Summary: Though the marriage is cold, the reader finds a love for her new husband's young son. He's a sweet boy that quickly accepts her. Cregan, usually cold and hardened, begins to soften for her.
A marriage to the Warden of the North was one of duty.Â
After the death of Cregan's first wife, his first love and childhood friend, a second marriage was quickly proposed by his advisers and here you were.Â
Your father was overjoyed at the news. A small banner house like yours should feel honored to have such a union with the noble house Stark.
But Winterfell was cold and Cregan seemed⊠indifferent to you.
There was only one true highlight to your days: Rickon Stark.
Cregan's son of 18 moons now, Rickon inherited his father's looks but none of his aloofness. He was a glad child, chubby and giggly. And though he was not your own, there was some motherly instinct that pulled you to him.
Thus, you spent your time avoiding Cregan. And instead, playing with little Rickon.
What you didn't know was that Cregan noticed it. Of course, he did.Â
He would watch you two in doorways, from balconies, far enough to not interfere, but close enough to see the way your eyes twinkled with little Rickon.Â
Your eyes didn't twinkle like that with him.Â
âŠÂ
You were currently outside, the two of you bundled up, as you played in the snow.Â
Rickon jumped happily, kicking with his pudgy legs. His coordination was still often tested. But with the snow so thick, it cushioned his falls.Â
You scooped up a handful of the white powder and tossed in the air. He giggled as it fell around you.Â
He always had this way of making your days happier just by being in them.Â
It quickly turned to a game of tag. You ran around the snowy courtyard, trying to give the boy a chance. He'd spend half of his energy just trying to turn around in his heavy furs, then shriek to see you so close to catching him. When you caught him, you spun him around in your arms. You pretended to drop him once, making his face turn pink in happiness.Â
When you set him down, it was his turn to chase you. You happily obliged, barely speed-walking to keep the distance manageable. You gave a mock sound of fright when he got too close.Â
You saw a heavy snow pile nearby and plopped yourself into it. Rickon laughed and crawled up after you, wrapping his arms around your neck as if "catching you." The two of you were pink, from both laughing and the cold.Â
"Lady Stark."
You sat up with true fright this time, wrapping an arm around Rickon in your lap to keep him steady. Your hair was covered in snow and you no doubt looked a fool.Â
Lord Stark stood there, shoulders wide and back straight. His head tilted as he studied the two of you. "What are you doing out in the cold?"
The happiness that was warming you left, making you realize just how cold you were starting to get. "I⊠forgive me, my lord. Rickon merely wanted to play."
Rickon, immune to the tension between his two favorite people, trudged his way to Cregan, arms extended out.Â
"There's my boy," he murmurs, already reaching down to pick him up. He does it with ease.Â
You'd seen his biceps a few times nowâ you knew lifting a 10 kg toddler was no hardship for him.
"You just wanted to play?" He asked him, blue eyes searching. Rickon nodded happily, hands coming to his father's face. When the Warden got whatever answer he was looking for, he turned to you again. "Is your ladies' tea not soon?"
You shy, standing and trying to brush some of the snow from your cloak. "Another hour but yes."
"An hour?" His brows furrowed. "An hour and you are not in your chambers preparing?"
You sigh. It felt like half of your day was spent in your chambers trying to look presentable. "Once this snow has fallen from my cloak, that is presentable enough. Rickon asked me to play with him, and that was far more important."
Saying such a thing was foolish. Cregan might begin to believe that you wanted to neglect your duties as his Lady. But it did quite the opposite.Â
He blinked, mind unsure, lips parted, as he tried to register the fact that you believe his child to be important.
It was a deep fear he'd never voiced. That a second wife may cause a rift with Rickon.Â
But it seemed he was worried for naught.Â
"ItâŠ" he stumbled over his words for a moment before hardening. "Get inside before you freeze."
You obeyed without resistance, not wanting to anger him anymore than you believed you already had.Â
He cursed under his breath. He hated his own harshness sometimes.Â
As Cregan trailed in far behind you, Rickon rambled about what he did outside. The Warden tried to pay attention to his son, but part of his mind was on his second wife and how you dropped everything just to entertainment his boy.Â
âŠ
That night, a servant comes to your bedchamber late, saying Cregan was calling on you.Â
As he did occasionally.Â
You gave a polite nod, dressing in your robe. After all, he was calling you just to do your marital duties. There was no point in dressing up if he was just going to hike your skirts up anyway.Â
It was a bit later in the night than he usually called for you, but you hardly noticed as you walked down the corridor.Â
On regular nights, you'd enter and the two of you would awkwardly stare at one another for a moment until you laid yourself on his bed.Â
He didn't touch you more than he had to. Didn't take his time to make you preen. You figured he was just not interested in you. And that was alright. You were not Arra, and nothing would change that.Â
But this time, you opened the door to see him still in his day clothes. He sat by the hearth of his large room. His head didn't snap at the sound of your entrance. Not like he usually did. He stared at the flames.Â
You stood there in the doorway for a moment, waiting for him to take initiative. Or even just to acknowledge you. But he didn't.
"M⊠My lord?" Your voice carried, softer than you wanted. "I was told you called for me. If you did not⊠I apologizeâ"
"I've been thinking," he interrupts, eyes still on the red hearth. "About things."
"I understand," you try to ease. "Being the Warden leaves your mind quite occupied. If you wish for me to come back at a better time, I will."
"No. I've been thinking about you."
That's when his head finally turns to you, eyes right on yours. There's something knowing, something scrutinizing, something almost soft. It's complicated, but it fills you with both warmth and a chill.
"Oh," is all you manage out.Â
The edges of his lips twitch in amusement. "Oh?"
"I⊠I'm confused, my lord."
"'S alright." He waves a paw of his in a beckoning gesture. "Come sit with me."
You shut the door, your feet cold and pattering across the floor.Â
You sit so politely on the chair next to the settee Cregan is on. He's spread out, naturally from his broad frame, but also in his relaxed state.Â
You won't admit it, but his room was always warmer than yours. It was quite nice.
The silence settles over the two of you as Cregan's gaze gets hazy with deep thoughts once more.
Worries started to flood you. "I know I have not been a proper wife to you." You miss the way his expression hardens. "But I can do better. Be better. For you. If you want to give me a second chance." You find yourself fidgeting with the hem of your robe. "I understand if not, as well. Wherever you send me will be fine."
You can feel his gaze on you now, but you refuse to meet it. The embarrassment was already warming your cheeks enough.Â
"You think," he speaks uncharacteristically soft, "that I called you in here to send you away?"
"I understand if you did, my lord. Being the Lady Stark is a task that not many can do. If I've disappointed you, then I apologize."
Then, he begins to laugh. Not a loud one, not a demanding one. Quiet. Much like the rest of him.Â
Cregan was a quiet man, but everything he did was noticeable all the same. Not because he demanded attention, but because he earned it.Â
"Too kind for the likes of me, my girl." He shifts in his seat, grunting like an old man whose muscles ached after sitting for long amounts of time. "Calm yourself. Why are your shoulders always so tense?"
You try to force yourself to relax, dropping your shoulders immediately. It did little to ease you inside.Â
His head tilts. "I'm not sending you away. Far from it."
A breath leaves your lips in relief. Now, your shoulders truly begin to slack. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for a second chanceâ"
"Quiet," he teases, raising a hand up. "This is not a second chance. You had not ruined your first. Tell me." He leans forward, resting his wrists on the top of his knees. "Do you love me?"
You hesitated. You loved the North. Winterfell. Rickon. But did you love Cregan?
He already detected an answer in the silence. "I see." His tongue ran over his teeth. "I hold no anger towards you for it. You love my son. I see that now. I suppose that's all I need."
"Oh, yes. I love him very much," you can't help smiling about. "He's a cheery boy."
"Aye." He runs a hand over his chin. "You've made him so. He was⊠rather quiet afterâŠ" he stopped.Â
You hum. "He just needed someone to play with, I think."
"He needed someone to listen to him. To care for him. And you're doing so. Thank you, my lady."
"Do not thank me for that. I did not do it for your favor."
"I know that. I do."
You take a moment. "I still don't understand what you were thinking about then? Were you thinking of children? Is that why you called for me?"
"Hm? Oh, gods no. Well," he's suddenly stumbling over himself. "I didn't call you in here to sleep with you. Not tonight. I want to know you a bit more. That's all. I can't help but believe that I've been the poor one. You've moved from your home, everything you know. I have not even tried to help you adapt. Even after your kindness to my house⊠our house."
"Our house?"
"Aye. Our house."
"I do like that⊠our house."
Something jumps in his heart when you smile at him.Â
He didn't think such a thing would affect him. But he finds himself nervous like a young boy again, wanting to keep that joy on your face.Â
"It's quite late, my lord. Perhaps I should return to my chambers. If I may."
He takes a deep breath. "Of course. Sleep well, my sweet lady."
The walk back to your room leaves you with a lot to think about. Cregan⊠intimidating Cregan⊠finally extended a hand to you. He wants to know you. It feels a bit late, but better he wants to know you at all, even late.Â
But something about him was still a bit frightening. You'd heard rumors of things he'd done as Warden. Like any hardened Stark, he'd killed men. He'd done horrid things, won battles. His hands were far from soft.Â
Could his grip be gentle enough, despite callused palms? You weren't sure you wanted to find out.Â
Still, there was something about him that you loved.Â
You told yourself it was because Rickon shared his eyes.Â
âŠ
There you were in Rickon's little chamber, playing on the ground with him.
Rickon was not a spoiled child, despite what you were sure many northerners believed. Cregan kept a strict house, teaching Rickon from a young age to not take things for granted.Â
No, Rickon had only a few toys. But even those, he was eternally grateful for. His father carved a new one for his every name day. Most of his toys were the gifts from his name days, where other lords would bring various things for him.Â
His favorite was the wooden wolf Cregan had carved. It was a hardy thing, smoothed to perfection. The snout was broad, paws large. A male dire wolf.Â
Rickon loved it very much.Â
He would hand you one of his other toys so that you could play alongside him. Today's was a hare.Â
You gigged at him. "Am I to be prey?"
He giggled back, answering you with a firm nod.Â
"I suppose I must be quick, then?"
On the rug you played for far too long. His direwolf would catch your hare with ease. He'd growl like he believed the animal would, then restart the hunt all over again.Â
If you ever had any question that he was a Stark, this answered it.Â
After catching your hare for the fifth time, you heard Cregan's presence in the doorway. You cocked your head back but said nothing.Â
His eyes moved from you to the 'violent' scene of Rickon pretending to eat your hare. His brows raised. "He's not giving you a fair chance, is he?"
"I'm a hare against a direwolf, Lord Stark. It's only truthful."
"I dunno." He steps in, his frame taking up more space in the room than you thought. He bent down on his knees. "Easy, son." He interferes, saving your hare. "Hares are quick, don't you know? It's hard to catch something so delicate." His eyes flicker to you before going right back to the mission at hand. "They can be too fast if you're not careful. Sometimes you have to decide if they're worth the hunt."
Rickon half listens, his eyes on each toy as his father holds them up. "Sometimes, direwolves must soften, be merciful. What if, this time, you let the hare get away?"
The toy is pressed to your palm, a glimmer in Cregan's eyes that you didn't notice before.Â
The scenario plays again, and Rickon let the hare go. Both you and the boy look to the Warden to seek approval.Â
Cregan smiles at his son. "Good. That was good."
Rickon just as quickly hands the direwolf to his father and moves to entertain himself with something else.Â
He twirls the wood in his hand, looking over every detail, but not truly seeing it.Â
The hare in your own stills. "How do you know which hares are worth chasing, my lord?"
He thought for a moment, before he pushed back a smile. "I only chase hares that are kind enough to let young direwolves win the hunt every time."
Your cheeks warm.Â
"Tell me, my lady, would you let an older wolf win the chase as well?"
Your thumb runs over the face of the little toy. "He must run fast but⊠perhaps."
A sudden red comes up his neck. You made the Warden blush.Â
The man whose hands were metaphorically painted in red blood. No, you reddened his skin in an entirely different way with a mere tease.Â
"Perhaps," he whispered like a promise. "Perhaps he will."
"He sounds determined. I heard predators give up if the chase is too difficult."
"Aye, most would. Is that why you haven't been caught yet?" He placed the toy down, leaning into you with a lower voice. "I'm an efficient hunter, my lady, should you decide you want to be hunted."
Your eyes flit to him, finding him not far now. His gaze is purely on you, drifting down to your lips once.Â
You nervously turn away, unsure how to answer.
He chews at his bottom lip, accepting the way you did not jump at the opportunity. No matter. He's patient, and you will come when you are ready.Â
He stands, clearing his throat. "I originally came to ask if you wished to attend petitions with me. But it seems you're quite busy here."
"It is important work, but I would like to attend. Since you invited me. I'm sure Rickon could be entertained by his nursemaid for a while."
He extends a hand to you, helping you up from the floor. You don't remember him being so careful natured. As soon as you're up, you pull away.Â
"Rickon could attend as well," he suggests.Â
"He could? It would be distracting enough to have me there, much less a boy. I don't want you to feel as ifâ"
"As if what?" He asks, tone suddenly hardened.Â
"IâŠ"
"No. Tell me. Tell me why you and Rickon would be a burden to me. And I will tell you why you are wrong."
When you don't respond, he softens. "You are no burden to me." He takes your hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Never. Rickon is a part of me, as are you now." He kisses your knuckles so softly, you barely feel it. But his eyes stay on you. "Tell me again. Would you like to come to petitions with me?"
You only nod. And soon, Rickon is scooped in one of his arms, his other hand wrapped around your own.Â
Any lord that is surprised to see the three of you enter together quickly covers it.Â
Rickon stays on Cregan's lap most of the time, content with the direwolf in his hand. He bangs it on the table, even growls a few times.Â
He growled once at a lord he didn't like, and Cregan did nothing to stop him. He didn't like the lord either.Â
Petitions ran long, and soon Rickon was growing tired. He reached for you.Â
You naturally took him without question. It made Cregan warm.Â
Rickon curled up with ease, nose tucked into your shoulder. And with just a few squirms, he was fast asleep.Â
Towards the end, Cregan reached out for your hand. You let him intertwine his fingers with your own.
And it felt natural.Â
âŠ
Time with Cregan became more common. You'd walk outdoors together, play with Rickon. Even silence in the library was nice, for it was still together.
And finally, you'd decided that yes, you did want the Wolf of the North. You wanted him to chase you. To want you. To have you in the proper way a husband should.
One night, when the two of you had spent long hours in the library (because neither of you wanted to part), you made the first move.Â
You closed the tome you were reading from, choosing instead to move to Cregan's side of the table.Â
He watches you, though pretends not to.Â
"I'm tired of this," you declare to him.Â
He finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. "Aye? Of what exactly?"
"Of⊠well, I'm not sure." You pull out the chair next to him, sitting down.Â
He turns to you, giving his full attention. "You're tired, but have no knowledge of what or why?"
"I am tired of⊠Do you remember what you said, a few weeks ago? With those toys with Rickon?"
"I do," he answers with ease. It had been at the forefront of his mind since it had happened.Â
"I want that. You and I⊠I think."
Something lit behind his eyes. There was no indication that he heard you besides the small turn of his head. "Aye?"
"If that's alright. If you are still offering itâ"
"Can I kiss you?"
You still. "You've kissed me before Cregan. You need not ask."
"I do," he insisted. "Those⊠they were not like this. Not like what I want with you. Can I kiss you, my girl?"
You nod, cut short by his hands on you suddenly. He pulls you to him, lips capturing your own.Â
You all but melt into his hold. He'd held you a bit. Kissed you just a bit. But he was right. Not like this.Â
The kisses beforeâ they were meaningless, a mere guilty habit between two political figures that were expected to produce heirs.Â
This one was hungry, filled with something you couldn't explain. A final climax to a building tension of months. It was warm and purposeful, not to ease guilt, but to prove something else insteadâ that he loved you. A hand cups your cheek, the other at your arm to pull you closer.
You kissed back just as quickly. Your own hand goes to his wrist, obeying his plea to have you near.Â
It doesn't take long for you to find yourself in his lap.Â
Your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and experimentally pull, earning a growl from your wolf's throat.Â
His lips part from yours to start kissing down your neck. You let him, hands tightening your grip. "I'd have ya if you let me," he huffs against your skin. "Clear this fucking table and have my way with you, hm? Show you how often I think of ya."
You groan in satisfaction when he nips a soft spot. "Kiss me."
No hesitation, he returns his mouth to your own, his tongue moving across your bottom lip. "Love you," he tries to speak between kisses, though muffled. "I love you so fucking much. My girl, aren't you?"
"Just wanna kiss you," you whine.Â
He pulls back just enough to be teasing. He looks into your eyes, hazy with intent. "As my lady wants," he purrs.Â
His hands roam over your lower back, arms wrapped around you to keep you against him.Â
His lips connect with yours again, sweeter and slower.Â
âŠ
The next day, as you go to Rickon's room, you find Cregan already there. He's speaking lowly to him, as he tends to do when teaching him things.Â
"It's important to respect a she-wolf. This one is a match for your direwolf." In his hand is a new toy, the she-wolf in question. It's a bit smaller, with more narrow shoulders. "They work together, yes? The direwolf here, he loves the she-wolf. When he hunts, he hunts for her. He cares for her. Understand?" When Rickon nods, he's satisfied. "Good. Go play now."
Cregan stands, leaving the boy to his devices. His back straightens, large and imposing. Then he freezes, chin up. You hear it, the way he takes a deep inhale. Then he begins to chuckle. "Knew I smelled a sweet scent." He turns, eyes on you with a grin. "What are you doing here?"
"I was merely being curious of your lessons. A new carving?" You see how he shies, giving a small shrug. "It looks nice. He seems to love it."
Rickon peers up, quickly running to you and extending the toy out towards you for you to see. You bend to his level, taking it from his pudgy hands. "Ah, how beautiful," you coo. "She seems quite fierce. Is she a kind wolf?"
Rickon thinks over it for a moment before looking to Cregan for the answer.Â
Cregan shrugs. "Is your mother a kind wolf?" He asks the boy.
You gawk, looking back to see that he's gesturing at you.Â
Mother. It tastes odd on your tongue.Â
"I believe you need a pup next to complete the set," you finally speak. "Papa, mama, and baby?"
Rickon agrees, taking the toy and moving to play once again.Â
You don't move for a while.Â
Mother.Â
Cregan said it so naturally.Â
"Is that alright?" He asks from behind you.Â
You look up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. "Yes. Gods, yes. I didn't⊠Thank you."
"Oh, my girl," he coos, pulling you up. He pulls you in and you utterly collapse against his chest. He kisses the crown of your head. "You needn't thank me. Not for this. This was all your doing."
When your tears begin to dry, he pulls you away enough to examine your face. His eyes move down your nose, across your red cheeks. "So beautiful. What a beautiful mother you are."
You push yourself up on the tips of your toes to meet his lips.Â
Being Lady Stark was a difficult task. But being Cregan's wife and Rickon's mother? That was the easiest thing you'd ever done.
My reaction when Gege carried me through this SHC. Struggled a lot, boosted almost all my Caleb cards to lvl 70 and even pushed a few open orbit levels.
f2u MC gifs/stickers
i can't believe we're getting a joyride card!!! did y'all see MC running to hug him? #felt that (àčËÌêŽËÌàč)
good luck to everyone pulling!
Summary - Moonblood and paranoia mixed is a wicked way to obtain both stomachache and heartache. You worry that your prince has want for a mistress and spiral completely. Valarr is as comforting and stalwart as ever in his reassurance, as he is in his marriage.
Warnings - Mentions of sex and infidelity, just jealousy at the idea of him wanting someone else. Fluffy!
WC: 1.5K
The Red Keep was a place of rumour. Its walls were full of confidentiality, its halls bustling with whispers.
While some things were under tight wraps, there was many an open secret.
One of these secrets was the carnal lust of the highborn. It was a something equally kept under wraps as it was shoved in everyone's face. Bedding ceremonies, brothels delivering girls under moonlight, lewd jokes, and septas blocking the ears of young, innocent maidens from the comments of the emboldened, often inebriated knights.
A large topic as of recent had been mistresses, ever since the Master of Coin's lady of the night was caught leaving his rooms by none other than his wife.
Infidelity was something you had never feared. Valarr was loyal to a fault, you were sure that he would never. But as the minutes went by listening to this conversation, you wondered just how safe you were.
Court was dull, the ladies' luncheons duller.
"The oddest thing about it is what a wonderful husband she claims he is." One said.
"You can never trust what comes out of a man's mouth." Another replied.
On your walk back to your chambers, a million thoughts ran through your head, but they all circled back to the same one.
Did Valarr have a mistress?
It's not like he gave you any reason to worry. Each and every night was spent holding you, all of the day's other hours being accounted for with the duties of a future king.
But still, it gnawed at you.
Sheets rustled early that eve as you climbed in, the sun nowhere near setting.
You faced the window, breathing in salt air and sighing softly against the pillow. It did not help that you currently had your moonblood; feeling unappealing and disgusting in days past. You wished to burrow into yourself until you were so far inside that you had swallowed all aspects of your shame and being itself.
You could not do that in shared rooms.
The hinges of the heavy door creaked as they were stretched open; your husband had returned.
Valarr strode enthusiastically up the few steps into the bedchamber, looking around for you. There was a slight frown settling on his face as he eyed your figure in bed and silently stalked over.
"My love?" He asked lowly, coming to the edge of the bed and looking down at you with knitted brows. A large hand reached out, tucking loose hairs behind your ear gently. He knew that your belly had been paining you, and your head additionally. What he did not know of was your suspicion.
"Do your bloods still ail you?"
The pout on your lips stiffened, pressing your cheek into the pillow. "Is there another?" The words came out quiet, bitter, and utterly irrational.
The Young Prince's expression of concern morphed into one of confusion instead, his free hand moving to your stomach, fingertips cautiously brushing the covers. "I do not follow, my darling."
With a quick huff, and an upright position made by a painfully swift snap of your waist, you looked him in the eye â those beautiful mismatched eyes â with unjustified rage blazing in yours. "Do you fuck other women?"
Valarr let out a short gasp at your words, his eyes widening comically in shock. His mouth fell open just slightly before he shook his head with avid effort. "What kind of an indictment is that? You question my honour! I would never-"
His response bothered you so deeply that you cut him off.
"See! It is about honour, you would have a mistress if you did not think it immoral! All men would!" A finger seemed to have raised and pointed between his eyebrows like an aiming crossbow, whether subconscious or not.
The Young Prince's brows furrowed together so tightly that they morphed into one, he leaned forward to try and speak sense. "No, wife. No." The patient man that you were ever so fortunate to have as your husband grabbed your wrist and lowered your accusing hand, his mouth still slightly ajar in question.
What had triggered these disgusting thoughts?
"Why would I ever have want for a mistress, sweetling?" A softly calloused thumb brushed the bone of your wrist as he rose his other hand to cup your cheek, stroking the flesh softly. "I have you, my beautiful wife."
A loud huff escaped you, anger still brimming you and spilling from your lips bitterly and stupidly. "All men have perversions. Clearly you must be exercising them elsewhere."
Your husband scoffed. Your polite, kind-hearted husband â who would thank a servant for a jug of water â scoffed in your face. The prince's eyebrows were raised, searching for some sort of answer while he sarcasmed. "Is this a slight on our intimacy? Do you not think me adventurous enough?"
It was about this point that you ran out of steam â his words hitting hard â, but felt no less passionate about your cause. In this moment you felt inadequate, unattractive, and unwilling to believe that he was truthful in his want of you.
"Valarr-"
The Young Prince shook his head once again, and scooped you onto his lapâ effectively trapping you in a bubble of affection. The pout on your lips told him that this was not an attack on his honour, but an insecurity of yours that needed soothed. "No, my darling. I do not have a mistress, nor do I wish for one."
A large hand rubbed your back, callouses briefly catching on the linen of your chemise. His chin rested on your shoulder, inhaling the sweet and powdery scent that always clung to your rich skin. "You are all that I could ever need."
At that, you sighed and melted into his hold. The worry inside of you that had manifested into ugly theories was washed away with a mere whiff of his scent, and the tight hold he had on you.
He pressed a kiss to your neck, voice softening into something almost teasing. "I resent the accusation that I would ever stray." Long fingers scratched at your scalp. "I love you too much to even think to ponder on such a thing."
All of a sudden, tears began to fall from your eyes â fueled by guilt and hormones that made you feel so unlike yourself â for the awful thing you had pinned him for doing, even though you knew he would never.
"I am sorry." You sniffled, arms wrapping his toned waist as if thinking he would go.
Valarr just shushed you, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. He knew that your bloods always left you feeling unbalanced, and that you needed him now.
You sobbed into the rich velvet of his doublet, clutching at the fabric for dear life. And he held you.
For all of the evening, your sweet husband let you relish in his embrace, rubbing your aching back and whispering soft reassurances.
When your head laid upon his bare chest, and his nails scratched gently at your scalp, he braved asking the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for hours. "Are you ready to tell me what triggered this accusation?" The tone was not harsh or petty, but softâ wishing only to understand, not to punish.
A nod was your response, laying your leg over his to get even closer. "âŠCourtly gossip. The ladies talked of their husbands' escapades, and it made me doubt if I alone could be enough." An odd sentence it was coming from you, his wife so respected â and feared â for her assertive tongue and straight back.
"You are more than enough, my sweet." He said happily, resting his chin atop your head. "I am kept on my toes in this union, wondering with anticipation what your next plot for bemusement will be." The Young Prince did not exaggerate with his delight; he truly was overjoyed to return to you each night, ravage you, and hear of the fun you got up to.
With that, you finally allowed yourself to relax. The day had riled you in an unusual way, leaving you exhausted physically and emotionally. The sounds you drifted off to were a mix of your husband's heartbeat and the soft click of his lips against his teeth when he kissed your head.
Valarr watched you for a long while, his gaze filled with nothing short of reverence.
How could you â a creature of endless beauty, wit, and humour â believe yourself to be lacking? Especially in relation to him.
Honourable, dutiful Prince Valarr would slay a hundred oath-keeping vassals if it made you smileâ he was more than happy to be your servant. He had the privilege to be privy to your deepest thoughts, traumas, and frustrations.
Each and every day he woke with optimism, for he knew that this life was blessedâ you were his wife, by the mercy of those above.
Comforting you was his pleasure, embracing you his solace, taking the brunt of your frustration his penance.
He would gladly spend the rest of your lives reassuring you that you were enough, as long as you let him love you.
Valarr Targaryen â
this was orginally an ask but sadly i can't find it. if you were the anon who sent it in i hope this fit your vision!
i'm not a fan of this but we move
lmk what you thought my loves! ask box is open to requests, (though be warned they might take a while to be written), and chats are welcomed <3
A single blurry club photo shatters everything, and hands Gojo Satoru the opening heâs waited years for.
Heâs been your best friend forever, but the second that photo lands in his hands, the leash snaps. He shows up at your door with proof, and when the door slams shut on your ex for good, Gojo is ready to step out of the shadows.
Warnings Ë áĄŁâč àŁȘ ౚà§Ëâ
18+, MDNI, Explicit sexual content, recording and sending sex audio, cheating, possessiveness, mild yandere elements, unprotected sex, overstimulation, mild emotional manipulation, mutual pining, college AU, P in V sex, afab.
Word Count âčââĄâ
9,457k
âčââĄâMasterlistâčââĄâ
Gojo lay sprawled across his couch, material creaking beneath his weight whenever he shifted. One long leg dangled haphazardly over the armrest, the other bent at the knee so his bare foot rested flat against the cushion, toes flexing absently.Â
The room was dim, lit only by the blueish glow of his phone screen and the faint amber streetlight slipping through the half-closed blinds. A cracked window let the February chill drift in, carrying the distant hum of campus traffic and the sharp scent of winter air.
His thumb moved slowly across the screen, scrolling through your Instagram feed with the same hungry focus he had carried for years. Every photo of you, alone, received a soft double-tap, the heart icon bloomed red.Â
Any image that included your greasy boyfriend, his arm slung around your waist, his grin too easy, too pleased, Gojo let slide past without acknowledgment, as though the man had been erased the moment he flicked past.
He paused on your most recent post.
You stood haloed in the soft afternoon light, cream sweater hugging your body, wool tracing the curve of your breasts and the dip of your waist in a way that felt almost accidental, but he knew it wasnât.Â
The black-and-grey pleated skirt flared just above your thighs, revealing the smooth, inviting expanse of skin beneath. Your smile was shy, a little uncertain, while the people around you leaned into exaggerated poses for the camera.Â
To everyone else you were simply this sweet, pretty little thing.Â
To him you were the only thing in the photograph that existed, the one singular point of warmth and light in a sea full of noise.
Heat gathered low in his abdomen, like it usually did during his nightly retreats to your social media. His cock stirred beneath the denim, thickening until the fabric pulled tight, the zipper biting into sensitive skin.Â
He pressed the heel of his palm against the growing hardness, not rushed, just grounding himself against the ache that had become second nature.Â
In his mind the scene unfolded with ease, fingers catching the hem of that sweater, drawing it upward inch by inch until soft skin met cool air and then the heat of his mouth. He imagined pressing his mouth to the swell of your breasts, tasting salt and the tang of your body lotion, then lower, sliding the skirt down your hips until it pooled at your feet, forgotten.Â
He saw himself sinking to his knees between your thighs, breath warm against damp skin, tongue chasing every shudder that ran through you.
Your glossed lips in the photograph, he pictured them swollen from his kisses, slick with somethingentirely different. Your eyes, soft and hesitant, he wanted them heavy-lidded, glistening with tears as you looked up at him from your knees, lashes clumped, gaze trusting, but hungry.
A tremor passed through him. His free hand drifted to the zipper, metal teeth parting with a quiet rasp that sounded too loud in the stillness.
Then the phone vibrated against his palm.
Maki - âYou need to see thisâ.
He stilled. The hand on his zipper paused, suspended. For a moment the only sound was the slow rhythm of his breathing and the faint tick of the clock in the corner.
He opened the message.
The photograph loaded.
Club lighting, harsh flash cutting through bodies pressed too close. Your boyfriendâs mouth locked to another womanâs, hand fisted in her hair with ruthless indifference. The betrayal was captured in unforgiving clarity.
Gojoâs lips curved slowly, not into the usual smirk but something far more dangerous, a smile that belonged to someone who had waited for a single crack in the wall and now got to watch as it finally give way.
He exhaled once, long and measured, the sound almost meditative. Serenity settled over him like a fog.
Makiâs follow-up arrived a heartbeat later.Â
âNowâs your chanceâ
He rose from the couch in one fluid motion, the hoodie already in his hand, pulled over his shoulders. He zipped his jeans up, smoothed the fabric down, adjusted the collar until he looked every inch the gentle friend come to deliver bad news with kindness and a shoulder to cry on.Â
The mask was perfect, but beneath it, something darker and hungrier uncoiled at last.
He had waited, patient to the point of pain, swallowing every near-miss, every time you turned toward someone lesser, every night he closed his eyes and thought of you in the dark.
No longer.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, carrying the photograph like a poisoned chalice.
He would lay it before you.
Then he would take what had always belonged to him.
And he would savour every breath of it.
Gojo drives through the quiet streets with the window cracked just enough to let the cold night air slip in and brush against his heated skin. The radio hums low, some old track he barely registers, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the steering wheel in time with the melody.Â
He doesnât speed. Thereâs no need to rush. He reaches into the glove compartment as a red light holds him still, fishing out the dark sunglasses and sliding them on even though the streets are dark and the dashboard glow is soft.Â
If you looked into his eyes right now you would see everything, the bright, sharp glee, the coiled excitement, the raw desire that has been gnawing at him since the day you first met.Â
He canât let you see that yet. To you, heâs the angel. The one who never pushes, never demands, a gentleman who waits in the wings with a smile and a joke while you choose someone else again and again. Tonight that carefully constructed image ends.
He knows Maki will be gone. Knowing her, sheâll stay out all night, giving this one-sided obsession of his the space it has desperately needed. The perfect wingman, silent and ruthless.
He parks outside your building and strides up the concrete steps two at a time, long legs eating the distance without effort. No knock. Just a quick text sent as his lingers by the door.
âWe need to talk, open up.â
Inside, he hears the soft patter of your bare feet rushing across the floorboards, the sound muffled but unmistakable. He likes it, likes the way you hurry toward him, eager even now, even when you have no idea whatâs coming. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there you are.
You peek past his shoulder first, half-expecting an entourage, but when itâs only him your face softens, shoulders dropping as the tension bleeds out of you. A small, relieved smile curves at your lips, and his heart kicks hard against his ribs at the sight of it, so warm and earnest.Â
In a few minutes heâll shatter that smile. But sometimes, you have to break something to set it right.
Youâre in matching indigo sweats that hang loose on your frame, hair scraped up into a messy bun with a few tendrils escaping the elastic to brush your neck. A star-shaped pimple patch sits on your chin like a pretty little constellation. Domestic, vulnerable. Soon to be his.
âWhatâs going on?â Your voice is soft, eyes scanning his face, his posture. âAre you okay?â
His hearts clenches. You worry about him so naturally, so instinctively, as though caring for him is muscle memory. He nods once, stepping across the threshold. You move back to let him pass, then close the door behind him with a quiet flick of the lock. The sound makes him smile, the casual trust of it, the way you seal yourself in with him without hesitation.
âI need to show you somethingâ he says, pitching his voice low, doing his best impression of contrite, eyes dropping to the floor despite every instinct screaming to drink you in. âI donât know if I should.â
âToru, itâs fine.â You step closer, small hand settling on his forearm, fingers warm through the sleeve of his hoodie. The touch is careful, meant to comfort him when heâs the one about to deliver the blow. âYou can tell me anything.â
He exhales, slow and measured, then reaches into his back pocket for his phone. He swipes to the photo, hesitates for show, just long enough to sell the reluctance, before turning the screen toward you.
Your eyes slide from his face to the image. You donât gasp. You donât cry. You simply blink, then reach out and take the phone from his hand. You pinch the screen, zoom in, studying the grainy details, the familiar jawline, the hand in her hair, the club lights strobing off the two of them.
âFucking bastardâ you growl low in your throat.
The word is sharp, unexpected from you. A dark thrill runs through him at the sound. He raises an eyebrow, lips curving before he catches himself and smooths the expression away. You zoom in again, muttering, âMotherfucker, with Mina as well.â
âYou know her?â
âYeah, barely.â You scoff, rolling your eyes in pure disgust as you hand the phone back. âI knew something was going on. He said he was studying all last week, pulled an all-nighter. Still flunked the exam though.â
He shakes his head slowly, trying to mirror the disappointment you expect, but inside he is alight.Â
He had braced for tears, for the kind of heartbreak that would require slow, gentle coaxing. Instead you are angry, a clean, bright fury, the sight of which only feeds the hunger he has kept leashed for so long.
You pace into the small kitchen, the overhead light flickering once before settling into a warm yellow glow. You yank open the fridge door, cold air washing across your bare arms, and rummage for a moment. He wonders if youâre reaching for wine or something stronger, but you emerge with a carton of juice instead. You pour a glass, take a long sip, then tip it toward him in silent offer.
He accepts with a small smile, deliberately placing his mouth where yours had just been, the rim still warm, faintly sweet from your chapstick. You donât seem to notice. He drinks deeply, sets the glass down on the counter, and leans back against it with his arms crossed, watching you.
âI knew he was bad newsâ he says quietly, voice soft enough to feel intimate in the small space. âYou deserve better.â
You hum in agreement, already pulling your own phone from your pocket. Your fingers move quickly across the screen, typing, and a moment later it rings in your hand. You answer on the second ring, pasting on a smile so saccharine it looks painful.
âHey babyâ you say, voice dripping honey even as you shoot him a quick, exaggerated gag. He laughs under his breath, delighted. âCan you come over? I miss you.â
A muffled reply filters through the speaker. You end the call without another word, slamming the phone down onto the counter hard enough that he worries the glass will crack.
âHeâs coming overâ you say, eyes fierce and determined. Then your gaze flicks to him, softening just a fraction. âCould you stay? You know⊠in case something happens?â
âYou couldnât force me to leaveâ The words settle between you, a promise he has no intention of breaking, not now, not when the night is finally bending in his favour.
You move with purpose, the small apartment coming alive around you in sharp, decisive bursts. Drawers scrape open in the bedroom, closet doors bang against walls, old sweatshirts and forgotten hoodies spilling onto the floor like shed skin.Â
Anything that carries his scent, that cheap body spray mixed with stale beer and entitlement, you snatch up and stuff into a trash bag with ruthless efficiency.Â
There isnât much, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of socks that somehow ended up under your couch, a hoodie he left âby accidentâ after one of his late-night visits.
Fifteen minutes pass in a blur of motion and quiet fury before the doorbell buzzes, followed by the rattle of the handle being tested, then a series of sharp knocks. Your ex, always so sure your world will open for him.
You donât rush. You lift your head slowly, lips curling into a sneer that looks foreign on your pretty face, but right all at once. The sound of his fist against the wood grows louder, more insistent, but you turn to Satoru instead, voice softening in the midst of the storm.
âCould you hide for a moment?â
He nods without hesitation, already moving toward the bedroom. You follow close behind, the knocks echoing down the short hallway like thunder. The closet door stands ajar, narrow and shadowed, the faint scent of your laundry detergent and lavender body lotion drifting out.Â
He folds himself inside, long limbs bending, shoulders brushing the hanging clothes, resisting the immediate urge to press his face into the fabrics and inhale.
âHeyâ he murmurs as he settles, voice low and teasing even now, âthis feels kinda kinkyâ
The words pull a soft laugh from you, unexpected and breathy, and the sound of which sends a shiver down his spine. You swat his arm lightly, glancing over your shoulder toward the front door where the knocking has turned into pounding. When your eyes return to him they are warm, grateful, a little uncertain.
âThanks for thisâ you say quietly. âIt shouldnât take long.â
You ease the door closed, the wood clicking softly into place, sealing him in darkness broken only by thin slivers of hallway light slipping through the cracks. The moment the latch catches, he reaches out blindly, fingers closing around the nearest garment, a shirt that still carries the traces of your perfume. He draws it to his face, pressing the soft cotton under his nose, and breathes in.
A shudder runs through him, cock twitching within the confines of his jeans as the scent floods his senses. He exhales slowly against the fabric, letting the smell settle into his lungs like a drug. Outside, your footsteps retreat down the hall toward the front door.Â
He is going to have to thank your ex for this.
He presses the shirt tighter to his face, heart steady, his patience finally rewarded.
âŠ
You storm back to the front door, the floorboards creaking under your quick steps as the hallway light flickers once overhead, casting brief shadows across the walls. The fake smile you force into place feels brittle, but it holds long enough for you to flick the lock and yank the door open with more force than necessary.Â
Your now ex-boyfriend, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth twisted in annoyance at having been made to wait. When he sees you, he schools his features into something brighter, more practiced, the easy grin he always used to disarm you, the one that used to make your stomach flutter. Now it makes your skin crawl.
âBabeâ he says, voice syrupy and bright as he pushes off the frame and steps forward, arms opening to pull you into the hug he assumes youâll melt into.
You step back smoothly, slipping just out of reach. His hands close on empty air. He falters for half a second, eyes twitching, but he shrugs it off and crosses the threshold anyway, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.
The black trash bag youâd been filling sits slumped against the foot of the couch. He notices it immediately, gaze flicking down, but the realisation doesnât land yet. Heâs still smiling, still playing the part.
âWhatâs wrong, babe? You missed me?â The words come out smarmy, laced with that lazy confidence you used to mistake for charm, now you realise is just plain arrogance.
âNoâ you say simply, keeping your tone light, almost conversational. âI just needed you to get your shit.â
He stills. Blinks slowly, like the words havenât quite reached him yet. âHuh?â
âTake your shitââ You point at the bag, calm as anything, though your heart hammers against your ribs. ââand get out of my face.â
âBaby, whatâs going on?â He moves closer, grubby hands reaching for your arms, the same way he always has when he wants to smooth things over without actually listening.
âMina is whatâs going on.â
The name stops him cold. He freezes mid-step, hand dropping, then drags his fingers roughly through his hair with a long sigh. âBaby, it was a mistake.â
âOh, so you tripped and fell on her?â The mockery slips out sharp and easy, tasting like bitter satisfaction on your tongue.
âOkay, we slept together. Once.â
Your jaw drops, not from shock, exactly, but from the sheer, stupid audacity of it. The new piece of information doesnât break you, it just adds another layer of disgust to the grossed out sandwich.
âWow.â The word comes out flat, stupefied. âAnd here I was thinking you were just kissing. No. Youâve been fucking her.â
âWhaââ
âJust get out.â Your voice rises, steady but edged now. âIâm sick of you. Satoru said you were bad news.â
You snatch the bag by the drawstring and hurl it at his feet. A faded T-shirt tumbles free, landing in a crumpled heap between you.
âGojoâ he spits the name like an insult, venom curling his lip as he bends to shove the shirt back inside. âOf course Gojo would say that.â
You round on him, eyes blazing, the room suddenly too small, the air too thick with the smell of his cologne and your rising anger. âWhat?â
âHeâs always been waitingâ he snarls, straightening up. âWaiting for me to fuck up. Itâs no wonder I couldnât take the pressure!â
You go still. A scornful laugh bubbles up from your chest, harsh and disbelieving. âOh my god. You really are pathetic.â
âItâs true, heâs alwaysââ
âNo. Seriously.â Your voice cracks higher, hands shaking at your sides, fingers curling into tight claws like you might rake them down your own face to make the fury stop.Â
âYouâre so fucking pathetic. Itâs nothing to do with him!â The words tear out of you, loud enough to echo off the thin apartment walls. âYou just canât keep your dick out of random chicks!â
He stares at you, mouth half-open, the smugness finally draining from his face as the weight of it all settles. The trash bag sits between you like a stone. The hallway light buzzes faintly overhead. Somewhere down the corridor, a neighbourâs door clicks shut.
âGo. Iâm sick at the sight of you.â You sigh, done with conversation and tired of looking at him.Â
âBaby, we can work it out.â
âOh, I would⊠if I wanted to.â The words comes fast, cutting through the air between you. âBut youâre not even worth it. I must have been out of my mind to date you. I mean⊠seriously, how low are my standards?â
His eyes darken, something ugly flickering through the practiced charm, jaw tight, cheek ticking once in warning. âCarefulâ he growls, low and rough, the word hanging heavy in the small space.
You scoff, the sound bitter and bright. âOr what? Gonna fuck Mina again?â
You step closer, close enough that you can smell the faint sourness of sweat still clinging to his shirt, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to meet your glare. The words come out hot against his face, venomous. âGet the fuck out.â
For a heartbeat he doesnât move. His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling, and you feel the brief, cold flash of wondering whether heâll actually strike you, whether the mask will finally crack wide open right here in your living room.Â
Then he bends, snatching the trash bag from the floor. Plastic rustles loudly as he yanks it up, the loose T-shirt inside shifting with a soft thud against the rest of his discarded things. He turns toward the door, shoulders rigid, steps heavy on the worn floorboards.
You donât let him leave in silence, you need to twist the knife.
âOh, by the wayâ you call after him, voice dripping with mock sweetness, âIâm gonna fuck Satoru all night.â
His head swivels sharply, eyes snapping back to you, wide for the first time tonight.
âRaw.â
The last word lands like a slap. His mouth opens, horror and disbelief warring, but you donât give him the chance to answer. You slam the door with both hands, the frame rattling hard enough that a small picture on the wall tilts sideways. The lock clicks into place with a satisfying snap, sealing the corridorâs cold draft and your pathetic ex outside.
Silence rushes in after the echo, thick and sudden. Your chest heaves, breath coming fast and uneven, adrenaline buzzing under your skin like static. The apartment feels too quiet now, too still.
You lean your forehead against the door for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the faint sound of footsteps retreating down the hall until they fade completely. The trash bag is gone. Heâs gone. The space he occupied feelsâŠlighter, like a weight you didnât realise you were carrying has finally lifted.
In the bedroom, the closet door remains closed.
But you know he heard every word.
You know heâs still there, folded into the dark, sitting amongst your clothes, heart steady while yours races. The thought sends a different kind of heat curling low in your belly, sharp and unexpected, mingling with the anger still simmering in your veins.Â
Your hands tremble as you push away from the door, fingers flexing, unsure whether to clench or reach.
You turn slowly toward the hallway.
You take one step. Then another.
The floorboards creak under your bare feet, you donât stop until youâre in front of the closet.Â
You wrench it open.Â
Gojo is already looking up at you. His head tilted slightly to one side, easy smile curving his lips as though heâs been waiting for your return. His sunglasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, dark lenses reflecting the warm bedroom light, his white hair is deliciously mussed, strands falling forward where theyâve been pressed against hanging clothes, framing his face in soft disarray.Â
You lean down without a single conscious thought guiding you, slip his glasses off with one hand, whilst the other slides to the nape of his neck. Your fingers thread into the soft hair, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint prickle of stubble under your palm. You slot your lips over his in one smooth motion, no hesitation, no preamble.
He reacts instantly.
A low sound rumbles in his throat, a groan bleeding into a sigh. His arm sweeps around your waist in a single, fluid pull, dragging you forward into the narrow confines of the closet. The space is too small, forcing your body to press flush against his, you brace one hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his hoodie as his mouth opens under yours.
His tongue pushes in without seeking permission, stroking deep and thorough, claiming every inch he can reach.Â
He kisses like heâs starving. Thereâs no gentleness, only hunger, the wet slide of his tongue against yours, the way he angles his head to take more, deeper, devouring the taste of your anger and hurt and need until nothing else remains. Your body quivers against him, thighs pressing together instinctively as heat pools low in your belly, sharp and undeniable.
You pull back only when your lungs begin to burn, chest heaving. Your breath mingles with his in the warm, claustrophobic space, faintly tasting the juice you shared earlier and the sweetness that always seems to cling to him.
âI justâŠâ The words come out soft, almost lost against his lips. âI want to feel wanted. Really wanted. Not like some⊠second option.â Guilt twists in your stomach, sour and heavy, even as your fingers stay curled against his neck. Your eyes drop, watching his Adams apple bob as he swallows. âI shouldnât do this to you, though.â
âNo.â His voice is quick, rough around the edges, grip tightening on your waist until you feel the press of his fingers through the fabric of your sweats. âI donât mind.â
He pulls you closer still, bodies aligned in the cramped dark, his thigh slipping between yours just enough to make you gasp softly at the friction. âRebound, revengeâŠwhatever you need to call it. Iâm in.â
âToruââ
âDonât think.â His lips brush your mouth, low and coaxing, his breath warm against your swollen lips. âJust feel.â
The invitation hangs between you, impossible to resist .
You do exactly as he commands.
You lean in again, slower this time but no less desperate, mouth opening against his without resistance. He meets you halfway, tongue sliding back in with ardent hunger, stroking along the roof of your mouth, tracing the sharp edges of your teeth, tasting every shudder that races through you.Â
His free hand rises to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw, holding you steady while he deepens the kiss until your world contracts to the wet heat of his mouth, the solid press of his body, the taste of his lips on yours.
The door stands half-open behind you, spilling a wedge of bedroom light across his shoulder, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering at his temple. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, approving hum from his throat that vibrates straight through you.
Youâre trembling, not from cold, not from anger, but from the sudden, overwhelming certainty that this is exactly where youâve wanted to be for longer than youâve let yourself admit. His hand slides lower, palm flattening against the small of your back, urging you closer until thereâs no space left between you at all.
His hand slips into your hair, fingers curling with gentle but firm control, angling your head just so until your mouths align perfectly again. His tongue strokes against yours in slow, deliberate sweeps. His mouth leaves yours, dipping to your throat, sucking and nipping at your skin as his cold fingerâs slip beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Fingertips skim along the soft give of your waist, smoothing up your back to rest at the edge of your bra strap.
âYouâre so beautifulâ he whispers, voice ragged and low. His fingers find the clasp of your bra beneath the sweatshirt, it unhooks with a soft click, the fabric sagging away from your chest.Â
Cool air kisses across your skin for only a second before his hand slips beneath the gauzy fabric, palm warm and calloused as it cups the weight of your breast.Â
His thumb brushes over one nipple, circling slowly, then pinching just enough to make your breath hitch. The other hand joins, kneading the plush softness, fingertips gradually matching the rising heat of your body until every stroke feels like fire licking across your nerves.
You arch into his touch without thinking, spine curving, hips rolling forward in a silent, desperate plea for more. âSatoruâ you sigh.Â
He groans softly against your throat, then grips the hem of your sweatshirt and peels it upward in one smooth motion. The fabric drags over your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, and your bra slips down your arms, falling forgotten to the floor.Â
Your breasts are bare now, nipples peaked and aching in the dim bedroom light filtering through the half-open closet door. He stares for a heartbeat, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, then drops his mouth to one tight bud, sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth.
The sensation is overwhelming, the flat press of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction that pulls straight to your core. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there, nails scraping his scalp as your thoughts scatter like leaves in wind.Â
He torments the nipple until it throbs sweetly, swollen and sensitive, then switches to the other, lavishing it with the same slow, devastating attention until both ache in tandem.
He finally leans back, hands still cradling your breasts, thumbs brushing the wet peaks gently, drawing broken gasps from you. His eyes, those impossible nebula-blue eyes, are glazed, heavy-lidded, fixed on the marks his mouth has left.Â
âFuckâ he hisses, the word rough and tender all at once. His gaze lifts to yours. âIf you want to stop, you need to tell me now. Because I donât know if Iâll be able to if we keep going.â
Your body is already throbbing, hungry, empty. âIf you stopâŠâ you purr, voice low and trembling, ââŠI think Iâll cry.â
He laughs, a short, breathy sound, head falling back against the closet wall with a soft thud. âYou donât know how long Iâve waited.â
âThen hurry up and ravish me.â The words come out as a half-joke, but the clench in your gut is anything but playful, itâs a raw, desperate need for him to consume you, to erase every other touch that ever came before him.
He moves in an instant. Hands hook beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. His palms cradle your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, kneading as he carries you out of the closet and toward the bed.
His mouth finds yours again, tongue licking deep, almost fucking into you hungrily with every step. You try to match him, but heâs too much, too fast, all you can do is cling and moan into the kiss.
He lowers you onto the mattress gently, the sheets cool against your heated back. His eyes drag down your body slowly, taking in the flush across your chest, the way your nipples still glisten from his mouth, the slight tremble in your thighs.Â
Youâve never seen his eyes so dark, so focused, like heâs imprinting every inch in his mind for later. His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweats, he pauses, just for a heartbeat, then drags them down your legs in one torturously slow pull.Â
The fabric whispers over your skin, leaving you exposed except for the simple white cotton panties, already damp at the center.
He settles between your thighs, knees sinking into the mattress, springs creaking beneath his weight. His gaze locks on the growing wet patch, then flicks up to meet yours.Â
He lowers his head without breaking eye contact, letting you watch as his tongue presses flat against the soaked fabric. The heat of his mouth through the cotton makes you whine, he moans low in his throat as your taste floods his tongue, the vibration traveling straight to your clit.
Your legs draw up onto the bed, toes curling into the sheets. âYou taste so goodâ he rumbles against you, voice muffled.Â
He hooks a finger under the gusset and peels the panties aside, then dives in, dragging sloppy, eager stripes of his tongue up your cunt, flicking over your clit with each drag. You twist, arch, breath stuttering out in shocked gasps.
âYou okay?â He murmurs, leaving your slick flesh for a moment, gazing down at your stupefied expression.Â
âDonât stopâ You whimper, eyes lidded, gazing down at him between your legs. He smiles wickedly for a moment before diving in again.Â
He seals his lips around your clit and hums, the low vibration sending sparks flickering behind your eyes. Your mind blanks, everything narrows to the wet heat of his mouth, the slow drag of his tongue, the way he presses it inside you, wiggling until itâs seated snug inside your pulsing walls.Â
Your mind goes blank, body a mushy pile of electric sensations, but you still needed more. Even with his tongue, you want more. Â
âToruââ you almost howl, hips twitching off the bed. âPlease, I feel like Iâm melting.â
âBehaveâ he whispers, pulling back just enough to bite softly at your inner thigh, teeth dimpling the flesh, leaving a faint mark. âI want to take my time. Savour this. Savour you.â
One large hand slides up your body, cupping your breast again, thumb stroking the nipple in lazy circles. The other slips between your legs, two fingers gliding through your slick, coating themselves before pressing in, stretching you open with ease.Â
You lift your head to watch him, the flush high on his cheeks, the glaze in his eyes, the way his lips are shiny with you. The sight of Satoru, your Satoru, the one youâd quietly filed away as untouchable, between your thighs, looking wrecked and hungry, sends another wave of heat through you.
Youâd wanted him for years. Every time you worked up the courage to confess, he was with someone else, laughing too easily, touching someone elseâs hand. The timing was always wrong. Eventually you stopped trying, convinced it was safer to stay friends.Â
Even now doubt flickers. Is this just for tonight? A way to pass the time? Or does he feel the same quiet ache youâve carried?
Before you can chase the thought further, his fingers begin to move, slow, deep thrusts that make your body slicker, wetter, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Heat coils low in your stomach, spreading outward until your fingertips hum with electricity.
You gasp, biting your lip to stifle the sound. His lips wrap around your clit again, gentle at first, then sucking harder, tongue flicking in time with his fingers. Your eyes snap open and flutter closed, vision hazy, thoughts blurring at the edges.
âToruâ you warn, voice trembling. Your walls clench around his fingers in erratic pulses. You grip the sheets, knuckles white, pulling until the fitted sheet starts to lift from the mattress. âOh, godââ
Your eyes go wide, fixed on the ceiling as the knot tightens unbearably. Your back arches off the bed in small, helpless increments, feet sliding along the sheets.Â
When the orgasm crashes over you, it feels like youâre free-falling, white noise roaring in your ears, body bucking off the bed, a sharp yelp tearing from your throat.
Your thighs try to snap closed around his head, but his free hand leaves your breast to hold you open, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your inner thigh as he keeps thrusting, keeps sucking, drawing every last shudder and twitch from you while your cunt clenches and sloshes around his fingers.
You come back to earth slowly, senses returning one by one. The cool sheets beneath you, the faint hum of the apartment, the wet press of his tongue still petting your clit in soft, soothing laps, coaxing out the final aftershocks.Â
He finally sits back on his heels, grinning proudly, lips shiny, cheeks flushed as he gazes down at your trembling form, muscles twitching, stomach clenching in little ripples.
âYou good?â
You hum, limbs heavy and light all at once, floating somewhere between bliss and boneless exhaustion. âMmm⊠so good.â
Your eyes flutter shut, heavy and unfocused, as the aftershocks ripple through you in slow, lingering waves.Â
For a long moment you simply lie there, chest rising and falling unevenly, trying to gather the scattered pieces of yourself while the room spins lazily around the edges. The sheets are cool against your flushed skin, damp in places from sweat and slick, and the faint hum of the apartment.
A soft swish of fabric pulls your attention. When your eyelids lift again, heavy and slow, youâre treated to the sight of Satoru stripping above you.
He kneels between your spread thighs, hoodie already gone, the dark button-down shirt heâd worn beneath it now partially undone. The milky expanse of his chest gleams in the low bedroom light, smooth, pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle, a faint sheen of sweat catching the glow from the bedside lamp. He notices your stare immediately, one brow lifts in lazy amusement, blue eyes glinting.
His hands pause at the waistband of his jeans, the top button already popped, denim parted just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his hips and the trail of white hair disappearing beneath the black elastic of his boxers. He grips the zipper and drags it down with deliberate slowness, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet room.Â
Your gaze follows the winding vein that pulses just above the line of fabric, thick and insistent, before your eyes drop lower. You swallow hard, tongue darting out to wet your lips in an unconscious motion.
He peels the jeans down his legs in one fluid motion, muscular thighs flexing as he shifts his weight, long, powerful lines of him that make your stomach tighten all over again. Then he teases the waistband of his boxers, fingers hooking under the elastic and tugging it down an inch, then another, watching your reaction with hooded eyes.
You frown, shifting restlessly on the bed, thighs itching to press together against the sudden ache of emptiness. âIf you donât get naked this secondââ
He laughs softly, and shoves the boxers down in one swift pull.
His cock springs free, annoyingly perfect. Silky-smooth skin a touch darker than the rest of him, flushed pink at the tip, already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that catches the light. Girthy and long, curved upward just enough to promise it will hit every sensitive place inside you. Veins decorate the shaft like delicate ribbons, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
You bite your lip hard enough to sting, an involuntary groan slipping out as heat floods your core again.
He wraps a hand around the base, giving himself one slow, deliberate stroke, eyes never leaving yours, then another, coating himself in slick pre-cum until he glistens. âLike what you see?â
You nod embarrassingly fast, half-tempted to spread your legs wider and point, to beg with your body since words feel far too inadequate.Â
He smiles, slow and wicked, and strokes himself a few more times just for your viewing pleasure before leaning forward.
His hands find your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulls you down the bed toward him in one smooth tug. His jeans and boxers are kicked off and forgotten on the floor. He notches himself at your entrance, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the sharp points of your hip bones while he guides the head inside.
Youâre still so wet, so ready for him, swollen and slick from his earlier attention, that he glides in with relative ease, feeding you inch by thick inch without pause. The stretch is exquisite, filling you until heâs seated to the hilt, hips flush against yours.
A ragged groan tears from your lips as he presses in deep, the blunt head kissing your cervix, every ridge and vein dragging against your walls.
âLook at youâ he grunts. He lifts your hips from the mattress, resting them high on his thighs so your lower back arches off the bed. âYouâre shaking already.â
âSatoruââ You gasp, reaching out desperately, fingers curling in the air until he leans forward and lets you dig your nails into his shoulders. He begins to grind, slow, deep rolls of his hips that keep him buried to the root.
Your back arches further into his hold, spine curving sharply as his hands slide to your waist, helping you maintain the angle.Â
You feel him everywhere, the thick slide of his cock dragging against your front wall, the obscene bulge of him pressing outward against your lower stomach with every thrust. Your mind blanks at the filthy intimacy of it, of him claiming space inside you that no one else has ever reached.
He drives harder, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room, punctuating the haze in your head. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes, just sharp punches of air forced out every time he snaps forward. Your nails rake down his shoulders, leaving faint red trails that fade almost as quickly as they appear.
Youâre cracking open at the seams, reality warping around the pleasure that makes your whole body sing.
âDonât stopâ you cry, legs hooking around his lower back, heels digging in to force his thrusts into shallow, punishing snaps that keep him pressed impossibly deep.
âFuckââ The word rips from him, rough and feral. Before you can process the shift, heâs pulling out, your cunt clenching around nothing in protest, and flipping you onto your stomach.
You land on your front, limbs too weak to hold your weight. He yanks your hips back, forcing you onto your knees while your chest stays pressed to the mattress, cheek turned against the cool sheets.Â
He enters you again, slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he glides back inside. Heâs deeper now, in this angle, the head nudging against that same spot until his hand comes to rest on the small bulge in your belly, pressing down against himself from the outside.
His other hand grips your hip as his rhythm turns ruthless, sharp, relentless snaps that jolt your whole body forward with each thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard tapping the wall in time.
âAll mine nowâ he growls, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest. He leans over you, chest pressing to your back, hot breath fanning across your skin. His tongue drags a thick, wet stripe up the back of your neck before his teeth sink in, hard enough to sting, not break skin. You yelp, cunt clenching around him involuntarily as he ruts deeper. âHe needs to know.â
Without breaking rhythm he reaches for your phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling only for a second before he punches in the code, of course he knows it, and opens the camera. He slams it down on the bed, front camera angled upward toward the ceiling, capturing the violent rocking of the mattress, letting whoever might see it imagine the way your body jolts with every thrust.
âCry for me, babyâ he purrs against your ear, fucking even deeper, chasing the broken sounds he wants. âLet him know whoâs fucking you.â
âSaâSatoruââ Your voice cracks, eyes screwing shut as tears slip free, soaking into the sheets beneath your cheek. Your fingers twist in the fabric, desperate for an anchor.
âHow good is it?â he growls, one hand coming down to slap your ass, a sharp sting, joining the lewd plap of his hips against your flesh. You yelp again, walls fluttering around him as fresh heat bubbles under your skin.
âSoâso good, oh godââ You whimper, rocking back into him despite the ache, hungry for more, deeper, anything heâll give.
âLook at you, taking me so wellâ he murmurs, leaning over you again, chest to back. âSo fucking wet, all for me.â
âPlease⊠pleasepleasepleaseââ The words dissolve into sobs as his hand slips beneath your hips, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, perfect circles.
The second orgasm tears through you without warning, back curling sharply, thighs trembling violently. You arch so hard he nearly slips out, but he clamps a hand on your hip and holds you in place, rutting desperately into the spasming grip of your cunt.Â
His rhythm stutters, he gives a sharp, broken shout of your name and stills, fingers digging bruises into your hip as he spills inside you, hot, thick pulses that seem to go on forever.
He grinds deep, stirring his release inside you, pressing it into every inch like heâs trying to mark you from the inside out.Â
Youâre too fucked-out to do more than whimper, body going limp, hips sagging forward onto the mattress. His cock slips free with a wet sound, a thick glob of cum immediately follows, trickling down your thigh and into the sheets below.
He stays kneeled behind you, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the messy path of his release leaking from your swollen hole. He reaches for the phone, stops the recording, trims it quickly, right at the moment youâre crying his name in broken, desperate sobs, and sends it.
âSheâs mine. Delete her number.â
He doesnât wait for a reply. The phone clatters back onto the nightstand.
âŠÂ
Once Satoru has tasted you, once heâs felt the way your body opens for him and clenches around him like it was made for him, he canât stop.
He eases you onto your back again, the sheets twisted and damp beneath you.Â
Nothing shields those piercing blue eyes from you anymore. He wants you to see him, every flicker of obsession laid bare as he settles between your thighs, palms sliding up the backs of your legs to hook them around his waist.
He slides into you slowly, torturously slow, inch by thick inch until heâs buried to the hilt and your breath catches in a sharp gasp.Â
He doesnât rush. He fucks you deep and slow, hips rolling in long, languid strokes that drag every ridge along your sensitive walls, withdrawing almost completely so he can watch the way his slick-coated length slides from your tight hole before he sinks back in.Â
You plead, voice cracking, hips lifting, begging him to go faster, to fuck you into the mattress until you forget your own name, but he ignores it with maddening calm, eyes locked on yours, memorising the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter, the way your chest heaves.
âBeen dreaming of this for so longâ he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and ragged. âYour face when you cum is fucking unreal.â
His hand drifts to your throat, a loose, teasing pressure around your pulse, thumb brushing the frantic flutter there, just enough to make your breath hitch and your body arch harder into him.Â
Praise spills from him in soft, filthy waves. âSo perfect⊠look at you⊠fuck, youâre made for meâŠâÂ
He kisses you deeply, tongue stroking slow and thorough until his own vision spots at the edges, until he has to pull back to breathe.
When you shatter again, whimpering his name in broken, desperate cries that echo around the room, he reaches for the phone without breaking rhythm. He records every sound, the wet slap of skin, your trembling gasps, the way you sobÂ
âSatoru⊠ToruâŠâ as you come apart beneath him.Â
Your legs are still shaking when you push at his chest. He lets you flip him, rolling onto his back with a low, approving groan.Â
You climb on top, sinking down onto his cock in one greedy drop that makes you both groan.Â
You ride him hard, viciously, nails digging into the hard planes of his stomach, leaving angry red crescents that will linger for days.
He grips your thighs, fingers bruising, holding you steady while you grind, roll and snap your hips forward. âThatâs itâ he growls, voice wrecked, eyes dark and hooded, watching the way your peaked breasts jolt with each snap. âTake what you want. Use me.â
You gasp, head thrown back, cumming hard on top of him, walls spasming around his cock, hot and wet and relentless.Â
Heâs obsessed with it, the way you clutch him, the way his cum starts to leak out around his shaft as you lift and drop your hips a few more times, thick strings of it webbing between you, letting him know heâs marked every inch of you.
He canât keep his hands off you even when you both stumble to the shower, desperate to wash the mess from your thighs. The tiny bathroom fills with steam almost instantly, hot water pounding against the tiles as he presses you to the slick wall.
He lifts one of your legs around his hip, notches himself, and fucks you again, deep, punishing thrusts that jolt your whole body, eager to feel you cum around him again.
His teeth sink into your shoulder, leaving another dark, blooming bite that will show under your clothes for days.Â
Hickeys follow in a possessive trail, from your neck, to your collarbone, down to the soft swell above your breast, each one sucked and bitten with careful hunger.Â
He doesnât stop until youâve come apart once again, pinned to the wall with his fingers on your clit and his cock driving deep.
Finally, he drop to his knees in the steam, mouth sealed around your clit while two fingers curl inside you, drawing out every last tremor until your legs give out entirely.
âŠ
You shift slightly, the sheets whispering against your skin as you stretch just enough to feel the pleasant ache bloom deeper in your hips, a warm, liquid heat still lingering between your thighs.
Youâre pressed to his side, one leg slung lazily over his thigh, arm draped across his waist, fingers splayed against the firm warmth of his ribs, your cheek resting on his chest where his heartbeat thumps slow and steady beneath your ear, like a metronome set to lull you back to sleep.
A large hand glides down your waist, fingers spreading wide against your skin until they reach the swell of your ass. He grips the flesh there gently, kneading with lazy affection, the pressure sending a fresh spark through your already tender body.
You gasp softly, fingers pressing into his ribs in reflex. Beneath you, his chest vibrates with a low, sleepy laugh.
âMorningâ he murmurs, voice rough and gravel-thick from sleep, the sound rumbling straight through you.
You crack one eye open, peeking up at him through your lashes. Even like this, hair mussed beyond repair, eyes slightly puffy from the night, brilliant blue peeking out between pale lashes, he looks unfairly good, like he woke up ready to ruin your composure all over again.
âMorningâ you whisper back, pressing your face into his chest to hide the sudden rush of warmth flooding your cheeks as last night crashes over you in vivid, relentless detail.
He rolls smoothly, maneuvering you beneath him with effortless strength until youâre flat on your back again, his body caging yours against the mattress. He props his chin on your chest, right above the valley between your breasts, blue eyes twinkling in the soft morning light as he studies your face.
His white hair falls forward, brushing your collarbone. You donât know where to look, his gaze is too direct, too open, so you glance away, tracing the line of his shoulders instead.
âWhy arenât you looking at me?â His voice is quiet now, vibrating against your sternum. âDo you regret it?â
You shake your head quickly, bottom lip caught between your teeth. âNo. I promise I donât.â The words come out small. âIâm just⊠nervous.â
He laughs again, eyes curling shut for a moment before he lowers his cheek to rest directly over your heart. Youâre certain he can hear how wildly itâs racing, the slow smirk that spreads across his face confirms it.
âWhy are you nervous?â His hand begins to wander again, a single fingertip dragging up the inside of your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake.
âYou make me nervousâ you admit, voice barely above a whisper. You stare at the top of his head, fighting the urge to slide your fingers into that fluffy white hair. âThis makes me nervous. Iâm scared.â
âScared?â He hums, fingertip trailing higher, stroking across the top of your shoulder before dipping down to trace lazy circles over the swell of your breast.
âThat Iâve messed this upâŠâ Your stomach churns, the fear bubbling up despite the warmth of his body pinning you to the bed. You lose the battle and thread your fingers into his hair at last, the other hand smoothing across the wide plane of his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint ridge of muscle beneath. âI donât want you to think youâre just some⊠rebound.â
âI donât.â The answer is simple, but immediate. He shrugs one shoulder, muscles bunching under your palm. Then he lifts his head again, pinning you with that unflinching blue stare. âAnd even if I was, I wouldnât let you go.â
You blink, brain sluggish in the morning haze. âHuh?â
He pushes himself up onto his forearms so heâs hovering over you properly now, white hair falling forward to frame his face like a halo.
âIâve loved you for quite some time now, Y/N.â There's no trace of teasing, no hint of a joke. âIâve tried to tell you so many times, but the timing was always wrong.â
âReally?â The word comes out on a shaky exhale, your heart slamming so hard it almost hurts. He nods once, solemn, eyes never leaving yours.
âIâm not saying this just because weââ You swallow, the rest catching in your throat. âBut I love you too, Satoru. I have for so long.â
A smile breaks across his face, so beautiful you swear you hear something angelic in the room. He lowers himself again, burying his face in the hollow of your throat, arms sliding beneath you to pull you impossibly closer.
Your own arms wrap around his ribs, palms smoothing over the warm expanse of his back, holding on like youâre afraid heâll vanish if you let go.
âIâve waited so long for thisâ he whispers into your skin, voice muffled and raw. His arms tighten incrementally, squeezing until your breath hitches, pressing the steady thump of his heart against yours.
mma!jo tries really hard to not feel like a total pervert when it comes to you. / nsfw; m. masturbation (brief)
satoru shouldnât feel like such a pervert. he really, really shouldnât.
itâs not your fault youâve got such a pretty body and cream-like soft skin, each curve of yours so nice and tempting to grab. you canât be faulted for having the biggest, coyest doe eyes heâs ever seen only for it to be paired with plump lips and a âlight-up-the-roomâ kind of smileâ and youâre not guilty of anything for being younger than him either.
and he reminds himself of this when youâre rising up to the balls of your feet the minute you see him step toward you just to your arms wrap around his neck, the ever-oblivious little murmured âhelloâ just beside his ear a direct cause of ever single hair on his body standing, despite your blissful ignorance. he reminds himself when between those 30 seconds of break during sparring he catches your gazeâ eyes naturally wide, soft, and with an innocent gleam in themâ only for you to flash him one of those bright, dopey grins and those unexpectedly endearing double-thumbs up the instant you register him looking at you.
and he especially reminds himself when you laugh at something stupid he saysâ unlike your usual giggles, the sound that leaves you is always something so breathy and relaxed, so undeniably you it undoes him and takes every ounce of dignity he has to not blatantly stare at you with your head thrown back, dimples on display.
at least in those moments, he has some semblance of self-control.
but when youâre sprawled beneath him with legs hooked around him, fingers splayed somewhere along his bicep and tricep with detectable hesitance, peering up through fluttering lashes and knitted brows like a deer in headlights searching for helpâ for his help and guidanceâ man he seriously canât help it!
now isnât the time, he has to mentally chant for himself over and over. has to will himself to remind you where your hands go next, how and where to move to push him off. your futile attempts when he forgets to watch his weight and the faint whines you try to hide do little to help his case.
and yet itâs even worse when youâre done, because then itâs his turn and you get so utterly pliant when he jerks you to get your hands off his lower abdomen, trusting him so blindly even when he shows you how easy it is for him to move you around as he pleases, so much so that itâs impossible to pin the blame on him when his thoughts strays to how easy it would be to do it under different circumstances withâ no, bad satoru. focus.
he shouldnât feel like such a pervert around you, but he does anyway.
images of a certain naive, doll-like, sweet girl whose voice is like taking a bite of cheesecake, the one who wears her too-big heart on her sleeve flourish in his mind like wildflower hours after these sort of instances, when heâs finally cooped back up in the comforts of his room, as his thumb circles his leaking tip, fisting his cock languidly and drawing low groans from the back of his throat that morph into choked grunts and the eventual panted whimpers when he hears his peakâ each syllable of your name coming out a raw, desperate plea when thick ropes of white spurt, leaving his chest heaving.
when the post-nut clarity hits him like a ball hurled at him and the guilt settles in for the nth night in a row, he tells himself heâll stop thinking like a pervert tomorrow.
yet the sun sets and rises each day; his filthy mind unchanging.