#Winter themes/props

[astraystayyh]

please fall before i fall

jeongin x reader. best friends to lovers. they think it's unrequited love so a bit of angst. but they're just idiots. happy ending :))

summary : 3 times you saved jeongin's ass and the 1 time he saved yours (and ended up confessing along the way). holidays themed.

winter falls masterlist.

a.n. : i am very happy to finally post my first fic for the winter falls collab with my author xi hehehehhe i hope you'll enjoy this one <333 it's very light and fluffy she's the cute one!! oh and my song rec is i bet on losing dogs by mitski

One. 

Jeongin’s thumb hovers over your contact name, his rosy lip pulled tightly between his teeth. He hesitates for a few seconds before finally dialing your number. 

“What do you want?” you start which makes an incredulous snort escape his lips, a gust of powdery air materializing before his mouth from the cold. 

“How much do I have to pay you for you to come over?” 

“Ten thousand dollars. Cash,” you precise as he mouths along to what you say, already guessing what your next words would be. 

He's come to know you at an abhorrent speed these past few months; since you sat right next to him in your biology class, head buried in an oversized navy hoodie. Your perfume knocked into him like a gentle breeze— Sicilian lemon and white bouquet notes, nostalgic summer amid an unforgiven autumn. Memories of sticky fingers from molten ice cream and feet soles meeting the warm sand wafted in the air, alluring him to the kindness of a long-gone summer, you. 

That is why he talked to you at first, because you smelled nice, incredibly so. He tells you it's because he liked the pair of shoes you were wearing. 

“What if I brought you your favorite coffee?”

“Are you outside my dorm?” you squeal and he imagines you must be scrambling to get up, opening the curtains. He knows he's right as your figure materializes behind the window. “Hi,” you wave, a small giggle escaping your lips. He can't help the fond smile that draws upon his lips. 

He thinks he likes you a little. 

“Hey, please help me wrap my family’s gifts,” he pouts, waving the coffee in the air. Your order that he memorized by heart, not even meaning to, it was just natural for him to order you coffee every day, to remember your preferences as if they were his own. 

“Why are you here if we're going to your dorm anyways?” you laugh, leaning against the window. 

“Because I know I need to bribe you,” he sighs, angling his head to the side. “Are you not going to hang up and come downstairs? The coffee will grow cold.”

“I’m coming!”

An hour later, four gifts are resting beside Jeongin's figure, perfectly wrapped thanks to your skilled hands. He's lying on the warmed tiles, and you're right beside him, so close your knee brushes against his thigh now and then. 

He is keeping count, well, more so his heart, constricting in his lungs each time you touch. 

He's so aware of you, so much he's sure you’ve crawled into his skin, morphing him into nothing but a shell of you. 

Perhaps he likes you a lot. 

“You're an insane man. Who leaves gift wrapping to the last minute?”

“You're best friends with said insane man.” 

“Remind me how did that happen again?” you ask, propping your head on your elbow, and turning to the side to look at him. Jeongin has to pretend that the sight of you hovering over him doesn't affect him. That his eyes aren't drawn to your lips, heart dissolving at your feet, hoping to brush against your own. 

Please fall before I fall, he nearly pleads.

“Why are you so close,” he feigns disgust, pushing your face away with his pointer finger. 

“What? Does that fluster you?” you question, amused, bringing your face even closer to his. He scrambles away before a blush sprouts on his face, one he wouldn't be able to justify to your scrutinizing gaze. 

“As if. You're ugly,” his eyes squint, lips thinning into that particular smile he knows annoys you. He moves to the side swiftly, anticipating the shoe you throw at him.

“You're literally— remind me to never help you again, asshole.”

“I'm kidding. Thank you for today, seriously. I didn't know wrapping gifts could be this hard.” He falls back to the floor dramatically, banging his head against the tiles in the process.

“Well deserved,” you whisper. 

“I heard that.”

“Good,” you giggle, before gently massaging the spot where he has bumped his head. He purses his lips against one another, afraid of what words might escape the confines of his throat, vocal cords moving to the gentle rhythm of your touch. 

“Will you keep on being this clumsy, Innie? mm?” you muse, tone quieter. 

The nickname makes his insides churn, it is always so tender when it falls from your lips. No one has ever called him this softly before. No one has ever called his heart before you. 

He shouldn't be this clumsy with it. It is a fragile organ, akin to glass, easily breakable, so translucent— it'd be easy for anyone to peer inside and find you in it. 

“Yeah, I probably will.”

He'll stop liking you next year. He hopes. He'll try. 

Two.

Next year has come, familiar frigid winds pulling you to Jeongin’s heart, perhaps even more so than before, cementing your being into the nooks and crannies of his soul, perfectly so, as if it was destined for you alone to fill the emptiness inside him. 

Seasons have changed and yet summer remains, its essence stored safely within the notes of your perfume, it tickles his nose as you're seated on the countertop, legs swinging lazily while he scouts through his fridge. 

“Remind me why we're doing this again?”

“Because I made a bet with Yoon.”

“Your sixteen years old brother?”

“Yes.”

“You are in college.”

“I know.”

“Why are you taking it to heart?” 

“Because I have my pride,” he says solemnly, hand on his heart and you roll your eyes. 

“You literally begged at my feet fifteen minutes ago to help you.”

A year later, Jeongin stood beneath your window once again, phone brought up to his ear, hand hidden behind his back. You pick up on the first ring. 

“Look out the window,” he quickly says before you can even speak. 

“Hello, Y/n, how are you, Y/n, are you surviving with the cold—” you say sarcastically as you pull the curtains, the words dissolving in your tongue as he brings a single flower before him— you recognize its pink petals easily, Camellia, the rose of winter.

“I did not have time for coffee, but I plucked this off the sidewalk,” he offers, an amused grin on his face. “Help me bake cookies, pretty please, I'll be forever indebted to you. Forever and ever and ever and ever—”

“This is such a poor rendition of Romeo and Juliet, I'm afraid Shakespeare is suffering in his grave right now.”

“Do you think he knows of every theater play that was done to his story?” Jeongin muses.

“That's a good question actually. I hope he didn't see mine,” you shudder before your face pales. 

“You did not tell me you ever did that!”

“I'll bake your cookies and you'll never bring this up again.”

“Deal. My Juliet,” he smirks and you throw a middle finger aggressively to his face before hanging up. He shouldn't find it as endearing as he does.

“Because, my dear Y/n, this is my holiday reputation at stake. I kind of raised the bar last year with my gift wrapping.”

“You did?” you raise an eyebrow promptly at his words and he sighs, taking out the butter before leaning against the fridge.

“We did. Which is exactly why I need your help again. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if Yoon wins,” he shudders and a giggle finally escapes your lips.

The kitchen warms up at the sight of your smile.

“It's cute when you need me once in a while,” you say nonchalantly, hopping off the counter and moving to wash your hands. Jeongin freezes in his place.

“I always need you though,” he confesses quickly, swallowing the words, hoping that this way you wouldn't be able to taste the sincerity coating them, sticky honey dripping from his tongue whenever it speaks of you.

“Good thing you'll always have me then,” you beam, your words hanging into the air, oxygen suddenly harder to inhale.

“Gross,” he fakes a shiver, as his heart drops in his chest, breaks, and twists at the weight your words carry.

He'll always have you, but not in the way he wants to, your eyes would never soften at the mere mention of his name, and you won't think that a season blooms into every room he is in. He has you, but just a fragment of you, not how you have him, as a whole, heart, body, and soul. 

He's already fallen, a terrible, terrible fall.

“Will you help me or just stare off into the distance?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He smiles bashfully, rolling his sleeves and sidling by your side to mix in the eggs, one by one, per your instructions. 

It smells nice in the kitchen, the caramelized fragrance of browned butter, sweetened by the sugar dissolving into the warm liquid. Tentative sunlight streams through the window, and it falls perfectly on Jeongin's face, highlighting his sharp features. 

Not that jeongin needs any additional light, he reminds you of spring, a flower blooming on his face each time he smiles, his dimples two youthful fountains the roots strive from, brightening his face even more. 

He tentatively glances at you as he adds the chocolate chips to the mix, only to find you staring forward. He misses the fond look on your face by a few seconds, the tinting of your features with soft hues of pink, of spring, of him. He always misses it, always misses you. 

Three.

"I can't believe you have 37 pairs of shoes but not one nice shirt.”

“It's 36, please count correctly,” Jeongin retaliates and you snort, flopping around in bed till you land on your stomach, chin propped up by your hand. Jeongin is still rummaging through his closet, head almost disappearing into the dark void of his wardrobe. 

“What do you need this for anyway?” you question, as you scroll through your phone mindlessly. Jeongin’s eerie silence causes you to look up. 

“Um. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” 

His words hang over the room like a heavy cloak soaked with rain, the oxygen sucked out of your lungs and ensnared within that singular gasp.

Jeongin swiftly turns around, before kneeling beside the bed, eyes brimming with a hopeless search— you are too focused on steadying your breathing to notice.

“Should I go?”

“I mean… Why are you asking me?”

“If you don't want me to, I won't,” he speaks in an overflowing sincerity, as though he'd willingly surrender the reins of his life for you to guide, should you only dare to ask. 

A breath, a pause, and he adds, “In case you'll be lonely tonight.” Your hope deflates in an instant, akin to a birthday balloon tossed into the careless hands of children. 

Pity, that's what he feels for someone who hasn't had a date in a year while he went on ones regularly. Although they never transcended beyond that first meeting, always a first date, never a second. He says none of the people he meets are his type. 

“I have a date too.” It was the truth, Suhoo had told you to meet him at the ice rink. You said you'd think about it. You knew deep down that your answer would be no, solely because he isn't Jeongin.

Perhaps it is too late for him to fall for you.  

“Really?” 

“Yeah, with Suhoo, you know, the guy in our Economics class.”

“He's nice.”

“Mm.” 

Could you lose something you never had in the first place?

“You should wear Seungmin’s white shirt.” 

“Yeah. That's what I thought too.”

“And bring them flowers. The rose of winter, maybe.” 

You had preserved the plucked flower he gave you in a vase. The pink of the petals liquefying and bleeding into the blush on Jeongin’s cheeks once he noticed. 

“That one's just for you.” 

Four. 

You're alone on the ice rink, the frigid winds assail your form, fingers numb from winter's cruel grasp. Suhoo didn't come after all, perhaps he was offended by you calling him at the last minute to confirm your date.

The chill of disappointment is more biting than the frost— you want to melt off the ice, you want your spring. You want your Jeongin. 

But he isn't yours, perhaps he will never be. He is too sought after, too captivated by the fleeting chase of someone new to spare a glance at you. 

But in this instant, you need him. You need him to hold your hands in his larger, warmer ones and get you off the ice rink. You need the sight of his familiar dimples and blooming smile. 

So, you call him. He picks up on the first ring. 

“Are you that bored on your date?” He playfully taunts, and his voice becomes a gentle breeze that stirs the emotions you struggle to contain. Tears cascade down your cheeks in an achingly familiar path. 

“I-Innie,” you hiccup, and you’re instantly met with the sound of scraping chairs against the floor, the hastening cadence of footsteps hurrying out into the street. 

“Did he do something to you?” He speaks so coldly, a tone so foreign to the warmth of your Jeongin. He shouldn't be tainted with winter too. 

“He didn't come. Can you p-please pick me up?” 

“I will. I'm coming in a bit, okay?” 

He finds you rather quickly on the ice rink, a sore thumb unmoving between the gliding bodies. He skates over to you, almost falling twice in the process. 

“You're so clumsy,” you snort as he stands before you, sobs racking through your body once more at the sight of him.

You weren't mad at Suhoo. You were heartbroken over Jeongin.

“I'll beat him up for you. I'll tell Changbin to help me too,” he smiles, hands fidgeting as they land upon your cheeks, trying their best to wipe away your tears.

“Please don't cry. I hate seeing you cry, Y/n, I really can't bear it." The tears only fall harder at his words, as if he's stringing them forth with each touch of his.

“Did he do something to you?” an unknown voice startles you and you turn to your right to find a girl looking at you then at Jeongin, a frown etched on her eyebrows.

“No, I'm her friend I didn't-”

“I wasn't talking to you,” the girl cuts him off and you laugh despite you, as Jeongin’s jaw hangs open, before closing once more.

“It's not him, thank you so much though,” you smile gratefully and she nods, eyes wary as she glares at Jeongin one last time, before skating away.

“I can't believe that just happened,” He exhales, a breath tinged with bewilderment, before he delicately encircles a hand around your back. Gently, he guides your head to rest against the comforting refuge of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you mumble against his navy hoodie, the one he borrowed from you. You can still smell your perfume on him. 

“I'm comforting you.” 

“You don't like hugs.” 

“It's different when it comes to you.”

You close your eyes, allowing the tide of his warmth to envelop you like a cascade of spring petals.

“Where is your date?”

“I didn't go.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you. I'm tired of looking for you in other people,” he quickly says and you peel yourself away from him, feeling as if his clothes were suddenly made of fire. 

“What?” you whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he repeats, each word drawn out, much slower this time, his hands cradling your face, tenderly, as though holding the sun between his delicate fingers. “I'm tired of pretending you're not my summer.”

“Don't say things you don't mean,” your voice wavers. 

“I mean it. I've always loved you. You complete me in ways I didn't know were possible, and I know you only see me as a friend but-”

Your lips press against his, a culmination of aching desires that have lingered for two years. Distant laughter echoes in the background, ice cream melting onto your fingers, a soft breeze ruffling your hair, flowers blooming under the soft caress of the sun— two seasons melting sweetly into the kiss.

“You're literally so blind,” you giggle against his lips, and his smile widens, your noses brushing against one another. “I love you too, idiot.”

“You love me?”

“You're my favorite season.” 

“Don't steal my lines.”

“Hey—” he kisses you this time, the winter is long forgotten. 

Was it ever a fall if you caught him in the end?

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #stray kids imagine #stray kids angst #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids reactions #skz au #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz reactions #skz scenarios #skz angst #i.n x reader #i.n fluff #jeongin x reader

[leaentries]

shield | nico hischier

summary: nico is very protective of his girl, so when someone hurts her, he takes it personally.

warnings: protective nico, physical harassment, swearing, slight violent themes

wc: 1.6k+

a/n: another 3am nico fic 🕺 this one’s a lil bit heavier than most of my nico fics, but don’t worry! i have some new spicy things coming up!

the captain’s girl masterlist

The bar was jammed. Sweaty bodies pressed into every corner of the bricked building, the heat almost unbearable. A door in the back, propped open was your only solace, serving nicely with the winter air wafting in. Although, despite the sticky air and stench of beer, you couldn’t be happier.

You stood by Nico’s side, practically glued to him, not that he would complain. Nico loved the feeling of your body against his, it brought him comfort knowing you were safely tucked away from the world. He was over the moon, still riding the high of tonight’s win. It was a solid win too. Nico got out with a 3-point night, his ego soaring.

Now, you would never admit this sober, but you loved when he got cocky. The way his body demeanor would change and he would have a special swagger in his step. The sexy smirk that never seemed to leave his face every time his gleaming eyes would settle down to yours. It was almost embarrassing the grasp this man had on you, but you loved every second of it. 

His dark shirt clung tightly to his sweaty body, the heat around you two making a visible impression. 

You sat next to him at a table with some of the team, celebrating their win. Seeing the wide smile on Nico’s face made you want to take everything bad in the world and toss it away. That way Nico could smile forever. 

His arm rested on your thigh, corded with thick veins, squeezed slightly, just as reassurance. You squeezed his hand back. 

“You know, I still can’t believe that Merc just left like that! I was in the middle of talking too. What an ass.”

You looked over to where Jack’s voice echoed. His annoyed face set on where Dawson was talking to some girl near the bar. You felt a chuckle rise in your throat, causing you to shove your face into Nico’s arm in an attempt to smother it. 

Nico looked down at you with amused eyes, “What’s so funny, schatzi?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head, “Nothing much, Neeks. Just Jacky.” 

Nico glanced over his shoulder at Jack, who was still complaining to his, very bored, little brother. He nodded his head slowly in understanding. When he turned back to the table, he noticed your tired eyes. 

“You tired, pretty? You’ve been awfully quiet.” 

This was true, but only because you enjoyed watching Nico so much. To you, that was more entertaining than talking. 

“Yep, I’m all good!” You gave him a big smile. Nico searched your eyes for any insincerity but failed to find any. Accepting your answer, he turned back to Holtz, engaging in a spirited conversation about certain plays during the game. 

After half an hour or so, your drink had finally run out, your empty cup now urging to be filled. You nudged Nico’s arm, gaining his attention. 

“I’m gonna go get a refill,” You shook your empty cup, proving your point. 

His brows furrowed, “Want me to come with you?” His eyes flickered to the large number of people, “It’s a bit crowded over by the bar.” 

You smiled at his concern, but denied his request, “No thank you, baby. I’ll be fine.” 

He hesitantly agreed, placing a kiss on your temple and a quick, “Be careful,” as you left. 

Shimmying your way through the dense population proved to be a lot harder than you originally anticipated, getting bumped back and forth violently. By the time you had reached the bar, you could have sworn you had whiplash.

Quickly flagging down a bartender, you ordered your drink and secured a spot to wait. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly feeling uncomfortable by the obvious male gazes from every direction. You could only hope that one didn’t have the balls to approach you, but alas, luck wasn’t on your side tonight. 

A lean man, of about 5’8, approached you, clearly too inebriated to be thinking correctly. His scruff was patchy and gross, the tell-tail signs of a failed attempt at growing a beard. His red shirt loosely hung on his body, beer wetting the sides of it. At least, you hoped it was beer. He stumbled into the slot beside you, almost on top of you. 

“Hey, sexy. What’s your name?” His voice was grating, not a sultry tone to be heard. You found yourself repulsed by his presence, now desperately wishing Nico had come with you.

“None of your business, but thanks for asking.” You gave him a snide smile, hoping he would take the very obvious hint that you weren’t interested. 

“Whoa, attitude, missy. I just asked your name.”

“And I don’t care.” You rolled your eyes, the strange man not making an effort to leave.

“Damn, if you’re this feisty all the time, I know a much better way to put that mouth to use.”  

Fear pitted deep in your stomach at the dark look on the man’s face. Needing toi escape, you tried to make a move to leave, but he blocked your way, now caging you to the bar top. Your breath picked up in a panic, frantically searching for someone to help. It was far too loud to call for anyone and everyone around you was already preoccupied with their own conversations. 

Deciding to fight back, you lifted your arm to slap the man who was rapidly approaching you. His hand came up to grip your arm harshly, drawing a hiss from your lips as pain spiked through your wrist. Tears sprung in your eyes as you tried your hardest to free yourself from the man’s body. You felt helpless as your voice died in your throat, shutting your eyes tightly.

You prepared yourself for the worst until you felt the man’s weight abruptly leave. Your eyes shot open, seeing a blur of the man get thrown to the ground. The familiar figure of your boyfriend towered over the cowering stranger. 

Nico reached down, gripping the man’s collar, dragging him to his feet, and slamming him against the nearest wall. 

“What the fuck, do you think you’re doing?” Nico’s eyes were ablaze with fury, a hard look resting on his once-happy face. 

“I-I don’t know man,” The stranger was gasping, obviously terrified of the much larger man holding him to the wall, “I was just trying to get some pussy, like every other guy in the bar.” His meek words only fueled Nico’s anger. 

“Don’t you ever fucking touch my woman like that again. Don’t ever touch any woman like that. You’re a fucking pussy.” Nico’s voice was laced with disgust as he spat at the man. Holtz and Jack rushed over, attempting to pull Nico away. He dropped the guy, worry for you now seeping into his clouded mind. 

Nico was by your side within seconds, pulling your shaking form into his arms. He tucked you under his chin, tightly holding you, “It’s okay, schatzi,” He brought up a hand to cradle your head, “You’re okay. I’m here now, Nico’s here.” 

You let out a slight sob, your arms recoiling into your body as you gingerly held your bruising wrist. Nico pulled away, eyes desperately raking your body to determine the cause of your pain. Once his eyes settled on your wrist, he held out his hand, silently asking to inspect the damage.

Nico felt a new wave of anger take over his body, now practically shaking as he tried his hardest to not go beat the shit out of the guy. The man had hurt you. Hurt his girl. If it were up to Nico, that guy wouldn’t be breathing right now, but fortunately for the stranger, murder is illegal. Nico carefully guided your body to the exit, not bothering to bid goodbyes. 

Only once the two of you hit the cold parking lot and the adrenaline started to wear off, did you fully begin to comprehend the severity of what had happened. A fresh batch of tears formed in your eyes,  sobs rapidly pouring from your lips. Your body shook with the pure force of the cries that pierced their way through Nico’s chest.

He immediately pulled you tightly into his body, making sure to be mindful of your wrist. Nico felt his own tears well up in his eyes at your pain. He hated that he couldn’t help you, but he hated even more that he was in the building when it happened and didn’t get to you soon enough.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Nico sniffed, “It’s all my fault this happened.” 

You shook your head against his chest, slightly pulling away to look into his deeply saddened eyes, “No, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control.” 

“I knew I should have gone with you. If I was there then he wouldn’t have hurt you.” He looked away biting his lip as he tried not to cry. His broken voice stabbed your heart. It was gut-wrenching to see Nico blame himself for what that man did. 

“Stop, Nico. It was not your fault,” You held his face gently, forcing him to meet your eyes, “Please, stop blaming yourself. I chose to go by myself, that’s not on you.” He opened his mouth to protest, but you were too quick, “Don’t say anything else. Please, for me? Stop.” 

He nodded slowly as tears silently slid down his cheeks. Nico reached up, carefully cradling your wrist that was near his face, leaning to place a sweet kiss on the black and blue splotches.

 “Let me get you home, schatzi. Wanna take care of you.” 

#the captain’s girl au! #nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier blurb #nico hischier smut #nico hischier imagine #njd #new jersey devils #jack hughes #luke hughes #dawson mercer #leawrites💋

[lilac-5ky]

i wanna tie the knot (Satoru xFem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Forget me not

Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests | AO3

Plot: Your boyfriend takes you on a romantic getaway that will potentially change the rest of your lives.

Themes: MDNI, Established Relationship, Vacation, Teasing, Bickering, Tooth-rotting Fluff, Comedy, Onsen Smut, Sensory Deprivation (bondage and blindfolds), Breeding Kink, Oral (f. receiving), Multiple Orgasms, Yukatas, Snarky!Fem!Reader who is done with Gojo's Shenanigans but loves him regardless, Soft!Dom Gojo, Unsolicited Digimon References, and Bucketloads of Pet Names (baby, princess, bunny, honeypie, sugarplum, and every other food nickname you can think of)

Word Count: 13.3k (i was inspired, sue me. rest of it will be smaller. i think.)

check a/n at the bottom

“Last one up the hill is a loser!” Those were the parting words you left your boyfriend with before you shot in the direction of the fields, wind in your hair and pollen in the air, Satoru’s voice barely audible over the light chuckle you shed behind.

You sprint across a sea of flowers in every shape, hue, and kind—from exuberant red poppies to bashful pink asters—spanning as far as the eye can see. You want nothing more than to spare a moment and halt; breathe into the combined aroma of the autumn blossoms before winter hushes them for good, but you can’t. The faster you run, the smaller his head becomes, until it’s a mere blotch of white on the faraway horizon.

You rest assured in your victory, a breathless smile forming on your lips as you reach the top. You glance over your shoulder, confident that the man who minutes ago (literally) flew you to Ikoma on another of his spontaneous 2-day trips is still there, lamenting ever giving you a headstart. However, no matter how hard you squint, you cannot seem to find him.

“What are we looking at?” A low-pitched voice scares the wits out of you, hummed near the shell of your ear in a way that’s exclusive to the cheeky tone it carries.

“S-Satoru!” You yelp, almost throwing yourself down the stiff slope.

“Satoru?” The man in question repeats his own name, cocking his head to the side with genuine curiosity. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“What are you—”

“I only know of a winner,” he points at his chest, successfully diverting your attention from the hand that rises to flick your forehead with such force that you stagger backward.

Both your fall and his punchline are postponed, one awaiting the other while you’re left floating mid-air, the infinity between your head and his boot serving as a safety net.

“And a loser.” Satoru concludes, his grin as bright as day, when he retracts his foot and lets you plummet into the fluffy flowerbed.

In the time it takes for you to blow a tuft of hair from your eyes and prop yourself onto your elbows, Satoru’s already taken his phone out and snapped as many pictures as humanely possible. You aren’t fazed. You’re used to his constant leg-pulling, as well as his 8895-picture collection of funny faces you’ve made over the course of your 7-year relationship.

Definitely in the 9000s now.

“Most guys would help their girlfriend up instead of calling her a loser.” You frown.

“Most guys wouldn’t date a slowpoke.” He gleefully chimes, zooming in on your face. “Come on. Smiiile.”

You poke your tongue out, and he snaps what is hopefully the last embarrassing frame of the day. Your frown resumes, downturned mouth and eyes narrowed at the wonderful azure sky.

“Good enough. Here, here.” He offers you his hand. “Don’t go crying on me.”

You accept only to give him a taste of his own medicine as you lock fingers and drag him down. He shouldn’t fall, but he does so anyway, collapsing beside you in a bundle of ridiculously long limbs he either sorts behind his head or splays on the grass surrounding him.

“Can’t believe you actually got me.” Satoru says in a pouty voice that goes against the complacent smile sitting on his lips. Idiot. “Woah, the view is much prettier from down here!” He marvels at the drifting clouds, pointing at one that resembles a duck. “Is this what it feels like to be you?”

You could do without his unnecessary comments spoiling the mood, but you’re willing to overlook them for the sake of your trip. With how hectic these past three weeks were—orchestrated curse attacks ping-ponging both him and his students across Tokyo—you doubted you’d have a moment to yourselves for the remainder of the year.

But keeping him on his toes is too much fun to pass up.

“You’d be more likeable if you weren’t such a showoff, Satoru.” You scoff, no malice whatsoever.

“Oh, really? ‘Cause I thought you liked me sooo much when you were going all oh, Satoru! Love it so much, Satoru! You’re the best, Satoru! Deeper, Satoru! Y-yes, just like that, ‘Toru last night.”

“Shut up!”

You plug his mouth with both hands, though that doesn’t discourage him from blabbing his version of last night’s events, perfectly replicating the breathy tone of your voice and the soft little moans you let out in between his frantic thrusts.

Your palms relocate to cover your ears, the bright color of your cheeks soon becoming a focal point for his mockery. Satoru plucks a crimson cosmos flower and holds it to your face, twirling it around until you rip it from his grasp. Regret washes over you as soon as you unfold your fingers and see the now-crumpled petals, a little piece of the universe laying lifeless in your palm.

“I’m surprised you can still see my face behind that thing.” You point at the dark fabric that conceals his eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You wave your hand in his face, constantly alternating between the number of fingers you flex.

Satoru catches your wrist and decisively intertwines your fingers. “I see enough to know you look the cutest when you’re annoyed.”

“I’m not annoyed.” You declare.

“Are you sure?” His voice is deliberately sultry as he inches closer.

Flakes of color adorn his icy strands like confetti, a stark contrast to the murky blue of his two-piece uniform. You can feel his eyes—those lovely crystal orbs of his—burning holes through the blindfold to meet yours, and in this instant, when his minty breath ghosts over your lips and promises a kiss, you’re absolutely enamored by him.

That is, until he begins poking into your cheeks like a woodpecker, and your desire to strangle the life out of him overtakes the urge to give in.

“Okay! You did it! I’m—”

Before you can finish your sentence, his lips crash into yours, a stolen peck that lasts no longer than the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, a soft fumble that leaves you craving for more. “Definitely annoyed.” Satoru flashes a boyish smile as he ruffles your hair and pulls you to your feet with him, his hand carrying you through a path of marigolds.

“Can you… just… slow… down?” You pant out, struggling to follow after his long strides.

But he doesn’t falter.

“Better get moving before you evolve into a Slowbro.” He sing-songs.

“Knock it off! I’m at least Jigglypuff tier.”

“Hmm,” he considers out loud. “I wouldn’t go as far as to call you useless, but—”

“Satoru!” You protest. “And I thought you liked Digimon.”

“Doesn’t hurt to know about the cheaper rip-off.”

“Pretty sure that’d be Digimon.”

“And I’m pretty sure even a regular Greymon beats your mascot into a pulp.” He beams.

Sigh.

You roll your eyes, letting him argue with himself about Digimon’s supremacy, until you reach a pool of flowers—myriad befallen fragments of the sky reflecting the vibrant blue of his eyes. You break free from his grasp and kneel among the blossoms, your fingertips skimming across the pointed petals with great care.

“Oh my God, Satoru! You know what this is?”

“Flowers…?” He changes his answer to pretty flowers upon your glaring.

“It’s forget-me-nots!”

The name doesn’t seem to ring a bell. He looks at you with the stupefied expression of a cattle who only knows how to moo and eat grass, invisible question marks spawning around his head.

“Their blooming period ends in May,” you explain. “Can’t believe we’d find some in October, and these—” You chop one of the stems and extend it to him. “These are so beautiful.”

Satoru glances between the flowers and your impressionable eyes, in which tiny stars seem to twinkle, his tone serious as he points out, “You must really love me.”

Your mouth hangs while you mull over your own words. Nope. Nothing you said remotely hints at the conclusion he alone reached.

“About time you showed me some respect.” Satoru huffs. “Don’t know about the royalty part, but—ah, it really can’t be helped. I’ll accept them if you insist.”

“Hold on a second.” His fingers close around a fistful of nothing as you retract your hand. “What respect, what royalty are you talking about?”

“Hm? You really don’t know?” You shake your head, and he brings out his phone, trading it for the flowers. “Says it all riiiight here.” He taps at the wall of text that lights up his screen.

Forget-me-not, also known as Myosotis flower, represents true love and respect and is an indisputable symbol of royalty. To King Henry IV—

“Tsk, these don’t even smell.” Satoru exclaims once he presses them to his nose.

“Not all flowers smell.” You turn off the screen and hand his phone back to him. “Your ability to google stuff and sell it as common trivia never ceases to amaze me.”

He lowers the stem to his lap and looks at you. Or so you think. You really can’t tell when he’s wearing that thing. “And? What do you make of it?”

“You just want to hear me say it, don’t you?” Your hands slide across his shoulders, fingers knitting behind his neck. “I love you, you silly, goofy, pervert specimen of a man.” You smile softly. “And I do respect you—sometimes—but best case scenario, you become prime minister. Better get that royalty idea out of your brain.”

“Not even if a mysterious big-scale accident takes all royalty on this planet out?” Satoru quips.

“Oh, just shut up and kiss me already.”

The sharp edges of his grin dissolve as he tilts his head enough for your lips to meet, tentative flicks of his tongue granting him access to your mouth. You feel the hard press of his chest once his arm wraps around your waist, nullifying the barriers that stand between you and the resounding beating of his heart.

There’s no innate technique in the way he touches; no immense amount of cursed energy in the way he kisses. None of the things that make him Gojo Satoru, the sorcerer who is hailed by all—and even himself—as the strongest are there. Only the raw vulnerability of a boy who’s used to carrying the order of the world on his shoulders and on a whim lets it crush him, because when he holds you, none of it seems to matter; because when he’s with you, he’s free to be Gojo Satoru and no more than that.

You watch through heavy eyelashes as he breaks a small stalk and brings it to your hair, securely tucking the flowers behind your ear. Warmth spreads from his slender fingers to your already feverish complexion. His palm cups your cheek, thumb swiping along your jawline with a soft expression perched on his lips, and you find yourself falling in love with him all over again.

“You deserve some love too, my…” Satoru ponders for a second, eventually snapping his fingers, “little MegaDarknessBagramon.”

A chuckle gets caught in your nostrils. “Your what now?”

“MegaDarknessBagramon.” He repeats without stuttering. “Way better than your fairy balloon cat.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why do I get the feeling you made this one up?”

“Did not! MegaDarknessBagramon is—hmph.”

You cut him off with a fond kiss on his agape lips. That’s the only way to truly shut him up. At least in public.

“We should get going. I wanna go sightseeing before nightfall.”

You wander through the city for hours upon hours, losing yourselves among the countless maple-strewn paths and quaint religious sites of the countryside. Ikoma is a quiet place. No matter how many pebbles you lift or castle ruins you peek under, you won’t find a speck of evil lurking beneath. It’s as if the land is at peace with itself, and the people who tend to it do so without any curse tainting their souls. For once, Satoru’s presence feels redundant.

His hand stays on you the entire time you stroll through the temples and marketplaces, be it as fingers that childishly swing your palm up and down—left and right—or as an arm draped over both your shoulders, stirring you in a different direction whenever his phone rings. And it does ring. A lot. So much that you actively consider flinging it at the bottom of the Sunoura River.

The conversations are rather one-sided. Satoru mhms and uh-uhs his way out of everything the voices on the other line suggest, his expression contorting all the while he mocks Nanami’s grave tone, Yaga’s dismay, and Ijichi’s apprehension. He tries his best to keep you involved—putting Megumi on speaker while the boy informs him of how Nobara gave Yuji a concussion when she mistook him for a pickpocket—and presses playful kisses on your cheek when you unwittingly pout at his neglect.

This is the one drawback of dating such a sought-after man. You have to share him with the rest of the world, and even though you know exactly how many livelihoods depend on him, you selfishly want your boyfriend to yourself.

After his sixth answered call, something inside you snaps. You shake his hand off—he barely pays mind—and fish your phone out of your jacket, dialing the first number in your contact list. My Noodle Man. With a heart emoticon, he, himself, input. Still better than the long array of toothachingly sweet nicknames he’s come up with for you over the years.

Drawing the device away from his ear, Satoru glances at the incoming caller ID and shoots you what ought to be a perplexed look.

“Pick it up!” You mouth the words without voicing them.

The world comes to a standstill while you (presumably) stare into each other’s eyes. Star-shaped leaves rain down from the trees, a minor contribution to the red and gold garb that dresses the once pebbled pathway. It’s all too scenic—if one ignores the busy tone from his phone’s speaker, which echoes wide across the hollow forest, gracelessly interrupting Utahime’s incoherent squeaks.

Are you even listening? Gojo?

“Mhm!” He breaks into an awkward chuckle. “Sounds good to me.”

What? What are you on about, you white-haired swine?

“Hey, how ‘bout you hold onto that, and we talk about it when I return?”

You seriously doubt he knows what that and it are.

Satoru doesn’t leave Utahime the chance to reply, rushing through his words at the speed of light. “Okay, great! Gotta go now. Laterrr, bye, ciao, adieu!”

Don’t you dare hang—

“Too late for that.” He comments, an afterthought that doesn’t reach its target audience before fading into his next received call.

“Baby! How are you?” The grin on his lips is so blinding, you swear it accompanies a halo.

You draw a deep breath, fingernails digging sharply at the tender flesh on the inside of your palm. “Satoru.”

“What is it, baby?” He dares ask as if you haven’t been shooting daggers at him the entire time, arms folded over your chest and eyebrow trembling above your narrowed eye.

“Satoru, the fact that I can only speak to you through the phone is insane!” Your voice climbs up a whole octave over the final word, annoyance interlaced within your tone.

“Huh?” He smiles sheepishly, head drooping to his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, I’m standing right in front of you, begging you for an ounce of attention, and you haven’t put the phone down for ten goddamn seconds since we left the shrine, which, by the way, happened two hours ago!”

His smile dwindles, and you worry you might’ve been too harsh. It’s not like he has a choice. Regular people get to dictate their own fate, filling up their plates with however many or few obligations and freedoms they can stomach. Not Satoru. His share of responsibility was assigned to him at birth, and as aloof as he can be, he’s not the type to let all hell break loose just yet.

“Hey, um—look. If you were busy, we could’ve just taken a rain check and stayed in town. You know I wouldn’t mind holing up at my place, ordering some Chinese, and frying our retinas with another movie marathon. No need to string each other along for—what are you doing?”

Without evidence of anyone or anything approaching, Satoru twists his neck in every direction possible, searching far and wide among the tree foliage and the water streaming on the sides of the walkway, going as far as to check the gap between his own legs. Instinctively, you repeat his routine, glancing over your shoulder when you realize he’s got his eyes on you—not on you, but through you.

“Are you sure you are here? Can’t see you.” Satoru brings the phone to his lips, executing an amateur’s set of jumping jacks while waving his hands around and shouting your name at the top of his lungs, doing his absolute best to appear clueless when he passes you by and uses your head like an armrest. “Don’t tell me you got out-heighted by the trees.”

Are you sure you want to permanently delete the contact My Noodle Man <;3?

Cancel

“I’m leaving.”

You manage exactly two steps before you are halted by two arms whose length smothers you—a proper vice that closes around your shoulders and immobilizes you against what feels like a colossal tree trunk but is your (occasionally) loving boyfriend’s chest.

“Let go, Satoru!” You try to shake him off, but your conviction is about as strong as the frail set of bones he aspires to crush.

“C’mon, you just got here!” Satoru begs, his mouth so close to your ear that you feel his voice shooting straight into your heart, goosebumps erupting down your spine. “Don’t leave, mm? Mm? Pleaaase?”

You groan, dragging your feet forward, but it’s impossible to progress when a well-over-six-foot boulder weighs you down. He’s viciously clinging onto you, nuzzling to your cheeks one at a time, and humming at every kiss he prints on your grimace. His frosty spikes tickle, softer than silk and fluffier than the clouds above.

Couldn’t he have been like this five minutes ago?

“Doesn’t matter if I’m here or not.” Bitterness pools in your mouth from where your teeth bite into your gums. Your voice faint. “You’ll be on your stupid phone, anyway.”

“Is that why you’re acting all upset? You want my attention?” The lack of answer prompts him to continue, a low chuckle setting the mood for what comes next.

“If you want my attention, then… all you have to do is ask for it.”

It’s at this point that you realize more than your upper bodies are touching, his knees slightly bent for his hips to press against your ass—and with them, you feel something else pressing too. Something that oughtn’t be there when all you’ve been doing is bickering and fooling around with each other.

You gulp hard, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Satoru. His head rests fully upon the elbow on your shoulder, covered eyes definitely taking in the blush that’s become somewhat of a second nature since you got together. He’s effortlessly seductive, and you’re thankful for both his typically childish demeanor and the blindfold around his forehead, or else you’d be in big trouble denying him.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Satoru coos in a condescending tone.

You try to look away, but he won’t let you, jaw tilting atop his other arm. There’s no hiding from him, and the stupidly smug smile that begs you to erase it.

“…yes.”

“Yes what? Cheating won’t do. You need to say it.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who won by teleporting to the finish line,” you mumble.

He doesn’t yield, and you know you’re going to be stuck there for a long time unless you stroke his ego. “Fine. Please gimme your undivided attention, oh grand sorcerer, Gojo Satoru.”

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He croons contentedly. “Now, how much do you want it?”

“I changed my mind. I want a divorce.”

“We need to first be married in order to divorce.” He points out, rubbing salt in your wound like your next reply won’t be “You’re the one who refuses to settle down,” but it’s not. Just this once, you bite back your tongue.

Your restraints loosen as Satoru shakes his phone into your face, demonstrating how the device turns off with a click of his thumb. An airy laughter rings in your ears, and just like that, he reverts to the kind of man who giggles at knock-knock jokes and thinks it’s peak comedy when he mixes gummy worms in your cereal.

“No more calls!” He declares. “For a limited time only, strongest sorcerer Gojo Satoru is at your service.”

You snort, fighting back a smile that ends up crinkling around your eyes. “You make it sound like you’re a genie.”

“Hmm, you could always try rubbing me and see what happens. Might grant you a wish or two.”

You laugh at his attempt to flirt, trying and mostly failing to distract yourself from what was previously pushing against your body. It should embarrass you that two of your two wishes are sexual in nature, but that’s entirely on him, his innuendos, and the raw lust you’ve missed seeing transform his eyes from the sparkling color of the sea to one found a thousand meters under the surface.

Maybe three.

“Where’s the catch?”

“What catch?” He chirps.

“I know you, ‘Toru. With you, there’s always a catch.”

One moment you feel his breath on your skin, and the other you see him standing before you, his arms flexing behind his torso while he tips forward—a toothy grin stretching on his lips.

“Well, a fee is always due where there are services involved.” He takes a page from Mei’s book.

“The Gojo family vault running out of cash, so you lookin’ to extort your girlfriend?” You quip. “Go on. Name your price.”

“Oh, y’know.” His shoe traces a circle on the ground. “Just you saying what an amazing, handsome, charming, wonderful, funny, kind, and handsome boyfriend you have for the world to hear.”

You browse the acres of trees surrounding you; there is not a soul to be seen or heard within a close radius. What world?

“You said handsome twice.”

“Intentionally.” He deadpans.

You return his playfulness by saying he forgot to add infuriating to the list, even though you’ve already decided to humor him. Cute is more like it.

“My boyfriend is the most—”

“Does your boyfriend have no name? Take it from the top.”

You sigh, “My boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, is the most amazing, handsome, wonderful—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Satoru intervenes, raising his forefinger in objection. “Forgot charming!”

Your teeth clatter, gritting a growl.

“Only one life left. Better get it right this time or,” he draws an imaginary line across his neck, faking a choking sound as he’s supposedly decapitated.

With both hands around your mouth, you shape a cone and shout so loudly that countless birds betray their hiding spots between the tree branches as they pour out into the sky. “My boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, is the most amazing, handsome, charming, wonderful, funny, kind, and handsome again, boyfriend in existence who totally didn’t put me up to this!” In a quiet voice, “Happy now?”

“Full marks!” He gleefully shoves a thumbs up in your face. “Now I’m all yours and will be for the rest of the night. Feel free to make the best of me while you can.”

“Then, can I get my first wish granted now, Mr. Genie?”

“What is it?”

He stands still as you bring your hands to his face and cup his cheeks, fingers teasing the seams of his blindfold. “Lemme see your eyes.”

“Hmm? You wanna see them? Why—you missed them?”

A nod. “Don’t put me through that same speech again. They are pretty, and yes, I miss them. We haven’t been seeing each other as often, so. C’mon. Lemme see them.”

You try to lower the fabric, but the harder you pull, the more it seems to resist. “Satoru…?”

“Mm?” He licks his lips. “What is it, sugarplum?”

Your eyes roll so far back into your skull that you’re afraid they’ll slip down your esophagus. “I said, I wanna see your eyes. May I?”

He cocks his head in consideration, entertaining an affectionate smile before he denies you with a cheeky little nope!

“Why not?”

This is the first time he denies you.

“For a multitude of reasons.” He states wryly. Uncharacteristically for him.

You wait for an explanation—a slight opening between his lips. His tongue lays flat against his teeth, darting upward as if he’ll finally say something, but he doesn’t. This happens about four times before he sternly announces, “The sun.”

“The sun…?” You glance at the sky, a veil of darkness slowly descending upon the peachy gradients of the melting clouds. “You mean the one that just set?”

“I wasn’t done talking. My other reason is…” He motions for you to get closer. You lean in as instructed, patiently hanging on his lips as if he is about to open the envelope and reveal the name of a talent show winner, yet his answer isn’t any more satisfying than the previous one is. “The people.”

“Satoru, we haven’t seen a live human in over an hour. What are you talking about? And since when were others an issue?”

“You don’t know what it feels like to be me!” Satoru exclaims in an exaggerated tone as he shakes your hands off and turns in the opposite direction. “Having everyone stare at you wherever you go, people asking, Sensei, please! We need to see your wonderful eyes! and getting called Six Eyes like you’re a piece of meat. Should’ve known you wouldn’t be any better than them, Y/N.”

You blink a number of times, “stunned” being too little of a word to describe your surprise at his sudden burst. He always had a knack for the dramatic, but with the way the back of his palm is pressed against his forehead, he’s closer to an Academy Award than ever.

“Satoru.” Your hand moves to his shoulder without ever closing the distance. Damn infinity. “What is up with you today?” You ask half-jokingly, half-concerned. “Acting insecure; you are the one who doesn’t miss the chance to show your eyes off to everyone, and when I ask you to show them, you pull this—why?”

“It’s because I only have eyes for you.” He smirks full of confidence, roughing up your hair and then bringing his thumb below your chin, holding it up for a kiss. You don’t even stop him. Hell, you don’t even close your eyes. You are too baffled to.

You regain agency over your words only after he starts parading away from you, his feet spending more time in the air than they do on land. “Hey, wait! What was that? What does you having eyes only for me have to do with anything?”

His chuckle precedes his answer. “You’ll see when we reach the inn. Last down the foothills is a double loser!”

“Ahhh, that was soooo good! I feel—ugh, reborn!”

Satoru’s joints click as he stretches both arms behind his back and over his head, the striped sleeves of his gray-colored yukata rolling down his elbows. He doesn’t mind that he’s blocking the doorway or that the long face you’ve been sporting since you parted at the lobby threatens to hit the floor at his theatrics.

Your onsen experiences differed by miles. While he was off soaking and splashing by himself at the vacant men’s baths, you were forced to endure 45 excruciating minutes in the company of a group of bachelorettes who wouldn’t shut up about the “dreamy masked man” who booked the single most expensive suite in the compound, rewriting his life story with lewd fantasies that—for as long as you could help it—would remain as such. Unrealized.

“The temperature was just perfect, the right amount of hot without scorching, and the minerals already circulate through my bloodstr—ouch!”

You shove past him and his impromptu review of the hot springs, temporarily giving up on the blockbuster that your mind crafts—Blood Bath: Revenge of the Hot Spring Killer 2—in favor of a spot where you can drop off your toiletries.

The room, or rather, the rooms, are vast in space and rich in furnishing. Opaque sliding doors separate the main area from the wardrobe and the bathroom, drawn to provide a direct view of the ryokan’s rock garden. Tatami mat flooring is indiscriminately strewn, replaced by granite tiles around the indoor hot tub. Raised alcoves host colorful ikebana vases; a couple of ukiyo-e scrolls depicting Mount Yoshino hang from opposing sides on the walls. Lastly, futons are neatly spread in the far back, with a short-legged table spanning at the center of the sitting space.

Bingo.

You settle beside it, laying your belongings on the floor while scrutinizing the couple’s gift box on top, regional specialties packed beside a ceremonial tea set that bears the inn’s logo. You flip the box on its back and attempt to decipher the cursive letters just as Satoru steals it from your hands, wasting no time ripping through the luxurious wrapping paper and tossing a block of brown-colored kuzumochi in his mouth.

“Gotta mmph hring Hahami ‘n’ Meghumi ‘ere.” He refuses to keep his remarks (or food) in his mouth, flour dusting the corners of his lips. “That oughta brighten ‘em up.” He says once he swallows, bringing his cup of welcoming tea to his teeth and cringing away at the sheer bitterness of the matcha. “Bleugh, this tastes like poison!”

You break into a quiet chuckle as you scrub his chin, sleeve curled over your fist, and thumb running stray along his frown. Cute. No, beyond cute. Adorable.

“Don’t blame the tea when your blood type is caster sugar, Satoru.”

“But that’s the secret to my sweetness.” He quips, returning to his previous floured-lip state as he flings a second kuzumochi into his mouth, supposedly to wash the bitterness away. “Think they sell more of these in the gift shop?”

You roll your eyes, humoring him with a teasing sure.

Making it back to your spot, you down your share of matcha in one go, savoring the delightful tartness the beverage leaves on your tongue. “‘Tis not even that bad.” You comment, pouring yourself a refill.

A certain form of silence prevails over the space, during which words aren’t spoken but expressed through various hums of content, with Satoru loudly nibbling on his loot and you quietly sipping on your tea. Moonlight filters the atmosphere through the semi-transparent shoji doors, casting playful shadows that dance along the subtle movements of his fingers.

He’s the puppeteer, and you his devoted audience, easily convinced that there’s genuine mastery in the way he handles his instruments and earnestly keen on trying them out before their numbers are further decimated. A pinch is at the ready, your thumb and forefinger making strategic advances towards the box of delicacies when a counter-offering presents itself to your lips.

“Say ahhhh!” Satoru waves the kuzumochi in your face, your teeth losing to the speed of his fingers as he retracts his hand at the last minute. “C’mon, c’mon!” He giggles, again dangling the bait. “Open wider. Ahhh! Ahhh!”

Your nose scrunches up. You don’t trust his intentions, and you have every right not to, considering he makes you chase after the confectionery with an open mouth, utilizing his infinity to keep you at bay whenever you get remotely close to succeeding.

“Satoru!” You yelp unamused.

“Sorry, sorry!” His apology sounds the opposite of truthful. “Promise, that was the last time. One big ahhh f’me! Ahhh—c’mon, it’s really good! You won’t regret it.”

And it’s no surprise you come to immediately regret it, your tongue hanging loose from your mouth, barely connecting with the dessert before your aghast eyes witness it being devoured by him, so quickly that you lose the opportunity to protest.

There’s no one to blame but yourself, though that doesn’t stop you from pouncing and tackling him to the floor. Two fists grab at the lapels of his yukata, fingers curling around the fabric, while you violently shake him like an unresponsive vending machine, urging him to spit out your eaten cash.

Satoru snorts, and he chuckles, and he laughs, a boisterous symphony of sounds pitted against one another as he, himself, refuses to fight back, merely showcasing the empty contents of his mouth and baring his teeth into a haughty grin that agitates you even more.

“You need to step up your game, munchkin. Or else you’ll never get your prize.”

“And you need to stop tricking me every chance you get!” You hiss, a sigh casting your head backward as you swipe the hair from your forehead. “If you played a fair game, then maybe—just maybe—I would actually win!”

“Aww, baby.” A lofty purr makes you awfully aware of the fact that you’re still straddling him, knees planted on both sides of his hips and thighs squeezing tightly around his crotch. “That’s so cute! Thinking you could ever stand a chance against me.”

“I could!”

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Satoru’s palms glide along your curves, taking full advantage of the position to rub circles that spread over your ass and close around your thighs; slender fingers tantalizing as they ghost over your exposed skin. “I’m quite strong, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He makes you a living example of his words, giddily watching your self-control crumble when he forces you down against his body. A complacent smirk rises on his lips, countering the soft gasp that evades yours.

“See?” He chuckles. “Unmatched.”

“You’re quite annoying too.” You huff, biting your lips into a straight line while you deviate from staring at his face—a grave mistake.

All the wrestling has caused the lapels of his yukata to recede, the fabric so loose it barely counts as hiding a thing. Delicate collarbones pave the path toward his toned chest, rosy claw marks littering his creamy complexion (and it swells you with pride to know you’re the only one to have ever blemished his spotless body) down to the few unruly frosty hairs that span over his sculpted abdomen, and lead lower—much lower than your eyes can currently follow.

Goddamn it, Satoru.

“Is that why you’re grinding against me? Because I’m annoying you?”

His accusation makes your heart sink inside your chest as you are found guilty of a crime you unwittingly committed. Your hips were swaying back and forth against his hardened cock, guided by a firm grasp that failed to emulate the typically lazy manner with which he’d keep you anchored whenever you rode him.

(Aww, bunny. Keep bouncing like that, and you’ll hit your head. Me? Help? Don’t be silly. How you gonna grow stronger if I put in all the work, mm? Better be satisfied with what you have throbbing in ya already. Now, where were we? Right—Ijichi and his…)

Except you were in the middle of a fight, and you’re supposed to be holding a grudge that seems to matter less by the minute.

“Hey, baby?” His thumb harbors softness when he cups your cheek, candied voice flowing from pretty, pink lips that glisten under the pale moonlight. “Think you can be annoyed with your clothes off?”

You almost succumb to his will, the lines between vexation and lust becoming increasingly blurred as you try to get your point across a final time.

“Y’know, I too like sweets!” Your declaration practically melts into his touch. “Just because I let you do the honors doesn’t mean I don’t want to try some. It means I’m a better girlfriend than you.”

“No arguing here.” Satoru beams. “Don’t think I could be a better girlfriend if I tried.”

“Satoru!” You exclaim for the millionth time that day.

“Too early to be screaming my name.”

“I’m serious!”

“And I’m not?” He gasps, hand moving to his chest as if your words actually damaged his impenetrable ego. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. My girlie is such a meanie.”

Your eyes perform a semi-circle, knowing better than to venture beyond his neck. His face is cute, in that boyish way everyone swoons over, but his body is another story. The kind you read with the blinds lowered and the lights dim, colored cheeks, and giddy chuckles muffled by your bedding.

Sigh.

“How can I take you seriously when you say such things?”

“Never said you have to do it seriously. Just takin’ me is good enough.”

“Stop that!”

Swatting his hand from your face, you feel it join its twin behind your ass. You don’t want him to catch on to how affected you are simply by mounting him, but as your hips are forcibly rocked into his crotch, the wet patch your slick paints on his yukata reveals all that your tongue struggled to keep hidden.

“Jerk!”

Satoru grins, holding you tight against his lap as he sits the both of you up. Your noses are suddenly found brushing, and his lips expel a heavy breath your lips eagerly inhale, the proximity dizzying. “Maybe if I gave my girl some sugar, she’d turn sweeter.”

“Ugh, this is exactly what I meant!” You growl in frustration. “Satoru, I swear, if you use one more lame line on me, I’ll—”

Whatever was supposed to come next is drowned out by his tongue as it presses against your mouth, enticing your lips into an all-consuming kiss that threatens to eat you alive. Warm palms hook below your legs, turning scorching as they roll your yukata above your thighs and help secure your knees around his torso, caressing every inch of supple flesh they unveil.

You’re overcome by need in an instant, and judging from how ardently your boyfriend’s cupping your cheeks, as if he’s either trying to breathe life into you or suck it out of your lungs, it’s safe to say it goes both ways.

His cock rubs against your clit through his clothes. He’s so hard, and you are so wet that one thrust would be enough to sheathe him fully into your cunt and meld you into one. But that won’t do. If there’s one thing Satoru doesn’t rush, that’s the way he fucks. He wants to savor everything—every kiss, every touch, every whimper, every moan, every last drop of your essence that dribbles onto his fingers and drenches his tongue like the finest, most delectable nectar meant solely for him—before indulging the twitching sensation in his balls.

There’s no reason for today to be any different.

A string of saliva is cut in the middle as Satoru pulls away, your half drooling down your jaw and his collected by his tongue.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby! You were saying?” He coos in an awfully smug tone that barely registers over your incessant panting.

“Hm? Nothing? Thought so.” He deduces after turning his ear to your mouth, and for a second, you’re tempted to bite his earlobe right off.

But somehow you don’t, and in his book, that counts as obedience, which in turn qualifies for a reward.

He plants a kiss on your nose, tender enough to distract you from the no-good smirk plastered on his lips. “How about I do that other thing you asked for?”

Your mind traverses a foggy terrain. You’ve asked him for a lot of things in the recent past. Not overloading Aiko’s bowl with cat food the minute he sees it empty. Not surprise-hugging you when you’re walking alone at night and are unaware of his presence. Not rapping your morning routine to the tune of the hemorrhoid cream commercial. Not calling you munchkin or dwarf when it’s him who’s the long-lost descendant of the legendary tree people.

The list goes on and on with plenty of whimsical examples, and you realize, there are more things you’ve explicitly asked him not to do than do, with your one recurrent request being that he get you a ring made from neither fried dough nor grass blades.

“Close your eyes.” You do as you’re told, thinking you’re oh-so-clever when you try to peer at him through downcast eyelashes, only to be shot down by his technique. “Uh-uh! No peeking!” The last thing your eyes see before they’re covered by his left palm are two fingers that hook under his blindfold and tug it upward.

“Why the secrecy?” You ask impatiently. “Afraid I’ll be blinded by your beauty? Must I remind you I’ve seen you sleeping with your mouth open? The magic is gone.”

“Is it?” His chuckle louder than the elusive sound of his blindfold coming undone. “And here my eyes were thinking you’ve turned even more beautiful than the last time they saw you. How unfortunate.”

There’s a certain humility that comes with someone as ethereal as Gojo Satoru calling you beautiful to your face, but right now, your mind remains fixated on one word and one word only. Eyes. My eyes. His eyes.

“You took it off?” Excitement colors your tone. “Lemme see!”

“Baby, baby, baby.” Satoru playfully chides. “When will you learn to be patient, mm? Don’t you know that good things come to those who wait?”

Seven years is an awful long time to be waiting around.

Eventually, you feel his hand be drawn away, but before light can enter your eyelids, darkness engulfs them again. Cold satin now covers your brow, the kind of silky material you’ve previously only been able to experience via your fingertips as they yanked and hurled it across your bedroom walls.

“Tada!” The unmistakable sound of palms clasping. “You can open them now.”

“Satoru, what—what is this?” You mutter, tight-lipped, as if your ability to speak was also impaired. “I asked to see your eyes, not play suikawari.”

“Aw, shoot. Should I go ask for a watermelon?”

You sigh, fingers withdrawing into fists atop your thighs. You wonder how many years of jail time killing your boyfriend warrants, but then again, you doubt you’d possibly achieve what countless others have failed at.

“You wanted a rematch, didn’t you?” His hands move against your own, soft thumbs rolling reassuring circles around your wrists. He brings them to his lips, printing a kiss on each knuckle set. “Better strike while the iron’s hot. Besides, this game’s so easy, even you got a chance at winning,” he scoffs a laugh at how quick you’re to escape, pulling your hands back as if you were struck by an electric current. “All you hafta do is sit back and answer a few questions. Pretty easy, right?”

His voice rings close to your ear. You realize he’s in fact closer when he takes his affections to your cheeks, shamelessly bribing you with the sweetest kisses he can muster.

It’s working.

“I didn’t agree to this.” You state as his jaw perches on your shoulder, strong biceps caging your body while he reaches around your waist to undo the bow of your yukata.

“Really?” His breath travels south, hot steam depriving you of the opportunity to feel any real cold as you’re slowly stripped of your garments—and yet you still shudder when his lips close below your throat and suck onto your sweet spot. “‘Cause you seemed pretty agreeable when you were all ready to jump my bones a minute ago.”

“Th-that’s because—”

The fabric slides down your shoulders like butter, melting into the soft curves and pebbled peaks of your tits before it pools around your hips. His thighs tense up, blood rushing straight to his swollen cock head while he cradles you, eating you up with the eyes you so fondly reminisce.

“Aw, pumpkin! Won’t you look at that!” Your cheek is captured between his fingers, lightly pinched. “You’re blushing through the blindfold.”

You feel so vulnerable, and you aren’t sure whether that’s because you’re straddling your fully clothed boyfriend while being fully naked yourself or because everything around you is amplified, from the way his finger pads dance around your nipples, to the fruity shampoo remnants lingering in his tousled hair.

“‘Toru, I—”

You cut yourself off. You don’t want to be the kind of woman who has to beg her own boyfriend for dick.

“Will you still be blushing as I fuck your cute face?”

But you’re about to be.

“Hey, I was just joking!” Your hands are seized without accomplishing their goal of removing the blindfold. “Don’t want you losing before the game begins, do we?”

“‘Toru, just—I don’t care about any stupid games, okay?” You whine, voice purposely pathetic in case he feels generous enough to cave in. “I just want you. I need you. Please?”

“And you will have me, baby.” Satoru soothes, shifting both your hands to a single grip while he digs into the pile of clothes at your side. “A promise is a promise. I’ll pamper my precious girl to her heart’s content if that’s what she wants.” A string too thin to be a rope wraps around your wrists, piecing them together. “Love her all night long; teach her all the things she misses when her eyes are wide open. My sweet honeypie, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d also like it if you quit it with all those corny nicknames.” You answer, having absolutely no idea as to how the floor is replaced with the futon when you haven’t budged an inch. At least you think you haven’t.

“You love them.” The grin strong in his voice as he lays you down and climbs on top of you, pinning your bound wrists above your head. “Like you love me, my little sugarboo.”

“I’m rolling my eyes.”

“Wow, this early? Have barely touched you.”

“I’m rolling my eyes again!” You repeat at a higher volume.

“Of course you are. This isn’t too tight, is it?” A finger curls between your binds. You shake your head, and he pecks it, gently caressing your hair while situating his knee between your thighs, bouncing it against your pussy. “You’ll see, you’re gonna love every minute of this,” Satoru continues, his hand playful as his fingers toy with yours.

You have little to no agency over your body when Satoru lifts your leg and folds it onto your stomach, his lips held against yours and his tongue slotted in between. He kisses you slowly, like he has all the time to unravel you, and in a way, he does. He could stretch this moment to infinity, savoring your lips until they’re all swollen and coated with spit, his name replacing every word in your vocabulary while he wanders lower, dragging his warm mouth against your skin and smearing wet kisses down your tits.

“The mochi weren’t half as sweet as you,” he murmurs, soft lips clamping over your nipple, the suspicion of sharp teeth grazing the sensitive bud. “I’ll buy you some in the morning.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you huff, your chest heaving with one heavy breath after another as he takes hold of your other nipple, alternating between pinching and rolling it around with his thumb, repeating the same ritual of licking and sucking as the nipple in his mouth changes.

“Mm, but I want to.” He insists. “I want to spoil my baby and give her everything she wants. I’d give her the world if I could.”

And yet, you won’t marry her.

His smile ghosts over your flesh, gradually fading as he approaches your navel. “But first, I need to fuck her pretty pussy, mm? That’s what my princess wants, doesn’t she?”

Reluctantly, you nod, a lump forming in your throat when his fingers find purchase beneath your thighs and spread them apart. His biceps curl around your calves as he mounts your knees on his shoulders, peppering your inner thighs with more featherlight kisses that continuously inch closer to your entrance.

He is so attentive when he wants to be, but in his core, Satoru is a selfish lover. He gives, and he gives, and he gives more than you can take, his satisfaction lying in your cute little moans and the tiny arch of your back whenever he pushes you to your limits.

“Thank you for the food!” He croons, and you swear to hate yourself for almost chuckling at his distasteful joke.

He was always like that, to the point where suggesting he bewitched you into falling for him isn’t an exaggeration so much as an undeniable reality. Him, who with his cheeky smiles, exaggerated gestures, and mirthful snickering, conquered your thoughts and claimed the mushy land of your brain as if it were the moon. Him, whose dimples crease around his lips every time you kiss and whose bright blue irises bloom behind your shut eyelids. Him, who’d remain the most extraordinarily beautiful person, even if your eyes never opened again.

Him, whose plump lips round around your clit as he finally takes it in his mouth, suckling on the small bundle of nerves as if he expects it to dissolve into liquid sugar.

“F-fuck!”

Your hips buck into his face, lifting from the covers while your hands maintain their position. If it weren’t for his stupid infinity, you’d be threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him as far into you as humanely possible, but for now, you can only chant his name, feeling his shoulders tense up while his hungry tongue runs laps between your slick folds.

“I’m so lucky you aren’t bound to a region. I’d have to stockpile on you every single day.” Satoru hums against your clit, the vibrations from his mellifluous tone translating into pleasurable tingles up your spine. “My favorite specialty,” he chuckles, sounding so lovable that you can’t hold it against him.

He doesn’t kid about you being like a dessert to him, his tongue greedily soaking up all the juices that gush from your hole right down his chin. He moans in pure delight, perhaps more than you do, the uninterrupted flow of compliments making you feel at least worthy of a Michelin star. So pretty. So sweet. So perfect. The same combination of words he’s been repeating since you first got together, as if his fascination never truly ran out.

The sounds get more salacious while he fucks his tongue into your entrance, and you throw your head back, feeling so unbelievably light that if it weren’t for his hold on your thighs, you would be floating straight to the ceiling. His thumbs stretch out your lips for him to reach deeper, pointy nose rubbing deliciously against your swollen clit while he persistently works your body to its high, making out with your nether lips like he’s kissing your actual mouth.

“Feels s-so good, ‘Toru,” you whimper, struggling to keep your legs from closing around his head.

“Yeah? Like that?” Satoru chuckles, and it would’ve pushed you over the edge if his tempo wasn’t disrupted. “I like it too. Love eating your little pussy. I can tell she loves me too, doesn’t she?”

You can’t believe that the man who’s making all the stars of the night sky appear in the confinement of your tied eyes is the very same man who’s addressing your pussy as a she.

“Hm? You’re hurting my feelings here.” He sounds pouty, though you can picture the sadistic glint in his eyes as his teeth sink into your clit, softly enough to not induce any pain, but hard enough to bring your hips to a stutter.

“Y-yes, she does—fuck, my pussy loves you, S-satoru!” You cry out.

“Hah, that’s more like it.”

Your voice shatters into a million broken sobs which only motivate Satoru to keep going. He nibbles on the sensitive nub, darted tongue inflicting short and rapid flicks that cut right through the coiling tension in your guts with precision that’s exclusive to him and the countless times he’s had you fall apart with his mouth alone.

Your fingers clench while your toes curl, thighs trembling as succulent juices spurt all over him, and, God—how you wish you could see his pretty face ruined like that.

“Mm, baby, you always cum so much for me.”

Without letting a drop go to waste, Satoru licks a luscious stripe between your slit, rolling your essence in his mouth to relish the taste.

“Y’know, I could just make time freeze and eat you out for hours. Days,” he lays a kiss on top of your mound. “Weeks,” one for every thigh. “Months,” his lips on your clit making you wince from pleasure. “Years.” He snickers, marveling at how easily you respond to his touch. “You’d want that, sweets? All that pleasure, just for you. Think you could take it?”

Not knowing better, you nod, and he laughs. You aren’t familiar enough with Jujutsu to be horrified by the prospect of reliving the same moment over and over again, literally getting fucked dumb in a way his technique has never achieved on another.

“Alright, time to turn off the cheats.” He announces after you manage to regain your breath, and it isn’t until his question that you’re reminded of the whole “game” ordeal.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“What?” Your voice scratches its way out of your throat, coarse and laden with desire.

“You asked me the same question earlier, remember?” His fingertips tickle as they drum against your stomach. “At the plateau?”

I’m surprised you can still see my face behind that thing. How many fingers am I holding up?

“The one you didn’t answer?”

“Four, five, two, four, one.” The number of fingers he presses on your skin changes depending on the number he calls. You’d be impressed if you’d actually kept track of the digits you’d shown him, and they weren’t picked at random.

“So, how many?”

You try to pull yourself together, calmly considering your options. He wouldn’t start with five or four. The first three numbers are more likely, and taking a leap of faith—

“One.” You lock in your answer, with an excitable cheer following suit.

“Wow, my girl is so smart!” Satoru praises. “Got it on her first try!”

“Quit treating me like I’m one of your students.”

“Oh, trust me.” He runs his middle finger down your abdomen, emphasizing his point with a tap on your clit. “I’d never treat any of my students the way I treat you. Or anyone else for that matter,” he trails off, gathering some of the slick that’s trickled out of your slit, and brings it into his mouth, finger coated with spit the next time he touches you.

“All of my special treatment is reserved for my special girl.”

His finger prods lazily into your cunt, thick enough for every ridge to be lusciously dragged against your velvety walls, and long enough to delve straight into your pulsing core.

To his disappointment, there isn’t much of a reaction—save for the occasional hitched breath. You can take it. For seven years now, you’ve been trained on his deft fingers and the many tricks they play, but when his thumb begins circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts, your facade cracks.

“Aw, you didn’t think it’d be this easy, did you, bunny?” Satoru coos in fake sympathy, as his thumb zigzags feverishly about your clit, the finger in your cunt curving in a repetitive come-hither motion.

“‘T-toru, please—ngh!” You whine, your lower half squirming on its own accord. “You said you’d let me win!”

“Let you?” A complacent smile takes shape on his face, and although you cannot see it, you can hear it chiming in his tone. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Y-you evil man!”

He giggles at your supposed insult, one moment asking if that’s the best you can do, and the next cheering you on by saying he’s rooting for you.

Asshole.

Heat runs rampant between the lowest pit in your stomach and the apex of your flushed cheeks, the blindfold soaking sweat off your forehead like a headband. You are close; pressure steadily building only to wither away once Satoru retracts his hand.

Asshole!

“Sorry, pretty. Got a little carried away, but no hard feelings, hm?” Your tormentor asks, rubbing your clit at a pace far too slow to be soothing. “Now, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“T-two.” You answer, your sanity chipping the longer your hole remains puckering around nothing.

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!”

You kiss your teeth as Satoru angles his wrist with your pussy and shoves two of his fingers in, curling them against the spongy spot that swells with each pump, and when that isn’t enough to muffle your cries, you bite down onto your lip, choking on every sob you’ve been withholding. Last thing you want is to give your next-room neighbors another reason to fantasize about your boyfriend.

“It’s fine. You can let it all out.” Satoru reads your mind. “Room’s soundproof, though there isn’t much you can say, right?”

Your walls flutter around his fingers in utter bliss. You hate (love) how his words get to your body before your brain can process them; every remark you’d typically deflect, seeping under your skin and igniting as fire in your loins.

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, maintaining a steady rhythm even with his thumb swiping at your clit. “I’ll be the one doing all the talking from now on.”

“Sh-shut up!” You manage to say before returning to your three-word prayer of little oh-my-god’s and ah-ah-ah’s.

“But you love my mouth.” Satoru argues back. “And now you love my fingers. How long they feel stretching you out, how deep they can go.”

He’s buried to his knuckles, slowing down for the sake of plunging his digits further into your wet cunt, the lewd squelching bouncing across the walls along with the obscene sounds you let out.

“You’re practically fucking yourself on them.”

Your boyfriend’s words cloud your brain, your body acting purely on instinct as you begin to hump his hand. Satoru doesn’t stand in the way; rather, he assists with a sturdy hold that has your hips slamming against his fingers, repeating the motion until your creamy essence comes pouring down warmly over his palm.

You aren’t sure whether the white speckles in your vision stem from the gates of heaven welcoming you to the other side or the light fixtures on the ceiling, becoming certain only after the outline of a halo brushes against your forehead. It’s hard to call the man slumped above you an angel when his one hand is cupping your cunt, the fingers of the other tasked with undoing the knot around your wrists.

You are free to move—or about as free as one can be when every joint in their body begs to drag them down, your limbs strewn over the sheets like those of a tattered rag doll. The blindfold is still on, albeit slightly lowered over your nose. A little more wriggling and you can take it off, yet that too requires effort you lack.

Satoru says something that fails to register in your trance. He’s mocking you. He’s praising you. He’s mocking you while praising you, and praising you while mocking you, because those two go hand in hand in his brain—a proper carrot and stick. You think you should be thanking him or cursing him, but your words turn out a jumbled mess—nothing worth writing home about.

“Ready for the final round?” His voice finally conquers the ambient—heavy, almost as though his own ministrations have worn him out, and distorted by every prolonged inhale and sharp exhale he takes.

“Do I have a choice?” You provoke.

“Sure you do. Just—hah, not when it comes to this.”

A low fuck evades him, and you are oblivious to the way he’s been fisting his cock this entire time, smearing your slick over his length and squeezing the reddened tip in the ring shaped by his thumb and index, biting onto his tongue whenever your name comes remotely close to spilling from his lips. Only he knows the endurance he’s shown keeping himself from busting in his hand at the sight of your fucked-out form, trembling thighs calling to him in a carnal manner your lips could never muster.

You look ravishing, and ravishing you is all he aches to do.

“How many—” Satoru begins, only to be cut off with a croaked three that jumps an octave the moment his fat tip prods into your folds. “Three?” His fingers burrow into the supple flesh of your thighs as he splays your legs over his bare chest. “Could’ve sworn it was at least eight. Guess I need to make it go a bit deeper, huh?”

His lips lay soft against your ankle, trailing honeyed kisses down the expanse of skin that lose finesse once they near the crevice of your knee. An idea blinks in his brain as he grabs your thigh and presses it down against your stomach, repeating the same pattern of tenderness on the other until you are folded in half.

He stares down at you, and for a moment, that’s all he does. His eyes—the prized six eyes that are the very synonym for quintessence—well with adoration over the point where your bodies connect, the tight fit of your cunt prompting him to lose control and fuck an entire generation of sorcerers into you.

All in good time.

A quiet whisper reminds Satoru of his promise, hips drawing back before they snap right into you, the crude sound of his balls slapping against your ass reverberating across the room. You moan in unison, your fists thudding against the floor as his thrusts send you flying past the covers.

It’s too much. It’s too little. You want less. You want more. Your desires bend and twist around one another like indecisive vines, settling on a direction only after he leans forward and fixes the cushions behind your head.

“Congratulations.” The gentle action of his hand combing through your hair contradicts the cock throbbing inside your pussy. “To think my baby would make me eat my own words—well; I can get behind dating a winner. Especially when they’re as beautiful as you.”

“S-satoru!”

You look away—if resting your flushed cheek on the significantly colder pillow and fixing your gaze at whatever lies beyond the blindfold counts as looking—the sincerity in his words moving you more than it should.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you are embarrassed.” Satoru chuckles, punctuating his own question with a sensual roll of his hips that drags against your clit, coaxing the tiniest of moans to slip from your pursed lips.

“Hmm, is it because I called you beautiful?” He leans onto his elbow, relying on the weight of his chest to keep you pinned down. “Nah, can’t be it. I call you beautiful on a daily basis, don’t I? Then—hmm—is it ‘cause I’m so nice to you? Because I’m the best boyfriend you could ask for?”

“Q-quit it with all that self affirm—oh my god!”

Tears prickle your eyelash line at the familiar way his cock glides between your walls. He’s in so deep, relaxed thrusts pushing against your abdomen from the inside, with your cervix serving as the last line of defense for your merge, gallantly bearing every kiss his tip prints on your core.

“C’mooon, you gotta help me out. I’m all outta guesses here.” Satoru whines in your ear, his voice a pitch too high. “Is it because you can’t see me? Because this feels so good? Or because,” his hand sneaks between your bodies to work languid circles around your clit, “you just love me that much?”

“Aw, so that’s what it was?” He interprets the clenching of your pussy as he wills. For once he isn’t off the mark. “Okay, look at me.”

Even when you weren’t embarrassed before, you are about to be as heat pools in your stomach anew, threatening to make your score three to zero. You feel yourself turning liquid, dissolving between ripples of pleasure, drowning in you and drowning in him, and he’s both the riptide pulling you in as he’s the lifeline washing you ashore, the salty tang of the sea clinging to the fingers fumbling about your chin.

“I said, look at me.” His tone serious this time.

Every sense of yours is held captive as Satoru’s lips finally smash into yours, the taste of your essence refusing to die out no matter how many times your tongues swirl around each other. Your breathy moans are traded for his needy grunts, compiling into a broken record that plays sinfully in your ears, the whiff of sex lingering potent in the thick air between you.

He doesn’t fuck into you so much as he grinds against you, allowing you to grab at his biceps when your legs start to shake, the white clouds in your peripheral dispersing behind the sky blue of his eyes, placid orbs electrified by lust.

“Hi,” Satoru greets with an amiable smile, the blindfold dangling from around his forefinger.

“H-hi,” you return, your palms creeping up his face as if to appraise it, soft thumbs pushing the dampened strands away from his forehead, a thirst within you at last quenched.

“It’s-a me.” He says stupidly, basking in the affectionate way you cradle him.

“If you crack a Mario joke I’ll kick you in the nuts.” You warn.

“Oh no! How dare you genocide my children?” He gasps, and you can’t help but chuckle, eliciting a moan from him as your walls tighten around his cock. “M-minus one Gojo junior.”

Another laugh. Another moan. Another kiss.

“Would you put a baby into me if I didn’t?” You trace against his lips, uncertain of the answer you want to hear.

There’s no reason to be discussing having kids when you haven’t even tied the knot, let alone when more qualified candidates exist to continue his clan’s lineage. Maybe Shoko—she and Satoru have always been close, and a healing technique sounds like a valuable inheritance. Utahime—you aren’t sure what her abilities are, but they too go back. Even Mei, her family have a sizable fortune, and their genes combined would—

Mischief sparks in his eyes, tugging at the corners of his mouth and spreading to your lips as he kisses you—not his close friend, not his self-declared nemesis, and certainly not his senior. Just plain old you.

“If that’s what the future Mrs. Gojo wants, then—”

“What do you—”

Before your questions can manifest, Satoru picks up a tempo that knocks the air out of your lungs and the thoughts out of your mind. Big palms wrap your knees around his torso, sculpted pecs smothering your plushy tits while he vigorously drills his cock into your sopping cunt, having the nerve to laugh at your whimpers in between strangled noises of his own.

“You feel so good f’me, baby. S-so fucking good, aren’t you? My good—nah, my perfect girl. Our kids will be perfect too. G-gonna have lots of ‘em, mm? Gonna-fuck, gimme a whole class to teach, right?” He blabs deliriously, broad shoulders flexing as your nails rake them.

You want that. Everything he’s willing to offer, a future where his last name precedes your first, and chubby babies that bear his disposition, his ideals, and his smiles follow on your trail like little disoriented ducklings; one where he’s your husband, and you’re his wife, and you’re tied to each other for life.

Satoru’s lips drift toward your neck, biting sloppy marks that have you writhing below him. And when his cock hits that one spot inside of you, the one he’s been abusing all night long like a kid with a brand new toy on Christmas Eve, “Oh my God—G-god, p-please j-just like that, shit shit f-fuck!”

“Why bring religion into this?” He mumbles, voice inadvertently sultry and cumbered with every bit of self-restraint he showed before entering this frenzy where his climax is the only thing that matters. “Just—hah, say my name. Let the heavens know who helped you ascend them.”

The next time your eyes meet, he’s grinning, pink lips bitten cherry red, and he’s pretty; so pretty; too pretty.

“C-can’t say th-things like that!” You struggle to maintain control over your bobbing head.

“Why not? Your little heart can’t handle it?”

“Sh-shut up, dumbass!”

His eyebrows unite amid his forehead, even his frown attractive.

“That’s not my name.”

“S-stupid!” You yelp, mainly addressing the myriad stupid butterflies that chose to swarm your stupid stomach at his stupid commentary.

“Mmm, I think you’re the one getting fucked stupid here, sugarplum.”

Satoru zooms on into your lips, playfully swiping his tongue in between. You can’t cum any more; it’s physically impossible. You think. But “impossible” isn’t a word in his vocabulary; every snap of his hips causes you to ride on a rollercoaster with no end-destination, only a consistent state of newer highs.

“S-satoru.” His name rolling off your tongue works like a charm, the rhythm of his thrusts slowing down as he presses your foreheads together.

“Again?” He pleads. Quietly. A pin capable of overshadowing his tone.

“‘Toru.” Two smiles turn into one. “My ‘Toru.”

“More.”

There’s not a single gap between your bodies; every piece of him fits into every piece of you like a puzzle, but somehow he seems to get closer, squeezing into your hips a little tighter and kissing your lips a little rougher.

His heart beats wildly against his chest, red leaking onto his cheeks and blue spilling from the ocean in his eyes. He looks at you with love—so much love that it’s seared into your very being and becomes your own identity as the only woman Gojo Satoru ever truly, madly, deeply loved.

“I love you, ‘Toru.”

It’s the combination of those four little words that pushes Satoru over the edge, his hips jerking violently while his cock pumps ropes upon ropes of creamy cum inside your spent pussy, filling you up until you can’t be filled any more.

He collapses on top of you, head reduced into a fluffy snowball that takes refuge in the crook of your neck, and that’s your cue to hold him close, pampering him with all the affection you’re otherwise so frugal about. He’s touch-starved to the point of shaking in your embrace, nearly purring as your arms loop behind his back and your lips touch his shoulders, peppering incomplete kisses across his hot skin.

Your hands relocate to his cheeks as he regains enough composure to face you, an idiotically bright smile stretching from one ear to the other. He nuzzles your palms, pressing kisses at the center of each and then rubbing his nose against them like a content kitten who just received the world’s greatest belly rub.

Aiko should learn from him.

“I love you more, hunny bunny.” Satoru beams, soft rays of sunshine pouring from the cracks in his dimples. “Non-negotiable.”

You bask in the afterglow together, locking toes as if you’re trying to hold hands and making out like two teenagers in heat. Correction: two idiots in love.

Your so-called honeymoon period never ended, probably because you never ran out of things to love about each other. Right now, you’re loving how Satoru’s dick remains plugged inside your pussy despite its painful twitching, for the simple reason you asked him to stay like that a little longer.

You love how Satoru tries to keep his eyes open when you kiss just so you can appreciate them a while longer, and you love the light giggle that tickles your lips as you remind him that only sociopaths kiss with their eyes open.

You love the way Satoru buries his head between your tits and squeezes them against his cheeks, apologizing to his “girls” for not giving them the proper attention and promising expensive lingerie and whipped cream treatments when you get back to Tokyo.

You also love how when Satoru pulls out and sees the mess he made out of your hole, his seed rolling between your thighs in an endless stream, his first reaction is to grin, and his second is to teleport across the room, cleaning you up before you can realize he ever left. You love that the answer to the question “how?” is a cocky “because I’m Gojo Satoru,” which seems to be the answer to most things concerning him.

The list of things you love about your boyfriend grows exponentially after Satoru puts the two of you in bed and pulls you into his arms. You love his hugs. How you drown in them, how he engulfs you better than any dress, shirt, or skirt can. You love the comforting scent his pores exude and the temperature of his naked skin on yours.

You love the narrow hugs that date back to lazy mornings in your student one-bedroom apartment, splayed in a bed that could barely fit his enormous legs, and the wide, almost too comfortable ones you share in his king-sized bed. You love the silly, whiny tone that typically begs you to miss work and try to outlast eternity with him, now declaring it’s “sleepy time.”

You love the Satoru that chased after you until you loved him back, and the Satoru who patiently waits until your eyelids close first so you don’t go a minute without him.

“‘Toru?” You mumble into his chest, seconds before the last semblance of conscience fades away. “Did you turn it off? Your technique, I mean.”

“Did I?” Snowy lashes flutter slowly above his tired eyes. “Hmm, guess we’ll have to see in nine months.” Satoru kisses your forehead. “Goodnight, my little cuddle muffin.”

On second thought, there is one thing you hate about him.

“Goodnight, Gojo.”

“G-Gojo?! Hey, what happened to ‘Toru? Baby? I know you’re not sleeping—hey, wake up, I was just joking! Come on!”

43 Missed Calls—Principal Nanimon

You have 9 new voicemails.

Press play.

“Satoru!” The phone rattles in his grasp, nearly falling into the wooden plate splayed on his lap. “I think I told you to keep your phone on at all times! You are a sorcerer; show some responsib—”

“What is he going on about?” Satoru yawns, scratching the back of his head, and then scrolls to the next voicemail in line.

“Satoru! This is your final chance to answer before I—”

“Final my ass, there’s like—what, seven more of ‘ese?” He comments with a mouth full of fruit that the room service so kindly delivered a few minutes ago. Delicious. Another reason for him to drop a five-star review.

It’s no surprise when the third voicemail starts with the exact same enraged pronunciation of his name and continues with empty threats that want him scrubbing the entire school grounds. Yaga seems to have forgotten their teacher-student relationship ended a decade ago.

Neeeeeext.

“Satoru, I saw what Nanimon is, and I am not happy.”

“Oh? So he outgrew Windows XP?” He chuckles inaudibly.

Licking the sticky nectar off his fingers, Satoru pads toward the window, standing guard between the vicious sun rays and your sleeping form. You appear immune to Yaga’s ear-shattering voice, eyelids shut, and sheets kicked off your nude body, with your hair coiled around your head like a hornet’s nest.

Muffling the speaker with one hand, Satoru leans to untangle the hair from your open mouth. He thinks he might be partial to your charms, because even when he’s holding onto your spit-laced locks, he can only smile at how cute you are drooling in your sleep.

“Satoru? Satoru!” A voice far too guttural to be yours calls out to him, until he realizes Yaga’s voice has broken out of the voicemails.

“Principal Yaga!” Satoru greets once he puts some distance between himself and the bedding. “Good morn—”

“Satoru! What do you think you are doing not answering my calls?” The man fumes.

“Eating persimmons while watching my adorable girlfriend sleep,” he answers earnestly, switching apps and snapping a quick picture of your face. “She’s so pretty—ahhhh, I feel so lucky! Want me to show you? Do you even remember what a real woman looks like?” He taunts.

“She’s still your girlfriend?”

“Huh?” The phone changes ears. “Man, your memory is really failing you. How about I pay for you and Principal Gakuganji to go on a little vacation? I know this amazing resort for senior citizens; their cognitive enhancement therapy did wonders for my great-great-great uncle. Just say my name; they’ll treat you—”

“Satoru, this is important!” Yaga cuts him off. “You’ve been off the map an entire day,” fourteen hours, he corrects, “and haven’t popped the question? What are you waiting for?”

His gaze rakes over your exposed body, trailing the necklace of mauve lovebites around your neck. Smiling, “We’ve been busy.”

“Tell me you didn’t forget the ring.”

“Nah, it’s right here.”

Satoru reaches inside his yukata’s sleeve and examines the small jewelry box, tempted to ruin the surprise by grabbing the blue diamond ring and placing it around your finger—right here, right now. It will look so much prettier on you than it does gathering dust in its confinement.

“What about you?” He stores it away and resumes his call. “Did you do what I asked you to?”

A sigh. “It’s all ready on our side. Are you sure she’ll say yes? You sound confident, but a woman’s heart isn’t the same as jujutsu, Satoru. When it comes to love, the mouth is the source of disaster, and when it comes to you, it’s better to just give her the damn ring and say nothing.”

“And Sugiyama Kiyotaka says it’s fine as long as we understand each other. I get your point. Don’t need love advice from an old man with a doll fetish. I know what I’m doing. Besides, she’s the only one for me. She will say yes.”

A low roar reverberates from the speaker like a faulty engine that’s about to combust, and when it does combust, the entire room shakes. “Satoru! You’re gonna be a married man soon. Better shape up or—”

“Blah blah blah,” Satoru mocks. “Don’t you have anyone else to nag? I think Ijichi forgot to file that—”

“‘Toru?”

The sweet sound of your voice gives him all the reason he needs to hang up the phone after a hasty, “Don’t call me if you don’t need me, and if you do, then don’t.”

“Babyyyyyyyyyy!” He drags out the syllable as much as possible, an invisible cloud of dust appearing around his body when he falls on the empty space beside you, open arms wrapping your shoulders in an excruciatingly tight embrace. Kisses—lots of kisses slobbered all over your face while you are too drowsy to repel him.

“‘T-Toru! S-stop!” You chuckle hoarsely, reciprocating the sentiment however you can. “Who was that on the phone?”

“No one important,” Satoru grins, balancing his chin against your chest. “Ready for today? I got a very fun day planned ahead of us.”

A/N: If you made it this far, then congratulations! You finished reading my first Gojo fic (that made me fall in love with him jsjsjs)

As I mentioned above, chapter 1 is a flashforward to the main storyline that will start kicking chapter 2 onward. Expect laughable misunderstandings, questionable comedic moments, cat rescuings, college tutorings, and the angst behind Gojo's refusal to get married.

Hope you'll stick with! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments, are always appreciated 💙

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #jujustu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #i wanna tie the knot #satoru <3 #jjk gojo #jjk fanfic

[facefullofsadness]

Can I ask Dom!jealous!Kazuha, insult the reader because the reader hugs someone else?

content - jealous dom!kazuha x reader, smut (forceful aggressive sex, degradation, biting, fingering, sadistic themes), mentions of aespa winter, OVERLY POSSESSIVE KAZUHA, zuha's like actually mean and insults you :((, fluff at the end

wc - 1444

a/n - maybe too harsh? realizing after writing it's a little (pretty) aggressive... but it's fineeee, wk kazuha's a sweetheart!

it's not that kazuha DOESN'T trust you.

but it's moreso that she's just possessive! seeing you hangout with winter a lil more than usual these days rubs her the wrong way. it gradually boils her blood, knowing you were friends with minjeong before you even met zuha. she's just worried she might lose her precious gf!

it comes to a breaking point when you come home late one night. you panicked, you were supposed to be home an hour ago but couldn't tell ur gf because your phone died! and you were out late bc traffic at this hour was insane, so as best as minjeong tried to drop you off at home, it was hard to do so.

eventually, you both made it to your place. minjeong walked you to your door as you fumbled with your keys. it swung open before you could even put the right key into the door, a grumpy kazuha behind it. you and minjeong both sighing in relief to see that she was home already.

jeongie would excuse herself, but wouldn't be able to leave first without you pulling her into a tight hug, rubbing her back and thanking her repeatedly for her help. the sight made zuha's blood pressure skyrocket, the words you said processing in her mind maliciously. before you could even pull away completely from your best friend, ur gf calls for you to come in immediately, scowling at your short haired bestie.

you apologize and shrug, thanking minjeong again before entering your home, kazuha slamming the door behind you once you're inside.

"why the fuck were you late y/n?" her voice filled with authority.

her tone shocked you and you scoffed, "why do you sound like my mom? geez..."

this angered her already angry self, dragging you by the wrist and shoving you onto your couch. she climbed on top of your hips, straddling you and trapping your body under her.

"answer the fucking question. or are you too braindead to process it?"

kazuha didn't wanna be so mean to you, but she couldn't help herself. hearing the words leave her mouth, she knew it was wrong and she definitely was gonna apologize later. but right now, you were appalled by her behavior, it hurt you and you raised your voice back at her.

"what the fuck is wrong with you, zuha?! what are you ACTUALLY saying to me right now?"

"oh shit, are you deaf too? do your ears work? because apparently I didn't make myself clear."

you're gobsmacked. how could you not be? your usually sweet and gentle girlfriend was insulting you, being unnecessarily mean. you feel your mouth fall open at her words, in genuine shock as you prop yourself up on your elbows to face her. her jaw was clenching and you could see her temples throb, eyebrows furrowed as her hands gripped your shoulders.

"are you too much of a dumb whore not to process a simple question? just a bimbo, aren't you y/n?"

it wasn't funny, it was painful.

your hands shot up and clenched the material of her shirt's collar, "who are you right now, nakamura kazuha?"

you watch as her eyes darken and face changes, her pushing you to lay flat against the sofa, "the person that you belong to."

with that, she tears your hands off of her and rips your jacket and shirt off. she's quick, scurrying to remove your clothes. you feel your throat form a lump and your eyes water. you didn't like how she was treating you right now, kazuha wasn't herself, and you were gonna suffer because of it. she left you exposed in only your dark-colored lacy set lingerie, a bitter expression on her face.

"how badly do you wanna fuck kim minjeong, huh? why her and not me? why don't you love me anymore?"

her question confuses you and clashes in your mind, thoughts thrashing in your head of how much she was hurting you and how harshly she was treating you. her touches were aggressive, gripping and scratching at your body, her mouth biting all over you. you whimper out in pain and squirm under her, trying to push her away and get her to calm down.

"what do you mean zuha? of course I love you! who said I wanted to fuck minjeong?"

she ignores you, mouth nipping at your neck, down your chest, across your stomach, and through your thin underwear.

"you're mine y/n! no one else's! only mine!" she digs her nails into your hips before dragging your panties down to your ankles.

a pained expression crawls onto your face the more she proceeds. you feel her spit onto your entrance, her fingertips rolling to cover her digits in it. you bite your lip as kazuha forces the length of her fingers into your cunt, ramming them in and out of you at high speed, eliciting a scream to erupt from your choked throat.

"zuha please!" you sob, your hands gripping at the material of her clothes as she hovers above you.

she shoots her free hand to cup your cheek, using her thumb to pry your mouth open and putting her finger in, expecting you to suck on it. your gf coos when you do, sniffling as you swirl your tongue around her.

"is it that I have to force you into submission for you to listen? are you that much of a slut?"

you clamp your eyes shut, feeling tears roll down the sides of your face. despite all the emotional turmoil, you couldn't deny how well kazuha memorized your body, hitting spots inside of you that made your back arch and having her thumb in your mouth making your hands form fists.

her words hurt, but her fingers hurt better.

your eyes flutter open, vision blurry from your tears. the loud squelching of her digits ramming into you was all you heard. her intense gaze demanded your weak one, but you obliged, looking into her eyes, her stare wild. fire roared furiously in the kind and brown eyes you once fell for, but now you couldn't recognize who this was. she looked at you like a predator hunted prey, like you were food to fuel her, your eyebrows furrowed and tears running down your face. you looked perfect like this.

this is what I want. you to be ruined by only me. you to be only mine.

"fuck!" you moaned, back arching into her, feeling you get closer to the edge.

your hole clenched around her, zuha's fingers constantly hitting your g-spot repeatedly. your fists pulled your gf in closer and you popped her thumb out of your mouth, burying your face into her shoulder and screaming as you came. hips bucking wildly against kazuha's hand and sobs ripping from your mouth as pleasure overwhelmed you. her fingers stopped pummeling in you when your body relaxed onto the couch, pulling her hand away and cleaning it with her mouth.

kazuha blinked a few times and her sanity returned, immense guilt filling her body when she looked down at your limp figure, your arm covering your face as you silently cried. her heart dropped at the sight and chest tightened, bringing her hands gently up to caress your cheeks.

"m-my love, I... I don't know what came over me, I'm so sorry..."

you heard your girlfriend again, the version of your gf that you actually knew, her sweet voice apologizing to you. she pulled your arm from your face and you opened your eyes to meet the gentle brown ones you missed and you cried harder.

"kazuha, if you hate minjeong that much, just tell me! what's wrong with you?" your voice was weak and you felt broken.

she didn't like the way she acted and she knew you hated it even more.

"you're right, I'm so so so sorry y/n, I got too jealous and possessive because god, I'd rather die than lose you. you didn't deserve how I took it out on you," she whispers against your ear and plants kisses along your jaw.

she pulled you closely into her arms, holding you like you were the most prized possession in her world.

there was some work to do (like therapy goddamn), but you knew your girlfriend, she was better than this, and she was gonna prove it to you, so you accepted her apology.

sniffling your sobs into her shoulder, you laughed, "you owe me."

"I know I do, I promise you darling, I will."

you pull away from her and rest your forehead against her's, "you can start by getting me ice cream."

#ffos reqs #le sserafim #kazuha #nakamura kazuha #kazuha smut #le sserafim smut #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim fanfic #kpop #fanfiction #kpop gg #kazuha x reader #girl group fanfic #girl group smut #sakura #chaewon #yunjin #eunchae #aespa #winter

[spider-stark]

Shutter

PETER PARKER X READER

Summary - You barely even remember Peter's name, but that hasn't stopped him from forming a dangerous obsession with you.

Warnings - 18+, mature themes, stalking, some non-con acts (taking pictures), -peter being a creep

a/n - this is literally just peter being a total stalker. i didn't proof-read this and i wrote it in like thirty minutes, but i just wanted it to stop living in my brain. get a restraining order against this man please

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE LOWER half of his body laid flat against the icy rooftop, the upper half having been propped up by his elbows. Shaky hands lifted the camera a few inches, carefully bringing it to his eye so he could peer through the viewfinder. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath, the sudden influx of frosty winter air stinging his lungs. With each moment that passed, his anxiety grew larger, gaze constantly flicking between his camera and his watch. 

It was already a quarter past nine, which meant that tonight you were approximately twenty minutes late getting home from your shift at the coffee shop. Nights like these were rare considering you were a creature of habit, but when they did occur, Peter often cursed you for having an apartment opposite of the entrance. 

He could never see when you were approaching the building, when you were entering the lobby; which meant his only signal that you made it in safe was when he’d finally see you through your bedroom window. 

Another glance to his watch, the thinnest hand ticking relentlessly with each passing second. He was becoming worried, beginning to consider abandoning his spot on the roof to come looking for you. This is why you need me, he thought to himself, teeth digging into his bottom lip, someone needs to look out for you. 

Yet, before his muscles could even shift the slightest bit, the sight of a light flicking on across the street caught his eye, the camera immediately rising back into his line of sight. “Welcome home,” he muttered to himself, a wave of relief washing over him as the corners of his lips twitched into a smile, watching you throw your bag onto your bed. 

A thin finger hovered above the shutter button, another deep breath as he worked to steady himself, ensuring the shot wouldn’t come out blurry. You were moving quick—too quick for him to get a good picture—kicking your dirty converse to the side of your nightstand. 

Poor thing– Peter cooed over you, snapping another few subpar shots as you pulled your top over your head–they must’ve made you work late tonight. You’re probably exhausted. 

Your boss was always overworking you, taking advantage of your good nature. A few times now Peter had considered paying him a visit, tired of sitting idly by as he ran you into the ground. Perhaps tonight would be what pushed him over the edge, having to wait impatiently for you to get home. 

New York’s a dangerous place for a woman—he would reason with himself—your boss should know that, too. He shouldn’t make you stay late, not when walking home at night is already unsafe for you. 

Peter hated that you walked home alone every night. Oftentimes, he considered asking you if he could walk you back, but always found himself stumbling over his words and deciding against it. Still, he often let himself imagine what it would be like to walk alongside you at night. 

He wanted a chance to get to know you better, a chance to hear you talk more. Peter loved talking to you, even if your conversations had been limited to nothing more than polite coffeehouse banter as he waited for his drink. 

Eventually, he figured, the two of you would get to know each other better. 

Eventually he wouldn’t have to go and threaten your boss for putting you in danger, perhaps he’d even begin to thank him for it, using it as another opportunity to be close to you. 

Eventually, he told himself, he wouldn’t need his camera and an abandoned rooftop to ensure that you were safe. 

And that’s all this was, wasn’t it? He was a hero, and that’s what heroes do. They protect the vulnerable, defend the innocent—and god, you were as innocent as it could get. You were too pure for this world, too kind to be subjected to the horrors that he witnessed on these streets everyday. 

But that’s why I’m here—he’d speak to you, as if you could actually hear him from where he hid—I’m gonna keep you safe. 

His intentions were pure, or at least that’s what he would tell himself. He didn’t often think about the more nefarious images that were stored in his memory card, not letting himself question the morality of his actions. After all, it wasn’t his fault that you never drew the curtains before getting undressed, as if beckoning him to admire your bare body. 

If anything, it served as another example of how innocent you were! You were so unsuspecting, so oblivious to the wicked nature of man. You were lucky that he watched over you, you were lucky that it was him snapping scandalous photos of you. Someone with ill-will might try to use them against you, maybe even blackmail you with them, but Peter? He would never. If anything, he would try to rationalize to himself, the pictures were your way of repaying him for protecting you. 

Nimble hands moved from the shutter to the zoom, adjusting the focal length to move closer in. “What’re you doing, silly girl?” he questioned, brown knitting together as he noticed the hasty way you shimmied out of your jeans. 

Most nights you took your time undressing, too tired from your long day to be bothered with moving quickly. Tonight, though, you seemed to be in an unusual hurry to shed the fabric covering your body. No need to rush, he mused, I’m not going anywhere. 

He snapped another picture, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of red lingerie. He had never seen this particular set before, nor had he ever known you to wear such tempting negligee under your work clothes. 

“Putting on a show tonight, are we?” 

Peter had a nasty habit of forgetting that you weren’t aware of his presence, that your actions weren’t for him. You had become such a big part of his life, such an integral component, that he often forgot that to you he was just another customer in a coffee shop. To him, his feelings were mutual, a shared sense of adoration that grew with each day. You just didn’t know it, yet—he’d try to remind himself—you just hadn’t realized much you needed him. 

His tongue darted across his lips, the sensitive skin becoming chapped by the frigid temperatures. “Where are you going?” He muttered aloud, carefully observing as you inched out of view, drifting towards your bedroom door again. 

A moment passed, then another, before you began traipsing backwards towards your bed. Your ass came into view first, just barely covered by the thin red fabric you adorned yourself with today (another click, another shot he’d put to use later), and then came the rest of you; hands reaching out in front of you, Peter’s heart lurching in his chest as he took in the sight unfolding before him.

You weren’t alone tonight, it seemed. 

Peter bit his tongue, choking back the expletives threatening to spill out and letting the sickening taste of copper overwhelm his senses. He averted his eyes, letting them fall a couple hundred feet to the street below him. The sight of you with another man was already bound to leave a mark on him, but the sight of you with him was worse. 

Harry’s a good guy—he thought to himself, roughly swallowing as he forced himself to look through the viewfinder once again. You were laid out against the mattress, gripping the duvet as his best friend's lips brushed against the crease of your thigh—but he’s not good enough for you. 

It was a problem, a simple kink in his plans to grow closer to you, but for every problem exists a solution; his mind already drifting off to the ways in which he’d deal with Harry. “It’s not your fault,” he breathed out, accepting an apology you hadn’t given, “you don’t know any better—but that’s okay. I’ll fix it for you, okay? I’ll get rid of him.” 

Not tonight, of course. He’d let you have tonight, let Harry borrow what he was so sure was rightfully his. For now, though, he’d stick around.

 Just in case—he snapped another picture, zooming a bit further as Harry’s fingers hooked around the red lace, pulling the fabric down and revealing you to not only himself, but also Peter— just to make sure you’re safe. 

a/n - GOD this was just living in my head today and i needed to get it out so i could stop thinking about it. and in case anyone was wondering, i am still 100% in my harry osborn/dane dehaan kick, and the fact that the tags are so dead will be the reason i fall into a depressive episode. so pls, for the love of all things holy, you guys need to go fall in love with dane ok cause i dont wanna be alone in this

#peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #peter parker fic #peter parker headcanons #peter parker angst #peter parker smut #tasm peter x reader #tasm peter parker imagine #tasm smut #tasm fanfiction #tasm peter x you #tasm peter smut #yandere peter parker #yandere spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman smut #andrew!peter imagine

[fili-urzudel]

Porridge - Kíli Durin x Reader

Just a cute little winter themed drabble for our favorite little brother.

Warnings: mentions of broken bones, mentions of near-death, light crying, homesickness

Word Count: 0.6k

"Come in," the voice was muffled.

"How's my favorite—what in Aule's name," Kíli interrupted himself. Most likely because while he was expecting to find you on your bed, in your place was a very high pile of blankets, covering from the foot to the headboard.

"Shove it," the blanket pile groaned.

"What, are you hiding your shame?" Kíli chuckled, drawing closer and probing a corner of the bed before sitting down.

"No!" You exclaimed, finally throwing off the layers of blankets. "I—help me up, please," you muttered, and he obliged before you continued. "I have nothing to be ashamed of, that cliff was steep and I blame you for thinking it was a good idea to climb it—"

"When you said you adored goats, I assumed that meant you had some degree of their skill," Kíli smirked.

"—and I happen to be hiding from the cold because your mountain is bloody freezing," you finished with a dramatic pout.

"It's a mountain. In winter. Honestly, khebabmudtu, what were you expecting?" He teased, having found his way to the head of the bed and leaning his head against his hand, his elbow propped on the headboard.

He felt himself freeze when he noticed tears welling in your eyes.

"Hey," he said, voice softer. "What's wrong?"

"It's never this cold back home," you whimpered. "And no one here makes porridge the way Ma made it, and I can't make it myself because of my daft ankle, and I—I just..." you sighed, breaking off. "I miss home but I want to stay here, too."

Kíli frowned. He had seen you upset, sure, and he had seen you heartbroken—sure as Mahal when you thought he was dead—and he had more than definitely seen you angry. But he had never seen you distressed over something that even you would consider trivial.

"You mind?" he asked, already lifting the stack of the blanket corners to slide into the generous bed with you. You shook your head quickly.

"I'm not sure that it counts for much, but I understand," he said slowly. "I spent most of my life in Ered Luin, and I still feel a little homesick for it sometimes. I can't imagine what a big difference it is from the Southlands. But I'm glad you chose to stay here."

"God only knows why," you sniffled.

"Well, I was hoping for me," Kíli smiled, and you rolled your eyes. "But seriously, khebabmudtu, we all love having you here. Anything that can help make you stay, I'll do it."

You gave a grin-grimace. "Thanks, Kí," you said, and leaned into his side, much to his surprise. He was all too happy to wrap an arm around your shoulders to keep you there. "What does that word mean?"

He hesitated for a moment. "What word?"

"Khebabmudtu," you said, stumbling a bit over the consonants.

"Heart forge," he whispered, and when you looked up at him, confused, he knew he had to say it louder. "It means heart-forge. The forge where my heart is made."

"Hmm," you hummed shortly, snuggling into his ribs. "I bet you say that to all your lady friends."

He wanted to laugh. He couldn't believe you still didn't believe that he was the ugly brother. "No," he replied simply instead. "Just you."

Just you.

You liked the sound of that.

#lotr fanfic #lotr #the hobbit #lotr fandom #lotr headcanons #the hobbit headcanons #the hobbit x reader #kili x reader #kíli x reader #kili durin x reader #kíli durin x reader #kili x reader oneshot #kíli x reader oneshot #kíli x reader drabble #kili x reader drabble #kili fanfic #kili durin #fili and kili #everyone lives au #the hobbit everyone lives au

[chaoticevilspacewitch]

RWBY Fanfic Recommendation List

Fics that have really struck me, vaguely organized by ship and/or topic.

Bumbleby (Blake x Yang)

first off, basically anything by pugoata. She's the goddess-empress of the Bees. I'm gonna give particular props to Banshee, as it was the first longer fic and AU that I read, and it really opened up my mind to what fanfic could be.

You're a Mountain, Full of Glory - a ski/snowboard with amazing characterization and a closing scene that will live rent-free in my head forever, in a good way.

They Can't Steal the Love You're Born to Find - childhood soulmates repeatedly torn apart and reconnecting, with courtroom drama. One of the most angst-ridden Bee fics I've ever read.

Fucking In Love - pornstar AU that gets right to the sex and slow burns the romance. Hot as hell while also full of tenderness and pining.

Midnight Menagerie - exotic dancer, kinda-cyberpunk dystopia AU. Edges you forever with the sex, earns all the angst tags, and we are majorly trusting @kaelidascope when she promises an amazing happy ending.

Bite Me Like You Love Me - one of the hottest Bee smutfics I've ever read.

You and Me - Blake discovers she's pregnant the day Yang goes MIA on a mission and struggles through being a single mother teaching their child about her amazing other mom. Short, happy ending, amazingly sweet.

WhiteRose (Ruby x Weiss)

The Foxtrot - Ruby and Weiss repair their broken lives after the war. It's one of the most popular RWBY fics of all time for a reason.

Can You See My Strings?/Deja Vu - premium mentally ill Weiss escapes from child abuse angst, with a happy ending if you read the sequel.

But Your Voice Used to Be Mine - Weiss escapes abuse to join RBY's punk band whose smash hit she inspired.

Just One Cigarette - Ruby and Weiss have a little meetup roleplay and it's really good.

Faunus Weiss (generally major themes of struggling with internal and external racism)

Craving the Sky - Weiss has painfully concealed her faunus heritage while she tries to earn her father's love. The support of her team, and the love of Blake and Yang (BeesSchnees) help her soar on her own.

Black Swan Theory - faunus Weiss struggles to recover from child abuse and navigate a deeply racist society while building a relationship with Pyrrha (Schneekos).

Clipped Wings - secret faunus Weiss, dealing with racism and abuse from Jacques, this time slow burning towards Pollination.

Villainesses

Melting Glace - Cinder and Neo find love, and no redemption, in the trauma of failing to destroy Beacon. Will make you cheer for them to win by the end.

Rise from the Ashes - Cinder has a Vader moment and saves Ruby from Salem, and Ruby's pure heart helps her heal, and their adversarial relationship turn to affection. Peak RWBY enemies-to-lovers.

Odds & Ends

The Bermuda Triangle - great modern AU BeesSchnees that gets filthy hot at the end.

Midnight Rose - Summer rescues and adopts Cinder out of Atlas. Their relationship, and Cinder coming to love the Xiao Long-Rose family, is beautifully depicted. Still very much ongoing (no ships as of yet).

Fallen Maiden - Jaune dies protecting Pyrrha at Beacon, and the Fall Maiden power remains split. Will Pyrrha's bloody crusade of vengeance consume her? Or, 'Pyrrha goes full Magneto and fucks Cinder up'.

What's In A Name? - Winter and May grow up together, struggling to cope with their feelings for each other against the background of the Atlas aristocracy.

Linked In Life and Love - I'd be remiss if I didn't mention this one. I really, really love the first act, where Team RWBY sees Blake suffering terribly through a surprise heat cycle and decides that they will all "help" her with it. It's sweet and tender and feels legit for them. I'm not a huge fan of where all the series has gone since, but I would invite anyone to judge that for themselves.

(As I see this getting a decent amount of traffic, I'll just point out that, if it's convinced you [correctly] of my impeccable taste in fanfic, you might want to check out my own RWBY writings)

#rwby #rwby fanfic #rwby shipping #ao3 #rwby recommendations #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #bumbleby #whiterose #save rwby #save crwby #greenlight volume 10

[cozymoko]

PERFORM, FOR US.

word count: 1.9k

WARNING(S): slight yandere themes, suggestive behavior

Yandere! Ice Skater x Pianist! Reader ❄

It's freezing, both outside and in. But it's winter so that’s to be expected. While a smooth, chilling breeze nipped at the skin of many, warm blankets shielded the bodies of many more. And before they knew it, the Winter Olympics were just around the corner.

Your fingers twitched above the monochrome keys, itching to play whatever dared enter your mind. A faint hum had just barely buzzed past your sealed lips, reaching the curious ears of the man sitting before you.

This year’s theme: Soft Wonderland

It was strange, you thought so too. But that didn’t stop you from giving it your all. The way you played piano was something otherworldly, and you were just as lucky to have such a skilled skater performing it.

The skater in question was seated directly to your right.

You reached out and lightly flicked his exposed forehead. “What’s with that look; is there something on my face?” Your question was rhetorical, even dripping with a hint of sarcasm; yet it flustered him all the same.

VINCENT hastily shook his head, placing a pale hand on his reddened skin.

You opted to ignore the look of admiration that had painted his sharp features. It didn’t suit him. Not at all. On television, he was a blessing to the eye. Gifted a cold exterior and a face to match. Most of his fans viewed him as the reserved, prince-boyfriend type, who’s protective and well-composed no matter the circumstance. If not for his previous interviews, you could even say he seemed unapproachable. 

Ugh, they couldn’t be more wrong.

Vincent Yves Beaumont is a star in the making. Thief of Hearts and Trophies galore. A real gentleman, who's real easy on the eyes. A prodigy, successfully obtaining more than a handful of awards at the young age of twenty-two. Born in France; raised in Belgium, fluent in at least three languages. That in which has gained him quite the fanbase.

He was amazing, in the eyes of the public. Made to be something phenomenal — a star. Vincent was…he was…

A big fucking baby.

Even now, he rubbed gentle circles into your thigh with the smooth pads of his thumbs. His arm was propped against the edge of the piano-polished frame while his chin rested upon the base of his free hand. He was close, incredibly close. So close that you swore you felt the richness of his cologne tickling your nose: Cinnamon with a hint of pine. The faint remnants of mint mingled within his scent subtly. It was pleasant, but you distanced yourself anyway.

A quick glance at the clock was enough to send your heart spiraling. You only had an hour, sixty fucking minutes, to record all the edits you made on the sheet music before Vincent’s big performance. Although after having an inner monologue, mid-session at that, you truly anticipated nothing less.

“Se concentrer! Nous avons peu de temps.” You scolded. 

'Focus! We don’t have much time.' Those were your exact words, in French at that. Despite it being your first (and his), you only used it when he managed to annoy you. Unfortunately, that was arguably his favorite pastime.

Why did this irk you so? One might ask. And luckily, there’s a simple answer to this unbelievably idiotic question. It’s the Olympics for crying out loud and this childish fucker was going to be representing you! Sure, you didn’t doubt his abilities; he had quite the talent. But still, you never worked well under pressure. You have a whole reputation to uphold!

You were a composer, after all. A damn good one at that. For only being twenty-six, you easily retained the talent of someone well into their sixties. You spent most of your early twenties frolicking alongside plenty of well-renowned figure skaters; Vincent being one of them. You had won a handful of awards along the way, along with plenty of generous deals.

Meaning, that everyone had high expectations for you.

A soft chuckle breezed by your ears. It was deep but just the right amount. If you hadn’t known better, then you’d say your viable hysteria amused him. Hmph, What a sadist.

“I am,” He grins earnestly. “I promise.”

Maybe you’d believe him, just this once. You were even tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when he snaked his arm around your waist, all your hope when flying out the window. Then again, you didn’t have much of it anyway. “Vincent, get off of me you pervert.”

“Noo, You’re my lucky charm, I need you in order to perform well tonight.” The brunette whined into the crook of your neck, his nimble fingers toying with the fabric of your wool sweater.

Vincent shifted practically all his weight on you, causing you to go tumbling off the side of the wooden piano stool. You wrap your arms around him for support, refusing to acknowledge the sinful sound that slipped past his rosy lips. For fucks sake, he acts like a virgin.

Then, as if he couldn’t get any closer, leaned in and gently ran his tongue along the shell of your ear - like a cat in heat. Vincent’s pretty lips tug into a subtle smirk, purring, “If I win first place, will you reward me, Mon cœur?”

Never mind, definitely not a virgin!

Your heart was drumming against your chest, cheeks flushing at the man’s proximity. Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!! What were you supposed to do? He’s getting far too close for this to even possibly be appropriate, not to mention he called you “his love”. 

You shrug him away weakly, just barely maintaining your composure. Vincent slightly loosened his hold on you, only to meet your gaze. Half-lidded eyes, blessed with long and full lashes. His chin rested on your chest, his hair tickling your exposed clavicles.  His cheeks adorned a deeper shade of red, as though just the sight of you was managing to rile him up. This alone was euphoric.

“Please, [Name].”

God, he looked shameful. What a perv.

Using all of your strength, you push him out of the room, slamming the door right in his face. “Go get dressed, damn it!” You managed to scream through rigid breaths. This was no longer your problem — Vincent was no longer your problem. This was an issue for Hualing — his makeup artist; or Enlai — his stylist. 

For that fact, you were grateful.

“Fuck, I only have thirty minutes left!”

After dropping the CD, you hailed a cab to take you back. Your lungs were screaming for air; your back practically collapsing in on itself. At this point, you were positive that the only thing keeping you from quitting it all was a shit ton of stress and adrenaline. But just as you were about to unlock the door, a loud DING echoed through the hotel's vacant halls.

Hesitantly, you opened it.

MR. ALWAYS ON TIME (VINCENT’S COACH):

Hey, [Name]! Just so you know, Beaumont won’t be the first performer today….

▷ delivered 19:34

To your delight (and vexation), Vincent would be the third performer of the night. “Gee, thanks,” You replied. That definitely would’ve been great to know earlier.

That evening, you were able to put those extra minutes to good use. You’d cleaned up rather nicely, compelling those around you to compliment your attire. They’d never guess you were an absolute wreck not even forty-five minutes ago.

You greeted his coach with a curt nod, before sitting a few seats down from him. Due to your reputation, others were quick to offer you seats closer to the front. And there was no chance in hell you were going to decline.

You learn back in your cushioned seat, blasting soft classical music over the booming voices of those around you. From what you knew, Vincent should be on any minute now and ready to—

“AHHH!!!” 

You sigh, “I spoke too soon.”

Squeals that mimicked pigs and spoiled children tore through your ears (and sanity). It was loud, so loud that not even your headphones could withstand its volume. You reach to massage your temples, peeling your eyes open to try to focus on the man before you.

Once on stage, he bowed to the judges before adjusting his posture, allowing the bright stage lights to catch the purple shimmers decorating his uniform. His smile commanded the audience’s attention; seemingly genuine with deep dimples pooling at its sides. Full, ebony strands parted and combed out his eyes.

Cat-like, hazel eyes flicker over the vast audience; left to right, side to side. In search of something - or rather someone. The star was quick to find you, watching him with a certain regard that made his heart flutter. He felt light, under your gaze. It burned him, like a flame nipping away at frostbitten fingers. Hungry, craving more than what should suffice. 

A feverish smile tugged at the corners of his rosy lips, one he didn’t bother to hide from the public. Vincent still acted like a young schoolgirl in your presence. Despite meeting you all those years ago. Despite being your fan as long as he can remember.

“Now for the star you’ve been waiting for, the heartthrob of a century…Vincent Yves Beaumont! ”

Gliding along the sleek ice like a Blue Jay spreading its feathered wings. Vincent’s movements showed a feeling of contentment and even bliss. Each quad looked like mere child’s play as he landed them, perfect without the tiniest flaw. Each turn was perfect as though he was programmed to perfection. Each and every axel he executed pulled a series of silent cheers from the crowd.

The skater nearly rolled his eyes, for he couldn’t finish his choreo fast enough. He didn’t want to pretend like he enjoyed being down here, at least a hundred feet away. He didn’t want to compete for something as insignificant as a medal when he could have your love as a prize instead. But he did it in a heartbeat…for you.

Nothing mattered if it wasn’t for you. 

If not for you, this career meant nothing.

The fame didn’t matter if you weren’t experiencing it with him.

He wanted you - No, needed you.

And he’d fucking have you too.

You hum in realization as the last three lines of your song carried through the wind. Vincent’s performance was coming to an end. Landing his final quad loop, smoothly transitioning into a back-counter triple counter. His choreo had ended, and with it your song. He bowed once more, drowning in a sea of applause that engulfed the stadium.

Roses, Peonies, whatever you could think of was thrown in the ring. Yet, Vincent didn’t bother to acknowledge one. His eyes were locked on you, yours on him. You gave him a friendly wave, and to your surprise, he did not reciprocate it. That in itself was weird.

Now, you may not be a genius but the look in his eyes was far from normal. Everyone’s precious star, Vincent, was staring at you like a lion watching its prey. If you hadn’t known any better you thought he’d be already trying to pounce on you at that very moment. Hah, and you’re not wrong! He could hardly strain the animalistic urge to take you home and finally make you his.

That’s when it hit you, you’ve never seen him lose a competition. So that “deal” you made earlier was getting closer and closer to becoming reality. And something told you he wasn’t going to let you go~!

“Fuck me, bro.”

#—🍁 #x reader #yandere #yandere male #male yandere #yandere aesthetic #yancore #yanderecore #yandere imagines #yandere scenario #yandere scenarios #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x y/n #yandere hedacanons

[marblemoovt]

Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle. 

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do. 

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted. 

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells. 

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face. 

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed. 

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second. 

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair. 

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you. 

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation. 

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding. 

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies. 

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.” 

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you. 

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind. 

Holy fucking shit. He did. 

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now. 

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.” 

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars. 

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him. 

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt. 

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists. 

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder. 

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence. 

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment. 

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement. 

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact. 

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish. 

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees. 

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.” 

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you. 

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke. 

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine. 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms. 

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head. 

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.” 

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!” 

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb. 

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns?? 

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue. 

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask. 

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face. 

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you. 

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest. 

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you. 

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface. 

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance. 

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin. 

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.  

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea. 

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel. 

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing. 

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!” 

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back. 

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor. 

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. 

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets. 

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth. 

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye. 

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.” 

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50. 

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price #captain john price #cod x reader #cod mwii #single dad price #gender neutral reader #no y/n #And they were apartmentmates! #I will update the tags with something funnier once my brain isn't mush

[osleeplessflowero]

-🎃Scares and a Sudden Friendship🪓-

yes i am aware it is no longer halloween and it is now december. after this oneshot i will exclusively focus on winter themes, but i just HAD to get this idea out. Horror belongs to Sour Apple Studios. Reader goes by They/Them pronouns as always. 🧡 Warning for swearing! Horror goes by Sans here since this is in a Horrortale Post-Pacifist exclusive timeline.

It's a cold Halloween night.

You and your boyfriend decided to go to a Haunted House for the occasion after you finally managed to pester him enough.

"C'mon, c'mon! Hurry up!" You walk hurriedly along the sidewalk in your shark onesie, spotting the closest Haunted House that's covered in decorations, lights, and signs. Your boyfriend following slowly behind.

"I'm coming, jeez. I don't get why you get so excited over all this. We're grown now. This is kid stuff." He looks bored, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He didn't even dress up for the occasion, just wearing his normal fall clothes to keep warm.

"Hey, Halloween is fun for all ages." You point at him accusingly. "Besides, we can finally have some fun together tonight! You've been so busy doing your own stuff and I've missed you a lot, so this is a perfect chance to-"

"Yeah yeah..let's just get this over with. Maybe if we're lucky we can get some candy little kids dropped." He stomps on some old wrappers. Jeez..such a buzzkill. Oh well, he won't ruin your fun in here! You're sure his mood will turn around once you both get inside.

You both reach the entrance, you practically bouncing with excitement while your boyfriend seems to be distracted by some of the scare actors passing by.

You're both eventually let in after signing a slightly concerning waiver, walking inside. You admire the decorations and care put into the environments, occasionally having little jumps when animatronics pop out at you which just results in laughter afterwards. Your boyfriend on the other hand looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here, rolling his eyes at some of the scares and pulling out his phone at one point.

Truth be told, the last few months haven't been..ideal with him. You've hardly had any time together and when you finally do he just ignores you or seems like he doesn't want to be there. You've started to wonder if he even really wants to be your partner anymore..

You shake your head. Now is not the right place to be thinking about that. You should be having fun!

You greet some of the scare actors, having more fun than fear. You assume this is what happens to most people with Bravery souls. There's a large variety of them, some monsters, some humans. All of them doing a very good job!

You both make your way through an escape room section, you doing most of the work. You finally find the key, unlocking the door.

"Here we gooo, next room, woo!" "Yaaay."

The next room you enter is filled with props like mannequins and hanging objects that are meant to look like ghosts.

You cling to your boyfriend's arm, feeling unsettled as you both progress. He actually seems to tense up this time as well, looking around. It's quiet in the room..you feel a chill go down your spine.

You make your way down a small hallway that leads into the next area, jolting when a tall monster jumps out at you both with a fake hatchet. You jump back, your boyfriend screams, pushes you aside and..runs off. Without you.

You stare in the direction he ran off in, eyes wide in disbelief.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" You put your hands on your head, feeling tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes.

He just..left you.

He ran off without you in a scary unfamiliar location.

He abandoned you.

You try to hold back your tears when a bony hand rests on your shoulder. You look up to see the scare actor lifting up his mask, revealing eyelights with one empty and the other having a bright red circle in it, focusing on you.

"...don't waste your tears over that guy. 's okay." His voice is deep, a comforting sound to hear in a way. It's oddly soft despite his sharp appearance. You try not to look at that large cracked hole in his head. He probably appreciates that.

He raises up the other hand, wiping your tears away.

"I am so breaking up with him." "yikes. that guy's your boyfriend? some partner, leaving your datemate in an unfamiliar place alone." "Not anymore. I'm dumping him." "good call." "..Could you maybe..show me where the exit is? I don't really have the drive to go through here all by myself." You hold your arm shyly.

"i'll do you one better." He holds out his prop hatchet, handing it to you.

You look at it then at him, raising a brow.

"let's go scare the shit out of him."

You grin wide, taking the hatchet from him as he goes to pull his mask back down.

The two of you run out of the room and the moment you spot him you start SPRINTING, the skeleton following close behind.

The moment he finds the exit the two of you burst out laughing, taking a few seconds to compose yourselves.

"So..I'm gonna be removing his number from my phone..any chance I could have yours, stranger?" You point finger guns at him.

He seems surprised for a moment, before simply lifting his mask back up and smiling.

"just call me sans. nice to meet'cha." He gives you his number and you make sure to save it. "You too, Sans. Would you like to..I dunno, go get coffee or something? I'd like to get to know you." "i wouldn't mind. how does tomorrow sound?" "Great."

The two of you smile at each other before Sans' boss tells him to get back to work, and you wave goodbye before sending a text to your boyfriend to tell him you want to talk.

Part 2

#horror sans x reader #sleeplessflower's halloween oneshots #horrortale sans x reader #horror sans #horror!sans

[libraryofloveletters]

A Solid Foundation

Christian Pulisic x Fem!Reader

Warnings: feeling homesick, gingerbread making, a little friendly competition, a loving girlfriend and a loved boyfriend, the houses aren't structurally sound lol, some soft moments

Word Count: 627

Author's Note: every time I see Chris, all my patriotism leaves my body (not like there was much anyways lmao)

--

You and Christian have a contest to see who can build the best gingerbread house. Safe to say, you both went a little overboard.

Christian was feeling a little bit homesick.

The football season was keeping him alone for longer than expected, and he will be missing out on all the pre-holiday activities that his family tends to do together. Amongst the many traditions that the Pulisic family had, the building of gingerbread houses was one of Christian's favourites.

You figured while your boyfriend was away at training, you pop to the store and see if you could pick up the things to have your own little gingerbread night at home. The selection of the store was rather lacklustre, you could tell just by the packaging alone that the gingerbread was going to be stale.

So, rather than buying stale gingerbread, you opted to make it; and for a first attempt, it didn't come out too badly.

Christian was a bit confused as to why the house smells like gingerbread when he got home. The further he walked into the house and the closer he got to the dining room, he could see you leant over the table trying to fix something.

"Babe?" He calls and you turn to face him, a cheesy Christmas apron tied around you.

You smile at your boyfriend, "you're home!" You walked over to give him a quick kiss, taking his bag from him and setting it off to the corner. "Go wash your hands, we're making gingerbread houses!"

Christian smiles, his heart warming at all the effort you put in just to put a smile on his face.

He quickly followed your instructions, off to the kitchen to wash his hands before joining you at the dining room table.

The table has all the pieces lined up along with frosting and candies you'd use to decorate. "I bet I can build the best house," Christian says as you slide a plastic knife over to him, letting him use that to put the frosting on his house.

You roll your eyes, carefully lining up your pieces, "as if. We both know I'd do it better than you."

If there was one thing about you and Christian, you were both extremely competitive and that showed in everything you two did; from the simplest of tasks to the most complicated, you two tried to outdo each other.

"Bet on it?" He asks, glancing across the table at you. There's a smug smile on your face, nodding. "Bet on it."

Off you went, you and Chris putting together your houses and the amount of frosting used to stick them together was outrageous. Not to mention the amounts used to put the candies on the house - Christian was going for an AC Milan themed house while you were going for a winter wonderland theme.

The gingerbread houses have yet to fully set together with the frosting, so they were still a bit wobbly when you loaded them up with more frosting and candy. The weight of the candy and frosting on top causes the gingerbread houses to collapse before you could even take a photo.

It's a bit of a domino effect, Christian's house cracks and then yours, and before you know it, they're both tumbling down into a pile of gingerbread, candy and frosting on the dining room table.

You and Christian exchange a glance before you burst out laughing. There wasn't much else you could do but laugh.

He picked out a piece that wasn't too covered in frosting before he took a bite of it, sinking back into his chair. "Thank you baby." He says and your brows furrow slightly, chin propped up on your hand.

"What for?"

"This,"he gestured to the pile of gingerbread on the table.

You smile, reaching over to hold his hand. "No need to thank me, that's what I'm here for."

#holiday extravaganza blurbs 23 #christian pulisic #christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic x you #chirstian pulisic x y/n #football x reader #football x you #football x y/n #football blurb #football imagine

[catt-leya]

Hi uh can I get number 11 “How the fuck did you manage to cover me in this many hickies?!” from the smut prompt? 👀

Perhaps Rick and his girl are having a lot of fun and she's super soft with him and in a praise mood and wants to praise the life out of Rick and he's been so stressed and just wants to relax for a while. She gives him a blowjob he won't forget so soon and she kisses him all over his body and the next morning after she rode the life out of him he just wakes up and sees all the hickies on his body. Perhaps for season 9 Rick? I have a soft spot for the old man lol

Snow Kiss (18+) || Rick Grimes

I'm sorry it took me so long to post it but when I saw your request I knew I had to do a winter themed fic about it....so it had to be that late this year 🤭👉🏼👈🏼💗

And I'm sorry it isn't a gif with him and his short hair but I couldn't resist (it's perfect for the story)...😍

Trigger: dirty talk, breeding (?), praise kink

Puffing, I stomp through the high snow and try to keep up with my boyfriend, who has much longer legs and therefore makes much better progress than I do.

With each of my steps I exhale heavily and traipse through my own breath cloud, which is snow-white due to the cold.

Although it's cold as hell and the snow reaches my knees, I'm sweating all over my body and have the feeling that tears are about to come from desperation.

So I stop, panting, and mutter, "Short break."

Surprised that I would ask for such a thing, Rick turns to me, "A break?"

I'm not usually one to give up or ask for a time out, but even I have my limits and I prop myself up on my thighs, which are burning like I've been in a hurdle race, "Yes, please."

I try to fill my lungs with deep breaths, ignoring the biting cold, as Rick mutters, "Are you weakening?"

Grumbling, I bend over a little further and reach for a handful of snow. Before he can react, I'm already throwing the small ball in his direction, hitting him square in the face.

I can't hide a big grin as the little snow clumps slide off his face and he stares at me in disbelief, "You didn't do that."

I grin proudly from ear to ear, "Oh yes I did, you old sadist."

I realize I'm in serious trouble when Rick lets the backpack he took from me earlier so I wouldn't have to carry it so heavily slide off his shoulders and drop carelessly into the snow.

Panicked, I try to get away from him as fast as I can, but before I can take a single step, Rick is already on me, throwing me to the ground with him.

He doesn't worry about crushing me or me hitting my head because the tons of soft white snow are under me and I claw at his winter jacket as I stomp and try to turn us so he's in the snow and I'm on top of him, but laughing I barely have the strength to move him an inch and he himself looks at me out of eyes shining with joy.

I used to think blue eyes looked cold and aloof, but since I've known Rick, I've completely discarded that theory. Especially here and now, when his eyes have taken on an even more intense shade of blue due to the white snow, I can't get enough of being looked at like that by him.

I don't even notice how wet my clothes are getting and when Rick's gaze briefly slips to my lips, I take the opportunity to push him up with all my power and roll on top of him, giggling, eliciting a soft '"Ufff" from him and I grin broadly at him, "Well, how does that feel."

Through my jacket, I feel him put his hands on my hips and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, "To be honest, pretty good, actually."

Snorting, I shovel another helping of snow into his face and snort softly as he shakes his head to get rid of the snow, "You can really be a bad girl. Just bury your dear boyfriend in the snow, tz tz tz."

He raises his gloved hands to my cheeks and I lean down smiling and kissing them on the icy cold lips.

Actually, snow is not a good thing for our family and friends, but right now I can't think of anything better than lying in the freshly fallen snow with Rick and kissing him like it's the last time.

I elicit a soft sigh from Rick and his grip on my cheeks tightens as I mumble against his lips, "We're going to get sick. Especially you, if you keep lying in the snow, Rick."

But instead of letting go of me, he tries to get his tongue between my lips and I press them together tightly, making him moan almost tearfully, "Oh come on."

Grinning, I move away from him and slide off his hip to awkwardly stand up and offer him my hand, "Later. I promise."

For a brief moment, he just looks up at me before reluctantly grabbing my hand and letting me pull him up.

When he's back on his own two feet, he shakes his head to shake the snowflakes out of his dark hair, and I squeeze his hand, "Oh, don't pout."

I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud when I see the snort he pulls, and when he mumbles, "I'm not at all," I can't help myself. He just stares at me as I can't stop laughing until he then can't hold back himself and laughs with me.

I squeeze his hand and rejoice as I see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and he pulls me closer, "I'll carry you home."

I roll my eyes, "Yeah right."

"I mean it," his voice is rough and I frown as he looks at me softly and says, "I can see how hard it is for you in the snow. I'll give you a piggyback ride and carry you at least until the trees get thicker and the snow isn't so high."

When I don't respond he pushes me toward the backpack, "Come on. You take the backpack."

I blink in perplexity, "You're serious."

Smiling, he rolls his eyes and gets down on one knee in front of me.

So I take the backpack and strap it to my back before standing behind Rick and hesitantly climbing onto his back.

Briefly I think I'm pushing him face first into the snow, but he slowly straightens up and I clamp my arms around his neck and rest my chin on his shoulder, "I can really do this on my own too-" he chokes me out, "Sh, now just let me do this for you."

Concentrating, he bites his lower lip to keep from falling over with me on his back, and I keep breathing short kisses on his cold cheek and neck, between which I keep whispering "Thank you" in his ear.

Rick has always been a kind-hearted person, so it shouldn't surprise me that he offered to carry me, but with every step he takes through the high snow, I fall for him even more than I already do.

I realize how hard it must be for him to carry me and the backpack on his back, but he doesn't stop until we reach a spot where the snow is already packed down and we don't have to walk very far from here to see the gates of Alexandria.

Our home.

I press one last kiss on his cheek and then he lets me slide off his back. Without hesitation he turns and reaches for the backpack on my back, "Come on."

He pulls it off my back and I brace my hands on my hips before fixing him, "I don't want to sound ungrateful for you carrying me, but what am I even here for if you won't let me do anything."

Smiling, he taps my nose with his finger, "You're here because I love you and like having you around."

He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, "And I trust no one more than you to watch my pretty ass. Because I'm sure we both love that one."

Rick isn't wrong but still I childishly show him my tongue and march past him, "Well, let's get your pretty ass to the warmth."

It takes us considerably longer to get home than it would if we had normal circumstances without a pile of snow, and Rick spends at least as long in the shower.

But even I'm not necessarily shorter under the hot water stream and when I get out of the shower I can't even see myself in the mirror because it's fogged up from the water vapor.

Without seeing how my hair is lying, I try to fix it a bit and then pull a hoodie I took from Rick over my head.

It's too big for me, but the comfy size is just what I need right now and the fact that the hoodie also smells like Rick only makes it better.

I put my panties on and then pull open the door to our bedroom.

Rick is already in bed in gray sweatpants and a loose white shirt, and when he hears me pull open the bathroom door, he lazily opens his eyes.

I pull my wet hair out from under my hoodie and smile softly at him, "Is someone tired?"

Leaning my hip against the door frame, I have to smile even wider as he sighs and closes his eyes, only bringing a "Hmmm" to his lips.

I love watching him sleep and can barely restrain myself from staring at him.

Especially because it makes him look so incredibly vulnerable and the hard features disappear from his face.

It's rare that he can really relax and when I think he's not going to open his beautiful eyes again, I tiptoe over to my side of the bed and just as I'm about to settle down on the bed quietly Rick hums, "I can't sleep."

I wince briefly, not expecting to hear his voice again today, and then turn to face him.

He still has his eyes closed, but he says softly, "I can't stop thinking about how we might not all make it through the winter."

For a brief moment, I just look at him and can only admire him.

He is trying everything he can to help us all live in safety in security and expects nothing in return. He would give anything for us.

For his family.

I take a deep breath, "We're going to make it, Rick."

Only now does he look at me again and I can see the fear in his eyes. Fear that he only shows to me.

"You don't know that," at the words his voice is rough and soaked with uncertainty.

I meet his gaze while sliding onto the bed and sliding myself over his legs so I'm sitting astride his thighs, "Maybe not, but I know you'll do your best and you can trust us to do our best too."

I place my hands flat on his chest and he places his large hands on top of mine, "It's good to hear you say that, you know."

To lighten the mood a bit, I wink at him and lean in, "Maybe I should praise you more. Adore you."

It was obvious he was going to roll his eyes, muttering, "Don't exaggerate."

But the way his eyes lit up when I said that gives me a great idea and I pull my hands out from under his, "No, no. I'm serious, I should praise you more."

He frowns and I reach for his shirt, "Take it off and I'll show you how good you are to me. I want to reward you for all your hard work."

Rick exhales heavily and the candlelight starts to flicker in response, making shadows dance across his body.

I can see in his eyes how much he wants me and how much he wants to be rewarded by me.

Slowly he straightens up a bit and he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

Even after all the time I've been with him and the countless times I've seen him naked, it never prepares me to see his bare skin.

As soon as he settles back into the pillows, I grab the hem of his pants and pull them down over his hips and legs.

Already I can see that my words have actually turned him on and as I look him in the eye again, I reach for the hem of my hoodie, but he quickly shakes his head, "Leave it on...I like it when you wear my clothes."

Smiling, I shrug, "If you don't want to see my tits..."

"You're no less hot when you're dressed, sweetheart," at that he licks his lips and I whimper softly.

I know exactly what he can do with his tongue and I actually briefly think about sitting on his face, but I want today to be about him, so I push the thought away and instead lean forward and kiss his leg just above his right knee.

He immediately knows what I'm up to and sits up enough to lean on his elbows and watch me stroke his thigh with the flat of my hand, kissing my way closer and closer to his hardening cock.

Softly I hear him murmur, "You are so incredibly beautiful."

Then I look up at him and kiss the tip of his cock as light as a feather.

He draws in a loud breath and I lick once over his shaft, making him wince and I breathe harshly, "That's it."

He raises his hands and I know he wants to put them on the back of my head to guide me, but I shake my head and he drops his hands, "Sweetheart?"

I kiss his hip bone and when I start sucking he moans softly.

My mouth is so close to his cock and yet I don't take it in my mouth and that must drive him crazy.

That's why I mumble softly, "Just let me do it" and turn to his other hip bone.

I feel his cock against my neck and when I can't take it anymore myself, I slide down and let it slide between my lips.

The deep moan coming from deep in his throat forces me to squeeze my own legs together to keep from shoving a hand between my legs and I moan softly with my mouth full, "God, I love your cock."

I always take Rick's cock deep into my mouth, but today I want to reward him and make him happy, so I try to relax and take more of him into my mouth bit by bit, all the way down my throat.

Tears start to come and when I have him almost completely in my mouth, I look up at him to see straight into his eyes.

With huge eyes he stares at me and his hands are buried in the sheets under him to keep from grabbing my head "Holy" he takes a deep breath "Shit".

I can feel him twitching in my throat and I can't suppress a gag reflex, which seems to please him because he squeezes his eyes shut tight and moans softly, "Good girl."

I love it when his voice gets so rough and deep when he's aroused and even now my heart does a leap at his pitch. 

Spurred on by the way his chest rises and falls so quickly, I let him slide out of my mouth a bit and take him into my mouth again as deep as I can.

As I do so, I slide one hand over his hips to his flat stomach, squeezing lightly so he doesn't meet me halfway with his hips each time to be back in my warm mouth.

I want to reward him and not be taken by him like I normally am.

Without taking my eyes off him I give him the blow job of his life and when he groans loudly and tugs my hand off his body to thrust into me, I know he's close to cumming in my mouth and although I don't want to stop, I let his cock slide out of my mouth one last time with a smacking sound and when the cool air in the room hits his wet cock he tears open his eyes and growls, "Oh shit, don't you quit. You better take me between your..."

Giggling, I put a finger on his mouth and run my other hand feather lightly over his cock, the tip of which is already showing precum, "Shhh, wait and see. As promised, you'll get the reward you've earned."

Skeptically he looks at me with dark eyes as I bend over him again and kiss his lower belly, "You" I kiss the spot next to his belly button "Are" His left rib "The" the right "Best" a nipple "What" the second one "Ever" collarbone "Happened" Adam's apple "To me".

His hands grip my hips tightly and I put my lips to the side of his neck "You're always so good to me and shit, can you fuck me so good."

A harsh laugh slips from his lips, catching in his throat as I reach between us again and slowly jerk him off, "Do you want to cum inside me Rick? Do you want your reward?"

A jolt goes through his whole body and he moans softly, "Yes."

Slowly I disengage from him and kneel down so I can pull my panties over my butt and toss them carelessly onto our bedroom floor.

Because the hoodie is quite long, I grab the hem and pull it up enough so that Rick can see my naked lower half as I spread my legs and position myself over him so that I would only have to lower myself to take him inside me.

His eyes are fixed firmly on my naked pussy and as I see his eyes light up at that, I say softly, "I can't keep the hoodie up and ride you, Rick. Will you please help me with this?"

Lost in thought, he mumbles a hoarse, "Hmmmm?" and I reach for his hand and place it on my hip so he's holding the hoodie up, "Can you hold the fabric up? I want you to see how well you fit inside me and how far you can stretch me. Would you do that for me?"

Seeming to be completely out of it with excitement, he asks obtusely and somewhat delayed, "What would you want me to do?"

I stifle a laugh and lean down to kiss him lightly on the lips, blocking his view so he can at least focus a bit on what I'm saying, "Would you hold my sweater up, Rick?"

His cheeks are flushed and I'm sure he's a little embarrassed that he's been so distracted that he didn't even catch my request and probably only caught the words "stretch" and "fit inside me."

Immediately, he rests his second hand on my hip as well and says softly, "Of course. Sorry."

It's like a rush to have such power over a man like Rick.

To know that I can drive him out of his mind like this and that he'll do practically anything for me.

It's addictive.

Lips inches from his, I reach between and place his tip against my wet pussy.

At the feeling of having him almost inside me, I can't suppress a pitiful moan and with a low growl Rick just pushes me down on top of him, making me wince violently and he presses his lips firmly on mine.

With my mission in mind I whimper softly, "You're so big." 

"Oh shit" his cock twitches inside me and I try to straighten up on him as best I can, looking back to where he is inside me.

As I slowly move on top of him he can't take his eyes off me and his fingers dig firmly into my hips as he follows me with his eyes as his cock slides into me again and again, leaving a wet trail of my pussy on him, causing a soft smacking sound that I was ashamed of before, but now it only makes me hornier.

To support myself I put my hands flat on his chest and moan softly how good he feels inside me and how much I love him.

For a brief moment he tries to push me off of him to roll over me, but I push him so hard I can back onto his back and let my hips gyrate slowly, "Let. Me. Do. it."

Whipped, he drops his head back into the pillows and looks down at me as if I fell out of the sky for him and landed straight on his cock.

Again and again I lower myself onto him and each time I tighten around him.

The first few times I do it consciously because I know he likes it, but after a certain point it just happens, but still it's not enough for me, so I look helpfully into Rick's eyes and he tilts his head, "Do you need my help to cum?"

The way his accent is thicker as soon as he's turned on always makes me weak and even now I tremble above him and moan pleadingly, "Yes, Rick. Please let me come around you."

Without taking his eyes off me, he slides a hand from my hip between my legs and at the first contact of his fingers on my clit, I cry softly.

A knot forms in my abdomen and I ride him faster, "Oh God, you are the best man I know and I want you to cum inside me, please oh please...oh Rick I...please..."

I'm getting more and more whiny on him and he himself is always the more controlled one when it comes to sex, that's why he helps me maintain my movements and keeps coming with his hips towards me, "Of course...shhhh...relax...I...shit of course I'll cum inside you if that's what you want..."

Hectically I nod and squint my eyes as I realize I can barely hold myself back and gasp, "Now Rick...please now..."

I'm barely able to fight him off in any way as he pulls me to him and presses his lips hard to mine, moaning into my mouth, "Let go..."

I wince and press tightly against him as the knot inside me loosens and I tighten around him so tightly that I feel like my pussy wants to cling to him to pull him deeper inside me.

As I begin to pulse around him, he also begins to twitch inside me, saying my name, like a prayer.

Hoarsely I gasp again and again, "I love you. Fuck I love you so much." And his fingers on my hip squeeze so hard that I'm sure I won't get away without marks.

For a brief moment my eyes go black and I don't open them until I blink as Rick asks softly, "Are you okay?"

Still his softening cock is inside me and I know my cheeks must be red as I ask softly, "Did you like it?"

He licks his swollen lips and raises his hand to run his thumb over my lower lip, "Yes sweetheart. Thank you."

He spins us around so I'm on my back and he rolls off me to crawl out of bed.

Almost always Rick is on top of me, or at least does most of the work, and now I remember why that is.

It's exhausting as shit.

Breathing heavily, I lie on my back and follow Rick with my eyes as he disappears into the bathroom and then comes back to me with a damp towel in his hand.

I don't resist as he pushes my legs apart and gently cleans me up.

Weakly, I mumble, "How bad does it look?" Because I actually don't like it when he cleans me up after sex, even though it's incredibly sweet of him and nothing to be ashamed of, especially since he's no less to blame for how I look between my legs every time.

That's why he raises his eyebrows skeptically and says dangerously quietly, "Now cut the crap and just so you finally get it, you have no idea how much it turns me on when you make me come inside you and how hot it is to see my cum run out of you."

He's never said it so straight before and my heart stops for a brief moment.

We just look at each other and very briefly the thought comes to me, how it would be if I would always let him come inside me.

Until now, I've always tried to work out when it would be reasonably safe, although of course we've never had a guarantee of that either.

But now I'm thinking about what it would be like if I stopped calculating and we called his bluff.

What it would be like if Rick got me pregnant and I carried his child under my heart.

It's a brief thought and before I can stop myself, I utter the words, "Do you want a child with me?"

He pauses in his movement and stares at me, "What?"

With a pounding heart, I say, "How about we just try it and expand our little family? I'm young, Rick. I can still get pregnant and I would like to have a child with you someday. So why not do it now? Don't you want it?"

I chew on the inside of my cheeks as he slides his gaze over my face and he carelessly drops the towel on the floor, "I love you and that's why I'm saying no. Please let's not try. If it's by chance we can't change it, but I don't want to try it on purpose."

I don't know exactly what answer I was expecting, but certainly not one that would bring tears to my eyes with shame.

He makes it sound like the very thought is sucking all the life out of him and I clench my teeth tightly to keep from starting to cry, which of course he sees immediately and says softly, "Not that I wouldn't love to have a child by you, but I love you too much to force the risk of pregnancy on you and maybe it's selfish, but I don't want to live with the thought that I might be to blame for you dying during childbirth. Fuck, I wouldn't survive losing you. So no. I'm not going to consciously try to get you pregnant."

He slides down on the bed next to me, "Please understand. It's incredibly hard for me to deny you your wish, but I just can't."

Silently, I look at him and then nod.

I actually understand what he means, but I look him firmly in the eye, "Okay. That's where we are today."

He frowns and I gently continue, "But it's not final."

I was expecting rebuttals, or a telling off about how he certainly wouldn't change his mind, but he too nods slowly, "Okay. Today's status."

With those words, he takes me in his arms and I fall asleep pressed against his chest and snow outside our window.

The next morning I am awakened by a deep laugh and I press my face into my pillow as I ask, muffled by the fabric, "What's wrong?"

I pull the blanket further over my body because it's so damn cold and Rick coughs laughing, "Oh my god...how the fuck did you manage to cover me in this many hickies?!"

Groaning, I roll onto my back and lazily open my eyes. Immediately my eyes fall on his torso, which is covered in hickies.

Rick looks like a 16 year old who made out with his first girlfriend and she desperately wanted to immortalize herself on him.

It looks so ridiculous and hot at the same time that I laugh out loud and wink at him, "Sorry, but I'd say you're mine."

He playfully rolls his eyes and I stare at the hickies on his neck before he pulls a sweater over his head and says good-humoredly, "I look like a teenager but I love you anyway," and I stick out my tongue.

Even though he's a little older, it doesn't mean he's boring and can't take a joke. He is perfect and I love him more than anything in this world.

After that night, a couple of weeks go by as the winter mellows and I'm in the kitchen making breakfast for Rick, who came home late last night, when I feel like throwing up across the kitchen counter.

Without thinking, I run to the patio door and yank it open just in time to throw up in the flower bed next to it.

Tears run down my cheeks as I retch and can't get anything up.

It feels like I'm going to die and that's when it hits me.

I prop myself up on the ground with my hands and whisper "shit" over and over.

@hail-yourselves @bean-is-reading @chanlvr2 @criminalwalkingsupernatural @sunshinevirus @toxic-ink @kingtwhiddleston @bloodycherry22 @vane28282 @bamslover @revesephemeres @emo-potato-virgil @tropodyn @mrsashleybarnes18-blog @igotbasicdrag

(If anyone else would like to be tagged, just let me know 💗)

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes smut #rick grimes imagine #twd #twd x reader #the walking dead #request #andrew lincoln

[justatypicalwizard]

Midoriya cosinus reader who stays at his exclusive college dorm. Izuku is like the top student, top semi-pro hero and top sweetheart so no one batches an eye at his waaaay too big room (or should I say small apartment at this point...). When the old class A wants to hang out they always go to his place Ochako already there preparing snacks and drinks. Even though you were a new face they already liked you but the whole squad was kinda suprised when they saw you at the apartment that cold Winter Friday afternoon.

"Did your friends cancel?" Izuku asked, a worried curve to his brows.

You were supposed to be out, with some new friends from one of your courses. They were also supposed to be out, at least Izuku and Ochako. Uraraka wanted to go to that new cat-themed cafe downtown and today they were supposed to go on a date.

"Yeah, they did." Your head bounced back and forth, an uneasy smile on your face.

"The cafe was packed and the line was like two hours so we decided to go home." Izuku came closer to where you stood, propped up one of the many doors in the apartment. "Turned out that Mina, Kirishima and Kaminari also waited in the queue, way behind us."

"Yeah, so we dumped that cafe and called everyone here!" Kaminari basically shouted in you face as he took his coat off. A small green box falling out of his pocket.

"Could you throw me the charger? It's in the drawer." Izuku asked, already heading for the open kitchen to put the alcohol in the fridge and crisps into bowls.

You looked at the drawer, not even two meters away drom where you stood.

"I brought back your game!" Kaminari still shouted as if everyone in the room were deaf.

"Put it in the closet with the rest of the games. You know which one." Izuku's voice came out of the fridge.

Just as you stretched to grab the charger, not even moving your feet properly, Kaminari reached for the doorknob of the closet, above the curve of your hip.

"Sorry, I need to open..."

"No! Don't open!" You shouted but it was too late.

With a thud and a 'fuck you dunce face' out of the closet fell a shirtless Bakugo.

The room was quiet for a few seconds before it bursted with questions, accusations, laughter and what, at one point, looked like agony on Kaminari's face when he learned that you and Bakugo were already fucking for some time.

#scenario floating around my empty head #bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki #bakugo #katsuki #mha

[staying-elive]

A collection of my thoughts and headcanons to improve TFATWS

(Warning: Long post ahead!)

I was rewatching The Last of Us the other night and I really appreciated how, in a 9 episode (10 really with the 2ep pilot), it delivered so much plot momentum while still delving into multiple characters' backstories, with multiple episodes almost entirely devoted to flashbacks.

Like... with a somewhat modified plot and longer run time, TFATWS could've added so much backstory for both Sam and Bucky. Hell, they didn't mind spending CGI de-aging money on Fury in Secret Invasion so we could've used a little here too, no?

So, in a similar series structure, we could've had a 2ep opening pilot, really setting the foundational themes, then after Walker gets introduced as Walmart Cap, the next episode (after the recap) could've opened with an almost entirely flashback episode of Sam's time in the air force. (Walker might’ve even been in Afghanistan at the same time, depending on age/Blip years, etc. if you wanted to show them crossing paths, show Walker's always been entitled and a loose cannon, etc).

The episode could've A) shown Sam's awesome Falcon skills as a pararescue, B) given us Riley, whose loss we'd see echoed in Sam's grief and mixed emotions about Steve (and NAT!), and C) could've shown more Sam's reasons for being anti-authority and anti-institutional power, and a distrust in power structures that change their minds and agendas.

A headcanon I've had for a while is that even though Sam and Riley were trained and deployed as pararescue, eventually, maybe after their first tour trialling the EXO-7s, the military higher-ups realised that the Falcons could get in and out of certain regions/facilities, far better than a lot of other special forces crew. This meant that very quickly, Sam and Riley were being pulled from their pararescue unit and sent on more and more ops that weren't what they signed up for. Weren't of the 'rescue and recovery, saving people, bringing them home' variety. And this would weigh heavily on Sam's morals. Not only does he either not get all the info on these ops or doesn't agree with them, but he's also leaving his unit, the 58th, without him. Which could lead to guilt if some of his fellow soldiers are killed or wounded and not rescued in time, because the Falcons weren't there to save them. And of course, Riley's eventually death perhaps resulting from one of these dangerous ops. (Covered up officially as that 'standard night mission' which is all Sam's allowed to say.)

I think something like that could've shown Sam's disillusionment with government agencies and military institutions (especially when propped up by propaganda). And mirrored comments made by both Steve and Sam in Winter Solider and Civil War.

"The people giving me orders are down to zero..."

"Agendas change."

"What if this sends us somewhere we don't think we should go? What if there's somewhere we need to go and they don't let us?"

"How long you gonna play both sides?"

Part of Sam's reluctance in taking up the shield could've been his past experience in his abilities being turned to something he didn't sign up for and ultimately misused. (Also a parallel to Bucky!) A conversation prior to Riley's death, between him and Sam, could've shown that growing distrust in what they've been made to do.

Anyway, then (this post's already too long lol), later in the season, there's an almost entirely Bucky-centric flashback episode (like Ellie's ep7 in TLoU). Maybe Sam's injured and in hospital after the fight with Walker for the shield (but also Lemar doesn't get killed, because i say so), and this leaves Bucky in crisis mode for personal and plot reasons.

I haven't nailed down the specifics of these flashbacks as much, but the general scope would include: Bucky being drafted (not freely enlisting), seeing his family happy pre-War (little Rebecca?!), Hydra (not torture porn, just as in he's turned into a weapon and ties in with his guilt/list later), hiding out post CAWS (bonus points if Sam DID find Bucky first, I can't help it 😉), isolation, but sees someone that embodies so much that's good and worth believing in (Sam), starting to heal in Wakanda (like with Ayo) (again, bonus points if Sam's there at least once).

All that to say, Bucky's themes could highlight his displacement and disenfranchisement from his time, all his family, himself, and that clawing back of identity and belief in Good Things. And because in my scenario, I have Sam incapacitated to prompt this time of Bucky self-reflection, these flashbacks show that Sam is one of those Good Things that Bucky has grown to believe in and gravitate to. Which shows onscreen WHY he's been so adamant that Sam take up the shield. (Even though he went about this is a counter-intuitive and unhelpful way, we can fix this too). Sam inspired good in him, 'brought him home' (pararescue parallel!), and Bucky believes Sam can do the same for a broken world.

*Sam obviously wakes up, plot continues, he goes home while Bucky (being unable to verbalise yet everything we the audience now understands) has gone off to find Zemo, beg Wakanda for a fancy, over the top, 'I'm sorry I've been a dick, but I love you, I believe in you, and this is here should you choose it and if you need it' apology proposal present.

(I jest. This can all be read as strictly MCU-approved platonic. But this is tumblr, and me, so let's be real 😉)

I also would add, in the last episode, when Bucky is in NY, a scene of him contacting an older Rebecca. (Maybe this is something Sam asks him early in the show if he's done yet and Bucky brushes off, aggravated. Showing that he knows he has family alive, but his fear and other issues have been keeping him from reaching out - like what's kept him from Sam.) Because then you have back to back scenes of Bucky reconnecting to his old family, leading right into the dock party with Sam (his new family!) Visually showing he's healing that bridge of displacement and isolation.

Anyway, if you've stuck around to the end, thank you! That's how I would've incorporated flashbacks into a rough approximation of a TFATWS show to flesh out Sam and Bucky in relation to the show's themes and each other. (Obviously, we could fix all the Flagsmasher, power broker, serum stuff too. But the general plot outline still works for the purpose of this idea.)

Thanks for reading 😘

#i've forgotten so much while writing this #and the formatting kept doing weird things since i typed this on my phone #i hope this makes sense #tfatws #sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky headcanons #sam wilson meta #i'll be very surprised if anyone reads to the end of this #long post #this is what i mean when i say all my headcanons interlink into one giant mega rewrite of tweaks #sam wilson headcanons #staying-elive #sambucky meta #tfatws meta

[moments-on-film]

I really enjoy watching and analyzing The Bear. On my rewatches, I have noticed and written about numerous themes, connections, lines, acting choices and plot points that weave and connect together in beautiful ways. Rewatching and analyzing often exposes other things as well. Some are a little odd to me, to the point where I made the list below:

Season 1

The Timeline. I’m not going to fully get into this, but the timeline on this show is confusing. I think it’s because they shot the pilot episode in the summer and the rest of S1 and all of S2 in the winter/early spring. I’ll just leave it at that, but for example, how we get from a few months after Michael’s death (February) to his birthday, (in November) over the span of the first 3 episodes doesn’t gel with the dialogue. The prop of the card that shows Michael’s birthday and day he passed is what I am basing the dates on. Was this a props error? The pilot is so clearly summer in Chicago and in the rest of the episodes in S1 it is clearly freezing.

Cigarettes. Throughout S1 snd S2, the cigarettes Carmy smokes vacillate between light cigarettes with white filters, and regular ones with dark beige filters. No one just switches between lights and regulars who seriously smokes, as Carmy does, making it feel like a props mistake.

Chain. Carmen is wearing a complexly different chain necklace in the pilot episode vs the rest of S1 and S2.

Hand washing/double spoon use. The scene where Carmy “washes” his hands at the end of 1x2 is bizarre. He puts soap on them and then dries them off immediately with paper towels without using water again or looking down. It’s the only time we ever see him wash his hands so it really sticks out as abnormal and totally out of character. He’s a smoker and coming from fine dining and there has been/still is a pandemic. He would have washed his hands throughly here to show how much attention to detail his character puts into his work. Michael, by contrast, is seen washing his hands fully in 1x6. Was this an editing error? It might have been. It really took me out of the scene the first time I saw it. After he does this, he uses a spoon to taste something, puts it into his mouth, and then uses that same spoon to move chicken in a pan. I think this was an editing mistake, like maybe they cut out the part where he uses a new spoon, but as is, it makes it look like Carmy doesn’t care about cleanliness, which, after watching him obsessively scrub the kitchen on his hands and knees earlier in the episode, makes no sense.

Possible contamination. Carmy touches his face while making hotdogs in 1x4. Uncle Jimmy is telling a story and he’s laughing and it’s clearly very cold outside, but he wipes at his nose and face and then shakes his hands off over the food he’s prepping. This was one of the very, very few moments to me that felt out of character. Carmy would have reflexes to not contaminate food from his years of service, especially the years under microscope scrutiny from the chef in New York.

Camera is visible. You can see the camera person in 1x8 in the reflection of the glass door when Carmy goes to open the door and get the order from the delivery guy.

Carmy’s fingernails. Throughout S1, and in S2, Carmy’s fingernails are trimmed, buffed, neat and clean. I looked for this in every scene, as it helps us understand his character and how seriously he takes his himself and his craft. It also provides a sharp contrast to Richie (in S1), whose nails are visibly dirty, causing us to distrust him and not take him seriously as someone who should be handling food. However, in arguably the most important moment of S1, when Carmy texts Sydney, and then opens the envelope from Mikey, his thumbnail on his left hand is too long and looks unclean. Actor’s nails fall under the jurisdiction of the makeup department so I’m confused why they didn’t realize there was going to be a major closeup on his hands in this scene and fix them if they were not camera ready. It’s the only time in S1 or S2 his nail looks off and it’s an extreme closeup. I noticed it the first time I watched this scene and it really took me out of the moment. I cringe every time I see that nail. In the next scene when he’s making the spaghetti, this nail is neat and clean again, so to me, the prior scene was a mistake.

Season 2

Lockers. Carmy has switched his locker to the other side of the wall. In S1, his is on the left. In S2, it’s on the right. Usually your locker is YOUR locker. This was odd, but it set up the Sydney/Carmy scene well and maybe Carmy moved to be closer to Mikey’s locker.

Tattoos. You can see the actor Jeremy Allen White’s personal E.Z. tattoo on his arm when he’s in his apartment before he sits in the chair in 2x1. There’s no makeup on it at all. It’s completely visible. This tattoo is not Carmy’s, it’s the actor’s, and I think he has said before that it’s his mother’s initials. This tattoo has always been covered with makeup. I don’t understand how this oversight from the makeup department made the final cut.

Different vs differently. In 1x5, Sydney tells Carmy about her catering company, Sheridan Road. “Not a night goes by that I don’t think about what I could have done different.” In 2x3, Natalie tells Carmy, “I don’t want to be treated any different.” In both instances the word differently should have been used. It’s not proper English otherwise. The characters don’t need to speak perfect English, that’s not the point, but these episodes were written by the same person, so that might be why both characters use the same word.

Area codes. I am so baffled by this, I’m still thinking about it. In the beginning of 2x6, there’s a sign on the wall in Donna’s house with everyone’s name and phone number written on it. On this prop, the name Michael is actually spelled wrong, as “Micheal”. Carmen and Michael’s area codes are both listed as (913). Carmen’s area code is well established as 773, which he literally has tattooed on his arm, and it’s in the script, as he verbally says his phone number to the fridge guy and then Claire in 2x2. Michael’s area code was (847), per the script, via Richie to Uncle Jimmy in 1x4. The (913) area code is for Kansas. I don’t understand why the area codes would be for Kansas and not the ones that we already established were theirs, for Chicago, and the suburbs of Chicago, 5 years before present day in the timeline of The Bear.

Eleven Madison PARK. Richie insults Carmy in 1x1, calling him “Eleven Madison Park dic@&ead.” In the coda to this line in 2x8, Carmy calls Richie “Eleven Madison dic@&ead.” Park should have been part of that line for it to fully connect, as it’s the name of the NYC restaurant where Carmy worked, and he’s saying the line, so it should have been the same here for consistency.

The card from Michael to Carmen “I love you dude. Let it rip” is written differently in S1 and S2. The handwriting doesn’t match. It looks like a different prop.

Left handed staff/actors. In 2x9, Carmy freaks out about the pan station. “These should be on the right side because we are all right handed.” This line of dialogue is not true of the actors on this show. If you watch closely in season 1 and 2, BOTH actors portraying Tina and Ebrahim are actually left handed. The actor playing Manny is left handed, and the actor playing Richie favors his left hand as well. This line should have been cross checked with the various Actor’s actual physicality because it doesn’t really make sense.

Food runners. Why are the food runners not running food in 2x10? They stand in the background most of the time and don’t move, even when Carmy and Sydney are yelling for hands. No one moves when Carmy says he needs hands please for PX table 31, Claire’s table, but three food runners are standing directly behind him and completely ignore him. It’s their first night on the job and Carmy is the Executive Chef and owner. They should have helped run food or not been in the shot because it’s confusing.

I really enjoy analyzing this show, and see and greatly appreciate all of the creativity, energy, effort, talent and passion that has clearly been poured into it by the entire creative team. This post is not meant to do anything other than point out the few moments I noticed that made me pause and say, wait, what?

Are there any others that you noticed?

#the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #my thoughts

[k9wa]

𑣲 IN WINTER, I COLLAPSE. ft haruchiyo sanzu.

⠀ — when an emotional tolerance reaches a whopping zero.

⚠︎ whats a vent fic lol idk wym. sad sack reader && sad themes and u get the idea. kantou!sanzu && gn reader (princess used once)

“let's go for a walk.”

sanzu watched, somewhat startled, as you sprung up from his bed. remaining lying on his back, he stared, missing the warmth that had been abruptly stolen from his chest. the look on his face would almost lead you to believe you had an extra head on your shoulders.

he peered to the clock on his bedside table.

“…it’s three in the morning.”

“so?”

“so let’s go at a normal fucking hour, i'm tired.”

he rolled over onto his side, fluffing a pillow to try and find a comfortable position. you only responded with a huff. when he didn’t feel your weight return to the mattress beside him, he turned (while suppressing a very dramatic groan) back around to see you shimmying on a pair of sweatpants.

“suit yourself, i'll be back in a little.” 

sanzu could have let his eyes roll back into the deepest part of his skull. before you could exit his bedroom, he brushed some hair out of his face, the hues of rose muddled by the lack of light, and propped himself up on his elbows.

“oi.”

you took a quick glance behind you.

“let me get dressed, i’ll drive us.”

“i wanna walk.”

“you’re gonna be too tired to walk back, i’m not listenin’ to yer cryin’ and moanin’.”

sanzu watched you cross your arms and turn back around. 

“i’m just gonna walk.” and leave.

you didn't hear the hasty footsteps behind you until you were halfway down the stairs to his apartment, and the cool february air was already biting your skin.

“will you fuckin’ slow down?”

any other day you’d without fail speed up to piss him off, but you halt.

“i never said i wouldn’t go.”

throughout your impromptu walk down the street, you bathed in silence. the overcast sky and grey clouds hiding the moon away were more than enough to make said silence feel heavier than it was.

your eyes, normally unfocused and flickering around to whatever catches their attention, were chained to your shoes. your hands, usually glued to his own, were locked away in the pockets of your his jacket. sanzu didn't like how…dejected you looked. 

“hey.” 

haruchiyo spoke up, his quiet voice resonating faintly through the deserted streets. you stopped on one foot, finally looking up and beside you. he grabbed you by your fingers and began pulling you along, towards a park you otherwise would have passed,

“come sit.”

 towards a barren swing set.

“you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you?” 

you were on the swing next to sanzu when he turned to look at you. he nearly missed your feeble shoulder shrug.

“dunno what you’re talking about.” you were speaking through pouted lips, once more refusing to make eye contact with him. you twisted and fiddled with a small ring on your baby finger, your cheek wedged between your teeth.

“tellin’ me you wanted to walk around in the freezing cold for fun?”

“your room was too warm.”

yeah, and that’s why you were clinging to him before leaving, right? sanzu shakes his head.

“at three in the morning?”

“no time like the present.

he clenched his jaw.

“you’re in slippers.”

“bad shoe ergonomics can cause terrible long term problems, haruchiyo.”

“cut the bullshit. talk to me.”

you didn’t.

once more, only the sporadic sound of a car passing the park could be heard for miles around. did you even want to speak? was venting the feelings swirling around in your brain worth the effort? was it worth the possibility of feeling worse after acknowledging them? did you have the strength, or even the innermost self-knowledge, to express your thoughts?

…it was worth a shot, right? to at least try and climb out of the black hole that was your brain? just this once?

“…i think something in my head is fundamentally broken.”

sanzu raised his head at your abrupt remark. he was waiting for you to go on, but you stopped.

“what makes you say that?”

you look up from the ground for only the second time since your departure. smoke is being produced out your nose from your breathing, and the rusted street light to your right is illuminating it.

“i don’t think i know how to just exist.”

sanzu wrinkles his brow.

“everyone else can do it. everyone else can just— can just be. i can’t do that. it’s not fair.”

your eyes fell to the mulch underneath your feet again. haruchiyo slowly nodded along.

“it’s so fucking exhausting, you know? to see everyone around you just live? while the whole time you’re watching, all you can think is: ‘why can’t i do that? is there something wrong with me?’”

your weight caused the rusty swing chains to creak.

it’s a me thing. it’ll always be a me thing. and it’s not like i can just rewire my brain to work right. something in it is just busted and it’ll always be like that.”

“hey.”

haruchiyo interrupted. he finally stood up from his swing– (unable to ignore just how cold his ass was from the melted snow on his pants–) and walked in front of you, placing both his hands on your shoulders. he bent to rub the back of your head as it dropped tiredly against his stomach, as if holding it up any longer was far too demanding.

“there’s nothin’ wrong with you. don’t say shit like that.”

your hands reached weakly for his waist, fingers pink and numb from the cold, trembling either from the weather or the effort your body was putting in to keep you from crying. how feebly you clung to him almost caused him to frown.

“i don’t wanna do it anymore. i’m tired.”

sanzu helped you to stand up so he could properly embrace you. he tucked your head protectively under his chin, his body heat bringing the warmth return to your frostbitten cheeks while he rubbed circles on your shoulder blades.

“i know, princess.” he hoped that the wet spot forming on his shirt was just more melted snow.

sanzu really did know. it wasn’t so much of an attempt at comfort as it was him truly saying he knew how you felt. after all, the strong aren’t always born noble. 

“the world is un-fuckin’-bearable sometimes,” he began, “the one thing you can’t let it do is eat you alive.

you’re not weak. you’ll be alright.”

you sniffled. “i think it’s fucking stupid.”

at that, he snorted, shaking his head and pulling you away from him. your cheeks were dried off by cold hands, and your red nose was kissed by even colder lips.

“thanks.” 

haruchiyo ruffled your hair.

“don’t try’n keep me out of your head next time. you know i’ll break my way in there if i hafta.” his arm perfectly encircled your shoulders as he drew you back to his side. your lips curved into a thin smile

“i'll try. no promises, though.”

he pinched your arm, earning a chuckle from you.

“cmon, let's go back to my place.”

the dull winter scenery was becoming a bit depressing. the realisation that you had to walk all the way back was the only thing more upsetting.

the walk back was much nicer, having felt like all the weights on your shoulders were left on the rickety kids swing.

on your journey, what no one could have expected was your groaning and complaining.

“holy shit it’s fucking freezing, why didn’t we take your bike?”

sanzu pushed you into a nearby snow bank.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

#aarararagshfhhh #haruchiyo sanzu #sanzu haruchiyo #sanzu x reader #haruchiyo x reader #sanzu hcs #sanzu angst #sanzu fluff #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev imagine #tokyo revengers fanfiction #sanzu scenarios #tokrev sanzu #bonten sanzu #kantou manji gang #UNEARTHLY