over your shoulder, you catch him staring, and arch an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” And he looks away.

You open the door and walk in, turning back when he doesn’t follow. Scowling, you swing your door open wider as you toe off your sneakers. “Are you coming in or not?”

He frowns. “Yeah, sure.”

Tonight, Toji’s not in the mood for sex, and you can barely stand on your two feet without swaying, so while you go to shower, he heads for the guest room that’s been changed into a makeshift bedroom for a two-year old boy who’s fast asleep, his snores filling up the room when Toji pushes in, careful to not let too much light seep in.

Sneaking across to the crib, he reaches within to pick up his son, and Megumi, never the fussy child, only lets out a little noise of complaint before falling back asleep on Toji’s shoulder. He pats Megumi’s back, pacing around the room and gently bouncing him up and down into a deeper sleep. The walls are littered with terrible drawings Megumi’s made, but they’re hung like art pieces in the Louvre, and Toji stands by the column of light the door lets in, watching the sharp shadows it carves.

Everything still, he waits for something to appear.

Nothing.

Sticking out a hand, he splits his fingers into a shadow puppet of a dog, and opens its jaws a few time in a silent bark.

He knows his son has the Technique. He’s seen the hints of it ever since Megumi turned two—shadows flickering when Megumi claps his hands together, the Cursed Energy Toji can sense radiating off of the kid. It won’t be long before some rat starts looking for the inheritor of the Ten Shadows Technique as their new prince.

He sighs. It’s just another thing from his shitshow family to worry about.

“I’ve got blankets and pillows on the couch,” you tell him by the door, and he drops his hand, heat rushing up his face as you poke your head in to see him. Although he can’t make out your expression too well, Toji knows he doesn’t imagine the way your eyes soften when you look at Megumi. “I’m going to go to bed now. See you in the morning. Maybe.”

He nods, and you slip out of the room just as quickly, your bedroom door shutting a moment later.

He heads to the living room, shedding his jacket and collapsing on the couch with a tired groan. The only light is moonlight filtering through your vertical blinds. His shoulder still burns something fierce, the numbing gel wearing off, and he cups it, rolling onto his side. Through the bandages, he can feel the even stitches you’ve knitted into his flesh, the delicate accuracy of the thread and needle.

Staring at the table, he blinks at the tablets resting on a napkin right in front of him beside a glass of water, and he sits up.

The pill bottle rests nearby, and he grabs it, eyeing the ingredients. It’s some over-the-counter pain killers, but there’s sharpie that’s covered a lot of the text. Screwing up his eyes, he makes out the first character, and, as his eyes adjust to the darkness, holds up the bottle to the faint moon so he can read the rest of it.

FOR MY HEARTACHES. DO NOT TOUCH.

Eyebrows scrunch. His eyes run it over it again to see if he’s being fucking crazy and reading into it too much.

He shoves the bottle back onto the table before he can do it one more time and grabs the pills, uncaring if the water spills as he gulps them down, shaking his head at the iciness that seeps into his blood from the water.

Throwing himself back onto the couch, he punches the pillow into shape, and rolls onto his back, haphazardly tossing the blanket over himself and slamming his eyes shut in an effort to block out your neat, slanted writing.

“…I never asked questions, but you had to have known.”

The pain in his shoulder dulls, but there is nothing that can douse the cold fire of his own hatred.

“For your heartache?” he asks the morning after like it’s a talk one should have over the coffee he holds in his hand. You’re making yourself oatmeal after spending the first hour or so throwing up. You look ragged, and you glare at him for even speaking.

Toji sets the pill bottle down, and he watches your expression carefully. Your jaw clenches, and you roll your eyes, stirring honey into your hot breakfast.

“Painkillers that work best for heartburn,” you tell him flatly, snatching the pill bottle and returning it to where it normally rests. “I got this at like two AM a few weeks ago. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

Your heart skips. He ignores the slowly speeding rhythm of your heart echoing in his own chest. “Just never pegged you for the poetic type.”

“Oh, because you peg me for so many other things. Please get your head out of your ass.”

The tension that melts out of his body is profuse, and his shoulders fall as Megumi, with his spoon, flicks cereal at his father with a giggle. And although the relief is overwhelming, there is a peculiar sinking feeling that far outweighs any positive connotation in the fact that he thought you could’ve liked him and your confirmation that you don’t.

He’s insane.

He’s insane to have thought you could have possibly…

“You’re cleaning this up,” you order. “I need to go to work and I can’t be late. We’ll… talk later. I guess.”

…ever had feelings for him.

Toji goes to fetch some towels and ignores the fact that his insides feel like rotting. What’s it matter anyway?

Except…

No. He’s not thinking of back then. That’s a section of his past he wants to keep sealed in the past, and thats final.

His son wants to go to the park one day. It’s how Toji finds himself sitting on a park bench, sipping on his iced lemonade, his son on his thigh watching everyone around them, his tiny hands planted on his father’s knee. Said father scrolls on his phone, reading his emails through his shades, but he always makes sure to kepe an eye out on their surroundings.

Opening up some bets, he leans back, settling his free hand on Megumi’s hip and raising his phone up as he looks through the races.

“I want,” Megumi babbles.

“What do you want, ‘Gumi?” he asks, squinting against the sun. He should be getting results back for his last gamble in just a few minutes.

“I want dog.”

“Yeah?” Toji says as he lowers his phone and looks around them. “You wanna big one? How many?” There are a few dogs playing in the park around them, catching balls their owners through (“Go fetch!”) and a strange bitterness arises from him. He’s never been a dog person. Not with how he was raised to see them.

Loyal beasts with no brain of their own.

“Two!”

Meant to serve.

“Go fetch, dog. ”

Mindless.

“Papa.”

“And you dare call yourself my son?”

“Papa.”

His phone buzzes, and he answers it like a habit. A swipe of his thumb. Behind his eyes flash a thousand purple bruises, and his scar aches like a sore on his lip as he lets out a tired breath.

“You were a mistake. You should’ve never been born.”

His world is so strangely silent. A curious, spreading emptiness seeps down the column of his throat and into his chest, inhabiting the giant space like a cloud of smoke as the line clicks, and he blinks at the sky. How many days had he stared at this sky, waiting for his world to grow infinitely bigger?

To escape that wretched place once and for all. He had the gall to do it, and the pit of curses had been colder than death.

If he could’ve just—

“Toji?”

—given up.

“Hey.”

Your voice pierces the haze and he blinks, looking around. Megumi is clutching onto hs shirt with a tight fist, peering at him with frustration, and he uses his other hand to smack his dad in the chest.

“You there?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. He sets a hand on Megumi’s head. His hair is so soft, and warm under the sun, and Toji wants to wrap his entire body around his tiny little boy, so he does the next best thing and hauls Megumi up onto his chest and swathes him with an arm. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nah. Why would you think that?”

“I dunno. You just sound off.”

“I’m fine. Can’t I enjoy a nice day in the park?” he remarks dryly, and you huff a snide, sarcastic laugh.

“I guess you can. I was just wondering if you had plans in September.”

“That’s still a few weeks away.” He can hear your judgemental expression from where he sits so he adds, “No. Not yet. Why?”

“The Kichijoji Autumn Festival. I want to take Megumi.” You seem to speak to someone on the other end, and Toji looks down at his son who’s craned his head to examine everything around him. He wriggles until he’s facing forward, and Toji kisses the back of his son’s head grumpily. The idea of a big crowd never sits well with him. There are too many unseen variables, and too much noise.

“Doggy,” Megumi rambles, pointing out a stubby finger at a bounding labrador, trying to catch a frisbee with a massive leap and snagging it in its jaws.

“Is that okay?”

“What? Yeah. I’m going with you, though.”

“Fine. Yeah, alright! I’ll print it!” you shout away from the phone. With a tired sigh, you return. “Fucking idiot. Sorry. Work.” He shrugs, then says it’s fine, and you continue: “Are you going to be working a lot? I’m heading down to Osaka next week so I can’t take care of Megumi if you’re working.”

“Why?”

“Because… remember Hajime?”

“Skinny fuck with a big mouth. Talked too much.” A tall, lean guy who used to fuck with Toji as a teenager whenever he came to see you. He vaguely has an image of him in his head—cheeky smile, quick gaze, and an arrogance that was all a charade. The kid always knew when to shut up but he never did.

Maybe because he didn’t care. Toji had never seen his own pit eyes reflected in another boy before then, but Hajime still knew how to look like he was happy. Maybe that’s why Toji always let the boy bother him even when he was working maintenance around the House.

He doesn’t think Hajime has ever smiled a day in his life. So, just like him, Toji knows your spot for your old colleague from the brothel is softer than you let on.

“He’s not doing well,” you reveal. “I just want to be there when he passes and make it all easier for him. That’s all.”

His throat goes dry. “I see.” The unspoken question passes between them.

“Lung cancer metastasized.” You don’t let that sit for long. “So, it’ll probably be a bit before I see Megumi next.”

Words bite his tongue, and he debates letting them loose. But he wouldn’t. He’d never admit to it. “Probably. He’ll be fine, though.”

“I know.” A beat. “I’m just gonna miss him, you know. I want to see him before I leave.”

“Yeah.” And because it isn’t enough that you’ve been on the phone with him for this short while, he prolongs your hanging up with: “Yeah, you can do that. When do you go?”

“This Saturday. It was the first train I could get, so—” There’s a loud shout on the other end, and your pained groan— “Shit, sorry, I have to go. People don’t know how to do their fucking jobs around here,” you mutter foully, and Toji can’t help the small smile that stretches his lips. “See you when I see you.”

“Yeah.” The line clicks. Toji holds his phone there for a second more before drawing it away and staring at the his screen, His thumb swipes over the buttons to select his contacts, and it opens up to reveal lists of numbers in his history. They’d all been jobs, and he never bothers to write them down. The important numbers are memorized, but other than that, he’s never really kept a contact since he started working again.

Swiping to his saved contacts, there is one square there with a picture, and your name typed out in that little block font. Toji’s grip tightens as he clicks on your profile to enlarge the photo, and he scowls deeper at what it’s been set to. Rarely do they exchange photos, but the majority of the photos you ever send Toji are of Megumi, and in this one, it’s him sleeping soundly in your lap when he was still little.

Maybe ten months. He knows it’s a little after Megumi’s mom died because of how small his son is, and how Toji can’t remember this picture. That whole time period had been hazy. He had just focused on finding you, dumping his kid somewhere so he didn’t have to see the state his father was in, and going out to make enough money to make it last another fucking week.

A part of Toji knows now that you would never have turned him away even if you acted like you would. Even if he never had a baby with him.

He snaps his phone shut. Your words still haunt him, and the more he dissects that moment—a sliver of a 3AM morning two weeks ago—he starts to wonder if he made another wrong choice eight years ago.

Here is where Toji finds himself Friday night: forced to do dishes while Megumi clings to your chest like a stupid fucking parasite. You lounge on the couch, relaxing your ass off.

To be fair, and Toji rarely is, you had been called in an emergency consultation which resulted in you having to send your patient to the hospital after you couldn’t find out where the pain was coming from, and staying there because the patient had, quote unquote, no support system and was borderline hysterical with the symptoms.

“She said she had these bruises on her legs and hips like someone was grabbing her, but I couldn’t find anything. I can’t deny that her pain is real—there’s no way she’s faking this for attention because she’s… sane. She knows she’s not making any sense and we had psych do an evaluation,” you had told him when they met up in front of your apartment door. He had takeout in one hand, and Megumi in the other as you jiggled the key in. “Nothing. It’s a mystery. Maybe she’s experiencing some type of phantom pain routed from trauma.”

And Toji knows the answer before you even suggest a logical conclusion.

“She still there?” he had asked.

“Sent her home. No valid medical reason, but I told her I’ll be away, and to call me if she needs anything.”

He scrubs the dish with a dinosaur design a bit too hard, and winces when he sees that the pink colour is fading, but other than that, it remains silent on his end of the apartment. You and Megumi have a nonsensical conversation at the couch and you turn on channel that has dogs on it somehow as he finishes up. He sniffs dish detergent scent clinging to his hands, nostrils twitching at how strong the lemon is before shaking his head and rinsing his hands again.

“Doggy.”

“Yeah. That’s what those are,” comes your lazy reply. Turning around, Toji wipes his hands dry to see you lying on your side on the couch, Megumi sitting in front of your chest. You have your arm draped over his lap and wrapping his waist loosely, but you look asleep where you are. Snorting to himself, he throws the towel down and shuts off the lights in the kitchen.

You raise your head blearily at the dim light you’ve sunken into.

“You finished?”

“Are you?” he shoots back, sinking into the loveseat near your head. You sigh, burying your face into a nearby cushion, and Megumi crawls towards his father, your hand falling to the sofa. “Go to bed if you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired,” you mutter. “I’m just sick of today.”

He picks his son up, setting Megumi on his chest and running his hand over his head. The boy’s dark downy hair spikes up, and Toji tucks his chin to press his nose to a smooth forehead. “Girl still on your mind?”

“Mhm.” You crane your head to look at both of them, and your stressed scowl melts away, the knot between your eyebrows easing as you reach across the gap to tickle Megumi’s tiny socked foot. Squealing, he kicks your hand away and you chuckle to yourself, pushing yourself onto your elbow to tickle him again.

Crawling up his dad, Megumi’s chubby fists seek purchase as he scrambles to get away, and you laugh, a short, rusty noise. It sounds like a tool that doesn’t get used enough, and you cover your mouth when you laugh, a habit that Toji’s noticed you’ve kept over the years. Megumi’s complaining in his ear, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the way your eyes crinkle when they shut from smiling.

Despite the eye bags, the way your cheeks have gotten puffy from throwing up, the way you shift every two seconds because something in your body’s upset one way or another—Toji finds the way your eyes smile the most brain-numbing thing. He could stare at it forever, but it’s so fleeting that he has the strangest urge to frame it in a picture. Considering rare is it that you’re ever smiling at him when Megumi isn’t with him (although it’s becoming more and more frequent these days), Toji doesn’t think he could’ve gotten used to your smile again.

When he was nineteen, directionless and searching for a place to make it through one day, you had bordered him up in your closet and asked the master of the house with your most charming smile to keep him around because “he’s real handy if he puts his mind to it. Just give him a chance—“

Toji swallows. Such an uncomplicated series of days. His mind always gets so fucking quiet around you. He doesn’t worry about the past, or the future, or any of the stresses of the present (money, food, whether he’ll survive his next contract and the next, long enough to teach Megumi how to throw a ball).

No, his mind is just blissfully silent, resting in the way your words bite at his ears, the way your laugh strums like a raspy harp.

He doesn’t recall the last time it’s been this quiet as the dogs on the TV bark and Megumi echoes the noise, a sprite of light in the darkness of the living room. It makes you laugh. Makes him hear that warm noise again.

“Put him to bed,” you utter after a while. The documentary has finished, and your voice cracks as you wake up fully. Toji blinks, ripping his eyes away from the screen to see your sleepy face illuminated by the TV. Megumi’s gone quiet, his gentle snores puffing against his father’s jaw. “I’m gonna get into my own.”

“Alright.” He stands and you swing yourself up, tipping over a bit, and his knees lock when the urge seizes him to move forward to steady you. Stomach clenching, a harsh frown passes over his face and he turns around before you can spot it. Walking down the hall, he puts his baby boy to bed just as your shadow passes over the door. You poke your head in to mumble a goodnight again, before continuing on your way. Toji sits by his son’s bed until he falls asleep before he rises again.

Closing the door behind him, Toji glances to your bedroom. There’s still a lamp on, and he wonders if you’ve just forgotten to turn it off (again), or if you’re still awake despite your previous promise, and for some reason, his feet lead him to this door.

His hand raises to knock.

“Yeah?” you answer. He pushes in.

You’re on the bed, pushing your feet under the covers. You’re wearing nothing but a long shirt, and your face is soft, tired. You can barely keep your eyes open, and maybe that is what makes you so warm to him now. You don’t have the energy to be angry with him, their situation, for anything.

“Toji?” you prompt, and he, without a second of hesitation, crawls into bed after you. Your brow furrows as he plants a hand by your thigh, but there is no defense as he pulls the covers away to get under with you. “What is it?”

“I’m staying here tonight. Making sure you don’t fuck yourself over for tomorrow,” he says simply, but the truth is, he hadn’t known that until he said it. Pulling his shirt off, he flings it to the foot of the bed and gets comfortable in his boxers underneath the coolness of your blankets. He’s always ran hotter than most. You keep yourself an appropriate distance, rolling onto your side to face him while he lies on his back.

This isn’t a very common occurence. Toji doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he settles with just lacing them over his stomach, and when he turns to look at you, he finds you frowning thoughtfully.

“What’s wrong, Toji?” you prod quietly, resting your cheek on one of your hands. His eyelids flutter, invisible weight pushing them shut as he tries to scramble up an explanation. “We don’t do… this.”

“I’m just tired, I guess,” he grunts. Because, really, he has no idea why he’s here.

Why he’s in your apartment, in your life again. He left it for a reason.

“Okay,” you murmur. Your hand reaches to touch his bicep, and he can’t really remember that reason anymore. “My train’s early, so you’ll probably have to lock the door for me if you’re staying.”

You just rest your fingers there over the curve of his arm, thumb applying a soothing pressure into his eternally-aching body. Toji can feel your heat so clearly through your palm. A napalm grenade waiting to burst as soon as he lays a hand on you.

And he does, not even seconds later, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him.

“Stay here and sleep with me,” he whispers as your nose bumps into his, and it edges on an order without him meaning to. You swallow, exhaling shakily, and his eyes lift to yours. They’re dark, half-lidded but consumed with an unbearable desire for something that he doesn’t understand. Lifting a lethargic hand, he rests it heavily on your cheek. You arch an eyebrow, and he half-smiles limply, hauling you closer.

You push yourself on top of him, sitting yourself over his hips, and fold your arms over yourself, fingers tugging at the lip of your shirt. Toji’s gaze widens as you lift it up to reveal a body he already knows every crevice of and he clenches his jaw, dark hair falling into his eyes. Hand shooting to grab your elbow, he stops you just as you slip your head and shoulder out, the shirt hanging off your other arm.

Your breasts are open for him to swing up and kiss, to bite marks into, and they heave gently as you breathe on top of him, perfectly still, your face a whirlwind of emotions as you try to make sense of him. He slides his hands down to your hips, and he presses his finger pads into your back in what he means as a soothing pressure. You let out a tiny sigh, wiggling a bit, and glance down at yourself.

Your brow furrows. “Do… you not want to?”

“No, no, I…” He sighs, one hand reaching up to tilt your chin back up so you would stop staring at your body like that. You can’t ever think that—Toji won’t allow himself to let you go on thinking that you’re ugly. “It’s not that. I just didn’t mean it like that.”

“Huh?” You frown. He lets go of your chin and trails his hand down your chest, eyes watching his own fingers drift past your belly button until he rests on your abdomen. His lungs seize at the way it rises and falls against his palm. The fat he normally loves to grab and smear kisses all over while your legs shake over his shoulders is so familiar in his grasp. You’re still not showing though. Sometimes, Toji forgets that there’s a fucking kid—his fucking kid—growing inside you, but right now, it’s all he’s intimately aware of.

“It came out wrong.” He grimaces. “I meant… I’ll sleep with you. In the same bed tonight.” He strokes your stomach before grabbing the back of your neck and bringing you down to his level. Bending over, your lips meet his warmly, and you melt into his grasp, legs stretching over his, waist unfurling to lay flush against his body. Your arms sink into the pillow, and your fingers seek purchase in the fabric. Thumb on your chin, he gently pulls your back and he drags his nose along yours, inhaling the smell of your body wash. “Just sleep,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You need to rest.”

You pull away. “Just…?” The pause is audible. You shake the shirt off your arm and he wraps his arms around you, using one of his hands to run over your head.

Toji wants to punch himself, face burning up in embarrassment. “Lay here and sleep. For fuck’s sake, you’re pregnant, aren’t you? Don’t expectant mothers have to make sure they get enough sleep?”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, face wrinkling. “Well, I, uh, yeah, but—“

“Then, sleep. I’ll wake you up, alright?” Toji pushes you off his body and you let out a soft chuckle, shimmying underneath the blankets. As soon as you’re comfy, he yanks the comforter over your exposed body, making sure you’re covered up, before scowling and reaching over you to switch the light off.

As soon as the room plummets into darkness, a hand slides along his jaw, and another grabs his chin. He looks down just in time for a pair of lips press against his warmly and it isn’t long before their lips are on one another’s, mouths slotting open to allow tongues to dip into mouths. Falling onto his back, Toji’s hand cups the back of your neck and you roll onto your side, your leg draping over his waist, your arms bent between their chests, palms flat against his neck.

Your thigh tightens around him as a soft panting breath leaves you in the form of, “Goodnight.” Toji’s foot slides up your calf. He strokes your ear and you’re resting your head on his other arm, so there isn’t much he can do besides pull you even closer by the shoulders until their bodies are semi colons of one another.

The break—the time to breathe—in each other’s life sentences.

You slither an arm around him. His arm curls around to your back. Their noses touch, and Toji lets out a comfortable sigh before kissing you. Your eyes shut as you mumble something incomprehensible about sleeping. Tiny moans escape your throat when he slowly kisses your bottom lip in a seductive, soothing drag, and another soft whimper sinks into his heart when he kisses the corner of your mouth, your lips chasing his. You whine something barely resembling his name as you tilt your head in an effort to try to reciprocate, a habit more than a choice.

Toji nearly laughs at you, at the thought of it.

He kisses your chin instead, a wave of exhaustion slowly tiding into his pool of a body, then he returns his lips to yours, kissing you slowly. Sedated. Oozing like molasses into the next kiss, and then another, and the strength begins to leave him as your arm twitches against his body with every press, your leg squeezing over his waist. You’re panting, soft and needy, and your body wants to move, but you’re so tired you have to settle for the exhausted sounds you can muster to encourage him.

Like you want him to keep going, want him to know you’re still paying attention to him, even in your dreams.

You murmur something again. Something hushed in your breath.

“Toji…”

So soft. It reminds him of when they were younger. You were the first person he remembers uttering his name so gently—so undeservingly warm while his heart was trapped in an eternal blizzard. You said it like you meant to—like he deserved to be someone.

Against his will, something warm flickers in his hollow chest.

The woman is quiet as she stares at him, blinking owlishly in the way most non-jujutsu types do. Ota Hiroko, twenty-three. Lives with her mom, two younger brothers, and her grandfather. He’d found her pretty quickly, all things considered. You’d only given a name, mumbled into your pillow just to shut him up for five more minutes, but as soon as you’d gotten on your train, Toji had gone to work.

“Can I help you?” Hiroko asks thinly. She looks exhausted, pale, and she’s shaking as she’s holding onto the door knob. Toji almost pities her.

“You Hiroko?”

She nods, then presses her lips into a thin grimace. “Whatever you’re selling, whoever you are, I’m not interested.”

Toji cocks an eyebrow, and shifts his weight to one side, scanning what little of house he can see over her head. It reeks of Cursed Energy. No doubt what’s made its home here.

“I don’t even know why I bother.” He cocks his head, arches an eyebrow. “Could you stop hiding behind that door? I’m a friend of your friend’s. The doctor from the clinic, remember her?”

The girl’s eyes light up at the mention of you, and she stops clutching onto the door barricading her from him like a shield and reveals herself a bit more. As soon as he can see one of her legs, he sees a pale, bumpy, and gnarled hand wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist, the arm winding around her thigh.

“Did she send you? She said… she said she wouldn’t be in town, but—” The door swings open wider, and Hiroko leans forward, eyes widening with a sheen of desperation. Toji looks down at the Curse pressing its face into the woman’s stomach, and a coil of disgust wraps around his own gut. “Does she know what’s wrong with me?”

“No, but close your eyes for a second.” She frowns, and Toji resists the urge to slap some sense into this girl. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the dagger tucked into the back of his pants, and thinks of something nicer. Or tries to. Nothing clear comes to mind, and his words come out sharp, impatient. “Lady, I can do it with your eyes open, but you won’t like it.”

“Do what?”

“Fix your problem.” Fingers wrap around the handle, and then he thinks of you, sleeping on the train to Osaka. He wonders, idly, if you ate.

Hiroko frowns, her head tilting. She looks sweet, really, and maybe a bit too naive, but Toji can see why she pulled at your heartstrings.

“Why are you doing this?”

He hasn’t a clue. “A favour,” he answers shortly. “Now, close your eyes.”

(recapitulation)

Stepping into the home, you slip off your flats and stuff them into the slippers, the grip on your bag of groceries tightening. The air smells sterile, dry, and it’s hauntingly silent, but you’ve grown used to it ever since you arrived two days earlier.

Announcing that you’re back, you migrate to the kitchen and set the groceries on the table, delegating what needs to be put into the fridge and freezer, setting the loaf of bread on the wooden board for later.

“Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

Closing the fridge once you’ve put away the vegetables and milk and juice, you continue onto frozen snacks and meat into the freezer. Then, you grab a bag of chips, a cup of water, and move to join your friend in whatever he’s doing. You shuffle down the hall where Hajime is already sitting up in what used to be the living room. The TV is on, some program you’re not exactly caught up on but he insists he can’t miss every Monday playing, so you had made him make a list of things he wanted to eat before leaving while he entertains himself with some melodrama.

Ever since his terminal diagnosis, Hajime’s moved his entire life to the first floor of his parents’ house, but that doesn’t mean it makes life any easier. Bypassing the pictures of his family, you sit down and rip open the bag of vegetable chips, tilting it towards him. Throwing aside his blanket, Hajime lets out a rough cough before reaching his hand in. You set it on his lap and touch the blankets pooling around his legs. It’s heated, the electric currents setting the soft fabric near-aflame against your skin, and your heart drops.

Making space for yourself on the couch, you adjust the pillows around yourself and get comfortable, putting the cup of water on a nearby table. On the screen, some people in scrubs are in a conference room shouting at one another, and you rest your cheek against your fist, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on?”

“Hospital chief was revealed to cheat on wife with one of his top residents.”

“Damn.”

“Anything this juicy where you work?”

You snort. “No.”

You think of Toji, and wonder what he’s doing. Your phone buzzed for the last time this morning, when he texted you to make sure that you were still alive, and you promised you’d call him tonight, his job permitting. Your heart clenches at the last night they spent together. The way he had kissed you to sleep, and you had woken before him anyway, his finger curled under your jaw, his chin atop your head.

Your heart warms against your will, and then aches because you miss him. Which you hate to admit, but you do. You’ve long since accepted that your soft spot for the guy has returned stronger, darker. Part of it because he’s older now, they’re both grown, but another part of it is because he’s the same.

The same man who tries to protect you at any given turn, who steals your food, who gives you a little dysfunctional family even though he doesn’t know it.

“You’re all smiles,” Hajime intones suddenly, and you blink, turning to look at him. He’s sunken into the pillows surrounding his body, and he eyes you with an unimpressed disposition.

“Am I? I’m not in a good mood.”

“Because you drew the short end of the stick and came all the way out here,” he remarks, and your mouth opens to protest but he speaks over you, “Hey, you didn’t have to. You probably have a whole life I don’t know about anymore back in the city, don’t you.”

“I’m surprised you even called,” you admit softly. “After I left… I never thought you’d try to find me again.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t change your number.”

“I didn’t change it just in case you’d call.” His eyes widen and soften, and he looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows. You add, “You were my only friend there, and I promised when I left that you could always find me if you ever needed me, and you need me now, so I might be pissed that you’re dying, but I’m not letting you die alone, alright?”

A beat.

“You’re a big softie, y’know that?” Hajime teases, but his voice is unusually thick. You give him grace and watch the TV as he clears his throat. “Underneath all that bitchiness, you actually care about me, don’t you?”

“Nah,” you say, but your voice is weak, thin. “Just for nostalgia’s sake at this point.”

They’re sitting on the balcony of his old room, in two rickety plastic lawn chairs that are weather-worn and cheap. You had carried him up there because there’s no way he’s strong enough to move, but just sitting here feels strange. You’d never known Hajime like this—never the type of friends to visit each other’s places.

Then again, that was back before he forced himself to get back onto better terms with his parents before they passed away. Before you just up and left him.

“Want one?” he asks, offering the box of cigarettes to you. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hand trembles. It’s not cold out, and it won’t be long, you think. You just have a feeling. You’re going to wake up and he’ll be dead.

“I’m good.”

“Never knew you to be someone who refuses a smoke.” He lights up and inhales. You steel yourself for the coughing fit that seizes him suddenly, and you try to pretend it’s not agonizing hearing him hurt like this. It dissolves into a fit that has him gasping, and you dart over, take hold of him as he curls in on himself, the bare bones of his skeleton poking at you through his skin. “F-fuck. Fuck. I’m… I’m fine. J-just—“

“Here. C’mon. You got this.” His heart is racing through his back, and you slowly ease him to the floor, so there’s more room, until he’s lying against you, his head tilted back onto your shoulder. His chest heaves rapidly, pumps of oxygen barely making it through to his diseased lungs, and his eyes flutter shut as he lets the red slip between his lips, down his chin.

Thick globs of dark red. It shines, rivulets that escape down his chin, to his neck. Over his quivering Adam’s apple, his lips parted; wine rose petals, tasting just as sour.

"I don’t smoke anymore,” you say, patting his chest with your hand that’s draped over his shoulder. With your other hand, you shake your sleeve down over your hand and wipe the blood away from his skin. “I’m… I’m pregnant. So, I can’t smoke.”

“Pregnant?”

“Mhm.” You look down, and stretch your arm so your sleeve falls back to your wrist before patting his head.

“It’s Toji’s?”

A lump in your throat. “Yes.”

“…I see.” Hajime turns his face away from you, and a shadow—no, that’s the wrong word—an empty void consumes his face. It makes him look young and weak and alone—everything he doesn’t want to be.

“Yeah,” he finally adds at last. “You never did get over him.” The world goes mute as he laughs to himself, a soft noise that makes his eyelids flutter. “I’m glad that you came for my last moments even though he’s back. Y’know, I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

“Toji hates everyone,” you snort, ignoring the rot taking root in your chest. You drum your fingers on Hajime’s collarbone, sighing. “It’s him against the world so don’t take it too personally.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

You chuckle. “I guess he can’t hate the person who takes care of his son seventy percent of the time.”

“He likes you,” Hajime corrects, and there is something in the phrasing—perhaps in the tone he says it in (like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world)—that flips a switch in your brain. Those three words take root in your head and even though your brow wrinkles and you frown and you shake your head, you still hear those three words.

He likes you. “No, he doesn’t. All we do is fight.”

“You’re the one who convinced the Master to let him stay and”—a sharp whistle. He likes you—“there were more than a few complaints about the muscle outside your room. Y’know,” he laughs again, “they always thought we didn’t need to be protected, but Toji… and don’t let him know I said this, but he made it better. He scared ‘em off. He did.”

Your fingers brush over Hajime’s temple. “I know.” Hajime twists to look up at you through barely-open eyes, and his breaths are flimsy against your neck, as you look down at him, smiling faintly. “Toji was probably the closest thing to a friend I had. Besides you. And the other workers there. But it wasn’t like we were buddies. We were sex workers and he… wasn’t. He was just some guy who lived there.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Hajime’s cheek presses against your sternum. “I guess, he did do some handiwork, and you weren’t the personable type. You still aren’t.”

You snort. “Gee, thanks.”

“It takes a special kind of person to really, really understand you and—“

“Are you really inflating your own ego right now?”

“—and you didn’t want to be there for the rest of your life. Which was fine. But you closed your heart off because you didn’t want anyone to know how you ever worked to put yourself through school, which is fine, but he is the only one you ever opened yourself up to—“

“Okay, and?”

“And he likes you. You’re not half as oblivious as you think you’re being, but neither is he.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t seen him in years,” you intone scathingly, but Hajime leans back, smiling, immune. He likes you. You shove him off you and get up. “You’re only saying that because you pity me. Just forget it, Hajime.”

Coughing, your friend wheezes out, “He’s texted you how many times since you’ve came here?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re playing house with the guy.”

“I babysit his son while he fucks off to god knows where. Do you think he really sees me as anything other than the person who gives him free stitches and puts a roof over his head whenever he wants? I don’t even know why we keep fucking. I don’t why I can’t say no.” You want to tear your heart out of chest and stuff it into Hajime’s mouth just to end the conversation. You walk to the end of the balcony while your dying companion clambers to his feet, grunting, hands clawing at the railing.

“You refused to see anyone else ever again after he left the House,” he wheezes. “You want me to believe that you don’t love him? Then, explain that.”

“That place robbed me of any sort of love. I hate you.” The wind carries and caresses your neck, stronger than Hajime’s own breathing, and you scratch at the nagging feeling, that itchiness spreading into your arms and making you uncomfortable in your cotton shirt. “And I hate him, too.”

“If he didn’t care about you, he would have left already. You know that,” Hajime utters softly, and you close your eyes. “You know he feels something for you. You’re too intelligent to turn a blind eye to that.”

“He’s in love with his dead wife.” The breath that leaves you takes everything you’re made of with it. He likes you. “I’m not going to compete with the person who gave him Megumi. I respect her memory too much to do that.”

“She’s dead,” Hajime murmurs. “And you’re still alive. What does it matter that he loved her? Why can’t it matter that he loves you?”

Can’t you understand? You want to scream in his face. He chose to stay for her.

At night, you make sure Hajime falls asleep before drawing yourself up for a vigil, blanket around your sinking shoulders. His breaths are frail, shuddering, and every time he coughs, you jump and take his slowing pulse. You don’t think you sleep a wink that night. Bones resting in a body that’s melded to the chair, you’re nothing but a pair of eyes trained on a face that you used to see every day.

You don’t even recognize him anymore. He’s lost so much weight and colour, and his hair is so thin and patchy. Hajime always refused to shave it, like he’s clinging onto some last part of the old him that doesn’t have cancer.

Tonight’s the night. It sucks. Everything fucking sucks.

Before he goes, you manage to wake him up. His glassy eyes meet yours, and even near death, there is still that inquisitive gleam to his eyes.

“I don’t hate you,” you murmur. “Really just the opposite. I think I’m dying, too.”

His eyes squint in a smile before slipping shut. He’s too weak to even move his mouth anymore, and you think you’re going to puke.

You miss your old life. It was shitty, and repetitive, and made you repulsed by your own body, but perhaps you wouldn’t be so entirely alone.

You sit by Hajime’s bedside until his heart stops, and when you’re sure he is finally dead, you rise and clear your throat. Sniffing, you head for the surrounding woods.

(coda)

You don’t call him for days. It worries Toji, but you had sent him one last text saying that Ojiro Hajime is dead.

Then, another text.

Arriving 6AM tomorrow. Hope everything’s fine. Will see you soon.

His answer.

Need anything?

You hadn’t answered. He gives you a grace period until ten PM, and when you’re still radio silent despite him calling, Toji packs Megumi into some second-hand pick-up and drives to the tiny city of Matsushima. There’s a certain panic that he tries to contain. Maybe it isn’t human, but when Megumi cries about being exhausted after waking up in a car seat four hours from home, Toji just barely manages the patience to calm his cranky son whilst trying to stuff down the harsh forces punching to his tongue.

A terrible rotting is festering in his gut. You’re either dead, or you’re in danger, or Ojiro’s death had destroyed you to such an extent that Toji needs to make sure you can still function.

He passes the town line, parks in the first place he sees, and gets out of the car, hiding his sidearm underneath the flap of his jacket. Picking up Megumi, Toji’s ears prick for noise.

It’s almost two thirty AM.

You had sent pictures once you arrived. The house is up on a hill. There’s no doubt you’ll still be there in the wake of his death if you’re okay.

So he makes that climb, and smells the wind for any signs of foul play, his one hand supporting Megumi despite being in a baby carrier, and his other hand ready at his handgun. Eyes dart from every stray shadow to another unfamiliar shape. This path is unfamiliar, and although he doesn’t sense any curses, every step makes his stomach coil tighter and tighter.

His steps are silent but hasty as he ascends, and before he knows it, his knuckles are rapping against the door, thunderous knocks that nearly rattle the door off its hinges. There’s the sound of a door opening upstairs before quick footsteps, and he hears you pause to glance into the peephole before the door swings open.

“Toji?” You sound confused, tired, and he grins lopsidedly at the way you still manage to glare at him. “What the fuck are you doing here? It’s late, I—”

“Unhappy to see me?”

Your jaw snaps shut, and you tilt your head to the ground as you mutter, “No. You should come in, though.” At this, your gaze lift to meet his. Exhaustion drags your features to the earth, swallows your eyes whole. “Megumi looks tired.”

“Yeah. He’s gonna be a cranky bastard in the morning.”

Your smile begins to grow, and it brightens your eyes as you slant your body to make room for him to come in. He starts forward, his boot lifting off the ground to step through the threshold of this home. Megumi shifts against his chest. His finger loosens around the safety of his gun.

There is a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s so fast he can barely detect it in time when suddenly, you’re yanked back into the darkness, a black sash wrapped around your mouth. Eyes widening, his heart freezes as a muffled scream wrenches out of your mouth. There’s a thud as the door swings shut, but he shifts his weight back and his foot bursts through the wood, splintering and cracking the night. Megumi lets out a strangled cry at the sudden movement, and Toji’s hand cradles around his son’s head, trying to protect his ears and skull as the smell of Cursed Energy drenches his entire body. It's reek enough for four or five sorcerers at most.

Stepping through the ruined door, he raises his gun into the shadows, blinking the light away. Moonlight streams in behind him, giving shape to objects but the farther away they are, the more they become a monotonous shape. Gritting his teeth, Toji holsters his gun and the Cursed Worm sitting in his stomach is pushed up onto his tongue. He spits it into his palm, guiding it around his neck and when his hand closes near the mouth of the spirit, cold chains push into his fingers.

His ears prick.

Frantic footsteps, fingers scrabble against wood. A muffled struggle echoes down the hall, and despite Megumi’s rasping cries flooding his ears and giving away his location, Toji can’t escape the panicked racing of your heart above it all. He blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before winding up the chain in a sharp spin, trained wrist maneuvering the weapon like an extended limb.

A door creaks. Grunts. Soft socked feet shoot towards him. His eyes dart left. They’ve crashed into a wall. Collapsed, sounds like, and there’s a ragged gasp.

“Stop!” Your voice sends lightning down his very core, and his eyes widen. There’s figures tussling in a shapeless pile of black, and he swears for a moment, he can see your eyes—pits of black illuminated by pale dots of pure white fear—meeting his. “Don’t! Megumi—”

The toddler boy screams as a hand wraps around your face and drags you back into the darkness. It swallows your figure entirely, and Toji begs for his legs to move, but his knees lock and he looks at the wailing bundle strapped to his body, cursing its existence. There’s too much ambiguity in this hallway. He can guess how many cousins and uncles and other off-shoot fucks playing at being royalty are lurking on the grounds. There's three in his immediate presence, but he can’t say for certain what sort of back up awaits a gunfight.

If he draws, you’re dead.

If he doesn’t, you’re lost.

The Zenin family won’t think a non-sorcerer civillian woman is worth the precious Zenin blood that Fushiguro Toji will shed, and cut their losses quick. A man steps out of the shadows as you are taken father and farther away, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the barbed wire gouging his heart.

“We have no quarrel with you, Toji,” Jinichi speaks, and there is that distinct oily disgust that rises when Toji hears his older brother speak. His eyes open to see him standing there, tall and solemn. “We want the girl and the child she carries, and we will care for her well enough to term.”

A harsh scoff. “Please. You’ll pamper her well enough for a prisoner, sure, but as soon as she pops out the kid, you’ll kill her, and the kid, too, if it doesn’t have what you want.”

“Any child of Zen’in blood is welcome. Perhaps she could make a suitable wife for one of our esteemed cousins,” he intones dryly.

A pillar of fire shoots through Toji, and a harsh, cold laugh spills out of his mouth. “You think she’s well-behaved enough to be a wife. You have no fucking idea what she’s like.”

“Toji, don’t make this harder for yourself. I’m showing her mercy because you seem to fond of her, and you’re my brother.” His brother almost smiles, teeth gleaming in the dark. “Besides, that’s my nephew. I am not as wasteful as our father. I won’t spill promising young Zen’in blood.”

“If you’re aiming to play into some kind of sentiment, you’re stupider than I remember.” Toji’s grip on the Chain of a Thousand Miles tightens. Jinichi has always underestimated him. It’s been a decade. Toji is sure, sure he is faster. “Do you still wanna duke it out like the good ol’ days, big bro?”

“You kill me, she dies.” Jinichi turns around, and waves a hand. The Cursed Energy flowing around the house immediately begins to dissipate, and Toji, for the first time in months, thinks about the satisfaction he would feel putting a bullet in his older brother’s head. “You follow us, you’ll never see her again. You know better than most how serious I can be.”

Jinichi of the Hei glances over his shoulder to make sure the Sorcerer Killer does not mean to follow, and then he, too, sinks into the darkness.

They cannot stay in that home, so they do not. Toji takes Megumi on foot, and walks until they find a hostel off the side of the road. The guy manning the front desk is alarmed at Toji’s appearance combined with the baby who has cried himself to sleep on his chest, but he doesn’t ask questions.

Sitting on the bed, he sets Megumi down to sleep properly, and tries to ignore the speed of which his heart is beating. His stomach’s flipped over, and a harsh scream wants to explode from his chest as he shoves himself into the cramped shower.

The shower boasts no temperature control, and his skin is red from both ice cold and burning heat when he steps out, wiping at the misted mirror. The scar on his lip has flushed where it crosses his lips, and he tugs at it absently.

They’d take you back to the main estate. Highest security, most isolated location, amongst other things. There was a collection of Curses in that cellar, but they wouldn’t keep you in there. There was no point in putting the pregnancy in jeoprady. They have no idea how far along you are until the doctor can get to you.

But the Zen’in homestead is massive. If you aren’t at the main house, you could be in the acres of woodland surrounding it. No doubt there are hunting cabins, fishing huts, other houses for the branch families to stay in or use that Jinichi could stow you away in. Toji knows some of them, but he hasn’t been home in years.

He’d have to go back to Hajime’s house, pick up a trail.

Toji exits the bathroom, rubbing at his scalp roughly as if that could work out the headache beginning to fester in the centre of his skull.

Or, he could leave. Find a place to disappear to, find a new woman to play house with. A nicer woman. One who wouldn’t make such a fuss every time he so much as breathed. He could. What difference would it make? There’s no reason why he should go back to that hellhole. Why he needs to.

Megumi is holding onto his feet, rolling on his back, and there’s a slow, drifting movement between the beds as he giggles, oblivious to it. Toji reaches for the gun he left on the bathroom counter just as his son sits up to look at him, smiling toothily, and two sets of ears prick behind the mattress.

That night, the Divine Dogs come to his son for the first time. They’re nothing more than young pups, but they’ll grow even larger in time—outmatch the hungriest of wolves and the most monstrous of bears.

But Toji doesn’t need another killer. He’s more than enough.

The shikigami sniff at the place they’ve been summoned to, exploring with keen eyes and wrinkling noses, and Toji stalks forward, crouching in front of the bed and grabbing hold of his son by the shoulders. Megumi lets out a shocked squeal, but he ignores it.

“Megumi,” Toji rasps, stares into those wide eyes. His son has his mother’s face, eyes, nose, mouth, and although it’s agonizing to look at from time to time, Megumi screws up his face the same way you do, and it strikes him now. Why he needs to do this. Why he’s done everything he has for the past few months. “Megumi, I need you to listen to me.”

Blood drips off the edge of the his knife as he pushes the door open silently. The figure inside scrambles back, and there’s a frantic, muffled scream as the dogs slither in past his legs. They sniff the air, panting, as Toji pulls his mask down.

The black dog growls a low warning, disappearing into the shadows and there’s the sound of clinking chains as a heavy gasp pierces the darkness.

Moonlight streams into the room, illuminating the white dog returning with a wet cloth that must’ve been a gag pinched between its teeth. Toji steps onto the mat, trying to keep count of the seconds he has before they’re inevitably found.

“Are you alright?” he whispers, struggling to push the desperation, the relief from his voice. His heart quickens as a glimmer of your eye catches his.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you stammer. He can’t see the state of your body just yet, but the fact that you’re talking is a good enough sign. “How did you find me?”

“Dogs. Good sense of smell.” He breaks the chains easily with the hilt of the dagger. “Hold this.” Flipping the knife over, he extends it to you in the darkness, and you let out a grunt, fingers drifting over his own briefly before you lift it from his palm. When he tries to find your waist, your breath flutters against his cheek, but you make no other noise, lifting your head over his shoulder. “Can you stand? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I think so. Move.” You clutch onto his shoulder and push, and he helps you to your feet as the Divine Dogs lope towards the lip of the room once more, alert and ears pricked for any approachers. “I’m fine. I can walk. I don’t know where we are, though, so I can’t be of much help.”

“That’s fine. Just get behind me and watch my back. We’ve got to get to a safe house.”

“A safe house, huh,” you mutter. “Something that comes with the job.”

Toji can’t help the wry smile twisting his lips, reaffirming his grip on his knife. As they approach the exit, he looks back just to make sure you weren’t lying. Your face is smattered with bruises, cheek swollen, and the side of your head is slick with blood, but your eyes are alert. You reach forward and when your fingers dig into his shoulder strongly, a great knot right in his diaphragm becomes undone.

“Let’s go.”

Slipping out of the room, the two crouch and follow the dogs towards the forested acres surrounding the Zen’in compound. They’ll be able to escape to the river and lose the scent, before doubling back to where they need to go. The nearest safe house is a run-down motel where the owner owes Toji a favour.

They can plan their next moves from there.

“We have to go back to Osaka,” you hiss as they slink into the gardens. It’d be best to avoid leaving a trail of bodies, although the ones Toji hid earlier of the guards near your rooms would soon be found if the incoming patrols were smart. “Hajime’s body is still in the house.”

“Going back there isn’t my priority,” he replies icily. His eyes scan the path by the koi pond. It’s out in the open, but it’s either that or risking making the bushes rustle as they try to skirt around the hedge wall. “C’mon. We’ve gotta be fast.”

Four shadows dart across the silver lawn, disappearing onto the other side of a well-worn stone path. The trickling of the pond chimes, covers their soft steps as they reach the other end without much trouble, following the path to the servant’s quarters on the edge of the estate.

Signalling for a stop, Toji crouches behind a rock statue and you fall in behind him.

“Stick close. We reach the end of this building, and run for the forest.” He tilts his head, peeking around to scan the building. The shadows cast by this place are longer than he remembers, and his heart hammers against his sternum. Swallowing tightly, he closes his eyes for a brief moment. Fists take ahold of his gut, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. If he stops for a moment, will it all come back to him?

“Toji,” you whisper, placing a hand on his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from the grass. You shuffle closer until your shoulder is pressed against his own, and your fingers ghost over his cheek. “Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

He jerks his head down before ducking around the corner. The servant’s quarters have always been less extravagant than the main house. It is by no means unkempt, but perhaps it’s the best comparison when placed side by side with the luxury. The wood creaks when Toji steps up onto the engawa, and it whines even more as you ascend beside him.

It won’t be long before someone comes searching for the source of the noise but they just have to round the corner. It’ll be thirty-three steps and then a sprint into the woods. Toji’s traced these steps before, twice. He hopes this third pass will be his last.

The dogs sprint forward, the white one a shining silver beacon and the black one its blurred shadow. They’ve almost made it, and with luck, they’ll be far away from here come the morning.

Your breath comes harsh and fast, excited or anxious, he’s not sure. He’s so attuned to it that it floods his senses.

The rhythmic patter of your feet. You’re not far behind. They’re two seconds away from jumping off the veranda. The dogs reach the end of this wooden path. Tails thrashing, ears flat against their heads, they leap.

Then, the white wolf lets out a warning bark, golden glare gleaming like fire in the moonlight.

Toji is running too fast. He can’t think. His instinct is to duck.

His body moves. His knees hit the hard floor, and he slides past the corner of the building just as a shadow of a man appears in the peripheral of his view. Mouth curling into a scowl, he shoots a hand to his gun. Draws.

You’re trying to skid to a stop past him, in front of him. His eyes widen. The gun brushes your side, his finger twitching.

He can’t think. His instinct is to pull the trigger. Launch a bullet through your body, silence that man who will no doubt send all the fury of the Zen’in Clan onto Toji once more.

Blood splatters across his face.

You shove the knife up with a short, sharp huff, piercing through the jaw and up into the brain. before the scream the man was about to let out can escape, and yank the blade out. Blood gushes over your hand in terrifying, oozing waves as Toji surges forward to catch the body, easing it to the ground and grabbing your hand.

They run past, onto plush grass, into the forest and towards the river, and he can hear your frantic breaths, the thunderous echo of your heart. You turn back to look at the corpse, but it’s a fool’s task. You cannot see your work past the crest of the hill they run down.

His hand slips against your skin, but when your fingers wrap tightly around his own, he trusts you not to falter.

They run into the river, and Toji hauls you onto his back for the rest of the way. Your feet brush against the water and your arms tighten around his neck, but you don’t protest like you normally would. Instead, you rest your head down, and let him take you without any questions.

They go downstream, then upstream. The shikigami have since been dismissed by the time they have to go back the way they came. Perhaps Megumi’s fallen asleep, but his son has done more than enough that Toji reminds himself that the next time he wants something, no matter how ridiculous it is, he will seriously consider buying it.

Soaked to his torso, Toji adjusts his girp on your legs wrapped around his waist. You’re shivering against his back, and he catches a glimpse of your face when he cranes his head back enough.

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“Almost there,” he continues over the gentle flow of the river. “Motel. You can rest there.”

“That supposed to be safe?”

“Know a guy. Occupational acquaintance.”

“How generous.” You bury your face into his neck. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have come for me.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Turning forward, he grimaces when the riverbed sinks, and he hoists you further up his body. He nearly sinks to his chest and you raise your head to look around. You’re remarkably calm. It’ll come crashing down soon. He wants to be within the confines of four walls before that happens. “If you’re awake, make yourself useful and keep an eye out.”

Your dry response pricks at his ears as your hands push up on his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

The motel is a rundown shit-hole.

Well, Toji never claimed himself to be a gentleman.

They’re cooped up in a cramped bathroom as he insisted that he look you over just in case there was Curse damage. The light flicks overhead, which you look at while Toji runs a rag under water.

“They won’t find us here?” you ask blankly. Toji turns and sees your placid face upturned towards him. You watch him with steady eyes that haven’t torn away from him for a moment despite how heavy they must feel. You’re exhausted, but by the way your hands are clenched at your knees, you can’t bare to close your eyes.

“No. They won’t find us.” He crouches before you, and begins to rub at your face. The blood has crusted and flecks off when he touches your temple, and you flinch. “Did that hurt?”

“No. No, they didn’t… it was because I tried to run. They knocked me out.” Your fingers shake uncontrollably as you reach for your head. “Head wounds bleed a lot… I promise, it doesn’t hurt so bad.”

“Don’t feel rattled?”

“Not from a concussion,” you affirm. He gently pushes your hand down, and you let out a long, deep exhale. “They can’t hurt me when I’m carrying their blood, I think is what they said, so I’m okay, I think. I need to go to the clinic to make sure, but I’m okay.”

“You’re not going back there.” Taking hold of your shoulders, he is sure to look into your eye and speak slowly. “I don’t give a fuck about money—we’re not going back to Tokyo."

“We?” you echo. Your lips twist into a bitter scowl, and you push his arms away. “Toji, I don’t even know what happened to me. I got kidnapped because of you? Is that it?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “Because you decided to keep the kid. They found out, and they want that kid more than you probably do.”

“But why? They said something about a technique. Shadows, something.” You shake your head and your eyes narrow as you stand, stepping over and around him. Bracing yourself against the sink countertop, you stare at your own reflection. “What have you not been telling me?”

“A whole slew of things.” He rests on his knees, stretches the rag out to you. You turn to take it and begin to clean up your own complexion as he struggles for words. “A world you don’t know about. My job. You never asked questions.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to give me any answers,” you retort. You temper your breathing, try to keep it even, but as you see yourself more clearly, Toji hears every painful inhale. Every agonizing hitch in your lungs. “I just wish I could understand.”

“I know. I know this shit doesn’t make sense. It’s not fair.” He shakes his head. “I owe you. I know that.”

“You never pay your debts.”

“That’s true.” A bitter chuckle escapes him. “But you can still… if you get rid of that kid, there’s a chance they won’t touch you.” Your lips part in protest, and you twist to look down at him. Rising, Toji feels gutted raw, everything inside him scooped out and replaced with nothing but sawdust. His joints ache strangely. His throat scratches, his eyes burn. He’s had enough of this sick existence, and he wants to throw up until his guts are clean of glass. “And I’ll disappear. You won’t ever hear from me again.”

Your erratic inhales quiver as he pulls the rag away and lifts his other hand to brush the side of your head. He dabs at the impact wound as you stare hollowly into his chest.

“Do you think that pays back your debt to me?” you ask stonily. “That that even begins to cover what you owe me?”

“No,” he replies. The light flickers overhead. The buzz of old electricity hums between them. “No, but it’s the only way I know how.”

Your eyebrows scrunch when he presses too hard. Your eyelids flutter, but you don’t make a sound. Toji bites his lip hard enough he begins to taste iron, but he can’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something incredibly, irredeemably stupid.

You save him from that. You save him from so many other foolish things.

“You don’t get to run from me and pretend it’s for my benefit,” you whisper in a dull, dead way. “That’s not going to happen. You understand me? This Zen’in Clan… they’re going to come for Megumi, too, aren’t they? Those dogs. He… he really likes dogs. You said they were his, so it must be what they want.”

He touches the rag to your swollen lip, his other hand tilting your chin up. “Yeah. And the Zen’in Clan is one of the most powerful political families in our society.” You peer at him in the pale, cold light of the bathroom. It paints you in an unflattering palette, but when Toji meets your gaze, a cold, icy dagger sinks into his back. You still look at him with the epitome of surrender. Underlying any sort of gentleness or hate or fury, there is that knowing.

They are entirely at each other’s mercy.

“I see,” you reply measuredly. “So, we have no chance.”

“You do,” he insists.

“No, I don’t.” Your lips press together. “I’m keeping the baby. They’ll come for me regardless of whether or not you’re here. So, really, if you think leaving me is what’s best, I can’t change that about you.”

His heart flash decays in his chest and he shoots the rag into the sink bowl, planting a hand on the countertop and grimacing. Bowing his head, he digs his fingers into the porcelain and watch the blood water slowly trickle down the drain.

He doesn’t want to leave you, can’t you understand that? If he did, he would’ve left you with his family to die. That is the most permanent solution he could ask for. If it was the better choice for his own self, the guilt would eat him alive, and he would’ve let it, but he didn’t. Toji knew the consequences of the choice he made when he set out for his ancestral home.

You’re here with a bounty on your head, and you’re asking him. Asking him to do something he can’t do anymore, and he knew you would.

He came for you anyway.

You exhale a shivering breath, inhaling another one before it can fully escape, and turn away from the mirror. The shadows nearly envelope you entirely.

“I’m going back to Osaka in the morning,” you tell him with no room to protest. “Hajime deserves a funeral. You either come with me, or you don’t. I’ve killed someone today. I doubt there’s not much more I wouldn’t do to keep myself alive, so don’t do it out of some obligation to me."

You rest a hand on his chest, against his heart, before you nod to yourself.

“Goodnight, Toji.”

You leave. The handprint that lingers burns like arsenic.

Toji jumpstarts a car and they drive to Osaka in silence. Megumi is asleep in your lap on account of the lack of booster seat, and you don’t look at him the entire way there.

When they reach Hajime’s house, it is dawn, the air frosty despite the sun on their faces. The place is as Toji left it, with a hole through the front door. You don’t comment on the scrambled interior, and merely traverse through to the backyard where a stack of wood has already been cut.

“Help me build a pyre,” you instruct shortly. “It’s what he wanted.”

Toji spends the better part of the morning building the pyre. You stay inside to make food, and return with Megumi an hour and a half later. The boy is still asleep, which is both a miracle and a relief. Toji had worried that using the Ten Shadows would drain the child at first, but his son is strong.

He’s just finished the platform as you cross the lawn. Pulling off the gloves, he shoves them under his arm and meets you halfway. “Here.” You extend a plate towards him. Eggs, sausages, and half an apple laden the dish, and you jerk your head over your shoulder. “There’s rice porridge inside.” He nods, and your eyes drift to the pyre. “Here, take Megumi. I’ll continue where you left off.”

“Where’s…”

“Upstairs. On the balcony.” You grab the pair of gloves from him. “No good for Megumi to see that, y’know?”

He nods again. “Alright.”

Brushing past him, you make your way towards the chopped wood and lift. Together, they finish the pyre just past mid-day.

You retreat into the house and slip into one of the rooms upstairs as Toji finds anything that can be scrapped together into lunch. Holding a bowl of instant noodles and steamed vegetables, he finds you asleep in an empty room, curled atop the covers and holding a pillow tight to your chest.

Placing the food on the nightstand, he perches on the edge of the bed. He debates waking you up, his hand settling on your arm, but when you don’t stir immediately, he decides against it. You didn’t sleep much the night before, and woke up early. That, and all that pregnancy business. Toji doesn’t know half about it, but he knows enough.

Perhaps it’d be best if he left you be.

You wake up in the late afternoon.

While you eat outside, Toji carries Hajime’s body and lays him to rest. It’s a pitiful thing to look at. The boy is pale, skin loose, hair patchy, and there’s a sort of fragility that unsettles Toji. He had been nothing but a bag of bones in the end, and resembled more of an old man, but his skin is so smooth, unwrinkled.

How is that supposed to make any sense?

Toji wonders if you’ve ever smelt a burnt body before. When they light the pyre, and watch as the entire structure goes up in flames, Toji does not watch Hajime disappear. Instead, he keeps his eyes steadily trained on you. The fire reflects in your irises, brings a synthetic life to dead eyes.

For a long while, they don’t speak. Toji leaves briefly to attend to Megumi, and he watches through the window as you stare at the fire consume the remnants of your old life. He heats up leftover okayu for dinner, and brings both a bowl and his son out to accompany you.

Dusk slowly settles over the horizon as he hands you the bowl. You take it without complaint, sipping. He briefly squeezes your hands, touches the back of his hand to your forehead, and you shoot him an arched eyebrow. Megumi lets out an appreciative noise at the pretty fire, slapping his hands against his father’s forearm. Toji shrugs.

“He told me not to tell you,” you say as his hand falls away from your head, “but he was grateful to you.” Eyebrows shooting up, a deep frown twists Toji’s mouth but you only smile fondly. “You made sure we were safe, even if that wasn’t your intention.”

“I suppose.” His eyes drift distantly over the burning logs. "Tell him I say you're welcome."

Megumi falls asleep again within the hour. It must be a combination of warm food, his father rocking him, and the exhaustion from the previous days lingering. When he rejoins you, you’re standing, your empty dish by your feet, and you greet him with a curt nod as he finds his place next to you.

The fire is steadily burning away, although it’s been a while now. The whole ordeal will be done before midnight.

You loop your thumbs through the belt holes of your jeans. “Will they know where I live if I go back?”

“Yes.” He kicks the disturbed dirt near his boot. The sound of the wood bending and finally snapping cracks the night. “They might offer you money once they realize you’re alone. When the kid is born, they’ll just take him if you put up a fight. If you don’t, they might let you stay. Then, they’ll wait a few years. Find out if the kid has what it wants. If it doesn’t, they’ll throw you out and keep the kid. If it does, they’ll marry you into the family. The claim is illegitimate otherwise.”

“What claim?”

“The Ten Shadows. If the child can control the Ten Shadows, then there’s no doubt they’ll groom them to be the next head of the clan. And they’ll treat ‘em like royalty, so maybe, it won’t be so bad for the kid. It might even be good. Better, if it’s a boy.”

“The same would happen if it were Megumi,” you point out. “You don’t consider bringing him back? Let him be raised as a prince?”

“They’d either pay me or kill me for him. I’ve considered it before,” he admits. “I don’t know why I don’t.”

“I see.” You lift your head to the smoke rising up into the inky sky. A signal to those around for certain, but Toji doubts the Hei would regroup and attack again so quickly. “They won’t let you stay with me.”

He shakes his head. You worry your lip between your teeth, and turn back to the pyre. The wind blows gently, pushing the ribbons of orange, yellow, and sparkling red towards the trees.

“You got a light?”

“Yeah.”

Reaching into his jacket, he sniffs. The smoke’s reminding him of his own nasty habit. “What are you thinking?”

“Weighing my options.” You shove your hands into your pockets and withdraw a lighter. Pulling out his box of Mild Sevens, he pinches one between his lips and cups the end. You lean over, torching the end and frowning delicately when you note the cigarette.

“Do y’mind?” he mumbles.

“No.” The sizzling end of the cig is covered by the sound of your lighter clicking shut and he takes a long drag, turning his head away. “Dick move to do that in front of me, though.”

He snorts in amusement, smoke escaping. “I’ll quit when the baby comes.”

“Whatever you say.” You hug yourself, tucking your chin in. “Do you… do you think you’ll be here when the baby does come?”

Toji blinks. Run, a voice inside him demands. You’ll kill her if you stay.

“It’s a nice image,” he says against his better judgement. Your eyes drag to his figure, and you take a half-step towards him, hand reaching out, but he jerks his glare down at your extended appendage. Immediately, your body freezes, and your hand curls into a tight fist. Softly, he rests a hand atop your knuckles and gently pushes down. “Megumi would like a sister.”

"Well, I want you to stay." The flames flicker across the apple of your cheek, and you finally take hold of his sleeve. “I want you to want to stay. I know it’s too much to ask. It’s selfish. But I have watched you leave before, and if I have to watch you leave again, fine, but only if I know it’s for the last time.” Your fist shakes. He pinches the cigarette between two fingers and exhales towards the pyre. “And you promise you’ll disappear. For good. You, and Megumi. You understand me?”

As tender as a man like Toji can be: "Yeah, I understand.”

You let go of his sleeve, step away, and face the pyre too. The flames are not as tall as they were before, although they’re no less bright and voracious against the night. It’ll still be an hour or more yet until it’s snuffed entirely, which you seem to grasp as you sit down on the grass. Drawing your legs to your chest, you rest your chin on your knees and let your entire body slouch forward. Toji glances down at you before sidling in a little closer and finishing his cigarette.

Flicking the bud towards the fire, he lets out a cough. The taste is something he’ll never get used to. Soon enough, though, it’ll probably be the last reminder he has of you if he goes. Just some pack of cigarettes in a gas station as if that’s enough to represent you in your frustrating entirety.

Toji wonders what sort of person he is to think about this when your best friend is burning in front of them. He wonders, too, about what Hajime had said about him. He hasn’t spoken to the boy in a decade, haven’t thought about him in years. There had been a time where they’d almost been brothers.

He debates smoking another cigarette, for his sake, but you wouldn’t appreciate that even if you don’t tell him no.

He settles on not smoking, and watching the smoke on the pyre instead. Eventually, a weight leans against his leg. Your head against his knee, you don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t give any indication that he’s even there. Lips twisting into wry, pitiful sort of grimace, Toji carefully crouches down, setting a hand on your head. You cant your head upwards, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry, too.” You lift a hand to his cheek, and your thumb stretches to brush over his lower lip. Your head tilts as you examine the scar, but then you’re lifting your gaze to his nose, trace the shape of his brow. “I just can’t let this one thing go.”

“I know.” He smiles grimly. “But to be honest, you hold a grudge.”

You mimic his smile. “Yeah, I know.”

Tilting your head forward with his hand, Toji closes the gap between them. Their noses brush, and your face, your exhausted, angry, beautiful face, is all he can see. The flecks in your irises, the stray hairs along your eyebrows. He runs his fingers down the side of your cheek as you turn to look at the fire, and remembers how hard it was to leave the first time. It rips apart old sutures in an ancient part of his withered heart. He wasn’t so much a coward that he left a note while you were asleep, but the way your face had glazed over into a placid numbness lingers.

“I know another safe house you can stay in long term,” he says as the wood pyre creaks and crumbles. There’s the sound of a few tumbling, crashing logs and your head snaps to the source. Continuing on, Toji tries to ignore the tight ball clogging up his throat. That damn fucking cigarette. It’s made his mouth feel all funny.

He plants a knee on the ground, and sheds his jacket. You’re about to shove him away but he lets out a sharp warning, forcing it around you.

“If you get sick after being out in the cold and inhaling all this smoke, how’s that good for the kid?” he snaps, and you stop, staring at him. “That place is good. They’ll keep you warm, and fed—”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks. You pull the lapels of his jacket tighter around yourself. “I can take you there, and it’ll be near Tokyo. Somewhere more familiar.”

“And then you’ll leave again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, do you want to leave?” you press, pushing yourself to your knees. Toji pinches the bridge of his nose as you grab his arm. “Toji. If you’re just going to leave, what is the damn point of taking me somewhere else? Why wouldn’t I go back to your crazy fucking family when I know for certain they’ll take care of my kid?”

He nearly gawks at your stupidity. “Because they’ll treat you like shit. They’ll turn your kid against you. Do you think I’m the prime example of good family dynamics?”

“No, but…” Your fingers dig through his shirt. Clenching his jaw, he refuses to look at you as your other hand latches onto his shoulder. Why can’t you see? Is he not being clear enough? You can’t go back there. Toji knows you’ll die one way or another, and while he can bear it enough to be apart from you—to kill you is to inflict a mirrored wound on himself.

“No.”

“I know what I am compared to you. Compared to them. I’m nothing, Toji.” His name slips from your mouth, reed-thin and desperate. “Toji. Look at me. Please.”

He’s never heard you beg before. It stings like a poison, swelling up in his lung. Silent, he only looks down at your hand. It springs off his arm as if he’s scalded you.

“I don’t know what sort of world you’ve been living in,” you admit dully. “And maybe that’s my fault for never asking the right questions. But you can’t expect me to keep listening to you like it’s for my own good.”

“I’m not looking for reasons. It’s what rational, you idiot. It’s because of your association with me that you’re being targeted. It would be smarter if we split up in case they come looking again.”

“Well, it’s too late now!” You shoot to your feet, yanking his jacket off your shoulders. “I’m scared out of my fucking mind right now, and you’re talking about dumping me at some safe house near Tokyo. As if I’d stay there when I know there’s a place I might be needed. I'd be irreplaceable if I go back. At least for a little while. Which is maybe more than I can say for how you see me.”

Rising, Toji bites back the harsh insults that want to pour out of his mouth. His heart splinters as you shove the jacket into his solar plexus and you let out a rattling breath, twisting to face the pyre once more. Oxygen knocked out of him, Toji lets his jacket fall to to the ground and his body moves before he can command it.

His foot steps forward, his hands reach, and his mouth opens.

“Don’t play a hero, Toji.” You spit the words out bitterly, as if you cannot stand the taste of him anymore. “It doesn’t suit you.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you blink and your eyes begin to glisten in the firelight. Catastrophic amber set in your diamond-cut face. “If you’ve already decided, why can’t you just act on what you want?”

“Because what I want,” he murmurs slowly, fists clenching tightly as his sides, “is not the same as what’s best for you.”

Your head slants, just a fraction, and the corners of your eyes soften as you regard him. “Who are you to say what’s best for me?” Ducking his head, Toji squeezes his eyes shut and ignores all the voices in his head crowing at his stupidity. Every muscle in his body trembles as the grass crunches underneath a heavy foot, and when fingers brush delicately over his arms, he flinches back. “Toji.”

Tough, callused fingertips gently find his chin and tilt it up. His eyebrows knot together even tighter, and he jerks his head away but the hand is insistent, sliding along his jaw and pushing him back towards you.

“What I know is that the father of my child is the person best suited to protect me,” you utter with such misplaced conviction. Lips twisting into a pained scowl, he shakes his head. You cup his face, wrench his head so he is forced to look at you. A wet trail has carved a path down your cheek. His heart stutters in his esophagus. “You being here by my side in these damned woods makes me feel safer than if I were alone in some safe house because I trust you. Can’t you understand that?” Can’t you trust me, too?

The thing is, Toji has always trusted you. Had faith in you in a time when he didn’t believe in anything. The countless stitches that have been snipped by your scissors, and the gauze you’ve packed against his wounds are proof of all of that—invisible lines on his body that have healed perfectly because of your diligence and the long, pink scars in your absence weave a story he’s been writing for ages, but the endings diverge, and he tries to imagine both.

When you blink, another tear steadily traces the curve of your face, and he can’t stomach it. With a rough thumb, he swipes the tear away before grabbing you by your shoulder and yanking you into him.

Your arms immediately wrap around him, hooking on his shoulders. Holding the back of your head, Toji closes his eyes and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. Their bodies meld together, slot together like two pieces. As the fire begins to die and the smoke clears, clarity finally comes to him in the shape of that image again.

A child. A baby girl, Megumi’s sister.

“Take care of Megumi, okay?”

You had been right. His son has the Ten Shadows. If Toji sold him when the signs first showed up, he could’ve haggled enough to sate him for a lifetime. Why didn’t he?

Your lips brush the curve of his jaw as you let out a long exhale.

He can fool himself into thinking it’s because he wanted the certainty of knowing it’s truly the technique his family has been searching for, but it’s because he knows what princes are treated like in the Zen’in Clan. He wants the best for his son, really he does. He’d give it to him even if it meant he’d have to erase his blessing from his mind to make it happen.

But that possibility of you, out there, living a life he knows nothing about anymore.

Maybe that is the way. To keep his son happy, and to keep his son with him for the time-being.

Your fingers entrench into his shoulders hard enough to hurt. He runs a palm down your back before wrapping his arm around your waist.

Toji wants to run. He wants to stay. He wants to make enough money to not worry about gambling debts, but he aches to see his son grow up.

And, of course, now, he would like a daughter. He’s decided a daughter would be good, too, for the end.

“Do you think I don’t know what I am to you?”

Toji wonders if when you had asked that question, you had truly known his answer.

Only one way to to find out.

“Okay,” he finally whispers. Your head tilts inwards, your nose against the long cord of his neck. Your breathing is erratic, featherlight and hopeful as he closes his eyes. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Three weeks later, a woman, a man, and a toddler boy walk past the torii of the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College. Despite the weapons trained on the man’s chest, he proposes calmly, almost arrogantly, a deal they’d be stupid to refuse.

The service of the Sorcerer Killer in exchange for room and board for the three of them.

Yaga Masamichi accepts.

#fic: dissolve #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen #my writing

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thatdeadaquarius · 1 year

Note

sagau with the language barrier issue except... the creator is sick and tired of trying to ask for things so they do everything themself.

and it gives their followers mass anxiety bc they can't even ask what you're doing... bc they know they won't understand anything...

SUCH A GENIUS NARVI 10/10 GOOD WORK SORRY IM SUPER LATE BUT THIS IS *chefs kiss*

Like, that's literally how I feel like I first played Genshin LMAO

Also this has a cont. Part 2 at the bottom bc tumblr fucking hates me UPDATE I FIXED IT THANK FUCK

Paimon was like "and then we go to Mondstadt- ! NO, not Wolvendom, to Mondstadt! NOT THE THOUSAND WIND TEMPLE WITH ENEMIES OUT OF UR LEAGUE, ENTER MONDSTADT FOR THE FIRST TIME BEFORE U EXPLORE THE REST OF THE MAP!! >:("

SO MANY IDEAS YET SO LITTLE WRITING SKILL GUYS HELP-

Also warning this is ROUGH in terms of spelling and editing and im so sorry abt that! I have my art show today so you're welcome to come back if you want to see it a little more readable tomorrow lmao

Edit Update 4/6/23:

Revised and fixed all the bad spelling and grammar (hopefully) so make sure to give another read if you havent read the cleaned up version lol

I dont have a beta reader so its just me trying my best ok-

Everything was like kinda chaos tbh at first

WOW- MY FIRST 1,000+ NOTES POST??!?! U GUYS, WHAT ARE R YOU DOIN??!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! IM GLAD U GUYS ENJOYED IT SM!! Also look out for more encoded stuff in the future since i mentioned wanting to continue stuff like this + ARG stuff :) <3

Edit 9/7/23: 2,000+ NOTES?? THANK YOU???

Like u wake up under the Irminsul, and u think ur hallucinating a goddamn gacha game for like a solid 5 minutes, or ur lucid dreaming,

but once u actually took what felt like hours to process that u might actually be in fucking Genshin Impact-

Nahida came running from, somewhere?? Its kinda just very floaty dreamy in here so, unclear, she’s beaming with a giddy little smile (💘)

It’s… so much more than what her game model could manage.

I mean, you knew that, of course you did, but- to see the tiny goddess smiling in person, her cute chubby arms waving in the air, her cheeks all plump with baby fat from her excited smile, pretty green eyes that sparkle only in the way excited toddlers do-

It was just…wow. 🥺

You can’t help it, her sheer carefree excitement, exactly like a child but you know that she must be really overwhelmed with joy if shes letting herself act like that so blatantly, you feel ur muscles tug gently into a smile, you try to muffle it but ur happiness leaks out anyway

She's panting as she stumbles on short chubby legs to reach you.

After just staring at you with those big green clover eyes for a few seconds, she physically shakes her head to knock herself out of it,

Nahida places her hand over her heart, and bows elegantly, going back to looking at you with a small but bright smile, her voice is kind of quiet, muffled in a soft way, much like her game depiction,

“Hzozn! R'ev yvvm dzrgrmt gl nvvg blf! R wrwm'g gsrmp blf dlfow wvhxvmw fmgro R dzh zg ovzhg z uvd gslfhzmw bvzih low!” *

…Nahida begins to look a little concerned… her eyes get impossibly bigger.

…Oh no.

♧

Nahida had apparently quickly spread the news that you can’t understand them, but luckily it seems like all the characters still know you!

Alhaitham is pretty much a constant by your side, you knew he was vaguely studying linguistics in the akademiya… but that knowledge still didn’t prepare you to be intensely stared at with his diamond pupils for hours. 💀

Then he’d tap your shoulder or something, and you quickly picked up that he wanted you to just try and say something.

Then he would scribble for hours.

Turns out they can understand you about as much as you understand Teyvat language (s? You can’t even tell if there are multiple languages, that’s how unrecognizable this language is, damn)

The more extroverted or friendly people, like Venti, Yoimiya, Kazuha, Jean, Noelle, Amber, Xingqiu, Hu Tao, Zhongli, Ganyu, Barbara, Beidou, Collei, Ayaka, Gorou, Nilou

At least attempt to talk to you, and try very hard to watch what you gesture with your hands or body language

They're pretty much ready to play charades at all times for you lol

Interestingly enough, they only ever understood you when you typed in the chat (with other ppl)

But even then not immediately,

Sumeru scholars basically had to make a whole new department (regardless of how much you play with others) to decipher your ancient language (to them) like those old clay tablets with cuneiform we’re still translating?

Like that, your words appear in elemental magic heavy places (so like that abyss lang. It’ll appear on walls or structures, so like Andrius’ stone colosseum? in Wolvendom gained some of your chat replies inscribed and glowing a rainbow of colors on the top edges of the walls)

Much like the abyss language you see throughout genshin, most Teyvat scholars (across nations/internationally) agreed your language is the oldest form of language known!

It’s like modern languages having roots in older ones, like English with Latin, greek, or German roots, or Sanskrit and the Prakrit for Hindi language today

…so of course no one really speaks the root languages anymore, because they’re so old, so those ancestors who spoke those languages would have little to no understanding of their modern counterparts…

◇

Occasionally if you turned your mic on for whatever reason there would be a gentle whisper on the winds in Mondstadt of your voice,

or your laugh in the waves washing ashore in Inazuma and Fontaine,

your startled noises or screams from battling bosses mixed with the landslides in the mountains of Liyue

So they know what you sound like, but that doesn’t mean they understood your language :/

Nahida had been hoping that you’re actual physical form being here would help improve the language barrier

But unfortunately, those things remained the same, but at least you were physically here to talk to now and give more content for the scholars to study rather than them having to make do with your snippets of language from chats

…so needless to say, it took you a long time to realize they viewed you as a god of sorts.

You kind of knew something was up when at least two allogenes were by your sides at all times, or eremites would replace them if they really couldn’t stick around

You figured they knew you weren’t nearly as combatant-ready as they were at all times, hell you obviously didn’t have a vision hanging off you somewhere, and you only really had a knife strapped to a belt, courtesy of the Thirty Corps

You are still kind of convinced that the people of Teyvat, or Sumeru at least, are just pretty polite (and in the allogenes case, very kind or friendly, even people like Alhaitham or Cyno, resting bitch faces they have, seem to soften a little when they’re walking around with you… maybe you’re just imagining it…)

And as much as you would love to wait until they understand you to do something more fun, as you can see the frustration on Tighnari’s face (and his ears try to flatten back hehe) as he looked like he was debating heatedly with some of the Sumeru sages who insist you stay in the city

…so why not go?

It’s not like they’re going to get it anytime soon, and it’s still too frustrating for yourself to charade things or draw things for them because you can’t even hear their guesses 💀

You can totally handle being like the traveler too,

You still have access to your inventory afterall! Plus, lucky for you, you still find a pass for the Serenitea Pot in your little pocket dimension!

So now you have somewhere to sleep at night, and while most of your stuff went to the traveler’s pack, the things like Primogems

(which.. Okay now you really want primogems bc theyre so pretty and shiny irl)✨️

And other high-level things, or just objects of no use for the traveler (so basically all your hoarded level up stuff and infinite amount of weapons lol) came along with you

So you did have to wander the first week or so around the city and even commission the Adventurer’s Guild to grab you food supplies to cook with

Filling up, along with a few big waterskins, you’re off!

...and everyone collectively has a heart attack!

◇

When you show up in Ghandaraville essentially all “✨️💖☺️✨️” on Tighnari’s doorstep-

He chokes on the tea he’d been sipping on before he opened the door lol

He looks a little frazzled so you try to just gesture with “calm yourself small animal” energy with your hands

“Tivzgvhg Oliw! R'n- R- sld wrw blf-?! Mvevinrmw, xlnv rm, xlnv rm, ivhg! ...R mvvw gl hvmw z nroorlm ovggvih mld gl ylgs gsv vmgriv xrgb lu Hfnvif, gsv Zxgrmt Tizmw Hztv, zmw gsv Nzgiz nlhg orpvob…” he began out looking at you and talking and gesturing to his small dining table (the game sucks, his house looks great and has lots of cool rooms filled with interesting plants… oooo…so pretty...)

But then he kinda just devolved into rambling, no need to understand, you can read the vibes and just know that's what he's doing lol

Collei eventually ducks in, and she looks a little panicked?

She’s quickly followed by Cyno, pushing past her to call out into the house,

His voice seems hard and stressed, looking at Tighnari, “Grtsmzir, szev blf hvvm gsv Tivzgvhg Oliw zmbdsviv, gsvb dviv hvvm xlnrmt gl Tszmwziezeroov ozhg-”

Cyno stops and blinks.

Collei’s mouth is slightly dropped open, she also just, blinks.

You blink.

Tighnari blinks tiredly, he looks like he’d rather be done for the day, you think.

The doctor sighs, and moves his head to nod towards the other dining seats.

◇

Sumeru foods are so much better looking in real life, and they’re so good too, your practically bloated by the end of dinner,

As a thank you, bc u cant say it obv, you just gesture for Tighnari to stay sitting, and he gives you a raised eyebrow and a suspicious ear twitch

But stays still, and you reach out to finally hit the eight-pointed star hovering over his, and all playable characters chests at all times.

Like you suspected, it brings up a holographic character menu, but rather than his full model, it kind of hovers in front of Tighnari’s face, replacing his old 3D model self with framing the real thing for a portrait just in front of his face

The poor Denro user nearly jumps a foot out of his chair as he looks in shock at your screen, you do the same “chillll boy” gesture with your hands and press his shoulders for a second to remind him to not run off or panic

Cyno and Collei had done the dishes and put up leftovers, and are now standing behind Tighnari, watching with equally wide eyes,

“...Dszg ziv gsvb wlrmt gl blf?

Cyno’s voice is even deeper and quieter than usual, you feel goosebumps run up your spine

“Ziv blf tvggrmt yovhhvw, Nzhgvi Grtsmzir?!” Collei’s sweet voice is also hushed like she’s witnessing something sacred, Tighnari gently shakes his head negatively in response, his shoulders shrugging,

“Nzbyv? R uvvo... z orggov hgilmtvi, zmw nb Erhrlm rh zxgrmt fk zh dvoo…”

Though he’s replying, Tighnari’s eyes haven’t once left your ancient magic? technology device? hovering in front of him,

and as he crosses his arms and squints to try and look closer at everything floating in front of him, you can see the childlike gleam of awe in his green eyes, (so cute) in fact, now that you glance up and look, both Collei and Cyno have the same quietly excited and fascinated sparkle in their eyes too

With a displeased sneer, you chuck his old level one bow into the material grinding spots, hope he wasn’t attached to that…

Oh well, he’ll like the new one better, afterall, with no characters, all your best weapons and artifacts are ready to use!

With a small smile of reassurance, you finally finish gearing Tighnari up, tap a miniature version of that 8-point star in the corner like an “X” button, and it retreats like a classic TV set📺 turning off into his chest, he startles but then carefully stands

You decide to just start making decisions bc its worked out so far ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And grab his hand and haul him out into the forest, Collei letting out a surprised squeak, her and Cyno hurrying after

You reach the nearest clearing, and gesture at Tighnari like a bow and arrow firing, he gets it, and your glad he already trusts you, because he doesn’t take long to summon his bow

He takes aim at a smaller tree about two cars length away

You can feel them all holding their breathe, as Tighnari charges it with Dendro, the arrowhead glowing, (it looks so cool and badass irl god you feel envious even tho ur already here-)

The ranger lets it fly, it streaks neon green, whistling through the air, it hits the tree-

and it fucking explodes.

Vines and leaves and the trees roots all rapidly swell like theyre filled with water, like it literally got hit by a superhero with plant powers, which, not that far off actually.

The green floating Dendro seeds make a ring around the tree its so full of elemental energy-

You give a wild grin, you still got it, hell yeah. >:)

Your grin widens as you look over at Tighnari, Collei, and Cyno

Cyno has a smirk lighting up his face, eyes eager, Collei’s jaw has dropped and she’s just frozen staring as the tree finally settles from the burst of the dendro powered arrow

…Tighnari has lowered his bow, and his mouth is only slightly open, his ears perked straight up into the air, shaking with excitement? Happiness? Interest? You don’t know how peopl-animal-hybrid ears work,

and you STILL cant talk to any of them to ask what they thought, so looks will have to do >:/

Tighnari is the first to move, his head snapping over to look at you, the brightest, kinda feral tbh, smile taking over his face-

“Blf pmld, dv xzm'g fmwvihgzmw blf, zmw blf fh, bvg R xzm'g dzrg gl hvv dszg rm gsv dliow blf'iv tlrmt gl wl mvcg. Blf'iv znzarmt."

… and you just 🙂? Cool!

And give a thumbs up👍LMAO

☆

Bonus:

Alhaitham was literally running around Sumeru City trying to find you when you left, tho you did try and leave a translatable-in-3-to-5-business days-note, he didn’t have time to translate that because you were gone.

Or worse, lost in the city, and he would never forgive himself if he lost you, esp as Acting Grand Sage-

Kaveh got a letter a day and a half later from Tighnari letting them know you were having a sleepover in Ghandarvaville lol

Kaveh also had to hunt down Alhaitham to give him said news, then force his roommate to go sit or lay down for the rest of the day to recover lmao

(Haitham honestly kinda freaked Kaveh out bc he’s never seen him that... desperate, it was like seeing a statue emote lol)

♡

ARE YOU KIDDING WE ALMOST HIT LIMIT AGAIN?!

Bro has anyone else had this problem???

I literally had to switch from PC to mobile and copy and paste it there to get all my shit in and tumblr not throw a hissy fit???!!!

FUCKING TUMBLR- SUCK MY BIG FAT- 👹👹 UGH

ANYWAYYYY SO I FINALLY CAVED

And started doing ciphers for when you dont get teyvat’s language! I meant to do something fun like this for awhile but I wasn’t sure if that would be kind of annoying, but if you’re interested in learning what they actually say (which the whole point of this is that dw it doesnt rlly matter lol) here’s a hint:

*hint = Atbash

:> good luck!

Wish me luck on my art exhibition today!! Then I’ll be homefreeeee 😭

Safe Travels,

💀♒

♡ the beloveds ♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist

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boxbug · 7 months

Text

A Canary’s Final Flight

My piece for @trafficzine 4th edition! Get it for free here! 200 pages of excellent art and fics, incredible work from all participants and from the mods especially!! huge shoutout to the mods for real

Process notes under the cut! (I struggled a lot so it's a bit of a novel)

So the entire process was a Ride. I knew when I picked this prompt that I was going to have a hard time, because Jimmy’s final death had been illustrated a billion times over by extremely talented artists. But I had a Vision of the snapshot of the second before the impact, when everything is still but you know what’s about happen. It was very much inspired by the clip of Fog by Jabberwocky, bu the thing is, they have the advantage of all the build up of the fall, and that’s when the trouble started.

This was my first version, and obviously it wasn't working. And I was trying so hard, with so many iterations! Small wings, big wings, no wings, different poses, less backgrounds elements. I'd done compositions were everything seemed peaceful but something is Wrong, but it wasn't working this time.

So instead I focused on what rendering I'd like to do - I tried a painterly approach, for that visceral feeling, but it wasn't working either (but hey, I did keep the red sky, so, progress)

At this point I'd been doing back and forths for weeks and I was just as lost as at the start. Now that's my tip for people who make art of any kind, in situations like that, stop thinking about how you can make the best piece possible, and think about you can have fun with it (because when you aren't it's visible). And for that was, 1 - going back to using ink and pen nibs and doing way too detailed inking, and 2- looking at Dave McKean's covers for Sandman (which, funnily enough, was also a reference for my previous trafficzine piece)

And from there I was actually going somewhere! Between the jagged rocks, the red sky, and the increased verticality with the borders, I had hit the vibes I wanted.

I did some experimentation with the border, and even though I really liked the bad boys I drew they were taking too much away from the lonely desolation, so I actually used Red (Unecessary Redstone)'s idea of all of Jimmy's worldy's possessions scattered on the ground post impact, with the idea to make it looks like the central image is his grave being dug.

(and yes for a short amount of time the were supposed to be clock markings on the sun, but there was already enough going with the wings so I scrapped that) (also fun fact the reason why the wings aren't fully material but more ghostly is because my toddler cousin was watching me draw the very first draft and asked why he didn't just use his wings and i went :( so the wings are a metaphor now)

So from there I found a bunch of picture and took some myself, cut and assembled everything together, added shadows in all the appropriate places, and repainted some elements so that everything would look better intergrated (some of the wheats are basically 100% handpainted, the cardboard as well). This took a suprisingly long amount of time, but I was done!

Well I wasn't expecting to have that much to say, but I hope if you're still reading, it was at least interesting!

#trafficzine #limited life #limlife #limlife fanart #jimmy solidarity fanart #solidaritygaming #i forgot all the tags augh #curse of not posting often #mcyt fanart #mcyt #zine illustration #zines #my art

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1pepsiboy · 20 days

Text

Car video with Matt Sturniolo - Fluff! (request)

Matt Sturniolo x reader!

Word count: 1.1K

Warnings: swearing, a little kissing

A/N: This one got away from me and I had to reign it back in because it's not supposed to be smutty lmaooo But here it is!

***

It’s close to midnight as Matt parks the van in a random spot at the favorite lot. The two of you got fries, chicken nuggets with sweet n’ sour sauce (mostly for him), and a large milkshake to share. You plan to do a car video to post on his individual channel.

You have no idea what you were going to talk about. Matt had fans submit their own questions for you two to answer.

After setting up the camera, which included Matt going out to check it, you start recording and picking at the food.

Matt starts the video off. "Hey everyone, (y/n) and I are here. Uhm... basically we're going to do our own car video without Nick and Chris. We don't really have a topic, but you guys submitted questions on instagram. Babe, have anything to start us off?"

Now, he looks at you as you’re mid fry. You chew quickly as possible, wiping your hands on a napkin, as he giggles under his breath.

"Thanks for the warning," you remark with a laugh. "Uhm, not really... I'm just here for the vibes."

"For the vibes?" Matt crooks a brow and looks you up and down. Then he takes a nugget and dips in the sauce.

You roll your eyes. "Don't yuck my yum."

Matt stuffs the nugget in his mouth. "Okay, Chris."

All you do is flip him off and take a sip of the milkshake.

"Just ask the questions."

"Okay, okay." He laughs as he readjusts in his seat after grabbing his phone. It's quiet for a couple minutes while he gathers them. "Oh, let's start with this one. What's our favorite thing about each other?"

"Well-"

"Oh, quick disclaimer, sorry babe." Matt shoots you a nervous smile. "I will edit screenshots of the questions onto the screen so you can see who they're from. And uh.. if you'd like to get featured in videos, follow us on instagram to see the next time I ask for questions. I'll put the @s on the screen and in the description below."

You slowly chew on your straw after taking another sip, patiently waiting for him to be done. It's already been fifteen minutes and you are almost positive Matt forgot the extra battery pack. Granted, you could've asked Nick where it was and brought it; too late.

"Okay, what were you going to say?" Matt prompts.

You think about making another snarky remark in how it'd been so long since he asked the question that you don't remember it.

Tapping the straw on your pursed lips, you pretend to think. "Well... I have many favorite things so it's an unfair question."

Matt lightly rolls his eyes. "Look, I know you love everything about me, but what's your favorite?"

"Oh, everything?" You laugh. "You think so highly of yourself, don't you, Matty B? Let's go the different route then." You look directly into the camera. "Guys, this kid will not accept anything sort of unorganized or clean. Not for more than five minutes if he can help it."

Matt's jaw drops and he snatches the cup out of your hand. "Your least favorite thing is how organized I am?"

"Yeah, live a little! You won't die if there's like a wrapper or two on your desk, or if the toothbrush isn't in the holder."

"You are an absolute monster, (y/n)!" Matt cracks. He points between you and the camera. "Don't believe a single word she says. She leaves more than a wrapper or two, and her skincare is all over my bathroom counter after she does her morning routine."

You shrug. "I don't see a problem with that, and I don't think the fans will either."

"Guys, leave a comment if you're more like me or (y/n)." He barely scoffs under his breath, eating another fry. "You're lucky you have other amazing qualities that I overlook the messiness."

Now, you couldn't help blushing. “Such as?”

Matt shakes his head, a smile spreading on his lips. “You’re understanding about a lot going on, you know, like the channels, life, and stuff. So it’s easy to talk to you about it, like if I’m ever anxious or something.”

“Top fucking notch quality right there,” you say. “Anything else? I love the praise.”

“I thought this was reserved for in private, babe.”

Your eyes go wide and you almost spit out the fry you just put in your mouth. “Matthew! Stop!”

Matt giggles under his breath. “Sorry. Uhm… You can rock a men’s polo and make the best playlists for me… Obviously you have such a vibrant personality.”

“That I do.” You nod in agreement. You reach out to brush back some of his hair, causing some pinkness to rouge on his cheeks. “I love how cautious you are about decisions, keeps me from letting impulsive thoughts win.”

“Which is a lot,” he shoots a look at the camera.

You can only roll your eyes in response. “Anyway… You’re the most caring person I know that will drop anything to help someone you love. The only time you won’t ask a lot of questions… Oh! You’re actually the best big spoon ever.”

He bites his bottom lip, failing to hold back a cheesy grin. “Really, babe?”

“Absolutely.”

You close the space between you, and Matt instinctively rests his hand in the crook of your neck. You crawl over the center console onto his lap when you realize it wouldn’t be just a few kisses.

Time gets away and you sort of forget that you are filming. Your hands roam each other’s bodies over and under clothes. Both of you leave butterfly kisses on the other’s neck.

The lights in the van suddenly dim away.

“Shit. Fuck,” Matt says, his lips pink from yours and hair tousled more than usual. “I think the camera died.”

“And we technically only answered one question.” You bite your lip with a laugh.

He laughs with you, running a hand through his hair. He lays back and looks you in the eyes. “I should’ve known not to start with that question.”

“Should we try doing this again on a different night?”

Matt sighs heavily. “Probably… It would suck to scrap all the footage though.”

A smirk rises on your lips as you move back to the passenger seat. “You want to include clips of us making out?”

“Obviously no.” He rolls his eyes.

“Let’s just keep going then. Use my phone to record.”

Matt kisses the crook of your neck. “You’re the best, babe.”

You shoot him a look. “Be careful, Matthew.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He throws his hands up in defense. (He really wasn’t that sorry.)

*You can request others from this list or send me new ones!*

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo request #fluff #request #car video #car video with matt

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pedrostylez · 2 months

Text

I’m Here When You Need Me

Joel Miller x f!reader One Shot

Warnings: Angst, feelings, longing, cheating on the readers part, Joel just wants you to be happy, high key hating reader’s husband, age gap mentioned (Joel is in his 50’s, no reader age), insecurities, mentions of body and working out, insecurities, nipple and breast play, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected piv sex ( wrap it people), oral f recieving, I think that’s it

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: this has had minimal edits and I’m posting from my phone so don’t be judging me!!!! Heed the warnings. I hope you guys enjoy 😊

He’s at it again, dreaming of you wrapped around him. Soft to the touch, warm and needy, just how he likes you.

The telltale sound of his phone wakes him from the comfort of his dreams, vibrating through the pillow to his ear. When he squints his eyes to see your name on the screen, his heart freezes for a moment. You don’t typically call, so it must be important. “Hello?” He sounds groggy, and he hears your pause before a deep sigh. He knows you feel bad for calling him, even though you knew he would be asleep. “What is it, baby?”

“Don’t call me that.” You hiss, breath coming quickly through the receiver, the sound of your teeth biting at your nail.

“Are you alone?” He asks, now sitting up in bed. He’s used to a rogue text here and there, asking if he’s home so that you can slip out while your husband is asleep, or at work. He’s never texted you first, never been the initiator except for the once when he first spotted you in the bar. But a phone call in the middle of the night? Unheard of.

“Yeah.” You sigh, frustration clear in your voice.

He frowns, rubbing at his chin and shuffling out of bed. “Door’s open, baby.” It slips out, and he winces, figuring you’ll correct him again. He can’t help it.

You don’t say anything about the nickname, just give him a quiet goodbye and an ETA.

He doesn’t bother to remake the bed, doesn’t bother to clean up anything. He used to; used to make sure all the dishes were done and that the floor was swept for you. He was embarrassed, a 50 something year old man still living alone and had somehow gotten your attention. He wanted to leave a good impression.

But after enough times of you storming in, how you would grab around the collar of his shirt and thrust yourself at him to feel something, to distract you from whatever issues you were having with him, he stopped worrying.

A habit he shouldn’t get into, but he knew you would come around again and again.

Joel flicks on the outside light, looking out the curtain briefly before sitting on the couch and turning on the TV. He keeps the sound low, listening for the sound of your truck to pull up next to his. His pants are low, riding just below the elastic band of his underwear, loose and warm under the flannel.

He sighs, switching the channel and scratching at his incoming beard. He doesn’t know what mood you’ll be in, what you’ll want, but trying to wake himself up after a long day on the job is all he can do to prepare for you.

The sound of your door slamming has him turning his head, listening to your sneakers shuffle on his brick pathway. The pause at his door, where he swears he can hear you take a deep breath before twisting the knob and letting yourself in.

Your hair, swept to one side and down, loose, wild, has his mouth upturned out of habit. He loves you wild. “Hey.”

“What’s going on?” He asks quietly, letting you shut his front door and slip your sneakers off. He doesn’t dare move, afraid that he might scare you off by being too concerned. You’re in your own set of pajamas, loose shirt and flannel pants with a sweatshirt zipped in the front.

When you sit beside him, you lean into him with your head on his chest. One, two, three big breaths leave your mouth as he wraps an arm around you. It gives you the courage to say what you came here for. “I don’t think he loves me.”

Joel’s heart sinks, the sound of your voice defeated. His arm squeezes around you, looking down to the crown of your head. “No, baby that’s not true.” It slips out again, and he closes his eyes to try and recenter himself. Stop calling her baby.

“He won’t even look at me anymore.” You say again, tilting your head to look Joel in the eye. You’ve accepted it, eyes not shimmering with sadness. “He says he wants me but…never initiates. It’s like I’m begging just for an ounce of attention.”

Joel holds his face neutral, his blood boiling. He wants you, he would give you the attention you deserve. He knows that’s why you’re here, that’s why you called–

“I don’t think he finds me attractive anymore.” You whisper, an uncommitted shrug before you bury your head back against his chest.

Joel rubs his hand up and down your back, looking up toward the TV for a moment. Reruns of Seinfeld, laugh tracks and a bright screen fill his senses. He keeps quiet, keeping his hand moving to reassure you before he says, “I think the world of you.”

You shake under his arm with a brief chuckle, resting your hand on his stomach and swirling, swirling, swirling your finger around his belly button.

He resists sucking his stomach in, knowing you’ll chastise him like you have before. He wants to hold you, body against body to prove to you how much he wants you. “Do you want to go lay down with me?” He asks quietly, feeling your hair slide away from his arm as you pull away from him.

“Sure.” You reach for the remote, clicking off the screen and unzipping your sweatshirt. You turn to him, smirking as you step in the direction of his bedroom. “Just to sleep?”

“If that’s what you want.” Is his immediate answer. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come to his door just wanting to fall asleep on his chest; he wouldn’t mind it in the least, just to have you next to him.

But the way you smile, the way your eyes shimmer with want, he knows that isn’t what will be happening.

No, not when he turns off all the lights and heads to the bedroom and finds you already under the covers. Your quiet voice asking him to turn off the lights is new, but he obliges.

He fumbles to the bed, getting under the covers and hearing your giggle when you reach for his hand and place it on your breast. He laughs as well, swiping his thumb back and forth over your nipple until it is taunt, peaked against the pads of his fingers. He presses his mouth to your jaw, lightly pinching to hear your whimper against his ear.

He sighs happily, groaning when your fingers wrap around his cock through his pajamas. Your hands are warm, pressing heat into him in ways he misses when you’re gone. He lets his fingers drift down your side, counting your ribs quietly to himself. “Let me see you, baby?” He inquires, letting his lips run down the column of your throat, pressing deeply into the curve of your collarbone.

He feels your tension, the way you freeze for only an instant before going back to your loosened and easy going movements. “What? Don’t like surprises?” You question, squeezing your hand around the head of him briefly before pushing down his pants.

He springs free, your fingers lightly dancing down his shaft making him groan. He wants to tell you that it’s not that he doesn’t like surprises, but he wants to watch you. He looks down, blankets haphazardly in the way, only giving him a peek at what your hand is doing around him.

It feels like heaven, your hand with small calluses at the base of each finger. The smoothness of the rest, silky and enticing pumping up and down, your thumb swiping at the weeping hole to spread some of the wetness around.

He moves the sheet out of the way, letting his eyes trail to your chest before looking up at you as his tongue pokes out, circling the same nipple from before. Your mouth opens in awe, eyes fluttering shut and head thrown back. “J-Joel–”

“Let me see you.” He’s muffled against your skin, flicking his tongue against you and letting his fingers drift further and further down. Joel’s fingers brush over the hem of your underwear, and he can’t help the smile that grows on his face as you giggle. He knows it’s ticklish there, just as he dips his fingers into the humid skin beneath.

Your breath hitches, eyes opening more fully as he moves the blankets with his arm. He notices how you watch it, suddenly self conscious as your legs start to spread for him. “I’m cold, Joel.”

He pauses, letting only the knuckle of his first two fingers continue their movement under the strain of your underwear. You’re slick, his fingers easily moving over your clit with a laziness that he knows you like. You don’t want to be rushed-ever; it’s why you go to his place to begin with. “I’ll warm you up.”

“N-no.” You close your eyes, shaking your head as if falling out of this fantasy. “I want the blankets up here.”

Joel’s fingers pause now, head tilting up to you and frowning. He can see you more clearly now, his eyes having adjusted to the street lamps that filter through his curtains. You’re almost naked below him, frowning with your eyes downturned, looking toward his hand instead of his face. He brings his other hand up, tilting your chin to look directly at him. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You attempt at a scoff, but he’s not buying it. “I’m cold, I told you–”

“You know I think you’re beautiful, right?” He gruffs, frown going deeper as he sees you shake your head. “You know I like to see how you react, touch you, look at you. Why do you want to be covered?”

“I’ll just put my shirt back on.” You snarl, teeth coming out to bite as you lean over the side of the bed, reaching for the shirt you had tossed off before he followed you into the bedroom.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling your arm back and holding you to the bed. Unable to roll, you wiggle under him, pulling your hand free to reach again. When he catches you again, you groan unhappily, getting into a pulling and pushing match with him.

He’s stronger than you, the creases in his forehead deepening as he let’s you get away enough times to tire you out, but not letting you escape his question. “Quit fightin’ me, and tell me what is going on.”

Your hands are secured to the pillows below you, breasts bouncing from the intensity of it and your deep breaths. He can’t help how his eyes trail down, wanting to look at you, but seeing you squirm uncomfortably.

You stay silent, glaring at him and then looking to the ceiling as if you’re just going to ignore the question. Joel sighs, annoyance bubbling up in him and trying to tamp it down. It clicks suddenly in his head, that something must have been said to you. “Why do you want to be covered?”

Your eyes trail back to his, your furrowed brow slowly relaxing, the tension in your arms reducing to where Joel releases his grip and lets his fingers trail down to hold your torso. His hands wrap around you, his thumbs stroking at the soft skin under each breast. He’s not sure if your eyes are shimmering with tears, or if it is just a trick in the light when you say, “He…he asked if I had been working out lately.” You swallow, shaking your head. “A-and when I said no, he…he said ‘that’s obvious.’”

Joel’s breath comes quickly, his fingers subconsciously digging into your skin to hold himself steady. He said what? He can’t help but stare at you, waiting for more to come, but you just stare back with a slow buildup of tears in your lash line.

Another moment of silence before you’re sniffling, bringing a hand up to cover your eyes as if embarrassed. Joel releases you as he feels your body shutter, pulling the blankets up around you both and moving his fingers to cradle your head. He lets his dull nails scratch at your scalp, shushing and cooing at you until you’re pressed against him, naked skin on skin in a humid cloud under his blankets.

He lets you cry; it’s the first he’s really ever seen you do so since meeting you. You’ve always been strong, secure and confident in how you present yourself. He found it off putting, in some ways-he had never been with a woman that didn't need him. He was used to being the provider. But you’d always taken care of yourself, came and went as you pleased, and didn’t ask for anything else.

His heart swells with want. “You’re alright baby, I’ve got you.” He husks, moving his fingers to the back of your neck and massaging at the tense muscles there. “He’s a fucking moron, you know that don’t you? You’re beautiful, you’ve got me wrapped around your finger.”

You shake your head, tears having stopped and a small smile making its way across your face. “No I don't, Miller.”

“You do.” He relents, tilting his head down to look at you again. Red eyes and wet lashes, but otherwise okay. His thumb runs under your eyes, absorbing tears from your face almost instantly. “He shouldn’t be speaking to you that way.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a big deal. He’s right, it’s probably why our marriage isn’t going great.”

“That’s not true.” He says immediately, letting his thumb drift to your lower lip and pull it down briefly. “You think your marriage isn’t going well because he doesn’t find you attractive?”

“Among other things.” You sigh, now back to your previous demeanor. Your fingers are dancing over his chest, swirling his chest hair around. “Joel, it’s fine.”

“It’s not.” He argues. “You’re someone any decent man would want. How can he just–”

“Please just, let’s move on.” You cut him off, pressing a flat palm firmly into his chest.

He closes his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose to calm himself down from giving a full lecture. He wants you to understand, to hear him fully. You deserve better than what you have.

You both lay there silently for a moment, just breathing together and not moving. He keeps his eyes on yours, watching yours flick down to his mouth and feeling the way you minutely move towards him. He doesn’t dare move, wanting you to be the one that initiates.

Your hand is gentle against his lower stomach, gliding down again to his now softened cock. It stirs, easy to respond to you. Joel stops your hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” You’re breathy, pupils having gone wide as he lets go of your wrist. It doesn’t take him long to get hard again with how you move your hand, his mind both empty and racing with thoughts.

When you roll on to your back, offering a silent invitation for him to get on top, he’s eager to let his legs tangle with yours and settle between your thighs. He presses his mouth to your collarbone, trailing down below the blanket as you wished for before, his tongue peeking out when he gets to your core.

You sigh happily when his tongue meets your clit in slow, agonizing circles. He prefers to watch you when he does this, eyes up on your face as his tongue swoops back and forth, over and over the hood of your clit until you’re squirming and reaching down to fist at his hair. He likes watching your neck shine with a thin layer of sweat, the way your hair begins to stick to your face and your eyes closing tightly to just feel him.

But right now he’s below the covers, holding one leg down and open to better feast on his meal, the other reaching up and intertwining his fingers with yours. The hand not in his must be bracing yourself against his headboard, your moans muffled by the sheets and blankets surrounding him.

He lets his tongue dip into you, squeezed briefly by your walls and the yelp you let out makes him chuckle. You never expect the first intrusion, spreading your legs wider to let his shoulders be flat against you, his laugh vibrating against your skin.

He continues this pattern, dipping into you with his tongue, circling your clit, and back again. He doesn’t know how long it goes on for, over and over to the point that he’s closed his eyes to feel you instead of watching you. His cock is hard between his legs, pressing against the end of his mattress and begging to be touched by your hand.

There’s a gust of cool air as you lift the sheet away from him, tossing it to the cold side of the bed and reaching down to his hair. He groans again, missing the feeling of your hand on any part of him, and he winces at the tug you give.

You’re pulling him up, wanting his lips on yours and for him to cover you. He obliges, pressing his lips to yours and grabbing at your thighs to lift around his middle. It would be embarrassing, how hard he is for you right now, pressed to your center and grinding against the slick that he left there, but he can’t care right now.

You want him, and that’s his priority; keeping you wanting him.

“Taste so sweet, baby. You want a little?” He says gently against your lips, pressing into your again and letting his tongue sweep into your mouth. You moan, a high and breathy sound that he loves. “That’s right, you like that, don’t you?”

He waits for your nod of approval, how you lunge for his mouth again and happily kiss his lips and jaw as he adjusts his hips to better line himself up with your center. “Joel, please, get inside me already.”

“Impatient.” He mumbles, smirking at you and tilting his head to bite at your ear. He knows you’re ticklish there, wanting to hear your laugh another time before he fills you and loses all sense of himself inside you.

He feels you tilt your hips for him, letting your half-lidded eyes meet his. The head of his cock weeps, aching to be inside you. Joel moves himself to let his head rest against your waiting entrance, beginning the slow slide in.

He can’t stop the thoughts in his mind, racing around in circle. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Once fully seated inside, you both groan in unison, his arms strained to pull away just enough to look down to where you both are connected. “Fuck.” He bites out, looking back up to your face and letting one hand rest on your jaw. “You’re so fucking perfect around me.”

“Joel, move honey.” You whine, reaching out to his shoulders and pulling him back to you. Your nails dig into the taunt muscle, the feeling soothing him.

Honey.

You don’t call him that unless you’re in a different headspace–where you forget the circumstances of why you’re here. It was difficult early on for Joel to get you to relax, even though the act itself made you like putty in his hands. No, he focused on you mentally relaxing, truly forgetting your worries. When you were like this, he could say what he meant. “You’re so perfect baby.” He strains, thrusting into you at a slow and methodical pace. His hips press into the backs of your thighs, his fingers holding around your jaw tighter. “So fucking wet, you wanted this, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this?”

You nod as he speeds up, the sound of your skin slapping against his now more prominent, the frame of the bed creaking quietly behind it. I love you. I love you. I love you.

He has to stop himself from saying it. The first time he had, he thought it would be the end of whatever the two of you had going. It had slipped out over six months ago, on your way out the door after riding him on the couch.

“I love you.” He had said quietly, watching you redress after climbing off of him.

You turned to him, a half smile on your face. “No, you don’t.” You said simply, waving at him and going on your way. He didn’t expect you to call him after that, and was shocked when just the next night you were on his doorstep waiting for him after work.

And now you’re below him, and just as every time before after that first admission, he wants to say it again. You’re crying out, asking him to come instead of announcing you’re going to, and he speeds up his movements. “You wanna finish around my cock?” He asks, his voice unrecognizable. “I’ll let you, go ahead baby. Let me see it.”

You nod, tears brimming your eyes again for a different reason than before. He feels you tighten in waves around him, sucking him in further as he tries to hold himself back. Joel continues to pump his hips, his lower back tingling with his own release ready.

“J-Joel–” you moan, digging your nails deeper into his shoulder. “Come inside me, pl-please.”

He grunts, forgetting himself and pushing forward with a whine he’s never heard leave his mouth. His eyes close as his come coats your walls, warm and welcoming of it. Joel rests his forehead against yours, sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin, smiling down at you and breathing heavily. “Fuck baby–”

“Don’t call me that, honey.” You tease, eyes fluttering shut and an award winning smile spreading across your face.

He pulls out, wincing at how tight you are around him still, resting on his side and letting his arm wrap around your middle. “Stay?” He asks quietly, watching you turn your head and opening your eyes to look at him.

You think for a moment. “I need to clean up, and then I’ll decide.”

He grunts in disapproval, letting you slip out of his grasp and step into the ensuite bathroom. The light blinds him briefly, your ass the only thing he can see as you lean over the sink to get a closer look in the mirror. Joel props his head up, watching as you push up on the balls of your feet to get closer, your arms coming out to the door frame and leaning over to look at him. “Do you have wipes?”

He had bought some after the first few times of you being there, asking every time if he had any. He had got you to say what brand they were, and he kept them stocked now. “First drawer on the right.”

You hum happily, pulling out a face wipe and turning back to him, watching him as you scrub at your forehead and cheeks. “Did you want to clean up?”

He shakes his head. “Want to keep you on me, if you don’t mind?”

You smirk, rolling your eyes as if you don’t care. When you finish, you flick the light off and walk toward the bed, Joel blinded briefly from the change in light. “Where’d you go, baby?”

“I’m here.” You whisper, shifting the bed as you climb in and pull the covers from the other side to cover you both. You’re still naked, now cooled skin against him. “I’ll stay, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” He whispers back, smiling to himself and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, enjoying how you snuggle into his body and neck, fitting perfectly with him. “I’d let you stay as long as you want. You know that.”

You sigh, circling your fingers against his chest hair. “What if…” you trail off, fear taking hold of your voice in a way that makes Joel uncomfortable. He squeezes an arm around you, waiting. “What if I’m too scared to have things change?” You whisper, tensing in his arms.

Joel remains relaxed, his mind swimming with I love you, I love you, let me love you. He sighs, pressing another kiss to your head. “I’m here for when you need me, if you want me.” He says quietly, feeling you relax in his arms again.

Your eyelashes flutter against his skin, your breath slowing down and becoming deeper. As you fall asleep, Joel swallows harshly. He’s here when you need him, and it was never going to change.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou

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neverinadream · 6 months

Text

I'm Made For You

Summary: If there's one thing Mason is certain of, its that Y/N was made for him.

Pairing: Mason Mount x Fem!Reader

Requested: Nope

Song Inspo: Honey (Are You Coming?) - Måneskin

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, smut, dom!mason x sub!reader, dirty talk, pet names (baby, princess, good girl...) praise kink, a small daddy kink, elements of dd/lg, degradation kink, reader is called a whore, breeding kink, big on themes of ownership, body appreciation, nipple play, biting, scratching, slapping, anal play, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, unprotected sex, facial, cum play, cum eating, aftercare, not edited

Notes: me posting a mason smut just as @kepamount returns, seems like fate to me 🤭 once again, this man has got me writing filth, seriously, i need to study him to understand why he has me like this. anyway, couldn't think of summary so that's the best you're gonna get. feedback is always appreciated, so please give some, it really means a lot when you do 🫶🏻

"Look at that," Mason groans, watching his cock brush through her folds. Y/N continued to rock her hips, grinding her cunt softly over his cock, whimpering each time his tip pushed against her clit. "Fuckin’ pretty, baby," he grabs her hips, moulding his hands to their shape, "just sitting there between those pretty lips."

"Feels so good," she whimpers, rubbing the tip of his hard cock against her clit. The pleasure tingled through her body, a moan shuddering from her lips as her whole body shivered.

"You like that, princess?" He caresses her thigh, the tattoo, the head of a stag, its antlers intertwined with her birth flowers, gaining his attention. The ink on her body made her the world's rarest piece of art, and only Mason had the pleasure of viewing it. "Does it make you feel good?"

She nods. "Yes, daddy."

"And what do we say when daddy makes his little girl feel good?"

She grins, biting her lip. "Thank you, daddy."

She dips to kiss across his chest, going from one side to the next, each one soft, purposely teasing him. He waits, his body burning from the anticipation of her next move. A soft whimper rolls off his tongue when she flicks her tongue across his nipple, gnawing at his bottom lip to cage his reaction. When she lifts her hips, he takes a deep breath, just to release a sigh of frustration when he doesn't feel the familiar warmth of her sinking onto him.

"Fuck," he grits his teeth, hissing as she bites down on his nipple, "no more teasing - need to be inside you."

"Beg for it."

A low chuckle ripples through his chest. "I don't beg for anything, princess."

She squeaks, his hand tearing away from her hip to grab her by her chin, dragging her mouth down. He takes control of her in a messy clash of tongues and teeth. Spit drools down her chin when he pushes her away, his cock pulsating against her cunt as he takes in the messy display. Lips swollen. Expression ablaze with pleasure. Nipples perfect and pebbled, waiting for him to tug, twist, and sink his teeth into. And all his.

"Gonna give me what I want?" He asks, running his thumb over her bottom lip, taking her mouth as she parts her lips on a moan. "Or do I need to take it?" He presses the calloused pad flat against her tongue, pushing his thumb back until he starts to feel some resistance. The intrusion makes her gag, but he keeps going, keeps pushing until her nails her digging into his chest, telling him to stop. "That all you can take?" He mocks her with a pout. "Maybe daddy's little girl needs a bit more training?"

She shakes her head. "I'll be a good girl."

"Go on then," he encourages, tipping his head back on a groan, Y/N notching the head of his cock, swollen red with a buildup of pre-cum, against her entrance. He grips her hips tighter, taking a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air she steals as she sinks onto him. "That's it," he grunts, watching the first few inches disappear, "just taking it all like a good girl. Fuck-! That's so fucking hot!"

"Feels so good," Y/N whimpers, lifting her hips and sinking slowly back down, feeling her body stretch as she takes another inch. She keeps going, lifting her hips and sinking back down, taking him inch by inch, until she bottoms out. The feeling of fullness has her looking down at the point where their bodies were joined together. "I was made for you," she says, goosebumps rising on her skin as she feels him throbbing inside her, "made to take you, made to please you. I'm no one else's. Only yours."

"Only yours," Mason repeats, soaking in the warmth and the wetness of her cunt.

She dips, hands caressing his chest, her mouth slotting against his, moaning into his mouth as she rocks her hips back and forth, fucking herself the full length of his shaft. He bites her bottom lip, both of them sharing a grin as the metallic taste of blood burns on their tongues. He pulls away first, aligning his first and middle fingers with her mouth.

"Suck 'em," he orders, panting, his chest rising and falling on a deep breath as she takes the full length of his fingers into her mouth, "get 'em nice and wet for me."

She bobs her head, swirling her tongue around the digits, moaning at the traces of herself she can taste on his fingers.

"That's it," he groans, prying his fingers from her mouth, a string of spit still connecting the two. She quickly wipes it away.

His hand touches her ass, grazing softly over the soft globe of skin, and between her crack. The tip of his finger rubs around the puckered rim, inviting and teasing him to touch. Y/N draws in a sharp breath as he pushes against the tight muscle, whimpering as she grabs his shoulder and rocks back onto him.

"Doing such a good job f'me," he coos, sinking his finger inside. His tongue rests against his bottom lip as he parts his mouth, watching in awe as her face twists with pleasure. "Nice deep breaths," he encourages, withdrawing his finger and pushing deeper in, "that's it."

"So good," Y/N moans, tipping her head back, "and so deep, and so-" She yelps, his teeth pinched around her nipple, tugging at the sensitive bud.

Her hand leaves his shoulder and fists her fingers deep into his hair, caging his head against her chest, pressing her breast to his mouth. "Yes-! Just like that!" She grinds her hips, squeezing her eyes shut as a new wave of arousal gushes onto his cock. "Don't stop, please, don't stop!"

He flicks his tongue back and forth over her nipple, working in tandem with the finger pumping in and out of her ass. A groan sounds as she tugs on his hair, the sharp temporary pain trailing down to his cock.

"Close, baby?" He pulls off her nipple with a loud pop. "Gonna come for me?" He withdraws his finger, ignoring how she whines at the emptiness and caresses his hands over her hips; soft, beautiful skin moulding under his calloused hands. "Lean back for me," he instructs, "I want to watch my pretty girl's face as she comes."

Beads of sweat stick to her skin, slowly trickling down to the base of her neck, from where her hand travels down to her breast. Her fingers pinch and tug on her nipples, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards as the little act has her cunt clenching. He watches her do the same with the other, watching her lips part on a silent moan. The slit between the seam was small, but he knew there would be just enough space for him to slip his tongue into her mouth, to taste every bit of her.

Mason grunts, his cock twitching as she tightens around him. He knew her body, knew when she was about or close to coming. "That's it," he mumbles, hardening his grip, "chase it, baby!"

"Need it so badly," she sobs, pressing her hand back into Mason's thigh. He hisses, her nails stabbing into his skin. "So good!" Her head tips back on another sob, tits bouncing, and hips grinding faster as she feels her orgasm buildup in the pit of her stomach. "There-!" She squeals, grabbing his other thigh with her other hand. "Fuck-! I'm gonna come!"

"Yeah?" He gives her tit a soft slap, enjoying the way it bounces back to him. He does it again, and then again, each slap a little bit harder than the last. Every slap makes her whine and every slap pushes her closer to the edge. "Gonna come all over daddy's cock?"

She bites her lip and nods her head. "Daddy's cock feels so good!"

"You're dripping all over me," he groans, the base of his shaft glistening every time it withdraws from between the walls of her cunt, "so fucking wet and warm! Just perfect for me to breed." Her eyes light up and a chuckle rolls off his tongue. "You'd like, wouldn't you?" He gives her tit another slap, the sound echoing through the room. "Answer me!"

"Yes!" She's panting now, forcing the words out of her mouth as she forces the air back into her lungs.

"You need it, don't you, princess?" He thrusts up, the tip brushing repeatedly against the spot that has her thighs clamping and her walls clenching. "To be treated like a whore, to have your pussy bred, and to be reminded of who owns you?"

"I-"

"Shush," he interrupts her, "I already know the answer is yes."

He sits up, wrapping his arm around her waist, pressing her firmly against his chest. Dipping his head, he licks the sweat off her neck, moaning as the salty taste bursts on his tongue. Every inch of her tasted like heaven. His mouth trails up the column of her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses and sucking on her skin, all to tease out broken cries and ragged breaths.

She moans, feeling his hand come between their bodies to squeeze her sore breast. His thumb rolled over her nipple and caressed the underside, groaning at her softness.

"Please," she begs, the ache in her stomach becoming unbearable to last any longer.

"Come for me."

He wrapped her legs around his waist, binding the two together until there was no space or room left between them. Not even the air could fight its way between them.

"Do it," he encourages, his nose pressing into her cheek, the scent of sex, honey and vanilla on her skin. He rocks up into her, hands splayed across her back to keep her from squirming off his lap. "That's it, there you go," he coos, bucking his hips harder, his balls knocking against her bum, "my little girl's taking daddy's cock so well for me." She whimpers at the words leaving his mouth. "C'mon, cutie, just let out," he squished his hand between their bodies, rubbing her clit in hard circles, "gush all over this cock."

It's the last thing she needs to hurtle over the ledge.

The world around her had disappeared, it was just her and the body she was desperately clinging to as pleasure rocketed through her. She dug her nails into his back, scratching down, not hearing Mason hissing in her ear as she pierced the skin. She did feel the way his body throbbed for her, the momentary pain shooting straight to his cock. He could've blown right there and then, but he wasn't done with her yet.

She goes limp, lazily kissing the crook of his neck, nuzzling her face against him. "Wanna suck my cum off your cock, daddy," she whimpers, grinding her hips in slow circles, relishing the last of her high.

He gives her ass a soft slap as she climbs off, crawling to lie down. "Look at you," he grins. admiring her for her eagerness, "don't even need to tell you what to do anymore."

She matches his grin, listening to his feet pad heavily against the bedroom carpet as she waits with her head hanging over the edge. A second later, he comes into line with her vision, his eyes fixed on her, and his cock bobbing next to her head.

Bending down to kiss her, Mason pulls hard on her hair, stuffing his tongue inside her mouth as she gasps. There's nothing sweet or caring about it - just another way of claiming her.

Pulling away, he turns his attention to his cock, wrapping his hand around the base and stroking it a couple of times. A groan rattles around in the back of his throat as he squeezes his fingers tightly around the head with every upstroke, and he has to froce himself into slowing down.

"Open up," he murmurs, tapping the tip against her cheek. She does as she's told and he slides the smooth length of his cock between her lips. "Fuck, baby!" His eyes flutter shut, head tipping back on a silent groan. The angle wasn't new to either of them, but it still amazed him how far he could push back. "Just-Just take it, baby," he grunts, setting a steady rhythm, "take all of it."

She moans around him, eyes straining to look up at him, finding his jaw fixed with tension as he concentrated on fucking her mouth.

"Play with your tits," he mumbles, reaching over to slap her left breast, "give me something to look at." She replaces his hand, tweaking and pulling on her nipples, or pushing them together. "So fucking pretty," he praises, switching to slow thrusts, watching himself bulge inside her throat, "it's like you were born to suck cock."

She hums around him, squeezing her thighs together, feeling her wetness running down them.

"Who does this throat belong to?" He asks, his hand framing the side of her face, holding her mouth in place.

"You, daddy," she mumbles around him.

"And these tits?"

"You, daddy."

"And this pussy - open your legs - whose pussy does this belong to, Y/N?"

"It's yours," she mumbles once again, gagging on his length as he pushes further, "it's all yours."

"That's right," he speaks in a low voice, so low that Y/N almost misses it.

She whimpers as he withdraws from her body, leaving a faint taste of herself behind on her tongue. "Mase-"

"Stay like that, princess." He uses her spit as a lubricant, quickly jerking his hand up and down his cock, it throbbing in his hand as he feels his balls tighten. "Daddy wants to come all over that pretty face."

"Please," she begs, trailing her hand down her belly to play with clit, "please, come all over my face!"

The corners of his lips curve into a half-smile, his nose scrunching as he finally does. "There-!" He jerks his wrist faster, shooting drops of cum onto her mouth and chin. "Take it," he grunts, his thighs and bum both clenching, his hips rutting into his hand, "it's all for you!"

His movements slow down, fingers squeezing around the tip, as the last drops spill out onto his hand.

"Let me look at you," he says a second later, beckoning her up onto her knees.

Her eyes were beginning to look tired, her lips swollen, and the skin around her neck blotchy with hickeys. Parts of himself were there running into her mouth and dripping off her chin.

"My best yet," he mumbles, moulding his hands around her face, dropping to kiss her mouth. He moans, tasting himself on her lips and herself on her tongue. "Wait here," he pulls away, "I'll go get a cloth."

She flops back onto the bed, the ghost of a smile creeping its way onto her lips. She can hear the light switch in the bathroom being flicked on and the sound of the tap running before both are quickly turned off. The bed dips as Mason returns, running the warm cloth up and over her legs, and gently between her thighs.

"You did so good for me tonight," he whispers, dipping to kiss her belly. She shivers, trailing her fingers through the back of his hair. He keeps kissing up her body, cheekily flicking his tongue over her nipple, before stopping at her neck. "It wasn't too much, was it?" He asks, wiping the cloth against her cheek. "I didn't hurt you, or anything?"

She rolls onto her side, half straddling his thigh as he tosses the cloth and lies down. "No, Mason, you didn't hurt me," she shakes her head, caressing her hand over his chest. Her hand comes down to his Champion's League tattoo, tracing the bend of the dragon. "I think you love me too much to hurt me."

"I do," he agrees, circling his arm around her waist, "I love you so much, Y/N. Never forget that."

———————

Football Taglist: @shanoontje @maseandkepa @theblxefox @blueathens @ofxinnocence @mrschilly @geek-and-proud @in-my-body-bag @laurasstufff1 @mountchilly @spicysainz @thoseboysinblue @kickinganddriving @lizzypotter14 @bracedes @chilwellspulisic @notsoattractivearenti @swimmingismywholelife @lovelynikol16 @masonsrem @landoslover @kathb59 @emcv1427 @afterpills @pulisicsgirl @ricciardhoe3

#mason mount #mason mount imagine #mason mount smut #mason mount one shot #mason mount x reader

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p0rk-guts · 3 months

Text

Velvette if she served cunt

Design breakdown below 👇🏾(BEWARE IT'S VERY LONG)

Alright going into detail about my gripes and edits. Like Velvette but her design is just. Not good to me. None of her (main) outfit details look like they fit to me— pinstripe pants + long fur coat paired with black crop top and scene sleeves? Skull earrings? TINKERBELL HEELS????? Tell me how any of that meshes well or even makes SENSE for the social media influencer persona she's supposed to have going on. Now that I think about it I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be clown themed... But I'm just gonna toss that idea out bc being a revered social media influencer and a clown at the same time just seems a bit oxymoronic to me, and the "clown" details aren't adding shit for me.

And don't think I forgot about her features. Pale ash grey skin and wavy hair at best. If she was supposed to be some type of creature where a nonhuman skin tone would make sense then maybe I could let it go?? But as far as I can tell she doesn't have an object or creature or animal theme like the other V's and if she does I shouldn't need to do detective work to figure it out. There is no reason for *any* of these poc characters to have grey skin, especially since they don't have any other poc features at all.

Sorry that shit gets me heated anyways. Onto my redesign. Gave her a more obviously black skin tone and textured hair bc I love a 30 inch buss down as much as the next girl but considering how there are no significant poc cast members with visibly textured hair I think she deserves to flaunt some coils if no one else will.

Ngl I'm not. A fashion girlie. Idk what's trendy idk what screams "influencer" so a lot of this was just throwing shit at the wall that I've seen around recently but it looks cute enough to me. And there was a bit of inspiration taken from Aliyahcore and ghetto fabulous fashion ❤️

If you can't tell this is shamefully inspired by lovesart23's Velvette reimagining because imo they had some outstanding ideas for Vel. I low-key stole their idea for those floating eyes in her hair that follow her around and help her keep tabs on shit it was just a superb idea for a social media overlord to me. I also took some inspo from @furbtasticworksofart 's redesign because vampire influencer sucking up the souls of her followers in exchange for content??? Too good (also the eyes were supposed to have bat/vamp wings I just forgot 😭) So yeah she's a vampire demon now. Without the features she was looking too human anyhow. Maybe she also feeds off of the energy of her followers through tech like after Vox mind controls them or whatever... Idk idk is that anything

Speaking of Vox, the screen glasses are meant to connect her to him w/ their color and shape while serving the purpose of being like a second phone she can post and check the web with. Like lovesart said in their reimagining vid, Vel doesn't really do more than pose for selfies and scroll on her phone when it comes to social media so in my head she's constantly flipping her shades on and off, using them to scroll and stay active, and they can show when she's not paying attention or respect to something/someone bc scrolling is more worth her time in the moment.

The hearts everywhere are also supposed to kinda represent social media likes + connect her back to Val w/ his heart patterns. That might've been what the hearts in her og design were for but. I just didn't like their placement bc I'm a nitpicker and a hater❕

I have so much more I could say about possible ideas for Velvette because I love evil black girls and I only want them to succeed in my media and I could treat her so much BETTER but I'll refrain bc this is way too long anyway.

Alright for reading/scrolling through all that rambling I offer you the sketches + some alt hair ideas I had

P.S. I'm very open to constructive criticism but if I see anyone just dick riding in my replies or rb's I'm just blocking you on sight ✌🏾

#hazbin hotel #velvette #velvette hazbin hotel #velvette redesign #hazbin hotel redesign #my art #digital art #character design

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punksocks · 11 months

Text

Astrology observations No.16: Lilith Edition

*just based on my experiences please take them with a grain of salt

**the taming your Lilith femininity post can be found here fyi ;0

-The element of your Lilith could point to what people find so scandalous about you. Air: your otherworldly air and intelligence; Water: your sensuality and emotional expression; Earth: Your strength and grounded nature; Fire: Your fierce energy and how you’re too hot to handle

-if Lilith has aspects to your Venus (especially conjunct/opposition/square) you may have guys say they don’t usually date girls like you/of your cultural background (twice as likely if your Venus or Lilith is in Sagittarius) (also that gives me the ick instantly ngl)

-Lilith conjunct/opposition/square 1st/7th/8th/10th could point to being hit on in the weirdest ways ever. (Guys have yelled at me from car windows, or been in my dms for actual years, at a convention a guy was pushing a stroller and said there goes my wife so loudly and so close to my face I didn’t even catch it until a moment after. I mean the other day a dude called my hair pretty then asked if it was heavy- like huh?? Dudes are weird)

-Lilith aspects to mars (especially conjunct/opposition/square) could point to people shaming you for expressing frustration/anger, especially in your youth

-I’ve had soooo many dudes short circuit on me with our Lilith synastry omg. I have stories lol. A lot of guys being into me and running off then coming back (they don’t get to come back in tho! Gross) I’ve felt it the most with Lilith conjunct sun synastry, underdeveloped guys have been competitive and obsessive. Like belittling in an envious way but also trying to make me feel smaller to always keep me around because they were too into my energy (it didn’t work). It can work out with a partner that is self aware and respectful and turn into the sun person showing you a side of themselves that they don’t show anyone else. It just takes a minutes to weed it out lol.

-I would imagine that Lilith conjunct/opposition/square Moon and Venus would be even more of a whirlwind. Lilith would be bringing out the Moon native’s hidden emotions and taboo emotional motivations (it’s giving the guy in Hustlers that came in to guilt his girlfriend into coming home for the night from her job at the strip club, but like that manipulative and petty all the time). And Lilith would bring out hidden and taboo desires in the Venus native (secret girlfriend, can’t meet their friends or family just “because it’s not the right time”- but it’s never the right time, you thought you were dating but it turns out you were the other woman, etc)

-Also Lilith conjunct/opposition/square someone else’s ascendant is very likely to make the other person act jealous and petty towards you

-Lilith in 12th could point to being a lot of people’s secret fantasies, hidden people that deeply desire you or envy you

-A lot of prominent Lilith placements are prone to fertility issues but I’d assume this is even more likely for Lilith in 6th

-Lilith in 7th could date partners that try to change them as soon as they get into a relationship with them (censor how you dress, dictate your hair cut, just really get terribly controlling because they assume your “theirs”) (I’ve also experienced this with Lilith in 10th, and I would guess the same for Lilith in 1st/aspects to 1st or 10th or 7th)

-Lilith in 8th could point to s*xual trauma and at the very least going through many transformations before coming into your own sexuality

-Lilith in 9th could point to blossoming into yourself abroad or in a country outside of your origin. It can also point to receiving a lot of s*xual attention outside of your cultural group.

-Lilith in 1st/10th/11th could point to difficulty and backstabbing in female friendships. In 6th & 10th this could carry over to workplaces. In 7th this points to being the other woman in relationships or women coming onto your partner

-Lilith in 3rd could point to having trouble in school, not only socially but with authority figures believing your intelligence (and the believing your intelligence part definitely carries over into adulthood)

-Lilith in 4th often points to a terribly frustrating childhood where you were constantly critiqued by female members of your family, especially your mother. You could’ve felt like your mother/aunts/etc were always trying to compete with you for male attention as well (which is weird, weird grown folks). (it’s not great for Lilith in 1st/8th/10th either but this is on another level)

-Lilith in 10th (square/opposition to 10th as well) can point to being treated like a pariah for no reason at work. I’ve found that when I tried to be friendly I got a lot of kindness outside of my department …but still thrown under the bus with a smile in my department. Then I kept my distance at a later day job and was met with hostile or belittling energy. (This one guy would just constantly walk by and look at my laptop and ask what I was working on when he wasn’t my manager and my manager hadn’t assigned me anything, then he would just chat me up for no reason, always switching between hostile and like almost flirtatious energy. like dude worked on the other side of the office and kept doing this until he left ! Never working in an office again I swear…)

-Also Lilith in 1st/10th- often men in power/positions off authority often dote on you for some reason, especially if they’re older (I still can’t figure why this is though)

-Lilith negative (conjunct/square/opposition) aspects to 1st/10th In “normal” (suburban neighborhoods and pedestrian places like that) you may find that you get this weird thirsty look from guys, who are supposed to be minding their business with their families, like you’re walking around naked when you could be wearing the most lowkey outfit and it wouldn’t make a difference (it’s also why I prefer cities, but even then in some neighborhoods I stick out)

-Your Lilith sign itself always indicates the Lilith behavior you have to learn to “tame” (ex. leo in Lilith has to make sure they’re not too much of a diva), but I also believe it shows you how you need to fight for others (ex. leo in Lilith- use your radiant nature to speak out on the taboo and spotlight helping social causes)- I can do a post elaborating on this if you guys want ;0

-Self awareness is really important with strong Lilith energy. I’ve had overlays with other women/femmes with strong Lilith placements and so many times I’ve had them become mean girls and envious to me even though they’d constantly tell me about their Lilith-esque experiences with other femmes bullying them in similar ways.

#astro observations #astro notes #astroblr #astro community #lilith astrology #lilith aspects #lilith square ascendant #astrology #astroloji

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ma1dita · 8 months

Text

kiss his face with an uppercut

smutty part 2 here-> heavy hitter

words: 4k

summary: james potter is so attractive you could beat him to death with a bludger. james potter x fem!beater!reader not from gryffindor (for the plot!!)

warnings: none! james gets physically hurt multiple times by reader, multiple innuendos, enemies to lovers kinda, less serious lovey dove more sexual tension!!! probably not accurate quidditch gameplay

a/n: sorry for the hold up guys this took almost a month of on and off editing lmfao— this whole oneshot makes me think of the filipino word ‘gigil’– simply translating to cuteness aggression; i barely know jack shit about sports much less quidditch but this concept had me looking up quidditch rules to be able to provide– eat up kids

Y/S- sibling name

Y/H- house

(posted & edited 10/10/23)

—

Oh BROTHER, this guy STINKS! I mean, how has he not gotten walloped at least once during this godforsaken game? You suck your teeth at the sight of James flying around the pitch blowing kisses to his fan club and Lily Evans, who turns her nose up at the sight of him.

Merlin, when will this game end?

The Hogwarts Quidditch Semi-Finals of 1977 was a game to watch… until both teams stopped scoring what seemed like hours ago. Both Gryffindor & (Y/H) were at a stalemate, down some players due to injury and now, even lower team morale. Gryffindor team captain and chaser James Potter, notorious Marauder, and resident flirt, is not someone who likes to lose. He’s spent all season drilling his teammates, memorizing plays, and thinking of every outcome possible to ensure another Gryffindor victory. James’ affinity to be right takes precedence over anything, after all. But after beating down almost all of (Y/H)’s reserves, James was almost vibrating with confidence. He really doesn’t lose, not if he can help it.

“AND ANOTHER (Y/H) IS DOWN WITH AN INJURY— Team captain Whithall calls for a timeout as they reconvene on what to do next! Hope you’re still comfy in the stands, folks….” the student announcer grumbles.

There’s absolute chaos on the field, and like birds scuffling over a piece of bread, (Y/S), the team’s last good beater is floating on a gurney, ready to be transported to the Hospital Wing.

“Oh, here comes trouble…” Sirius murmurs, smacking James on the back to grab his attention.

You jump down from the stands to check on (Y/S), and James is too busy reveling in the idea of winning the goddamn semi-finals that he doesn’t notice you putting Quidditch gear on.

“Easy win from here on out, Pads! The little lady’s just checking the damage. Not important,” he chortles before Sirius physically grabs his head to face the girl walking towards him, currently storming across the turf to meet him and his team.

“I’m subbing in,” you say, angry at how dirty Gryffindor’s been playing, and angry that you even have to play in (Y/S)’s stead.

“Sweetheart, this game is for serious, you know that right?” James says a bit dumbly with a furrowed brow. Both of you are head to head, and James sees the twitch in your eye as you cross your arms. Hot air is seeping out of your pores but James’s lip simply quirks up in intrigue. You’re someone he hasn’t noticed before, and the only thing running through his mind besides winning the game is that you’re really pretty. But then again, he’s always found angry women to be attractive, in retrospect.

“Yeah, for the actual cup, not…for Sirius… It’s the wrong time to joke, innit?” Sirius says to break the ice, noticing the palpable tension between your glares. Your faces are inches away from each other and he’s not sure if you two are going to fight or kiss, but it makes him grimace all the same.

“Who do you think (Y/S) practices with? Unlike you and your friends, I know when to take things seriously,” You say through gritted teeth.

“She’s legit, Potter. Got added to our reserves last week.” Whithall pipes up, ready to get back to the game. The crowd has been weathered down after hours of anticipation, and they want to see the end of it, no matter the outcome.

“Much to my surprise,” you grumble, elbowing the authority in the form of a teenage boy not much older than yourself. You should’ve known your sibling was looking a little too happy as they got floated off the pitch on a gurney.

“Then let’s play. Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” James says condescendingly, floating away on his broomstick like it’s a walk in the park, but the way you’re slapping the bat against your palm is getting Sirius a tiny bit nervous for his precious countenance. The whistle blows and the game resumes.

“A SURPRISE ADDITION (Y/N) JOINS HER HOUSE AS BEATER! Gryffindor better watch out for her swi—” You slam the bludger in James’s direction and it hurtles toward him so fast that he almost folds in half, barrel-rolling on his broom to dodge it. The move makes Sirius and a few of their other teammates gasp to see James scrambling back onto his broom.

“Oops! Looks like I missed.” you deadpan, balancing midair as you whack another one where it rebounds off the Gryffindor seeker and back towards James, hitting both of them in the gut.

“THIS GIRL’S GOT AN ARM ON HER! Though might I say her hits look a bit targeted…” The commentator says worriedly, and everyone in the crowd is leaning in their seats trying to get a better view.

“Merlin, are you trying to kill me woman?” he yells in outrage.

“I’m trying to finish the game. Your big head is in the way,” you say with a straight face as Sirius bats towards you, and you spin on your broomstick without shifting your posture. The smile on your face as you taunt him should be considered criminal, but he’s looking at you in a new light.

Yeah, now he’s paying attention. The other Gryffindor players can’t seem to figure out your next move and you bat another bludger towards Potter’s extremely large target of a head, and all of a sudden he’s freefalling through the air as his teammates fly to catch him, one by one. His nose still makes impact with the ground before Sirius catches by the ankle like Achilles taking a dip in the River Styx.

“AND (Y/H) HAS CAPTURED THE SNITCH! Good job to their Seeker, Appleby! Congratulations on a job well done, so that we can all finally go home.” The commentator cringes as McGonagall swats at him to leave the podium.

Who even is she, taking over the game and stealing his win like that?

He’s walking up from the sidelines with a bloody nose, going to shake Whithall’s hand and you’re standing behind him, a malicious grin plastered between your rosy cheeks, windswept and almost ethereal while he looks like he got flattened by a hippogriff. Fuck, she’s pretty. You look like you floated down from the heavens, and by the looks his team gives him, he may have just crawled out of the earth.

“Congrats,” he grumbles, turning to you. Really pretty. It’s even worse that you’re devastatingly stunning up close— with sweat glistening on your brow and a pearly white smile, he takes a good moment to really look at you and memorize the flutter of your eyelashes. He’s unsure if he’s concussed or maybe it’s his astigmatism, but there are actual stars in his vision as he peers down at you. Your confidence is actually kind of sexy.

“You look…um…you ride well.” He stutters, shaking his head from his personal reverie.

“Excuse me?” you say, your little mouth agape in what he hopes is not disgust. He looks pathetic, blood sopping down to his jersey as he looks at you like he’s only seeing you for the first time, acknowledging you closely. Something about seeing him flail makes you crinkle your nose as you stifle a grin.

“I mean…Um…” Damn.

Sirius pulls his best friend away before you can bite back your laughter, all of your teammates leading you away to celebrate.

“Mate, what the shit was that? Are you alright in the head?” Sirius says, and if James’ nose wasn’t already bleeding he was going to slap him silly.

“Just…Didn’t see that coming…” he mumbles, and his mind, along with all of Gryffindor is in disarray as they walk back to their tower. He’s got a lot of thinking to do on what his next move will be.

—

James Potter goes through life in three methodical ways: 1.) creating a strategy, 2.) making a scene, 3.) and dragging his friends into it— in that particular order, every single time.

Now notice how considering consequences is not part of said process.

His ego wouldn’t let him rest after a girl, much less a very pretty one that he’d never noticed before—beat him at what he does best; quidditch! In fact, the next few nights were void of sleep and filled with thoughts of you. The way your hair looked so soft in the sunlight, how your lip turns almost Gryffindor red when you bite it in concentration, and maybe how your delicate hands would look as they tightly grasp onto his bat...ahem…your quidditch bat. Some dirty delusions aside, if looks could kill, he’d be dead seven times over, but honestly? He’d probably thank you for it.

James’ new mission was to figure you out, and if that was his mission, it meant it was the rest of the Marauders’ too. For the sake of winning the Cup, of course. That’s what he tries to tell himself until his mates catch him ogling you again at breakfast.

“So what is it with you and girls that inflict you nothing but pain and humiliation?” Remus muses, as the Marauders watch James laugh at a joke you told your friends at the (Y/H) table across the Great Hall. He looks at you like someone who stares at the sun, squinting and burning himself as he ponders on why he’s unable to look away.

James fumbles a response, shoving Remus as they all laugh. “Listen, I’ve got a bit of a masochistic streak, Moony. Just…There’s something about her…”

Your friends are pointing at him now, and as you turn to meet his eyes, you lift a brow inquisitively and flip him off. Sirius’s face pulls up in shock at James’s growing smile at the interaction as he mumbles, “Maybe you’ve met your match, Prongs…”

The boy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, anything to try to see you clearer as he leans over to put his head in his hands, sighing dreamily. His friends are not as easily amused.

“A match made in heaven, you reckon?”

—

“Match made in hell, more like!” You spit, almost choking on your scrambled eggs at your friends’ insinuations. Your back is as stiff as a board, shoulders tight at the notion of you ever liking James Potter triggering your fight or flight response. When it comes to someone as pompous as him, only the word fight comes to mind.

“Oh come on, love… He’s popular, funny, and quite handsome…It’s James freaking Potter we’re talking about!” your roommate gushes, but you're not the least bit impressed.

“Is that supposed to do anything for me? I can think of a few F words that middle initial can stand for…” Eyes rolling, you peek back at the Gryffindor table to see said boy wiggling his fingers at you teasingly until he accidentally smacks Peter in the face with his toast. Idiot.

“Only hot people get away with stupid shit. I mean look at the four of them!” you continue, gulping down the rest of your coffee. “Potter’s the worst out of all of them though. Big ass head must compensate for a lot of things." You say, shaking your head at your friends.

"And yet, here you are, talking about him for the fourth time this morning," your roommate replies, smirking. " You’ve been Potter crazy since you helped us beat Gryffindor in the semi-finals! Are you sure you don't have a crush on him?"

"No!" you say too quickly, too loudly, that the shrill noise of your voice makes your ears hurt and the shit-eating grins on your friends’ faces reflect how desperate that came off. You slump onto the table, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You wanna kiss him, don’t you?” they tease, and you push away their puckering faces as you scoff, “With an uppercut, maybe!” Almost makes you want to stomp over there and wipe the stupid look off his face…and maybe sit on his lap. You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. All this aggression really needs to go somewhere, but unfortunately, James Potter’s lap is the only destination you have in mind.

“He’s just really punchable. I get so annoyed by the sight of him I just want to… ugh!” you groan, your hands shaking as you try to convince them (or yourself). Your friends cackle at the sight of you pretending to squeeze his curly-topped, mothball-filled head, but your brain changes course and you imagine what it’s like to hold his hand. Your fingers flex cautiously at the idea, wondering what his touch would feel like. Grabbing a glass of water to cool your thoughts, your peripherals reveal he’s still staring at you like you make night turn into day. His gaze is searing, and as you put your lips around your straw, he licks his lips slowly. Shit.

—

Availability bias is one hell of a mindfuck. If only they taught psychology at this magic school, maybe the wizarding world would have way fewer problems and more people would be straightforward and not.. Dead. James decides he can categorize his life now as before you, and after you.

Before you, well… he honestly wasn’t even sure if you were a student at Hogwarts until he saw you marching down the pitch, but now… You’re everywhere. He can spot your voice in a crowded hallway, and who was going to tell him you’ve had three classes with him this whole term? Even down to when he shuts his eyes, he’s convinced his eyelids are branded with the imprint of your silhouette. Every conversation he strikes with you ends with you laughing at him, and he’s unsure if that’s a step up or down from the many boisterous rejections from Lily Evans over the years. He sort of wishes you’d laugh with him, and do a number of other things, (heck he’s got a list of ideas he’s wanked off to), and well… His soul is tightly wound with thoughts of you and Godric, listen to this guy…. maybe the boys were right…. Maybe he really does need to get laid.

It’s funny how fate works, two people who’ve barely interacted in the past six years at Hogwarts are now paired together for a History of Magic essay worth 20% of the term grade. You’re trying to get this done as fast as possible, he notices, mapping out ideas and trying to discuss how to piece it all together, yet James does everything but that to get you to pay attention to him. He fills your head with mundane little questions, asking you what your favorite fruit is to the childhood bedtime story your parents told you as a kid.

“What’s your middle name, Potter?” You muse, finally entertaining him after endless chatter. His eyes trail to the exposed skin of your collarbones as you stretch in your seat, and well… you don’t look as menacing as you always do but did it seriously have to be this question? He scratches the back of his head, silent for the first time in the two hours you’ve been trying to craft this essay for the sake of both your grades.

“What? I can’t just go around calling you James Fucking Potter. Spit it out, you know too much about me already.”

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s… that’s an intimate question, love… I…”

Your laughter at his response makes his senses shut down. “Oh, so it’s bad. What is it, Franklin? Fabio? Come on, I won’t bite.” A part of him wishes you would, your face equally flushed and so close to him right now, almost leering at him for an answer. It’d be easy to just lean over…

“Fleamont.”

Your lips quirk, until they pucker like you’ve guzzled a lemon. The blush on your cheeks intensifies, and the sound explodes out of you. You laugh so loudly Madam Pince kicks you both out of the library, James carrying both your knapsacks, a hand around your waist as you rush out of there. Your body is firm under his touch, pupils unfocused and dilated looking at him now that you know his dirty little secret. James thinks that if you keep looking at him like that, hell, you can call him anything you want.

—

Fleamont.

What a prick. A really attractive, clueless prick. The memory makes you giggle as you get ready for the Quidditch Cup and your team charges out onto the field to face Gryffindor again, as you’ve both advanced to the finals. He’s not as much of an asshole as you originally thought. It’s undeniable that something pulls you towards him, whether it be hormones, concern, or the fact that it’s actually adorable the way he writes his mother back weekly, or admirable how he moved Sirius out of Black Manor himself last year. Maybe it’s endearing the way he goes out of his way to make first-years smile or heartwarming how even Filch can’t find reasons to hate him. The golden boy. You get it now, why people get trapped in his web, and why many are unwilling to leave.

You pass him outside the locker rooms, bumping shoulders as he smiles almost bashfully. The golden boy, loudmouth, ball of energy is reduced to a nervous pile of teenage ineptness at the sight of you, every time. You could take him (not in a fight). In an actual fight, maybe you could land a few solid hits before his nice muscly arms hold you do—

“Ready to finish this, darling?”

Your eyes refocus when his hand nudges the small of your back, right above your hip. “Mhmm,” you clear your throat, “Ready to lose, Potter?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves closer, slowly backing you into the wall.

“Eyes on the prize Potter, I’m in this to win it.” You say, looking at the closing distance between both your chests. James nods, not taking his eyes off of you for a moment, even when the announcer calls out the imminent start of the game.

“WELCOME TO THE HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP OF 1977 GRYFFINDOR VS. (Y/H)! I hope you are all excited as our last match between these teams was quite thrilling at the end of it!” The announcer says, hyping up the roaring crowd as your teams parade onto the pitch.

His eyes are still on you when he shakes Whithall’s hand and the whistle blows. It’s intense, and makes you feel like you’re burning, even if the wind is blowing like crazy today. You bat the bludgers toward anything red on the field that even dares to move toward your teammates. James won’t stop staring at you, and you both lock eyes across the pitch.

“What? Flirt with me later, Potter, I’m trying to win!” you yell.

He’s got you transfixed, and it’s crazy how his timing is always wrong. You bat the bludger away from your captain but don’t notice James flying towards you to respond as you give it your hardest swing, making the impact against his huge target of a head all the more painful.

Holy shit, did you kill him?

He keels off his broom like a shot bird and then he’s falling, and you’re the one chasing the Gryffindor chaser as he flaps his arms like the idiot you know he is as you push forward to catch him before he splits his skull open.

“I’msofuckingsorryJamesareyouokay?” You blurt out as you land, soft hands moving over his broad chest and quickly swelling face. He’s wearing that stupid grin again, and you think you may have finally broken Gryffindor’s team captain.

“You know my name?” he sighs happily, comfortable in your lap and maybe it’s the brain damage you’ve caused him or the way his glasses are bent beyond repair but you will every magical predecessor you can think of to stop you from punching him in the face right now.

“Are you fucking dense?” You scream, shaking your head, and jostling him as his arms try to reach out to swipe the hair away from your face.

“Must’ve hit him so hard you knocked his filter loose..” Sirius muses after he lands next to you two on the grass.

“POTTER’S TAKEN A HIT FROM (Y/H) and it doesn’t look good ladies and gents! Gryffindor calls a timeout to check on their captain!” The announcer calls out, and there are so many eyes on the two of you as James is simply giggling like a prepubescent schoolboy. Fuck, you’ve maimed the golden boy.

“Y’know, sweetheart. You’re…really sexy when you’re on top of me like this,” he says breathily, and you really can’t hit him, so you jab Sirius in the gut instead when he tries to laugh at his best friend’s stupidity.

—

James wakes up in the hospital wing with a blinding headache until someone gently pulls the curtains closed, stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“Poppy you always take such good care of me…” he mumbles. A punch lands on his chest and his eyes rip open, not expecting to see you at his bedside.

“Idiot,” you mutter. “You’re always in my way and now look, you almost got yourself killed and it would’ve been my fault! How dare you, James…” The red is crawling up your neck like a brushfire as you berate him, and he takes it with a grin as you jabber on, putting his arms behind his head.

“Were you worried about me, love?” James smiles cheesily, catching your arm at its half-hearted attempt to slap him across the face.

“I was not. Stubborn people like you are hard to kill. I’m more annoyed that I can’t morally punch your face in since you have a concussion. Madame Pomfrey’s already healed your cheekbone.”

“That you broke,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a chance to kiss the palm of your hand. This concussion is working like a bottle of Felix Felicis. It’s endearing to see you taking care of him, whether you like it or not (even with the punches he’s sure it’ll come with).

“You’re sick in the head.”

“For you. I was trying to come tell you that I never took my eyes off the prize, but then of course you bludgeoned my face in before I could get sweet on yo—”

Your lips crash down on his, and nothing about it is delicate. It’s a month’s worth of yearning, imaginations coming to fruition as he grabs the back of your head to deepen the embrace. Your lips on his are hot and heady, and he could be easily convinced that he’s stuck there, cauterized to the shape of you.

“I know. I could feel you watching.” You breathe into his mouth, leaning up on his chest. His lips chase up again to meet yours, biting down on your bottom lip as you groan. He might like that noise better than the sound of your laughter. It’ll be fun to find out.

“Who won the Cup?”

Laughter spills out of your red, kiss-swollen lips as you pat his cheek gently, fingers grazing over his healed cheekbone.

“Not Gryffindor. But listen closely James, if you be a good boy and get past this concussion, I’ll make up for it by showing you how well I ride…”

He likes the sound of that, Quidditch Cup be damned. You see, James Potter never loses, ladies and gentlemen, not really—and well... there’s always next year.

—

“I like the way

you look at me

like you are

going to talk to me

or devour me

and I am fine with either.”

-N.R. Hart

taglist: @jsjcue

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#marauders x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #marauders era #james potter x you

1K notes · View notes

fuckyeahdindjarin · 5 months

Text

Ravel

A Seams Christmas special oneshot | Moodboard

{ Part IV: Notch | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: Joel swings by yours with a little something before Christmas dinner at Tommy and Maria's.

Warnings: Unapologetic fluff and softness, inspired by this ask from @casssiopeia from the beginning of the year, no use of Y/N, very lightly edited

Word count: 2k

Notes: I'm so proud of writing up this little drabble. I've been in such a weird place with my writing, I'm just happy to end the year on a creative high. Obviously, I'm a few days late to Christmas, but better late than never!

There is a voice in my head telling me that this isn't good enough, that it doesn't hold up to what I was writing earlier this year. But I need to rewire my brain. There is no such thing as 'good' or 'bad' when it comes to fanfiction. All fanfiction is good fanfiction. This is our hobby, not our jobs, and we need to be kind to ourselves.

I am posting this at 11:59pm on New Year's Eve. Happy new year y'all, I hope Joel and Pin can bring you some festive cheer ❤️

Joel is this close to have a fucking breakdown.

He would measure out how close this is between his thumb and index finger if they were not currently tangled in webs of yarn, rapidly unravelling from from the bottom of what is supposed to be a sweater.

Your sweater.

The book that Lucy lent him months ago lies on the table before him, the pages yellowed and dogeared, open at the the easiest pattern of the lot to knit - a simple pullover in chunky yarn, in your favourite colour.

Well, it was supposed to be easy, anyway.

Despite Lucy basically holding his hand throughout the whole project, he’s had far less time than anticipated to work on it. Too many nights he finds himself at Tommy and Maria’s, elbow deep in dirty baby’s clothes and diapers, making himself useful for whatever needs to be done around the house.

Even Ellie chips in without being asked, often bringing back food from the canteen and making sure the severely sleep-deprived adults are eating, if not well fed. Joel honestly doesn’t remember how he did it with Sarah as a clueless twenty-something, with an even more clueless younger brother.

As he attempts to free himself from the quagmire of wool, he grimaces at the stiffness all over his body, feeling it especially in his back after sleeping in an armchair all night with a rapidly growing two-month old.

He’s too old for this shit - but there’s no saying no to the little rascal with Tommy’s nose and Maria’s eyes.

The knitting needles clatter to the floor when he jumps at the front door opening and slamming shut, a frustrated fuuuuuuck slipping past his gritted teeth.

Ellie’s voice rings out loud and clear as she scampers up the stairs, getting progressively louder until she’s outside his study. ‘Hey! Did you remember to put the potatoes in the oven? We have to leave for Tommy’s in an hour - dude, what the fuck is happening?’

‘What do you think is happenin’?’ he growls.

Crossing her arms, Ellie leans against the doorframe wearing a far too amused expression. ‘Maria said no gifts.’

Joel rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not for Maria.’

The teenager squints, perplexed, at the bits of wool in his hands. ‘What is that meant to be?’

‘... A sweater.’

Ellie bites her bottom lip, holding in a poorly concealed giggle. ‘I think a sweater is meant to have sleeves.’

‘You think?’

‘Want me to go get Lucy?’

With a heavy sigh, he mutters, ‘Fine.’

At the arch of her half-eyebrow, Joel adds begrudgingly, ‘Please.’

Ellie grins, sneakers skidding on the floorboards as she takes off. ‘Hang in there, old man!’

Despite the cold, his palms are sweaty, sticking to the kraft paper wrapped haphazardly around the even more haphazard package clutched tightly in his right hand.

The night air mists before him in puffs of white as he shuffles a path through the falling snow. His ears are tingling from the cold, and flexing the stiff, frozen tips of his fingers, Joel knows he should’ve worn his gloves. They weren’t in their usual place by the door though, and he was so frazzled that he barely got his shoes tied up before dashing out the door, sending Ellie ahead with the potatoes (that are definitely undercooked) to his brother’s.

Your cottage glows yellow and orange in the darkness, and your stairs no longer creak when he trudges up them, having fixed them just in time before the first snowfall.

He hears your footsteps come from deep within this house when he knocks. Your eyes are wide when your door cracks open tentatively, but then your lips curve into a smile - the smile that he takes with him and keeps him warm when he has to leave Jackson for days-long patrols.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, ushering him inside, not batting an eye at the snow he tracks inside. ‘I thought we were meeting at Maria’s.’

Pressing a kiss to your lips, he softens at the way you lift your face towards him to catch it, careful to keep the parcel out of sight behind his back. ‘Yeah, we were, but thought I’d see if you need a hand with anythin’.’

‘Such a gentleman,’ you tease.

A low fire burns in the hearth, the wood he chopped for you in the fall stacked in a tidy pile next to the mantelpiece. Sweeping his eyes across the living space, he spots the book with the cracked spine that he reads when he’s here on the coffee table, next to yours. On the other side of the couch is the Christmas tree that he cut for you, and he watched you dress it up in tinsel and fairylights one night after a quiet dinner and before hot cocoa under thick blankets.

He likes seeing himself at your home. In the things he does for you; in his things, casually scattered around - like they belong in your space.

‘The pies are in the kitchen, could you please put them in a bag?’ you ask. ‘I’ll just grab my coat and we can go.’

‘Sure, sweetheart,’ he answers, waiting until you’ve disappeared into the bedroom before setting down the present under the tree.

He’s leaning against the back of the couch when you pop back in, a few layers deeper than when you left him, the pies nestled safely in a carrier bag by his boots.

‘Shall we?’ you ask brightly.

Joel hesitates, wondering if he should wait until after dinner to tell you about the present. It only takes his eyes darting to the foot of the tree for the briefest moment for you to catch on. The slow smile that stretches your cheeks and lights up your eyes warms him from the inside out.

You cock your head to one side, playing coy. ‘What’s that, Joel?’

He shrugs, feigning cool. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and find out?’

His chest physically swells at the way you dash towards the tree, landing on your knees in uncharacteristic recklessness, the impact only softened by the rug underneath. You cradle the lumpy package to your chest like something precious. ‘You got me a present.’

He settles on the end of the couch next to you, his heart beating harder in his ribcage than he’d like to admit. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart.’

You frown at him. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see, but I wanted to give it to you anyway.’

You open the package carefully, as if it was wrapped in the fancy paper people used to buy at the shop. Joel holds his breath when you peel it away to reveal what’s inside.

He’s far too inside his own head to hear your inhale that sounds a lot like wonder. You pick up the sweater gently, shaking it out, and Joel winces when he sees it in the flicker of the firelight.

Disastrous doesn’t begin to cover it. Lucy managed to connect the sleeves to the shapeless body in a last-ditch salvage attempt, but one is clearly longer than the other. The stitches are untidy, some have obviously caught onto something and pulled loose. Rough around the edges is putting it kindly.

Joel wants to reach out, grab it, chuck it into the fire and let the flames swallow it whole.

Finally, the silence gets the better of him, and he blurts out. ‘I’m sorry.’

You stare at him, stunned. ‘What?’

Under his whiskers, his cheeks flush in embarrassment, and he rambles, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinkin’. You deserve better sweetheart, here, let me -’

You almost lose your balance keeping the sweater out of his reach. ‘Don’t you dare, Joel Miller.’

Confused, he watches you rise to your feet, shucking your outer coat and another layer. ‘What are you doin’?’

Grabbing the sweater, you slide it over your head and thread your arms through the sleeves. The soft knit drapes over your curves, too big over your shoulders and the hem falling unevenly, higher on the right side than the left. One sleeve is long enough to cover half your hand, while the other sits right on the wrist.

And yet.

You’re beaming like you just picked up something at Bloomin’dales or whatever the fuck those department stores were called back then.

‘I love it,’ you declare, no trace of irony in your voice, as hard as he’s trying to find it.

He scoffs in disbelief. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you’re just sayin’ it -’

You surprise him, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and dragging him towards you to plant a firm kiss on his lips.

‘I love it,’ you repeat slowly, with conviction, as if willing him to believe you. ‘Thank you.’

He doesn’t quite still, but he smiles and kisses you back. ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’

‘Since we’re doing this -’ you trail off, sliding out of his grip to reach around the back of the tree, pulling out a neatly wrapped gift. ‘This is for you.’

Joel pauses.

For him.

For the longest time, nothing had been for him unless it was soul-crushing grief and pain.

And yet here it is - his name on the tag written in your neat handwriting. Something he can hold in his hands. For him.

His fingers tremble when he reaches out. The package is soft, and the paper crackles under his grip. He all but tears it open, uncaring of the way the wrapping falls to the floor.

A laugh bubbles out of his throat, and you look relieved at his reaction. ‘You like it?’

It’s not quite a Santa hat. It’s a chunky dark red beanie with a white brim folded back, and topped with a white pompom.

‘My ears were so cold walkin’ over. It’s perfect,’ he says, pulling it over the crown of his head. Of course, it fits just right, sliding soft and warm over his ears. He adds with a wink, ‘Y’know what, I might just shimmy down some chimneys after dinner.’

‘As long as you shimmy down mine too,’ you retort, not hearing the euphemism.

Joel quirks an eyebrow at that, one large palm squeezing your backside through the layers. ‘That an open invitation, sweetheart?’

You duck your head, more out of habit than actual shyness, with mischief in your smile. ‘Don’t be so crude, Joel Miller.’

Adjusting his new hat so that it sits comfortably, he points at the pompom and jokes, ‘Shame I can’t wear this on patrols.’

Right on cue, you hold up a finger. ‘Funny you should say that.’

He chuckles when you pull out a second, plain black beanie, as if out of thin air. ‘You really thought of everythin’, sweetheart.’

You shrug playfully. ‘I’m smart like that.’

‘I know you are,’ he smiles.

‘Merry Christmas, Joel.’

His lips find yours again in a slow, lingering kiss that has you leaning into him for more when he pulls back. ‘Thank you. For everythin’.’

You hold his gaze - heavy with meaning, light with joy. It wouldn’t take more than a tilt of the head towards the bedroom to derail your evening plans, and you both know it.

In the end, you’re the one who stays strong. Taking one step back from his warmth, you reach for your coat. ‘We’re late, we should go.’

His eyes widen. ‘Wait - you’re not wearin’ that to dinner are you?’

‘Of course I am,’ you say, buttoning up your coat over the sweater.

‘You don’t have to, sweetheart,’ he almost pleads with you.

You grin, heading for the door, blowing out candles as you go. ‘Too bad, I’m never taking it off.’

Joel shakes his head with a wry huff. ‘Well, I hope not never -’

You have one foot out the door when you suddenly remember. ‘I almost forgot - you left your gloves here last time. They’re in the cupboard by the door.’

Ah, that’s where they went. He opens the drawer and pulls them on, one after the other, the leather, worn smooth with age, creaking as he wraps his fingers around the handles of the carrier bag.

Joel is about to follow you out the door when he pauses over the threshold. Glancing down at the black beanie in his grasp, he reaches up and hooks it on the coat rack, nestled among your clothes.

He hopes that when the time comes for him to wear it for the first time - maybe on a patrol that will take him away from you for a few days - it will smell like you.

Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics ❄️

More notes: I hope I will return to the main series in the new year. I've missed these two lovebirds, I hope you enjoyed this little interlude! ❤️

#fuckyeahseams #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #goodbye 2023

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endlessthxxghts · 6 months

Text

Need You

Husband!Frankie Morales x wife!afab!reader || W/C: ≈5k

Summary: Tío Santi comes to the rescue when Frankie confides in him about how the two of you have been way too busy for one another.

Warnings: Crazy events of Triple Frontier don't happen; let's just give these guys some happiness. Instead of coke, Frankie’s drug is you (LMAOOO). No “y/n.” No physical descriptions of reader (besides clothing choices), she looks like you😏 and big strong man Frankie can carry you <333. Reader knows a bit of Spanish. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Oral sex (f receiving). Unprotected P in V sex. Slow and sloppy😵‍💫. Breeding kink. Domestic kink (they get really spurred on calling each other husband and wife/esposo y esposa). Possessive kink. Daddy kink (but in the sense that reader just loves seeing Frankie as a Dad and wants to give more babies to parent!!!). Pussy slapping... Cum play/eating. Vaginal fingering/fucking. Squirting. Slight Dom!Frankie (he just really wants to hear his wife beg for his cum!!). Mentions of shower ✨activities✨. A lot of love basically — physically and emotionally. Extra warning for the parents who can’t leave their child with other people — Tío Santi takes their baby out to eat and get treats; she’s in good hands, I promise!!!

A/N: Husband Frankie is rotting my brain bad. Especially girl dad!Frankie. My ovaries are screaming. So here's this little 5k bad boy I whipped up. This is very much a porn with a bit of (yummy domestic) plot. Hope y’all enjoy. Thank you to my sweet sweet bae @javierpena-inatacvest for proof-reading this and hyping me up since it’s my first Frankie story to be posted! I love you so much 🥹🥹💚 (edit: someone had a comment about why Isa is amorcito instead of amorcita, so in case you had that question as well, read my explanation here!)

MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG

“Querida, I’m home!” Frankie called out.

“In Isa’s room, baby!” you responded.

Santi tagged along on his treck home today, offering to take Isa out for lunch and sweets after Frankie told him how both of you have been crazy busy lately. He helps himself to the kitchen while Frankie makes his way to you.

Frankie lightly knocks on the door before entering, gasping out in delight to earn a bubbly reaction from his three year old daughter. “Ay, mi esposa (my wife),” he exclaims, giving you a soft kiss to your lips. He looks to his daughter and grabs her from you, “y mi amorcito (and my little love),” he says, throwing her up in the air, coaxing a few more giggles out of her.

He sets her back down to play with her toys, and Frankie turns to you, pulling you in for a proper hello. Your lips slot against each other in a needy embrace, still as reserved as you two can be with your child in the room. He pulls away first, arms not leaving your waist. “Hi, mama,” he says with an adoring smile. “Hi, honey,” you respond, heart still skipping a few beats as if it’s your first time meeting him. He guides you to outside the doorway, closing Isa’s room ajar, so you both are out of her view.

“Santi’s here,” he tells you. “He offered to, uh, take Isa out to get food and some dessert,” he adds nonchalantly, trying to gauge your reaction. It’s been three years since your baby was born, and still you’re always reluctant to leave her with others. It’s not that you don’t trust the people you leave her with, it’s the fact that if anything were to happen — Gods forbid — you wouldn’t be able to be there, to comfort and protect her.

Your eyebrow raises in response. He squeezes you tighter into him, ducking closer to your ear. “And I was thinking,” he kisses the sweet spot near your pulse point, “we could take some time for ourselves?” He continues kissing and nipping at your neck, uttering a small please baby as he makes his way back to your lips.

Little did Frankie know, you didn’t need any convincing at all. You were just about ready to drop her off at your parents as soon as he got home from work today. You don’t tell him though. You like hearing him be a little desperate for you.

His hand skates lower to your ass, the other hand making its way to cup your front. “It’s been weeks, baby, I need to taste her,” he says, damn near a whine.

You grab both sides of his face and pull him into a searing kiss. “Go pack her bag,” you whisper as you pull away from his grasp, making your way to Santi to give him the rundown.

In record time, Frankie packs Isa’s go bag in under five minutes: diapers, extra change of clothes, baby wipes, baby Benadryl, and some of her comfort snacks just in case she’s extra picky today. He picks up his baby, assessing if she needs a diaper change — she’s dry — and heads to the kitchen. “Wanna hang with Tío Santi today, mi amor?”

Her face lights up, and she squeals, “yes, daddy, pleeeeaaase!”

He chuckles, his heart warming at how much she loves his best friend, his brother.

He and Isa enter the kitchen to you giving Santi the rundown on her allergies.

“We exposed her to all the major allergens already and no reactions, except for peanuts — she gets a little red, so just watch out for that. There’ll be Benadryl in her pack just in case.”

Santi gives you a salute, “Sir, yes, sir.”

You playfully roll your eyes at his antics. “One more thing,” you say as you go to kiss your baby goodbye. “Usually I’d ask if you could send pictures throughout the time you’re gone…” you look at Frankie.

Santi smirks, knowing where this is headed.

“But you don’t have to. At least for today,” your face remains composed, but the heat spreading across your cheeks exposes you.

“Got it. No peanuts,” Santi says, reaching for the bag off Frankie’s shoulder and the keys from his pocket, “and no interruptions,” he winks at you both. “Let me know when you guys are ready for us to come back,” he looks to his beautiful niece in her mother’s arms, peppering her with goodbye kisses.

“Vamanos (let’s go), mija!” Santi says, prying her out of your arms. Frankie reaches to give her one last kiss on her forehead, and they’re out the door.

As soon as the front door clicks shut, Frankie is on you in an instant, too riled up to wait until you’re in the bedroom. He needs you badly, and he needs you now. He’s caging you in between his body and the kitchen counter, lips on you like he’ll die tonight if he doesn’t touch you. Your lungs are burning for air, yet you don’t pull away. You can’t. He’s too addicting. Too much time has passed without the pleasure you two bring one another, so you’ll sacrifice one survival need for another.

Before you know it, his hands are at the base of your ass, lifting you to the kitchen counter, and his lips are dragging down your jaw, your neck, and into your cleavage, nipping every little exposed place your cropped tank allows him. His hands are at the waistband of your sweats, pulling them down as he brings himself to his knees.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he takes a deep breath in. His eyes are impossibly darker, demeanor turning animalistic as he feels just your sweats alone and no underwear. He gets a view of your already glistening pussy, and he can’t help the growl that leaves his throat.

He settles his hands under the globe of your ass and scoots you to the edge, your thighs finding solace on his shoulders. You immediately lean back on your elbows, knowing the moment his mouth is on you, your body will go weak at his touch.

Without any warning, his tongue licks the entirety of your leaking seam, hands automatically gripping you tighter as the taste of you hits his tongue. The sound that leaves you sends shivers down his spine, his cock painfully hard and leaking in his jeans. He licks you a few more times, letting his drool drip down his tongue and spread all over you, making you a soaking mess of your arousal and his spit.

Once you’re drenched to his liking, he dives right in, face completely flushed against your sex, sloppily sucking and licking into you, hitting all the right buttons to make you see fucking stars. By his hands or his tongue, he still knows how to steer you in the direction of the most beautiful constellations, even if they are behind your eyelids.

“Frankie, fuck-!” you yell out, your inhibitions automatically down with the fact that the house is left to the two of you. Frankie’s hips involuntarily buck into nothing at your moans, missing the sounds you always made for him. Ever since Isa was born, both of you made a conscious effort to work on your noise levels — especially you. You were the most vocal he’s ever been with, and fuck if it didn’t make him all the more whipped. He almost forgot what your sounds do to him. Almost. But now that you’ve given him a taste again after so long, he needs more.

He circles your clit a few times and sucks it, hard. He pulls off with a lewd pop, his dominant hand leaving your ass and making its way to your entrance. You’re such a fucking mess that his two fingers slide right in, giving you the extra push Frankie needed to pull more heavenly moans and whimpers out of you. “Let me hear you, mama,” he says, tongue circling your clit as his fingers work you to the edge. “Sing for me, baby,” and with what little strength you have, you force your head forward to watch his ministrations, and the sight is what sends you falling first. Frankie’s mouth is wrapped around the entirety of you, eyes dark and on yours, his hooked nose rubbing against all the right places while his arm muscles ripple as he fucks his fingers in and out of you.

“Shit- oh, fuck-” you whine out, your head like a bobble head, too heavy to maintain upright. Frankie curls his fingers just right, and-

“Oh my God, Francisco, oh my God!” Your hips are bucking into his face, his own strength unable to keep your hips down with how hard your orgasm is hitting you. He lets you ride out your wave on his face, drinking every last drop coming out of you.

His fingers are out of you now, Frankie immediately cleaning them in his mouth, not wanting to Iet any of your sweet syrup go to waste. Your chest is heaving, eyes clamped shut, and your body is entirely limp. Frankie stands to his full height, and he’s pulling you up to sit up straight, his hands guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. He chuckles a little. “Still with me?”

Your torso loses its strength momentarily, and you almost fall back. His arms immediately wrap around you, supporting you to maintain your upright position. You laugh at yourself, a blissed out smile gracing your face. He feels his heart flutter, just as strong as when he first met you. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here, you monster,” you lightly laugh, resting your head on him. “God, I love you,” your voice slightly muffled from burrowing yourself into his chest.

His one hand leaves your back and wraps itself around your jaw, bringing your lips up to his. You can taste yourself on him, and you can already feel another fire being lit deep in your core, your arousal dripping onto the kitchen counter as your lips continue with his.

You pull away, breathless, ready for more. “Take me to bed, baby.”

“You sure you’re ready now?” He smirks.

“Keep teasing, and I won’t let you cum inside of me, big boy.”

His lips find yours again in a bruising manner, a growl leaves him as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. “Last I checked, you were the one begging for me to fuck my cum so deep inside you that it had no other option but to latch on. If that’s what you want again, baby, all you gotta do is ask.”

You whimper in response, your spurt of dominance dissipating immediately.

“That what you want, baby? Come on, tell me. I wanna hear it.”

Your eyes are glossing over, too pent up with a fertile need to get your brain to come up with any kind of response. His grasp on your jaw tightens, his lips ghosting yours as he talks. “Tell me you want my cum, baby. Tell me you want me to fill you up so fucking full of me.”

“Yes, baby, fuck, I need you. I need you inside of me, I need you to fill me. Please, you’re such a good daddy, I wanna give you more, please,” you ramble on. His mouth is on you again in a sloppy embrace as he picks you up and guides you two to your bedroom.

He sets you down at the edge of the bed. He guides your shirt off, then his. He pulls back for a second and shucks his bottoms off, giving you a complete view of his tanned and toned naked body, his little tummy a little soft around the edges. Your pussy is crying at the sight.

You don’t waste anymore time as you settle yourself to the center of your bed, your legs already falling open with muscle memory. Frankie licks his lips at the sight. Part of him just wants to go down on you again, but the way his cock is screaming at him for release and your pussy is clenching on nothing—yeah, his oral fixation can wait.

He settles himself in between your legs. His hands are grounded into the pillow beside your head as your legs automatically hook around his waist. He rubs his length across your wetness, you mewl for him as he lets his tip drag across your clit.

“Baby, please,” you whine.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

His tip breaches your entrance. God, you’ve missed him so much, and you tell him exactly that.

His lips are on yours, never really satiated with the amount of kisses he takes from you, “I fuckin’ missed you so much.” He pushes deeper in. “God, my beautiful wife, I love you so much,” he breathes out as his lips graze your temple.

His hips are flushed with yours, your hands secure themselves around his neck. “Please, baby, let’s never go this long again, I need you so bad,” he rasps. He’s pulling out again, his head kissing your core. “Need you always,” he says as he pushes back in, maintaining a slow but hard rhythm.

You pull him impossibly closer into you, your hands grasping and feeling him anywhere you can reach. You rock your hips to meet every push and pull of his own, lips ghosting each other with each movement, your eyes threatening to roll back at how entirely full you feel.

He’s taking his fucking time with you tonight, fucking you slowly into the mattress, harder with each thrust, reveling in sound of your pussy each time he pushes in, and he can’t help the way he smiles into the sloppy kisses and shared breaths.

You’re a complete mess, tears falling from your eyes at how addicting he feels mixed with the pure love you have for this man. You really don’t even register what you’re babbling about, but that doesn’t matter. Frankie’s in heaven listening to a mixture of your drawn out moans, the occasional Lord’s name in vain, and the repeated I love you, baby, I love you so much.

One of his hands drag down to your clit, rubbing clumsy yet perfect circles, forcing your dam to finally break. He’s completely soaked in you and so are your thighs and the bedsheets. Your fall is slow but all-consuming. Your back arches into him, your nipples rubbing deliciously against his chest, and the feeling is the final push that sends him painting your walls white.

His hand leaves your swollen clit and wraps itself around your lower back, helping you maintain your arch form as he continues rocking himself into you well into his softened state. He can feel your body start to tense out of overstimulation, so he finally pulls out of you, leaving you a leaking mess of both your and his cum. He sits back on his hunches, his fingers drawing circles on your inner thighs, just admiring the sight until his cock begins to stir again.

“Jesus, Morales,” you giggle breathily as you clocked the jump of his length.

He leans over you again, giving you a sweet, lengthy kiss as he begins to slide himself off the bed. “What can I say, baby? I’m insatiable with you,” he gives you a mischievous smirk.

He heads to the kitchen, returning to the bedroom with a chilled glass of water for you. “Drink up,” he says.

Before he makes it to the en suite bathroom, he adds, “I’m not done with you yet, mama.”

Despite the sensitivity down there, your pussy flutters at his words, craving him down there in any way shape or form.

He returns with a warm cloth, cleaning you up as best as he can with your second round of slick and his endless load of cum pouring from you. He sets the cloth down somewhere on the floor and situates himself up against the headboard. He wordlessly guides you to lay between his legs, your chest resting against his.

“Wanna check on Isa?” Frankie asks, albeit a little shy. You smirk a little, knowing you’re usually the one to cave first. You make grabby hands at your phone on the nightstand, nudging Frankie to grab it since his wingspan is much larger than yours. He hands it to you, and you immediately dial Santi, hitting the speaker button as it rings.

“Hey, Santi.”

“Hey, Mrs. Fish,” you can hear him laugh at his name for you. Frankie also gives a little laugh. He thought it was the funniest thing he’s ever said during your guys’ wedding reception. He calls you that more than your own name now.

“How’s it going?” you try to ask in an unconcerned fashion. Santi knows you both all too well to know that isn’t the case.

“You know you two didn’t have to quit just to check on her, right? Tío Santi knows how to distract! Also, tío Santi knows how to put her down for a nap!” He says proudly.

“I believe you, Santi, don’t worry. Just checking. Frankie just kept bugging-”

Before you could continue your sentence, Frankie’s hands immediately go to your sides, hitting all your ticklish spots. You scream out, a loud stream of giggles leaving you.

“Coño, por favor, not while I’m on the phone!” You hear Santi say. “Sorry, Sorry,” you say, still out of breath from Frankie’s merciless attack.

“Actually, Santi, can I ask another favor?”

Frankie looks at you confused. You smirk at him. “Is tío Santi prepared for his first sleepover?” His confusion fades and immediately his eyes are consumed with pure lust, his soft brown eyes turning black.

Santi is silent for a moment. “You two are downright feral, you know that, right?”

You stifle a laugh. “Ay Dios mío (oh my God),” Frankie mutters.

“As long as I get another niece — or nephew, I really have no preference — in nine months time…” Santi trails off in thought. “Then I’d dedicate every damn weekend to her,” he says.

You turn your head around and up to meet Frankie’s eyes, both of you in shock at Santi’s silent invitation, silence fills the air for a moment before you finally bring yourself to speak.

“Oh? Alright, then,” you softly say. “Thank you, Santi, you’re the best. We’ll text you, okay? Bye,” you hang up, not giving Santi any chances to return the call-ending formalities. You and Frankie are still looking at each other, eyes wild at the proposition before you.

“Every weekend, huh?” Frankie says, breaking the tension first. His head dips down to place a kiss where your neck and shoulder meet.

You suck in a breath, arousal forming faster than a strike of lightning. “Mhm,” you barely get out. His hands are roaming your body now, your phone thrown haphazardly somewhere in the room, long forgotten. He places his hands on the insides of your thighs, spreading you open and keeping them atop his own legs, so he can hold you open. His one hand is spread largely over your lower belly while his other hand is already teasing your core.

His finger circles directly on your clit, you yelp in response, your body twitching. “Every weekend, I’m gonna get to fuck my wife, huh?” Frankie says into your ear. “Gonna fill her full of me?” Your hips buck at the huskiness of his voice, of his possessiveness over you. Your response is incoherent, more of a moan than anything. Next thing you know, your room reverberates with the noise of a wet slap.

He spanked your pussy. The sound that escapes your throat is beyond arousing, Frankie’s cock back to life, dripping on your lower back. “Answer me properly, baby,” he says again, softly. His fingers are circling your clit again, forcing more of your wetness out of you, his cum from earlier still seeking its place on your bedsheets.

“Mmm, fuck-” you breathe, “Yes, yes, every weekend, baby,” you’re nodding your head frantically as you try to keep your eyes trained on his actions down below. “Every weekend you’re gonna make me so full,” you whimper, “Gonna fuck a baby into me, daddy, I need you so bad.”

He slides two of his fingers into you at your words, his hips grind into your back at the feel of your warmth, of his spend keeping you nice and wet. His fingers pump in and out of you at a languid pace, his fingers arching in a come-here motion to beckon more of his cum onto his fingers. He pulls out of you momentarily, analyzing the mess he’s made. “Open, querida,” he whispers, likely in a trance at the sight.

You open your mouth, tongue out and ready. He sticks his fingers into your mouth, and you lap up his salty spend greedily, as if it were the sweetest of syrups. You taste a distinct tanginess on his fingers, most likely the product of your own arousal. Your eyes fall shut at your taste, eyes feeling heavy and too blissed out to stay open. He pulls out of your mouth with a pop and grabs your chin, turning your face to his. He pulls you in for an open-mouthed kiss, wet and hot. His hand leaves your face and returns to your core. His fingers are back inside you, pushing in and out as his palm grinds perfectly into your clit. Your hips are moving in tandem, providing you with the perfect rhythm to soak him all over again. His lips never break from your own, tongues dancing in a way only you two get to know.

Your hand seeks purchase at the back of his neck, tugging at the base of his curls, taking away his opportunity to break away from you. He moans into your mouth at the sharp sensation, your lower back a sticky mess from how much he’s leaking onto you.

Finally, you break away, lips still connected by the thinnest of spit lines. “Baby, I- I’m gonna cum, shit-”

Frankie lets out a growl, desperate to have you fall apart on him. He maintains his same pace, adding a bit more pressure of his palm to your clit, his other hand pushing harder down into your belly, knowing how crazy the stimulation drives you. “Give it to me,” he mumbles in your ear, his heavy breathing fanning across your cheek. “Need it, baby. Need you,” he whines.

“Fuck-!” you yell out, head pushing harder into his shoulder, eyes clamping shut and forming white, blinding fireworks beneath your eyelids. He fucks his fingers in you as you ride out your high, tears letting loose as your pussy squirts into his hand and all over both your bottom halves.

The sight transforms him into a cumming mess, the only stimulation being the friction from your backside as he rutted into you. You don’t notice the warm wetness between your bodies until your body falls completely limp against him, breathing still heavy but slowly returning to normal. Frankie bejewels your face with sweet kisses — from your temples to the edge of your shoulder that he can reach — as you slowly come back to Earth.

You look up at him now, a soft smile spread across your face. His heart stutters at the sight. You shift your back a little. “Did you…?”

“Yes, I did,” Frankie admits way too quickly, embarrassment flooding his face.

You pull him into one more kiss before you start to get up. “Come on. Shower and then we eat,” you tell him. “You didn’t get to settle yourself down after work,” you add, slightly scolding him for his impatience yet also silently thanking him.

“I can always eat in the shower,” Frankie adds suggestively, his eyes giving your body a once over as you stand beside the bed, waiting for him to get a move on.

“Morales!” you gasp out. “Bad,” you say, shaking your head from side to side.

“You know it’s gonna happen, mi amor (my love),” he says as he stands, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him, seeking your warmth.

And it does happen. He makes you fall apart on his tongue twice, and you pay him back by reducing him down to jelly legs as you fuck his cum down your throat. By the time you two actually start your shower, the water is completely cold, not one drop of hot water available.

Post-shower, you two cook a fast, simple meal, too eager to be on each other again, but too aware of how important it is to give your body sustenance in order to continue with your feral behavior. You only get a few hours of sleep that night. Falling asleep after each round only to wake back up a horny, dripping mess just to fuck again. You don’t remember the last time you two did something like this, but damn were you two needing it. You made a mental note to thank Santi for his much needed offer.

The next morning you wake up at seven, the first sensation you feel for the day is your sore pussy, red and puffy as she begs you to give her a break. You look at the knocked out man beside you, give him a kiss on the forehead and break away from his hold, bringing yourself to the bathroom. You take your phone with you.

[07:13] Just woke up. Drop Isabela off whenever you’re ready.

[07:15] God, no wonder she’s up already. She’s got your early ass schedule.

You laugh to yourself, picturing Santi a half asleep man child as your daughter crawls all over him, forcing him to get up, too. What Santi didn’t know was that it was actually Isa’s schedule that you were on.

[07:16] Pobrecito (poor thing). :(

[07:16] She’ll probably be asking for Frankie soon. She always cuddles him in the morning.

[07:17] Yep, she just did. I’ll feed her some breakfast now, then we’ll be on our way. That good, Mrs. Fish?

[07:18] If it’s good with little Fish, then it’s good with me.

He sends you a thumbs up, and you set your phone down. You wash up and get ready for the day.

After you brush your teeth and wash your face, you head to Frankie’s side of the closet and grab one of his soft, cotton tees to throw on.

You head to the kitchen, your first course of action being to fire up the espresso machine. Espresso is the only form of coffee you drink, and soon enough, Frankie followed in your footsteps. Just as you suspected, as soon as the smell of the beans filled the air, Frankie appeared in the kitchen. His sleepy eyes and sexed out hair on display nearly cause your knees to buckle, your aching pussy betraying your want for a lazy morning.

He makes his way to you and kisses you, soft and slow, probably needing a lazy morning just as much as you. “Good morning, mi esposa (my wife),” he says, voice still raspy from sleep.

“Mmm, good morning, mi esposo (my husband),” you smile up at him. “Sleep well?”

“With the sleep that I did get, I’d say yeah,” he says. “You really tired me out, hermosa (beautiful),” he adds.

You pull him down for another kiss. You’ll never tire of the feeling. “Waffles?”

His eyes light up, a boyish grin on his face. “Yes, please.”

Around 8:30 as you and Frankie finish your waffles, the front door is unlocking. A little girl with crazy hair comes busting in, running straight for the both of you to pull you guys into a tight group hug.

“Mommy! Daddy!” she screams.

“Mi amorcito,” Frankie responds, matching her energy. “Mi niña loca (my crazy girl),” you squeal. “I missed you so much!” you add.

You and Frankie kiss each of her cheeks, sandwiching her little face.

“Did you have fun with tío Santi?” you ask.

“So much fun, mommy! We had ice cream for break-”

Before she could finish, Santi chimes in. “O-o-okayyyyy, Isa!” he claps his hand once. “Why don’t you bring this to your room,” he hands her a tiny gift bag — probably the product of some shopping they did — “while I talk to mommy and daddy?”

“Okay, tío Santi!” She takes the bag and makes her way to her room.

Your eyebrows are raised in mock scolding as you wait for Santi to explain himself. “Hey! In my defense, those puppy dog eyes are a killer. I couldn’t say no.”

The three of you break out into laughter, Frankie going in for a hug, clapping Santi on the back as he releases him.

“Waffles?” you offer Santi. He graciously accepts, making his way to the other side of the kitchen counter, helping himself.

“So-” you and Frankie say at the same time. Santi pauses his actions mid-bite.

Frankie nudges you to speak first. You clear your throat to ease the awkwardness in the room.

“So,” you start again. “Were you, uh… were you serious about watching Isa?” you ask?

“Every weekend?” Frankie adds.

You giggle, nodding an affirmative at your husband. “Yes, every weekend?”

Santi finishes the bite he paused on, and sets his waffle down. “You dirty dogs!” he says.

“Pope, come on,” Frankie’s palms go over his cheeks that are currently turning red at Santi’s teasing.

He lets out a laugh. “Sí, cabrón (yes, asshole),” Santi says, slapping Frankie’s shoulder. “Of course I’m serious. I’d do anything for both of you, and especially that demon of a little girl.”

Your heart warms at Santi’s sentiment. You’re beyond grateful Frankie has a best friend like him.

“On one condition,” Santi adds, his eyebrow quirked up.

“Anything,” you say eagerly. Frankie nods his head in agreement with you.

“I also wasn’t kidding when I said I’d need another sobrino (niece/nephew).”

You and Frankie look at each other, your stares saying everything they needed to. Yeah, Santi didn’t need to worry about that.

And you were right when the next Saturday morning, a month and four tío Santi sleepovers later, you and Frankie presented Santi with your pregnancy test displaying two pink lines.

End note: Thank you all so much for reading! Likes, comments, reblogs, etc, — all your support means the absolute world to me. I wouldn’t be able to do this without all of you. Thank you so so so much. There are genuinely not enough words to express my gratitude. As always feedback for my stories (at a technical sense) is also super super helpful whether it is constructive or positive! Anything helps me to be the best writer that I can be. All my love! Xo

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