pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day
summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked!
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"
You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."
"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"
Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.
You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.
You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.
First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."
And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.
The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.
You end up abandoning the heels.
That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.
Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.
"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"
His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.
"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."
"Neither do I."
"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Peter."
"I don't know what you—"
"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."
That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you.
You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.
God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.
The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.
"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.
"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"
"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another.
"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"
Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."
Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave.
"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream. "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.
Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you.
Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.
The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching.
"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back.
"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"
"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."
"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."
+ from mara
this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬: to most he’s sergeant garrick—to those who knew better, he’s gaz; to you, he’s still that kid who tagged around your little brother. years go by and he comes home a decorated war veteran. only this time, he comes back taller than you remembered and far meaner. he reminds you of the hurt he still carries when you rejected him as a young boy. gaz continues to hold that against you. forgiveness is wasted on him—
that is, if you only give him just half a chance to prove he’s the man for you.
masterlist | ao3 | mdni | take heed: kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x f!reader, afab reader, younger man x older woman, resentful gaz, slightly mean gaz, possessive gaz, hidden feelings, ardent pining, but he can’t let you know he’s still in love, angst, ulterior motives, if i can’t have you no one can, age gap, size difference, forced orgasm, love confessions, slight coercion, manipulation, manhandling, dubious consent, actually, extremely dubious consent, possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, fluff, dark romance.
𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢.
“Is that Gaz now?” you exclaim in delight, pointing to the man beside your brother—taller, broader and unmistakably grown.
He is distant from the picture you always had of him. Sporting the same tactical uniform your younger brother wears and the familiar union jack baseball cap that seems rather like an extension of him. Gaz smiles directly towards the camera with an arm enclapsed around your dearest Tom.
“Yes—and do not point out the height difference,” Tom half-heartedly warns from across the kitchen island. “Not while I already have him reminding me every chance he gets.”
You laugh lightly from the back of your hand. Enlarging the screen for a better view, you see traces of the boy you remember fondly.
“And yet you’ve made him best man for your wedding.”
“He’s a righteous prick, stubborn as hell, clever—in an irritatingly arrogant way—it was a no brainer truly.” Tom shrugs in passing before guzzling down milk straight from the carton. You grimace at your brother’s audible gulps. Turning your attention back to the screen, you return to your scrolling; the album full of Tom’s last deployment with his oldest friend.
“It is a wonder that you are getting married.” before me.
Your wry omission could be read on paper as Tom now boasts a gloatful smile and gives you condescending pats to your back.
“Don’t hold that against me.” He sighs wistfully. “Just because I am younger.. terribly handsome, charming.. in my peak years—”
“Where are you going with this?” You snap.
You swear one more wrong word from him and he’ll have to be reminded why you earned your title as the older sister.
“You’ll find someone.” Tom says in surprising earnest. “Truly; if I know any of my mates good enough for you I’ll send them your way.”
“Please—I see the company you keep.” You scoff dismissively. Tom doesn't fight your words on that, instead he looks off into the distance and sips into his milk in deep thought. You are only glad that he’s drinking like a normal human being now.
“Gaz has always been the best one of us.”
You eye him surreptitiously—but he says nothing more and tosses the carton back to the fridge.
There was once a time where Gaz would frequent your family home when you were all just kids. He’d often arrive in the pretense that he was there for your brother, but you knew that he knew your brother had football practice every Saturday. You’d play along to his act, feigning ignorance. He had a rather sweet disposition about him that you couldn't refuse.
Tom was right. He really is the best of all of them.
Gaz had always been so polite and mild-mannered, and despite his peers, he didn't succumb to their influences. In fact, you could say that he set a precedent for them. Always the first to call things out, never afraid to stand his ground. Even as a kid, he listened to his parents so well. You don’t ever recall him ever going through a rebellious phase.
A perfect paragon for the golden boy.
You also remember how sweetly he trailed after you when he was younger; tagging around you everywhere like a little puppy—which you had nicknamed him much to his chagrin—so much to the point Tom had to ban you from the living room whenever they played their video games, claiming you were distracting him.
Your friends particularly loved to joke about your little boyfriend—even your mother at times had to pull you aside to let you know if you knew how sweet that Garrick boy was on you. Of course, that was all very well and endearing. It is not unheard of for younger brothers’ friends to get enamored around older and seemingly ‘cooler’ girls.
However, you had not expected the sentiment to stick around that long.
As he grew older, he had never quite shaken off that proprietary he’s reserved around you. You had always humoured him when he was younger—because the thought of him ever having a chance with you was absurd, but as the lines begin to grow obscure, you begin to worry that you are letting him believe anything could happen between the two of you.
The thought of it then made you blanch.
Back then you made great efforts to remind him of the exact image you have of him; your little brother’s childhood friend.
It brings you back to when he had first grown taller than you, overgrowing you like weeds. And yet you patronisingly brush his hair, call him puppy and ask him what classes he’s taking or how his grades were looking. There is a disappointment in his face whenever you dismiss him, and you are careful to pretend not to notice.
Whatever accomplishments or accolades he’s achieved, it has always been met with praises like one would give a toddler:
He’s received the Dux award?
Got his driver’s licence first time—oh! And a hunting and boating licence?
Recruited for the Special Air Service in the British Military?
Awarded the Operational Service Medal?
You congratulate him as if each achievement was somehow simple. You can tell he hates it when you do that.
Gaz would wince and bite his lip before looking to the side, hands tucking into his pockets as if he was embarrassed by his feats—that were no doubt exceptional—but you’ve always managed to reduce his wins to be so small.
However, nothing gets on his nerves more than when you talk about your current boyfriends you had at the time. He had never said anything outright—but that boy did wear his heart so clearly on his sleeve.
Like it was his right to be angry; Gaz would sneer at the sound of their names, his temper would uncharacteristically shorten, his replies would grow clipped—and most of all, he would waste no chance to point out the shortcomings they had about them.
That all fades whenever Tom lets it slip that you have broken it off.
In spite of all that, Gaz was so present in your life he has grown to be like family to you—a brother to Tom.
“My phone, please?” He breaks you out of your reverie, outstretching his hand across from you for his device. You roll your eyes and hand it in which he pockets easily.
“They’ll arrive early tomorrow,” he reminds you.
‘They’ as in the honorary guests—out of town relatives, the bridesmaids, groomsmen. In anticipation of the wedding, your family has taken residence in a charming country manor. It’s a bit out of the way, but you think the long drive makes up for the beautiful view you wake up to during sunrise.
“Can you help in the morning?”
You hum in agreement at his question, lingering in the kitchen long after Tom has gone upstairs to retire for the night. You look forward to meeting old and new friends. However, there is only one person that is on your mind. There shouldn’t be any apprehension when thinking about the past—but he is persistent in your head.
The feeling of unease settles into the depths of your pit once you’ve entertained the idea that it exists. It is unyielding in its own regard—even as you occupy yourself with the mundane: brushing your teeth, your hair, singing a tune that was stuck in your head all day before this, doomscrolling on your phone—none of it seems to work.
You are well settled deep into the comforts of your heavy quilted duvets, far past beyond the waking hours. And so you indulge. The memory you try to forget comes resurfacing back into your focus.
Gaz—however apparent he makes his feelings for you was—had never so much as uttered a single word of confession. Honestly, you were glad that he never did; it just made things easier. That is until the night before Tom and Gaz were set to be deployed right after completing the SAS selection.
The Garricks had extended an invitation to your family to spend dinner together before the boys were off to fight whatever evil they deemed sufficient for war. You must have cried for two weeks leading up to that day.
No amount of convincing could get your brother to desert his mission. You had probably exhausted your voice for how much you begged him to stay. The same sentiment had also reached his friend as well. Yes—it was noble, valiant, brave or whatever patriotic adjectives that they use to describe military propaganda, but you didn’t think it was worth the expense of theirs or others’ lives.
Your efforts were all in vain anyway; they all fell on deaf ears. Their core values were set in stone, and nothing could move them to see otherwise.
You recall mostly staying silent during the formal sit-down dinner, having spent all the words you could for weeks that you could find no other to spare during that night—not even small pleasantries. Gaz had noticed, pulling you aside after the meal had concluded—it seemed like you weren’t the only one with something weighing heavy on their mind.
That memory is ingrained in you like ink to skin—no matter how much you try to forget, it all comes crawling back to your mind:
“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man in love.”
Verbatim; like it was yesterday.
You let him down that night with care, knowing how fragile he was at that moment. The hurt on his face was unmistakeable; you think you made the right choice. That was the last you see of him. Funny how five years had gone without a moment's notice.
Though confronting, you play the memory on repeat until you fall asleep—until you’ve reminisced enough to know that the past can still ache and haunt you like the present. And again with time, it heals. Once you’ve acknowledged it again, it bothers you less knowing it’s still a part of you that cannot be forgotten.
Misty, low fog clouds the garden grounds when you overlook the windows. The flowers shrivel and closes up in the cold, awaiting warmth from the East expectantly.
It’s not long until you see the first fleet of cars rolling down the winding driveway. Tom is already by the gates in his thick fleece jacket, unlocking the heavy contraption and dragging it through the gravel. You see a hand emerging from the driver’s side encasing Tom’s briefly for a momentary exchange.
Taking off like a bird, you swoop down the flight of stairs to welcome the guests. There is excitement brewing in your chest, awaiting familiar faces you haven’t seen for some time and of course, acquainting new ones as well.
By the time you open the front door, your arms are at an immediate outreach towards your closest relatives. They release the most high-pitched sounds once you’ve called out their names before returning your hug with the tightest squeeze.
Your nonsensical and haste prattle to discuss what had happened these last few years since you’ve last seen each other was cut short by Tom’s narrow glance at your way. He is seemingly displeased by the rather loud chatter you’ve caused.
“Excuse me, groomzilla awaits my service.” You roll your eyes playfully as they snicker and promise to catch up.
Your eyes befell a woman in a blue blouse with her pale-gold hair tied neatly back in a bun opening up her boot. You don’t believe you know her—but you hope to be of some help; there seems to be some heavy suitcases in the back in which one would likely struggle with bringing inside in one trip.
“Good morning,” you chirp softly as to not startle her from behind. “Please, let me help you.”
“Thank you.” She gives you a small smile and a nod your way.
You successfully heave one luggage down from the vehicle as she easily manages the other. You think it is the proper time to make polite introductions; you start with your name.
“Tom’s sister—the groom to the unfortunate bride,” you murmur the last part teasingly, but when she only returns it with the same composed smile, you quickly add, “just joking!—of course, she is very fortunate. My brother, Tom, a-as you may know. He is—well was—in the SAS, the Special Air Service. Now he’s doing also very important work for the government—”
You are interrupted by her small laugh.
“Yes, I know Tom very well, we used to work with each other.” She picks up her black luggage and you do the same with the other. “Kate Laswell.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you say in delight. “He’s often told me the people he met in his service are often the closest friends he’s made in his life.”
“I’m sure. Trauma bonding has a way of bringing people closer together.” With her even voice, it takes you a moment to register that she has made a joke. You can only breathe out a laugh as she shoots you a slight grin your way.
Once you’ve assisted her to one of the many rooms in the wing, you venture out the front garden where many more guests come trickling in from their long drive on the country roads. The formidable rumble of an engine catches your attention. A sportscar pulls in with sudden precision and slows to a stop; Tom is already making his way over to the driver.
“Mate, that’s some car.” he whistles and grazes his fingers against the hood before knocking on it twice.
You hold your breath when the door opens. It’s Gaz. You don’t know but it all feels surreal to you; he is there. Gaz comes out from the driver’s seat positively beaming and embraces Tom with a firm grip in one hand and the other over his back.
They exchange greetings as if time hasn’t passed them by, casually going off about the morning drive and the weather. Granted you don’t know how far the space of time was between the two, but you find it all endearing to see them together again like old times.
Gaz momentarily looks your way and you take your chance to wave and smile from the distance. However, he swiftly looks the other way—entirely dismissing you as if just seeing you is insulting enough for him.
Your hand is frozen next to you before they slowly fall to your side. The hurt is felt just after a brief stillness in time; your breath falls short. Surely, he doesn’t mean to do that—perhaps, he didn’t see you or thought the greeting was not meant for him.
Excuses come rushing through your head. You are in denial of the worst case scenarios you’ve conjured and ruminated on just last night. He can’t possibly still remember—or be angry at all. There must be something else, you think. The Gaz you know wouldn’t act like this. Instead, he must be tired from his drive and simply didn’t see you in the midst of his brief look towards the building. You chalk it off and decide to leave it alone for now; there are other guests needing your attention.
The whole morning continues in joyous disarray. Your arms are getting quite sore from the luggages you’ve carried up the stairs. However, the good company alone makes up for the fact that you can’t feel your forearms for the time being.
You’re preoccupied with building a rapport with those you have not met yet, making sure they feel welcome and comfortable with their stay. Tom’s bride, Guinevere, is as lovely as ever. With the amount of stress and checklists that must be running through her head—she stays as composed as ever. Her family is also an extension of her; grace and sensibility.
Everything felt perfect and serene; everything you could ever hope for the couple.
So that little oversight for your regard shouldn’t bother you. Instead, you should focus on what is important to your family at the moment. You are to do your best to keep the peace; there is no problem—there never has been. Gaz has grown into his own person—even if he is someone you could not recognise anymore.
It doesn't matter how much both of your family values each other, nor does it matter the years you have known him. If he feels that he has outgrown you, you have no right to object to it.
Though you settle on your pragmatic assurances with confidence, your haste convictions waver when you see him warmly greet your parents. Embracing your mother and shaking your father’s hand as though they’ve always remained familiar—like the last time they saw him wasn’t when he’d been sent away for military training.
You couldn't help the sadness that seeps in. It is apparent that his warm esteem and consideration for your family is not extended out for you. You don’t know why you’re excluded; the small moments of respite you find yourself in the busy day, you find yourself mourning the fondness you feel for the wonder kid you once knew.
The next event is almost immediate. Even though most here are either jet-lagged, excited or anxious, time does not wait for anyone; rehearsals are in place. The event coordinators are going through the logistics for the big day. You and a couple of green volunteers are more than happy to support with any of the small tasks that may have been overlooked in the background.
You are relieved to see the venue finally taking shape. What once was an empty and barren auditorium has come alive in celeste and white in multiple forms: in blooming flowers, silks, multifaceted crystals, drifting veils and soft arrangements. It is entirely beautiful, and yet it is not entirely close to finish.
The event coordinator assiduously lists the items still yet to be crossed in his checklist: chairs, flower arrangements, plating and other small confirmations with Tom and Gwen. Seems easy enough. You all collectively think it could be done well before the day ends with the extra sets of hands the team had now at their disposal.
You see boxes of napkins yet to be folded for the tables along the vast colonnade hall, and endearingly, you spot Gaz struggling to set one despite the amount of times a staff has shown him. At one point, she deserts him after her third demonstration—returning to her other priorities that demand greater attention.
You abandon your previously declared faith and gravitate closer to him. You are a social creature and your sickening desire to be liked by everybody surpasses even your respect for others’ boundaries.
Gaz’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries desperately to emulate the pristine folded cloth in front of him. You carefully stand from across him and whisper a quick greeting. His eyes flick to yours before returning to his work.
At least this time, he nods to acknowledge your presence.
That is good enough for you. You keep a sheepish smile on your face and busy yourself with setting up with the same task he is otherwise so absorbed in. Once you have set up two, you look up briefly to see that he is struggling with his first; you could not help but laugh lightly at his unyielding efforts.
His fierce eyes shoots across to you, as if you had directly affronted him. You stop immediately but you could not help the smile that creeps up on the corner of your lips.
“Here,” you say graciously and take a cloth next to you and provide him with a step by step guide. He tries his best to follow silently, but it is as though his hands are too large and big for such a task that requires a delicate touch. And still, you enjoy gracing him with patience, unfolding your work again to show him again and again whenever he deems he is too good for your advice midway and finds himself lost again.
You figure this could be a step to bridging the gap he has created between you. The distance still feels far, but you are nothing if not resolute.
“No—like this.” You offer again and repeat the motion, he does the same but it is not quite right; still charmingly lopsided and crinkled at the edges. You laugh again—not at him—but at the stubborn imperfection he is so determined to overcome.
It seems as though he does not share the same humour as you as he sneers in frustration. Gaz unfurls his piece of cloth and tosses it back down sharply, undoing all his spent efforts.
“Right, you do it then.” he snarks dryly before storming off to heave a stack of chairs—only he grabs them too harshly and carelessly, making a sharp, jarring screech across the floor for a brief moment. The sound is enough to turn a few heads before they resume back to their tasks at hand. And yours, they pitifully still zero in on him.
You don’t understand; he might as well have told you that you’re dead to him. Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed at him, perhaps you’ve misread the situation—that you should have seen how much it offended him when you could see that he was trying so hard. Still—you can’t help but feel as if you didn’t deserve such an unwarranted response from him.
The dread that simmers just above the surface comes into the low light; it is now cold as ice inside your chest.
As pathetic and miserable as it might seem, you could not bring yourself to stop staring at his retreating back. Seeing him busy himself with whatever tasks that he could get his hands on—particularly with heavy-loading ones—your eyes continue to search for him.
He hates you; you are sure of it now, and you don’t know what to do with this profound information.
It burns in the back of your mind throughout the day; to have met a complete stranger when this person meant so much to your family. You begin to recount any misgivings you might have afflicted, any insults that you might have carelessly tossed as a joke—you play it all on repeat. Your movements are now slow, your face twisted in pensive consideration, your mind far off into the distance—you are too much preoccupied with your thoughts to be of any help.
This continues long after the day is finished, when everyone retires briefly into their rooms to recuperate before congregating again for dinner. You remain in a state of shock; you never did very well with direct animosity, always used to playing politics and avoiding direct confrontation, masking enmity for the sake of polite society.
When dawn settles, the ground level of the manor is filled with a cacophony of lively and generous conversations. Sharing past recollections over an equally hearty meal, and yet—you could not bring yourself to meet their level of enthusiasm. Your sudden quiet disposition does not go unnoticed, a few of your close companions whisper into your ear to check if anything is wrong—in which you fervently deny and placate with a disingenuous smile.
When their attention is elsewhere, you resume your pensive temperament; staring into your soup with a still and vacant look. The wounds you are nursing are rudely interrupted by a sudden raucous laughter by the end of the table where most bachelors sat by with Tom. You eye Gaz from the corner of your eyes with slight indignance.
At first you feel wronged—humiliated even. How can he toss his head back and laugh so freely? Grasping your brother’s shoulders in response to his quick, witty jokes—being so respectful and charming to all other guests and your family here? How dare he be such a well-rounded young man when he has been reproaching you ever since he’s arrived?
If he means to sentence you to exile you at least would like to hear the charges for it, though you make peace that you probably may never hear it.
You promise that you wouldn’t confront it, that you wouldn’t push for a closure or even a spare a thought more than what you already have; there is nothing wrong with not being friends, not everyone has to like you—
But the moment he stands to clear his plates, you quickly follow his steps into the kitchen.
You could not help it. He has taken an issue with you—you don’t know what—but you are older and thus, wiser by default. And so, you are determined to navigate his complexities and ire with you and make some kind of amends at the very least. He is your brother’s best man, and you are the good-natured, kind, most considerate and oh so mature sister. There is no pride or ego you hold onto when dealing with conflict resolutions, you are only focused on a solution.
There is a slight apprehension when you take a step forward into the separate, industrial kitchen with him; blocked off from the rest of the crowd. With the last vestige of courage and humility you have, you approach with your hands up in defeat, your white flags raised high—letting him know that he’s hurt you, and you are defenceless.
“Hey Gaz,” You offer almost whisper-like, afraid that even an octave higher would be misconstrued as an instigation for an argument. “How are you?”
You join beside him to put away your plate but he picks up his pace and tosses his into the sink, preparing to leave as if a moment with you longer is like torture he is unwilling to bear. This scares you to an endless week of suffering from a one-sided battle; a cold war, and so you catch his forearm—a grip that isn’t stringent or insistent, but not so wilted that you are giving him a choice either.
He relents and looks back at you—still as guarded as before, but there is a slight willingness now. You look up at him, wide and pleading. You only release your hold once you are certain that he is at least sparing you a few moments to hear you out.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, filling in the silence. “Please; talk to me.”
Gaz shrugs and looks away for a glance before returning to you. “Nothing.” he says simply. As if his fists aren’t clenched so tightly by his sides, opening and closing them in bristling restraint.
“Nothing?” you repeat back, entirely unconvinced by his answer. He frowns slightly and nods back at you in response. “Gaz, I–”
“It’s Kyle,” he interrupts. Making a low sound in his throat, he clarifies, “Kyle, now; to you.”
There is a pause in your being—as if time has stopped just for you and you are only caught up with the rest of the world when you have finally pieced everything together.
“You’re still punishing me?”
“After all these years?” you breathe out, trying to make sense of the situation. “Ga–.. Kyle, you are practically family, my brother’s best man. What happened years ago shouldn't affect us now; I haven’t thought about it for so long—”
“You never fail to remind me how little you think of me.” He laughs bitterly. “It meant nothing to you, did it? That you haven’t thought of me—that I meant nothing to you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that..” You try with utmost sincerity. He is visibly frustrated, prone to anger and nonsensical accusations—you are careful now in the way you talk to him. “I just meant.. “ you pause before selecting your words in a way that couldn’t be easily misconstrued. “I thought you would’ve forgotten about it.”
He is silent for the time being. Gaz looks at the ground and shakes his head while sucking hard through his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.. “ he admits, like he is ashamed—but his eyes are burning red with accusation. “Not like you.”
You move to say something but he backs away, hands in his pockets in defence. “I don’t need an apology or your pity—you’ve patronised me enough for what it's worth.”
“What do you expect me to do?” You whisper hopelessly. “Move on knowing that you are still angry with me? I’m supposed to act like I’m okay with being estranged? I want to make it right with you, Gaz—” you catch yourself slipping by calling out his name you’ve only known him by, and not the one he insists on to drive you further away.
“Why?” his brows furrow as he stalks closer, looming over you, stopping just enough to unsettle. “Why are you so desperate to mend it? You gave me your answer a long time ago.” He says; you force down a tight swallow. It takes every courage within you to look up at his fierce gaze—in which you can see through a thin veil, is withholding so much repressed resent and sadness.
“Because I care about you.. “ You say finally. There is no conviction in your words, or a pitch that means to be convinced; you only say the bare truth. “You know I do.”
“Come off it–”
“I do care; how can I not?”
He considers your words, mulling over them like he's trying to dissect even the slightest hint of deception—but you are steadfast and hold your ground. He can think what he likes; you are more than happy to repeat yourself a thousand times over until he’s finally convinced. Again, you don’t come here to fight, only to at least get some closure.
His voice softens when he asks, “have your feelings changed then?”
There is a sudden vulnerability he poses in his question. His scathing look remains, but there is patience now. You take advantage of the moments of reprieve he is giving you; a moment to mask the bewilderment you feel when you learn he’s still harbouring and holding onto what he's professed all those years ago. Perhaps you had taken him lightly; dismissed him so easily that you had overlooked the sincerity and the weight of his words.
You only ever remember it as a distant dream; now here he is in front of you, confronting you of the same difficult position you wormed your way out of a long time ago—only this time, you know that your fluff won’t suffice.
“My feelings?”
“Yes,” He moves nearer and you absentmindedly mirror his steps until your back hits the edge of the counter. “Is there a reason why you’re so desperate for me? To see me.. Talk to me?” he swipes his tongue over his lip briefly as he searches your face.
“If you’re so determined to ruin what little peace I have left at least justify it with a good cause.”
“I just.. I want us to be friends again–”
“I’m not interested in being friends with you.” Cutting you off sharply, killing any hopes on the idea of friendship you might have in your head. “I thought I made that clear last time.”
“.. I don’t want you to cut me off either.” Gaz considers you, and for the first time he lets his eyes wander, taking you all in from head to toe before flicking back to your lifted gaze up at him. You are trying—god, you are trying not to let your resolve waver by letting him intimidate you into quiet submission. No matter how formidable he’s built his walls up, you are determined to at least reach an armistice.
For a spell, he leans in closer; you think it’s a test and so you remain still. However, when he comes too close to comfort, so close you can feel his breath against your cheek—you subconsciously turn away. A flash of hurt flickers across his face before he returns to his hardened look; a dark, unforgiving resolve.
“You don’t care for me,” he utters your name bitterly. “Not in the way I need you to.” You open your mouth slightly to deny but he continues, “you’ve.. “ his breath shakes; he curses under his breath, “you’ve tortured me—all my life. You can’t even understand how much it hurts to see you right now—even being in the same room with you is fucking killing me.
“Now I’m doing my due diligence; my best behaviour out of respect for your brother, your family. I’m trying to stop thinking about you, that you’re his sister, or that you’re in the room above mine, move on, that back then I didn’t hold you above anyone else—or that you didn’t laugh in my face when I asked you to marry me.”
“Gaz–”
“God, I was so ready–” he steps back to drag his hand down against his face. “There was nothing I wouldn’t do for you—you understand? Nothing. If you asked me to rescind the offer from the military just to be with you I would’ve done it; I was ready to give it all up—throw it away. I would’ve done anything to keep you happy. You had no idea how much it killed me when you worried and cried for me—I would’ve pursued something else, anything else.
“—but I’m the fucking idiot thinking that it meant something.” Gaz bites his lip, his head hanging low as he takes an exasperated sigh. “And now you,” he holds out one arm with his index finger pointing loosely in your direction. “You come back and say that you want me around like before? Do you know what that does to me?”
There is no undoing the past. He has every right in his regard to vent out his frustrations. You are only blind to the depths of his feelings he’s held for you, and now you’re paying for it at the very moment.
“I’m sorry.” You say finally. You know he does not need it—nor does he want it—but you give it to him anyway. “Believe me, I am.”
You continue, placing a hand over your chest to convey some kind of verisimilitude for your earnest truth. “I’ve always felt the distance in the age between us, and I thought that one day—you would too.” His face is unchanged, unfazed with your reasoning; this prompted you to explain further.
“I couldn’t.. “ you exhale briefly, the words are all lost to you. “You have to understand, you were my little brother’s friend, I saw you in the way I see him. That doesn't mean I care for you any less—I’ve never stopped thinking about you—your safety, your health. I wonder for your happiness all the time, if you finally found your place in this world. You are someone important to me, Gaz.
Then; and still now.”
He is taking in your words, but you fear he is still holding onto that bitter resentment.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he murmurs your name lowly. “I haven't been for a long time.”
“I know that.. “
“Do you?” He’s holding his hand up before dejectedly throwing it down again at his side. “For years you’ve been reminding me, as if I already don’t know that myself. And for the most part, I’ve held my tongue—for your sake I said nothing; I’d suffer so that you’d feel more comfortable.
I know it burdens you, it’s-it’s hard on you too, I see it when you look at me but.. I-I can’t dictate what my heart feels for you. And that night—.. That night I came to you not as a kid, but as a man; I waited for my chance, long enough that even your parents were even asking for me, for my intentions with you. I love—I loved you so much I was willing to wait and do whatever it takes—but you wouldn't let me grow and I don’t understand why I have to pay for that.”
He takes a shaky breath. Running his hands through his hair.
There is not much you could say. You want to comfort him, but you fear that would also be the wrong move to make. So you watch pitifully at his raging self; the feeling of guilt gnaws at the pitt of your stomach, blissfully ignorant as to how careless you were to this boy.
“I’ve seen more than what most guys double my age will ever see in their entire life.” Gaz speaks again, albeit, calmer than before; dropping down his voice.
“I was the youngest commissioned. Fast tracked through selection with the highest rate. Decorated for operational conduct; received the Queen’s commendation. I’ve had multiple international deployments: counter-terror, urban warfare, classified theatres. I’ve buried friends. I’ve brought men home. Led operations before most of them finished desk training.
“But now I know I never had a chance with you,” he says tersely. “You will never give me a good enough reason to.”
There is this look in his eyes, a trace of hope. Perhaps he is willing you to stop him—to deny his perfervid claims but you could not even bring yourself to look at him. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, you shrink into your being from an impossible situation. You’re somehow embarrassed, not just because you’re being skinned alive by his words—but because they are all true.
It seems even painful for him to go on. His voice chokes as he decides pre-emptively against going further than what he already has. Gaz swallows tightly as he rubs his hand down his face.
“I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you this.” Muttering aloud, he shakes his head in disbelief.
Back then you found it endearing, the way he promises himself to you hoping you’d feel the same—but you couldn’t bring yourself to offer him the kindness of a lie; and now, with him baring his soul out to you, you still couldn’t manage to force out a white lie. Because you believe anything but honesty from you would be cruel.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” you plead in a voice above a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you, and I hate that this conversation might even risk that. I hate that I've hurt you. That you waited all those years to tell me. I wish I would’ve known what you were going through.”
Gaz listens in attentively as you inhale carefully.
“At the same time I don’t want to be unfair to you.. I don’t.. I can’t articulate what I feel for you at this moment, but I know that you’re someone important to me. I’d hate to see us drift apart. I just thought—you would find someone else that is so deserving of you. You’re an incredible guy—you always have been. So I couldn’t fathom that you would even spare me a second thought. You deserve someone who’s as incredible, so driven and-and beautiful—inside and out; And I can’t believe that someone like you isn’t with anyone yet.
You deserve someone who’s worthy and chooses you without all this.. baggage.”
Gaz bites the corner of his lip, nodding lightly while he looks the other way. You can’t help but feel that he is disappointed.
For what seems like an eternity, he finally breaks the silence.
“I’ve chosen you.”
Your heart drops.
His dry response leaves you even more uncertain than before; all you know is how much you want the earth to swallow you whole. Your flattery has no effect on him, in fact it might even be a detriment to this conflict resolution you were so hellbent on pursuing. You wish you could just say the right thing but you can’t risk another wrong word.
Gaz stares at your flustered self, trying to conjure something but failing to; in the end, it’s the same answer in of itself. He clears his throat and composes himself, averting his eyes from you as he gets ready to leave before speaking once more:
It happened to be today when it truly hit Shoto: this undeniable greed for your love and attention, to need you by his side. The feeling was insatiable. He wanted you to rely on him—to need him, for him to show you how he could give you everything you deserved and more.
content/warnings ᢉ𐭩 fem!reader, softdom!shoto, yandere-adjacent!shoto, beefy!shoto-coded, newly established relationship, smut, pwp, switches pov, obsessive & possessive behavior, fingering, slight thigh humping, vaginal sex, oral sex both m & f receiving, dirty talk, praising/praise kink, size kink if you squint, voice kink, overstimulation, missionary, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, very slight undertones of manipulation, pet names
a/n ᢉ𐭩 birthday fic for sho even tho his birthday passed and the birthday theme isn’t really prevalent here LOL i felt depraved writing this and need him bad
Shuddering breaths leave your lips, soundlessly, teeth gnashing onto the poor flesh as you struggle to muffle your pants. Clouds fill your hazy mind as you throw your head back against his sturdy chest, desire burning low in your gut, shaky palms gripping onto strong forearms that spread you open. Wide open, as you teeter on the edge of control that threatens to slip.
It’s an extremely fragile edge. But one that takes two to nudge—one that tests you, more so than him.
And perhaps that’s why it’s unfair, because he knows you. He’s quietly observant and unsuspectingly relentless. Knows just how much to give and how much to take. Knows how much to corner you so that you’ll hold on to him, reveling when it works.
How unfair.
A voice filters in from your phone speaker, layering static on top of drunken slurs that you can’t bother to decipher—that you are unable to decipher. Especially not with Shoto’s large hand palming your clit, grinding firm and slow circles against it. Heat met with heat.
“Are you going to answer him?” Shoto murmurs lowly into your ear. Words that wave off the clouds in your brain for one second before they muddle again when he teases a finger against your slit.
It’s a featherlight breach in comparison to the rest of him, and it wrecks you that this is only the beginning. That, despite him having barely done anything, your arousal already gathers heavily onto the pad of his finger. Undeniably wet. Sticky.
You remember he asked a question, and your whispers come out choked. Tight. “I- I don’t know what he’s saying—” Shoto pushes one thick finger in, smooth, sliding steadily along your walls that clench tight around the single digit. A whimper nearly breaks out before you clamp your mouth shut, the feeling of his knuckle cool stone against your entrance.
This feels wrong. Wildly inappropriate as Kaminari mumbles to himself across the line. But it seems to barely affect Shoto as his only response is to tighten his arm around your squirming waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as he pries you open on his lap.
Two forgotten wine glasses sit on the table, barely touched. The aftermath of the party was strewn around the house: cups and stray chairs littering everywhere, a half-eaten cake on the kitchen counter, the space worn with the familiar echo of friends.
All background to what’s playing out obscenely on the living room couch.
“Would you like my help?” he asks. A little too sweetly, as if he weren’t the reason for your fog-filled mind.
You hurriedly nod, though not entirely comprehending what he’s saying, teeth biting harsher into your lip when he slips another finger inside.
Shoto rests the side of his head against yours, red strands of hair peeking into your vision. He speaks—a low sound. A deep rumble that reverberates through your limbs, and you’re scared that you might cum from his voice alone.
You probably can. His effect on you is just that powerful.
“Tell him to go home,” he whispers into your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. Less of a suggestion and more like a command.
It comes out immediately, strained. Straight to the point. “Kaminari. Go home.”
“You’ll give it to him tomorrow,” Shoto murmurs, pumping in and out of you. Steady, strong strokes that leave you breathless, that have you wondering how he can make you feel so full with two mere fingers. Until he stills, reminding you generously, “His jacket.”
You gasp out, fighting to keep your composure, if only through your stuttering voice. “I’ll- I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll stop by. To give you your- your jacket.”
Kaminari whines, high-pitched and noisy and clearly intoxicated. “But ‘m still nearby. We all turned back already and ‘ts cold.”
“Try again, sweetheart,” Shoto urges you.
Which makes you breathe out hotly, heart racing in your chest, words tumbling out fast. “Just go home, Kaminari. It’s late, a-and dark, and I’m tired. Sho’s tired. We’re practically—”
Shoto suddenly curls his fingers upwards, grazing a sensitive spot inside. You jerk against his hold, pinching your eyes shut, trying to dull the warmth webbing from your core.
The rest out comes weakly. “—practically in b-bed already…”
Practically.
Past the squelching of his fingers leaving and entering you, rustling can be heard from over the phone. You hear voices—people who are completely oblivious as to what’s transpiring on the other end of the line. Worried mumbles, loud complaints, whines, arguing and yelling over who knows what.
You feel Shoto smile against your temple.
Then finally, you hear your friend’s voice again, crackling like electricity in the already charged air. “Alrigh ‘right. We’ll sswing by t’morrow then. Hey, kiss ‘Roki g’night for me, won’t cha?”
An I will means to come out. It really does. But Shoto relentlessly starts his pace again, thrusting in with more force, pressing the heel of his palm onto your clit, and his other hand makes it just in time to wrap around your mouth as a moan helplessly erupts from you.
The span of his hand easily covers half your face, hushing the delicate sounds meant for his ears only.
You squeeze your eyes tight as he works you. Aloof, careful, serious; all words people would describe him. If only they also knew how shameless he could be, shamelessly unworried as he finger-fucks his lover whilst on the phone with his dear friends.
“—oh!” Mina’s voice. At least, you think it is. “And tell him happy birthday for us again! We hope he had a lot of fun tonight!”
Shoto doesn’t move from his position, though he raises his head just slightly. His thrusts are rapid now, but his voice is steady, unassuming. Dare you say it, amused. “Thank you, Mina. I will.”
Three consecutive beeps ring out, signaling the end of the phone call. By the third chime, Shoto’s hold on you releases immediately, hand unwinding from your face, digits quickly pulling out stickily. Almost too fast for you to process, if not for the instant cold washing over you.
You whip around on his lap, glaring up at him with flushed need, pants leaving your lips erratically. Your eyes ask him what you can’t seem to say. Anger and embarrassment masking plead.
What’s wrong with you? Why did you do that?
And why did you stop?
Shoto tilts his head to the side, and you know, you just know he understands.
“You were going to come.” He states it as a fact because it is.
So, why did you stop? The words were on the tip of your tongue but unescaping. Instead, your fist lifts to thump weakly against his broad chest. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He never does because it’s not an action meant to push.
“We have a long night ahead of us,” is all he says, eyes patient, but darkening by the second.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You don’t nod, nor shake your head, but prickling anticipation boils in the pit of your gut. He says this as if he knows what’s best for you. And you can’t deny the flutter in your stomach at his unwavering confidence, at his own self-trust that he knows exactly what you need and how to give it.
At your silence, Shoto grabs your frozen fist against him, bringing it up to kiss your knuckles. Reverent and appreciative, how one treats something they love. Desire scorches into your bones at the sight, heart beating wildly in your chest.
And his voice clings to you, sticks to you like honey:
“Here. Why don’t I show you?”
Shoto would never deny how smitten he is with you. In fact, he knows it hit him very early on in the relationship: this all-consuming love he felt for you, this desire to be by your side, this greed to be the recipient of your attention at all times.
You came into his life like a flurry of flames—became the center of his world, and if there’s one thing he can ever be confident of, it's that he could provide you with everything you needed and more.
If only you’d let him.
Perhaps it’s because you two have been dating for only half a year now, or maybe it's because he was high-profile in the hero world, but you still had this air of courtesy surrounding you. A distance that kept him from veering too close, a wall that shot up in favor of “taking the relationship slow.”
Shoto was desperate to break it down.
And the truth is, he wanted you to rely on him. To need him. Because while he admired your strength and independence, you didn’t need to be when he’s around. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger or ever deny yourself anything, because he’d do it for you. You only had to say the words.
But Shoto knew you were too headstrong for that, too cautious. And so, he was careful. Careful to scatter his love in ways that you’d accept it, careful not to be too forceful. He should’ve known it’d backfire on him—his patience, on his birthday of all days.
January 11th, the day was spent walking around the winter-chilled city. A date meticulously planned and led by none other than you. He thought it was cute, adorable really, with how insistent you were to celebrate his special day, perhaps even more excited than he was.
It was going great. You were attentive—practically doting on him, ensuring he was having a fun time. Giddy by his side. But more importantly, you were open: lenient when he talked about future birthdays as if he was certain you were going to be there, willing when he prodded about bits of your life that you’ve always been hesitant to share. Perhaps it was the birthday luck everyone spoke so highly of.
Perfect—it was going perfectly. That is, until an unwelcoming encounter with an old friend stopped you in your tracks. Shoto had narrowed his eyes at the sight: your childhood neighbor who graciously interrupted him on the streets with a loud yell and a too-familiar call of your name, your eyes lighting up in response to the unexpected reunion.
Shoto was silent throughout the entire interaction, save for when he introduced himself stiffly behind you. It displeased him further when the man barely acknowledged him, when he excitedly babbled about how things were going well back at home, and that everyone missed you. And his heart stopped when he heard the conversation unfold before his very eyes:
“It was nice seeing you. I was actually curious about how everyone was doing back home. It does make me miss it.”
It did?
Your friend smiled, an action that had Shoto seething inside, even more so at the faint blush reddening the man’s cheeks. It made his blood boil. “You should move back home. Like I said, everyone misses you.”
“Ah. Yeah… maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Shoto reeled then. Not physically, but inside, his mind was racing. Were you just being polite? Or did you actually mean your words? Were you actually thinking of moving back home?
Were you going to leave him?
Shoto felt his world nearly crumble then and there.
But after your friend left, you looked at him with such a warm and beautiful smile on your face. A sight that never fails to make him want to keep you all to himself, a sacred treasure. He was deathly quiet when you pulled him along to the next planned destination, thinking—reflecting, unable to help himself when he asked:
“You’re moving back home?”
Your head whipped up to him, eyes wide, a little shocked. “Huh? Oh… No… I was just saying what I think he wanted to hear.” You didn’t offer any other explanation, but Shoto saw it, that crack of hesitation in your expression. After all, he studied you well, seared every emotion and reaction you exhibited safely away in his mind. He could tell, in a heartbeat, that you had some reservations, though he didn’t know exactly what.
Then again, it was undeniable: Shoto is smitten with you—he loves you. So, in that split second, he decided he wouldn’t be upset or angry with you. He couldn’t be.
He just had to make you see it, what he could give you.
The day continued with that notion solely on his mind, through all the birthday festivities you had planned and the warmth you basked him in. It didn’t stop when you two made it back to his place, for a chorus of Surprise! welcomed him at the threshold of his door—the presence of all his loved ones there, courtesy of you.
He was indeed surprised. Not so much because of you, that you would think to plan something like this; it was telling of your character, of how much care you put into things. It thrills him, to be the one you think so methodically of. It almost makes him forget that you hesitated.
Shoto was more surprised at seeing his family whom he couldn’t visit often due to work, and at his friends who embarked on paths different from his. It was pleasant to catch up with them, since he hadn’t seen them for a while. And that should’ve been the first sign.
If they haven’t seen him all that much, then they haven’t seen you. And for most, it was their first time officially meeting you. So, as much as everybody wanted to be with the birthday boy, they just as much wanted to be with and get to know his new beloved.
You are easily lovable, and loved by many; it’s one of your charms. He sees that. He understands why, even if all he was itching for was you to be by his side. The timing couldn’t have been worse, the culmination of everything built up today that made this wretched spear of possessiveness stab him at the throat. That dug with each passing second.
At first, it was five minutes. Iida had pulled you away briefly, leaving him to chat with Fuyumi and Natsuo. Shoto was admittedly confused, on edge and alarmed. He counted down the minutes, listening aimlessly to their rambling, until you came back, waving off how Iida was fussing over proper first introductions.
The sense of relief that hit him was immense, a hefty arm gently wrapping around your hip that tugged you back to his side. He ignored the mildly interested looks of his siblings, just focusing on the fact that you were near him again.
Then, it was twenty-four minutes, give or take thirty seconds. Uraraka came up to you, cheeks redder than usual from the alcohol, and promptly tugged you to the other side of the room. Girl time, she said. It was frustrating because you were still in sight. So close but out of reach, laughing and spreading your love to those around you.
Shining like the bright star you were, giving undivided attention to those who craved it.
Oh, how he longed to take you back. He would’ve, if not for Kaminari holding him hostage.
Shoto can blame it on his birthday all he wants, perhaps use the idea that your world should revolve around him on his special day. But he would be lying to himself. It just happened to be on his birthday when it truly hit him: the insatiable need to swallow you up whole. To be the center of your universe and simultaneously lead you through it at the same time.
He knew he was greedy, but he couldn’t care less.
Eventually, you came back, only to be whisked away again. And this time, it was an hour, two minutes, and thirteen seconds.
By then, Shoto was undoubtedly irritated.
Because this time. This time, you don’t make your way back to him. Mina excitedly decides to ask for your life story. Midoriya catches you in the midst of his tangents. Bakugo, for some reason, was insistent on hearing your thoughts on the birthday cake he so graciously made. And pulls you into a debate on the right amount of sweetness in pastries.
It’s not your fault.
That is, until he managed to grab you for forty-two seconds, before someone snagged you again. His hand latched onto your hip firmly, messily, a little roughly, and that’s when he felt it. Slipped underneath your shirt, the texture of familiar lace he’s seen paired with your supple skin in the heat of the night.
His eyes widened just slightly; he could even feel the blood pumping through his body.
Because you understand him well, if the knowing smile you gave him was anything. Then there you were, ushered away again like Cinderella at midnight, throwing a gaze with twinkling eyes behind your shoulder. Mouthing the words: your gift.
He barely saw you for the rest of the night. (Three hours and thirty-six minutes)
No. He was just able to get his hands on you when the last person trickled out. Yellow-haired and with one less jacket than he came with. Shoto was already by your side before the door shut with a resounding click.
“Did you have fun?” you had asked him, sweetly.
His response was instant, “Thank you for planning this for me. It was nice seeing everybody.”
Then you chuckled lightly, sighing when his hands molded to your waist, pulling you flush against his body.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I had fun,” Shoto affirmed. Then looked down with honest affection, tinged with something dark. “I admit, it’s more fun now that I have your attention again.”
You laughed, raising your arms to rest on his shoulders, wrists crossing behind his neck. “What do you mean? I’ve been paying attention.”
“No.”
His simple statement made you laugh harder, vibrating against his body. The corner of his lips lifted at the sound, as he pressed his forehead against yours.
“I love you.”
The words came out breathlessly, a forever-standing devotion. Then,
“It slips my mind at times. The reminder that other people will want to love what I love.”
You smiled cheesily, knowingly. But he can’t imagine that you can truly fathom how he really feels. “Are you jealous, Shoto?”
“It’s my birthday,” he stated back, half-heartedly, childishly. You gazed into his eyes, crinkles forming around your own.
“I want you,” he said lowly.
Not just on my birthday, but forever. I want your eyes only on me. I wish to be the center of your world, like how you are in mine.
Shoto didn’t say any of this. Instead, he lets you grasp his hands. Lets you lead them underneath your shirt, and feel the lace that’s been tempting him all night. His gift for him, or so you said.
I want to see how I affect you. I want to see you fall apart for me. I want you to rely on me. To want me. To need me. I want to show you how I can give you everything you deserve and more, that there will never be a reason for you to leave.
Shoto still didn’t say any of this, but his hands roamed. At the back of his mind, he didn’t want to scare you with his obsession. So he starts with this:
“Let me take care of you.”
Without a doubt, these were odd words to be coming from the birthday boy. But if birthdays were to revolve around his world, and you were his world, it made sense. And there is no other gift in the universe that would be greater than you.
A call vibrated from the couch when he crashed his lips onto yours, sealing the deal.
Shoto’s lips chase after you. It’s invigorating, the way they melt into yours, over and over and over again. He cradles your cheeks, trapping your head still as he moves you backwards. One step after another until the back of your knees hit the bed, and your hands instinctively clutch onto his chest.
But he keeps moving forward, his tongue dancing with yours in fervor. You pull back to take a breath, deprived of oxygen, but he keeps pushing, swallowing your yelp as you fall backwards. Big hands that help your body move upwards on the mattress, his lips never disconnecting from yours.
When you finally settle on the cushy mattress, you push against his chest again, breaking away from the kiss. “Sho– I can’t breathe–”
Shoto’s head darts underneath your chin, sucking on the spot he knows sends you into a frenzy. You whimper at the sensation, heart jumping when you feel the harsh latch of his lips. He sucks, licks, bites, devours.
Your body arches into him, squirming. Tingling with want, with need. He’s relentless, marking your neck feverishly while his hands come up to play with your nipples, brushing the pad of his thumbs against the peaks.
You jolt, sensitive from his touch everywhere. He wastes no part of him: tongue licking all over your skin, fingers tweaking the hard buds over your shirt, meaty thigh grinding into your clothed core. You bite your lip, trying to contain the moans from rolling out, but a harsh bite makes you gasp.
“I want to hear you,” he mumbles against your neck, in between licks. “Don’t hold back. Not right now.”
Hands make their way into his hair, tugging at the red and white strands. Pushing and pulling because you can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough.
Shoto doesn’t give you a choice.
Warmth wells in your belly again. Familiar and telling. He must know, with the way you yank on his hair, and the tender smile you feel against your skin sends you into a high.
(He loves how compliant your body is with him. How reactive you are. How you never fail to respond to his touch.
He wonders how many he can coax out of you tonight.)
“Sho. Please, please—”
“Yes?” His thigh presses harder against you, firm and unyielding. You grind your hips up, moving in rhythm with him. He helps your movements, grabbing a handful of your ass as it rolls up.
The friction is delicious. Muscles trained with years of hero work so strong and hard against your core.
“Can you cum for me like this?”
He’s shameless because he knows you can, and you do, with a drawn-out moan, head buzzing, chasing after the high denied from you on the couch. Not a second later, he peels your clothes off, taking his time. It’s almost embarrassing, just how easy your body succumbs to him. Clothes on and all. Bare thighs sticking to the wet fabric in between your legs.
When you’re left in the lingerie you wore for him, his breath hitches. Marveled under his gaze.
What you would give to know what’s running through his head right now.
Shoto kisses your forehead, breaths hot against your skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers while his hands roam your shoulders. Leaving a trail of fire as he goes down to the swell of your breasts, fondling, before tracing your hips and thighs.
As if he can’t get enough of you.
You tremble underneath his caresses.
And slowly, he pulls the lace off, running over the sliver he felt earlier just to lift it off your body. He kisses your naked breasts—one by one, as he pulls your panties, wrecked from your orgasm, down your legs.
Then, he shifts, rising up before settling in between your legs, hooking the backs of your knees over his shoulders. Your eyes widen as he stares at your glistening folds, his gaze of wet stone and sea glass purposeful.
He looks up, and you nearly flinch at the raw intensity in them.
It makes you almost laugh. With the way he’s treating you, doting on you. You question whose birthday it is, really.
And without warning, without so much as a word, he dives into your heat like a starved man. One long strike of a lick that has your hips bucking up, hands immediately flying to his shoulders.
“Wait!” you gasp. “It’s too much, just wait—”
Shoto doesn’t wait, tongue heavy against your folds, lapping at everything you have to offer and more. Your toes curl at the sensation, chest rising with deep breaths as he explores the bundle of nerves the way a lover does.
He knows what you like, what you prefer. Practiced precision of using the plane of his whole tongue on your slit before dipping shallowly inside. Alternating between licks and deep sucks that make you reel in return.
It’s obscene, hearing him gulp from between your legs. Eyes closed in focus, savoring your taste.
Your thighs clamp around his head, unable to handle it all. But strong arms wrap around them, under and over, effectively holding them apart and giving you something to ground yourself with. To be able to push and squirm freely without losing the feeling of his tongue, his mouth that lets you both hear and feel his love.
It’s euphoria.
(Shoto couldn’t feel more delighted. He doesn’t think it can get better than this. The feel of your hands tugging at his hair. Pulling just to push his head down again when he purposefully slows down. Your moans that carry into the air, echoing his name.
This is good. Perfect. He wants you to want him, to never get enough.
It makes a smile stretch across his face. And he feels like a madman when he breathlessly chuckles into your warmth.)
You twitch at the sensation, feeling the curl of his lips and a stuttering breath against your heat.
“Are you l-laughing…?” you breathlessly ask, shocked. He answers with another deep suck, effectively distracting you with ease as you keen.
(Because to him, he’s not trying to mock you, or be condescending. He simply just loves to see you in pleasure, to see you feel good. Loved. Because of him. Because he knows you; mind, body, and soul.)
Moonlight swimming with city lights filter in from the window, bathing you in an angelic glow, contouring all your dips and curves. You look beautiful. Other worldly with your eyes screwed tight, body shaking in intervals, chanting his name with your head thrown back.
Shoto grinds his bulge into the mattress, unable to help himself. Oh, how he can’t wait to sink inside you, to feel your warm and welcoming heat around his cock—
“S-Sho..!”
Your eyes shoot open when he pulls back just slightly, whipping your head down. For a second, you’re taken aback at the sight: your slick glistening on his mouth and chin, his tousled hair, eyes that burn and freeze you at the same time.
He captivates you in his gaze. A devastatingly handsome face that speaks in an equally as devastatingly low voice.
“Do you want to come?”
His voice sends butterflies into your stomach and you nod, shyly, hands tugging on his hair to urge him back. But he doesn’t move.
“Tell me. What would you like me to do?”
Your heart stutters at the question, lips forming into a pout. Because he knows. He knows what you want. He always does. So why—
“I want to hear you say it.”
Again, less of a suggestion and more like a command. He’s good at that, phrasing his words simply, with his tone making you question yourself. It implies something completely different; leading—guiding you the way he wants.
You huff out a shaky breath, stunned at what he’s trying to play at, with your slick covering his face so filthily.
“Shoto…” you whine, nudging him with the heel of your foot. But he is nothing if not unyielding in his desires. He only offers kitten licks to your entrance, teasing, but far from enough.
“Say it for me. Let me hear you.”
With eyebrows furrowed, you stomp down the feeling of embarrassment threatening to take over. You’re not used to saying what you want out loud, at least not explicitly. But he looks at you with private earnestness, an emotion you can’t quite understand.
“I want you to keep going…”
Shoto’s eyes saturate with desire, darkening by the second.
You hesitate again, so incredibly shy under his heated gaze. Hard stone and freezing waters. You almost don’t want to say it, don’t want to admit how much you want him.
“I- I want you to make me cum,” you whisper, cheeks burning hot. “Please make me cum.”
And with that, Shoto wordlessly continues, neither approving nor disapproving. One hand unfurls from your thigh before stuffing you full with three fingers at once. A moan rips from your throat, hips lifting high but a big hand effectively presses you down by your stomach. His digits stretch you, preparing you for what’s to come so deliciously.
You feel the warmth in your belly rising again. Strong. His fingers don’t pump, don’t thrust. Only the pressure of them deep inside and the pads of his fingers pressing firmly into that same sensitive spot. That, paired with his hot tongue attacking your clit, swirling and flicking, sends you into orbit.
Your body thrashes, your orgasm hitting stronger than the last. He easily keeps your body pinned to the mattress, curling his fingers just slightly more to make you gush. A sob releases from your chest when his fingers leave you, right before his mouth fully covers your opening and he sucks sloppily, as if he couldn’t waste a single drop.
Gradually, the tension in your limbs eases, chest rising and falling heavily. Shoto gives you one last lick—a gentle one, before he pulls off of you, breathing just as deeply as he licks his lips, eyes pinned on your spent figure.
He’s never eaten you out like that before. As if you were water in a desert, his last meal on earth. It both confuses and rouses you beyond belief.
And he’s still clothed.
As if Shoto read your mind, he slowly unbuttons his shirt, panting—steam billowing out the corners of his lips. And you can’t stop staring: him on his knees, one princely hand working his way through the buttons, staring down at you as if you’re the only thing that ever mattered.
It drives you crazy. He drives you crazy. Since when did your brain think of just him, him, and him?
With shaky limbs, you heave yourself up, mirroring his position: on your knees in front of him, looking up as he looks down. Shoto doesn’t say anything, barely moves a muscle. Simply watching you as he lets you pull his shirt open, sliding the sturdy fabric off his body.
His bare torso greets you. Muscular, pale, and scarred with battles. You’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and he’s grown larger—bigger over the years. Still with his princely charm, but more fit, a fullness to him that makes your mouth water.
You marvel at him, roaming your hands across the plane of his chest. Delighted at him twitching underneath your palms, the slight intake of his breath.
So handsome, big, strong. And all yours.
Your hands travel: up and down his arms, his shoulders, his waist, and to his stomach. Obsessed with the way hard muscles and scars span across his body. They show years of discipline and hard work; they tell stories. Stories of the man in front of you who looks at you with so much devotion, it should scare you.
It doesn’t. Because you’re quickly seeing that same devotion reflecting back at you in his glassy eyes.
Slowly, you pull at his waistband, the air shifting its intimacy and tenderness to include lust again. Something raw and scarily intense. You unbutton his pants, unzip his zipper, and look up at him, with thumbs that skim his skin just above his trousers. Goosebumps rise after its trail.
You wonder exactly what type of look you give him—what he sees in his eyes, because he gives in immediately. Wordlessly strips himself out of his pants before kneeling in front of you again, tender hands that snake up your arms.
Shoto gently pushes your shoulders, signalling for you to lie down, but you try not to budge, shaking your head. He tilts his own quizzically.
Because instead, you pull him, and he lets you. Lets you move him how you like. Lets you maneuver his body until his back rests against the headboard, and you make space in between his legs.
“Let me take care of you, too.”
His eyebrows immediately furrow, already rising to get up. “This is not a favor you need to—”
“I know,” you interrupt him. “I just…”
Shoto waits, eyes boring heavily into yours. You know that he knows what you want to do, and he’s neither stopping nor urging you.
“I want to make you feel good.”
It’s true.
Shoto pauses for a second, and you question why he’s thinking so astoundingly hard about this. Yes, your relationship was still a little new, but the sex was familiar, even if you had to admit that tonight surprised you in more ways than one.
He doesn’t nod, doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t really give you any decipherable emotion. But your heart skips when he raises a hand to stroke your hair, slow and soft strokes. He then palms the back of your head, drawing you in for a deep kiss. All before releasing you and relaxing against the headboard.
Liquid gold courses through your veins when his eyes roam up and down your figure, heavy-lidded. His cock stands upright, flushed and swollen and hard. Precum dribbling from the tip and down his length.
You sit on your knees, tucking your legs underneath as you take in the sheer size of him.
He’s so goddamn big. You could never get used to it.
Usually, he would frequently check in on you when you gave him head, during sex in general. Asking if you’re alright, if you want him to take over, that you don’t have to. But he doesn’t say anything now, and it makes you wonder why again. Why, despite being patient and quiet, is there this particular intensity to him? Why was there this unfamiliar push and pull with him tonight?
You find that you chase after him without hesitation, the desperate feeling of wanting to please him coming in full force. It’s addictive, having him look at you with such passion.
Wrapping a hand around his length, you observe him closely, hoping for any reaction while dragging your palm up and down. Starting off with slow, full, firm strokes, just the way he likes it. The only tell he gives is a tick in his jaw, as he watches you with his mouth shut.
Leaning forward, you gather spit in your mouth, dribbling and using it to aid your strokes. Your hand pushes all the up, then all the way down, meeting trimmed red and white hair at the base. You feel his legs tense when you lick the tip, swipes of your tongue that allow you to taste the salt of his precum. Then finally, the whole of his swollen head.
Shoto’s fists clench at his sides, the sheets peeking in between his taut fingers.
(He wanted to keep going—to keep tasting you with his mouth or fill you with his aching cock. Wanted to bring you to another orgasm. But the look you carelessly threw his way stumped him.
In between the desire-saturated eyes and the pleading pout on your lips, he found elation. And he guessed this worked too. Another way to fill your mind with just him, to be the center of your world. Because if wanting to please him showed you needed him, he’d let you.)
You stretch your mouth around him. He’s girthy, and big. What you can’t fit in your mouth, you cover with your hands, the mix of his spit and precum enabling the twists of your wrists. You move up, then down; hollowing out your cheeks, taking him as deep as you can.
The sounds are obscene: the slurps of his cock entering and leaving your mouth, the gulps that follow when you reach the top, the near gag when he hits the back of your throat.
Shoto doesn’t rush you.
So you become more desperate. Because how is it that he barely has any reaction? Usually, he’d be helping you, wiping away your tears when they leak out, telling you to take breaks. But he does none of it. And it’s only when you notice his iron-grip on the sheets that it shows just how much he’s holding back.
Why is that?
Your hands venture on their own, finding his—grabbing them with his cock still in your mouth and pushing them into your hair. Letting him know that it’s okay to do so. Telling him wordlessly, I want to please you.
Let me.
And Shoto watches. Observes. Hopes that you don’t look up with your tear-rimmed eyes. For if you did, you would’ve seen the smallest flick of a smirk gracing his face. His hands tangle into the tresses of your hair, firm, but gentle in a way that he ensures it’s a clean hold.
And he pushes down.
His eyes had widened when you took his hands to place them on your head, how hard you gripped them into your hair in hopes that he’d do the same. It filled him with exhilaration: seeing you try so hard, seeing you perk up with the pressure of his hands on your head. The rise of emotions rivaled the sensation of your mouth taking him whole.
Shoto loves to see you indulge yourself, even if it is in this way.
So, he pushes more. And not in hopes of making you gag, but because he can see the way you rub your thighs together when his grip tightens, desperate for relief. It surprises him for a second, right before a thought forms in his mind, one that makes his chest swell with curiosity and molten lava heat.
“You’re so good for me,” he praises you lowly, cock twitching when you stutter around his length. He watches your eyes promptly fly up to his. Shocked, but eager.
Shoto’s throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow, but he fights through the desert in his mouth.
“It’s what you wanted, right? To make me feel good?” he rasps out, jaw aching from how hard he clenches it. “You’re doing so well for me, so pretty when you suck my cock.”
The words feel foreign on his tongue; he was never one to be talkative during sex. But his mind buzzes when he sees the effect it has on you. You squirm, thighs pressing impossibly close together. So tightly that he nearly wants to wrench you off of him, just so you can get that relief you so desperately need. For him to be the one to give it.
Shoto leans down closer to your ear, holding back a groan when your pace wavers and your hands either grip him too tightly or too loosely. Then, it all tumbles from his lips, honey velvet:
Keep going. Good girl.
Yeah, just like that. There you go. I know it’s big.
You make me feel so good. So, so good.
There, that’s it. God, I could just—
Shoto barely recognizes what he’s saying, only spewing whatever comes to mind. It’s intoxicating, finding that it encourages you. Bobbing your head up and down faster, slurps that become louder, deeper, messier.
And it feels incredible, truly. It always does. But he can’t help but marvel more at the way your legs twitch from underneath you, jolting when the friction grazes closer to where you need it to. An odd thrill mixed with fascination swirls inside him when he realizes the effect his words have on you. Or rather—
“You like my voice,” he states it as a fact. He knows it is now. Your face turns bashful, twisting in embarrassment as your lips leave the tip of his cock with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you to it before it snaps. It’s adorable the way you shy away, unable to meet his eyes but clearly so aroused.
And you’re still stroking him like the good girl you are. The sight makes him unbelievably harder, makes him want to give you everything you deserve and more.
He can’t help but ask, “Have you always liked it?” Rough and strained.
You nod again, slowly, eyes flitting up to meet his and then back down to your hands. In a small voice, you say, “From the day I met you.”
“In that way?”
“Yes.” You fidget underneath his stare. He doesn’t know what prompts this—what urges you to reveal this special piece of information, but his cock jumps when the words roll off your tongue:
“I-I’ve used it to get off before. Those voice memos you send me.”
And that carefully woven thread inside him, the one he’s been delicately weaving, the one that’s been wringing taut the entire night—threatening to break, finally snaps. Breaks with a sharp crack, its fibers ruined in the aftermath.
Shoto rises, up on his knees with swift movement as your hand releases from his member in shock. He grabs the back of your head again, palms it with urgency, and meets you halfway into a kiss that consumes.
To think that his voice would have such a powerful effect on you, to think that the sound of him would be enough to get you off. For a split second, he imagines the perfect picture of you lying in bed, home alone and needy, listening to his voice while thrusting your pretty little digits in and out of your wet folds. With fingers that would never be as good as his.
He groans into your mouth, pushing you back with such force that you two fall and thump onto the bed. Lips breaking apart for a needle of a second before crashing into each other again.
Shoto wants you, so badly. Just as badly as he wants you to want him. It’s all he can think of as he nudges your legs apart, settling in between them. The sound he makes is carnal, roused deep from his gut as the length of his cock meets your bare, warm, wet folds for the first time tonight.
He can’t help but move, sliding his length along your folds, your warm pools of slick easily allowing him to grind back and forth. Back and forth. Broken moans fall, echoing in the bedroom. A symphony of you two.
And it all happens so suddenly for you: his mouth practically swallowing yours whole, his hands traveling everywhere from your cheeks to your breasts, his feverish grinding that pulls a needy whine straight from your head. He’s so thick, so impossibly hard, but you can’t help but feel despairingly empty as your walls clench around nothing.
Then comes Shoto’s voice again, gravelly, right into your ear. It sends an electric bolt to your stomach, the vibrations running straight to your core.
“What do you think of when you listen to them?” he rasps out.
“Y-you. Inside of m-me,” you manage to get out, bucking up to meet his rocking rhythm, already wound up when he’s not even inside of you yet. The head of his cock grazes your stomach, his balls—hot and heavy—meeting you flush before drawing stickily away again.
It takes all that you can to not do it yourself, to reach down and angle him where you want. To have it finally sink into the place that’s been aching for him all this time.
Shoto doesn’t let up, not quite yet. “What? What inside of you?”
God, he’s being so infuriating tonight. Can’t he already see how wrecked you are from him? Can’t he tell just how much you want him?
You relent, still finding the words hard to say through the slicked grinds. “You. Y-your….”
“You’re hesitating,” he states, to which you quickly shake your head, heart plummeting to your feet as his torso rises off of you. Your hands hastily grab his arms, legs immediately wrapping around his waist, and words tumble from your lips faster than your mind can catch up.
“No, please,” you nearly sob out, and you feel embarrassed. So incredibly embarrassed, but you still try. “Please, I want it. I want you now, Shoto.”
Your eyebrows furrow—distraught, and you think he’s never been so unfair as his movements abruptly halt, hips lifting up despite you saying what you think he wants to hear.
Why does he keep pushing just to pull back?
(Shoto can only feel so bad when you’re so, so close to where he wants you to be.)
“Don’t be embarrassed.” A hand strokes down the side of your hair. Patient. Too frustratingly patient. “I’ll give it to you.”
Shoto braces a forearm beside your head, the other snaking its way down to grab his length, heavy in his own sturdy hands.
And he whispers, calm and low. “You know I’ll always give you what you want. Won’t you do the same for me?”
Your face scrunches as he shifts the head of cock to your slit, biting your lip when he shallowly sinks it in before pulling away. Then he does it again, and again, and again. Teasing you before greedily taking it away, even tapping your clit with it, watching as you jolt from the contact.
You squirm, raising your hips because you want more. More. But he moves in sync, away from you, and you have half a mind to think he’s being hypocritical. It all becomes too much to bear.
“I want you. Your cock.” you desperately say, small as ever. “Please, I want it so bad.”
Shoto plunges in only slightly deeper. Unmoving as an iron wall to your legs that fail to pull him closer despite using all your might. He holds the base of his cock tight, stopping himself from sinking more of it in before pulling back again.
“No, please,” you sputter helplessly. “I want you to fuck me. W-Want you deep inside me. Want you. Shoto—”
And finally—finally, he pushes in again. Slow, shushing you when you cry out as he doesn’t stop, when he stretches your pulsing walls apart, making way for his thickness. Your mouth drops open, hands clawing against his back—no doubt leaving marks as he fills you, sliding each throbbing ache away inch by inch.
His words are faraway, barely reaching your ears as he murmurs into your ear again, in between rough groans:
Need to take it slow. Don’t want to hurt you.
You take me so well, you always do.
Do you feel it? My cock inside you? It’s what you wanted, right?
(Shoto watches your expression as hard as he can, forces his eyes to stay open, and watches your own roll to the back of your head. He’s not even sure if you recognize yourself speaking: “you feel so good inside me”, “you’re so big”, “yesyesyes” spilling from your lips.
And when he finally bottoms out after what felt like eons, he drops his forehead onto yours, panting out thick puffs of steam. Not thrusting nor moving, just feeling each addictive pulse and clench of your warm walls around him. It’s sporadic, absolutely telling to him.
You’re about to cum again.)
He’s so deep that you can feel him in your stomach, throbbing thick and heavy. Can feel him pulsing as if his cock had its own heartbeat. And you know it's coming. The buildup of his praise, of his coaxing voice, of him finally stuffing you deep, leading to a steady high again.
It’s a done deal when Shoto grinds up once. One firm motion that hits deep inside your walls. One hard hump that shakes the bed.
And you cum for the third time tonight.
You thrash underneath him, the wave of your orgasm making your body arch into his, moans breaking prettily from your lips. Shoto’s eyelashes flutter against yours, feeling you squeeze his cock like a vice. Muscles taut when he humps into your warm and wet heat again, and that's all it takes as you suddenly feel him spilling deep inside, moaning low, his cum releasing in hot spurts.
You breathe in each other’s pants. And only seconds had passed, did it hit you:
You both just came. And that’s all it took. Just like that.
It’s a short revelation because before you can fully comprehend it, Shoto shifts, and you whimper at the sensitivity blossoming from your core. And through it all, somehow, you can still feel him. His hard cock, even after cumming, pulsating in your walls that seem to have molded themselves around him.
“S-Sho– I don’t know if I–”
You whimper when he moves again, pulling just barely the tip out before filling you up. Going all the way out, then all the way back in. Slowly, with purpose. And it fucking wrecks you. That, despite the overstimulation and sensitivity jolting your insides, another heat crawls its way back into your stomach, catching the last embers before igniting again.
He burns his way into you, sears himself on your mind—on your body. And you want to let him, want to wrap yourself around his flames that devour.
So you do. You fall into him hopelessly.
Shoto’s voice comes out hoarse, and you can’t completely tell if he’s talking to you or to himself. He thrusts. “You feel incredible.” Another thrust and a groan. “My love. You’re so perfect.”
He knows you. Body, mind, and soul.
“We were made for each other. I know it,” Shoto lowly says, this time with half-lidded, trance-like eyes boring into yours. It enraptures you: the tiny scrunch in between his eyes as he bottoms out again and again, the low and quiet moan that seeps through gritted teeth.
If the entire night was spent coaxing you—pushing you just to pull you back in, then this was unrelenting. Unyielding. Fully swarming your senses that you can’t think of anything else besides him. Besides what he’s pounding into your body and purring into your ear. And you find yourself letting go instead of trying to hold on, because despite falling apart at the seams, you can trust that he’ll always carry you to the end.
You truly don’t know—don’t know what he sees in you that you can’t seem to see yourself. But you bask in it. Embrace in his all-consuming love that scorches.
It’s a raw feeling. Both inside and out. Both inside your heart and out your core as he drives into you with vigor.
And it keeps building up, that coil he’s been springing all night, pulling you this way and that. It feels good, too damn good because you love the sensation of him overwhelming your entire being. It causes tears to start rimming your waterline, the overstimulation breaking you.
“Shoto–! S-Sho–!”
Shoto pulls away for a fraction of a second, and you’re almost about to protest—about to fire out how unfair he’s being despite how sensitive you are, before his hands slink down and around your thighs. Big hands palm the underside of it, and your heart nearly lurches out of your throat when he pushes your legs up, folding you into a brutal mating press.
You’d throw your head back if you could, if not for his warm hands cradling it to his. Your mind blanks as he sinks into you deep, the lines between pleasure and pain blurring so wickedly sweet. All you can do is hold onto him as you soundlessly scream, barely able to catch a breath.
“One more,” he coos against your face. Not a suggestion, and not so much as a command either. It’s as if he’s simply stating a fact, a path that he knows will run its course.
Shoto pounds into you, the bed creaking under all the weight—under all his vigorous effort to bring you to your climax again. Sweat-soaked skin slapping against each other as he rams his cock into you as if his life depended on it.
You can feel your tears trickle out of your eyes, a wobbly path down as your body shakes from his thrusts. Shoto gently licks them away with his tongue, leaving a lingering kiss on your temple so tender that it tugs at your heart despite him fucking you deep into the mattress, his weighty body nearly suffocating you under him.
Hot. Your belly feels hot, core tight and exhausted but still craving him. Still craving more with each powerful split of his cock and each dampening kiss to your temple.
(Shoto feels his body burning with so much desire that he fears flames might erupt from his skin. The line between pleasure and pain blurs for him as well. A murky river that borders on the high of seeing your blissed out face paired with your wrung out body, and the prickling sensation of needing you so badly. In every way possible.
It almost hurts, the extent of his hunger for you.
He needs you. And he also needs you to need him.)
“I–” you gasp through stuttered breaths, “I-I’m going to—”
“What do you want, my love?” Shoto pistons in and out of your contracting walls, his voice thick and rough. “What do you need?”
“I want you,” you squeeze your eyes tight, legs shaking in the air, but Shoto makes sure to hold them tight against his body, leveraging them. “I need you.”
“Need?” he asks. A voice that becomes hazier in your mind.
“Yes, yes, yes.” It comes out slurred and reliant. “I need you. I need you, please, please—”
“Yeah?” Shoto spreads his legs outwards—further apart, allowing him to drive into you deeper. Harsher. Rougher.
“You’re going to let me give you everything you need?”
You nod, though you don’t know if he can tell, don’t even know if your nods even come out as nods. But his name leaves your mouth over and over again, the only thing grounding you as you feel yourself peaking. Right at the edge of toppling over.
“Say it, my love. Let me hear it,” Shoto coaxes, with finality.
Your voice shakes, desperate and longing. Desperate to cum and longing for him.
“I need you,” you wail. “Give it to me, p-please. Everything.”
And Shoto rejoices. Heart flying to the crown of his head, heat burning in his being, rejoices. Voice so low that it comes out as a near growl.
“I can give you that. I’ll give you everything you want, anything you’ll ever need. What you deserve. I’m the only one who can.” Shoto keeps thrusting, erratic but anchored. Tinged with a profound urgency that aims to crumble.
“You sound so pretty when you say my name. You deserve this—deserve to cum. You deserve everything.”
He knows your body like the back of his hand. Knows where to angle and that the storm is at its peak when your walls start convulsing around him and choked sobs leave your lips. It tells him to find that spot again—that sensitive spot he has to curve into that would make you writhe wildly. A knowing smile graces his lips when you do, with smug pride he’ll never admit to your face.
You feel the pressure of him everywhere. On you. In you. His mouth that crashes onto yours, muffling your cries and kissing you hard. You feel him inhale deeply, taking even the breath that escapes your nose.
Shoto drives into you, grinding harshly when his cock stuffs you to the hilt. Then does it twice. Three times. And with one final grind, you fall apart for the fourth time tonight, a dark sea full of stars behind your eyes.
Chanting: I want you. I need you. I love you.
You tell him to cum inside. You tell him you want it and need it. You tell him you need him. And it all goes straight to Shoto’s head, then his cock. Drives him to insanity as he buries himself inside, shuddering, balls tensing as he spills rope after rope of cum into you. He milks you of your orgasm as you squeeze him through his, tremors wrecking you both.
Shoto fills you to the brim, both heart and body, its essence spilling at the edges.
Your chest heaves under his, exhausted as you fall dead weight into the mattress. Minutes pass, and only then do you finally take in your surroundings, bleary eyes blinking their way through the moonlit bedroom. The air is thick—humid with the smell of sweat and sex. But it hardly bothers you, fatigue quickly taking over your mind.
You vaguely note how the white wash of the moonlight shines onto Shoto, sweat glistening on his skin from the aftermath. Beautiful in every light.
You want him. You need him.
You love him.
Your lover slowly rolls your legs down, kissing the inside of your ankle softly as it passes him, massaging aching limbs as you wince from the released pressure. A small whimper vibrates from your throat when he pulls out his softened cock, limp as you both watch the mess that oozes from your hole.
“Stay here,” Shoto says gently, stroking a tender hand through your hair. You nod wordlessly, still panting, throwing your head back against the damp pillow as he rises from the mattress. The bed dips then bounces back when he gets off, heading towards the bathroom with a certain grace in his stride.
Your gaze falls to the ceiling, eyelids getting heavier with each passing second.
In the quiet of the bedroom, your hand drifts to your neck, pressing on the tender love bites created by him. You tap lightly on your skin, feeling a slight sting that brings a bashful smile to your face, not needing a mirror to know the many marks blossoming across your body.
Then your fingers travel: to his stomach that he pressed down, to the hips that he gripped, to the thighs that he held onto. Each graze across your skin reminds you of Shoto, reminds you of the devotion he speaks and shows with his heart. It makes you giddy—makes your chest swell and thrum with such warmth that you physically have to put your hands over yourself to quell it.
“You know I’ll always give you what you want. Won’t you do the same for me?”
“You’re going to let me give you everything you need?”
“I can give you that. I’ll give you everything you want, anything you’ll ever need. What you deserve. I’m the only one who can.”
“You deserve everything.”
Your vision blurs with those words on your mind, promises that wrangled its way into you so deeply that you would remember them even in your dreams.
When Shoto returns, he finds you on the edge of slumber, drowsiness and vulnerability cradling you softly. It’s with this in mind that he treats you carefully, satisfaction and ache warring in his heart.
He brings a warm, damp towel to the bed. Gentle strokes that clean his spent and sweat off of you, loving hands that knead at parts of your body that he knows will be sore in the morning. You grumble at the tenderness in your limbs, and he soothes them without hesitation, laying kisses across your skin.
Shoto changes the sheets, the blankets, even the pillows. Soft silk, the ones he knows you like best; doing anything to make you more comfortable. All before sitting on the edge of the mattress, with fingers running through your hair tenderly, diligently working out the knots.
“Should I head home soon?” you lazily mumble, though you don’t move a muscle.
Shoto’s heart ascends, his motions pausing before continuing.
Because normally, you’d announce you were going home—claiming it’s late, refusing his offer to stay over time and time again. And he’d let you go, a dip in his eyebrows as he watched you pack your things and drove you home, all because he thought it best to ease you slowly.
But things are different now. You were asking him if you should leave. Almost as if you knew what he was going to say.
“No,” he murmurs lowly, trying to keep his tone steady, his excitement at bay.
“Stay here,” he declares. “With me.”
“Yeah?” you say softly, a noise of contentment leaving you as his hand cards through your hair.
“Yes,” he responds. “Move in.” You should.
You giggle, and the sound makes him restless. Shoto watches as you slowly shift yourself, moving your head from the pillow to his lap, looking up at him with shimmering eyes. Wordlessly, he drapes the sheets back over your bare body, admiring the way you tuck into his embrace.
“Jumping the gun, don’t you think? You’d get tired of me.”
His palm cradles your face, thumb swiping across your cheek delicately. “Never.”
Your face softens, a worried glint in your eye. It’s astounding, he thinks to himself, how you can still doubt his feelings. “Never?”
“No. Never,” he affirms, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You look at him—look at the way he’s gazing down at you with enamored eyes, a hint of something private lurking underneath them. It causes goosebumps to rise on your skin, but it only makes you huddle closer to him—aching for his warmth.
Then willingly, you place your heart in the palms of his hands that cradle you, whispering without an ounce of hesitation,
“Yeah. I do.”
And a smile stretches across Shoto’s face, a quiet, pleased curve that spoke of a million words. Words that he wouldn’t dare say out loud as he thinks:
The greatest gift in the world just fell right into his hands.
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: Mutual pining & Fluff (I know, it feels strange for me too)
Summary: Valentine’s Day is already hell when you’re stuck on shift avoiding your crush on Aaron Hotchner... then he shows up, fills out your café’s tacky matchmaking card, and basically confesses. Cute, right? Until has an allergic reaction, and you end up on your knees giving him an EpiPen injection that could very well land him in the ER for… entirely different reasons.
Warnings: waaaay too cheesy (idiots in love), a few cuss words here and there, unashamed size kink about Hotch’s hands (sue me), relentless bullying over his lack of ass, Hotch has an allergic reaction (loser), incorrect use of EpiPen, Superman name-drop lovingly dedicated to Dr. Bin Hotchology
Word Count: 4.1k
Dado's Corner: request here!! I couldn’t resist cramming in some cheap philosophy within the first 200 words... so enjoy an entirely wrong take on Spinoza’s immanence!! YAYYYY! Still, I put extra love into the graphics this time, so have fun (or don’t!) scrolling through them hihi + super special thanks to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <3
masterlist
On your bathroom break (doomscrolling Facebook like a responsible adult) you stumble across the nugget that Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza once claimed there’s a little bit of God in everything.
Sweet sentiment, sure - but the man lived in the 1600s, with quills and endless afternoons to philosophize, not behind the counter of a cafeteria on Valentine’s Day, hemmed in by $9.99 polyester puppies gnawing on plush hearts with their polyester teeth.
(And what next… polyester organs? A polyester bloodstream? A polyester soul?)
God is hard to spot when every oven is a ticking bomb: sponge cake pleading for rescue in four minutes, croissants bronzing to perfection in twelve, the so-called Lover’s Cheesecake (just cherry in a tacky Valentine’s disguise, but slap “limited edition” on the label and watch the masses worship) demanding release in seventeen.
Meanwhile, the counter seethes - ravenous couples tripping over each other to pay, everything doubled, doubled, doubled - while you’re forced to hand out Valentine’s “get to know me” cards.
(The rules: fill one out as you order, swap it with whatever stranger in the café makes your loins twitch.)
Apparently flirting is a lost art, so now corporations have to prepackage desire and sell it back to people. Profitable as hell - no one’s here for coffee and cake, they’re here for the speed-date special (one drink + compulsory pastry purchase), hoping to get laid while you just get paid.
So you keep grinning, as if your soul isn’t evaporating into the steam belching from the industrial dishwasher, as if you don’t feel blisteringly alone in the middle of it all.
And through it all, your brain keeps skipping from timer alarms to the image of federal fingers, two knuckles deep, every time you’re piping cream into a puff. (Shit… down to the last few slices of cream pie, too.)
Suddenly, the strawberry glaze on the donuts looks uncomfortably close to the pink of his lips, and before you can stop yourself, every eclair, cannoli, and tart around you starts to register as blatantly, absurdly phallic.
So no, there’s no God in these few square feet of linoleum.
Only the rush, the timers, the low-grade panic of not scorching custard while imagining what it might feel like to have a very specific authority (say, a 46-year-old, father-of-one, Unit Chief of the BAU sort of authority) shoved into you, both literally and metaphorically.
Spinoza’s Theory: burned to a crisp.
Or maybe not burned - just torched by distraction.
Because it’s easy to dunk on Spinoza’s God-in-everything theory when the real problem is this: whatever it is you feel for Mr. Aaron Hotchner (swimmer, FBI agent, father of one, unfairly skilled at fingering) is not just lust. And those polyester Valentine puppies staring at you aren’t exactly helping you pretend otherwise.
The thing is, you and Aaron have undeniable (stupid) sexual chemistry. You’ve tried to avoid each other - it doesn’t work. You’ll both always find an excuse to meet.
And while the beginnings of those meetings are awkward-but-friendly, catching up like two people playing at normalcy, they never stay that way. Because inevitably one of you leans in, and suddenly (veeeery suddenly) you’re making out, messy and pressed together, and more often than not it escalates - your fault, mostly, but he never exactly protests - into grinding so intense it teeters on obscene.
(Dry humping. Yes. Very good dry humping. [Which is, frankly, mortifying.])
But that’s where it stops.
Because you both know if you cross that line - if hands slip below belts (or into that mythical zone where his undershirt never seems to exist) - then you’ll have to have the Talk™. And nothing is more terrifying than that.
So you settle for what you do: kissing until your lips ache, pretending the marks you leave on each other are accidental, silently agreeing that everything from collarbone to hip is no man’s land.
But then, inevitably, you have to leave.
He drives you home, walks you all the way to your door, and kisses you goodbye with such unbearable tenderness it makes you want to undo every boundary you swore you’d keep.
And now you’re starting to miss him.
You catch yourself wanting to see him even in your luteal phase (a biological red flag if there ever was one). You get a dopamine rush every time your phone screen lights up, only to spiral into frustration when it doesn’t say Aaron Hotchner.
You linger too long on his profile picture, sketching his face from memory, refreshing his status, waiting for the green dot to glow - then panicking and exiting the chat the second he comes online.
You’re absolutely cooked (like the sponge cake in one minute, croissants in nine, Lover’s Cheesecake in fourteen) for him.
And worse, you’re terrified. Terrified he might not feel the same. More terrified he does, and might want to make sense of… whatever this is.
It’s not that you don’t want love… hell, love is your longest obsession, the thing you’ve been starving for since you were old enough to understand what wanting even was.
But wanting it with him feels different.
He’s older, sharper, devastatingly hot in a way no guy your age could ever fake (though you do have to remind yourself, repeatedly, to redirect blood flow to your brain for at least a few more minutes).
He radiates competence, emotional intelligence, a steadiness you’ve never touched before, the kind of gravity that makes you feel like you could stop spinning out of orbit if you just stood close enough to him.
With Aaron, it isn’t about chasing chaos or flinging yourself into the arms of the wrong men for the thrill of the disaster, it’s about the terrifying possibility of something that could actually last.
The cruel joke, though, is that once you peel back the layers, Aaron isn’t a safe fantasy at all. He’s a very troubled man. And yet, that only makes you want him more.
You’d love to tell yourself there’s no one else like him, but since the start of your shift you’ve mistaken at least six dark-haired men in three-piece suits for him from behind.
Which is ridiculous.
You don’t even know why your brain entertained the idea in the first place. It’s not like he’d be dropping in on Valentine’s Day to check up on you.
He’s a busy man, for one thing.
And for another - you’re nothing. A distraction, maybe. A bad habit at best. You shouldn’t even be expecting him.
Still, you find yourself wandering past the pastry lab backdoor more times than necessary, circling through the staff room just to glance at your phone, hoping for a notification.
Maybe he feels as alone on Valentine’s as you do.
Maybe he’s texted, asking if you’re free, so you could meet up and trade war stories about your day… before inevitably ending up pressed against each other, doing the usual.
Or maybe he’s drowning in paperwork, too responsible to even look at his phone.
Maybe he’s found an actual date, someone who wasn’t too scared shitless to be direct and take a ride on his thick- well.
But no. Nothing. Not even the green light of him being online.
And your eyes start to betray you so badly that every man with dark hair becomes him. Then even that flimsy requirement collapses, and suddenly every man reminds you of him.
Every profile. Every flash of shoulders and jawlines in the crowd.
Every voice pitched low enough to rattle your ribs sounds like his, every passing accent with that faint, posh cadence becomes his.
Even silence begins to sound like him.
Even the nothingness, somehow, holds the echo of his presence. Which is cuckoo bananas, because the café has never been so suffocatingly overcrowded, and yet there he is, threaded through it all, standing right in the middle of the absence.
In every single few square feet of linoleum, he lingers.
He’s there.
For real. (FR! No, not France.)
Tangible. Matter and bone. On the other side of the counter. Not some hallucination, but him: all suited up, shoulders cutting the crowd, that disarming, unexpected smile tugging his mouth open just slightly as the line spits him out at the register.
“What can I do for you?” you ask, smiling - leaning into the double edge of the words, savoring the way he glances down, mouth still parted, shaking his head once before he finally drags his eyes back up to yours.
“Hey… uh. Hi. Just a Black Americano. No sugar, please.” The most basic order in existence… and yet somehow the most painfully awkward thing either of you has ever managed to say.
You scramble for the next step (payment? He does have to pay, right?) but his stupidly earnest eyes knock you so off-balance you almost forget capitalism still applies, even to sexual tension. (Definitely not an alpha move.)
“Um… cash or-”
“Card, please.” (Oh, he’s so pretty.)
Too pretty, really, to be digging around in a wallet, but here he is, taking his sweet time with a sleek leather one. He keeps eye contact as he thumbs through the slots, and you feel… warm. Uncomfortably warm.
He pulls out the first card, hesitates, quickly pushes it back in, checks the one behind (driver’s license), then the one even behind (library card, adorable), raises his eyebrows at himself in self-disappointment, and finally circles back to the original card - all with the composure of a man who clearly hopes you didn’t notice his clumsiness.
(And indeed, you don’t notice… you’re too busy staring at his hands.)
That’s when he spots the stack of Valentine’s matchmaking cards at the register. His brow furrows, leaning closer to read the tiny print.
…Right. Payment. Suspended. You almost forgot that tiny capitalism detail.
“To place an order, you have to fill-” (‘the barista,’ aka you, who now wants to die, preferably at the hands of those thick fingers) “-this card…”
You can’t even bring yourself to explain the rest of the drill, you just jab a finger toward the cutesy poster of instructions and pray he can read.
Still, the idea of Aaron Hotchner actually participating in a speed date within spitting distance of you feels like the kind of humiliation that would officially cement this as the worst Valentine’s Day in recorded history.
“You know there are better ways to harvest people’s personal data, right?” he says flatly, head tipped, brows arched in that unmistakable Disappointed Dad way. (Which is hilarious, really, because his eyes go wide and soft when he does it even while he’s busy lecturing you about petty larceny with customer info.)
“Scared no one will pick you?” you fire back, already sliding toward the pastry case like the world’s most reckless hypocrite.
Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re a feminist, and if your crush isn’t even bringing you flowers, then fine, you’re not bitter. Not at all. In fact, you should totally be the one showering him with freebies.
(Aka “picking him.” Aka immediately contradicting yourself in deed if not in word. Man… Aaron Hotchner can’t even enjoy the humbling experience of worrying what it might feel like not to be picked for once in his life, because here you are, doling out princess treatment. This is busted.)
And yet… there’s that hope. That flicker of idiocy whispering that maybe he’ll clock the gesture, tuck it away somewhere in that brain, and think twice before handing his matchmaking card to some random woman. Or man.
(Not that it matters. He’s free to do whatever he wants… you’re not together. You have no claim. You shouldn’t care. You could do the exact same thing. Totally. Hypothetically. You won’t, obviously. But you could.)
Just for him, you plate a tart you’re obnoxiously proud of: glossy pastry cream, a scatter of fresh raspberries, that faint blush from strawberry powder folded into the base (all-natural, no fake dye, because you’re ethical even in your hypocrisy).
“You really don’t have to do that,” he says, completely oblivious to the fact that this tart (this pastry masterpiece) is literally his entry ticket into the whole stupid matchmaking circus.
(Meaning it’s thanks to you he even gets to play the game at all. Was this the single dumbest move of your life? Quite possibly.)
“No shit.” You even tuck a cookie into a bag, right there in plain view. Hell, make it two - one for Jack, one for Jack’s infuriatingly handsome father.
He finally decides to shut the fuck up and, with visible reluctance, slides his card into the reader. You’ve never wanted to be a slit more in your life.
Most importantly: those thick fingers, struggling to stab a PIN into buttons designed for toddlers.
(Not that you sneak a peek at the code… he shields it with his other hand.)
(And anyway, you’re far too occupied with the gleam of his eerily smooth, hairless knuckles. Entire palm, shaved down to baby-soft nothingness. A crime against nature, really. At least the veins bulge thicker, defiant. Still, you mourn the furry paws. Justice for the furry paws.)
Fun fact: you almost never pay with card yourself, mostly to avoid the weird little purgatory where you’re forced into a staring contest with the cashier while the bank decides whether or not you’re trustworthy enough for capitalism.
Now multiply that by Aaron Hotchner.
It’s torture. The eye contact is nuclear, more dangerous than any you’ve shared since the first time you locked eyes.
The silence stretches until it feels scripted, like you’ve stumbled into the middle of a slow-dance montage no one warned you about, two leads locked in a wordless smize-off. For a suspended moment, it’s absurdly peaceful - as if the café has collapsed into just you and him - and suddenly all that “you and me against the world” garbage pop songs keep spewing doesn’t sound like garbage at all.
It sounds… plausible. Terrifyingly plausible.
His lips part - at least you think they do, or maybe you just keep staring at them so hard your brain invents it - and he looks like he might actually say something. Something important.
But then unfortunately the card machine shrieks its approval, vomiting out the receipt with all the bureaucratic joylessness of the IRS, slicing the moment clean in half.
“So can I-” he nods toward the stack of Valentine’s cards.
“Yeah… sure!” You both step toward it at the same time, him plucking a card, you fishing out a pen from the holder. “Here’s your pen…”
He takes the pen - but his hand is big enough that it engulfs your fingertips too, like he meant to catch more than plastic. And you don’t let go. Which makes him glance up at you, puzzled, but not quite calling you on it either.
“Just… make sure to give it back when you’re done,” you say, too quickly. “We don’t have that many.”
His hand is warm. You already know it’s warm (especially when it’s wandered to very specific real estate on your body), but today it feels explicitly warm.
Aaron clears his throat. “Of course…” Still not releasing your hand. Then again, you’re not releasing his either. “…You have my word.” (What the- for stationery?!)
Finally he juggles the pen, the card, and the bagged cookies with the grace of a man trying very hard not to drop evidence. “Um… thank you again for the cookies. Jack will be… elated.”
“Of course…” you echo, and yeah, you’re 90% sure you’re drooling.
Which is why you’re ready to murder your coworker for not letting you “table service” his order - i.e., personally deliver his coffee, hover like a lovesick bat, and snoop on whatever the hell he’s scribbling on that stupid matchmaking card.
Instead, you’re stuck behind the register, watching your FBI crush seat himself at a table for two. And not just any table for two. He’s across from a man who looks like he crawled out of his third divorce: orange-tinted skin, long hair, goatee, too many shirt buttons undone. Greasy aura.
Definitely older. Definitely trouble. Definitely… smiling at Aaron.
You can’t get it out of your head.
You’ll never be employee of the year if Aaron Hotchner is across the room, smiling at some stranger, talking to him like you don’t even exist - on the most romantic day of the year, no less.
There’s a weird, charged energy to it that knots your stomach, and you keep sneaking glances over, unable to stop.
His left hand scribbles on the card.
His face is focused… dangerously focused, the kind of face you wouldn’t mind sitting on.
The man across from him looks exactly like you feel: rapt, transfixed, probably wondering if he’s hallucinating.
Then Aaron takes a bite of the tart. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head back just slightly, licks his lips. He… likes it?!
You nearly faint.
His hand drifts, thumb rubbing across his index finger - a tell, you’ve learned, for when he’s nervous.
A few minutes pass and he’s doing it too often now, scratching his hand, taking deep breaths. Oh shit. He’s nervous. Aaron Hotchner, seasoned federal agent, absolute unit, is nervous about reentering the dating pool.
And then - he sets the pen down. Picks up the card. Your heart slams itself against your ribcage so violently you wonder if the polyester puppies can hear it.
He stands, pushes his chair neatly back into the table, and flashes the man-
-flashes the man one last smile!! (You might actually be having palpitations.)
He takes a few steps, looking down, unreadable. Your brain races. Where’s he going?
Sexy woman at table four? No. Must be the elegant lady at table three, perfectly age-appropriate.
Nope.
The philosophy professor at table two? God forbid. (If Spinoza’s right and there’s a little bit of God in everything, then surely He wouldn’t be cruel enough to let Hotchner flirt with a philosophy professor in your line of sight.)
(Who cares about Spinoza. Who cares about philosophy?)
What matters is that Hotchner keeps moving - past table two, murmuring polite apologies as he slips by table one - until he’s right there, mere inches away from you, standing at the cash register.
And he’s handing you the card.
He looks… red.
Red as in flushed, flustered - cheeks faintly pink, color creeping down the line of his throat where his collar doesn’t quite cover the skin.
Sweet. Wholesome.
Like maybe you, of all people (against all odds), finally managed to embarrass Aaron Hotchner, and now he’s standing here blushing like a schoolboy while silently declaring feelings.
But then your eyes catch on his hands.
The card trembles just slightly in his grip, and his palms look… wrong.
Not just the unsettling baldness of them - though that, perversely, makes it worse, accentuating the mottled patches, the angry red stippling, the rash blooming across his skin. The same flush climbs unevenly from his jawline, spilling down the exposed slice of his neck in a scatter of raised welts.
“Um,” he clears his throat, shifting, “by any chance were there strawberries in that tart? I might be… allergic.”
Strawberry powder.
You don’t think. You just grab his hand and tug, steering him through the chaos of the café as he keeps muttering “I have an EpiPen in the car” (like he’s going to make it that far) and behind the staff-room door.
It’s almost romantic if you forget the part where his throat might close in six minutes.
Anyways, you’ve trained for this. The way he can probably assemble a rifle in under ten seconds - you can save his life.
Step 1: Establish Dominance.
“Take your pants off,” you deadpan, already rifling through the cabinet. Orange tip down, blue safety cap off, your fist wrapped around the injector (like a pro!!! You’ve got this!!!)
“I’m sorry?!” His voice breaks halfway, startled and ragged… much like his breathing pattern (or maybe he’s into being bossed around? Not the time.) “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
Oh, fantastic. He doesn’t trust women.
Step 2: Remove Obstacles (Pants).
He doesn’t have time to activate his reflexes, because you’re already unfastening his belt. The buckle clinks. The zip slides down. (Do not give yourself bad ideas. Focus.) You drop to your knees, dragging his slacks down with you. He gulps audibly. You glance up.
“Are you seriously wearing Superman briefs? You go to the FBI every day dressed like that under your suit?”
“Yes, okay?!” He shushes you, flustered (which is rude considering you’re literally saving his life.) “But could you - quiet down a little? I can explain-” he involuntarily hisses as your fingers graze the inside seam.
Step 3: Insert Hero Juice.
Decoy successful.
He’s still sputtering about the Superman underwear - how he only wears them because his six-year-old has the exact same pair, and it’s their thing. A father–son tradition that makes no logical sense (but then, isn’t that the whole point of children?) - matching silly underwear, or “very cool” ones if you ask Jack, to get through the day not taking it too seriously.
(Not that his father has ever been good at that. Exhibit A: look where not choosing his pastry got him.)
You take advantage of the ramble to jab the injector into the upper outer thigh, right at the line of his (very cool!!!) briefs.
No reassuring click yet.
Also, to keep him still, you clamp your other hand around his opposite thigh - eloping him in place - dangerously close to forbidden territory. One inch higher and you’d have a handful of cake. (Pancake, more like… the man is devastatingly flat.)
“Is it in?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.
Sure, you’re no doctor - but you do know this much: being on your knees with one hand basically cupping his ass while driving a needle into his thigh isn’t exactly standard medical practice.
And the way he’s looming above you - with his skin flushed, eyes wide, and breaths shallow and uneven - you’re starting to suspect his hyperventilating isn’t just from the anaphylaxis.
He fumbles, swallows, shakes his head, then finally croaks out, “Um… yes.”
Step 4: The Longest Ten Seconds
Wait. Hold. Count to ten.
In ten seconds he could say nothing, could just breathe and let the medicine do its work. In ten seconds he could thank you, or - God forbid - flirt. Instead, out of the entire emotional buffet available, he serves you the worst dish.
“You didn’t have to take my pants off,” he murmurs, breath catching. “The pen can pierce through… very thick fabric.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me for wanting to actually see what I was doing,” you snap back, which feels defensive but also entirely justified, considering you just saved his life.
“It’s alright,” he says, heartfelt. Which, unfortunately, lands with a subtext you cannot ignore. Oh, yeah, I actually liked you pulling my pants off. Please do it again. Preferably slower next time.
Which is how you both end up marinating in two full seconds of unbearable silence, trading glances, the tension thicker than-
He cracks first. “I-I think we should do something.”
(Wow. Stunning clarity. “Something.” Could mean sex, could mean Scrabble.)
“Sex?” you blurt, because honesty is still the best policy.
He laughs and suddenly your impulsive guess doesn’t sound so insane. “No.” He shakes his head. (How dare he?) “I mean- I wouldn’t be opposed to that. But I was thinking… more of a date.”
And then it hits you: the smile. Rare. Unscripted. A little crooked. Prince Charming in an FBI badge. It detonates something in your chest, leaves you standing there half-kneeling, needle still in hand, absolutely cooked. (Speaking of which… you should probably go rescue the Lover’s Cheesecake from the oven…)
A date. He said a date. A DATE. On Valentine’s Day, while his pants are around his thighs. A DATE???? WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUU-
“I… am not opposed to that either,” you stammer. “Yes.”
Step 5: You’re alone in the staff room, already kneeling between his thighs, one hand on his ass. You are, quite literally, in the ideal position to either suck him off, propose marriage, or skip both and immediately elope - new surname, new city, new life. You’re positive there’s a sitcom about this exact setup. Something about a neurotic, Type-A lawyer and his chaotic, overly earnest free-spirit wife who marry after, like, one date. WHO CARES?! AARON HOTCHNER ASKED YOU OUT ON A DATE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
summary: after years of hiding your identity and spending nights fighting off monsters, you're tired of being a magical girl - especially with a new villain known as the king of curses out to get you.
all you want is to be able to focus on your normal life, and when you finally meet a nice guy at a work event for your day job you figure that maybe things are looking up.
if only he wasn't the very villain who wanted you dead.
word count: 7.7k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, humor, betrayal, lying, yandere/obsessed sukuna, confusing feelings, loneliness, falling in love, mentions of past illness, hurt/comfort, manipulation, sukuna is evil but he's also very confused, true-form sukuna, enemies to lovers (and back to enemies and then to lovers LOL), this couple is a mess
a/n: sorry this took so long I was going through a crisis but nothing will stop me writing sukuna fanfic
series masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon!)
Sukuna had a picture of you in his room.
It was just some stupid photo that he’d grabbed off the internet, one where you were all shiny eyed and victorious, taken days after you’d killed Kenjaku.
Not a shred of remorse in your eyes for the murder that you’d committed, for all the hatred that you’d spewed about people like him and why they shouldn’t exist in this world.
Just a big smile for the camera.
As if those who didn’t fit into your perfect vision of the world didn’t matter. Like they didn’t even exist.
Your righteousness pissed him off. Everything about you pissed him off. You were a freak too, weren’t you? Why did you get to thrive, receive fame, love and affection, while people like him and Kenjaku were despised from birth?
Was it because you were pretty?
Give him a break.
With a flick of his wrist, a dart struck your image, embedding itself directly between your eyes. He’d need to replace the picture soon, it was growing laden with holes.
You wouldn’t be so pretty once he was done with you. How much would the world rally behind you then? Once you looked like nothing more than the monsters that you so ruthlessly struck down night after night?
He couldn’t wait to execute his plan, to see that look of despair on your face when you figured out what was happening moments too late for you to do anything to stop it.
But for now he had to be patient.
The first part of his plan had already played out beautifully. He’d been there that night at the zoo, when the media had made you watch his video. He’d looked on with glee at your momentary hesitation before proclaiming that the video he’d made was a hoax, that the media shouldn’t be paying it or him any attention.
He’d seen the way that your lips had parted in shock, eyes widening at the sight of his monstrous form. It had stroked his ego, knowing that there was fear running through that pretty head of yours, knowing that all of your thoughts were focussed on him.
Had he dominated your thoughts after that? Did you spend your nights filled with anxiety at the thought of what action he’d take against you next?
He sure hoped so.
If everything went his way, soon your thoughts would be flooded with him. That would make it all the more sweet when he took everything away from you.
“My lord. Here’s your suit for this evening’s function.” His servant, Uraume stood in the doorway, their head slightly bowed.
He barely moved at their sudden presence, eyes still fixed on that stupid image of you. He was currently lounging on his bed, enjoying some peace and quiet in his normal body before he’d have to transform into that gross human form of his. Uraume’s appearance was a sign of that time coming to an end.
Soon he’d have to hide his extra arms and eyes, squeeze into a foolish suit, and act like he was nothing less than human around his stupid co-workers.
“Are we still initiating the plan as discussed?” They asked simply, their tone measured.
“Of course.” He said. That brought a smile to his face, because today wasn’t just any day at the office for him. “Summon a monster up on the 20th floor when I give you the signal. Then make yourself scarce.”
Uraume nodded in understanding, hanging the suit on the back of the door before hesitating. Sukuna glanced over at them, four red eyes fixed on the carefully schooled expression on their face. He knew them well enough to understand when they had something to say, even if they were eager to avoid speaking out of turn.
“Go on.” He encouraged, waving a hand at them.
“Are you sure about talking to her? The real her?”
Rising to his feet, Sukuna’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at his servant. Uraume dipped their head once more, ever careful to show him respect. It was almost annoying, he’d rather they just be straightforward with him.
“Why wouldn't I be?” He asked.
Getting to know the real you was a vital part of his plan to have you fall into complete despair - without that the whole thing would be lackluster. Not to mention, there was a part of him that wasn’t sure he even could kill you as Shining Star without pulling off all the stages of his plan beforehand.
“What if she knows that it's you? Or what if she doesn’t take the bait?”
“She won’t know it's me.” He scoffed. “She’s too arrogant to think I’d know who she really is. Besides, I’ll charm her so well that such a thought would never even figure into her mind.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Charm her?”
His expression was a picture of displeasure. He could hardly believe that Uraume would even suggest that such a thing was within the realms of possibility. In his human form he was very conventionally attractive, and he knew that he was a smooth talker. Not only had he been with plenty of women in his life, but there was no way he’d have gotten his stupid job at Limitless if not for his charm.
Since that was all Gojo thought about when hiring people.
“Out of the question.” Sukuna said firmly. “I’m charming.”
“To normal people, yes, but she’s…weird.”
Uraume had been following you for months now, ever since they’d figured out who you really were. They’d staked out your house night after night, knew your commute to work like the back of their hand, and had watched you duck into some quiet place to transform into Shining Star on numerous occasions.
What had really struck them following all their recon was how painfully boring your life was.
It didn’t seem like you had any friends or family. When you weren’t doing your magical girl thing you’d be in your house moping around. You didn’t excel or stand out at your job, you were just there, doing what you needed to do without anyone really recognising you.
At first they’d thought it might be some kind of an act, but the more they dug into your past, the more it became apparent that there just wasn’t much to tell. You’d lived a typical childhood only for your parents to move overseas when you started university - just after Shining Star had first come into existence.
Outside of that, the only remotely interesting thing about you were your medical records, which flagged a long stay at the hospital during your teenage years. For what purpose, Uraume wasn’t able to find out, but what did that matter anyway?
You seemed like you were the type of person who was hellbent on blending in, always alone, unbothered to build relationships with others.
And that was what had them thinking that maybe Sukuna’s charm wouldn’t work.
On the contrary, Sukuna believed that was exactly why it would.
Because if you were so closed off, he could only imagine that you were lonely - that you were so desperate for actual love and affection that you’d fall for it hook, line and sinker if he gave you the smallest taste of genuine interest.
He was counting on it.
That was the cornerstone of his plan, after all. While the King of Curses would create fear and chaos in your magical girl life, Sukuna would be there to offer you sympathy and comfort in your human one. You’d start to trust him, confide in him amongst all the turmoil that this villain was causing you.
And then, he’d pull the rug out from underneath you.
He couldn’t wait to see the look of betrayal and despair on your face.
“It’ll work.” Sukuna said simply, firmly dismissing Uraume’s line of argument. His grin was sharp as he stared down at his servant, the thrill of the evening’s task building up as excitement in his chest.
Tonight he’d lay the seeds of your downfall, and you’d be none the wiser.
“Have some faith in me. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
—
Sukuna had known what he was doing.
Mostly.
Things had gone entirely to plan at that damn party. He’d waited for an opportunity where you were alone - an opportunity that had come more easily than he’d expected, and he’d turned on the charm and flirted with you.
Just like he’d been expecting, you’d fallen for his bait. Shiny eyes all wide and creasing with joy from all the attention he was giving you. You were fickle, just like he’d assumed, and getting you to give him your number had taken all of five minutes.
Pathetic really.
The other aspect of his plan had worked out just as well. Uraume had summoned that monster as expected, and Sukuna had the glory of confirming what he already knew to be true - you were indeed Shining Star.
Your odd behaviour had started the second that creature was born into the world. It was amusing to see you scramble and pretend nothing was wrong, even with sweat dripping down your forehead at the agony. But he feigned ignorance all the same - he needed to keep his cover for now.
Things had admittedly gotten a little dicey when he followed you up to the 20th floor.
His intent had been to show his face, to gloat at you a little and shake you up before disappearing once more. He wanted to let the suspense get to you, let you quiver with anxiety, turn him into something even scarier than he was - like how Jaws is much scarier before you see the shark properly.
But something had overcome him when he’d seen you standing there, looking all exhausted like you had any right to be.
It pissed him off.
Before he’d even known what was happening he was on top of you, keeping you pinned down firmly beneath him, fingers digging harshly into your soft skin. It made him feel good, powerful, to see you trapped beneath him - all nervous and struggling, focussed solely on him.
And maybe it was because of how sweet and open you’d been to his advances on the balcony, but he definitely wasn’t expecting you to blast him like that - as if you were trying to kill him outright.
It was almost rude in his opinion, considering all the effort he was going through to make your death a spectacle - were you really so cold as to just kill him right there and then? No foreplay at all? How narcissistic.
Ultimately your attempt to kill him had worked in his favour though. It had allowed him to savour that expression of pure terror on your face when he grew his arms back immediately. Clearly that type of regeneration wasn’t something you were capable of and it scared you.
Good.
So overall, his evening was great. Perhaps he’d even go as far as to say that it was perfect. All of his plans were falling into place, and Uraume had reported that you’d seemed super shaken up when you’d hurried out of the party.
And yet, for some reason he wasn’t happy.
Because something about that evening, about you, the real you, had irked him.
Maybe it was the way his heart had actually fluttered when you’d turned to look at him on that balcony. Or perhaps it was to do with your mannerisms, the way that you’d come across so unsure and unaccepting of the idea of being flirted with.
You were nothing like the image that he had of Shining Star.
Just as pretty. Prettier even.
But nothing else lined up in the way that it should. The real you was introverted, something of a loner - insecure even. You’d seemed as though compliments were an alien concept to you, as if you didn’t get showered in them every evening. There was a dim quality to your eyes that painted you as someone who was genuinely tired, unhappy with their lot in life but pushing on nonetheless.
It just didn’t make sense to him.
Despite all the evidence, it had him questioning that you were even the correct girl. Because how could someone like you be his greatest adversary? How could you be the same woman who imposed her ideals upon others like he’d seen from Shining Star?
He had to convince himself that you were simply a better actress than he’d accounted for.
Like Uraume had said, it was possible that you were doing everything in your power to seem unextraordinary, to look like you were no one worth a second glance, to keep people at an arms length so that your secret wouldn’t be discovered.
That was it, right?
Even if your exhaustion, your apparent lack of purpose in life seemed so convincing, it had to just be an act.
Your real self was annoying. You were Shining Star and you were annoying.
You weren’t some pretty girl who made his heart pound with a single glance, it was probably just another one of your magic tricks, some stupid thing that you were doing which could beguile any man.
He wouldn’t be fooled.
Really. He wouldn’t.
The person in control of this situation was him. He was the one who was going to charm you and then pick you apart piece by piece. You were the one that was going to be fooled and that was all there was to it.
There was no point reading into his own reactions.
No point in thinking too much about the wet dream that he’d had that night - the image of you on your knees before him, lips wrapped firmly around his cock, uncertain eyes gazing up at him affectionately. It was all just you trying to maliciously get into his head and he wasn’t going to let that happen.
Because you meant absolutely nothing to him.
And that was what he kept telling himself when he next met up with you a week later.
It was a date that he’d set up, reaching out to you via the number that you’d provided him with at that work party. He had to admit that he was a little annoyed that you didn’t make the first move, but Uraume convinced him that it wasn’t a big deal. You weren’t the type to actively seek out connection, he’d have to be the one driving things.
So he made a reservation at some fancy restaurant and invited you along on a date. Just like he’d planned from the very start.
You’d shown up a little late, dark bags beneath your eyes, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as you apologised profusely to him. You’d mumbled something about your boss keeping you late as you sat down, a statement that had him almost rolling his eyes. He was sure that it wasn’t your day job that had kept you from arriving on time.
After all, he hadn’t exactly made your week easy.
With all the mental anguish that you’d caused him, he’d childishly made the decision to unleash some suffering upon you in the short time that you’d been apart. Both he and Uraume had been travelling all over the city, coaxing out monsters in the most inconvenient places, getting great joy out of watching you flit about endlessly putting out the fires he’d started.
Part of him wanted to show his face to you again, wanted to feel that same rush he’d felt when the two of you had scrapped at the party. But the more you physically saw of the King of Curses, the higher the chances that you’d start to see something off about Sukuna.
The red eyes were a big giveaway, after all.
So he’d reluctantly stayed hidden, letting the monsters do his bidding. That was enjoyable enough, especially when he’d raise up eight or nine at one time and your face would fall in dismay at the sight of them all. He loved that pretty look of despair that you’d quickly try to hide, the clear frustration that your night wouldn’t be as easy as you wanted it to be.
Uraume had raised up a few monsters just as Sukuna had set off for your date. He’d figured that would add to your misery tenfold. He doubted you were the type of person who was okay with letting others down, and he could only assume that you’d feel super guilty showing up late to a date with a guy you liked.
And if your dejected expression as you sat across from him was anything to go by, he was right on the money with that idea.
“Don’t worry about it.” He waved you off with a wide smile.
His crimson gaze skimmed over your outfit, his body stirring traitorously as he drank in the view. You’d gone for a simple yet elegant look, donning a black silken dress that stopped just above your knees. It hugged your figure perfectly, accentuating your curves and allowing his thoughts to run wild for approximately five seconds before he shut them down.
He hated how pretty you were, both in this form and as Shining Star - it was a great source of infuriation for him.
You were like some kind of siren, gorgeous in a way that would draw him in against his will for some evil purpose. He’d fall for no such sorcery.
But it did make it easier for him to sound sincere when he complimented you.
“I didn’t think you could get any prettier than how you looked out on that balcony but, wow.” He breathed.
Eyes widening, you froze up at his words, hands tightening around the menu that the waiter had just handed to you. It was almost like you couldn’t quite process it, the cogs taking a moment to start turning again in your brain.
He still couldn’t believe that mere compliments were so effective on you. You really were starved of affection.
“Oh I’m-” you paused, taking a deep breath before smiling. “Thank you.”
He laughed aloud. “Ah, look who learned how to take a compliment.”
You pouted sweetly, averting your gaze back down to the menu. The place that he’d chosen was fancy, the type of location that you’d only go to for the sake of hosting one of those fancy events that you helped organise. Not the sort of restaurant that you’d generally visit in your free time on account of the price and the fact that you largely lived in social isolation.
The discomfort showed on your face almost immediately as you skimmed the options, eyes flitting over the prices.
He’d picked this place intentionally, eager to offer a display of power and wealth right from the outset.
“Get whatever you want, I’m paying.” He said simply, as if it was no big deal.
But you both knew it was.
“Oh, no, I can’t ask you to do that!” You replied, flustered. “I can pay for myself-”
“I insist.” His red eyes shone as he caught your eye, a smug smile fixed on his handsome face. “Working for Gojo has its perks, let me treat you.”
You blinked a few times, staring back at him uncertainly, almost like you were going to fight back. Seconds later your shoulders were dropping in resignation, mumbling something about how he was too nice as you scoured the menu.
If only you knew that he was currently being the complete opposite of nice.
The waiter returned and the two of you made your orders. He noted that you’d chosen the cheapest item on the menu, a revelation that irked him in some way. It was like you were allergic to being selfish, always choosing to take the ground of righteousness. If someone had offered him whatever he wanted, he was sure as hell going to be taking advantage of it.
Not you though. Not Little Miss Perfect.
For a while the two of you made small talk. He led most of the conversation, launching into an explanation about his role as Gojo’s Legal Director. His aim was to make you as at ease as possible, create an illusion that he was confiding in you so that you’d feel comfortable to do the same back.
So he went on and on about his time at Limitless, his neverending list of troubles that Gojo posed to him as a boss, and his hopes and dreams for the future. He lied about most of it, because all of his hopes and dreams revolved around your suffering, but he couldn’t exactly come out and say that.
It wasn’t until the food had already arrived, steaming on the table before you, that he finally started digging into questions about you.
“I guess your boss must suck too, huh? Keeping you late and all that.”
“Yeah…” You murmured with a wry smile, impaling a piece of pasta with your fork. It didn’t seem like a topic you were particularly interested in - knowing your secret, he doubted you cared much about your real job at all.
“So, what did you have to stay late to do today?”
He figured he’d been nice enough this evening to allow himself a little bit of fun, apply some gentle pressure to you in the form of forcing you to lie and cover up your identity.
“Oh, uhh…” You trailed off for a moment, brow creasing.
It was crystal clear that you were attempting to make something up, caught off guard by the fact that he’d even ask. Like Uraume had said, with your tendency to isolate yourself, it was unlikely that you’d ever really had to lie or explain anything to anyone - there was no one in your life who’d ever grow suspicious of your actions.
Sukuna was going to take great joy in torturing you over the coming weeks by forcing you to come up with explanations ceaselessly. He wanted to see how easily he could catch you out.
“They needed some support for a charity event that the responsible business department is hosting.” You said finally.
“Oh, what’s the charity?” He asked without missing a beat, enjoying himself entirely too much.
You shrugged. “Hell if I know. Something about supporting financial literacy? I was just pitching in on some logistics stuff they were struggling with.”
Weren’t you quick? Perhaps you were better at this than he’d thought.
“Right.” He hummed. “I thought you loved engaging with charity work though?”
“Oh I do.” You bit back quickly. “I’m more about health related charities though, places that help with cancer research and stuff.”
Ah, you’d given that some thought since the last time you’d spoken to him. You were clearly clever enough to anticipate that he was going to ask and prepare a realistic enough response. He supposed that you did have a few brain cells after all.
“Cancer research? Why?”
He was straight forward in his questioning, not really thinking much of it. Honestly, he’d only asked because he was eager to catch you out in another lie, to watch you scramble for a response as to why you were ‘working’ with those charities. But the way that you’d winced at his query caught him off guard, as if it was a topic that you didn’t want to discuss rather than a lie you needed to tell.
“It’s- it's just close to my heart, I guess.” You said finally. The words had come out slowly, as if you were taking your time to articulate what you wanted to say in an effective manner.
“Close to your heart?” He pressed.
He told himself that he wanted to know more because it would prove you as a liar, not because he was genuinely interested in what you were hiding, curious about the tiny quiver in your tone.
“Yeah…”
You were hesitant, gaze moving down to the table. Tilting his head, he watched you push your food around anxiously, as if avoidance would get him to forget the topic and move on entirely. Even if he wasn’t out to destroy your life he probably wouldn’t have dropped things that easily, but he was aware that if he wanted answers he should take a different tact.
“Sorry, I feel like I’ve said something to upset you. We don’t have to talk about it.”
You glanced up in surprise, expression softening just a little, wide eyes laden with a hint of what he could only describe as guilt. “No, sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” You said quickly, in a clear effort to reassure him.
It was almost cute, the effort you were making to appease him. Like he’d assumed, you really were desperate for human attention, afraid to let go of a connection that had so forthrightly presented itself to you.
He wondered idly what else you’d be willing to do for the sake of his attention. How far could he make you humiliate yourself in front of him before he cruelly broke your heart?
It was an interesting experiment.
“If you’re sure?” He said, putting on his most sympathetic tone and expression.
“I’m- yeah- it's just a heavy topic for me, I’m not used to discussing it.” You let out a nervous laugh, lowering your gaze once more.
“I lost a family member to cancer, so I can relate if that’s what you mean by it being near to your heart.” He said sincerely.
It was a lie, a brazen one at that. He’d never known his father and he’d run away from his mother at the mere age of eleven. He hoped that awful woman had died from cancer after all she’d put him through, but he’d never know for sure.
Either way, it felt like the right thing to say to deepen your trust in him. Shared trauma was one hell of a bonding agent, he needed you to believe that you had something in common - for you to believe that he was one of those unique people that truly got you.
A gross idea from his side, because there was no way in hell that he’d ever be someone who related to someone as unlikeable as you, but he’d commit to anything for the sake of his plan.
“Oh. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
Unlike his faux sympathy, he could tell that yours was genuine. Your voice had softened, and you were gazing up at him with compassion. It irked him beyond belief, because he didn’t believe that anyone in the world was genuinely a do-gooder in the way that you liked to present yourself.
It was all fake. You probably only acted so kind because you wanted to feel good about yourself. At the end of the day you still killed Kenjaku, so he could see straight through your false empathy.
Once you knew who he was there was no doubt in his mind that you’d be rejoicing at the thought of him losing a loved one to cancer.
You were just as ugly as him on the inside.
“It was a long time ago.” He said, injecting the appropriate amount of somberness into his tone. “All I’m trying to say is that if you have something like that you wanna talk about, I’m here to listen.”
God, he felt so gross right now.
“I- uh…” You trailed off for a moment, caught up in your thoughts. You worried your lip between your teeth, as if weighing up how deeply you wanted to share whatever was on your mind. It was as though there was some invisible force holding you back, likely your intense fear of connection that had left you so isolated across the years.
“Not pushing you.” He interrupted with a practiced smile. “If you don’t want to say anything, it's fine. I was just curious considering my own experience - I thought I might have found a kindred spirit…”
Now that really drove the knife home. If you’d been more experienced with relationships he probably wouldn’t have said something like that, because it was so blatantly manipulative that it was almost laughable - but he was counting on your lack of social skills to accelerate your attachment to him right now.
He was going to build a connection and fast - dig his hooks into you so deep today that he could accelerate his plan significantly.
Plus, he’d love to know if there was someone you loved who was suffering from cancer, because he could no doubt exploit that weakness somehow.
“Perhaps not quite a kindred spirit, I think our experiences are a little different.”
Your voice was soft as you averted your gaze again. His shoulders drooped in disappointment, assuming that whatever opportunity he’d been digging at was disappearing before him.
At least, until you spoke again.
“I had cancer when I was a teenager. I’m about to celebrate ten years of being all clear, actually.”
He froze, staring at you completely perplexed.
No, that couldn’t be right, could it?
You were Shining Star, the perfect, righteous, magical girl with the perfect life. The woman who was above it all, the woman who got to pick and choose who was worthy of mercy and who wasn’t. You weren’t some weak little girl who’d had cancer. That just didn’t make sense.
For a moment, concern bubbled up in his chest at the idea that you might be lying, that you might know exactly who he was and now you were playing him, trying to get him all confused, forcing him to give you sympathy where he knew none was really deserved.
But there was no way that you could be aware of his identity, it was a total impossibility.
So why lie?
Uraume had said that you’d had some extended hospital stay as a child so what you were saying did check out.
Whatever, what fucking difference did it make?
While he was caught up assessing his own view of you, he hardly registered the way that you grimaced at his lack of response, eyes moving down to your plate, awkwardly pushing around the food with your fork once more.
“I don’t usually mention it to people.” You said sheepishly. “I always feel like it ends up with someone being uncomfortable.”
“No.” He said quickly, realising that he needed to be perfect right now - he could sort his thoughts out later. Uraume would help him put things back in perspective, help alleviate the confusion in his chest at a fairly strong suggestion that you were actually human. “I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”
You were still just the magical girl that he wanted to destroy. His heart definitely wasn’t fluttering at the look of sheer relief in your eyes at his words. That would be ridiculous.
“Yeah, you wouldn’t expect it, right?” You gestured vaguely to yourself.
There was no doubt that you were right about that. You were beautiful after all - even through all his hatred there was no denying a basic fact. Your eyes were bright, your skin radiant and soft, your body clearly strong. You were the picture of health, the type of woman who looked like she’d breezed through life.
It was the illusion that he’d bought into.
The one he was still clinging onto now, because he hated the uncomfortable itch that settled into his chest at the thought of you all small and frail in a hospital bed. His adversary was someone unfathomably strong, the type of person who would bend to nothing.
That was what you were to him.
You weren’t someone who had suffered, someone who had faced the same hardships and trauma that he had. The two of you weren’t alike, you weren’t kindred spirits, there was no common ground. There just couldn’t be.
Fuck, you really pissed him off.
“No, I wouldn’t expect it.” He said carefully, trying not to let his turmoil seep into the character he was currently playing. “So you’re all clear now?”
That would at least bring him some peace. Your life was perfect now.
Grimacing a little at the question, you gave him a small nod. “Should be, yeah.”
“Should be?”
You sighed heavily. “Yeah. It was- my recovery, it was something of a miracle, I suppose?”
He tilted his head in interest, genuine interest this time.
“A miracle?” He echoed.
“Mmm.” You placed your cutlery down, fiddling with the sleeve of your dress. “I was terminal. They put me in palliative care and everything. Nothing had been working - it had been years of chemo and hair loss, and I was finally told that I only had weeks to live. I’d been prepared and everything at that point, I was just so fucking tired.”
You paused for a moment, sucking in a deep breath before glancing up at him. Up until now your eye-contact had been largely avoidant, but now you were staring straight into his crimson irises, displaying a confidence that reflected Shining Star far more convincingly than anything else he’d seen from you.
“And then, it just disappeared.”
“What?” He asked, brows furrowed in confusion.
“The tumor that had been growing in my esophagus, the same tumor that had spread to my kidneys and liver, it was all suddenly just gone.”
A miracle indeed.
“Doctors couldn’t understand it - it was a medical impossibility and yet the evidence was right there in front of them. The cancer was gone from everywhere, there wasn’t a trace of it left in my blood. It was like I’d never been sick at all.”
Outwardly, he kept a skeptical look as he listened to your story. Internally he was trying to fit this new information into the image of you that he kept in his mind. Uraume had said that you’d come out of hospital a short while before Shining Star had started appearing, which meant your miracle and your alter ego were no doubt connected to each other.
Although, in what way, he wasn’t quite sure.
Perhaps you’d always been Shining Star and only uncovered your powers in a moment of need, using your healing powers to destroy the cancer. He supposed that would make you something similar to him, a person who was born different. Someone who was born into so much hatred that their soul merged with that of a monster.
However, his gut told him that your deal was something else entirely - both your hatred of Kenjaku and the existence of your amulet pointed to that. Your powers weren’t natural, they’d been given to you. You were no monster hybrid, but a beacon of hope and benevolence - you weren’t like him.
So how had your powers come about? What did they have to do with your miracle? And could they be taken from you just as easily? He’d need to dig a bit more in the future, because the origin of your powers could teach him plenty about more effective ways to permanently kill you.
Since he still didn’t have a complete answer when it came to that.
“I’d been through years of pain, years of hospital rooms, pity, and chemo, only to come out of the other side like nothing had happened.” You added, leaning an arm on the table as you stared off into the distance.
“Well, then your life is perfect right?” He asked, trying to keep the spite out of his tone. “What appeared to be an inevitable end simply disappeared overnight. I suppose that makes you the luckiest person on the planet.”
He wasn’t sure if his words came across as bitter. What he would’ve given for a miracle at some point in his life - for some respite from the curse that had haunted him from birth.
You gave him a sad smile, taking a long sip from your glass of wine. “I suppose so.” Your voice was soft. “Although I can’t help but wonder about that.”
He snorted in disbelief. “What? Would it be luckier to have died? Are you about to say some profound thing about the life you’re living not really being worth it?”
A measured smile remained on your lips, soft eyes sweeping over him. Your attention summoned a warmth in his chest that he didn’t quite understand - the flicker of something akin to a connection.
He almost wanted to look away, a prickly discomfort crawling up his neck as he held your sad gaze.
“No. But you’re something of a businessman, aren’t you? Everything comes with a price. So when someone calls me lucky, I can’t help but think they’re likely mistaken. I know that miracle didn’t come to me for free.”
His eyes widened at the pure resignation in your quiet tone, a sense of quiet despair that had him faltering. There was a hopeless quality to you, an exhaustion that he was more than familiar with - one that betrayed a life of hardship and suffering.
Instead of the bright and confident hero, Shining Star, the woman sitting before him was tired and vulnerable. You were the type of person who the world had beaten down, left lonely and shattered even despite the miracle that had saved your life.
He hated the sticky feeling that seized his throat while he thought of what to say, pity coiling in his chest for the last person he should ever feel it towards.
And it wasn’t just the odd feeling of understanding and sympathy that bothered him.
To anyone else, your comment would’ve been something throwaway, a mere anxiety of a woman who had undergone too much suffering to ever be comfortable that it wouldn’t simply return in greater force.
To him, your words meant something different.
The miracle was associated with you becoming a magical girl, and there was a cost.
Was there more to you than he’d initially thought? He’d always had this view of a woman who had taken up a role of righteousness willingly, not one who had reluctantly taken up the mantle in exchange for some miracle.
The idea made his chest feel tight.
“How do you know it wasn’t free?” He pressed.
“Just a feeling.” You said easily, shutting down his line of questioning. “Either way, these days I like to help people as much as I can. Perhaps I was given a chance to stay on this earth so that I could do good, maybe that’s the price that I pay. Who knows?”
You knew - that he was sure of. You just weren’t going to tell him.
Not yet anyway.
“Mmm. I think I’d just accept the luck and move on, but I guess you’re a better person than me.” He said with an easy laugh.
You giggled, cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh it definitely is.” He teased. “You called it the first time we met - all I do is defend the rights of a morally corrupt company. Meanwhile you’re like some saint or something, causing miracles and whatnot.” He waved his hands in your general direction to emphasise his point.
“No…” You mumbled shyly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
There was something about the way that your cheeks reddened that he liked. It was infuriating, but his gaze was instantly drawn to it, his ego boosted at the idea that he was having any sort of effect on you.
That was definitely what his strange feeling was - it was about desiring power and control over your emotions, nothing more.
It had nothing to do with the way that you stared at him - gazing up at him with an affection and interest that he wasn’t used to. It had nothing to do with the confession that you’d shared with him either, the fact that you’d opened up about something that was clearly hard for you to discuss.
No, that was pathetic of you to do.
You were stupid to let him hold all the cards, foolish to confide in a man like him, idiotic to assume that he’d be even slightly moved by the tragic experience that you’d undergone. It was naive to assume that he was trustworthy, that he cared about a single word that came out of your mouth.
It wasn’t like your vulnerability played on his mind for the rest of his evening, embedding itself into his initial view of you like a dagger, throwing his thoughts of you into total disarray. Because it didn’t matter that you weren’t exactly like he’d imagined, right?
Even if he did feel a little bit bad for you, it didn’t change anything. Even if his attempt to act like a kindred spirit had backfired in a way that had him actually feeling like one. You still needed to disappear.
He still needed to stick to the plan.
You’d killed Kenjaku, you hated people like him, and he couldn’t lose sight of what you were.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
—
He hadn’t planned on sleeping with you that night.
To be clear, he hadn’t really planned on sleeping with you at all.
He’d figured that he could make up some lie about waiting for marriage or something, provide you with a reason not to have sex whilst still pushing forward with the development of your relationship. Because why would he fuck someone that he despised?
Except there he was at the end of the date, standing outside your door, nodding along easily when you asked him if he wanted to come in.
He wasn’t really sure what had possessed him to end up in the position he was in now.
To some extent, he was aware that it was because he’d ended up having something of an enjoyable evening with you, even if he didn’t really want to admit that to himself. After the cancer conversation, things had been uncannily easy. For some reason he found that he wasn’t straining at all to keep up his act, making conversation with you and batting back flirtatious remarks with total ease.
You’d made him genuinely laugh a few times, his heart had raced when your fingers had brushed against his across the table, and at the end of the night you’d sweetly asked if he could accompany you back to your place since there’d been a few crimes in the area.
As if that would pose any risk to you.
But he went along with it all the same.
It had been easy to reason with himself at first, tell himself that he needed to grab any chance to deepen his bond with you, and that he couldn’t pass up on an opportunity to snoop around in your house. Perhaps he could uncover some great secret about you, find a way to weaken your power, expose something that he could hold over you in the future.
Saying yes just made sense for his plan.
However, justifying his presence in your house was a little bit harder when the two of you were tangled up in your sheets, his cock buried inside you, your nails raking desperately down his back. Your soft eyes were wide with desire, lips parted slightly, body quivering beneath the weight of his thrusts.
His name was falling from your mouth in desperate gasps, your voice all high-pitched and breathy. He could feel you squeezing around him desperately, sucking him in like your life depended on it. It was pathetic really, the way that you were unravelling beneath him so easily, with no care in the world that the man making you feel this good was the last man who should ever see you in this state.
Stupid. You were so stupid and careless.
It would be so easy to kill you right now, to wrap his fingers around your delicate throat and crush your windpipe. But that wasn’t right, he wanted more from you than simply death, he wanted your complete and utter humiliation - he wasn’t about to rush things.
Besides, he didn’t want to kill you in this form. He’d just be murdering some frail girl who’d miraculously recovered from cancer in her youth. When he finally got around to killing you, he’d do it while you were Shining Star - he’d settle for nothing less.
Perhaps that was how he was justifying his current state. He was fucking you, not Shining Star, and somehow in his head, that made the whole thing less gross.
So instead of killing you or stopping, he lost himself in the feeling of your body, his lips bruising your neck with kisses, his fingers brushing over your pebbled nipples, enjoying every little twitch that he elicited from you. It was proof that he held all the power in this exchange, you had what you had because of him, you were totally at his mercy.
Just like you should be.
It was because of his desire for total domination that he came inside you, filling you up with his seed and thoroughly leaving his mark behind. He did it because one day that fact would be a humiliation for you.
Not because he didn’t have the willpower to pull out of your tight heat.
Not because he liked the way you whimpered his name when you came, shuddering on his cock.
Definitely not.
This was all just to sell the illusion, that was all. He wasn’t attracted to you - not even a little bit. There was no way that he’d have ever even given you a second glance if not for the fact that he needed to destroy your whole life.
This was all just part of his evil plan.
That was what he told himself when you huddled up in his arms like you belonged there, your naked body heavy with sleep. He hadn’t moved, made no effort to leave or escape. Instead he pulled you close, letting you drift off at his side.
He told himself that he’d snoop another time, that today had simply been too taxing for him to do anything else. He’d made plenty of progress, the last thing he’d want was for you to catch him snooping with the leaps and bounds that he’d made in your trust today.
So he fell asleep there in that soft bed that smelt so sweetly of you, his fingers running tenderly along your spine. All to sell the illusion of course - even if you were asleep, how could he be sure that you didn’t have cameras or anything? He could never let his guard down.
Because he hated you. You were his enemy. He’d betray you and he’d kill you, and he couldn’t care less about how you felt about anything.
Really, he hated you.
Really.
a/n: sukuna is so fucking stupid out here calling her an idiot for falling for his charm like the exact same thing would NEVER befall him - buddy, only one of you has an unhealthy obsession and it AIN'T her
hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, can't wait to share more with you all! reblogs and comments are appreciated! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3
summary: after years of hiding your identity and spending nights fighting off monsters, you're tired of being a magical girl - especially with a new villain known as the king of curses out to get you.
all you want is to be able to focus on your normal life, and when you finally meet a nice guy at a work event for your day job you figure that maybe things are looking up.
if only he wasn't the very villain who wanted you dead.
word count: 7k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, humor, betrayal, lying, yandere/obsessed sukuna, confusing feelings, loneliness, falling in love, mentions of past illness, hurt/comfort, manipulation, sukuna is evil but he's also very confused, true-form sukuna, enemies to lovers (and back to enemies and then to lovers LOL), this couple is a mess
a/n: I'm so excited for this one, hope you all enjoy!
series masterlist | ao3 | next chapter (coming soon!)
Wiping sweat from your brow, a deep sigh wracked your body. It had been a testing evening to say the least, with at least eight monsters making an attempt to wreak havoc in Ueno Zoo. You were currently standing over the last of them, some sort of mutated tiger slowly turning to dust at your feet.
You’d wait here until it dissolved properly - mainly because it could still have a spark of life left in it, but partially because you could use a moment of quiet before going out to face the reporters gathered outside.
Dealing with the media clapping you on the back was a novelty back when you’d started all this ten years ago, back when you were still a teenager. It was nothing more than tedious now. All you wanted was to go home, crawl into your bed and hope that another crisis didn’t come knocking before sunrise.
There’d been an insane wave of incidents lately, all consisting of several monsters appearing at once, which used to be a rarity. You were almost convinced that there was someone behind the attacks, some villain with powers like yours, but at this point you couldn’t be bothered to dig into it.
If there was some greater evil you were certain that they’d make themselves known to you at some point. Why expend the energy chasing them down?
Playing with the golden amulet around your neck, you considered taking it off - transforming back into your normal form and sneaking out some side exit. It was a tempting thought, but one you knew you weren’t going to follow through on - if someone saw you, the normal you, coming out of an off-limits area then suspicions would be aroused and your cover would be blown.
That was the last thing you wanted.
The only time you could get some peace was when you weren’t wearing the damn amulet - when you were anonymous.
Taking a deep breath, you made your way to the exit and stepped out to face the crowds. Plastering on a big smile as if your anxiety wasn’t spiking at the cheers and flashes of cameras. It was apparent that the media weren’t the only ones there to see you, your heart sinking at the sight of the general public, fans of yours, holding up signs and wearing your merchandise.
God, you hated it.
If you’d wanted to be treated like an idol, you would’ve chosen that career path.
You’d had no choice in becoming a magical girl.
“Shining Star! Shining Star! Will you sign my shirt?”
Shining Star. That’s what the media had called you when you’d first started out as a magical girl. You’d had no real say in the matter - hadn’t been ready with another name for your alter ego back then, so it just kind of stuck.
Not ideal, but better than them knowing your real name.
You waved off your fans with an apologetic smile, gesturing over to the media. Generally, the reporters didn’t like it when the public were around and wasting your time, so you’d often use them as a scapegoat to avoid interacting with those who wanted signatures from you. There was a ripple of ‘awws’ from the crowd, but no real vitriol.
They all knew it was a longshot.
Unlike actual idols it wasn’t like you did fanmeets or anything like that - you were illusive and private, only ever sighted at the scene of a monster or villain attack. They knew not to expect too much, but they loved you all the same.
Or, they loved Shining Star.
If your real identity was ever uncovered you were sure that they wouldn’t love you.
All they wanted was someone extraordinary, some kind of untouchable deity who could keep their city safe from danger with a rainbow sword and blasts of light from her hands. You weren’t a human to them.
Hell, you barely looked human with your amulet on, with your hair and eyes losing their normal colour and obtaining this weird effect where the hue would change depending on the light, as if you were made out of crystals or something.
Golden star markings would appear on your cheeks, your normal clothes would fade away in favour of a short, flowy white dress with a metal star sitting between your breasts, and your hair would suddenly decide to defy gravity, always floating up in some stupid way once the transformation was complete.
In your mind you looked like a child’s drawing of a magical girl, an image that wasn’t helped by the way that your sword would shimmer with all the colours of the rainbow, as if conceptualised by a five year old with a new set of coloured crayons.
It certainly wasn’t the look that you’d have chosen for yourself.
But that didn’t stop people going wild for it.
You could see plenty of people with makeshift cosplays in the crowd, with their colourful plastic swords and dyed hair, all falling short of the uniquely weird atmosphere that your form gave off.
If only you could pass your burden onto them, let them take the amulet, since they all seemed so desperate to be you.
“Shining Star. What happened in there tonight?”
This journalist was one that you knew. She was a pretty woman with long brown hair and a scar across her face. She tended to be one of the kinder reporters, one that treated you like you were human. It was always a relief to see her over the ones that wanted to see you fail - the ones who scrutinised all of your actions.
“It seems that a few monsters found their way into the zoo. Since it happened after the park had closed, there were no casualties and the situation was resolved quickly.”
Your words were honest, but didn’t quite tell the whole story - that was the line you always walked with the media. They couldn’t know that monsters were born out of discontent, that the creatures roaming the zoo hadn’t found their way in, but had rather been born there.
In this case they had been created from the despair of the mistreated animals inhabiting the park.
That wasn’t odd in itself. You were familiar with monsters and the hotspots for their appearances. What was odd was the sheer number that had popped up all at once, hence your suspicion that someone was actively speeding up the rate at which despair and discontent would gather in an area.
Either way, it wasn’t a problem for tonight.
A barrage of questions kept coming your way:
“Is the zoo safe to reopen?”
“Why are we seeing an increase in supernatural events?”
“How do we know you aren’t setting up these incidents in the first place to make yourself look like a hero?”
It was nothing that you hadn’t heard before, and you answered each query as politely as you could, a wide smile fixed on your face, as if anxiety wasn’t swirling in your chest at each attempt to pry into you and your actions.
A holiday would be nice. You hadn’t had a break in years. Not like it was a realistic option - as long as you were the only magical girl in the city you couldn’t drop the ball for even a second. You were stuck on duty until you either passed away or someone else came along to help.
And there hadn’t been someone else like you in years now.
“Can you share your thoughts on the King of Curses?”
You frowned at that question, tilting your head at the young reporter. That wasn’t a query that you’d heard before.
Who the hell was the King of Curses? What a stupid name - you wondered if the media had come up with that or if it was a self-chosen alias. Genuinely embarrassing if someone was actually going around calling themselves that.
“The King of Curses?” You asked, keeping a pleasant, interested smile on your face.
“You haven’t seen the video?”
There was a ripple of agreement and surprise amongst the reporters at your confusion, like this was some well-known thing that you’d been ignoring. And to be fair, it could be. Between your magical girl work and your actual life you didn’t have much time to catch up on social media and the like.
As long as your head wasn’t pounding in agony, signalling the existence of a monster, you weren’t all that tuned in with the general goings on of the world.
“No. What video?”
It took less than ten seconds for a reporter to pull YouTube up on their phone, pressing on a video posted by the King of Curses, and holding the screen up for you to see. You supposed that confirmed that this guy really was just calling himself that.
Lame.
The clip revealed a hulking figure clad in a dark robe, sitting at a table and staring directly at the camera. It was hard to make out any of his features, his face cast in shadow save for four blazing red eyes breaking through the darkness.
“To the annoyance known as Shining Star, I have a message for you.”
His voice was calm, the tone a little distorted by some sort of voice modifier. Between that and his obscured appearance, you could only assume that he didn’t want to be identified - though, considering his advanced size, you imagined that he wouldn’t be hard to pick out in a crowd even if you didn’t have all his features down.
“I’ve watched you run around this city like a fool for years, waving your stupid sword, playing at being some sort of hero. It's humiliating. I’ve seen you prance about like you’re god’s gift to this world, lecture people on righteousness like you’re the authority on the matter. You aren’t.”
God, what was this guy’s problem?
You frowned at the screen, a little frustrated because between all the bad points he was making a couple of good ones - you did look stupid prancing around with your ridiculous sword. But you certainly didn’t think you were god’s gift to the world or anything like that - who was he to assume the way you thought?
“You don’t understand anything about the world. I can tell. You just think you’re special because of your cute little magic tricks - you think you're worthy of attention because of them. You claim to fight for the people but you reek of privilege, of a life without hardship. You’re just a stupid little girl, and I’m tired of seeing you thrive unchecked.”
A life without hardship? You fucking hated this guy.
“Someone needs to put you in your rightful place, and I’ll be the man to do it.”
A gasp left your lips as he shifted a little. Two burly forearms moved to rest on the table, hands coming up to support his chin. His bicep was easily bigger than your head, which was threatening in itself, but that wasn’t what really frightened you.
The thing that genuinely struck fear into your heart was the way that he raised a second pair of arms as he spoke - bringing them up above his head in a casual stretch as if they were meant to be there.
Was he like you?
Was he just a human with the ability to transform?
Or was he a new breed of monster with advanced intelligence?
You weren’t quite sure which one would be worse.
“You’ll be hearing from me very soon, girl. You don’t need to do anything, keep living your foolish little life as normal. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”
And just like that the video cut to black, the reflection of your stunned expression showing in the darkness of the phone screen. You really wished that you hadn’t seen this for the first time in front of dozens of reporters who were all so clearly analysing the minutiae of your reaction.
Schooling your expression, you looked up at the reporter who’d asked the initial question. “The King of Curses? Give me a break. The whole thing is clearly a hoax - if there was any weight behind any of that he wouldn’t be hiding behind a camera. It's all visual effects and fearmongering.”
Your voice was confident, and you added in a shrug at the end to sound all nonchalant about the whole thing. Internally you were freaking out, because while this whole thing could be a hoax, something deep in your chest told you that it wasn’t.
For this man to show up just when you’d been sensing that a villain had been behind things recently? Yeah, he was probably the real deal. And for him to have such a personal grudge against you was far from ideal. Your previous brushes with villains had been with those that wanted to bring destruction upon the world and would stop at nothing to get it.
A desire to specifically destroy you was much more chilling.
But offering a reaction to this man would be foolish, especially when it was so clear that he was watching all your actions. You’d stay cool and unbothered - that was always the best approach, that was what had kept you alive over the years.
“You shouldn’t give this guy any screentime.” You continued. “It's not worth spreading negativity over - all he wants is attention.”
The reporter nodded, and you tried to hold back a sigh as the other reporters started clamoring for further responses from you, completely disregarding your advice as they launched hundreds of questions your way speculating over the man’s identity, and what you were going to do about the situation.
But you kept your smile up regardless. Just like always.
You were their shining star after all.
It took more than an hour for you to get home after that - politely standing by and answering questions until they were satisfied.
God, you were sick of it.
Keys clattering on the counter, you didn’t even bother turning on the lights before throwing yourself down on the sofa. A soft groan fell from your lips as you tossed your amulet to the floor, mind still swimming with the video that you’d been shown earlier that night.
It felt good to transform back into yourself.
Being in your magical girl form always felt a little unpleasant, like you were wearing someone else’s skin, the world appearing far too bright through those un-natural eyes.
Going back to your own body felt like taking off an uncomfortable bra at the end of a long day. Even with the aches and pains that your mortal body would encounter whenever you’d turn back, it was still more pleasant to be in your own skin.
If you had it your way you’d never transform again.
If only that was an option.
After several years of this job you were just so tired of it. All you wanted these days was for things to be easy - for you to be able to show up and cut up a few monsters before heading home. The last thing you wanted was an actual villain on your hands. Especially not one that had a special interest in making your life a misery.
The last big villain that you’d encountered had been a nightmare, and back then you hadn’t been the only magical girl around to help deal with him.
A soft meow sounded from the floor, and you reluctantly sat up to meet the big golden eyes of your cat. Her tail was flicking with irritation, letting out another meow in an attempt to voice her irritation with you. She was never best pleased with your unpredictable schedule, her meal times often shifted about to accommodate you.
“Sorry.” You mumbled, pulling yourself to your feet and grabbing a pouch of cat food from the cupboard. Knees straining in protest, you crouched down to empty the food into her bowl, petting her soft fur as she instantly got to feasting.
She was a sweet thing, the only real constant in your life at the moment. You’d found her at the scene of a monster appearance - just a kitten when you’d stumbled across her in some alleyway, hissing at a disgusting monster formed out of sewer junk.
It had felt wrong to leave her there shivering in the cold after you’d dispatched of the monster - so you brought her home with you. There was nothing wrong with having a bit of company after all.
Even if she was demanding as hell.
You ran your fingers absentmindedly through her fur as she ate, wondering if you should make some food for yourself before heading to bed. It was almost midnight, and you hadn’t managed to grab anything between finishing work and heading over to the crisis at the zoo.
But you knew that your cupboards were empty, and you didn’t have the energy to pop to the convenience store, so you’d have to opt for going to sleep hungry. It wasn’t like that was an unusual occurrence for you these days.
You were just way too burnt out to get everything done lately.
And with that villain’s words haunting your brain as you tried to get to sleep that night, all you could think about was how much you just wanted to catch a break.
For once in your life, maybe life could take pity on you and send something good your way.
—
A few weeks had passed since the incident at the zoo, and for the most part you’d started to relax again. There had been no more videos, no more strange incidents of multiple monster appearances. For the most part things had returned to relative normality for you.
Instead of considering the fact that was weird in itself, you opted to choose peace.
Maybe the video was just a hoax - no point in worrying over nothing. Although your subconscious didn’t seem to quite agree with you, throwing nightmare after nightmare your way, always focussed on him, on those four unwavering red eyes staring back at you in the darkness.
Fortunately, you were so busy with things in your real life right now that you didn’t have the time to give too much thought to any issues in your magical girl one, brushing your night terrors aside and fully focussing on your day job.
For the last few weeks at work you’d been rushed off your feet with preparations for a big event your company was holding to celebrate some new partnership with a massive organisation known as Limitless. You weren’t even sure what they did, dabbling with pharmaceuticals or something of the like - frankly you couldn’t care less.
All that mattered to you was that the party was perfect, and that all the corporate bigwigs were happy.
And so far, everything was going swimmingly.
The celebrations were well underway and everyone was drinking and mingling, gorging themselves on the incredible buffet. You were doing your best to make yourself scarce, which wasn’t exactly a challenge - in your normal form you weren’t anything special. Some might say that you’d lived a painfully average existence outside of that damn amulet.
You had a normal family, achieved average grades at school, and promptly got the most soul-sucking boring corporate job imaginable. Not to say that was a bad thing - you’d never really wanted anything more than a normal life, it was why you’d been so vigilant at keeping your identity hidden.
If everyone knew you, the real you, both your normal life and magical girl life would change.
Was it so much to ask for you to stay normal in one of them?
Deciding that the event attendees were sufficiently satisfied, you opted to slip out unnoticed - heading onto the balcony with a glass of champagne in hand. It was quiet out there, a couple of party-goers spread out across the platform, none of them paying you any mind. You made your way over to the glass barrier, resting your arms on it as you stared out at Tokyo.
You hoped that no monsters rose up tonight. It would be nice to have a quiet evening - head back home early and catch up on some TV. You’d been hearing good things about Pluribus, it sure would be nice to have some time to actually watch it.
“Not enjoying the party?”
You glanced up in surprise, turning to see the most handsome man you’d ever encountered. He was tall and muscular, with soft pink hair pushed back from his forehead. An easy smile lit up his tattooed face, his maroon eyes fixed on you with interest.
For a moment, you glanced around to see if he was talking to someone else, heart fluttering at the realisation that his gaze was, in fact, on you.
“Uh- no- it's not really my thing.” You giggled nervously, internally scolding yourself for the way you stuttered.
“No?” His voice was deep, the sound of it sending goosebumps up your arms. “But I heard you were the one who organised it?” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, a curiosity that caught you off guard.
Considering that he was a stranger, likely someone working for that Limitless company, you weren’t even sure how he’d found that out. It wasn’t like you ever got any recognition for the work you put into these things - as an events manager it was a given that you’d throw a good party, it was your entire job.
As if sensing your confusion, his smile widened. “My boss demanded to know who was in charge of the organisation of the party - wanted to make sure you got some thanks.” He explained.
“Your boss?”
“Gojo Satoru.”
Ah, just the CEO of Limitless.
“Right. So you’re here to thank me?” You asked cautiously.
If Gojo was his boss, he was clearly someone important. Probably one of the Limitless executives or something of the like.
“Mmm.” He hummed, deep red eyes trailing up your form. “That’s why I came over, yeah. Wasn’t expecting you to be the prettiest woman in this whole place though.”
Your lips parted with surprise at his bold flattery, heart fluttering in your chest. You weren’t accustomed to the way he was looking at you right now - it had been a long time since you’d even been on a first date, let-alone had someone stare at you with such open desire.
“Oh- uh- I’m probably not.” You said before you could really think about it.
For a moment, he looked thoroughly caught off guard, before easing into laughter. “Never received a compliment before?”
Feeling flustered you scrambled for a response, thrown off balance by his teasing. “No- I-”
“You’re meant to say thank you.”
The smug grin on his face was infuriatingly handsome, his eyes all bright and sparkling with amusement. Were you dreaming right now? Was this your idea of the perfect man that your subconscious had cruelly cooked up for you? Because this entire thing seemed far too good to be true.
“Thanks.” You mumbled, shyly averting your gaze back over to the view of the city, nervous under the pressure of his attention.
Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to understand how stifling his presence was, taking a few steps forward and leaning against the railing beside you. His arm brushed against yours as he took in the view, and that meagre contact alone had your skin burning.
Sure, it had been a long time since you’d experienced human contact, but you needed to get a grip. Especially considering how unaffected he seemed, an unreadable expression on his tattooed face.
“So if this isn’t your type of thing, why do you even do this job?”
You scoffed. “Why does anyone do a job? For money.”
“Yeah but surely you could do something that is your thing that also pays money.” He said, as if working a job you didn’t like was some kind of alien concept to him.
“Maybe.” You said with a shrug. “But doing a stupid corporate job helps me pay the bills - pursuing art or whatever probably wouldn’t. So here I am.”
He frowned, looking down at you with interest. “Is that your thing then? Doing art?”
Honestly, you weren’t really sure what your thing was. You’d dabbled in plenty of hobbies in your life, but never really managed to stick to one. The magical girl life was to thank for that - you rarely had free time, and when you did, you were far too tired to do anything of real worth.
“No, I just- I don’t know. I don’t have a thing.”
“That’s a lie.” He said, his tone a little colder than it had been before. For a moment, you felt an odd chill run through you, his sharp gaze striking unease into your chest. But the moment was gone as soon as it arrived, his features softening. “Everyone has a thing. So what’s yours?”
For a moment you faltered. You felt like you were tongue-tied, unable to clear your brain enough to think of a satisfying answer outside of the truth. But no matter how beguiling he was, or how much he made your heart flutter, you’d hold onto your secrets for now.
So you diverted instead.
“That’s a heavy question. I don’t even know your name and you want to know my purpose in life?”
He let out a deep chuckle. “It's Sukuna. Now will you tell me?”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile growing on your lips at how ridiculous he was. You had to admit that you were enjoying his company. After so much time distancing yourself from people, it felt nice to have someone show an interest in you.
And if the way he’d shifted closer to you was anything to go by, he was definitely interested in you.
“Wow, you don’t even want to know my name first?” You teased.
“Already do. I was sent out here to thank you, remember? Do you really think I wouldn’t have found out your name first?”
“Oh. Right.” You mumbled, feeling a little rude that you hadn’t asked him for his immediately.
“So, let's hear it?” He prompted. “What’s your thing?”
There was an eagerness in those crimson eyes that had your stomach flipping, the playful nudge of his arm against yours leaving your skin laden with goosebumps.
“I guess I’m still figuring it out.” You said honestly. “Tried a lot of things but nothing ever feels right. I’m always just so damn tired from everything that I never feel like I have the time to explore all the things I want to, so instead I’m just frozen in this life.”
You weren’t sure if that was a satisfactory answer to him, his gaze still firmly fixed on you, as if he was expecting more. Perhaps searching for a hint of falsity in your expression. But moments later he relented with a sigh.
“Does this job really keep you that busy? Too tired to do anything else?”
No. But you couldn’t exactly explain what was taking up most of your time.
“Well, I do a lot of charity work too.” You said, almost proud of yourself for that half-truth.
“Charity work?”
He was smirking, expression one of pure disbelief, as if you weren’t the type of person he imagined to be doing such a thing. If only he knew how much of your life was taken up by charity work.
“Yeah, it's nice to give back - you know?”
He snorted. “No, I really wouldn’t know.”
You pouted, not entirely surprised. The clothes that he was wearing denoted him as a rich man, someone who clearly held a lot of power in a room. Based on his role at Limitless you couldn’t imagine him to have the strongest moral compass when it came to stuff like that.
And to be honest, you weren’t sure you could blame him.
Having toiled away for the greater good for the last ten years, you wished you could turn a blind eye. If it weren’t for the consequences spelled out in your magical girl contract, you’d probably be in the exact same boat as him right now.
Thankless jobs were thankless, and eventually it would wear down those with even the brightest souls.
“Yeah, if you work directly for Gojo then you’ve got one of those evil jobs for real.” You said, taking note of the way that his smirk never faltered, hanging on your every word, as if he liked you prodding at him like this.
It was infuriatingly attractive.
Go on, tell me.” You continued. “What’s your thing? Your great purpose? Peddling drugs to people who can’t afford them?”
“I’m in the legal department, so no.” He said with a chuckle. “Good try though.”
“Oh, so just defending the company from any poor soul who had their life ruined by Limitless.”
“Ah, you got me.” He said easily, putting his hands up in surrender. It was obvious that he was messing with you, clearly not the least bit insecure about his role. “You’re right, my thing is being an awful person.”
You pouted at the way he was playing with you, refusing to allow you to put him in a box in the same way he was trying to figure you out. It was a little annoying that he was doing a better job than you, coming across as far more adept at whatever this interaction was.
Flirting, you supposed.
“Maybe, if you gave me your number, you could help turn me into a better one.”
Your lips parted in disbelief at how smoothly that line came out. He looked absolutely ecstatic as he waited for your response, all too pleased with himself. It was a shame to admit that the words actually worked on you, even if you did your best to keep up a facade of disappointment, rolling your eyes dramatically.
“Who says I want to go out of my way to change a man?”
“I thought you loved charity work, surely you wouldn’t turn down a man in need?”
You giggled at the way he was blinking down at you all innocently, fully aware that his intentions were anything but pure. It was a charm that certainly worked on you, and you figured what the hell. You’d been devoid of anything romantic for a long time now, you weren’t going to pass up an opportunity that had fallen directly in your lap.
Pulling your phone from your pocket, you unlocked it and passed it over to him, watching him add his number to your contacts and shoot himself a quick text. A warm smile settled on his lips as he handed it back to you.
“Thanks.” He pulled out his own phone, most likely to check for the text, only to let out a deep sigh. “Sorry, I gotta go back in. My idiot boss needs me.”
From what you’d heard of Gojo Satoru, he was something of a ridiculous man - you'd heard many people from your own company refer to him as an attention-seeking baby. It didn’t come as a surprise that he’d be demanding to those who worked for him.
“No worries. I was planning on heading home soon anyway.”
“Mmm, I’ll text you.” He said, pointing at his phone as he pulled away. “Would love to hear more about this charity work of yours.”
“Sure.” You said nonchalantly. “Catch you later.”
“Enjoy your night.” He said softly, his red gaze lingering on your form for a few moments. The way that he so brazenly checked you out had your cheeks flushing, the deep husky tone of his voice leaving your stomach twisting with desire.
Yeah you really needed to get a grip.
“Thanks, hope you do-”
A piercing pain shot through your head, cutting you off mid-sentence. You desperately tried to avoid keeling over in pain as your head throbbed insistently, a blinding pain pulsing behind your eyes.
It wasn’t like this was the first time you’d experienced this - it was the telltale warning of a nearby monster. You’d never felt it come on so strong so quickly though - for the feeling to be this intense the monster would have to be practically on top of you.
“Something wrong?” Sukuna asked, appraising you with a furrowed brow as he stepped forward, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder and help you straighten up.
“No, sorry- cramp.” You offered weakly.
You weren’t really paying attention to him right now, scanning around you desperately. Something was nearby, and you couldn’t transform right now, not until you got Sukuna away from you.
“Are you sure? You look really pale.”
“I’m all good, really. Probably just too much to drink on an empty stomach.” You promised, offering him a convincing smile. Right now you could barely see him, your vision swimming. You needed to get the amulet on as quickly as possible, the pain would only get worse the longer you delayed.
But right now Sukuna seemed thoroughly unconvinced, red eyes focussing on the way you were trembling, barely containing the agony you were in. “If you want I-”
“I’m just gonna head home.” You cut him off, the ringing in your ears growing to an unbearable level. You were doing your best to play it off like you were fine, even if you wanted to start tearing at your skin in discomfort.
Your actions here were two-fold. Not only did you not want him to know that you were secretly the city’s hero, you also didn’t want him to think you were a total weirdo when he’d just been flirting with you.
It would be nice to go on a date and you didn’t want to ruin your chances.
He frowned at you, staring down at you with an unreadable expression before relenting with a heavy sigh.
“Get home safe. I’ll catch you later.”
—
By the time you broke free from Sukuna, the pain had grown to an almost unmanageable intensity. You made your way back into the party and stumbled into a stairwell, transforming immediately. It was only then that you were able to catch your breath properly, the searing agony in your head ebbing ever so slightly.
The monster was in this building - that much was clear.
Your body was essentially a compass to hone in on the beasts, always knowing just where you needed to go to find one. And this monster in particular seemed to be a few floors up. Thank god it hadn’t shown up in the centre of the actual party.
That would’ve been a nightmare for you in your real life.
By the time you made it up to the right part of the building, you found that the place was mostly deserted. The party was being held in the function room of a fancy hotel, and this floor seemed to be exclusively guest rooms. But based on the construction equipment and overwhelming silence, it didn’t seem like it was currently open to the public.
That was a relief - it would make your job significantly easier. You could keep things quiet.
Keeping your guard up, you moved through each room slowly, eager to keep any monsters unaware of your presence. You found yourself blessing your own luck as you rounded a corner to see the star of tonight’s show. It was a large, green, pig-like beast, sitting down on the floor of a guest room, gorging itself on a tray of food.
The monster’s back was to you, completely unaware of any threat - just as you’d like it to be.
You struck with elite precision, darting forward and striking your blade straight through the wretched thing's neck, wishing you could cover your ears with the way that it squealed desperately, writhing at the oozing wound.
Over the years you’d learned your craft well, and you gave him no opportunity to recover. A burst of light emitted from your weapon, sending a shockwave through the creature’s body, sending it slumping to the ground. Its cries continued for a few seconds longer before it turned to dust beneath you.
Deciding not to let your guard down just yet, you moved past the pile of dust to search the rest of the floor, frowning when you discovered no other monsters. There were plenty of times when your job was easy, but this one felt almost suspiciously so - especially considering how strong the pain in your head had been.
Usually the feeling corresponded to the strength of the monster, and this guy was nothing special.
But who were you to look a gift horse in the mouth? It was pointless to go out looking for trouble. If the universe wanted to throw you a bone, then so be it.
Unfortunately, all of your hopes surrounding an easy night were quickly shattered when you were tackled down to the floor.
A gasp fell from your lips at the sheer weight pinning you down, a massive hand wrapping around both of your wrists, pinning your arms up above your head. Panic gripped your throat at the realisation that you were trapped, the fear only growing as you stared up at the assailant, coming face to face with a hulking figure.
You’d thought it was a monster at first, another one of those pigs.
The reality was much worse.
Those eyes, the four eyes that had crept into your nightmares for weeks, were staring back at you evenly.
All you could think about was how much bigger he was in person, his massive frame dwarfing yours as he settled his weight down on you. Even in this close proximity you still couldn’t see him properly, with a black hood thrown over his head, and a dark mask covering the lower half of his face.
All you could make out were those shining eyes, which seemed so much more intense in person - a much deeper shade of red. You realised quickly at this new angle of him that his eyes were odd, with two of them sitting at a raised point on his face, as if the skin beneath them had been distorted and twisted.
“You got here quicker than I expected.” His tone was clearly mocking, but all you could focus on was the way that his voice sounded a little odd, as if he was still using some sort of voice modifier.
Did his real voice sound stupid or something? Was it an insecurity that he didn’t want you to mock?
It was apparent that he was waiting for a reply, but you offered him nothing, glancing up at where your sword had fallen from your grasp, just out of reach of your pinned hands. His eyes flicked over to the weapon, letting out a sigh as he swiped it away with one of his arms.
One of his four terrifyingly big arms.
“You won’t be needing that. I’m just here for a short visit.”
He leant forward, a free hand moving to your chin, cupping it almost tenderly as he forced you to gaze up at him. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath through his mask fanning softly against your face.
“Did you like my video?”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Liar.”
You tried not to tremble as his nose brushed softly against yours, a gesture that felt the furthest thing from romantic as fear built up in your chest. You struggled desperately against his hands, confused at the oddly exhausted nature of your body, like your power was being sucked from you with every passing second.
“Saw you reacting to it live. Just a hoax, huh? How do you like me in the flesh?”
Breathing steadily, you worked hard to centre yourself, to ignore the things he was saying. You could feel your power swirling manically in your chest - you’d never been good at channeling it without your sword in hand, but for now you’d just have to figure it out.
“I meant it, you know. I’ll put you in your place.”
One of his fingers trailed softly along your cheek, revulsion prickling at your sensitive skin. But you stayed focused all the same. For this to work you had to be calm, there was no point in panicking, it would just put you in a worse position.
“Consider this a greeting. I know that I can’t kill you right now, you’re annoying like that, because of this damn thing.” His hand moved to your amulet, playing with it for a second before dropping it back down against your bare skin.
You knew that it had burnt him. That was what the piece of jewelry did to anyone who wasn’t you. But he did a good job of concealing any pain that he was in, simply drawing back his hand and continuing with his little speech.
“But I’ll do it. Step by step, I’ll unpick your whole life. I’ll weaken you, I’ll reveal your identity, I’ll unleash hell upon the city you love, and then I’ll kill you. And it’ll be beautiful. Imagine a world without you in it.”
Weaken you? Reveal your identity? A shiver passed through you at the idea of him having a way to do such a thing. He shouldn’t know anything about you or the way that your powers worked. There was no way for him to know.
And yet he sounded so certain.
Either way, you weren’t going to give him the chance.
The power that you’d been gathering felt tangible now, heat building up in your arms and chest, burning your skin, desperate to escape. It wouldn’t be controlled, perhaps it would even damage you, but you weren’t taking any chances.
With a raspy cry, you released the energy, your power emitting from your body as a blinding white light, one that had you squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to keep your vision intact. By the time the light disappeared, the villain’s weight had left your body.
For a few hopeful seconds you wondered if he’d been obliterated into dust. Until you noticed him standing on the other side of the room, his eyes narrowed with displeasure, two of his arms missing and dripping with blood.
“See? This is why I fucking hate you.” He hissed.
Closing his eyes for a second he took a deep breath, and in an instant his missing arms regenerated, as if they’d never been gone in the first place. It was a little daunting, because even though you had regenerative properties as a magical girl, they functioned at nowhere near the speed he’d just displayed.
“I’ll get you back for that. I’ll get you back for everything.”
What the hell did that mean? It wasn’t like you knew this guy.
Right?
“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with me but I’m not going anywhere.” You said firmly.
No matter what, you weren’t about to let yourself be pushed around - you weren’t that pathetic. It was clear that he didn’t have the power to kill you yet, which meant you probably had the power to defeat him.
There was no way that you’d let him get in your head or intimidate you.
He chuckled, his whole body shaking with laughter as he fixed his gaze on you. “It's cute that you think so, but I’ll make you eat those words. See you soon.”
Before you could offer a reply, he was gone, disappearing into nothingness. The action left you disoriented, unsure at how he could’ve achieved such a trick. He’d caught you off guard when he’d first appeared too, as though he was capable of moving at a speed that you couldn’t process.
Taking a deep breath, you brought your hand up to your chest, eager to calm your racing heart. His plan didn’t have any weight to it, there was no way that he could uncover your identity, no system for him to weaken you.
He was just trying to make you scared, trying to force you into a position where you’d make a mistake and hand him everything he wanted.
You just had to keep doing what you were doing, stay as vigilant as you could.
Even if a deeply unsettled feeling was stirring in your heart.
Just why was he so obsessed with you?
a/n: so the sukuna that she meets on the balcony obviously looks a lot more human - he's still much bigger than average and with tattoos but only two arms and two eyes. meanwhile his transformed appearance is just true-form sukuna, hence her not immediately copping him lol
hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, can't wait to share more with you all! reblogs and comments are appreciated! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak.
Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack)
Word Count: 6.6k
Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD
masterlist
The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.
That was probably your second thought.
Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.
Still.
Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:
He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.
Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.
Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.
At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.
You don’t know how he does it.
It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.
(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)
But instead, you just hum.
And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:
“Can you keep doing this forever?”
Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.
And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.
And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.
Not on purpose.
(Probably?)
(…Definitely.)
Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.
Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)
Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.
(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)
(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)
Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.
Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-
“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)
“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”
“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.
It doesn’t.
What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-
“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-
“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-
“Sweetheart”.
All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.
The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.
(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)
“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.
Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.
(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)
“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.
All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.
Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-
“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”
And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.
If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.
It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.
So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:
“Could you go lower?”
“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.
Now you’re face-to-face with him.
Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.
Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:
Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)
Still, since profiling is such a complex job –
(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)
so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-
So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.
(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)
(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)
(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)
And apparently, he does.
Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:
“Again?!”
Ah. Yes. Again.
Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.
So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:
Close. The. Curtains.
(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)
But it’s fine. It’s fine.
You fixed it.
You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.
Just the essentials.
Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.
You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)
…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.
You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)
Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.
Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.
Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.
They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.
Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.
And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”
Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.
“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)
“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”
He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.
Fond - yes.
Amused - definetely.
Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.
Veeeery humbling experience.
And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.
“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”
Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.
Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)
You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.
Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.
You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.
Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)
Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.
One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)
Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.
Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).
It’s… a moment.
You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;
It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.
And still, he manages to outdo himself.
Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.
“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”
(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)
“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.
You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.
He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.
Mouth open. Tongue flat.
You start cursing everything.
Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.
Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.
Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.
Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.
He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.
Then again. And again.
Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.
Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.
(Thank God.)
“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.
You were so fucking wrong.
His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.
It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.
“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.
He fucks you with it.
Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.
You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.
The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-
“Aaron- Aaron, please-”
Not your best work. Not ideal.
You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.
But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.
(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)
You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.
(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)
He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.
And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.
The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…
…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.
Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).
(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)
So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.
That first stretch.
That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”
(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)
You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.
“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”
He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.
And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.
(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)
“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.
(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)
(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)
(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)
(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)
(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)
(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)
“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.
Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.
He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”
Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.
White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.
(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)
“Do you feel it?” he asks.
You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.
Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-
“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”
Wrong answer, apparently.
Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.
(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)
“Lift your hips,” he instructs.
“What-”
“Just do it.”
You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.
(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)
He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.
“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.
“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.
He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.
Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.
You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.
A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.
So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.
(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)
You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.
“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”
You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.
Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”
(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)
“Trying,” you pant.
“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.
He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.
Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.
“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”
“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”
He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”
It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."
Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.
But you never find it. You never find him.
And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)
So instead, you settle. Again.
You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.
And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)
He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.
That’s the reason.
(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)
(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”
“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”
“Here where?”
“Shut up.”
Another slap.
Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)
“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”
You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.
“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)
He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.
“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.
You’re not really in the conditions to answer.
Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-
“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”
And oh… you feel it.
The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”
His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.
And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.
The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-
It almost slips out.
That thing.
The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.
“F-fuck, Aaron-”
“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat
You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.
Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.
He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.
He doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.
His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.
Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.
"You're okay,"
"Got you,"
"So good, baby..."
Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.
Your chest hurts.
Because he means it.
He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.
“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”
He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.
You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”
You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.
“Please don’t call anyone.”
These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.
But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?
The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.
You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.
You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.
Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.
“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”
Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.
Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.
“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”
He shakes his head - fond. Touched.
Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.
He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.
You watch in awe.
Reverence.
…Horniness.
So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.
“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.
Occasionally hums.
If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.
Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.
He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.
Which is immediately suspicious.
You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.
Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.
Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.
Not even the question. He’s already answered it.
He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.
Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)
(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)
And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.
He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.
“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike’s habit of being mad for you finally gets called out, and what starts as awkward damage control turns into a confession he absolutely did not plan to make.
FUCK IT. IF STANDING UP FOR YOU MEANS BEING A PROBLEM, THATS FINE. HES BEEN A PROBLEM BEFORE.
mike has always hated teachers.
not in the funny, haha-school-sucks way that dustin complains about homework, or the way lucas gets annoyed when someone docks him participation points for not raising his hand. mike hates teachers the way you hate something because it reminds you—constantly—that adults get to be wrong and still win. he learned that early.
teachers like to talk about rules as if they’re laws of nature. immutable. gravity. if you drop something, it falls. if you talk back, you get detention. if you’re late, that’s a moral failing. comforting, probably, if you’re the one with the authority. mike learned pretty fast that rules don’t save anyone.
he’s sitting two rows back from you, third period, legs hooked around the chair rung because the desks are too small and the room always smells like dry erase markers and old paper. history class. mr. keller. one of those men who talks like every sentence is a verdict. mike isn’t really paying attention at first. he’s half-writing in the margin of his notebook, half-listening, thinking about how stupid it is that they’re covering the cold war again, like the first three times didn’t get the point across. then he hears your name. it’s not even yelled. it’s clipped, the kind of tone that means the teacher has already decided you’re wrong and is now just building a case.
you’d raised your hand a minute ago. mike remembers that now, retroactively, like his brain is rewinding to find the moment where this went wrong. you weren’t eager, nor obnoxious. just that small, careful lift of your fingers, elbow barely leaving the desk. the universal sign for i might be wrong, but.
mr. keller hadn’t looked at you then. he’d kept talking, voice droning on about ideological tension and post-war policy, chalk squeaking as he underlined something on the board a little too hard. mike thinks every history teacher somehow manages to make the end of the world sound boring, but then he heard your name.
“—and what do you think?” mr. keller had called on you, saying your name like he’d been waiting to use it.
you straighten a little in your seat. you hesitate for half a second too long then speak anyway. “i think the treaty was signed in 1949.”
there’s a pause. mike knows that pause. it’s the same pause adults take when they’re deciding whether to admit a mistake or assert dominance. he’s watched his parents do it. principals. cops. men in suits with government badges who say trust me while holding all the power.
mr. keller tilts his head, his mouth curves into something that might pass for a smile if you weren’t paying attention. “are you sure about that?” he asks.
you nod once. “yeah. i checked.” mike watches your hand tighten around your pencil.
mr. keller exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “interesting,” he says, turning back to the board. “because according to the material provided—” he taps the underlined year with the chalk, “—that is incorrect.”
mike’s stomach twists. he recognizes the moment you decide not to push it. the moment where you realize the truth won’t help you here. your shoulders draw in slightly, like you’re making yourself smaller. “this,” mr. keller continues, “is why we raise our hands after we’re certain.”
a couple kids snicker. someone two rows over shifts in their seat. the room feels suddenly very aware of itself, like everyone knows something ugly is happening but no one wants to be involved. mike stops doodling. you’re staring at your desk now, quiet, not phased but bored and just choosing to not give the moment any more energy. “if you’re going to interrupt my lecture,” mr. keller keeps yapping holy shit, folding his arms, “you need to be prepared with sources. not guesses. this isn’t middle school.”
mike’s jaw tightens. he knows you had sources. he remembers you sitting on his bedroom floor last night, textbook open, flipping pages back and forth like you didn’t quite trust what you were seeing. “this date’s always wrong,” you’d said. “i looked it up in two places.”
mr. keller turns back to the board. “now,” he says, “as i was saying—”
that’s it. that’s the end of it. the teacher gets to be wrong, and you get to be embarrassed for noticing.
mike feels anger bloom in his chest, the kind that makes his thoughts line up blunt and offended and unfiltered instead of fuzzy. he thinks about all the times adults told him to sit down, stop asking questions, trust the system. about how often the system failed anyway.
he thinks about you shrinking in your seat.
“actually.”
why is it always like this? why does being older automatically mean being right? why do teachers get to be wrong out loud and students have to swallow it? why is respect something that only ever moves in one direction? mr. keller turns around slowly, like he already knows what’s coming and is annoyed about having to deal with it. “yes, wheeler?”
“she’s right. the treaty was signed in 1949.”
he doesn’t even look at mr. keller at first. his eyes flick to you. you’re looking up now, surprised, like you didn’t expect anyone to do this. mr. keller scoffs. “and how would you know that?”
that’s always the move. undermine first, facts later, if ever. “it’s in the textbook,” mike pushes. “page 212.”
“this is not your job,” mr. keller replies. “i don’t appreciate interruptions.”
your job.
mike almost laughs at that. like school is employment. like obedience is a contract he signed. “you asked her if she was sure,” mike says. he leans forward without meaning to. “she was.”
mr. keller’s voice hardens. “are you challenging my authority?”
what are they actually going to do? ground him? yell? act like this is the worst thing he’s ever done? like he hasn’t seen worse. like the world hasn’t already proved that following the rules doesn’t protect you from anything.
there’s a beat where he just looks at mr. keller, and his brain does that thing it always does when authority starts posturing—pulls the curtain back. strips the guy down to what he actually is. not a judge, not a god, just a man with a piece of chalk and a bad attitude who hates being corrected in front of teenagers.
are you challenging my authority?
it’s such a ridiculous question when you think about it. authority over what. a classroom. a worksheet. a date written wrong on a board. mike thinks about all the adults who’ve asked him some version of that question and expected the answer to be no, sir, expected him to fold himself smaller and apologize for noticing things.
he doesn’t feel like doing that today.
“i’m pointing out that you’re wrong,” mike answers. his tone is calm, almost bored, and he knows that’s what really pisses mr. keller off. “which shouldn’t be a big deal. unless you’re insecure about it.”
there’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the room. someone lets out a very badly suppressed laugh. mike feels a flicker of something like satisfaction. not because he wants to humiliate the guy—okay, maybe a little—but because the spell is breaking. the illusion. the agreement everyone makes to pretend teachers are infallible. mr. keller’s face goes red. “watch your tone.”
there it is. the fallback. tone policing when the facts don’t cooperate. “i am.” mike says.
that gets more snickers. a couple kids shift in their seats, suddenly very invested in this exchange. mike knows he’s crossed some line now. there’s no walking this back, and weirdly, that makes everything feel simpler. mr. keller straightens, trying to reclaim the room. “this conversation is over.”
of course it is. that’s how it always ends when authority runs out of answers. “sure,” mike mutters. “just like the lesson, i guess.”
mike can practically feel the teacher losing the room, and it’s almost surreal how fragile the whole thing is. how easily it tips once someone stops playing along. mr. keller’s jaw tightens. “michael,” he says sharply, “you are out of line.”
out of line. mike rolls the phrase around in his head. he thinks about how many lines he’s crossed already. curfews. expectations. lines drawn by people who never had to deal with the consequences when they failed. “at least im not lying to the class.”
“step outside,” mr. keller says. “now.”
mike pushes his chair back and stands, heart pounding, but his head is clear. he grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. as he turns his eyes find you again. you’re staring at him like you’re not sure whether to be scared or grateful. he gives you the smallest shrug. worth it. then he walks out, already cataloging the fallout in his head, already deciding he doesn’t care. if the system can’t handle being corrected by a teenager, that’s not his problem. if standing up for you means being rude, being difficult, being a problem—
fuck it.
he’s been a problem before.
that’s still the throughline, even as he’s sitting in the guidance office ten minutes later in a chair that is somehow both too small and too soft, like it was designed specifically to make teenagers feel ridiculous. the walls are covered in motivational posters. your future starts now! choices have consequences! there’s a sad ficus in the corner that looks like it’s one bad day away from giving up entirely. mike stares at a crack in the linoleum and thinks about how this is supposed to intimidate him. it doesn’t.
mr. keller does most of the talking when they finally haul him in. lots of words. lots of phrases that don’t actually mean anything. disrespectful. insubordinate. setting a bad example. mike listens with half his brain, nods when it seems socially required, keeps the rest of his attention on not saying something worse.
the guidance counselor—mrs. hendricks, he thinks—keeps giving him this look like she’s trying to find the “real issue.” like this is about feelings. like he’s acting out because of stress or hormones or whatever pamphlet she read last week. “do you understand why this was inappropriate?” she asks.
mike considers lying. decides not to bother. “he was wrong,” mike says. “she was right. he embarrassed her instead of checking.”
mr. keller’s nostrils flare. “that is not the point.”
“kind of feels like it is.” mike defends, before he can stop himself.
there’s a long sigh. the kind adults use when they’re preparing to be very patient and very condescending. the punishment is exactly what he expects. detention. written apology. a warning about “future behavior.” mike signs the paper without reading it. he already knows how this goes. he’ll sit in a room after school one day, do homework he would’ve done anyway, write something that sounds apologetic enough to pass. the system gets its little win. life goes on.
worth it.
he’s dismissed eventually, sent back to class with a hall pass like a scarlet letter. the rest of the day crawls. teachers talk. bells ring. mike takes notes he won’t remember. every so often his mind drifts back to you, to the look on your face when he stood up.
this isn’t new. he’s always been like this with you. always leaning forward before thinking, always bristling when someone talks over you or talks down to you or decides you’re an easy target because you don’t snap back. mike snaps back for the both of you. it’s reflexive.
you’ve been friends forever. long enough that he doesn’t remember a version of himself that didn’t know where you stood in a room, long enough that defending you feels less like a choice and more like muscle memory. the stupidest part is that you don’t need it. you’re popular. people like you. teachers smile at you. upperclassmen know your name. people sit closer to you than necessary at lunch, find excuses to talk to you in the halls. you could absolutely handle yourself.
logically, mike knows that.
it doesn’t matter.
popularity doesn’t stop people from being unfair. it doesn’t stop adults from flexing power just because they can. every time someone does that to you something in mike locks into place and refuses to let it go. a substitute who singled you out. a kid who made a joke that landed wrong. a coach who dismissed something you said without listening. mike always noticed first. always reacted first. sometimes you told him later he didn’t have to, sometimes you didn’t say anything at all.
you never sounded mad.
the final bell rings. mike’s out of his seat before it finishes, bag slung over his shoulder, already moving with purpose. he spots you by your locker, talking to someone else, laughing. easy. bright. completely fine. he feels the familiar, stupid mix of relief and irritation. you look over and see him. your smile shifts, like it’s just for him. you excuse yourself and walk over. “so,” you say, tilting your head. “guidance office?”
“yep.”
“you okay?”
“yeah,” he says automatically. then, more honest, “i’m still mad.”
“i figured.”
you end up at his house without really discussing it. bikes abandoned in the driveway, helmets dropped on the porch. his parents aren’t home—another small mercy—and the house feels quiet in that hollow, weekday-afternoon way. mike dumps his bag by the couch and starts pacing almost immediately.
“he’s such an asshole.” mike says, to no one in particular, then immediately to you. he runs a hand through his hair, pushes it back, then paces again. “i mean, history teachers are already on thin ice,” he continues. “like congrats, you found a way to make the cold war uninteresting. and then on top of that he’s wrong? and smug about it?” he scoffs. “that’s like the worst combination. stupid and confident. pick a struggle.”
you sit on the couch, kicking off your shoes, calm in a way that only makes him more keyed up. mike notices that too. how you’re fine. how you’re always fine. “and the way he talks,” mike rambles. “you know he goes home and tells his wife about ‘a very disrespectful student’ over dinner.” he makes a face. “assuming she still listens.”
you snort despite yourself. “mike.”
“no, seriously,” he insists, stopping in front of you now. “you know that guy has a loveless marriage. you don’t act like that in a room full of teenagers unless something in your life is deeply unfulfilling.” he resumes pacing. “it’s not even about the date. it’s about the fact that he could’ve just checked. it would’ve taken ten seconds.”
you shrug a little. “it’s fine. it happens.”
he stops dead. “no,” mike says flatly. “it’s not.” he exhales through his nose, like he’s trying very hard not to say something worse. “that’s what they want you to think. that it’s normal. that you’re supposed to just .. take it.” he gestures vaguely back toward the school, like it’s still in range. “that place is a factory for that. bells, rules, permission slips. stand up, sit down, speak when spoken to. and god forbid you point out that the adult in charge screwed up.”
you open your mouth. mike cuts in, already anticipating it. “i know you can handle yourself,” he says. “i know you don’t need me to jump in like some idiot.” he hears it as soon as it leaves his mouth. the tone of it. too fast. too defensive. he’s trying to preempt an argument you haven’t actually made.
he stops talking. that almost never happens. there’s this weird lag in his brain, like he’s only just now catching up to the fact that he’s been pacing for ten minutes straight, voice raised, fully dissecting the personal failings of a middle-aged man he technically left behind hours ago. “sorry.” he says, suddenly, the word tripping out of him a little clumsy.
he lets out a short, embarrassed huff of a laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “i didn’t mean to go on like that. i just—” he trails off, because saying i got really mad about it feels insufficient, and saying i got really mad about it because it was you feels like stepping onto unstable ground. he risks a glance at you. you’re smiling. amused, like you’re watching something mildly ridiculous and also familiar at the same time.
“it’s okay mike,” you reassure. “really.”
that somehow makes him more flustered, not less. “yeah, i know, i just—” he exhales, shoulders dropping now that the adrenaline’s finally burning off. “it’s stupid. it happened hours ago.”
except it doesn’t feel stupid. it feels immediate. it feels like it just happened again in his head, looping. the moment you went quiet. the way mr. keller’s voice shifted. mike’s brain doesn’t really let go of stuff like that once it’s latched on. this is how it always goes with you. not just today. not just this teacher. it’s a pattern so consistent mike could probably map it if he wanted to, little mental pushpins marking every time something happened to you and he reacted like it was a personal offense. i mean, it always feels personal. to mike anyway. his brain treats it that way without asking permission.
something mildly unfair happens to you → you shrug it off → mike gets progressively angrier over the next several hours.
it’s almost embarrassing, honestly. the delayed reaction, like his emotions need extra processing time, or like they refuse to accept that you’ve already moved on. he’ll still be stewing about it when you’re laughing about something else entirely, and at some point you’ll notice and have to talk him down. it’s okay, mike. really.
this is usually the part where he realizes—belatedly—that he’s been pacing, or ranting, or staring holes into a wall. where he suddenly becomes aware of his own volume. his own intensity, like waking up mid-argument with himself.
he doesn’t do this for everyone. the party, sure, he’ll get defensive if someone messes with them. that’s loyalty. that’s history. with you it’s different. faster. more visceral. his patience evaporates the second someone underestimates you or puts you on the spot or makes you smaller than you are. it’s not because you’re fragile. you’re not. you’re arguably the most socially functional person he knows. you glide through rooms that still feel hostile to him. people listen to you. teachers like you. classmates want your approval. you don’t need mike wheeler, resident problem child, coming to your rescue.
he does it anyway. he always has.
maybe it’s because you never make a big deal out of things. you absorb it, move on, refuse to escalate. maybe his brain mistakes that calm for something that needs defending. or maybe he just hates the idea that anyone could make you feel small, even briefly, even if you won’t admit it. either way, the result is the same: mike taking it harder than you do.
you’ve never really minded it. if anything, it’s kind of endearing, the way he burns so hot for things that matter to him. the way his moral outrage has such a specific trigger. the way you’ll be fine, and he’ll still be furious, and somehow that becomes your job—to reassure him that the world hasn’t ended. it’s backwards, a little ridiculous, but it’s mike, and standing up for you—being mad for you, long after you’ve stopped being mad—seems to be one of the few things he never second-guesses.
so you do what you always do. you ease him out of it. you don’t argue. you don’t tell him he’s wrong. you’ve learned that pushing back just gives the anger somewhere new to latch onto. instead, you redirect, like steering a bike away from traffic without making a big show of it. you let him finish his rant. you let the last few sparks burn themselves out.
mike’s slouched in a chair now, arms crossed like he’s bracing for another round with an imaginary opponent. he mutters something under his breath about teachers unions and ego complexes and the inevitable downfall of the public education system. “so,” you try, casual, like this is a normal transition and not at all a intervention, “did you ever finish that campaign idea you were working on?”
“what?”
“the d&d thing,” you elaborate. “the one you were complaining about last week. with the weird ruins.”
“oh. yeah. i mean. kind of.” his shoulders drop a fraction, like he’s loosening his grip on something. “it’s still stupid. i can’t figure out how to make the villain threatening without just making him evil for no reason.”
“maybe he has a reason. maybe he thinks he’s the good guy.”
mike snorts, a short, almost offended sound. “the good guy? with a flaming sword and a fondness for murdering anyone in sight?” his hands fly up, animated, sketching invisible arcs in the air. “yeah. real sympathetic.”
you giggle. “i mean, he thinks he’s doing the right thing. doesn’t mean he’s right.”
he glares at you, mock accusation flashing across his face, but there’s warmth there, the spark that’s always present when he’s trading barbs with you. “you’re too reasonable sometimes. it’s annoying.”
you shrug, smiling, “can’t help it.”
and somehow that’s enough. mike leans back in his chair, muttering about motivation arcs and the inherent failure of humanity, and without a word you follow him when he stands and eventually you both end up on his bed, sitting cross-legged facing each other, the small space folding around you. he’s got that restless energy still, jittering slightly, but it’s softer here, safer, and the tension in his shoulders has begun to unwind.
he leans in slightly when he laughs, and you lean just a fraction too, not consciously, until the space between your faces is smaller than it should be. words spill out, half thought out, half nonsense, and somehow they’re hilarious to both of you. he’s always been like this with you, explosive and defensive and absurdly passionate, and it’s intoxicating in a way you’ve never quite managed to name.
nancy’s voice from the doorway snaps the spell. “hey, um—” she pauses, tilting her head, clearly not expecting anyone to be on the bed like this. she’s casual, but mike doesn’t hear casual.
“hello.” you answer meekly.
mike, on the other hand, stiffens instantly, eyes narrowing, posture locking. his voice is clipped. “what do you want?”
nancy glances at you cautiously. “oh. just—”
someone is talking at you. he must intervene.
mike’s body tenses the way it always does before he makes a dumb, instinctive choice. it’s ridiculous if you think about it, like a puppy thinking it’s a wolf. his brain is halfway processing the situation—nancy is clearly not an enemy. she’s never been an enemy—but —- “wait,” he says, realizing listening is optional, and fuck nancy. “get out.”
nancy raises her hands. “jeez. i was just gonna say hi.”
you’ve been friends long enough to know this is mike. this is what he does. this is how he shows that he cares. doesn’t matter if you’re popular, don’t need protecting, or could handle any conversation yourself. to him it doesn’t matter. his brain refuses to separate “you are my responsibility” from “people must not wrong you.” he gets worked up for you, ridiculously, and not even something you can explain. it’s just who he is.
nancy blinks, clearly not expecting mike to sound like a tornado warning siren in human form, and retreats quickly, muttering something about “fine, i’ll leave you two alone.” and closing the door behind her. you tilt your head a little, just enough to make your voice gentle but curious. “hey… mike?”
he glances at you, eyebrows pulling together in that way he does when he’s thinking, already bracing for trouble. “yeah?”
you chew the inside of your cheek for a second. you want to phrase it right, not like you’re criticizing. “why do you always… like, get so mad for me?”
“i— uh… what do you mean?”
“like, with nancy just now. or… before, in class… you always jump in.” you shrug, words almost failing you.
mike’s head ducks a fraction, and suddenly his mouth is moving faster than his brain can catch up. “i guess i just—i don’t know. i just get so mad because i feel… you know… and i get so mad.” he lets out a little laugh, nervous, shaking his head, cheeks burning, like he’s trying to pull the words out from somewhere deep inside, only to have them stick halfway down his throat. his eyes flick to yours and back, like he’s scanning for some invisible clue that you already know, or maybe that you’ll just make him stop before he ruins everything. “it’s not—i mean—it’s stupid, probably. not like you’d even care, or… or maybe you would, but i’m not… i’m not good at—” he stops and shakes his head, trying to reset. “it’s just… i just… i don’t like it when… when people—” he jerks a thumb toward the door, and you follow the gesture just enough to catch nancy retreating, “—treat you… wrong. or like… not right. it makes me… mad because… you’re not supposed to… like—ugh, never mind. stupid.”
he huffs, exasperated, looking anywhere but at your face, even though he can feel the heat in his cheeks like it’s radiating off him in waves. “i don’t know, if someone else thinks they can mess with you, or… or talk to you wrong, or take up your time or attention, i get this thing in my chest, right here,” he puts a hand against his sternum, “and it’s… stupid, and i probably overreact all the time, but… yeah. it’s because of you. not… like… in a weird way. just… because you’re… important. to me.” he freezes, realizes he’s halfway there, and then flushes crimson from the base of his neck up to his ears. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean it like—that! it’s just… i just mean… you’re… i don’t know. i don’t—ugh.” he throws up his hands, “i’m sorry. i’m a mess. i can’t say it right.”
“mike,” you say carefully, “do you know why it’s worse when it’s about me?”
his mouth opens. nothing comes out. oh. oh, shit.
his brain is suddenly very aware of the fact that you are sitting cross-legged on his bed. that he can smell your shampoo. that this question has an answer, and he knows it, and the answer is dangerous. he shakes his head, more reflex than decision. “i mean. because we’re friends. right? like. close friends. so obviously i’d care more.”
“is that all?”
the silence stretches. his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans. “i don’t want to make it weird.” he says finally, barely above a mumble.
your voice is gentle. “you won’t.”
that’s not a guarantee you can actually make, but something about the way you say it makes him believe it anyway. “i just—” he starts, stops, starts again. “i know you’re… popular. and everyone likes you. and you could hang out with anyone you want. so it’s not like—” he winces. “it’s not like you need me hovering around like some… guard dog or something.” you don’t interrupt him. you’re still listening. “but when you laugh at my jokes,” he blurts, “or you sit next to me, or you choose to hang out with me when you could be doing something cooler, it feels like—” he presses his hand to his chest again. “like this. and then someone does something shitty to you and it’s like they’re messing with that. with… us. or… me. or—god, i don’t know.” his face is burning now. there’s no way it’s not obvious. “i know that sounds selfish. like i’m making it about me. i don’t mean it like that. i just—i like you. being around you. a lot.”
there it is. almost.
he doesn’t look up. he can’t. if he looks up and sees rejection, he might actually die on the spot, and that would be really embarrassing. your voice is closer when you speak. “mike.”
he risks a glance. “you’re allowed to like me.” you say.
his breath stutters. “yeah, but—”
“do you?” you ask.
direct hit.
his throat goes dry. his brain is a glitching screen trying to process three different panic levels at once. “yeah,” he stammers, “i do.” the words feel wrong, like he’s admitting to stealing something, even though it’s exactly what he’s wanted to admit forever.
you smile softly. “i like you too.” you say. calm. the kind of calm that makes him want to lean into it, but also makes him panic because what if it’s a trick?
“what?” he blurts, flailing inside his head as his fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. “like… like you like me?”
“yeah.”
suddenly, he’s aware of every detail, your hair, the way your eyes are too steady for him not to panic more, the fact that you’re so close. he can’t help it. he leans forward, testing the air between you. you don’t pull back. his stomach tightens again, and suddenly the fraction becomes all-in. he tips his head awkwardly, unsure, overthinking every millimeter of the movement, and then your lips are there first.
he freezes. he freezes because you’re kissing him. and you’re kissing him. and holy shit, this is actually happening. his hands hover uselessly for a second before landing on your hips. the pause doesn’t last. it can’t. he’s never realized how much he’s wanted this until the second your lips move against his, until he tastes you, until he can’t tell if he’s breathing or just existing to keep the moment alive. and then he’s kissing you back. hard. messy. urgent. desperate. he can’t stop. his hands slide up to your waist, then your back, tugging you closer, pressing you into him.
you stumble back, feet hitting his bed, and he doesn’t even notice the movement; he’s too busy chasing, too busy pressing, too busy. his hands are everywhere he can reach, mapping, holding, desperate not to lose contact. “mike—” you try, breathless, pushing at his shoulders gently, but it’s useless. he’s caught in a loop.
he realizes suddenly that he didn’t know how much he wanted this—wanted you—until he tasted it. until his lips traced yours, until your hands tried to push him back and he felt that it was impossible. impossible to stop. impossible to slow. his lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly. the sharp intake of your breath feels like a spark in his chest, igniting every nerve ending, and suddenly he’s kissing you like he’s never going to stop.
he doesn’t even register the bed under him at first. like, the fact that there’s fabric and mattress and gravity and all that boring physics crap is irrelevant when your lips are there. he leans in again, tentative at first, like maybe he’s allowed one more try before disaster strikes, but the second your teeth catch the corner of his lower lip he’s all in. okay, don’t panic, just breathe, except, wait, is breathing even necessary? probably not. probably irrelevant. probably irrelevant to everything right now.
he hovers above you, chest brushing yours, and he notices how your hair is tangled across his pillow. how is that fair? his hands slide over your ribs lightly at first, just testing, then he realizes his fingers are gripping too hard. you gasp a little when his lips brush a particular spot on your throat, the sound barely leaves your throat but it hits him. oh. that’s good.
you push at him lightly, trying to create space. “mike—mike… i need to—hah!—breathe!”
okay, fine. air is important. necessary. but—oh wow, your neck. neck is… also necessary. he moves down, lips ghosting along your jaw, tasting, teasing, nipping just enough to elicit another tiny, gasping sound that he mentally bookmarks for future reference. he can’t stop. the memory of those basement sleepovers floods in, late nights, darkness, stolen glimpses of your lips and profile, the tantalizing hint of softness just out of reach. and suddenly, all that anticipation explodes into this moment, right here, right now, in ways he couldn’t have predicted. your hand reaches out, brushing against his shoulder, trying—he thinks?—to anchor him.
he pauses, just long enough to notice how your hand is still resting on his shoulder, and it makes him want to fold himself into you, shrink the distance, melt into the heat of your presence instead of hovering over you like some idiot. he swallows, eyes flicking to your lips, to your flushed cheeks, to the way your hair falls across your forehead, catching the light in a way that makes his chest tighten. “you’re… really…” he starts, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief, and he shakes his head like that’ll fix it, like words can fix how dizzy he feels.
your eyes are wide, fixed on him, and suddenly he notices how different you look now, soft, flustered. the thought that he just got that passionate about kissing you—that close—makes him tense, because wow, that was fast, too fast, too much, and yet not enough. he wants to touch you everywhere, but he freezes just long enough to realize you’re staring at him like he’s someone new, someone unlocked, and it terrifies him how much he likes that.
he realizes that he doesn’t want to stop—not now, not ever. the moment is thick with everything he’s never said, every anticipation, every tiny look, every time he nearly touched you in the past and didn’t. it’s all here, and he’s hovering, and the world outside the room doesn’t exist, and he’s not sure he’d want it to.
this is based off two requests i got … protective mike u are real to me
Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.
wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)
Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love
A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~
He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him.
Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC.
However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble.
Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks).
That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift.
He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him.
He isn’t angry, just curious.
Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work.
So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side.
Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes.
“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”
“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”
“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”
Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy?
“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers.
“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way.
It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime.
As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck.
Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention.
“I wanted to ask you the same question.”
You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further.
“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”
No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face.
“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”
It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”
“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused.
If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing.
Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile.
So, that’s what it is.
Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes.
“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”
A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them.
“Right.”
Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders.
He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours.
“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”
You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go.
You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament.
It all makes sense now, he thinks.
You’re not nervous; you’re smitten.
How sweet.
•
You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you.
A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up.
<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights?
You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get.
>> Is it not on Teams?
Damn.
<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone.
That seems believable.
It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response.
>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks
There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC.
>> Miss day shift?
<< Maybe.
<< Yes.
You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua.
>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now
Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach.
Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you.
And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his.
The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment.
From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him.
He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture.
And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little.
He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting.
In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly.
Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down.
It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude.
The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours.
It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
(He does.)
•
The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that.
He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel.
In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works.
Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless.
It’s cute, your little crush.
Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute.
Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it.
Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”
Then, she’d let him in on another secret.
“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”
“My eyes?”
“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”
She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan.
It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right.
“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears.
He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves.
You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night.
Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares.
Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though.
The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier.
So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good.
“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough.
If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie.
You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up.
“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond.
Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”
“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”
He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?”
So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station.
That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”
You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around.
“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”
He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull.
•
Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked.
You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible.
And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you.
It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch.
With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday.
“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted.
You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes.
Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face.
“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”
“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”
“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots.
Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot.
Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away.
An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up.
You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at.
Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction.
He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head.
You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.
You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop.
“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out.
With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.
“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”
It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles.
“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether.
Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away.
When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw.
“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”
About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you.
The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist.
“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger.
Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip.
“We were just talkin’, man.”
“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”
“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”
Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.”
His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep.
This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you…
“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip.
You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise.
You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down.
“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”
Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”
You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy.
Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief.
What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat.
The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands.
“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”
Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”
He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time.
You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building.
“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.
“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”
“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl.
Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time.
“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”
Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”
“Someone’s gotta be.”
You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission.
That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem.
•
Jack’s little game has backfired horribly.
He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC.
It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will.
It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now.
And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him.
Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him.
The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well.
The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it.
He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly.
He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often.
He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body.
He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back.
Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient.
He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him.
So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient.
Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him.
Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term.
Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out.
Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest.
Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it.
“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub.
Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”
“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort.
Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers.
“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes).
“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles.
“What are you saying then?”
He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully.
“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”
Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried.
“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”
His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief.
He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—
“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”
And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides.
You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it.
But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what.
He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”
You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again.
“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue.
Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist.
“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes.
You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong?
You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”
Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead.
“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.
It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face.
“I…”
“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”
Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”
“What?” He’s breathing too hard.
“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”
Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class.
He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure.
“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut.
“And, how would you put it, Jack?”
“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”
You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”
A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake.
Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”
Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.
“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure.
Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”
•
Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest.
You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago.
Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long.
“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort.
When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”
Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe.
You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers.
You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.
All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been.
“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”
He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”
You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”
“What a dick.”
Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.
“Can I shower before we lay down?”
He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”
His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.
Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is.
“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”
“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”
Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”
It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding.
You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm.
You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe.
Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable.
The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous.
There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him.
The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway.
You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot.
Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin.
Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not.
With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements.
“Uh… probably should have told you…”
You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”
Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”
You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware.
“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”
Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”
“Do I need to file an HR complaint?”
With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him.
He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation.
“Do you want to file an HR complaint?”
He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver.
Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are.
His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper.
You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you.
Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away.
“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”
You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”
His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip.
“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?”
It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?
“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”
“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up.
“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”
And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder.
He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again.
And, again.
And, again.
And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back.
It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely.
His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation.
You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt.
Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”
“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”
Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way.
Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again.
Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little.
The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy.
Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit.
“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”
His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again.
His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more.
“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”
And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress).
He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life.
But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him.
As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”
You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him.
You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open.
It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies.
“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone.
Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours.
Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it.
“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down.
Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head.
“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”
But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis.
He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be.
The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm.
Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock.
He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy.
You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot.
Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.
No. No.
He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him.
Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it.
You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it.
In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies.
You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest.
He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it.
“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless.
Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”
“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that.
Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”
He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”
“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?”
You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”
His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs.
“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”
Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life.
“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”
His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle.
“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”
He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs.
“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple.
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”
You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be.
With you.
As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face.
COFFEE RUN. robert robertson & dispatcher!reader
— hey look, there's a new guy that needs to be added to the office coffee order
Fridays were the best. Not because of the work, since that never stopped, but because it was a finish line. But with all the onboarding going on—new dispatchers coming in left and right to replace the regularly occurring vacancies—you had to put in a little extra work these days to keep team morale up.
You knew about Robert long before he arrived at SDN. Blazer couldn't stop mentioning how she had someone in mind for the Z-team, someone perfect and capable, and how she thought he could be a great fit for them.
He looked smaller than you expected. You caught glimpses of him throughout the day: his arms and face were faintly sunken from malnutrition, and the bags under his eyes were prominent. In one word: cute. Despite his less-than-ideal condition, he seemed to be in good spirits.
When you finally had the chance to speak with him, it was the end of the day. He was involved in a sweet conversation with the other new hire, Waterboy.
"Rough day?" You leaned against Robert's cubicle, hand on your hip.
He jumped slightly, whipping his head over his shoulder. You raised an eyebrow in response, tilting your head.
"Sorry...?"
"No, no, don't apologize, I'm..." He cleared his throat as he turned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm a little jumpy. Force of habit."
"No, I get it." You smiled and introduced yourself. "Blazer told me today's your first day, and..." Your smile slowly dropped as your gaze drifted behind him to his ruined desk. "What is that..?"
"Cream."
You grimaced, "Cream?"
"Donut cream." He clarified.
"Which I am going— cleaning up!" Waterboy interjected, peeking out behind Robert's figure.
You smiled at the other new hire. "Thank you. While you get to that, though, I came to ask you about both of your coffee orders."
Robert's lips pursed, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. "Isn't there a coffee machine in the break room?"
You hummed affirmatively. "But we like to treat everyone at least once a week with some of the stuff with better quality."
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "And you're, like—you're the coffee girl, or something?"
"Well... not officially. Over time, we've observed that a few of us get discounts at the cafe nearby, so we go there in rotation. Saves the network a little bit of that recreational money." You answered.
You were trying not to seem like you were picking him apart with each passing second. The little freckles under his eyes were almost invisible under the sunset's glow, but for every freckle, he had two scars. He was a retired hero—who, you wondered?
In the end, it didn't really matter to you. You were more than happy to have a cute face in the office. He had a nice voice, too. Which you were actively tuning out...
"—I'm guessing?"
Your eyes fluttered as you returned to the conversation. "Um... Sorry, I zoned out for a second. What'd you say?"
Robert's eyes widened and immediately darted to the side. "Oh, I was wondering if you guys got that discount 'cause you're... uh, pretty."
Your cheeks heated until they burned. "That's... the theory, yeah."
"But if it works every time, it becomes fact, no?" He let his head drop to his shoulder, giving you no chance to avoid those deep brown puppy eyes he had going on.
"I—I guess?" You just came here to take their coffee order. You didn't sign up for feeling this awkward. "If you say so."
Robert shoved his hands into his pockets, meeting your eyes. "I say so."
You failed to suppress your grin, dropping your gaze to the floor. "Okay."
"Okay," he echoed with an awkward chuckle, mirroring your beaming smile. "And I like black coffee."
"Noted." You hummed. His eyes were stuck on yours and yours on his, until you took a deep breath and diverted the conversation. "Waterboy?"
"Oh, I don't—drinking coffee isn't really feasible for me. I'm practically bursting—lots of water in here." He pat his abdomen. "So I just eat the grounds."
You blinked, brows furrowed. "Like... the actual coffee? From the package?"
"You—right, you got it!" He gave you a thumbs up.
"Alright... also noted." You shared an amused glance with Robert.
"You should let me come with you sometime," he started, grabbing his backpack. You began to walk towards the elevator after saying your goodbyes to Waterboy.
"Need to get away from your band of misfits that badly?" You peeked at him from the corner of your eye.
"Yes," His eyes flipped to the ceiling with the annoyance he suffered with throughout the day. "Very badly."
The soft elevator music played in the background of your conversation. In closed quarters, his proximity was much more real—he smelled like fresh linen with a faint hint of metal. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned just enough for you to catch some more scars.
You swallowed your curiosity and laughed softly. "You're welcome to tag along."
Robert shouldered his backpack, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Can't promise any extra discounts, though."
"What? Don't say that. You've got a sad, nerdy kind of thing going on. That's big nowadays."
"Are you speaking from experience?" He shot back, looking up at you.
You could hear the smugness in his tone and smiled knowingly. You underestimated him. You thought he'd be sad and pathetic, a little mopey and a lot of sulky. You still think he's sad and a little pathetic, but he was surprisingly quick with it.
You smiled and shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe."
He chuckled lowly. "Noted."
Those coffee runs were just the beginning.
idk how i feel abt this but i eat sleep breathe robert robertson now so
They see right through (can you see right through me?)
Chapter IV. series masterlist.
summary: In the weeks leading up to your first ultrasound, you and Clark make the very responsible decision to keep your pregnancy a secret from the rest of the office (with the obvious exception of Lois and Cat, who you couldn't have kept it from if you tried after your meltdown at New Year's). Though, it was hard to keep it subtle when Clark was possibly the most doting and concerned man alive, and your volatile stomach constantly finding new things to turn upside down over. Still, if you had it your way, you'd keep it your and Clark's secret forever—a softness that no one else could touch or ruin. As your hormones stirred and the weeks unravelled, you realised, rather terrifyingly, that you might just feel that way about him, too. That you maybe, just maybe, you wanted to be loved. And, to complicate matters, Lois kept on telling you about how perfect of a guy Clark Kent is—as if you didn't already know this implicitly. He was the best of them. But, you couldn't help but be wary. Buried under the cedar of his cologne and the warmth of his touches, there was a tang of metal and ozone about Clark that you couldn't keep ignoring—even if he was this saintly, gorgeous man, nursing your upset tummy and catering to your every need. You've always been the kind to self-sabotage and go looking for faults, you just didn't think that you'd find so many chinks in Clark Kent's shiny armour in your nihilistic, ravaging pursuit.
word count: 8.6k (unedited......again.....)
chapter warnings: pregnancy as always, emetophobia (reader's going through it with her morning sickness, damn Clark's kryptonian genes), I guess lying/the concealing of really important info (he still hasn't told her about Superman), smutty flashbacks but not explicit, dangerous levels of domesticity for two people who aren't dating, I guess you could call them a situationship lol (despite there being a whole baby involved), but a fairly tame one tbf.
track iv: The Archer by Taylor Swift
Two weeks later found you and Clark in the same elevator shaft where you shared that first, damning kiss, the cables whirring around you both. The two of you were painstakingly trying to keep the pregnancy secret around the office, at least until the dating scan—a day that kept spiralling faster and faster; your first ultrasound (the day you and Clark would see the baby).
And, well, it was a bit more difficult for one of you than the other to be subtle about the whole rigmarole.
“—All right, let’s go over it again,” you said, only half-joking about the severity of it all as you then muttered, “for the fifth time this week…”
Clark didn’t miss that. He also didn’t miss that this was the first time you had both been in the elevator at the same time since the Christmas Eve party. But, with how pretty you looked in a pleated skirt and a deliberately oversized jumper of cable-knit wool, it was a little difficult for him to concentrate on your umpteenth lecture that month. He kept thinking about his mouth on your skin, yours on the sensitive spot just under his ear. His hands on your thighs, fingers splaying enough of your flesh to give it that measured squeeze to get you to squeal into a kiss that suddenly tasted of blood from your teeth nicking his lip. (He’d have to think of something even more distracting, like tracing his lips to your collarbones, to get you to not think about how quickly the taste of blood left your tongue, how fast the tiny-wound healed…)
Shucks. What was happening, again?
“…and if you see me running to the bathroom, Clark, what are you not going to do?”
Clark let his head slump shamefully between his shoulders, chin almost touching the hollow of his chest. “Run after you.”
“That’s right,” you sniffed assertively, again, only half-serious—and Clark could tell by that teasing, little grin of yours that was warming his ribs. “Unless I do what, Clark?”
“Unless you text me to say it’s morning sickness, and not—“ his cheeks went blotchy and flustered, “erm, well…you know.”
“A burning, desperate need to pee?” you supplied.
Grimacing, he nodded at your blunt phrasing, voice pitchy as he said, “Yeah. Sure.”
“Hey, no need to get all choir boy, clutching your pearls with me. You’re the reason my bladder is now apparently the size of a squirrel’s,” you said irritably, clutching the papers in your arms tighter to your sternum.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” said Clark defensively. “Lois and Cat already know—they were literally with you on New Year’s. And it wouldn’t hurt if Jimmy knew—“
“It definitely would hurt,” you interjected witheringly. “If Jimmy knows, the whole office knows. If the whole office knows, Steve knows. And I’ll spend the next six months hearing all about that stupid office sweep, and him going on and on about how miraculous that stupid fucking mistletoe of his was!”
Clark raised a finger shyly. “Actually, it was—“
“Holly, I know!” A sudden ache pulsing against the temples of your skull, you tucked your abundance of papers under your arm and started to massage at the precursor to a migraine. “Besides,” you mumbled, quieter now, “I’m not ready for any kind of talks with HR, or Perry, or anyone about anything remotely to do with maternity leave. I just…I can’t think about that right now.”
It had been a really tough pill to swallow, after your decision almost three weeks ago to keep the baby, that progressing with this pregnancy would mean more than just agonising childbirth and co-parenting with Clark Kent. Eventually, you had to face the music and stomach the realisation that your decision meant that your life was on the precipice of unravelling. You were about to go from political editorialist at the Daily Planet, twice nominated by your peers for a Pulitzer, to the pregnant woman in the office, with swollen ankles and Clark Kent’s baby in you. The transition from competent and savvy, the woman most of them avoided thanks to your sharp tongue and tendency to get a bit belligerent around deadlines, to someone who they all suddenly thought they could fuss over and touch at your belly like some zoo attraction with a kicking creature inside of you—well, it wasn’t something you were 100% ready to accept yet. Even if you were gradually coming around to the whole ‘baby’ of it all.
“You know, you’re going to start…showing, eventually,” he murmured to you sweetly, angling his body now so it was in front of yours rather than next to it. His warmth was close enough for you to feel weak in the knees, and he made a show of bending slightly as it his own to settle his briefcase between his feet, bringing his hands to your beleaguered shoulders. “And, I love you in all these jumpers, Penny, you know that,” he said lightheartedly, making you smile weakly and tuck your face against one of his hands. “But, spring won’t last forever. You’ll end up overheating.”
“Naw, but at least I’ll have my Kent in shining armour to catch me when I swoon, right?” you mused, reaching a hand up of your own to flick the onyx ringlets that toppled free from the rest of his curls to graze the frames of his glasses.
“Oh, always,” Clark laughed heartily.
Suddenly, the elevator dinged, doors sputtering open into the jagged jaws of the bullpen. The blaring ring of multiple telephones, intermingling with the aggressive clanking of keyboards. The world suddenly wasn’t yours anymore, or Clark’s. That peace that had belonged to you both, so briefly, was fractured and ugly. Clark’s hands slipped from you to hastily grab his briefcase, and yours snatched the loose papers from under your arm, yanking them back to your middle as if they’d do more for the slight swelling of your belly than that huge jumper of yours.
“I’ll try not to fuss too much today,” he spoke low in your ear as the two of you breezed into the office. It killed you how he had to bend down for his mouth to reach you. It maimed you even more how his free hand ghosted the small of your back as he walked you to your desk. “But, please, let me know if you need anything. A tea, some ginger snaps, an elaborate excuse to leave early…—“
“Oh, because Clark Kent is so well-versed in that,” you drawled, setting down your stack of papers next to your computer and switching on the monitor. You turned around to face him, nestled your tailbone against the edge of the desk and blinked up at him innocently. “You’re like Houdini.”
Clark’s cheeks went all ruddy and sweet. You wanted to touch them. He emptied his throat, hoarsely, and said, “Yeah, well…duty calls, right? Plenty of stories to write, all of that...”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you teased, flattening your hands against the mahogany behind you.
“You’re messing with me.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he observed you keenly.
“Mm. A little.”
He blinked. “That’s not nice. I was being serious. If you need anything—“
“Oh, God,” Lois swept over, fake retching at Clark’s earnestness as popped her hip against yours, “is he doing the doting routine again?”
You laughed at your friend, feigning a sigh of exasperation as you sunk into your chair. “He’s relentless.” To make sure he knew you were joking, you let the chunky heel of your Mary Janes graze Clark’s ankle and slanted him a lopsided grin. All that achieved was another pretty blush on his cheeks, and the lovely image of Clark frantically straightening out his tie and staring all boyish at his own shoes.
“Uh…” a cough raked its way through him, the gravelly kind that told you his feathers were ruffled. “I’m going to…” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder clumsily, “yeah. Bye.”
And he scampered off, tail tucked between his legs and briefcase to his chest. You and Lois laughed goodnaturedly as he went.
“He’s ridiculous,” said Lois fondly, perching herself on the edge of your desk, one stocking-covered leg over the other.
“Yeah,” you said affectionately, “he is.”
“So…” she leaned forward, all conspiratorial and smelling of vetiver, “how are you? And…” her eyes dipped subtly to your belly, “little you?”
Your fingertips instinctively touched your abdomen over your jumper. “We’re fine. I’m sleeping so much, though. As soon as I get home, I’m a goner.”
Her brows pinched together in immediate concern. “And that’s normal?”
“Clark says so,” you sighed, opening up the document for your latest article on the computer and feeling yourself physically deflated at the idea of stringing together a single sentence.
“Ah,” mused Lois, “Midwife Clark.”
“He means well.”
“Oh, the wellest…”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s, like, a human now, apparently. We’ve got the first ultrasound next week. It has most of its organs and bones, even though it’s only about the size of a plum. We’ll be able to know the due-date, and if…if everything’s okay…with them.”
“And that’s when you’ll tell everyone, right?” she said encouragingly, head tilting to the side.
“I guess.” You didn’t mean to be so pessimistic. It wasn’t as if you weren’t warming to the tiny thing in your womb. It was overwhelming, though—all of it. Clark mentioned names two mornings ago, but you hadn’t even thought about what you were eating for dinner that evening. Most of all, you just wanted to keep it yours for a little longer—Clark’s too. Selfishly, you didn’t want the rest of the world to have what you were still coming to grips with. You needed to learn to love it before the office started whispering all sorts of torrid rumours about you and Clark, and your decision to keep the baby. If you were being completely honest, you didn’t really understand it yourself.
You wanted everything to slow down, if only a little.
Lois was quiet for a moment, watching with that certain kind of knowingness that only another woman could have. Then, softly, “You don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready. You know that, right, Penny?”
“I know. I know, it’s just…” Airily, you sighed through your nose and stared sullenly at your screen. “The longer I wait, the more real it gets. I think I’m trying to, I dunno, gaslight myself into thinking that if I keep it a secret, it’s just this secret thing between Clark and me. Like it, they…exist in a tiny bubble where no one can get to them. Like they’re just mine, you know?”
“Oh, Penny…” Lois slipped closer to you, practically sat between your legs from where her own were dangling from your desk, “they are yours. Entirely yours. Clark’s, too, sure—but, we both know it’s not really the same.” Her thumb reached out to knock gently at your underjaw. “Chin up. You’ve got time. And you’ve got him.”
“Yeah,” you guffawed, startled. “I’ve got him.”
You had Clark. God. You hoped it wasn’t obvious to Lois how much that frightened you. Even worse, how desperately you wanted it. Truth was, it wasn’t just the baby you wanted to keep to yourself. It was Clark, too. You wanted so desperately for him to carry on looking at you how he did, and to be capable of love, yourself.
She must’ve been something in your face, because she gently jabbed the toe of her knee-high boot into your shin. “Most guys would’ve run for the hills. Clark’s different.”
“—no, no, Clark, you’re gonna make it worse!” Across the bullpen, Jimmy and Clark were shouldering abrasively at each other as they wrangled with the malfunctioning copier.
“Jimmy,” Clark interjected patiently, an enduringly sunny smile on his face, even as Jimmy carded his flapping hands anxiously through his mousy hair as if he was tempted to tear out tufts of it at the root, “I think you might just be pressing the wrong button.”
“I’m quite literally pressing the only possible button, dude!” Jimmy protested in thready exasperation.
Clark laughed so prettily, raising his index finger and wagging it in front of his friend’s droll expression, then he pressed the right button, and the machine whirred obediently to life. You blamed the funny feeling in your tummy on hormones, as-per.
“Your baby is blessed in the genetics department, at least,” whispered Lois behind a covert hand and a grin.
“Oh, I’m so sure.”
“Is he still walking you home?” she hummed, enjoying all of this way too much for your liking.
“He won’t let me take the bus. ‘Keeps going on about potholes and dodgy infrastructure and—”
“Classic Clark. He’d wrap the world in bubble-wrap if he could. Just you might suffice, though,” she added tauntingly.
“All right,” you seethed, “that’s enough. We’re at work. Fuck off.”
Lois tipped her head back in belly-laughter, but she slipped off your desk, flattening out the creases in her corduroy skirt. “Tell me how you really feel, Penny.”
“And suck my dick!”
Her laughter carried all the way back to her own desk, where she readily disappeared behind the off-white wall of her cubicle, engrossed in her work in no time at all. A bit of tension left you, like the unravelling of a ribbon. You felt all shrunken and chastened in your seat, and you instinctively swivelled it round again to return your gaze to Clark. He was already coming over, tongue poking out the tiniest bit between his teeth in that endearing way he always did when he was concentrating, and he had your office-mug cradled attentively between both hands. You were sure he wouldn’t use both if it were anyone else’s, but maybe you were just letting all of his sweetness to your head.
“One last thing,” he said slyly, leaving it on your rattan coaster next to a pot of miscellaneous biros and highlighters, “before I go over there and pretend you don’t exist.”
“Oh, which you’re so good at, Clark,” you teased, reaching out to hover your hands over your mug, enjoying the warmth radiating from the ceramic. Though, as soon as your nose caught a wafting spiral of the almost-nutty smell of the decaf coffee Clark routinely brewed for you every morning, it suddenly wrinkled in disgust. You recoiled, stomach flipping violently, and slapped a hand over your mouth as it filled with saliva. “No, no, that’s—is this the same coffee you’ve been using? Clark, oh my god—”
“Hey, woah, what’s…” He crouched next to you, one hand on the arm of your desk, the other taking the mug back into its old and giving it a sniff himself. “It smells the same? Are you sure…?”
“Another coffee, Clark?” Jimmy’s hands were abruptly slamming on the back of your desk, craning his neck over to flash you a wolfish grin. “He’s spoiling you, Penny!”
You tried for a laugh, but you felt almost seasick. You just grimaced into your lap, briefly glancing at Clark through your periphery with a kind of desperation that could only mean, please, get that away from me, before I throw up on Jimmy Olsen’s loafers.
“Actually, Jimmy,” Clark Kent was a saint, “could you, uh—give me a sec?” And he was off, whisking the coffee out of sight.
Jimmy blinked, somehow both bewildered and affronted. “What, did I say something?”
“You usually do, Jimmy,” sailed the dulcet tones of Cat Grant over her cubicle.
“I, what?”
“It’s fine, Jimmy,” you told him through a taut smile.
His hands faltered on the head of your chair, one falling down to squeeze your shoulder. “Hey, are you all right, Penny? You’ve been acting a little off lately. If this is about the Christmas party—”
“Oh my god,” you retched miserably, feeling suddenly like you might cry.
“Hey, hey. M’here.” Clark. You breathed him in as he crouched next to you like he was a stomach-settling elixir, and blinked dolefully at him as one of his palms squeezed at the meat of your thigh and the other presented you a singular, ginger sweet. “Coffee, gone. You never have to look at another ever again.”
You gnawed on your tongue so as to not giggle at him all coquettish and shrill, instead taking the candy off him and popping into your mouth. The tarty taste lacquered on your tongue almost right away, sticky and with a bite of a saccharine bite that made you wince. Through your squinting eyes, you could just about make out Clark’s lovely, sympathetic smile as his thumb stroked over your knee.
“Better?” he asked softly.
“Okay,” cut in Jimmy boisterously, “what’s going on between you two? Did I miss something? Clark’s being—well, Clark. And Penny’s doing the whole dying swan thing—”
“Bite me, Olsen,” you snarled.
Clark chuckled, that low, warm sound that made butterflies flutter in your gut, even as the nausea lingered, simmering and cruel. He cleaned closer, dimpled and wonderful, “Ignore him, okay? He means well. Just…we gotta add coffee to the no-list.”
Ah, yes. Yours and Clark’s ever-growing no-list of foods and drinks that this cursed baby was making you stick your nose up at. Last week, it was mushrooms. You wondered if you’d have an appetite for anything at all by the time your third trimester swung around, or if the tiny beast was hell-bent on having you malnourished and gnarled by the time they took their first breath.
“You two are hiding something,” said Jimmy shrewdly, a defensive look narrowing his expression as he balled his fists up and rested them on his hips. “Lois knows too, right?”
Cat’s arm extended from above the walls around her desk, enthusiastically waving a manicured hand in the air. “I do, too!”
“Well, see, that’s just unfair, isn’t it? Cat knows? Cat asked Penny if she was coming to her own surprise birthday dinner last year!” he exclaimed, insulted.
“And, I appreciated that,” you retorted, only half-joking, “I hate surprises.”
“Yes, well, I hate secrets,” Jimmy said petulantly. “I believe they cause…inhospitable environments in the workplace.”
“Jimmy, c’mon, man,” said Clark gently, slanting him a look and still knelt at your side.
Jimmy stared lamely at his shoes. “I feel left out, okay? I’m supposed to be your best friend, dude.”
“And you are. But…” Clark’s expression morphed into a little something like what a guy at a bar would desperately throw to his wingman so he could, ‘get the hint.’ “You know?”
“Oh. Oh!” A hard, boyish laugh trembled shoulders as he finger-gunned Clark, everything supposedly falling into place. “Gotcha, my man. Gotcha. Listen, I’ma be over there…” He slung a thumb over his shoulder, grinning callowly, slowly walking backwards to his own workspace.
You and Clark both watched, equal measures unimpressed, and only met each other’s gaze again once Jimmy was squarely in his chair.
“Really?” you drawled.
“It was the only thing I thought would translate to him,” Clark offered sheepishly. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, but now he thinks you’re courting me,” you scoffed.
“Aren’t I?” he teased.
Oh, God. Oh, God. This boy. Your heart throbbed with him.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes raking over him, still knelt at the altar of you, your Mary Janes, and this little life of yours. “Are you?”
Clark blinked at you, eyebrows furrowing low and sweet, almost hiding under the frames of his glasses. He had this undeniable glint to his eyes, put there by the ache in you (that was put there by the ache in him), and you felt this inadvertent tug inside of your ribs. The thumb that had been absently stroking your knee now brushed reverently over the hem of your skirt.
“That depends,” he said slowly, remembering the devastation that tore through him after you climbed off him moments after the best sex of his life, his agony walking home alone in snowfall, tallying up all of his mistakes and insecurities, calling them by name as he thought of your skin and your taste, your body flush against his. “Do you want me to?”
Because, golly, did Clark want to. ‘Court’ wasn’t exactly the phrase he’d choose, but he knew why you said it—a little poke at his Midwestern mannerisms. All he could ever think about was you, and this baby, and how desperately he wanted to right the world before you so bravely brought them into it. Clark longed for you in a way he’d never really had to long for anything—impossible boy he was, inhuman and infallible. The skies belonged to him, his cape fluttering jauntily in the wind against an entire world that he could touch and save and assimilate amongst…Clark could do things other people couldn’t, and yet all that really mattered lately was you. You likened it, that night, to low-hanging fruit—the allure of forbidden desire and tight skirts. And, yes, Clark loved your tight skirts; material clinging to your hips, your thighs, curves that he knew now, curves he’d touched and kneaded. But it was more than that. Always had been.
And still was, now. Worse, even. You butchered his heart; blew it to pieces. Clark, though no virgin, didn’t have sex casually—definitely not with women that he’d spent the better part of two years pining after. Even still, he wanted you. The shame that clotted his skin in the days after—in the hollowness of his apartment as he skipped work, in the humiliation of sullenly texting Cat to let her know he wouldn’t be able to make her New Year’s party—he’d let it all be absolved and cleansed. Pious and God-fearing, he’d be pennant and yours, if that was what you wanted.
“Kent!” The two of you jolted. Clark was on his feet, almost bashing his pretty head right against the tough corner of your desk, and only narrowly avoiding the hit when you smacked your hand against it to cushion the blow. Perry had burst out of his office, unlit Cuban dangling from his mouth, and was barking, “There’s some weird cyborg creature, tearing up downtown. I want you to go and see if you can snag an interview with that caped friend of yours!”
Your heart rabbitted in your throat. Superman—your city’s beacon of hope in spandex and brilliant blue, and the irrefutable reason for most of Clark’s headlines. Not that you begrudged him, of course. Either of them. Clark was a terrific writer, and before all of this mess, you’d congratulate him for every front-page. And Superman saved Metropolis hundreds of times over against all sorts of strange foes and entities.
Only, it felt wrong now, and unsettled you deeply to think about Clark out there—standing feverishly on some street corner with a legal-pad and a tape recorder as some nameless antagonist tore through skyscrapers and coffee-shops, all brutish and carnal, just to get an interview with Superman. Maybe it was some animalistic instinct, your baby, willing you to keep Clark near and safe, nestled in you almost as close as his child. Whatever it was, you started thinking of excuses to get him to stay—complaining more about an upset stomach, or a disgruntling smell, or maybe even saying, yes, all breathy and honeyed, yes, I want you to, Clark.
“Shucks,” he muttered, glancing between his feet, Perry, and you. “I’m so sorry, Penny. I’ll…” his eyes flitted to the high-ceiling windows, “I’ll be back in time to walk you home. Yeah? I’ll bring gingersnaps, and chamomile, and—“
“Just go, Clark,” you told him, not unkindly. If anything, your voice was softer than it had ever been for him—even against the nagging thread in you that really didn’t want him to leave. “These articles don’t write themselves, right?” you added lightheartedly, gesturing at your own neglected issue.
Clark looked pained. Part of him feared that he’d never get to continue that conversation—that maybe he’d lost his chance with you (again). A visible twitch flickered in the muscle of his jaw as he hardened it, like he was seriously considering going against Perry White’s direct orders. But, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. With a sigh of resignation, Clark kept one arm stretched over you, white-knuckling the back of your seat, and used the other on the desk as leverage to quickly lower himself down to your height, brushing the sweetest and most briefest of kisses to your forehead.
“Bye, honey,” he muttered solemnly, and you wondered, with a twinge in the pit of your stomach, if he was talking to the both of you.
Then, he was gone. Hastening out of the bullpen back towards that elevator, leaving the faint smell of cedar and his lavender laundry-detergent around you. Your chest stung at his absence, the skin of your temple hot from his kiss, and honey—palpable and enough to make your spine throb under the weight of it.
What were you doing?
࿐ྂ
You waited way longer after-hours for Clark than you’d like to admit. Springtime was barely in the air yet, only the faintest pinkish touch of blossom on fragile sprigs and morning suns, so it was still getting dark rather early. You kept glancing at the elevator, a slither of your pride rotting away with every one of your colleagues that left for home in it, and with every half-hour that Clark didn’t come bumbling through. In your imagination, he’d be all apologies and chivalry, sweeping up all your belongings in his arms and ushering you out of the office to walk you home. It never happened. Clark didn’t come back. Whatever. It took the janitor, Kevin, staring at you sympathetically with his mop—as if to tell you that you were in his way of cleaning up—to call it a night. You switched off your moment with a tad too much force, snatched up your things, and rushed out of the bullpen with the shameful sting of tears in your waterline.
Hormones, again. Praise be this baby and the excess of frivolous excuses they kept giving you. Because, what else could it be, other than an influx of estrogen and cortisol that had you crying on your humiliating, lonely bus-ride home? Admittedly, when the driver hit a pot-hole, you got a bit of a kick out of it, knowing how antsy Clark had been about you catching public transport. You knew the baby would be fine, that he was exaggerating, but the tiny victory of going against his wishes made you outrageously self-satisfied.
Even worse, a rejected fury snarled its way through your ribs as you marched up the staircase of your apartment building. You couldn’t help but be angry with him. Surely, he could've spared a text if he knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk you home? It was his thing, anyways—a demand Clark insisted upon, days and days ago. The anger didn’t purify you. It didn’t make your bones ache any less by the time you sunk lethargically into your couch. You thought you might feel better if you finally had a reason to be disappointed in him—maybe it wouldn’t harden the sinews of your heart that had been scored with him since Christmas. It didn’t. Deep down, you knew hormones had nothing to do with it (okay, maybe at least a smidge). Really, you just enjoyed being around him. You liked his company. You liked him. Still, he could’ve called. Right?
“Stupid, stupid,” you muttered bitterly under-breath, not really sure if you were reprimanding Clark or yourself.
You reached down, spine sore against the pull, and unbuckled the straps of your Mary Janes, toeing them off and kicking them under your coffee table. Then, you stretched your legs out across the length of your sofa, squishing your cheek against a novelty love-heart cushion from Cat. It wasn’t lost on you that you and Clark conceived a goddamn baby on this velvet couch of yours. Almost embryonically, you curled your body into yourself, maybe emulating how that little creature in you was positioned in your belly—foetal and yours and impossibly tiny. It was overwhelming how fast things could change.
Just then, you felt your phone start to vibrate against your thigh from the pocket of your skirt. You groaned, unhappily prying it out and swearing when you saw Clark’s contact. You slammed it down onto the couch, screaming into the pillow under your head, muffled and anguished. It kept buzzing, and buzzing, until it finally went to answer-phone. Your apartment fell silent again—the city swelling outside like a balloon; the hum of engines and the caterwauling of sirens from Superman’s fight earlier. The thought of the hero made your canines sink viciously into the fleshy bit of your cheeks, thinking about how it was all his fault that Clark didn’t come back for you. Immature, maybe. But, you were pregnant, and exhausted, and had this marrow-deep need to have him around that you couldn’t keep burying in rationality.
It didn’t take long for your phone to buzz again, a wasp-like tell that Clark had taken to messaging you instead. Self-pitying, you kept your cheek smushed against the pillow as you grumpily read the texts.
CLARK: Penny I’m so sorry
CLARK: I got hung up interviewing Superman after the fight downtown. I only just got home
CLARK: I really am sorry. You know I wouldn’t forget you
CLARK: Let me know if you’re both okay. Sorry again
Melancholy pulsed inside of your ribs like twin lungs. He was always so uniquely cruel in the loveliest of ways. It bruised you, made you feel jagged and guilty for ever cursing him at all.
Still, your stubbornness was larger than your desire—at least, you liked to think so. The exhaustion gathering in the corners of your eyes was thick and heady, and you still felt the vague bite of indignation in your gall, so you switched off your phone instead of replying to him. Maybe it was some pathetic form of punishment, but you didn’t want Clark to hear from you yet—you wanted him to sit with whatever misery was pinching at his sternum.
So, you fell asleep there, on the same couch you fucked him on almost two months ago. It was a surprisingly restful sleep, too—dreams of love that felt like being bathed in sunlight, and summertime, and a gurgling laugh. One that was butchered at barely dawn—not enough sun splitting through your curtains, just a tangerine tinge to the clouds and a faint glow of street-lamps—with a cold sweat beading the nape of your neck, your palms, the tender rosary of your spine. You felt vile.
It was labour all in itself attempting to sit up. The cramped length of your body was protesting against straightening up after being curled up uncomfortably on the sofa all night, and your abdomen had a particular kind of burning. Saliva filled your mouth and neuralgia pulsed behind your eyes and jawbone.
“Fuck,” you moaned to yourself, pressing your fingertips to the pressure-points signposted by those leaflets on nausea that Rina handed to you. You pinched at your inner wrist, between two tendons. Nothing. A lurch wracked itself through you, springing you to your feet, and it carried you all the way to your bathroom. To your knees, right at the foot of your toilet. The ceramic of the lid hit the back of it, loud and smacking enough to make your head throb, but it was gone as you retched.
A sob tore through you as soon as you stared, appalled, at yesterday’s lunch. You gagged again, on reflex, but nothing came up this time. Only bile and another, blubbering sob—the dry kind that made your bottom lip wobble.
Feeling particularly fragile and low, you let yourself break. You reached for your phone, tucked limply into the waistband of the skirt you didn’t bother taking off, and dialled the only person you could possibly want around you right now.
Of course, Clark answered on the second bell.
“Penny?” Sleepiness rasped his voice so prettily, it made you cry. Like, actually. “Are you all right? It’s…” You heard the rustling of his bedsheets, “honey, it’s not even 5AM.”
“M’sorry,” you slurred, resting your sweaty forehead onto your extended arm. “I just…I feel so ill, Clark, I…You told me to call if—”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. I’m glad you did, honey.” Honey. God. If he could only call you one thing for the rest of your life, it would be that. More rustling followed, and you could imagine him scrambling out of bed, reaching for his glasses, maybe. Your heart ached. “Do you want me to—”
“Please,” the desperation betrayed you, but you couldn’t help it. You suddenly felt ice-cold, shuddering against it and the nausea. “Please, Clark.”
“Okay, honey. I’m coming, yeah? ‘Won’t be long.” You swore you could already hear him unlocking his apartment door through the receiver. “Want me to stay on the phone?”
You really did. You wanted his pretty voice in your ear, all dripping with affection and care, like wading through molasses, or fucking honey. But then, another bout of nausea tugged at your guts, and you knew you couldn’t subject him to having to listen to you throwing up over the phone. Mournfully, you shook your head before realising he couldn’t see you, and practically wept, “No. That’s okay. I’ll see you soon. Do you…” you had to swallow down another dry-heave, feeling so embarrassed, “do you still have the spare key I gave you?”
“Sure do. Listen, I’ll be there before you know it. Yeah?” It sounded like he was in some kind of tunnel, a whistle of fast-winds and a caterwauling pigeon. But, honestly, you could’ve been
hallucinated, that was how queasy you felt. “Try and sip some water. M’so sorry, Penny. Really. I—” Sorry? What he was sorry for? Did he mean yesterday? Pathetically, you’d forgotten all about that in your staggering nausea. “Never mind. I’ll talk to you soon. Hang tight, honey.”
He really meant it when he said he’d be there before you knew it. It definitely took him far less time than it should’ve, considered he lived almost twenty blocks away. But, by the time he did, you were still too unwell to care. As you heard the soft tinkering of keys at your front door, you slumped against the cold edge of your bathtub, cheeks damp and breaths leaving you in trembling, thready rasps. A heavy footfall creaked over the floorboards of your living room, fast and worried, until the bathroom door cringed open and Clark was breathing relief into you.
“Penny?”
Clark’s voice, as ever, was soft and careful, but it managed to filter through all the cracks and space in your bathroom like sunlight. You groaned his name, a hand cradling your still upset stomach, and he was knelt in a heartbeat, curls windswept and uncombed, glasses endearingly crooked, and dressed in a flannel that looked thrown on over a wrinkled tee that he’d definitely slept in. He was rumpled, sleep-warm, and unfairly gorgeous considering your own state. You thought that you must’ve looked awful to him—sagged bonelessly against your clawfoot bath, like a bird that had its good wing torn off, all droopy-eyed and delicate.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His brow pinched devastatingly, his hand sweeping under your hair and fingers splaying across the sweat-slicked nape of your neck. “You should’ve called sooner.”
“I called you right away,” you laughed humourlessly.
“Did you, now? Well, I’m glad,” he said, almost teasingly. To remedy the grouchy look you slanted him, his thumb traced the quivering line of your underjaw like he could soothe the shame right out of you. “You did good, honey.”
Your heart fluttered treacherously in your chest, right under your skin that felt too hot and too tight and too-everything. You tried to look at anywhere but Clark, but it was nearly impossible when he crouched so close to you, knees brushing your bare shins—a slight tang of something metallic under his musky, cedar cologne.
“You hot?” he asked then, thoughtfully quiet and slow.
You startled. “Huh?”
“Are you warm?” Clark corrected, a slight smirk to him that made you ache.
“Oh. Yeah, I’m…” you blinked at him, watching as he reached past you and grabbed a towel from the rack. Not needing to raise higher than his knees, he wet it under the cold faucet, and you watched, all bated breath and sweet agonies, as his forearms flexed to wring out the excess. God, he was so big—too big for your claustrophobic bathroom, anyway. All broad shoulders and good-intentions. You felt so primally hungry, it made your head spin. When he returned to you, his expression was so drawn-tight with worry and devotion that you couldn’t help but feel guilty for the uncouth thoughts simmering through you. But, that didn’t make them linger any less profoundly as he cupped the cool cloth over your neck, dabbing it against your flushed, sick-warmed skin.
“Any better?” he murmured.
You stared up at him, and he was disgustingly tender and domestic for being in a room that still vaguely smelt like vomit. A lovely curl had fallen into one of his eyes, and if you hadn’t felt so weak, you might’ve had the gall to brush it away.
“I hate this baby,” you joked hoarsely.
“Yeah,” Clark laughed, “they’re not being the kindest to you, are they?”
You hummed, barely listening, narrowing in on the slither of the bare skin of his abdomen exposed by the slight riding up of his sleep-shirt. “No. Their dad’s making up for it, though.”
“Dad,” he choked in surprise, another wonderful laugh leaving him, if a little more sputtered and airy. “That’s…yeah. Insane.”
“Mental,” you agreed.
“Kinda cool though. Right?” he asked, a pitchiness of hesitation to him that made your knees melt, even cross-legged.
Oh, this beautiful man.
“Kinda,” you mused.
At some point—the exact moment was lost on you in the tenderness—Clark had taken your hand. You looked down and saw your fingers entwined. An unspectacular thing, of absentminded intimacy, but his hand had reached out for yours, and you had taken it; it had to count for something.
You tried to swallow your feelings, to make something digestible about an appetite full of want, but they threatened to overspill and trickle bloody down the column of your throat, like some rabid animal who overgorged on meats and viscera.
“Hey,” said Clark, almost a whisper, thumb moving sacredly over your cheek, “do you think your stomach could handle some food?”
“I dunno,” you croaked, throat raw and acerbic, “maybe?”
“How about we give it a try? Something-on-toast?” he suggested, rising to his feet just enough to bend over you, arms extended and his fingers wiggling in offer. “C’mon, let me help you up.”
Once he was absolutely convinced that you could stand on your own—and after a bit of scolding from you that felt needed after such a tender moment—Clark split for your kitchen, leaving you to brush your teeth and freshen up. As your mouth foamed with spearmint toothpaste, you continued to tentatively dab the damp cloth against the balmiest parts of you. You seriously hoped he didn’t just find you disgusting, that the vulnerability of the moment, and your guts emptied in the toilet, didn’t destroy whatever was left of Clark’s ‘crush’ on you.
Then, you weren’t really sure what came over you, but you were turning slightly to the side in the mirror above your wash-basin and lifting the hem of your jumper up to just under your braline. A definite swell was there that wasn’t before—not just a bloat, or your usual softness and flesh; but the beginning of a precious bump. You caught it in the foggy reflection with a startled intake of minty breath, almost choking on your own toothbrush. Fingers shaking leaf-like and unsure, you ghosted them lightly against the protruding of your womb. It felt so surreal.
A kind of intimacy existed now that hadn’t before. You thought about Clark seeing it—thought about him kneeling at the altar of you, and your baby, and speaking to it when they were old enough to hear. Thought about his hands cradling the swell, feeling the power of its kick. You wished you had a little less of a habit for being canines and gnashing jaw—that you could be as kind and patient as Clark, as easy to love, to be capable of it too. You wondered if Clark could see right through all your jagged-mouthness, through the cartilaginous knots of a woman hardened and rotten—maybe even past this tiny bump of yours—into something worthy of him.
The shower you took was brief and lukewarm. You dried yourself off and tiptoed quickly across the hall to your bedroom, hoping Clark didn’t spy you clad in a fluffy towel, dripping wet onto the hardwood (or, maybe, you hoped he did). Slipping into a pair of plaid pyjamas and a ratty, threadbare tee that was stretched at the neckline, you wished you had the confidence to swan out there in something sexier than this. But you didn’t have the gall, nor the energy.
Clark was busying away at your stove when you padded in, fuzzy-socked and still a bit fragile from your nasty bout of morning sickness. He looked banefully handsome, sleeves of his flannel rolled up, curls sticking up in mussed-soft tufts, glasses fogged-up from whatever he was cooking, and he was even whistling to an old Marvin Gaye track. You really did despite him, sometimes. The flex of his muscles was prominent even through that overshirt of his as he stirred something about the wok.
“Hey, you,” he said, glancing warmly over his shoulder, “look at you, all freshened up. Feeling better?” He came to lean against the counter as you slipped into one of the stools, smiling at you so broadly you noticed, for maybe the first time, the endearingly pointy nature of his canines.
“Better than I did ten minutes ago,” you remarked. “The ‘domestic goddess’ routine is working on me, I think.”
Clark chuckled affably. “Oh, is it now?”
“Mhm…” You peered around him, trying to get a peek at whatever was cooking on the stove, “what are you cheffing, Gordon Ramsay?”
“Mushrooms,” he beamed proudly, returning to the wok to give them another stir and season them with some black pepper. “Full of antioxidants, and B-vits, and apparently really good for preg—”
“Aaand, you killed it. Well done.”
Clark sneaked you a smirk. “Mushrooms don’t do it for you?”
“Talks of antioxidants don’t, that’s for sure,” you teased, lolling your chin onto your palm, propped up on your elbow.
“Gosh, darn. Guess I’ll have to come up with something else then,” he flirted. You rolled your eyes at him affectionately, and Clark grinned back at you as he took the wok off the heat and dished up the mushrooms on the side of a plate with two slices of buttery toast. Once it was plated up, he whisked it up off the countertop and brought it over to you, setting it on the rattan placemat. “Bon appétit.”
You blinked down at it, silent for a beat. Quartered mushrooms, sautéed in garlic powder and peppercorns, wafted up in fragrant spirals where they sat separated—rather purposely, as if Clark was unsure of whether they needed to be added to the no-list—from the triangular slices of toast.
“Shucks,” said Clark quickly, nervous-sounding, “do you feel sick, again? I didn’t even think to ask you about mushrooms. Aw, golly, honey, I’m sorry—”
“No, no. It’s…” your eyes moved to his, so earnest and blue, looking at you with a startled reverence, like he was so afraid that he’d set off your stomach again. Your gaze shifted again, inadvertently and not-subtle at all, to the way the flannel clung to the strong chisels of his shoulders and how the rolled-up sleeves revealed a network of prominent veins against his forearms. Next, that fucking curl, and the innocent tilt of his head as he tried to work you out that made the a few more strand topple over with it. “Thank you,” you settled on breathily.
Clark eased considerably at that, practically melting across from you, separated by the granite surface, but warm enough that you could feel his body-heat and relief. “Of course.”
As you took the first bite, sunlight finally decided to trickle through the window above your kitchen sink. The room suddenly oozed with a marmalade hue that made Clark look godlike and your chest imbue with a glow of its own. You shivered against it.
“Okay,” he said mischievously, “I know my cooking’s not that good.”
“Idiot,” you said fondly. “No, it’s just—” the inexhaustible light seemed to flush against your skin in a way it never really had before, even in the peak of summertime, even during your childhood on beachdays. It might’ve been Clark—being around him felt like eating the sun, like drinking in sunshine. But, you could’ve sworn it seemed to heighten everything. The garlicky tang to the mushrooms, the nutty flavour of the sunflower-seeds in the bread (a taste that you’d never really noticed so much before), and the smell of something ozone-like on Clark that made you frown. It was sharp, almost electrical, and similar to chlorine or the air after a thunderstorm. “Clark?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Where were you yesterday?”
Clark stiffened almost imperceptibly, but you caught it—you seemed to be catching everything; even the standing-up of the hairs on his arms. “I…I got caught up, after the fight downtown. I know I should’ve called sooner, or at least text, so you knew that—”
“But you didn’t,” you interjected, popping a mushroom into your mouth.
“I know,” he said, chagrined. “I should’ve been there to walk you home. It was me who made a big deal out of it, so…” He leaned over the breakfast-bar then, touching your wrist that wasn’t holding a fork. “You’re the most important thing, Penny. I really am sorry.”
The rosary of you, this pious, trembling thing that was all-Clark and heady, tightened at his words. You’re the most important thing. You tried to language that into something cruel and less well-meaning—like the brief, futile attempt at telling yourself that he meant the baby, not you. It did little for the grotesquely enormous ache in you. You tried to look away, too, but you didn’t even seem capable of that. Clark lingered closer still, the sun softening the carved angles of his face and a boyish smile onto his face. He probably tasted like sunshine, too. You wanted to kiss him again. You reckoned you took the last time for granted.
“I missed you,” he added, a teasing tilt to his voice now. “I like our walk-homes. Even when you’re cranky and nauseous and chewing me up—”
You were a moth to the sunlight of Clark Kent. You know that now. His thumb was tracing the knots of your knuckles, and you suddenly forgot how to eat.
“Yeah, yeah,” you brushed off, trying to act lighthearted and nonchalant, but there was a flustered bite to your voice that couldn’t be hidden. “You’re obsessed with me, I get it.”
Clark just laughed heartily. “If that’s what you want to tell yourself. Hey, listen,” he added, as if he hadn’t put your world in a spiral, “I’m going to head back to mine, get ready for work. I think you should have the day off. Call Perry, ask if you can finish off that article you’re writing here. Tell him you’ve got a bug. And I’ll swing by after, yeah? If you figure out what you’re craving for dinner, let me know and I’ll pick up some stuff, see if I can impress you with something better than mushrooms.”
This boy was a dream. He had to be. A honeysuckle daydream that came to sweep you off your feet, make you dizzy with desire, before the cold splash of reality hit you.
Your fork had been suspended halfway to your mouth, two mushrooms gracelessly splatting back onto the plate as you gawped at him. Still, there he was, saying all of that like it was the most sensible offer in the world.
“You don’t have to do that,” you blurted. “You made me breakfast. You came over at…” you shook your head, violently opposed. “No, Clark, you don’t have to make me dinner.”
“But I want to,” said Clark easily, shrugging. “Have I ever told you that breakfast-for-dinner is my favourite?”
You blinked. “No.”
“Well. It is.” He was now walking out of your kitchen, onto the side of the breakfast bar where you were sitting, affronted at his kindness and good heart. His hand brushed the hard line of your shoulders as he walked to your entryway, grabbing his coat, working his feet into his shoes. Seriously, what was his fucking problem? He walked back over, fisting the herringbone of his coat in one hand, and using the other to respectfully touch your waist as he bent down just enough to peck the crown of your head. “Rest. Write. Drink some ginger tea. I’ll check in, yeah?”
You nodded, dazed, trying to act more composed than you felt. “You always do,” you muttered disgruntledly.
Clark’s gaze lingered for a beat longer than he probably meant to—almost like he was memorising you. You wondered how he looked from where he was standing. If the sunlight made you look as golden as it made him. (It did. Clark loved the sunlight, for obvious reasons. The warmth of strength in his blood, in his bones—chanelling through him like ichor and life. To see you in the light of it, to see a small-but-there bump just under the fresh cotton of your pyjama-top, it felt religious, in an inexplicable way).
“Can’t help it,” he said tenderly, and you genuinely thought he meant for it to come out as another tease, or at least more lighthearted than it did. That wasn’t how it reached you, though. The confession seemed to fill the room even brighter and brilliant than the sunrise. Your heart was bruised by it. Your mouth fluttered open, but nothing came out, so you just nodded lamely, as if that was enough. Maybe it was, because Clark smiled at you again and finally straightened, giving your waist a final, delicate squeeze before leaving for the door. “Bye, honey.”
Your gravelly ‘bye’ was met with the closing of your door. He left your apartment suffused by cedar and that storm-like edge. A welcome enough storm, though. The midsummer kind that was needed after balmy, long days, sun-blooded and dizzy with heat.
“So…” you emptied your throat, lifting your tee again to stare doe-like and awestruck at the small bump and brushing your fingers over it. It hit you, deplorably, that you hadn’t spoken to it yet. At least, not aloud. You’d read that babies didn’t start to hear in the womb until around the sixteenth week, so you were a bit off. But, still…it couldn’t hurt, right? “…What do you think, Baby?” There wasn’t a kick or stir, not even a butterfly-flutter. There wouldn’t be for weeks. Yet, you hoped it knew. That it could see through you, too. “I’m going to try my best. Your daddy, well…he already is the best. You’ll be so loved…
on the edge of thy blade | johnny mactavish x f!princess!reader
alternate universe: king of scots, johnny mactavish (16th-17thcentury) x princess!reader
type: one-shot (14.1k) — AO3
cw: suggestive language and content, mature language and content, smut, unprotected piv, breeding kinks, cumplay, oral, graphic depictions of violence + gore + murder,, depictions of assault and bodily harm, dubcon, obsession, possessiveness, misogyny, historical inaccuracies, emotional abuse (not by johnny) 18+
You’ve had one foot in the grave for your entire life.
You’re not sick, nor sickly; you just matter so little to your family, that in the event they had to cut someone loose in order to survive, you’ve always known that the sacrifice would be you. Whether in life or in death, you’ve always known this to be fact.
You are a means to an end. That is all you will ever be. Your title matters little—you will never inherit anything that belongs to your family. In the unfortunate circumstance that all eight of your older brothers would die, your fortune would go to some second or third cousin, some prince in some lonely island off the coast of Africa. The only real value of your life, the only real value a man would ever bestow you with, is your hand.
In order to marry, your father expects to gain something after your dowry. Land. Money. Gifts. Titles. Since your sixteenth birthday, you have heard your father negotiating your hand with men of far places just to see what it is he could gain with your misfortune. The only reason you are still yet unwed, at your apparently old age, is because your older brothers pity you when you beg for a little more time. They have always been able to convince your father on your behalf that you were not ready, but now that you are reaching of an age to be considered too old to be desirable, they cannot hold him off any longer. Your eldest brother, naturally your father’s favorite, quieted your tears when he told you that your father’s decision had been made final.
“I’m sorry, bug,” he had murmured to you. His wife, who always hated you for taking up too much of her husband’s time, had sat in the corner writing in her journal, clearly annoyed. She wants you married most of all, so that you can be some other man’s problem, not her husband’s. You sulked in your brother’s arms, wet face buried in his chest. Your brothers had been more of father figures than your own had ever been. Marriage would be losing every man that had ever cared for you even a little in your life. Your autonomy is nonexistent. Your happiness is not a priority. Your very being is only worth as many children as you can bear, and with your mother bearing eight boys and one girl, your body is worth more than even lands and titles. Men will give their fortunes for your hand with the prospects that you will give them just as many boys as your mother had given your father.
When your mother died giving birth to your father’s only girl, you realized that determined your value. The end of his sacred line. The cut rope of his endless baby-making mechanism, the thing that stole the one person your father loved almost as much as his first-born son—you. A girl. As soon as you were born, it was already decided—you are a useless, worthless thing. Maybe the handmaids thought your father would love you so because you might be the only precious, delicate thing left in his life, but they were wrong.
You have spent your entire life trying to please him. Doing your best in your studies. Trying your hardest with your governess. You even begged your eldest brother to teach you how to fight, but after showing your father your newfound skills you had spent years perfecting on your sixteenth birthday, he scolded you for being the most unladylike girl he had ever known, stupid and wild and absolutely shameful. You think you cried for a week straight afterwards. You don’t really remember. You’ve been in a lull ever since, and you’ve been fighting for your right to stay single, childless, and terrible. You want to die this way. You’ve tried to perform to your best ability for this man since you could walk, and you don’t want to do it all over again for another.
Men are dogs. You want them to suffer.
Your father wants to speak to you today. It is an important enough conversation that when you wake up, there are a line of handmaids waiting at the foot of your bed, with dresses hanging on the walls and fussing to get you in a warm bath. You wince as they wash and braid your hair, and you eye the dresses warily. They are some of your loveliest ones, and you see a few new ones as well. In the colors of your country, a deep, violet purple accentuated by jewels of fine quality and golden accents and handsewn pearls. You see a few of the maids polishing your finest tiaras, and you blink as you look in the mirror, shaking your head.
“It’s today, isn’t it?” You ask one of them, the one who’s fitting drop-diamond earrings into your ear. She purses her lips and just sighs, but she gives you a subtle nod. Your eyes tear just a little as you look in the mirror, and you will your hands to stop shaking. You wonder who your father has chosen. You reckon he is probably ugly and large, a man who doesn’t bathe or clean his teeth. Maybe he already has mistresses, bastard sons who will treat you as the lowly girl they already think you are, or maybe his mother still lives with him and will make your life a living hell for not being good enough for her favorite son. When your maids tie your corset too tight, you don’t even flinch this time. You’re too numb everywhere to feel anything at all.
When you look at your ring finger in the mirror, you wonder how much it would hurt to just simply cut it off.
Your eldest brother comes to collect you. When you step out of your room, still weary and teary-eyed, he kisses you on the forehead and tells you how beautiful you look. Maybe he’s right—it might be one of the most beautiful dresses you’ve ever worn, but you don’t have it in you to be excited. You just clutch your brother’s hand tight and use him for stability as you follow him blindly to your father’s study.
The wooden door creaks, groaning as if agreeing with your melancholy. Your father sits at his large desk. There’s a map of Europe in front of him, and he lets out a deep breath as he stares at one island in particular—England. He hates this land and all of its people, every last one of them. He refuses the color red in his castle just so that he doesn’t have to be reminded of them. It is written in your country’s history that England has defeated your grandfathers for generations. You’ve been pushed to this side of the world on account of their aggression, and you take a deep breath when you see the scribbles of red and black where their kingdom lies. You notice your father has left out Scotland and its highlands to the north, but you don’t comment on it as your brother pulls out a chair for you and holds your hand as you try to sit in your many skirts.
“Well…” Your father smiles, but it’s dull. “Don’t you look beautiful.”
You say nothing as you stare at your father. You can’t move your head very much anyways with how heavy your tiara and headpiece is; it jangles as you straighten your posture, the jewels that hang clinking against each other. There’s a dark veil over your face that you are grateful for—you don’t think your expression is very kind on account of the frown pinched between your brows.
“Do you know why you’re here, my darling girl?”
You nearly tear the gloves on your hands from how hard you close your fists, but you just shake your head slightly.
“It’s been far too long,” your father tells you. “You cannot be…an unwed woman any longer, lest people think ill of us, and I’m tired of hearing you whine about it. Everyone in this family performs their duties, and I spoil you.” You say nothing, but you think about spitting on him. “But…I’ve decided to make this fun. I could really make something out of this. Out of you. With one contract I sign, I could make it something…historical. I could make you queen of some other country, can you believe that, my girl?”
Because you could never be queen of this one.
“In just a few hours, the many eligible men I've called upon are to arrive. We’ll be hosting them for a week, and they will participate in a…series of games,” your father explains. He grins wide, and this time he really smiles. He is happy about this. “The winner will have your hand, my princess.”
Your eyes flicker to the map on his desk. The X-marks that are scattered around it now make more sense. They are markers for the places that are sending their sons, and you swallow hard as your eyes roam over the the faraway places they are traveling from. Your headpiece jingles as you look away, towards your brother. He has a solemn look on his face, but he doesn’t protest on your behalf. You shake your head.
“I don’t…understand,” you say softly.
“Of course you don’t, princess,” your father murmurs. “Not to worry.” He motions for your brother to come closer, and you watch as he comes to stand behind your father, who points just north of England on his map. “They’re sending the King of Scots, my boy. He is unmarried, and he leads a fine army.”
Your brother shakes his head, “I don’t know, Father. We’re not a very rich country. He could marry better. I’ve heard he’s…something of a jester in courts. Likes to have a laugh. If anything, he’s coming to anger the English king and drink through our wine cellar.”
As proud as your father is, your brother tells it to him kindly. Your country is poor, shrinking, and barren. Your father has launched offensives on many fronts, but they always fail. For as intelligent as your father claims to be, his actions only show stupidity. He's not patient. He thinks small. Instead of playing the long game, he tries his luck for small victories, and they have only garnered you and your family embarrassment. You don't have the money for a dowry to a king that powerful. You don't have the pedigree for a family that old, that rich, that important.
“Well,” your father sighs. “I suppose that’s true. As beautiful as she is, she has nothing to offer,” he shakes his head. As if it is your fault that you are not a desirable match. “We have nothing to offer. Besides, she’ll only look this way a year or two longer, and then she’ll be—”
“They’re arriving this afternoon, are they not?” Your brother interrupts. Your father laughs, nodding, putting a hand over his large stomach and rubbing it as he thinks about the feast the staff has cooked up for tonight.
“Yes, my boy. Tonight. Which means, princess, you need to go have a lie down. You must look fresh for when they come, wouldn’t want to embarrass me by not looking your best, eh?”
You stand, reaching for your brother’s hand, and he takes it gently to escort you back to your room. He tries to reach for you again when you slip inside, but you shut the door before he can say anything.
Men are a means to an end. You love your brother, but he is no use to you anymore. You will need to find other ways to help yourself, and he cannot be it anymore, not with your father’s voice in his head now, incessant.
Your father is a rat you cannot trap. An insect you cannot swat away. Biting, nagging, chewing on the bits of you that linger, and your patience wears thin. It has been many years of trying to swallow these truths, but you will it down now. There is truth in what your father says—you are grown. You are old enough to know what it is you want and what it is that's worth fighting for. There is an elegance to matrimony, a strategy to it, that has only just occurred to you. There are things you have inherited from your mother that must remind him of her constantly, and now you must use them to your benefit.
A sheep no longer. A shepherd you must become.
The throne room is lively. There’s chandeliers filled with candles, and there’s a band playing wonderful music around large tables abundant with food. Cakes, pastries, fruits, meats, jugs of wine and water and juices. There are many people—those men who have brought their sons have also brought their families, and there’s even children dancing in circles and running around with sweets in their hands.
Your appearance makes the audience quiet. Your father sits at a grand table situated in front of his throne, and your eldest brother beside him. Your brother’s wife scowls when she sees you, and because of the veil you wear over your face, you scowl right back knowing she can barely see you.
Your father allowed a new dress to be sewn for you—in fact, you will be wearing a new one every day of the week. Tonight, you wear the color of swans; a delicate off-white, beaded with pearls and wearing a belt of fine gold and rubies. Your sleeves are long, your corset is tight, and your headpiece glitters spectacularly in the torchlight from the amount of crystals lining it. There is a veil that falls delicately over your face, stopping just under your nose. It is a custom of your people that the face of a soon-to-be bride could not be seen by anyone until after she says her vows, and then, only her husband can uncover her eyes.
Men flock towards you, bees to flowers. They reach for your gloved hand, as if you are as delicate and breakable as you present, and they kiss your rings with gangrene smiles and eyes much too starved. These men are not your friends. They are ugly and formidable, and you would loathe to be at their bedsides. They bring with them bounties written in blood; your father will surely vie for something most profitable.
When they are finished giving you their introductions, your father motions for you to come towards him. There’s an empty seat to his left, and just as you sit next to him, the wooden doors creak open again, and a great deal of yelling and noise nearly overtake the music altogether.
A couple stout men walk in holding large banners. A crowd of dark and tall broods follow them, laughing and jeering and wearing outfits of various patterns of plaid. Over their shoulders, they wear great furs and wield various weapons, and at the sight of them, your father adjusts in his seat, looking to your brother and nodding. This is who they've been waiting for all night—their unofficial guest of honor. Someone important. Someone formidable. Someone unreachable. An ally they must secure.
The last man to follow walks taller than the rest of his men. He stands big and broad-shouldered, and he walks with a confidence that unnerves you. The first thing you notice about him is his eyes. Bright blue, complimented by his dark hair and well-kept beard. Those eyes are accented by a scar that cuts from the middle of his left eyebrow down across to his other cheek, and the next thing you notice about him is his dazzling smile.
He lights up the room. Charismatic down to his very bones, and he has the face to make up for it—gorgeous man he is, and even under a shawl of elegant furs, you can tell he is nothing but muscle, scar tissue, and healthy fat.
He grabs a small cake for himself as he makes his way with his men to your father’s table. You watch from under your veil as each of his men bow to your father, giving him their thanks, some even dropping off chests full of gifts, and then it is this man’s turn to give his introduction.
Up close, you admire his hairstyle. He has beautiful dark tufts of thick curls, and they fall down the middle of his head, the edges shaved with a close blade. He wears some kind of soot over his scar like war paint, and he smiles at your father with teeth when he gets close enough.
“Och, ye ‘ave no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to shake yer hand, Yer Majesty.”
His Scottish accent is heavy. He grins through it, looking eager to shake your father’s hand. Your father stands with a big, full laugh, clasping the man’s hand in both of his. They could not be any more different, your father and this man. You have read about Scotland and its Isles. You were taught much about his land when your governess taught you of world maps and alliances, and while your kingdom cannot afford to turn its head to England and their powerful navy, Scotland revels in its fight against them. They make a game of it.
Your father and Scotland are united in an equal hatred of a common enemy, and in that, they are already friends.
“It is a pleasure, Your Majesty,” your father beams. “Welcome, welcome! We are…so glad to have you, so happy you could make it!”
“Please,” the man shakes his head. “Call me Johnny. Dinnae care for all the titles and shite.”
Johnny shakes your brother’s hand next before your father gestures to where you sit next to him.
“And this is my daughter.”
Your headpiece moves with you in the soft light, and Johnny has to blink rapidly to make out your figure. The jewels you wear sparkle, the prettiest glitter in his gaze as he sets his eyes on you. He can see the curve of your lips, but your eyes are hidden by the shadow of your veil. Time sits still when you stand to curtsy. He sucks in a heavy breath—the dress you wear accentuates your figure, and he licks over his teeth when he sees the swell of your breasts over your corset. He cannot see all of your face, but he doesn’t need to.
Johnny did not come looking for a bride; but he decides in less than a moment that he will indeed leave with one.
You round the table so you can stand in front of him and curtsy properly. While other men only received a quaint nod from you, this man was royal, and custom implored you greet him more personally. Johnny hums when you dip your head and take a generous bend of your knee. He stops you before you can curtsy too low—he reaches for your hand and pulls you back to both feet, and your breath hitches when he all but falls at your feet. He takes a knee, thumbing over your knuckles, and you watch as he brings your hand to his lips and kisses each finger. His palms are rough; they are carved from experience, cut from battle, and though they’ve healed, you can feel what it has left behind.
“Yer the princess everyone will be fightin’ fer?”
“I suppose so.” He's being dramatic; a week of silly games, a distraction for your father to drag out your betrothal so he can squeeze out as much of an offer out of these men and their lands as he can.
“Might ‘ave ta ask ye for yer favor, then.”
“You’re going to participate, Your Majesty?” You ask, laughing a little.
“If it’s ye that’s what’s won, then how can I refuse?”
You pick up your head slightly, looking over at your father. His eyes are glazed over, starving. He nods his head at you, as if to grant you permission for such an embrace, and you look back down. Johnny's eyes are so much brighter up close—so blue, it nearly hurts to look at them.
“Good luck to you, then, Your Majesty.”
"'s Johnny ta ye, princess." He gets up off his knee, standing to his full height, and your head follows him until it is tipped back, neck craning so you can keep your eyes on his. He eyes the veil, in a way that you think he might remove it. Take it for himself, this privilege not meant for him, and steal it anyway. It wouldn't surprise you; he's a king, and he must be used to it. You think you see blood under his fingertips, and he smells like the grime of the ocean. There is nothing he is not given—no prize he does not collect. Whatever he asks for is given or it is taken, and there is a moment as you're looking at him that you realize now more than ever that this is what you are.
Property.
You will be bartered for. Men will play games, for fuck's sake, in a foolish attempt at proving their worth for your father's one measly daughter. A princess of no regard, a keeper of no tithes, you are only as valuable as the children that you can carry, and that is all. There is nothing else about you that is worth having, and the moment of hope and a little bit of wonder dies just as quickly as it comes. This king, as beautiful as he is and as kind as he presents himself, will not be the same one you meet once the veil has been lifted.
"Johnny," you echo softly, blinking up at him. He smiles at that. Teeth bright, smile wide, and he nods his head behind him.
"Yer plate is empty, princess," he holds out his arm for you, and you look towards your father. He gestures with his arm towards the table of food, and you take Johnny's arm reluctantly as he guides you down the steps towards the table. He shoves some men out of his way, hilt of his sword hitting them as they bump past, and you stand just at his side as he picks up a plate and begins to fill it with food.
"You don't have to do that," you say softly. "My lady can—"
Johnny tsks. When he shakes his head, his curls bounce, and you watch as he plucks a few sweets beside the food for you. Chocolate pastries and delicate fruits.
"Ah ken what ye need," he mutters. He walks, scanning the table, and you follow him. "Mmm. Try this one."
"Your Majesty—oh!" Your mouth closes as he shoves a small cake into your mouth. For a split second, his fingers are inside your mouth; just long enough for you to taste the dirt there, but quick enough not to be so improper. You swallow politely, fingers over your mouth, and when your tongue darts out to lick the crumbs off of your face, Johnny is smiling even wider, licking his fingers, all too satisfied. He meets your eyes somehow, even from under the veil, and he sucks a little too long on the thumb that was in your mouth for it to be anything but suggestive.
"Ah came 'ere ta meet yer father. Sent me plenty o'letters. Said this would be a party ta remember, said ye were gettin' married." Johnny shrugs, looking around the room. "Hate ta inform ye, princess, but no one will make an offer better than the one ah'll be makin'."
What a sickening sight to see. He's not wrong. There's no one with men more capable. There's no one with a kingdom as bountiful and rich, full of as much history as his might be. You can't imagine the kind of ancestors he must have, a lineage of great power and much fortune, and he displays their triumph in the very fabrics he wears, and he has their rage woven into him, in his blood.
You shake your head. You don't want that.
"I'm…" You clear your throat. "I'm very flattered, Your Majesty. But my family…" You shake your head again, "we don't have the kind of fortune that a dowry to you would require. There are much better arrangements for you to make. I couldn't in good conscience expect you to settle."
Practical. Matter-of-fact. Reasonable, even. If marriage is truly a transaction, you will give him your cost-benefit analysis; a marriage to you does not work in his favor.
He bends. Head tilted, getting closer, mouth close to your ear so you can hear what he has to say and not mistake it for anything else.
"I'd take ye for nothing, princess. If that's what yer worried about."
He leaves you with your father, pulling out your chair for you and setting down your plate. When he leaves, you're frozen to your seat—watching his large figure from behind as he joins his men again and begins to gather his own plate of food. It takes great effort to stop your mouth from curling into a scowl at the way he picks up a turkey leg and bites into it grotesquely; canines chewing meat with his mouth open and his greasy fingers wiping at his short beard. Your father reaches for you, a rough hand on your arm that tugs you close to him so he can mutter in your ear.
"What did he say to you, girl? Tell me."
You look down at your plate of food. Vegetables. Meat. The cakes. A balanced meal of good portions. If you could, if decorum allowed, you think you'd pick up this plate and walk right over to His Majesty and shove it right back into his face. Horridly, you almost think he'd enjoy that. Open his mouth wide to catch whatever you tossed his way.
"He's a beast, father," you murmur, resisting his touch. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp and wince when he digs his nails into your sleeve and keeps you near. The slight squeak in your voice seems to catch Johnny's attention. His head turns just slightly, and when he eyes the way your father holds you, the laughter leaves his eyes. His smile fades just a bit, and you think you see his nostrils flare. If you looked closely, you'd see his other hand nearly twitch as it reaches for his sword instinctively, but you're too preoccupied by leaning away from your father to notice. "A horrid example of a man. Let alone a royal one. Are you sure it's true? He stinks like an animal."
"Speak, girl," your father repeats. "I will not ask you again."
"There's nothing to say," you tell him. "He asked me about the games. He wants to play."
"For your hand?"
"That's what will be won, won't it?"
You think your father is about to strike you. He moves like he will, but then a shadow comes over the table, and your flinch is interrupted by your brother, who looks down at your father with a furrowed brow.
"I think it's time for her to rest," he says lowly. "If she's expected to be at the games all this week, she needs her sleep, don't you think, father?"
You won't be grateful for your brother for doing the right thing; but you are grateful anyways.
"Perhaps it will quiet her snithing tongue and make her a proper princess once more, but we're all praying for fucking miracles, aren't we?" Your father spits. When he lets you go, your chair is sent backwards from the force of it, and your lip trembles as you stare out at the sea of people still partying. This is what you're resigned to—a life of invisibility. There will be a day when you are not in the spotlight as you are now; when you are wed and underestimated and hidden behind a wedding ring that all but seals your lips shut. Your husband can hit you, abuse you, terrify you, but you'll only be noticed if you don't produce him an heir.
You squeeze your hands into fists to keep them from shaking as you stand, and you follow your brother out of the Great Hall. You don't speak to him, even as he asks you how you are. You say nothing, just keep your head high as he opens the door to your bedroom for you.
"Sister, I know that—"
"Have a good night, brother."
He's quiet when you shut the door, and he does not knock.
Your maids are silent and solemn as they help you undress. A few of them are filling a tub with warm water in another room. You did not want to bathe, but your oldest maid has insisted your mood requires one. They untangle your hair and take off your veil, and you refuse the mirror as they undo your corset and rid you of your skirts and undergarments.
You ask them to go as you soak. You lean over the edge of the tub, cheek resting on your arm, and you stare into the light of the fireplace that crackles. You think about how much worse you could have it; surely there are hundreds, thousands, of women that are in much more terrible places than you. Places that are cold. Places that are barren. Places that make them bleed, that make them sad, that make them hungry. Your birthright has granted you a place amongst a great house, has it not? Hateful father aside, what is it that you could ever want? If your resignation in life is to marry a mediocre man, surely your punishment fits the crime.
You were born rich and royal; you could not be granted all of life's great pleasures. The balance must be kept in some way, and this is your penance. You are simply an ungrateful girl. Spoiled princess.
Fucking awful—
You close your eyes when you hear the doors to the bathing room open. You don't want to see anyone. You don't want to talk. You just want them to leave you alone.
"Naseema," you sigh. "Please, I said I wanted to be left alone."
"Och, now this is the grand show I'd wanted tae be watchin'."
The water nearly spills over the edge of the tub from how fast you spin around. Your arms instinctively move to cover your chest, but you're grateful for the abundance of bubbles and oils in the water keeping you mostly covered.
There he stands, leaning against the edge of the fireplace. There's an apple in the palm of his hand that he bites into, teeth chomping into it and flashing as he chews loudly and smiles in your direction.
"You're not supposed to be in here," you tell him. "I…" You realize your face is not covered, and your eyes water. "You can't see my face, I…you need to c-cover your eyes—"
"Ah, right…I heard about tha'," Johnny points towards you as he thinks. "Thought tha' was just fer others."
"Only my brothers and my father," you clear your throat. "C-Can see me before the wedding. You need to go. You can't be in here."
Johnny unsheathes his sword, and you tense as he spins it in the low light before leaning it against the wall. He walks a little lighter without it, and he pushes off the wall so he can walk around the room and admire the decor.
"Yer husband can see ye," Johnny mutters, soot-covered fingers touching your robe. It's an off-white color that he immediately stains with his dirty hands. Lace and stitch-work tainted with his touch.
"You are not my husband." Your voice does not waver this time. You sit up in the tub, glaring his way, and he turns his head to look at you as if he sensed it. He looks eerily satisfied at your reaction, and he takes another bite out of his apple before continuing. He stops in front of the table that holds oils and perfumes and soaps. He picks one of the bottles up to smell them, closing his eyes briefly. "You are as ungentlemanly as they come. You're unseemly."
"Ye are quite the brat, bonnie."
"And worst of all, you're beneath me."
Johnny chuckles at that. He sets the perfume down, swallowing the bite in his mouth, and he licks over his teeth at the sight of you.
"Yer just makin' it worse, princess," he shrugs. "Reckon yer bite feels good, aye? Should we find out?"
You reach for a bottle of oil that is placed near you, and you pick it up and throw it as hard as you can. Johnny ducks his head just in time, catching the wall just as the bottle shatters where his head once was. You are only given a moment to revel in it before he's dropping the apple and coming straight for you.
You are about to scream, but Johnny catches your throat in time. Big hand wrapping around the delicate part of your neck, nearly lifting you out of the tub, squeezing as he brings your face closer to his. Your legs thrash, water splashing, but Johnny just shakes his head and tsks at the attempt to free yourself. You scratch at his forearms, but it only adds to the scars already littered there.
"I'd love to take ye," he says lowly, sighing. He sounds frustrated, but not with you. "Would love tae take ye right out of this very room, princess, and throw ye on the next ship out, but there's no fun in tha', is there?"
He presses his forehead to yours, thumb tracing along your jaw. You thump at his chest with your fists, but he doesn't budge.
"No matter," Johnny rasps. "Ye'll be queen of Scots by week's end. Ye need time, time tae think. Time tae reckon with yer God-given duty." You cry as he kisses your face, wet lips pressed to your cheek. "I'll be 'avin' ye, and I'll kill any right bastard that gets in my way."
When he lets you go, you cough as you collapse against the edge of the tub. You put a shaky hand against your throat, tears welling in your eyes, and Johnny reaches for his sword to sheathe it once more before he makes his way to the door. You meet his gaze just as he turns, and his smile is gone.
"Rest up, princess," is what he tells you. "We're a long way from home."
There is rust inside of the air. It's in the wind. It's curling around you, blowing through your hair. You breathe it into your lungs and feel it attaching itself to you from the inside-out. It tastes like rot, and it settles like a stone in your stomach. Dread fills you, as deep inside of you until it reaches your toes, and when your body finds your bed, you feel little urge to sleep.
There is a monster that dwells in the halls, and it has come for you. It will not leave until it has you, and you know even if you take away its weapons, it bears claws and teeth, as terrifying with its flesh than it is with anything it can hold to strike with. Your grave has all but been dug out.
Time to reckon with your God-given duty. Time for the inevitable. Time for what's coming, with no knowledge of how fast it will kill you. Morality is a construct, and time is a death sentence—they are abstracts that have been created by men that are nothing more than a delay for what has already been decided.
The death of your mother. The hatred of your father. The pity of your brothers. The wounds you carry inside, and the fragility of your birthright. The fear of what you are not, and the hope of what you might've become—it dies tonight, and when you close your eyes, you see nothing in your dreams like you thought you might see.
Only nightmares; and when you wake up, you cannot discern between the horror that you saw in your sleep to the one that you are living in now.
It was decided that you were not permitted to watch the games until the second-to-last day, much to your relief, and you do not see Johnny once during that time. Apparently, your father thought it best for you to stay hidden during the games instead—he thinks it will make you seem more alluring if you are only seen during certain times, so as not to spoil the vision of his only daughter's beauty.
For the first three days, highborn men competed against one another in a series of difficult games. Scores were given based on the rules of the games and also based on the favor of the audience, but a variety of them were played as a way for your father to not only have more fun watching men throw more and more money at him for chances to continue, but also to narrow down the pool to a select group.
Physical games are played—archery, games of spar, lifting of objects, throwing of them. These games were a way for your father to be rid of who he seemed weak and unmanly. Of course, he also approved mental games. Card games, board games, games where strategy and thought were required to continue between rounds and receive high valued scores. These games were meant for your father to cut out the stupid ones; if any kin of yours is to have his blood, they cannot be strong in only body.
The body deteriorates, is what your father told you. After it does, you will only have your head, and it must be a sound one.
Apparently, your father picked out your dress for today. You've never known him to be so particular about what you wear, but when you see the dress hanging in your bedroom, you grimace.
The fabric of the skirts has accents of plaid sewn throughout. Delicate flowers, lightweight tulle, and ornate handsewn pearls also accompany the accents of the red and green pattern, and your maids hand you a note written by your father as they start to ready your corset and undergarments.
Do not disappoint me today, dear princess. Much is on your shoulders, and I am counting on you.
You don't know what that means. You dread finding out.
Your maids busy themselves with your hair. You have two working on the strands diligently, and you sit there with a curious look as you watch them make distinct patterns that you're not familiar with.
"Uhm…what style is this?"
Your ladies look at each other before continuing.
"Your father asked for this, Your Highness," one of them replies. "He asked for…a more Nordic style to be done."
You laugh a little. "As in…vikings? Is he mad?"
Your other maid clears her throat. "No, Your Highness," she says gently. "The Scottish are; or—they used to be."
Your throat closes up a little, and you smooth out the skirt of your dress.
"His Majesty is still…playing in the games?" You ask softly. One of your maids squeezes your shoulder soothingly.
"Yes, Your Highness. He is the last of two."
The veil is the last piece to come, but it feels nothing but performative now that Johnny has seen your face. This veil has red tulle to match your skirt, and it has been sewn with a net of small crystals that sparkle in the sunlight. Your eldest brother is the one that comes to collect you, and when he sees you, he can only smile in an odd sort of way.
"You look beautiful."
"Let's just…get this over with," you whisper. "It's all but been decided, hasn't it?"
Your brother rakes his eyes over your dress in thought before nodding.
"The Scots have made a generous offer, sister. It would be…unwise to refuse. Especially considering…the political climate."
You purse your lips. "All of this, just to anger a more powerful country? I knew father was stupid, dear brother, but surely you have more sense than that. If England goes to war, we will lose."
"If England wants war, then you will have the most important job of all," your brother snaps. He frowns, stepping closer, and you jut your chin out, refusing to back down. "You will be the one that has to convince a Scottish court that we deserve their aid, and you will do it because if you don't, you are certainly correct. We will die. I will, our brothers will, our people—"
"Don't you dare try to incite some…some innate patriotism in me, brother!" You cry. You smack his arm away from you, fisting your skirt angrily and starting to breathe heavily. "I have never wanted this. I never wanted to be anyone except for your family. This…rift between us and others is your doing, and it's our father's doing, and it is because both of you think with only your cocks!"
"You watch your mouth!"
"And now, you want me to clean up your mess—by marrying the most foul, the most disgusting, the most abhorrent man on this God-forsaken earth because you fired a weapon and missed your fucking target!"
"Enough!"
Your brother's scream echoes along the halls. You pant, chest heaving now, and you whine when your brother's hand grabs for your arm and yanks you towards him. His touch hurts, and when you turn your head and flinch, you feel just as small as your father makes you feel. He's never looked more like him, and he's never felt more like him than right now.
"You will marry John MacTavish; and you will do what your king asks of you. You will do…what I ask of you. Now shut your fuckin' mouth, and let's go."
He sounds like him now; and you cannot discern between what is and what was.
Your brother pushes against your back as you enter the Great Hall, where your father is seated on his throne, cup of wine in hand and laughing with a group of his councilmen.
Johnny is here, surrounded by his own. Lads of differing ages, old and young, in different patterns of plaid that sit around him, but Johnny wears the most leather and iron, and his furs across his shoulders are the most ornate. He still looks just as handsome as the first day you met him, but you are intrigued by the cut along his brow that looks fresh. When you step into the room more clearly, his eyes find yours, a magnet, even when yours are invisible to him.
His gaze heats the moment he sees you. Lidded, his eyes look you up and down, already taking note of the matching pattern that you wear now that's been carefully added to your skirts. Your dress is a wonderful piece of artwork that melts together your own culture and his, and you look away, turning your head to get Johnny out of your view so you can focus on something else.
Anything else.
Your father has chosen a game of chance for the final game. There's a table in the center of the Hall with nothing but three dice sitting in the middle. There are three seats, one for a dealer, and two for the opponents, and when your father sees you, he motions for you to come over and take the empty seat beside him.
You settle in it with a small curtsy towards your father, who takes your hand in his and squeezes it firmly. He is in good spirits today; or perhaps it's just the mead. Either way, you're grateful, so you squeeze his hand back. For a brief moment, you look to your father, and you wonder what things would be like if he had loved you for even a second of your life.
Maybe he would have let you live just as you always were. Maybe he would have comforted you even if marriage was necessary. Maybe he would have allowed you, encouraged you, to marry for love instead of for fortune because it was the only kindness he could imagine for someone as precious as his only daughter.
Maybe he would have cried for you—mourned for you, as a woman's transition into marriage is most surely her demise. Maybe he would have done nothing at all, but you'll never know.
Your father does not love you; and he never will.
The Great Hall grows quiet as your father waves his hand towards one of his attendants. They take a seat in the dealer's chair, grabbing up the dice, and he motions for the men to take their seats for the game. Johnny sits with an air of confidence, and the man that sits across from him tries the same. He's a large man of tanner skin and darker hair, with clothes that have great patterns with beads sewn into them. Your father tells you he's from a land to the East, one that has great amounts of gold and mining reserves. You overhear him tell his advisor that if he wins, he has agreed to give your father a few reserves in exchange for your hand.
"Father, with this offer…the Scots can't be worth as much," you hear your brother mutter. "Why are we playing this game then? Perhaps the better choice is obvious, father."
"Because England draws near, my son."
"We can buy an army with that money."
"Perhaps…" Your father shrugs. "It isn't a bad offer; but it is personal with the Scots. They will fight for less, and with their hearts—" Your father pokes your brother in the chest, laughing lowly. "—war is not won by coin. No mercenary will be as invested as they would be."
You suck in a deep breath as the dealer shakes the dice in his hand. There is music playing, but it quiets to a low volume as the dealer begins to explain the rules.
"For each round, one has high, the other has low. We'll roll each die, best of three wins the round. His Majesty will pick who chooses first."
The dealer gestures towards where your father sits, and he grins wide, raising his arms.
"Our great Scottish friend can choose first. May luck be on your side."
Chance. Your father's way of letting the universe decide what matters more—vendettas or investments.
Johnny wins the first round. He chooses high, and the dealer rolls a four, a six, and a one. It is in the second round that you notice something strange—the manner in which the dealer rolls the dice. He has nimble fingers, and he twists them in one hand oddly, the hem of his shirt sleeve moving as he tosses them between his hands. You notice him move his head side-to-side, and when your father allows the other man to choose first, he eyes the dealer before choosing high.
The dealer rolls a six, another six, and a five.
Johnny sits back when your father offers for him to choose first. He shakes his head and holds out a hand to the man across from him, who looks at the dealer. The dealer moves his head from side-to-side, and when he chooses low this time, you look at your father incredulously, mouth hanging open since that is all that he can see.
"Father," you touch his arm. "Father, he's cheating."
"Shush, girl."
"But—"
The dealer rolls a three, a one, and then four. Just as you are about to grab for your father's jacket sleeve, Johnny makes a move—he slips the dagger from beneath his kilt and shoves it right through the dealer's hand.
You stand as the room erupts in screams and hollers. Your chair falls backward, and you put your hands over your mouth as Johnny grits his teeth and twists the dagger until the dealer flails out of his chair, screaming in agony. Blood spills across the betting table, his body shaking from his cries.
"Ye thought I would nae spot a game spoiled wit fulhams?" Johnny cackles, licking over his lips before spitting on his opponent. The thick glob of it sprays across the man's face, prompting him to yell. "The first rule of anythin' is tae learn about yer enemy. Tha' English shite isnae goin' tae work on me, ye fuckin' dobber."
Everyone goes quiet when Johnny reaches for his sword. He unsheathes it with ease, and you watch in horror as he kicks the table and sends dice flying, and he brings it down like it weighs nothing—right through his opponent's neck. The sword cuts like a hot knife through stiff butter, sharp edge bent for killing. The blood that erupts from the wound puddles underneath him as he falls to his knees, gurgling as he grips onto the blade and tries to move. His legs kick out from underneath him, and Johnny grunts as he brings the sword back towards him. It cuts through the front of him, and you stumble backwards when you see the man's insides break free from his body, falling out onto the stone floor.
The music stops. The yelling breaches, and the crowd starts to close in. Johnny points the sword towards your father, laughing maniacally as he comes closer. A line of guards forms in front of you, a wall between Johnny and your family, but you don't feel any safer with them there. Your kingdom has not seen battle in decades—your men would be no match for someone like him. You can see it in their eyes as they hold out their weapons in front of them; they'll fall like flowers under crushed feet, and Johnny will make it to you before his next breath.
"John, you're not thinking clearly," your father laughs. "You've made your point."
"I'll be takin' my prize," Johnny spits, running a hand over his face to wipe the blood off. It only smears it, war paint across his cheeks now as he keeps his sword up and pointed towards your guards. "I'm done playin' yer parlor games. Bunch of nobs, ye lot are, dangling 'er o'er us. Over me."
His voice rasps near the end, and you've never heard anything so threatening. You've never heard a man so easily talk of death at his hands before. Johnny takes another step forward, and every guard in the line lowers their swords towards him.
"And what does the great kingdom of Scots offer in exchange?" Your father goads. Your brother's head snaps fast to look at him; he is just as surprised at you are how stupid your father truly can be. He takes a seat like there is no danger around. Like he is negotiating a trade deal. Like there isn't a man whose familiar place is a battlefield holding a weapon out to him, like he's not standing on the edge of a cliff into nothing but the void. "What will you give me?"
Johnny lowers his sword just slightly, pointing right at your father with it.
"Yer life," he murmurs. "Ye can have yer fuckin' life, what's left o'it. Miserable pile of shite it must be ta be ye, but ye can fuckin' 'ave it, 'n tha's all I'm givin' ye."
"Not good enough."
Johnny strikes first. His men follow his lead, but they wait for his sword to break against another before they come up behind him.
They make quick work of your father's guards. You have always imagined battle to be bloody, but you never imagined it to be so visceral. Flesh gives way so easily to sword, and the insides of someone fall out so quickly. Guts and viscera on the stone floor just where you used to dance and eat meals, heads nearly decapitated from the body it once belonged to where you were given your first tiara.
You pick up your skirt when the blood touches the tips of your shoes. You loathe getting your dress dirty.
There are tears coming down your face that Johnny can see when he steps up to where your father sits. Your veil does not cover your mouth, and he sees the tears pooling under your jaw, but you are silent otherwise. You fist your skirt up with one hand, and the other shakes as it covers your mouth, and you can't will yourself to say anything.
You cry out, however, when your father grabs your arm and twists it, pulling you towards him. You're yanked in his direction, but he stops suddenly when the tip of Johnny's sword touches the front of your father's jacket, pointed right in the center of his chest.
"Let 'er go. Now. Dinnae fuckin' touch 'er."
Your father, thankfully, is not daft enough to disobey. He releases you, and you fall forwards, trying to find something to stable yourself with. You hold onto the nearest chair, but when your father reaches for you again, you hear metal fall through the air just behind you. What follows is the bloodcurdling sound of your father's scream, one that freezes you solid.
Your father's right hand rests at his feet now—cleanly cut off from the wrist down. You think you see his fingers twitch, even after being severed from its source.
"I said no' tae touch 'er, aye?"
It is something of a relief to watch your father writhe, fish out of water on the floor beside you. Your brother is on his knees, trying to calm him, but your father has been reduced to tears, screaming, yelling for help.
Your hands stop shaking, and you suddenly are able to find your footing. You stand still as you watch, breath coming out a little lighter. When the hem of your skirt finds blood and your shoes touch it, you barely notice. Your father looks funny from this angle.
Small.
You don't even realize you're stepping away until you bump into something. At your back, a hand steadies you, and when you turn, Johnny is there. Sword sheathed, hands stretched out like he's trying to seem like less of a threat, but the blood that paints his face and his body overshadow the attempt.
You hear your brother saying something. You think he might be calling out to you, but you don't turn around. The world is a little hazy, everywhere except for right in front of you.
Anyone that gets in my way. That was what he said. That was what he promised you.
Anyone. Anyone. Anyone.
His hand feels warm when it curls around your waist. When he tugs, he feels no resistance, and your feet shuffle closer. When your hand rests, just there in the middle of his chest, his own comes over yours, palm engulfing it as he squeezes gently.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he made a good argument. Time, maybe it was all you really needed. Time sweetens everything.
It rots.
You thumb at the fur across his shoulder. Fox, you think. You step a little closer, and Johnny understands; his hand leads your own to cover your ear, and when he presses your head against his chest, the world gets much quieter. No screaming. No yelling.
Just the thud of a strong heartbeat, and the rush of your own blood. You only hope that it stays inside of you.
You don't know why Johnny decides now to respect your people's traditions. He doesn't touch the veil or try to look underneath it, even though he already knows what you look like.
The ceremony is nothing but theatrics. A shaking Catholic cardinal that stands beside you and Johnny, making motions with his hands. You don't understand a word he's saying; it's all garbled Latin that means nothing to you, but Johnny still touches his forehead to yours and closes his eyes at one point which makes you think he must be saying something nice at least.
Something about until death.
When Johnny lifts your veil, you blink up at him. It feels like the wrong time to smile, but you try to. He does kiss you, but it's soft and short, a gentle press of closed lips and his fingers just under your chin.
You don't say goodbye. Not to your father, not to your brothers, not to your ladies. Johnny allows you a small number of things to bring, but even when you look around your bedroom, you realize there isn't much you want to take with you.
There's nothing about this place that makes you want to stay. Everything and everyone here will cut ties with you—if not because you are a woman, than it is because you are now a MacTavish.
You think it odd when Johnny offers his hand to you, but you take it anyways. He puts you up onto a horse, and though you think he will have you ride alone, you are pleasantly surprised when Johnny gets up onto it behind you. You sit side-saddle, legs dangling over, and he keeps his arms around you, hands on the reigns.
"Goin' home," Johnny mutters, leaning over the side of the horse to spit onto the ground.
You don't look behind yourself when you go. There is nothing left for you here.
It is winter when you see his home for the very first time. It was a long, grueling journey passing through highland country, with great mountains and valleys that his men knew well. The first snow began to fall just a week before you arrived, dusting the great plains of what used to be vast greens in a blanket of crunchy white powder. You neared his home surrounded by barren trees on the back of his horse, Nessie, and there was a large audience to greet you as you made it past the grand walls that surrounded his dwelling.
Dwelling—if you could even call it that. Johnny lives in a fortress. A castle of great structure and architecture, with high walls and many towers for defense and fortification; it is apparent the kind of country Johnny has found himself king of. His house is built for war because he must anticipate it often. There are places in the walls that look bent from outside force, but they have been formed to withstand it.
As you pass through the Forework into the courtyard, you're overwhelmed by the crowd that greets you. Johnny looks overjoyed as he slips off of the horse. He's greeted with great welcome by his men and others alike, but he doesn't linger for long before he turns to reach for you.
Your hands find his forearms, and you let him help you down. As soon as your feet touch the stone, everyone bows.
You're not used to this kind of attention. Your hand curls around Johnny's bicep, gloved palm squeezing there gently, and he presses his lips to the side of your head as he smooths out the back of your dress.
"Welcome home, bonnie."
In your books, you learned of Scotland and its lush green cliffs and vast waters, but they did not talk about its winter season. They did not tell you of the snowfall and the trees without leaves and how the lands seemed to stretch far into the horizon, a blanket of nothing but white and barren land. Underneath it, you think it must be beautiful, but as you squint into the horizon, you see only nothingness.
The weather forces you into the confinements of Johnny's home. You can't wander far because you don't know the land, and the cold bites when you walk too far. You can't walk to the other side of his estate, because one of his staff is always following you around, and it makes you easy to spot. If his breath is not hot down the back of your neck, his eyes follow you wherever you go.
On the journey back, your new husband allowed you your space. On his ship back to the north, you slept in your own quarters as long as you agreed to have meals with him. When you were back on land, he allowed you a tent if you rode on horseback with him. Johnny gives, but only if he gets something back—his generosity is not free, that much is evident to you.
Your new home is no different. You bargain for your privacy, but as the days pass, even you know that it won't be enough. You are a man's wife, and that allows him certain privileges—privileges that he's feels he can have simply for holding a title over you.
The ladies here are quiet around you. They are gentle as they take your hair down from their many braids; your new status means you have a new name, and they style your hair in intricate, twisted braids with fine cuffs and jewelry. You have seen the same decorations in Johnny's own hair—his curls falling in twists, small, sporadic braids styled with feathers and silver. Johnny may be royal, but he is not dormant. He doesn't hide behind his throne nor use his name to keep himself safe. You have seen him once or twice, on your many walks around the property, sparring with his men and showing off his undeniable skill. His sword is heavy, but you would never know it; he swings it like it weighs nothing in his hands, and there is no doubt in your mind, after seeing him best ten men nearly all at once, that Johnny is right where he wants to be.
His scars are not for show. He has bled, and he bleeds, and he will bleed, because that is the kind of life he will always chase. Peace does not suit him, chaos does, and maybe that's why he married you, too.
You can see him in the mirror behind you. Your ladies are taking your jewelry off when you notice him there, in the doorway, leaning against it as he watches with a lidded, heavy stare. As soon as the ladies notice him, they are dropping into their curtsies, whispers of his name leaving them as they give him their attention, and with a wave of his hand, they are flittering out in a hurried cluster, shutting the door behind them.
"You missed dinner," you say softly. Your hand reaches up to rub against the bare skin of your collarbone. You are in nothing but your night shift, a shawl around your shoulders and naked underneath it all. As he makes his way further into your bedroom, he drops his clothing. The furs around his shoulders. The leather around his torso and forearms, the belt adorning his kilt. When he stands behind you and wraps his arm around your neck, your head is forced back against his middle, his bicep flexing and keeping you head-locked there—all for him to look at. "Johnny, l-let me go."
"Most bonnie thing," he murmurs, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His eyes are a wicked shade of blue, and your lip wobbles as his other hand reaches around to trace along the neckline of your night shift. You suck in a shaky breath, shivering.
"John," you shake your head. "What…What are you doing?"
"Am I no' allowed ta admire my wife?" He asks. You lean away from him as he presses his face into your neck, and you let out a harsh breath.
"You stink," you mumble. "Like a dog."
He smells like sweat and dirt. Like dust kicked up and now it's stuck along his damp skin. Up this close you can see the scars that are littered across his face and against his chest. All he wears is his kilt, and you have a sickening feeling he truly wears nothing underneath it, like he was hoping he might find you like this, like he was hoping he'd see you just as you are now.
"Och, I ken what's got ye so angry, my love," he rasps. You close your eyes when you feel his lips against your jaw. He gives you a wet kiss, slobbering on your skin as he licks over the fresh oils your ladies spent time moisturizing you with, and he snarls when he tastes it, sucking at the bend of your neck and groaning. "I've neglected ye, 'aven't I?"
"John—"
"Aye, love—fuckin' wagging me tail when ye call me by my name, fuck—"
"You are a dog!"
"Want ta hear me bark?"
You scoot the chair back abruptly, shoving him off, and he stands like a heaving wolf behind you as you turn to face him. He licks over his lips, tilting his head from side-to-side, and you shake as you take a few steps back until you hit the wall and freeze.
"Stop it, John," you whisper, shaking your head. Your heart is beating out of your chest, and every hair on your body stands on end. "I know…I know what you did for me. I know it. Your home…it's beautiful." Your eyes water. "But it isn't mine. It never will be."
Johnny smiles a little. He looks around your bedroom, admiring the decor, before he moves to undo his kilt and drop it completely. Your eyes avert upwards. His nakedness, as quickly as you saw it, doesn't surprise you. He is pure muscle, pudge, heft, and you feel hot all over as he goes to fetch himself a drink from the cart on the other side of the room. He is solid. There is no give to Johnny, in any place—not in his chest, not in his belly, and certainly not in his cock that hangs heavy and thick.
"Ah have been patient wit' ye," he begins. You listen as he pours himself a full glass of mead, swirling it in its cup before taking a large gulp. The ceiling grows darker as you hear him pace, as if the moonlight itself draws away as your nervousness grows. His voice dips low, timber like ice though it strikes hot fear. "'ave I no' been a patient king, my love?"
"We're strangers," you say softly. "I don't know what your limits may be, but I am finding them short and ill-managed."
He laughs. Deep, bellowed, and your chin dips when he stands in front of you now. You do not dare look any lower than his eyes, and he stares at you over the rim of his cup as he takes another sip from it.
"Ah came ta y'r house ta jest, my queen," Johnny murmurs. His smile fades, and his eyes are nothing but black holes. "Ah share a common interest with yer da, but ye lived in a house of cards." He bends, shaking his head. "Y'r da is a right piece o' shite, and his daughter was mine fer the takin'. Ye are the most beautiful thing I've seen since I saw my first sunset, bonnie." You hear the clink of his cup as he sets it down, and then you feel the warmth of him as he steps just that much closer to you. "I saved ye from tha' wretched place—"
"You are not the hero in this story, John!" You cry. You put your hands on his chest to push him away, but he doesn't budge. His muscles flex under your touch, but he doesn't move, it's not possible. He's warm under your palms, thick hair around his chest that trails down his middle. Your nails scratch, and his pecs harden, and you feel warm tears come down your cheeks before you can stop them. "What—you save me from one fucking cell, just so I can sit in another? Is that it? Is that your redemption, my king?" You spit his title out like it hurts to say it, and before you can smack him off, his neck tilts, and your lips collide.
He is warm, and your body reacts. Your lips part when his do, and your tongues meet as his hands come to squeeze around your soft middle. There is only thin cotton that separates you and his bare hands, and it draws all the heat in your body low, to where your thighs quiver.
"Ah am no hero," Johnny mutters against your lips. You exchange hot breaths, and he drags you closer. Your feet follow, and you stand on your toes, his hands cupping just under your thighs as he gropes and squeezes you near. Your nipples pebble under your shift, and as he presses you to him, he feels all parts of you, and you him—he is hard and leaking between your bodies, and your hands find the sides of his face. "But I am owed."
You don't know if he loves you—maybe he thinks he does. You don't think Johnny knows what love means, or what it feels like. He takes you off your feet so easily; like you weigh nothing, gathering you up into his arms, lips against yours, crowding you away from the wall until you fall onto your back on the bed and invite him between your legs.
Your shift tears like paper between his hands. It falls in tatters around you, and Johnny wastes no time sliding his hands under your back and arching you up into him so he can put his mouth on your tits. He licks and spits on them like a hound, and your soft mewls only drive his hunger.
"John—"
Your words are swallowed by him. He kisses you again, wetter this time, hooking his burly arms under your knees and hoisting you up the bed until your head rests against the pillow and he can rut his cock between your legs. He's thick. Heavy at the base, full all around, and when the tip catches between your folds, you squeak at the plapping sound that follows the movement of his hips. He's too eager, uncontrollable, and just when you think he's about to push inside of you, he shakes his head, breaking your kiss.
"Ah…" He pants into your mouth. "Ah won't last." He grins. "Yer too pretty."
"Fuck you—" You gasp, and he shakes his head again.
"Dinnae worry," Johnny breathes, and you shriek when he throws your legs up over his shoulders, bending until he can press his nose just under your belly-button and take a deep breath. He's sick—but all you want is more. "Ah'll make a proper queen of ye yet, aye?"
Oh, he eats you as if you are the supper he missed. Thick fingers spreading you apart, pushing back the hair that keeps you hidden from him—when his tongue touches that first soft part of you, when it flicks over where you are most tender, you cry with relief, with pain. It hurts, but it hurts good, and you stare up at the same ceiling and lose yourself when his tongue slips inside of you. You're leaking, wet and sticky, and you fear it only encourages his insatiable nature. Your words mean one thing, but your body does not lie. It betrays you. You want to not want this, but it isn't true.
He's truly the dog that no one can tame. Too hungry, too eager, too much energy, and he feeds on you, and you hate him and you love him all at once. No one has ever paid such attention to you in your life. You have always been forgotten. The last thought. No one has ever put you above anyone else, and your feelings have never mattered. You are the last in a line of many boys. You are the thing that killed your mother. You are the woman that was never meant for anything except to be done away with—the only value you have ever been in any man's eyes is the object of many fortunes, generational and transactional.
It bleeds from you now, this hard truth that is no longer. It drains like an infected wound, and Johnny sucks it straight out of your cunt. You are beneath no one. You belong to no one except for him. You are a MacTavish now, a sister no longer, a daughter no more; you are a queen of great country, and you will understand that, and you know from the way he laps at your pussy that he'll keep doing this until you learn this new truth.
You know, however, that even then, he will want you.
His mouth is so hot. He adjusts you in his arms, moaning between slides of his tongue as he swallows hard and smacks his lips together. He pulls away to take a deep breath, brows pinched together as he squeezes your soft skin and nearly whines as he rests his cheek against your inner thigh.
"Ye close?" He asks, and you whimper as he flicks his tongue across your hole. Your insides pulse and tighten, wanting for something that he hasn't give you yet. Whatever this feeling is, you need him, and you wish he wouldn't stop. You want him to keep going. He can see your hole squeezing around nothing, and he grins, too satisfied with himself.
"C-Close?"
"It feels good, aye?" He murmurs, and you reach with your hand to pull on his hair, making him chuckle. "Ye've never come, my love? Never touched this wee bonnie cunt, tha' what I'm hearing?"
"Johnny, please—!"
"Whatever yer feeling—" He smacks his lips together, "—chase it. Dinnae stop until I tell ye."
You do. You do chase it. You can't help it, anyways, not with the way Johnny has you in his mouth. The way he spits on your cunt and has his way with it, kissing the soft parts when he needs a breath and sucking between your folds when he gathers it. His eyes are watching you, lidded, fluttering, and it brings him the upmost satisfaction watching you writhe in his arms. His pretty girl, a queen if ever saw one.
You see white behind your eyes. You cant your hips, rolling them up and into his mouth, and he seems to enjoy the way you react. Your pleasure is his pleasure, and it makes you feel so hot, so intense. You've never felt so out of your body before, and just as he wraps his lips around somewhere soft and pulsing, you cry with it as your thighs shake and he hinges his jaw open to catch something that he wants. It comes out of you sticky and warm, and you whine as he flattens his tongue and swallows it up.
The come-down is soft. Your body sags as it hangs in his arms, and you whimper when your back touches the bed. It dips under your weight, and you feel suffocated as Johnny pushes your legs apart and lays over you. His forearms settle by your head, and you blink up at him, mouth falling open as he uses one hand to hike your thighs up around his hips and grins down at you.
His face is wet. His short beard is shining with you, and he licks over his lips before he bends and presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your mouth.
"Most bonnie thing, I tell ye, love."
"I didn't…" You sigh deeply, and you can't help it when your hands slide up his sides and hook over his shoulders. "I didn't realize…"
"Yer governess might 'ave told ye one thing about…how husbands love their wives," Johnny murmurs against your cheek. You close your eyes, back arching into him as he grinds his leaking cock between your folds. "Ah'll tell ye another."
"You don't love me."
"Ah love yer cunt, bonnie—"
"That's not love, John."
"Give it time."
He's a dog when he's inside of you, too. Pushing into you for the first time, he shutters against the skin of your neck, finding your hands so he can intertwine your fingers and squeeze them tight. The whole room feels smaller as he pulls out just enough to shove right back in, and your thighs lock around his hips with the force of it. His cock pulses, just grazing the deepest places in you, and you want so badly for it to be the worst experience of your entire life, but it isn't.
For all the love Johnny doesn't have, your body will never know it. He fucks you like you're the wife you really are, and it hurts to know it. It hurts to understand it. He kisses so sloppy, but when he looks into your eyes, he sees you. He sees you for what you are, and that is his wife, and your eyes water at the realization of it because you've never been anything so precious.
Not a wife like other wives. You're not invisible like you know your mother must have been. You're not forgotten like you used to be. You're not misunderstood because no one will listen to you—every time your cunt tightens around him, Johnny moans into your mouth and tells you how beautiful you are, and you hate how much you love to hear it and try so hard to get him to say it again.
It is dirty and freeing at the same time. When your eyes find that ceiling, it fades behind your closed eyes, and with every thrust of his hips, you feel new again. His hands fall, one burly forearm wrapping underneath you while the other cups under your knee, and the next kiss you share is hot and wet and breathless. You follow him when he pulls away, and your hips cant when his pull back, but it's when your hands touch his face again that he falters. He comes without warning, too fast, his stomach tightening as he buries himself deep. Your neck tilts back against the pillows; you feel so full, like the spaces inside of you that have always felt hollow are right where they've always wanted to be.
Your face is damp with your tears when he pulls away to look at you.
"'ave I hurt ye, my love?" He whispers, and you shake your head, because you don't think he could, even if he tried. You are so frustrated. You are so angry. You hate yourself for it, you hate what you feel inside because it betrays the things you have always felt were the truest parts of you.
Men are simple. Men are cruel. Men are dull, stupid, and driven by nothing but their own selfish desire—but they've also never looked at you the way Johnny does. Maybe he's as stupid and hard-headed as his cock, but those eyes don't lie; they can't. They're not capable of it.
"No," you whisper, and you close your eyes as you press your cheek against his. His stubble scratches against your face in such a way, and you nuzzle against him, your arms wrapping around his neck. "W-Will you promise me something, John?"
"Anything."
You feel different when he pulls out of you. You press on his chest gently, guiding him upright, and you follow him. You settle in his lap, fingers brushing back the curls along his hairline. The moment is terribly intimate, and your eyes are shining like stars. He touches his forehead to yours, and you nearly crumble on the spot. You hate the way he makes you feel. You hate how much you adore it.
"P-Promise me you'll always tell me the truth. Even if you don't think I will want to hear it."
"I promise." Johnny speaks like a king, and your breath shakes. "Ye can cut me own heart out if I lie ta ye, bonnie. Ah'll no' be angry. Ah won't hold it against ye. We won't meet in heaven, my love, that much I ken, so in this life—" He picks up your hand and holds it over his panting heart. It beats like a drum under your palm, fast and unhindered and alive. "—what's mine is yers."
You falter. For all you speak of your bravery, you break like glass at his tenderness. Your mouth finds his again, and your hand slides up the length of his cock. He groans, nearly sobbing at the feeling, and you hide the smile that comes over your face at how easily he succumbs. When your thumb rubs over the tip, he whimpers, and when your hand cups just under, squeezing his balls, he spills between your thighs like it was the first time a girl ever wet his cock. You giggle when you feel it, webbing between your fingers, but you stop laughing when his own hand slides over his cock and then slips into you, two fingers deep until your mouth falls open and you look as stupid as you feel.
Johnny can be wise when it matters. As you stare at him from the other end of the tub, you realize he isn't all that he seems. He's a brute in body and mind, but he isn't blind. There is something innocent in him, even if it's hard to notice it. He isn't impressionable like other men; if he was, he would not have batted an eye when he saw your father put a hand on you. He would have taken you the very evening you wed, he would have drowned your screams into the very blankets of your marriage bed.
For all his severity, Johnny is a lover by nature and a fighter by necessity. There were women in his life that he must have loved once, and he has been chasing the security of it ever since. He did not find it in those around him, but he recognized it in you, and so he had to have you. The manner in which he takes—you won't say you understand it—but you are unfortunately grateful all the same.
It is a few months later when there is a letter on Johnny's writing desk with the seal of your country stamped on it. The paper is wilted slightly, crumpled, and when you open it, Johnny sits patiently at your back, an arm secured around your waist as you read its contents. The penmanship is shaky. The cursive is afraid.
It is a cry for help. Your brother tells of your father's constant illness and the threat of England that he cannot keep at bay any longer. You set the letter down with a grimace, and then your hands smooth down your front, just over where your belly has just started to fill out firm and round. Johnny's fingers follow, cupping just under your belly-button. He fixates on this spot often now, and you look at him intently before standing from his lap to make your way to where the hearth blazes with warmth.
"What are they asking for?" Johnny asks.
"It doesn't matter."
You bend, tossing the paper, and you watch with wet eyes as it burns. The edges of it catch on flame, and then so quickly, it's eaten by fire. You're still staring at it when Johnny is at your back, a hand along the nape of your neck as he presses his lips to your temple.
"If ye asked it of me…I would give it ta ye," Johnny murmurs. "Ye ken?"
You look up at him from over your shoulder, frowning, and he grimaces when a few tears catch on your cheek.
"No."
"They'll die, my love."
"I don't care," you whisper. "You reap what you sow, Johnny. As true as it is in children's stories, it is for men. Y-You won't make me feel sorry that there are consequences to their actions—you won't."
He lays his hand against your jaw, and his kiss is soft. You don't need to convince him of the woes of men. He is familiar, and he doesn't care either.
Maybe it's selfish of you. Maybe it's cruel. Maybe you are motivated by what's best for you, and not for them. Maybe you are thinking too much about the individual and not of the common good. Maybe you should be more motivated by duty and honor than on your thoughts, your feelings, your emotions.
No—no. If that is what God wanted, he would have made you a man.
Right?
The last of the letter burns, and you with it. You are a MacTavish now.
Warnings. NSFW🔞 MATURE content, smelly college au nerdjo, HE SUCKS HIS OWN DICK, childhood friends, accidental breeding, virginity loss, voyeurism, idiots in love. Part 1 but you don’t rly need to read it.
“Honey,” SelfSucker!Gojo’s mom pauses her conversation with your mother to call to you from the stove, “will you go get Toru down here?”
A few minutes ago his mother called for him to come down from his room because dinner would be ready soon but he hasn’t, despite shouting that he’d be down soon.
“That boy is always playing that animal game on his cpu,” she tuts, making your mother chuckle. You think she’s datedly referring to Digimon, but you’re no expert on things like that— not compared to nerdy Satoru anyway.
Every Friday since you were toddlers, you, Satoru, and your mothers eat dinner together while your fathers go off to wherever. They tell their husbands it’s to catch a break every now and then, but it’s really for your mothers to gossip and drink wine all night while the ‘kids,’ you and Satoru, keep each other company. Many, many Friday dinners later, and their house feels like a second home to you.
You pause your movie and stand from the couch, humming a polite affirmation to the request. You know dinner likely won’t be ready anytime soon since both moms always get distracted, but you still heed her call and begin walking up the stairs to relay the message.
You pass pictures hung along the walls as you make your way down the hall, some portraying Satoru’s little family along the years, a few of your mothers, and too many of you and Satoru as children.
Satoru’s door. The ‘No boys allowed’ sign that 15 year old Satoru deemed hilarious and profoundly clever still hangs crooked on his door. The idea of a girl other than yourself and his mother ever crossing this threshold voluntarily is a stretch, considering his less than subtle lack of hygiene and messy tendencies.
You don’t knock before opening his door since he’s —more often than not— slouched over his bright monitor and keyboard with bulky headphones on full blast.
The stuffy, unventilated air of his room fans your face as you swing the door open and begin your automated message, “Your mom wants—”
You stall immediately, your bored eyes widen drastically when you catch sight of Satoru, who’s not in his usual spot at his desk.
He’s attempting to suck his own dick, to put it bluntly. The incredibly tall man is curled in on himself atop his messy Pokémon sheets like an armadillo, ass up. His deeply hued pink, lengthy dick is hanging over his own open mouth while his lanky hands push into his mid back in attempt to stretch it enough to get his tip past his lips.
He’s immediately and visibly panicked at your sudden presence. His reaction plays in less than half a second: His desperate tongue snaps back into his mouth, retreating from its endeavor at uniting with his sensitive tip. Owlish blue eyes lock on you, fast, as his brows knit together to show off utter embarrassment. You gasp sharply, surprise still stuck on your face, when he falls off of his bed and onto the floor awkwardly.
“Y-You— knock! You have to—you have to knock!” He’s shouting at you as he poorly recovers from his tumble, making sure to shove his sweatpants back up before standing up with a stumble.
His panicked, confrontational voice directed at you makes you feel defensive and just as frenzied.
“Sorry! Sor— I never knock— I never— sorry!” you defensively squawk, yanking the door shut mid yap as if giving him privacy now will do anything.
The sign on his door topples to the ground with the strength behind your swing. Your face burns dangerously hot as you scramble to pick it up and fumble it back onto the hook before racing away from his room.
You almost trip hurrying down the stairs and sink into the couch, seeking solace in a throw blanket you pull up to your nose with your knees to your chest.
“He coming?”
You almost choke. Your eyes snap away from the tv screen that feels much further away than before, over to Satoru’s mother who’s looking at you in question, casually.
“W-What?”
She cooly repeats her question, “is Toru coming down?”
“Oh— yeah, he’s— I think so,” you nod aimlessly before turning back to stare blankly at the tv. You honestly aren’t sure if he’s coming down or not, considering.
Satoru’s mother nods and returns her attention to plating dinner with your mother.
A few minutes later, you gulp as you hear muffled footsteps coming down the stairs.
You don’t dare to openly glance at him as Satoru’s mom acknowledges his arrival.
“Look who finally decided to bless us with his presence,” you hear her tease him rhetorically, followed by your mother asking Mrs. Gojo what serving utensils she wants to use.
Satoru doesn’t say anything as your moms chatter on, but you can assume based on the noise that he’s grabbing some glasses for drinks to help out.
You’re just so distracted with the movie you absolutely are watching, that you definitely don’t notice when Satoru’s heavy gaze focuses in on the side of your head. That’s what you’re pretending anyways. You don’t even have to look to feel it, but it’s brief, like he’s hoping you don’t notice his peek. It’s half of a second of observation that affirms to him that you are just going to ignore and ‘forget’ what you saw.
Dinner is filled with your mothers cackling to each other about some reality romance tv show while you avidly avoid any possible eye contact with Satoru. There’s a clear, awkward tension in the air as you sit beside him and poke at your food, but your moms aren’t perceptive enough of your dynamic to notice.
You help out after dinner, picking up plates to take to the sink and Satoru’s already making an obvious move to go back upstairs.
“No, no, no you don’t mister,” Mrs Gojo chides, making him pause and slowly turn his head to look at his mother with the lenses of his bulky glasses gleaming, blocking the sight of his eyes. “Help out and then you two can watch your little movie.”
She says it as though Satoru was just trying to skip cleaning so he can watch a movie with you sooner, when that can’t be further from the truth and you both know it. You haven’t held up that- movie after dinner- tradition since you were twelve. Satoru grumbles to himself, but inevitably starts helping.
Eventually, one thing leads to another and you’re washing dishes while Satoru dries beside you. Other than the running water, you can distantly hear your mother’s boisterous laughing and loud chatter coming from upstairs in Mrs. Gojo’s room where they drink wine and girl talk every Friday after dinner.
As you wash a plate, you notice the suds are growing less and less. You need more soap. You glance over at the bottle that’s closer to Satoru than yourself.
“Could you—”
He almost drops the bowl in his hand. “I wasn’t doing anything— ! I just— I just had a scratch on my back and— and I know what it looked like but it wasn’t anything weird or something.” Satoru interrupts you, nervously like the defense has been waiting at the tip of his tongue. His hands are shaking where they grip the drying cloth, an incessant squeak can be heard throughout his speech from drying the bowl that’s already much too dry, frantically.
You pause washing to blink up at him.
“Uh—” you clear your throat and point to the bottle, “I was gonna ask if you could hand me the soap.”
A beat of silence. His cheeks are flaming pink and his lanky torso is tight, straighter than his usual slouch.
“Oh.”
He awkwardly wraps his long fingers around the bottle and squeezes some soap onto your sponge.
You gulp at the silence and continue washing, eyeing the few dishes you have left.
“I—” you begin, eyes locked onto the sudsy dish, “I’m sorry for just—for just coming in without knocking. —Whatever you were doing.”
You continue.
“It’s just, I never knock. I just thought— I never knock and— fuck I don’t know— sorry.” You’re not trying to make an excuse but you feel the need to defend yourself after seeing what you did, like it’s your fault.
In the many years you’ve known Satoru, it was never a problem when you’d barge into his room without warning. He didn’t seem to care, until now. Clearly you lost the silent memo that privacy was necessary now.
He clears his throat and uses an awkward hand to shove his glasses up, instinctively. “I know. I accept your apology, but you don’t— you don’t really need to say sorry. I was just scratching my back anyways.”
You hum a quick, high-pitched affirmation, side eye flicking at him briefly. Right.
You finally finish up. Satoru awkwardly stands in place, watching you dry your hands as if he’s not sure when or how he should make his leave.
You glance at him and speak hesitantly, “Wanna— um, watch a movie?”
You’re almost expecting socially stunted Satoru to bluntly tell you no and leave. Instead, he nods in one harsh affirmation— like a soldier formally addressing their colonel.
“Sure. Yes. I wanna.”
You huff in amusement when he doesn’t make any move to lead in his own house.
His socked feet shuffle behind you until you’re plopping down onto the living room couch.
Satoru throws in the DVD that’s worn from your past uses without having to ask you what you want to watch as you adjust to get comfortable on the sofa.
Then, he scratches the back of his head lazily as he moves towards the light switches and turns them off so the large TV is the only source of dim light fluttering over the living room. It’s like he’s on autopilot because when you were young, you’d always beg Satoru to get up and turn the lights off as you watch your movie together so you didn’t have to.
The couch dips as he sits beside you, he likely didn’t even think twice about it because he’s not leaving too much space between you— not that you mind.
You’ve practically had this movie memorized by now, and your thoughts drift to more interesting things as it drones on.
You tilt your head towards him and part your lips, just to hesitate and brush it off. You think it was subtle enough to slide past Satoru’s perception but you’re wrong.
Satoru blinks repeatedly, his gaze flickering from you to the screen and back.
“What?”
“What?” You repeat, feigning ignorance.
“You were gonna say something,” he points out. Anyone else would get the hint and give up, but not Satoru.
You shrug, “Just thinking, I don’t know.”
He angles his body to face you a bit more, his leg bending and the couch adjusts with his weight.
“About what?”
You exhale and glance at his obvious focus that’s alternated completely from the movie, to you. Satoru has seen you go through your aggressive side part phase, the time you got grounded for a month at fifteen and ugly cried while you screamed for an hour, and the entire year you truly believed you were a vampire and would scream in agony any time the sun touched your skin. He’s seen some shit, and vise versa.
It’s not too difficult to abandon the movie and turn your body and attention towards him with intent to indulge your curiosities.
“Have—,” you glance at the opening of the living room that leads to the stairs where your mothers are and lower your voice a bit, “Have you actually done it before?”
“Done.. what?” He blinks at you, confused.
“You know,” you murmur shyly, whispering the next part, “sucked your own dick.”
Satoru eyes widen and he freezes. “I- I don’t— I don’t—what are you— I’d never—”
You shove his oddly sturdy shoulder and your cheeks warm. “Come on, Satoru. I saw you.”
His hands protectively slap over his flustered face, glasses and all like it’s his last defensive measure. He’s murmuring to himself, but it comes out as muffled noises. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was calling you stupid defensively.
“Hey.” You poke his hand but he doesn’t budge.
You huff, slightly amused, and after a beat of stillness, you gently pry two of his fingers away until it uncovers an eye.
“Look, I’m not judging you, okay?” you explain, and then shrug, “I’m just curious. It’s not like I’ll tell anyone.”
His adams apple bobs. He slowly places his long hands into his lap.
“Curious— um— about what, exactly?” His white lashes flutter as his eyes travel from his fidgeting hands to your face.
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes flick to the side, thinking briefly.
“Have you ever succeeded?” You question eagerly and in a hushed tone.
“Like— it looked like,” you clear your throat, “you couldn’t reach.”
He glances over his shoulder at the entryway to the stairs to confirm you’re alone before pushing his glasses up.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
You shake your head and pull his hand up to force his long pinky to curl around yours. He can already tell you’re trying to pinky swear the way you used to when you were kids, with kisses.
“Swear,” you say definitively before twisting your interlocked hands until his fist is in front of you. You press your soft lips against it. He stops breathing.
Satoru’s in shock until you gesture dramatically for him to hurry, snapping him out of it enough to awkwardly press his puckered lips to your hand.
You smile into his fist at the sight of your locked-in promise, noses close to brushing, and pull your hand away.
You adjust in your seat enthusiastically, scooting closer to him until your knees are brushing his as you both sit with criss crossed legs.
“Now spill.”
He nods with a swallow, scratching the side of his head.
“It reaches,” he confirms with pink tinting his cheeks, “not all the way, but— enough.”
You inhale deeply while blinking, amusement and intrigue sitting on your chest as you process.
“Like your— uh— tip goes in?”
His eyes flick to the left briefly. “Just about.”
“Woah,” you exhale, “you’re flexable.”
He shrugs, “I think it’s because I’m so— long?”
Your brows raise and your eyes can’t help but trail languidly down to his lap.
He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, no I meant my body— my back, my stomach. Not my penis.”
“Oh.” You press your lips together to poorly hide your amusement and his face drops into a deeper red.
“We’re missing the movie—”
“So you suck on the tip or lick it?” You interrupt him curiously as if he didn’t even say anything.
“Uh— sucking hurts my neck so only for half a second,” he rubs the back of his neck, “so— so mostly licking.”
“Does it actually feel good?” You’re analyzing his every facial expression, intrigue hiding a splash of arousal. Every question feels more extensive than the last, and his heart is thrashing.
Satoru abruptly drops his face into the head rest cushion beside him and groans into it. His system is going into overdrive.
You huff a laugh. You’re not used to seeing him in this position, genuinely embarrassed having been caught in such a vulnerable state. Satoru is usually mean before he’s ever embarrassed or shy.
“I’m waiting,” you prod in a sing song voice and he slightly whines before sitting back up— slouching— but still.
“Do I have to answer that?” Despite his glasses, you can tell his gaze is down and off to the side.
“Absolutely.” You nod definitively with a proud tight- lipped smile, as if what you say, goes. Suddenly, he feels like his younger self being bossed around by you everywhere you two went.
“I don’t want to,” he mutters stubbornly under his breath.
“Come on,” you whine annoyingly, pushing even closer to him until your knees are slightly overlapping his shins, “I wanna know. It’s just me.”
“Yeah, it’s just you. And you’re a girl.”
You squint at him and lean back a bit. “What does that mean?”
“That this feels— wrong— weird—I don’t want to be talking to you about this,” he mumbles with a hint of irritation.
“Just because I don’t have a dick, doesn’t mean—”
He shakes his head, immediately and cuts you off with an authoritative ‘nuh uh,’ and you let out an amused scoff.
“What?” You urge him to explain, curiously. “Come on, why is it any different with me?”
“Because you’re hot. Seriously?” He grumbles and rolls his eyes at you. “And you saw me trying to suck on my own penis and your face when you walked in—” he ends the sentence with a groan, face falling right into his hands.
Honestly, you already thought he was a little weird before you caught him self sucking, but you’d never admit that and potentially hurt the smelly, awkward boy for no reason. You certainly didn’t know he cared what you thought of him, considering he’s usually unapologetically himself. Apparently, he does care what his childhood friend thinks.
“We all do weird things sometimes, that doesn’t make you weird.”
He shakes his head, face still shoved into his hands. “Not you.”
You huff through your nose, “I didn’t know you had so many opinions about me, Satoru.”
“I don’t. It’s a logical analysis from a scientific perspective. I have eyes.” His tone is more nasally than normal due to his face in his palms.
“You don’t know what I do when I’m alone. Me being weird or not is irrelevant,” you say looking down at his fluffy head that’s a bit greasy, “I get horny too.”
In a split second, his head shoot’s up desperately, almost knocking the back of it into your face on the way.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Satoru sit up so straight in his life. You’re forced to look up at him now, reminding you of how tall he really is. His glasses were left behind when he jolted up, and you can suddenly see the full intensity of his wide crystal blue eyes piercing into you with full focus.
You slightly adjust in your seat, borderline uncomfortable under that sharp gaze that’s roaming your entire persona as if he’s a computer collecting every piece of data in your soul at a high speed. Those eyes used to scare you straight out of bed with a scream when you were small and having little sleepovers with him— they still give you chills.
“You do?”
You cower a bit, not expecting such a reaction to what you thought was an obvious fact. “Um— yeah? Of course I do,” you murmur, brows furrowing.
He swallows and slides a pillow into his lap, gripping it.
You glance down at it. You blink at it. You glance back up at him.
“Did that make you hard..?” you slowly ask, voicing the obvious in hesitancy.
“A little.”
“Okay,” you pause, “why?”
He pushes up his glasses. “Because I thought about your vagina being wet. And then I started speculating about what your vagina looks like. And then how it tastes, because online—”
“Satoru,” you quickly interrupt him, flustered, pushing a palm to his lips, “shut up.”
He blinks and nods, making you take your hand off of his lips hesitantly. He reaches under the pillow and, you assume, adjusts his boner.
“Okay,” you change the subject, shaking your head of the imaginary vision of his hardening cock, “We’re getting off track. Don’t avoid the question.”
He rubs an eye, like it’s sore from having been using his glasses for so long before they fell off.
“It feels good enough,” he mumbles, spine already returning to his natural slouch, “but I have to kinda— like— focus.”
“On what?”
“On anything but the fact that I’m sucking dick, what do you think?”
You accidentally let a snort pass, and he sighs deeply to himself.
“Sorry sorry,” you shake your head, holding back a laugh.
“Are you done yet?” He murmurs in a whiny tone, eager to stop answering questions.
“Has it ever made you cum? And do you like— bust in your mouth? Or all over your face?”
Satoru suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, choking on his own spit and your brows furrow in concern.
“You okay?”
He nods as he coughs, brushing off your concern as you rub his back soothingly and briefly. He gasps for air as the fit calms.
“I’m fine,” he massages his throat and glances back at the opening to the stairs, “why do you want to know that?”
“I’m curious.” You shrug, although you’re ignoring the subtle throb in your clit.
“Curious about my cum.” He says it like it’s more of a statement than a question.
“What? No,” you defend yourself quickly, “No, I mean— kinda but— No, stop it. Don’t twist my words.”
Now, he snickers, wiping his nose against his sleeve.
“Shut up,” you shake your head with a small smile, pushing his shoulder. “Answer, freak.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek, “It’s not like I mean to cum on my face. It just happens.”
You can’t help but drop your jaw in astonishment, unable to ignore the tingle in your lower abdomen.
He whines, “stop,” as he grabs your jaw with warm, shaky fingers and manually closes your mouth.
You gulp, subconsciously grabbing a few of his fingers from your face and pulling them down to your lap to hold onto like you need it to ground you. You’re not holding his hand, you’re more so awkwardly grabbing parts of it. Satoru glances at the connection, but you don’t seem to notice that you’re even holding it because you’re so focused on his words.
“So you’ve,” you blink rapidly, “tasted your own cum?”
He chews off a chunk of his inner lip and grumbles under his breath, “Yeah, I wish I didn’t— tastes nasty.”
“Like what?”
“You know wha—” Satoru almost slipped and confessed that you’ve tasted his cum before. On that fucking strawberry donut. You tilt your head at him, wondering why he stopped talking.
He clears his throat. “Skip.”
You blink. “Skip?”
He nods, definitively. “Skip.”
You squint at him for a beat, he doesn’t budge. You move on.
“Okay, How many times have you done it?”
He exhales in thought and shrugs. He holds up two fingers.
“Why did you do it in the first place? Like what was going through your mind?”
“Uh— That my hand doesn’t feel that good anymore.” He scratches his chest with the hand you’re not keeping prisoner in your lap.
You hum a short confirmation, huffing at his reasoning, and adjust his hand so it’s palm up. You silently ponder as you begin to trace his skin absently, the lines and ridges. Goosebumps race up his veiny, pale arm.
“You know, when a guy gets tired of their hand,” you smile in amusement, “I don’t think their first thought is their own mouth.”
He shakes his head. “Every guy has done it or tried to do it at least once,” he defends, “and if they say they haven’t, they’re lying.”
You giggle and he can’t help but breathe a little laugh with you.
“Still, why not just ask a girl out from class or something?” You continue to trace down his long fingers.
He snorts loudly and wipes his nose against his sleeve again. “Yeah, right.”
You glance up at him with furrowed brows, “Huh? I’m serious. Why not?”
He sniffs and shrugs, “I dunno. Whenever I’m around, they just..” he trails off.
You blink. “They just what?”
He looks down at your fingers trialing his palm. “Go away from wherever I am.” He doesn’t seem bothered, just stating facts.
You hum, tongue prodding your teeth in thought for a beat. You imagine it has something to do with his smell, his unkempt appearance, and honest-to-a-fault demeanor— he’s unapproachable. Even you’re guilty of this too, and you know it.
He continues in the face of your silence. “I’m not stupid, okay? I can tell girls don’t like me, I just— I don’t know why.”
An opportunity arises.
“Maybe,” you place his hand back down and coincidentally into your lap. He tries not to react to the fact that his palm happened to land on top of your clothed, warm inner thigh, “Maybe, I could help you with that— I mean, if you want.”
He blinks at you. “Help me with— help me with girls?”
You shrug. “Yeah, why not. Girls.”
He’s silent for once with his eyes trained down to your lap, and you tilt your head at his hesitancy.
“If you’re so desperate that you literally shove your own dick in your throat then what do u have to lose, huh?” You’re teasing him, clearly getting off on this new advancement in your ‘friendship.’ His face jolts into the human embodiment of an exclamation point.
He explodes, “It doesn’t even reach my throat, stupid— I don’t shove anything down my throat. I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”
You can’t hold back the laughter that bursts out of you before he even finishes speaking. You clasp your hand over your mouth but it continues to spill out. Satoru refuses to take his hand off of your inner thigh, even despite the embarrassing topic of conversation, because game is game, but he does use the other to cover his one of his hot ears because he just knows they’re probably the deepest shade of red.
“How exactly are you going to help me?”
Just as Satoru grumbles the question, both of your fathers waltz in. “Hey kids.”
Satoru jumps in place like he’s been caught, ripping his hand away from your thigh so dramatically that it makes each of your father’s brows quirk. You hadn’t even heard them open the front door.
You hide an amused smile at Satoru’s reaction and rise to your feet.
“You ready to go?” Your father asks, and you nod as Satoru’s father ruffles his son’s hair briefly in greetings. Though you just live next door, you still like to walk back with your dad.
As your father walks over to the front door, knowing your mother will likely stay longer, Satoru’s father walks upstairs to greet his wife. You bend down to whisper into Satoru’s ear.
“I’ll come over next Friday when my classes end.” You flick his forehead with a teasing grin and he rubs the injury with a grimace as you walk away. “Bye!” you shout just before his front door slams shut behind you.
Friday. 3:05 pm.
You let yourself into the Gojo front door with the key copy you received years ago.
Mrs. Gojo chirps, “Oh hi honey! Toru and the others are upstairs,” as you pass her to get to the stairs.
You pause at the bottom of the stairs and blink at her. “Others?”
She hums and nods her head with a smile before continuing to sort through her documents at the kitchen table.
You curiously climb the stairs and the closer you get to Satoru’s door, the sounds under it grow louder. Definitely more voices than just Satoru’s, as well as the loud music of a video game playing.
You stop yourself before you just barge in, again, and choose to knock instead.
Satoru’s voice answers your knock. “We don’t need anymore snacks, mom! We have chips and—”
You push open the door and the sight of you, instead of his mother, makes him shut his mouth.
Satoru and two other fellow college boys sit on the carpeted floor, facing his flatscreen hanging on the wall, playing some kind of mortal kombat style game with their sides to you. Bags of chips, drinks, video game cd cases, and controllers litter the floor around them.
Satoru is the only one looking at you while the other boys mash their controllers with focus on the game as their characters fight against one another.
Satoru pushes his glasses up instinctively as he says your name, even though they’re already pressing deeply against his face. “What are you doing here?”
Your name in Satoru’s mouth makes the boys turn their heads to look at you. Their jaws drop at the sight of a girl.
You give the- blunt as ever- Satoru a look and sigh. “I told you last Friday that I’d be coming over next Friday. It’s next Friday.”
“Oh yeah,” he scratches the back of his head. “Okay, come in then.”
You step inside before closing the door behind you.
“You gonna introduce me or what?” you ask as you drop your bag onto the floor and sit. They’re in a half circle; Satoru faces you while the other two are half turned towards you and half on the tv.
“Yeah— okay,” he says awkwardly. He gestures at the long, jet black haired one sporting a very uncoordinated, greasy bun on his head. “This is Suguru.”
Suguru peeks at you while continuing to expertly mash buttons on the controller. “Hi,” he says in a tone that seems naturally soft.
Satoru gestures at the blonde one with a long side part covering half of his face next. “That’s Kento.”
Kento looks at you and stops playing to raise his hand briefly in greetings.
You give them a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”
They both seem a bit geeky, exactly the type you expected Satoru to be friends with. They probably met playing an online game or something. There’s a very specific musky smell in this room.
“So,” Suguru begins teasingly as he concentrates on the game, “she your girlfriend, Gojo?”
Kento scoffs lowly at the idea.
“Nope,” Satoru says freely, throwing a chip into his mouth to rudely chew while he speaks, “she’s lived next door since we were like two and our moms are friends.”
“Have you guys kissed?” Suguru easily questions before taking a sip of his soda while his other hand continues to operate his controller.
“No way in hell,” Kento answers the question meant for Satoru in a matter of fact way, “Gojo kissing a girl like that is ridiculous.” Kento glances at you briefly.
Your brows raise and you huff to yourself. You almost expected them to be shy and quiet but they’re talking about you like you’re not right in front of them. You can tell they don’t have bad intentions, they’re just a bit socially unorthodox.
“Actually,” you butt in casually, reaching over to snatch a chip from the bag in front of Satoru, “we kissed when we were six.”
Suguru and Kento ‘oo’ simultaneously without taking focus from their game, slightly monotoned and unfazed.
“Hey, you’re a girl,” Suguru murmurs, “What's it like being able to see boobs any time you want? Does it ever get old?”
The chip making its way into Satoru’s mouth delays and falls to the floor as his eyes lock on you.
“You can’t just ask a girl about her boobs five seconds after meeting her.” Kento’s tone is judgmental but you can tell he’s just as curious if you’ll answer as the others are, just better at hiding it.
You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. Umm— the boring answer is I’m pretty used to them, they’re just part of my body. But, I won’t deny that half the time I pass a mirror in my house I lift my shirt and look at them. I think every girl does.”
“Really? You flash yourself?” Satoru questions, flabbergasted at this information. The other boys completely desert their controllers and tilt their bodies to face you with criss crossed legs and a matching ring of Cheeto-type dust around their mouths.
You shrug.
“What’s it like seeing a dick all the time?” you counter and pop a chip into your mouth.
“Gross, probably.” Suguru says, making you chuckle.
All of their eyes comically trail down to your chest at the same time— as if you can’t literally see them do it.
“You’re so lucky,” Satoru murmurs.
“Do you—” Kento clears his throat, “nevermind.”
Suguru’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s hesitating to say something.
You sigh. “Get it over with. Come on.”
Satoru blinks up at you, finally breaking his eye contact with your tits. “What?”
“Ask your questions, it’s fine. Hurry up.”
Their eyes light up like dominos.
“We can’t just—” Kento begins, as the voice of reason, but is cut off by Suguru who doesn’t give a fuck.
“Do your nipples get hard when you’re horny?” Suguru asks eagerly, not wasting a moment.
“They usually just react to cold temperatures, but sometimes when I get a tingle or something, they get hard, sure.”
Satoru’s mouth hangs open, mouth-breathing. Kento gulps and Suguru breathes out a ‘sick.’
“Does— um— does it feel good when they get sucked on?” Kento timidly asks, a pink tint to his cheeks. He keeps his head tilted down a bit, a shy habit, but he’s still staring at your chest with the eye that’s not covered by his bang.
You can’t help but slightly grin in amusement. “Depends on the girl and her sensitivity. But yeah, I’d say it does. It’s kind of comforting.”
You wouldn’t be surprised if they were to drool. There are obvious tents in each of their pants.
You’re playing the ‘bored, pretty girl casually answering horny, ridiculous questions like an angel’ part well but your abdomen tingles seeing Satoru use a long, veiny hand to pull at the uncomfortably tight fabric over his hard cock to adjust.
“Do you ever,” the skin between Satoru’s brows slightly pinch and his eyes flick up at you while his friends ogle your breasts, “play with them?”
“Jesus,” you snicker with amusement and tease, “you guys are so horny.”
“Yeah, do you pinch your nipples or flick them?” Suguru adds on to Satoru’s inquiry, as if he didn’t even hear your remark.
“Is it possible to suck on your own nipples?” Kento’s question follows Suguru’s quickly. Their eyes are practically swirling and you swear you can see their heads spinning.
It doesn’t end there. They don’t even wait for an answer between slurred questions. You’ve had to have already missed more than ten of them. You can’t help but tune it out eventually, lidded eyes blinking at the ceiling as they ask every diabolical thing you could think of back to back without leaving room for a reply.
You sigh.
In one fell swoop, you yank your shirt up to your collarbones, successfully shutting them up.
Their eyes turn into large, bulging hearts that boing like a spring and their tongues roll out onto the floor while steam comes from the top of their heads.
Things like, ‘holy shit,’ ‘oh fuck,’ and even, ‘holy bazingas,” bounce through the air as your bare tits glow within their perspective.
“No more questions,” you decide, making all of them nod eagerly. They’d probably agree to anything you say right now.
“Woah. They’re so— they’re so beautiful,” Satoru whines, glasses wildly crooked on his face as they all subconsciously start crawling towards you.
“I think I’m dying,” Kento breathes before slurping a bit of drool that threatened to escape his lips. “Is this heaven?”
“My mouth is so empty,” Suguru groans, licking and smacking his lips.
Thankfully, they stop crawling when they’re close enough to get a better look but not so close that you can feel their breath on your skin. It’s not hard to conclude that this is the first time they’re seeing tits in real life.
Your lips press together as you hold back a laugh, but when your eyes meet Satoru’s face, your expression falters. He looks wrecked, pinched brows, cheeks and ears a deep red, messy glasses, wet swollen lips, and glazed eyes— he looks sexy. You’re apparently finding out many interesting things about yourself, ever since you saw him in armadillo mode.
“Okay, shows over.” You lower your shirt, and their heads comically tilt lower and lower until the material is covering your entire torso once again and the sides of their faces are smooshed on the floor.
Just then, a knock at Satoru’s door comes, followed by his mother asking if you guys want more snacks.
She opens the door and the two boys hop up to their feet, scrambling.
“I— I gotta go home,” Kento says frantically before grabbing his bag and placing it over his crotch. “It was really nice to meet you. Thank you— um— for— yeah. Okay bye,” he stutters to you on his way out.
“Oh yeah, me too. My mom is expecting me for dinner.” Suguru nods quickly and scrambles to follow Kento out, pulling the hem of his baggy shirt down until it covers his boner. “Thanks— you’re cool— yeah thank you,” he says to you on his way.
Satoru’s mom looks a bit confused with a plate of apples in hand as she let them pass her to leave. “Okay, bye boys! Be safe driving home!” she shouts after them.
The front door slams behind them and she turns to you. “You want some apples, honey?”
“Oh, sure. Thanks, Mrs. Gojo,” you say politely and she smiles as she places the plate down on Satoru’s desk.
She brushes her hands together and rests them onto her hips as she stands in the doorway. “I have to say, it’s so nice to see you two together again. Just shout if you need me.”
“Okay, thanks.” Satoru has always been polite to his mother.
“Of course.” She smiles at her son before leaving, shutting the door behind herself.
You take a beat to look around his room as Satoru fixes his crooked glasses with a balled up blanket in his lap he must have grabbed when his friends were leaving. Action figures, comics, video games, the usual. It looks eerily similar to when you used to hangout with him everyday after school when you were younger.
You glance at him, you can’t see his eyes clearly from this angle due to a gleam on his lenses.
“Are you thinking about how badly you want me to go so you can put your dick in your mouth again?”
“Wow, that was fast,” he says bluntly and flicks something in the carpet absentmindedly, “I thought for sure it’d take a full sixty seconds before you made the first penis joke.”
“Was debating between that and a Where’s Waldo one. Sorry, I’ll be quicker next time.”
“Oh thank god,” he sarcastically says.
You obnoxiously lay back on his carpet, eyeing the ceiling as if there’s something interesting up there.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he sniffles loudly, telling the whole room that he has mucus. You sit up just as quickly as you laid down.
“Yeah, well,” you sigh deeply and lean back on your palms, “couldn’t abandon a friend in need, could I?”
He deadpans at you. “And.. why am I in need again?”
“Wahh— I’m horny and girls hate me,” you mock his deep, blunt tone as you bring your fists to your eyes to dramatically act like you’re crying, “I have to fuck my own face to cum because my hand sucks— wahh.”
Satoru is not amused. “So, you came here to flash my friends and bully me.”
“Woah woah, just giving you a little recap, Satoru, don’t get your Pokémon panties in a twist.” You point at him dramatically with a squint in your eye, “and hello? I flashed you too, you’re very welcome.”
He pushes up his glasses. “I see your point. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can agree that what you did was very generous. Carry on.”
“Oh, good.” Your sarcasm is laced with amusement. “Anyways, back to what I was saying.”
You lean over and pop another chip into your mouth.
“I’ll let you fuck me.”
For a second, all that can be heard is the muffled munch of the snack in your mouth and the background music from the abandoned video game.
“What?” Satoru enunciates each letter in the word drastically. “What— What did you just say?”
“Oh sorry, when two people love each other very much—”
“Shut up,” Satoru interrupts your obvious teasing by throwing one of his plushies at you.
You catch it with a laugh and hold it in your lap like you’d asked him for it in the first place.
“Are you being serious?” He questions you hesitantly, aware of how poorly he is at speaking with and understanding women.
“Mhm,” you affirm, casually with a nod.
His brows furrow and he almost looks around his own room for cameras like he must be getting punked right now.
Slowly he asks, “Why?”
You chew on your lower lip as you hum in thought, eyes trailing the ceiling, briefly.
You land on, “I want to help you.”
He looks at you with skeptical, squinted eyes.
You sigh.
“Look,” you regard him genuinely, “all jokes aside, when I saw you doing what you were doing, and then when you were telling me why you do it in the first place, I just felt like, I don’t know, I wanted to help you.”
“So, I’m a charity case?” He questions insinuatingly, making you sigh in slight frustration with yourself for not expressing your feelings correctly.
“No. It’s more like—” you chew on your lip as you gather your thoughts, “I wanna be useful to you. Remember when we were younger and my ice cream fell on the floor because that annoying kid kept pinching me and you gave me yours? And then when I asked you why, you said that you have to take care of the people you love?”
Satoru’s eyes bulge and his lips part. “You’re in love with me?”
You deadpan at him. “Really? Thats what you got from that?”
“You literally just said you love me and that’s why you want to let me have intercourse with you,” he passionately defends his conclusion, like he’s trying to show you logic.
“Oh my god you’re gonna make me say it,” you sigh to yourself, “Fine. Of course I love you Satoru, I’ve loved you since I was like five. I’m not confessing my love for you, okay? It’s like a childhood friend love, like—”
Satoru interrupts you quickly with a long pointed, accusing finger. “Don’t you dare say family after you just said you want me to put my penis in you.”
You rub your eyes briefly in frustration with your pointer finger and thumb. “My point is, I care about you and I don’t want you to suffer with a hard dick. I have your solution between my legs, so, here.”
“No,” Satoru immediately denies, “Intercourse is a two person activity where both parties have a desire for it. I don’t want you to just give me your vagina to use like a fricken fleshlight because you feel bad for me.” —No matter how much he might want to.
Your brows raise and your speak slowly. “You’re worried that I don’t want it?”
“Obviously?” He looks at you like you’re stupid.
“Satoru, there’s a reason I’m not just offering you a handjob,” you huff and shake your head, amused that he’s worried about you, “I want it.”
“You do?” He asks you like you’re crazy and not even aware of what you’re saying, loudly and enunciated dramatically.
“I do,” You confirm, definitively.
“Like, you’re attracted to me?”
You squint at his overall appearance for a beat and then crawl up to him until your nose is brushing his sweaty neck, making him jerk back hesitantly, but ultimately allowing you to get way too close.
“What are you—”
You take a big sniff of his skin and he shuts his mouth with an alarmed expression. You take a few more inhales of different patches of skin on his neck and then sit back down, criss crossing your legs in front of him with your knees overlapping his shins like last Friday.
“Yeah,” you nod absolutely, as if you’re speaking to yourself, eagerly, “I definitely want you inside of me.” What you aren’t saying is that his musky smell, the one you usually avoid getting a whiff of, is now triggering a primal response within your reproductive system.
“Holy shit,” he breathes under his breath, chills racing down his spine. “You want me inside of you.”
“Are you attracted to me, Satoru?” You repeat his question back at him, a little smile and tilt to your head.
“Um,” he picks up your hand, “do you want to feel it?”
He tosses the blanket in his lap to the side, exposing his hard on.
“Your dick?”
“My attraction for you,” he corrects.
You nod.
He lays your palm flat on his warm, beating chest, making your brows raise in surprise.
His heart is thumping at a steady pace, a little fast, but it’s to be expected with you so close to him.
“This is,” you blink, “your heart.”
He nods. His heart picks up pace and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath.
“The blood that it’s circulating,” he uses a large hand to guide yours on a slow journey down his hard chest, “is reacting to the ventral tegmental area of my brain.”
Your eyes are locked onto his hand on top of yours, silently gasping when it reaches his tent. You don’t miss the deep ridges of yummy abs on the way down either.
“And it sends that blood,” he lets out a barely noticeable grunt, ‘guh,’ under his breath when your hand caresses his bulge, “here.”
My attraction for you starts within my heart.
You can’t help but let out a sharp breath, an airy, amused scoff, despite the little tingle in your own heart. “Oh, wow, you’re good. I underestimated you, you little geek.”
He doesn’t answer you, just gives you proud twitch at the corner of his lips. He’s breathing heavy, hazy eyes already lidded in pleasure, simply due to your warm hand on his clothed cock.
“You’re so hard,” you breathe as you gently squeeze around the stiff base, making him grip the carpet beside him, “You already thinking about how it’ll feel to be inside me?”
He groans, tossing his head back. “Of course I am. Can we do it now?” He looks at you with impatience and then down at your lap, “Are you lubricated?”
You grin at him, “Am I lubricated?”
“Yeah, it’s a word in the dictionary, stupid.” His grumble is a little too breathy to be cruel. The insult makes you nostalgic, it was practically your assigned nickname when you were kids.
“Maybe you should try Urban Dictionary,” you tease, hand still resting casually on his bulge like its normal, “because wet is what us regular earthlings use.”
“Okay,” he speaks bluntly, “Are you wet?”
You shrug. “I might be.”
He squints at you. “What do you mean might? You have to be properly prepared before we can do this.”
“You know what? Yeah, you’re right. And now that you mention it,” you say like a performance, “I know exactly what will ‘properly prepare’ me.”
“Okay,” he says expectantly and slightly suspicious, “What?”
Satoru almost throws a fit when you take your hand away from his cock and lean back on your hands.
“I want you to self suck again and I want to watch.”
You must have learned that phrase online in the time you’ve been apart since last Friday, but that’s not why his face scrunches up in judgmental confusion.
“What? No fucking way,” he immediately denies passionately, “Are you serious?”
“I barely got to see it before,” you whine, leaning towards him with your hands up in prayer and an exaggerated pout on your face, “Please?”
“That’s what’s gonna make you wet?” He’s in disbelief.
You shrug, dropping your hands. “Something about it is hot. Don’t judge, self sucker.”
Is this what girls are into?
“You think putting my own penis in my mouth is hot?” he asks you judgmentally, overly enunciating as to get his point across, “Why??”
You sigh, glancing up at the ceiling in thought.
“I don’t know. Something about the desperation you have to feel to do something like that,” you bite your lip and flick your gaze down at his bulging tent, “Like you’d do anything to feel the pleasure of a blowjob.”
Oh. Okay, no. It’s just you that’s this weird.
“I don’t even know what to say right n—” he cuts his own astonished remark off, “You’re a freak, you know that? Like you’re weird.”
You huff and shove his shoulder. “You’re the dick sucker.”
“Getting off on watching it is worse,” he shakes his head at you, but he’s unable to hold back a flicker of a smile.
“Oh c’mon,” you tilt your head at him, “seeing you feel good makes me horny, doesn’t that do anything to you?”
He knows you know the answer to that, if his cock jumping at your words says anything.
“Then why can’t it be in your mouth and not mine?” He grumbles, trying to avoid your powerful stare— the one where you make your eyes all big and gleamy; you’ve been manipulating him with that look since you were young.
You light up seeing his resistance breaking down by the second, your words coming out quicker now.
“You don’t have to do it for a long time, I just wanna see you actually lick the tip,” you gush, as if begging at a fast pace will make him more likely to agree.
He rubs his nose against his sleeve and glances at the closed door with a sigh. “Okay.”
“Yes,” you say to yourself in victory as you thrust your elbow downward with your hand in a fist. Satoru deadpans.
You stare at him expectantly with a smiling bite to your lower lip.
Satoru sniffs and nudges your knee that’s on top of his leg. “You have to back up a little.”
“Oh,” you chirp, scooting back a tad so that your knees aren’t touching.
Satoru’s awkwardly maneuvers his lanky body to lie on his back, and you’re facing his side. You stop him.
“Wait, you have to actually walk me through how you’re doing this.”
He turns his head to blink at you. “You’re such a freak. How do I know you’re not just messing with me and I’m doing this for nothing? I’m not—”
You sigh, sharply, and with determination, you lean down and shove your face onto his.
Your lips connect abruptly, and Satoru gasps as his hands twitch, mid air. A peck. Your lips stick together as they part, making a ‘chu’ sound before you begin to lay multiple dense pecks onto his. He’s fighting to return the kisses with panicked hums, not understanding why you’re doing it but too enthralled to care.
You finish it off with one long, pressurized kiss, even shaking your head back and forth a few times to really imprint the feeling onto his nerves before pulling away just enough.
“You kissed me,” Satoru breathes, clearly trying to process what just happened. He doesn’t get far though, because you start laying wet, open mouthed kisses onto his jaw and down to his neck where you start suckling on it. Satoru’s making all kinds of hisses and gasps. His desperate hips jerk into the air instinctively in one harsh movement.
You slide your lips off after one final self indulgent lick to his protruding Adam’s apple and he’s exhaling audibly in euphoria.
“It’s not for nothing. Please show me how you do it,” you beg him in a soft tone, brows pinched. You nudge your nose into his like a cat yearning to bond, and he just melts.
He nods and lets out a shaky ‘okay’ as you lean back to watch with an excited smile.
He gently takes his glasses off and folds them, eyes blinking and squinting to adjust briefly.
“Why are you taking your glasses off?”
He glances at you as he places them aside. “I don’t want to get them dirty,” he explains and clears his throat.
You lick your lips and nod, enjoying the topic of conversation too much.
“It’s kinda hard to,” he grunts as he kicks off of the ground with one leg to push both over his head, “do this part.”
You’re sort of astonished at how he’s able to put such a long body into this position.
“Uh— I’m gonna take my penis out now,” he glances at you awkwardly but you just nod encouragingly.
He pulls his sweatpants down enough to let his cock hang out and keep his balls and ass within the confines of the material. He places his focus on the act itself so he doesn’t psyche himself out of this ridiculous situation. His true eyes are on the prize, he’d do anything to fuck your pussy.
Seeing his cock this close up is a whole nother experience compared to the panic of barging into his room and happening upon it. It’s a light pink color, and it’s quite lengthy as it bobs over his face. It gets thicker towards the middle and up to the tip, sort of flared— as if it’s begging to be encased inside something. It feels as though it’s already anticipating his warm mouth.
“Just— just a lick, right?” He asks you, face a deeper pink than his dick is.
You hum an eager confirmation and he sighs to himself in slight preparation.
He uses two hands to nudge at his back and his tip slowly reaches down to brush his lips.
He drops his jaw and hesitates to let his tongue out. But ultimately, he slowly slides it out and you can see the muscles in his tongue twitch as he gives the top side of his tip a nice, wet lap— incidentally collecting a small dribble of pre.
“Did that feel good?” You quickly question, biting your lower lip with observant eyes.
He swallows. “A little. Can I stop now?”
“Does sucking feel better?” You ask instead, and he releases the pressure he’s pushing into his back just a bit so he can answer you more comfortably.
“I guess, but not really, I can tell it’s my own mouth.”
“I have an idea,” you scooch in closer, “try sucking.”
Despite this being kind of lame compared to the idea of you stimulating him instead or the promise of sex, it’s clearly entertaining you so he pushes into his straining spine again until his desperate tip greets his mouth again. Satoru has stuck his dick inside of crazier things in weirder situations just to get off, this is nothing.
He opens his mouth wide enough to allow his cock inside and sucks his lips closed around half of the tip. His white lashes softly flutter shut at the dull tingle growing through his dick.
His eyes shoot right back open when he feels a long, warm, wet sensation run across his mid shaft. You start licking at his reactive cock like an eager kitten, making that dull tingle erupt into much more as bitter pre oozes into his mouth in reaction. His wide eyes roll in pleasure once he realizes you aren’t stopping and he uses his tongue to suck a little better at his cock head, unable to resist the need for more stimulation.
When your tongue starts wetly tracing the edge of his tip where it enters his mouth, even licking at his lips a little, he can feel his balls tighten up. He thinks he can handle it, hold back his orgasm, but then you latch onto the side of his upper dick and suckle.
He doesn’t want to cum in his own mouth so he eases the tension his hands are putting on his back to let the tip slide out but not enough to pull his legs back and lay flat because he doesn’t want to lose the pleasure your mouth is giving him. “Wait— hng!— I’m gonna cum!”
You hum happily and, faster than he can blink, your warm mouth is enveloping his entire throbbing tip. His abs clench and his eyebrows shoot up with tension, moaning loudly with parted lips as you slide your tongue all around his sensitive skin. He’s never felt anything like this, it’s not even comparable.
You’re coaxing his cum to build and build, and Satoru swears with a burst of excitement within his chest that he’s finally going to ejaculate inside of a woman’s mouth. That is, until you suddenly let his cock go with a pop and the next thing he knows, cum is shooting all over his face. His cock spasms and pleasure bursts all the way into his toes, he’s overwhelmed by it for a long blissful moment.
Pure bliss until he comes down enough to realize that warm splooge is streaking down his cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin. He slowly maneuvers himself to lay flat and blinks at the ceiling for a beat. He’s about to sit up and do the whole irritated-at-you thing, but then your thighs are suddenly on either side of his hips with only your shirt and panties on, sweatpants no where to be found, only soft bare legs. He gasps.
“That was so fucking hot,” you groan as you quickly shove your panties to the side and ease down enough to rest your warm, wet labia against the bottom of his soft, twitching dick.
He hisses in sensitivity, hands shooting to grip your thighs to cope as he tilt his head up to look at you. You’re a little blurry without his glasses but he can still see how flustered you look.
“Think you can get hard again?” You ask, out of breath as you begin to slowly grind your pussy against him with eager hands on his chest.
He groans in overstimulation, “Oh god— wha—? I don’t know— oh fuuuck.” His fingers tighten around the flesh of your flexing thighs.
“I have cum all over my face,” he groans, refusing to make you get off of him because he’d rather die, but still complaining about it.
“It’s okay,” you say quickly and lean down and begin to lick the cum off of his face casually, making him slightly grimace.
“Just grab a shirt,” he basically slurs when your licking abruptly stops and you pull back enough to look him in the face.
Your hands are on either side of his head now, hips unfortunately stopping all movement, and you’re suddenly blinking at him like you’re realizing something.
“Oh my god,” you slowly express, a disbelieving smile on your lips, “you came all over that fucking donut! I knew you were acting weird, you sick freak.”
His eyes widen and he doesn’t even know what to say, you clearly recognize the taste enough to place it, so he just blurts, “What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” You still question him with furrowed brows, not buying his feigned ignorance, “Your mom was right there!”
“I don’t— but, you said it tasted good! And you only took one bite.”
You huff and shake your head. And then you lean down to lick a long lap up his cheek, gathering a bit of very bitter cum on your taste buds. You swallow it and press your lips to his ear, “You’re lucky I’m throbbing because otherwise, there’s no way I’d fuck you knowing that, you pervert.”
Whether that’s a lie or not, doesn’t matter, all Satoru can hear is the subtle squelch of your pussy lips rubbing against his hardening cock as you begin to grind again.
His toes curl and twitch. He breathes, “You made me cum— agh!— on my face, we’re— we’re even.”
You huff and sit back up while your hips work. “Fine. We’re even.”
He brings a shaky hand over to his discarded glasses and throws them back on before yanking the hem of your shirt up enough to see your pussy.
“Ohhh my goodness gracious,” his voice shakes but he’s very sturdy in his words, astounded by the sight of pretty pussy in real life— especially those folds against his own penis, the folds connected to his beautiful childhood friend.
He can’t help but eagerly buck his hips once, making you gasp at the direct hit to your clit and grip onto his shirt over his chest.
“You’ve never had sex before, right? You’re a virgin?” You breathe out, humping increasing in speed.
His mouth hangs open. “Never. Mhm, yeah, virgin.” He nods quickly.
You lean in and your lips brush his as you speak. “I’m gonna be your first, baby?” you egg him on.
He whines into your mouth. “I always— I always suspected you would.”
“What?” You breathe in amusement, pressing a kiss to his jawline, “Why?”
“Because,” he moans beautifully as you suck on his earlobe, “You’re the only girl that talks to me.”
You lean back and jut your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. “Aww, so it’s not because you’ve been in love with me since we were kids? You’re breaking my heart.”
“No,” he hisses when his tip almost gets caught on your entrance that seems to be attempting to suck him in every time it passes by, “I’ve definitely been in love with you since we were kids.”
Your hips stutter to a painful stop and you blink at him, playful expression slightly faltering. You can barely tell when Satoru is joking, the ease and blunt manner of the way he speaks doesn’t help.
“Wait, are you being serious?”
He sits up to lean back on his elbows and nods. “I thought you knew that.”
“How could I know that?” you ask him like he’s an idiot, “The most you say to me in a week is that I have something in my teeth.”
He sniffles his runny nose obnoxiously, like always. “Because you do. And, you don’t talk to me either,” he says factually and defends himself.
“That’s—,” you exhale sharply, reaching down to grip his base, ignoring his little ‘guh!’ as you raise your hips a bit, “because we got older and— I don’t know— grew apart.”
You rub his head against your opening and his eyes lock onto the movement like it’s glowing gold. Drool dribbles out of the corner of his lips. “Holy shit. It’s finally— ngh!— happening. You’re finally going to have sex— oh my god— it’s so soft. It’s so slimy, woah.” He’s talking to himself like a little weirdo, but you don’t mind, it’s actually creating more slick to join the rest.
You bite your lip and slowly push down against his head until it pops in with a painful little stretch.
You hiss out a strained, “Fuck,” and Satoru pushes through his overwhelming desire to just moan and whine and succumb to his own pleasure like a limp fish to ask you, “Are you okay? Does— hahh— does it hurt?”
You nod with a shaky exhale, eyes closed in concentration. “A little, your tip is— mm— almost as big as your head is.”
You’re clearly not in enough pain to ignore an opportunity to tease him, it seems. You take a deep breath and attempt to calm your muscles.
But then, your head snaps down to make sense of the sudden stimulation against your clit to see Satoru’s long lanky fingers rubbing it sloppily. “Oh— mm!” Your abdomen and thighs clench as you grip his shirt harshly, breathing choppy.
“Does that help? Your clitoris should ease the pain,” Satoru bluntly expresses with clear concern, focus flicking from your clit to your expression, “I read it.”
You whine and grab onto his wrist connected to the lanky fingers moving in a ‘dj’ motion against your ultra sensitive skin. “Try— hah— little circles.”
He immediately complies with upmost focus, fingertips and knuckles rotating. “Like that?”
You moan and your cunt answers his question for you, squeezing his tip nicely. Before he knows it, you’re dropping all the way down till he feels your plushy cervix kissing his slit. It feels like you just punched him in the gut with how abrupt the feeling of being enveloped whole is.
“Oh god, holy shit! You’re so wet and tight and,” he’s wailing like an animal in the jaws of a predator and he’s physically unable to stop himself from gripping the carpet harshly to ground himself, “it’s bumpy inside, the perfect— perfect balance between—ngh— stimulation and plushy, soft, gooey— ahh it’s like clouds.”
“Yeah? Keep going Toru.” You’re clearly trying to mock his ramble but your tone is anything but a tease as you sit still, cockwarming him with reactive walls.
He’s lucky that he busted recently because he wouldn’t have been able to last this long otherwise, movement or not. But you’re fighting your own battle too. You’re so full, there’s a pang of radiating pain pinching your cervix that refuses to stretch to make room for Satoru’s lengthy cock and you’re trying your hardest to hold on until your body adjusts the way it’s meant to.
“Fuck!” You blurt after a long moment of trying to push down the feeling overwhelm, “I don’t think I can do it. It’s— It’s too much. It hurts.” You’re speaking in a completely genuine way for once, not even a small teasing comment about why his dick has to be so long; he can tell you’re actually scared.
Satoru immediately sits up and grabs onto your waist, eyes flicking over your expression quickly. “It hurts?” he repeats softly, clearly concerned and attempting to console you, “Okay, breathe. You’re okay, I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve got you. Your body can stretch, it’s made to stretch for this.”
You take a deep breath and nod as he speaks, brows pinched as you attempt to hold your focus on his coos and not the invading, pulsing flesh within you.
“I can feel you twitching,” you whine, head thrown back briefly, “stop it.”
“I can’t control it,” Satoru defends, using his thumbs to gently rub circles into your waist, over your shirt.
“It’s your dick,” you whimper, dropping to rest your forehead onto his shoulder, “Tell it to stop hurting me.”
He hums, entertaining your words and the next thing you know, a lanky hand is snaking under your shirt to lay flat and warm on your lower tummy.
“Stop hurting her,” Satoru scolds his mounted penis, “Or I swear I’m gonna take you out of this amazing, warm little pussy and you’ll go right back into your boxers. You hear me?”
Your pussy involuntarily convulses around him, hearing him indulge your little sillies in such an oddly sexy way. You both breathe out a groan at the delicious feeling.
You lift your head, breathing heavily with lidded, hazy eyes. “That helped,” you mumble as you shove your lips onto his eagerly, nudging his head back slightly at the force and making him hum.
He locks his lightly dry lips onto your soft ones as immediate as possible, not allowing the risk of missing out on your sweet pecks like before when he could barely keep up.
But this isn’t a peck, you’re tilting your head, side to side as your lips smooch, keeping them interlocked between ‘chu’s.’
Your eyes peek open because, your intuition was right, his intensely blue irises are staring at you through his lenses. You unlatch as you push his shoulder, lightly, not keen on accidentally making his hips jolt. “Why are your eyes open? Close them while we kiss,” you scold, feeling a light heat rise within your cheeks.
He licks his lips to taste you instinctively. “What’s wrong with that? I want to look at you, you’re pretty.”
You roll your eyes half heartedly and slide your hands onto his shoulders to hold. “Open your mouth.”
You don’t give him a chance to respond because you’re shoving your wet tongue into his mouth, making him moan directly into yours. His hands tremble around your waist as they tighten their grip, using all of his will power to not listen to instinct and rut up into you.
“Wait wait—” he says between licks and you know he’s scared to accidentally hurt you.
You shake your head and hum a denial. “It’s okay, you won’t,” you breathe before latching back on.
He tastes like lingering traces of sugary soda and a hint of tic-tacs, but mostly like natural saliva. His tongue is sloppy and a bit odd in how it meets yours, but it’s his and you can’t help but desire for more of it as it lathers and lathes yours.
“Okay,” you pull back impatiently, “Let’s fuck.”
“Fuck— fuck,” Satoru grunts frantically, face clenching, “don’t say that, I’m gonna ejaculate too quick.”
“No, you won’t,” you soothe him, almost like you’re speaking it into existence, ignoring the instinct to make fun of his word choice.
He whines, but then gathers his determination and nods. “Okay, okay— mhm— should I move?”
You shake your head. “No, me first.”
You softly raise your hips, using your knees on either side of his body for grounding, until half of him is glistening and exposed. His mouth hangs open and his eyes have glazed over where they lock onto your connection.
You take a deep breath and drop all of your weight down until he’s sliding right back into his little nook within you. “Nngh..!” he moans on impact, brows pinching aggressively into a defensive pout. “Was that okay? Are you okay? Did it hurt? Because I think you stretched a little more—”
You cut him off by rubbing your nose into his with closed eyes, humming in affection as you squeeze his shoulders lightly. “I’m okay,” you dismiss, resting your forehead on his, “How does it feel? Good?”
“You,” he pauses to shakily breathe out deeply and slowly as his hands start massaging your waist in primal instinct, “You feel like heaven. I love you.”
You huff and lean away with an amused look. “Tell me when you’re about to cum,” you warn him suddenly, and you don’t leave any room for him to answer because your hips begin to ride. His thick head is immediately slamming against all of the sensitive parts inside you, nudging your g-spot deliberately with each embrace.
“Oh shiiiit,” his voice undulates with the pace of your thrusts, and his glasses are already lying crooked on his face due to the recoil his body is taking. “Oh my god— nngh! oh!”
“Yeah?” you breathe out with pinched brows, “Does my pussy feel better than— mmh!— your mouth, Satoru?”
His eyes are threatening to roll continuously, but he’s trying so hard to keep them straight and on your blissed out face. “Your pussy is— oh fuck— so much better. I want to live inside of you— please keep going.”
“I’m not stopping, I’m not stopping.” You’re cooing at him, sloppily, and as if you’re desperate for more, you transition to start bouncing. The impact of the change in positioning and the force of gravity aiding in your movement makes Satoru absolutely keen. His toes curl and his abdomen clenches painfully. The squelch of your connection is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard and felt.
“Oh no, oh no,” Satoru grits pleadingly and his surprisingly strong hold on your waist subconsciously tightens to the point that it’s tough to continue to bounce through it at the velocity you are. “I’m gonna cum— I’m gonna cum— I can’t hold it.”
“Are you sure? Right now?” You question him through moans with hope that he’ll be able to hold it.
“I’m sure! Fuck! Don’t get off, just stop moving.” He’s biting his lower lip so hard that he could very well bite it clean off.
You stop at the next bounce, whining like you’ve been stabbed once you settle. His cock whimpers within you too, like it’s threatening to bust at any moment, begging to make this amazing place inside you it’s new home, decorated with little Toru’s DNA and a welcome mat. His dick doesn’t have to know English for Satoru to know that it won’t be accepting anything less than your pussy from now on; he can say goodbye to the makeshift pocket pussy made out of a Pringles can, gloves, and tissues already dusting in his cabinet.
“What’s wrong? Are you gonna cum?” you question, you were already preparing to hop off and jerk him onto your face or into your mouth.
He gulps between deep breaths, trying to catch it and calm down. He massages your hips and waist and ribs, up and down, affectionately. “I don’t wanna cum until you do,” he explains with a gleam of a heart within his eyes. “How do I do that?”
You smile and exhale deeply at his question. “I don’t think I can cum unless you do something to my clit.”
It’s obvious to the both of you that he won’t be able to maintain that if you start bouncing again.
“Oh!” You grab onto him reactively when he suddenly flips you over onto your back with his large hand protecting the back of your skull and the other wrapped around your back.
You let out a gasping moan at the new angle the second your back hits the carpet when his cock wetly sinks all the way back into you. Gravity. “Oh,” you whimper at how deep he is, socked feet and thighs twitching mid air beside his ribs.
His breath fans your face, hands on either side of your head. He’s holding himself together, brows drawn in. “I’m gonna make you orgasm,” he pledges to you like a knight on his knees, eyes digging their way into yours.
“You are?” Your response shakes out airily as he falls down to rest on his forearms beside your head, face inches from yours and white hair leaning down with gravity. His boxers are showing over the expanse of his covered ass and his sweatpants are halfway down as he lies in between your bloomed legs.
He nods with determination as he shoves his glasses up, but they fall back to the lower part of his bridge just as fast. “Can I start humping?” His intention within that geeky phrasing is so pure that your heart can’t help but flutter into little butterflies.
You lift your head at a snails pace, eyes refusing to stray from his pink lips until you connect in a soft, caress of a kiss. “Go ahead,” you smile into his mouth.
Yearning for the life between your thighs, forced to pull the distance just to regain closeness again, his hips gradually pull back until he’s almost completely gone, and then he’s thrusting back inside, experimentally.
Your lips part with the drive of it in perfect synchronicity, sharing the experience of deriving pleasure from one another with a shiver.
He repeats it, this time brisker, and his eyes roll. “Oh that’s so good,” he expresses, and getting lost in the sauce, his isolated thrusts turn into a sloppy, inexperienced pace of its own, your legs brunting the force with every collision. You’re sucking him in with every draw back and milking him when he’s fully seated.
His soggy cock sadly slips out when his focus flickers and his desperate hips lose direction; pleasure like this is blinding for an eager virgin. He takes the opportunity to breathe and recenter, slouching down to press his forehead to your collarbones as his bobbing cock jumps and pulses in yearning over your sloppy pussy.
You rub the back of his head soothingly while the other kneads his alarmingly muscular back.
He exhales against your skin. “‘M still gonna make you cum,” he mumbles and you hum with a warm smile, eyeing the ceiling as you soothe him. “Just need a second.”
“Take a second,” you hum and lazily rub the inside of your calf against his side. “But I’m so empty,” you whisper against the top of his head like you’re casting a sultry spell, “and so ‘lubricated.’ It would be such a shame if your cock didn’t fill that space inside of my gooey—”
“Jesus fuuck,” he moans and shivers, whining at your words that seem to be just fucking right. He picks his head up to level with yours again, “Okay, okay. I’m good. I’m ready.”
He reaches down without looking, grasping his shaft to lead it back into you. He pokes your lower hole and you squeak, “Wrong hole! Higher— higher, Satoru.”
“Oh,” he breathes a huff into your face, a geeky smile on his lips.
He pokes your clit. “Too high. You need some help, Satoru?” You’re teasing him, but you’d still gladly do it for him if he needed you to.
He shakes his head and you nudge his glasses up for him before they potentially fall all the way off. “I got it, I got it.” He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his lips in concentration as he takes his hand off of his cock to search for your pussy, blindly.
Your abdomen clenches inward in a jolting fashion when he lays his long fingers over the entirety of your pussy. “Just need to see where..” he trails off with focus, eyes locked on nothing in particular over your head.
His bony fingers start pawing, groping, and spreading your folds, probing them like he’s trying to memorize the anatomy. Your hips and abdomen muscles are jerking with his rough touch, letting out a few whines as you writhe. “What are you doing?”
“There it is,” he breathes, ignoring your gasp as his fingers poke at the clenching entrance to your insides, “See, baby? Got it.”
He hurriedly shoves his dick into you to the hilt, while he still remembers where it’s at, with a deep, loud, throaty exhale of relief you’d only hear from a forty year old man. Your hands snap to grip his back, nails pushing into the cloth as your spine arches into him. “Satoru— nngh!” you groan in shock at the sudden impaling of your guts.
“Yeahh,” he sighs, nudging your face to the side with his to nose at your neck, “My name, keep saying that.”
Your jaw drops as he brutally begins to thrust deeper than before, like he’s stabbing you with every hit, he sucks and licks at the side of your neck unsteadily. He reaches between your bodies and finds your beating clit while you squeak on every thrust like you’re a sharp-teethed dog’s stuffed squeaky toy.
You can literally feel the tendons in his forearm undulate against your tummy as he swipes electricity through your clit and into your legs, down to your curling toes. Now that he’s destroying you, it’s clear that previously, inexperienced Satoru was striving to grasp an understanding of holding a steady pace before he could attempt at multitasking his focus onto your clit as well.
He pulls back from your neck to search your expression with upmost curiosity. He can see the clear change in your every expression at the new advancement. “Ohh, oh— that feels good, huh?” He’s almost taunting you and cooing at you simultaneously.
You nod eagerly as your arms scramble to wrap under his arms to hold onto his sweaty shoulder blades from behind for balance; since he’s so tall, you have to reach a bit. The gymnastics your mind would have to go through to tease him back is shut off and being bypassed completely as he manipulates an orgasm to appear within the distance.
“Little magic button,” Satoru huffs as drool seeps out of the corner of your parted lips, moaning like you’re being hurt.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, nodding again like it’s your job, “don’t change pace. Don’t stop— please.” He hisses when your nails start clawing down his back muscles, but he couldn’t care less about pain right now, there’s a wicked, domintating look of euphoria on his face.
“Cum, please, cum— I need you to cum. I’m not stopping,” he confirms into your ear before slobbering all over it. He’s been holding back the need to burst within you for too long already but he’d sooner pull out and continue to rub at you in hope of maintaining the build of your peak and then diving back in when his high dissipates than cum before you.
“Oh my god, it’s happening!” You cum with a shuddering, pathetic whine that turns into a silent cry, overwhelmed by the burst of white love and the piercing of his teeth into your soft neck.
He’s in bliss knowing he’s finally pushing you over the edge, but the feeling of your cunt squeezing in convulsions he’s only read online about happening when a woman experiences an orgasm and her body instinctively goes through the primal motions of milking the penis within of all the sperm it can offer, he falls over the edge. He wouldn’t have been able to cut off his high even if he yanked himself out this very second.
His hips slam one last jack hammer as deep into your cunt as as he can penetrate before he holds still in your guts, making you, ‘guh!’ like you’ve been stabbed.
“Thank you! I’m sorry— fuuck! Thank you!”
He can’t help but abandon your clit as he falls of the cliff, though you don’t even need it anymore. That first spurt of cum travels through his convulsing cock and shoots into your cervix, bullseye. His leg muscles shake as he repeats those slurs of gratitude and apologies into the skin of your cheek with slobbery, drooling lips.
You can feel the violent pulses of his cock, indicating he’s spurting cum into your tummy, but all you can do is hold onto him in a deep embrace as you catch your breath, coming to the conclusion of your orgasm.
You’re spent. He groans as his lips smear down your cheek, over your jaw and then down to tuck his face into your neck, leaving a trail of drool in their wake. Suddenly, his extremely tense body turns to heavy deadweight and drops fully on top of you. He’s now a starfish, arms and legs flailed out while his softening cock is still snug inside your continually massaging, convulsing walls. He’s sweating and you can smell his specific musk more potently, though most of you is instinctively comforted and weirdly domestically affected by it.
“Satoru,” you whine and writhe underneath him, air knocked out of you due to the 300 pound fish on top of you, “you’re heavy.”
Satoru blurts a tired noise, making you groan and squeeze your legs together around his hips.
He noses at your neck and starts kitten licking it, making your insides squeeze and twist around his sensitive cock. His ass clenches. “Oh! Oh! Tight!” he hisses as if he’s touched a hot surface but refuses to pull out.
“It’s your— ngh— fault,” you mewl, hitting his back weakly. “Don’t lick me like that!”
He lethargically pulls his face out of your neck to smirk at you. “I made you cum so hard.” Proud. Cocky. Borderline sexy— and then he ruins it by sniffling with obvious mucus.
You squint at him accusingly. “And you came inside me.”
He huffs nervously and shoves his glasses up. “Yeah.. I’m sorry.”
You sigh. “You know I can’t take plan b, right?”
He blinks at you and his face pales a bit. “W-What? Why? I can buy it— ”
“Because it’s really bad for your body,” you flick his forehead, “I told you to tell me when you were going to cum for a reason, stupid.”
“Fuck.” He drops his forehead down onto the carpet beside yours. His, already half hard, cock twitches against your walls.
A long pause. You’re almost suspecting that he’s turned on by the idea of impregnating you.
He lifts his head, brows pinched. “We’re having a baby?”
“No, Satoru.” You sigh and rub the top of his head comfortingly, “I’m not ovulating so hopefully it just.. doesn’t stick.”
He immediately shakes his head as if that just won’t do. “No, it’s gonna stick. Gojo sperm always makes it home on the first try.”
You blink and your face screws up as you attempt to process his words. “What are you talking about? How could you possibly know that?”
“My dad told me when I hit puberty,” he adjusts his body so he can lean on his forearms and you both emit a soft sound at the incidental movement down below, “Grandpa told him the same thing. He was a first try baby, my dad was too, and so was I. All boys too.”
He grabs onto the sides of your head in a caress, then sniffles causally and smiles down at you like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you— more accurately, inside of you.
“Satoru,” you say his name like it should trigger some kind of common sense in this scenario, “We are not having a child while we’re still in college and live with our parents.”
“Your intentions don’t change the very real science of my sperm traveling within your uterus, right now.. You know that, right?”
You grab onto his biceps and glare at him while his dick is still plugging your cunt that’s filled to the brim with Gojo sperm. “I’m not joking. I am not getting pregnant Satoru— I mean fuck! We just had sex for the very first time ever.”
He leans down and smooshes his arrogant lips to yours, ignoring your fists hitting his arms stubbornly. His tone lowers to a whisper as he speaks against your lips.
“Does that mean we’re gonna have sex again?”
“Oh my god, I need to get out of here,” you start squirming and shoving at his chest futilely, “I can’t believe I let you put your dick in me.”
“Okay, okay. Look, it’s useless to worry about hypotheticals,” Satoru calms you logically and gives you a serious look. “Okay? We’re okay. You’re okay.”
You exhale and nod, minutely, hands stilling against his chest.
He leans in close your lips, breath mingling. “Your insides feel so fucking good. I wanna stay in here forever.” He slides his tongue against the seam of your lips before kissing them like it’s natural.
“Yeah?” you hum into it with hands sliding down to his chest and bumpy abs and then up again. Satoru is weirdly muscular and eerily strong, a sleeper build if you will. You hadn’t realized due to the continuous long sleeves and pants covering him— he also usually wears the same clothes everyday since he barely does laundry unless his mother does it.
You squeak when you feel his cock begin to stretch your insides out as it hardens. “You’re already hard again??”
“I told you,” he muffles into your mouth, refusing to part ways enough to speak coherently, “Gojo anatomy is just different.”
He leans down and starts licking your neck like an affectionate cat, again. “I’m never gonna be able to look your dad in the eyes again.” You cringe at the idea of Satoru’s father being a good cum shot.
“Hey,” he nips at your neck with sharp teeth, making you hiss, “you’re not allowed to think about anyone’s penis but mine right now.”
“Why do you say it like that?” You giggle as his nibbles tickle your skin and you mock his tone dramatically, making it extra nasally, “Penis.”
“That is it’s proper title.” He pulls away to eye you with judgement, like you’re the stupid one.
“I don’t think I’ve heard you say cock once.” You snicker at him, grinning in amusement as you eye his expression. “Say it.”
“Cock.”
You blink.
You giggle.
You mock him, quietly. “Cock.”
“Oh yeah? Okay, how about this,” he hums and his voice drops into a warm, sultry embrace, “I’m gonna fuck my cock into your fucking heavenly cunt. What’s one more load, hmm?”
The tingles that spark in your abdomen suddenly erupt into an explosion and you let out a shuddering gasp when Satoru suddenly starts grinding thoroughly into you again with a fully erect ‘cock.’
Maybe walking in on your childhood friend sucking his own dick was meant to be <3
it's a bit longer than i initially wanted this to be, but i had fun writing it! it's a bit more rushed towards the end so sorry if it shows. this was supposed to be for october, but i ended up not finishing it in time, so i'm very happy to have it finally done
TW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
Noncon, fingering, baby trapping, yandere, slut shaming, victim blaming, bullying, non consensual touching, misogyny, gaslighting, manipulation, implied future forced relationship, abuse of power
The local golden boy your father has hired has taken a keen interest in you, an impoverished farmer's daughter, and you can't seem to shake him off. As he doubles down on pursuing you, and you continue to refuse him, the lengths he goes to ensure you'll be his increase drastically with one autumn night and a chase through a wheat field.
7.2k words
You didn’t know why Daniel insisted on working on your father’s farm. It wasn’t like his family wasn’t well off. In fact, out of all the families within the valley, his was the most successful by far. Hell, they were the only ones who could actually afford to employ other people. He drove a shiny new truck just like the rest of his kin, and lived in a big, multi story house at the top of the hill.
Your daddy could only really pay him scraps. The land you lived on was rough to say the least, all overgrazed and tough, untenable soil that had a Ph level that could’ve come straight out of hell in your honest opinion. Basically, there wasn’t shit to be earned, and the only reason why your folks even tried to desperately keep growing crop after failed crop was because if they didn’t, then you’d be flat out homeless and starving. The stock your family produced wasn’t worth a dime, either. Milk too sour, corn too small, eggs so dull and tiny people thought that they weren’t even from chickens; you were surprised people even bought from your daddy at all.
The poor state of your homestead was reflected in nearly everything else around you. You always looked some kind of mussed up: Wild, unkempt hair, dirt under your nails, clothes that looked either too small, too big or way too out of fashion. You got bullied quite a bit by the other young ladies in town. That is if you could even be called a young lady. There wasn’t a lick of lady in you it seemed.
You and your family were always on the edge of going broke, going hungry or some other kind of misfortune, so you found it increasingly odd why the Petusky boy was so keen to get his hands dirty when there was nothing he could get in return.
Daniel Petusky, or Danny as he would so kindly remind you to call him, was by most accounts the sweetest, most eligible young man in town. He was a tall, stocky sort of guy with large, rough hands and a handsome smile. You’d be stupid to say he wasn’t quite the looker, and not to mention he was all muscular and strong lookin from all his time working. When you were in highschool, he’d been the star of the school’s football team, and there were even rumors that he was getting offers from big, fancy schools in big fancy cities. You remembered how blooming with jealousy you were back then because of that. But, as you were so constantly reminded of through seeing his working boots that had to be worth at least a couple hundred bucks, he was wealthy too.
He helped out around town, was sweet to older folks, and made all the ladies swoon with a flip of his sandy blond hair. He charmed your father just as easily, asking him if he could work his land for him, or at least help him with it. Of course your daddy would say yes. He needed all the help he could get, and lord know you weren’t nearly enough to actually keep this place afloat. Plus, who else would accept such low pay? It wasn’t like there was a line out the door for a chance to work at the [Last Name] farm, now was there?
You sighed as you hauled a bag of feed over to the chicken coop. It was mighty heavy, and you grunted as you nearly slipped in the mud. Hands shot out and grabbed your waist, and you gasped in surprise as the bag landed on the ground with a large thud.
“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to take a tumble now,” Daniel chuckled softly. His voice rumbled in your head like thunder on the horizon. He steadied you and pressed you close against his chest. Your heart thumped wildly in your ribcage, though only part of it was because of your little fall. No, it was the way his fingers inched over your curves, toying with the waistband of your jeans. You swallowed thickly.
“Thanks…” You mumbled out before you stooped down to pick up the feed once again. You didn’t miss the way his gaze stuck to you when you did.
“You really shouldn’t be doing heavy liftin’, you know,” He said and pushed you to the side to grab it from your strained arms. He made it look so effortless, and it annoyed you to no end. You followed after him into the coop, an encasement of wire around it. “That’s what I’m here for.”
You frowned and didn’t respond to him. You just kept on going as you ripped open the sack to spill out all the seed. The birds rushed around your feet to get their meal, and normally you would’ve laughed and indulged in petting a couple of them, but normally you didn’t have company. Daniel had been getting better at finding you it seemed. Day by day it felt like you saw him more and more.
You tried not to be one of those people that held onto their younger years, but whenever he was around, all you felt were the lingering memories from highschool. You were mocked on the daily. Most of the adults thought you were lost cause, always late to classes and struggling through the course material. You were called all sorts of names: ugly, stupid, slow. While he never bullied you directly, you always felt him staring. At games, in class, when he would drive slowly by you while you walked home everyday. You shuddered to think about it.
You always remembered a very specific moment that happened back in highschool. Especially now that you saw Daniel everyday again.
“What do you think about the farmer’s daughter?”
“Which one?”
He sounded so innocent, so sweet. Like he didn’t know.
“Don’t go fuckin’ with me, Petusky,” One of the guys chuckled, a cruel hint in his eyes. “You know which one I mean. The trash.” Oh… they were talking about you.
You were sitting in the diner eating a small plate of fries. You couldn’t really afford to eat anything more than that with your limited allowance and pay. You clenched your fist in your lap as you listened to the group of guys speak harshly about you. You were just out of view around the corner, all alone in the tiny booth usually reserved for couples and the like. The waitress shot you a pitiful look, and she slipped you a milkshake for free. It should’ve made you feel better, but it did more harm than good. She knew. Everyone knew you as trash.
“Come on, don't talk about her like that. She just ain’t got the means,” Daniel laughed. The sound rang in your ears, and you felt sick to your stomach.
“Or the looks.” A chorus of snickers erupted.
“She ain’t that bad,” He started, but he stopped short and just let out a playful sigh. “Hey, if y’all hate her, then y’all hate her. Can’t stop you from not wanting to fuck her if you don’t want to haha,” He joked. You could hear the strain in his voice and just imagine his blinding white smile. You busied yourself with the milkshake and tried to ignore how gross it felt to swallow down.
“Yeah, no way I’d ever touch that bitch without a three foot pole. Probably got fleas or somethin’.”
“Haha yeah…”
They sat there chatting shit for a while longer, and you sat there miserable, shaking, and on the verge of tears. You wanted to sink into the checker patterned floor and disappear forever. You knew people didn’t like you, but was it really that bad? Were you that awful? Your eyes stung, and you just stared at the empty seat in front of you.
Eventually, the group of guys, all clad in their Ariat branded clothing and snap back hats got up and got ready to leave. None of them spared you a glance, too busy filing out to their trucks to look around them. But Daniel did.
His hazel eyes swiveled over towards you, most likely just out of habit, and caught on you. He froze. The two of you stared at each other, and his face morphed from quiet shock to anger. The planes of his features, so normally joyous and polite, shifted into something so ugly and unfamiliar that you flinched.
No one else had seen, and no one, not even him, had ever brought it up again.
Daniel liked to follow you around when there wasn’t really much work to be done. The property wasn’t the biggest, so he could find you quite easily if you weren’t by the house. Like now, while you were lounging in the barn and reading a book while hidden behind some shelving. You clutched onto the pages of the novel (some old faded copy of a Jane Austen book that you had plucked from a free bin at the local thrift store), and looked up nervously as you heard his heavy footsteps thudding against the concrete floors. He loomed over you and hummed softly.
“What you got there?” He asked and crouched down to your level. You flinched back and glanced between the small, hard to read print and him.
“A book…” You mumbled out. It was always hard to speak when you felt so embarrassed. Everyone and their mother knew that you struggled severely all through school. The teachers pretty much gave up on you, and you stumbled your way through graduation. You’d never been very smart, but sometimes you wish you were. When that happened, you tried to push yourself and learn.
“Seems like a might hard for you,” Daniel chuckled and plucked it from your hands. You let out a noise of protest as he thumbed through the pages with a low whistle and patted the top of your head. You bristled a bit.
“I’m sorry? Whaddya' mean by that?”
“Just that there are all sorts of fancy words in here,” He shrugged as he cozied up beside you. You could feel the warmth of his skin, burning from all the sun he soaked up, through the fine cotton of his shirt. It was long sleeved so that he wouldn’t get burnt during the heat of the day, but it didn’t make you feel any less flustered.
He was so confusing. Did he act like this with all the other girls in town? It was stupid to picture him as some robot who had his settings permanently flipped to flirt mode, but you genuinely couldn’t figure out why else he would be slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap.
“Daniel-”
“Danny.” He interrupted quickly, and you flinched from just how barely concealed his annoyance was. You tried to get up, you really did, but he was just so much stronger than you. You squeaked as he yanked you over his thighs. His strong bridged nose was pushing itself in the crook of your neck. “You call me Danny, you hear?” He murmured. His breath was so warm. All of him was just muscle and heat. You’d never been with anyone like this, never felt a guy’s chest pressed against your back.
Your daddy would skin you alive for this, surely. There wasn’t a single chance in hell that you wouldn’t be punished if not run out for fooling around with a respectable young man who you weren't even dating.
“The only thing we got is our dignity. It don’t pay no bills, but it do keep us in good graces. You do anythin’ stupid- and hear this well, girl. You do anythin’ stupid, and you’ll be out of this house before you can even pull your pants up.”
The threat was always so clear to you that it was impossible to not whimper and tremble as he groped you over your clothing. He chuckled, a soft sound that made you feel all sort of sick, and held you tight.
“Now honey, you don’t have to go all spooked on me.” He was kissing your shoulder, all tense and rigid. You felt like a piece of wood being bent far past what it should. Your bones were about to splinter, your heart about to fly out like shrapnel and just crack all over his insistent, firm hands.
“Don’t… It ain’t- ain’t right,” You stammered out. The spell was broken, and you started to grab at his wrists to get him to slow down. “ I’ll get in trouble,” You tried to reason, to hope that those golden boy manners would win out. Hope that he’d get off of you and leave you alone.
“Trouble? Hon, who you gettin’ in trouble with?” He laughed and reached up to cup your chin and face. Your head was pulled up in a craning stretch, and his fingers squished your cheeks in a playful, humiliating gesture. “With your folks? Don’t be silly [Name].”
“You’re grown, I’m grown… this is just normal between two grown people,” He hummed and started to tug up your shirt.
“H-hey! Quit it! I’m serious! I don’t want to,” You repeated, gaining your voice as he wriggled his way under the band of your soft, worn bra and began to knead your breast. He picked up the book while he pinned your legs underneath his own heavy ones and forced you to look at the random page he opened it to, completely ignoring your plea.
“Tell me, honey. What does this mean?” He asked
“What?”
“Read for me.” He drawled in a demanding tone. Your eyes flitted around nervously. “I want to know what you think you’re doing when you’re not with me. Hon, you really shouldn’t be wandering alone like this.”
“This is my farm-”
“Your Daddy’s farm,” he corrected and tugged on your nipple. You whimpered as a bolt of arousal coursed through you. Your cheeks flushed with heat. You’d never had such need dripping from between your legs before, and it got worse and worse as he pinched and rolled the sensitive nub between the rough pads of his fingers. You could feel the way his smirk felt against your skin.
“This ain’t your land, but that’s okay. I could buy it for your folks, make it so y’all don’t have to work so hard. And you’d get to sit pretty in the house all day, reading these books and whatnot. Now wouldn’t that be nice? Not having to work to the bone? Not having to get your pretty little face all mussed up?” He whispered and nipped at your cheek. You were on the verge of tears, watching helplessly as he threw your beat up novel to the side. You watched in detached horror as the words and ink were smudged and bled out by the small, dirty puddle it had landed in. Your hands curled into fists.
“Just say yes, honey. I’d treat you real nice. Promise.”
Your breath caught in your throat, and your entire body thrummed with shame, fear and arousal. You didn’t want to admit it. You’d rather have your heart torn out than ever in a million years say that it felt good, or that the attention he was sneaking you made you feel fuzzy inside sometimes. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he made you feel like this weirdo for ignoring him when he was, in fact, an actual, honest to god threat.
“No.”
“Hm? Repeat that for me now, would you honey?” He purred.
You gritted your teeth and with a burst of strength, you shoved off of him. His molten caress was gone in an instant, and your thighs shook as you scrambled to crawl away. Your chest heaved in little short bursts, and he looked at you with genuine surprise. He looked at you as if it was the first time he’d considered you could even do that.
“I said no!” You didn’t think it was proper for a lady to be hollering at a ‘nice young man’ like that, but you did. You didn’t care who heard you, not that it mattered. The barn you were in was a decent ways away from everything else on the property. You smoothed your hands over where he had touched and kissed you, like it would get rid of the pure lust he was heaping onto you.
Daniel’s pretty face scrunched up into a glaring, furious version of itself. You could see the way his veins bulged in his neck and the way he flexed like a predator getting ready to pounce. You swallowed thickly, but you managed to wobble up onto your feet, to for once be able to look down on him.
“I don’t know what you think your talkin’ about, but I am not some- some easy girl that- that you can just sweet talk into giving you some,” You spat out. He moved to stand, and you took a step back. His hands came up in a placating gesture.
“Now, don’t go rattlin’ off about nothin’ you don’t understand,” He said, voice sharp. There was an undeniable frustration to the way he carried himself, to the way he huffed slightly and never took his narrowed eyes off of you. “I’m not talkin’ about foolin’ around, honey. I wanna have the real thing. Kids, a nice wedding, to come home to you every day… I wouldn’t just leave you,” he nearly spat. His lips curled in anger, but it wasn’t directed at you. No, it was more the suggestion that he was fucking around.
“You and me, [Name], are going to be a proper couple one of these days. And you’re gonna be my wife, I’ll tell you that.”
You shuddered. There was a slimy feeling working its way up your body, through your guts and through the tips of your stood up hairs on the back of your neck. He was crazy. A downright maniac. There was that similar look in his eyes, the one he had given you years back in that diner, and you wondered how deep this went.
How long did he spend stalking you through the fields, hoping to have you pressed under him? How long had he been trying to worm his way into your life? More importantly, when exactly did he decide that just faking nice wasn’t going to cut it anymore?
“Like I’d ever let that fuckin’ happen,” You spat and ran straight out of that barn all the way home.
There was a fall festival happening in town. Your daddy was preparing to sell things at the market, though there wasn’t much interest in buying fresh produce this close to winter.
“Now there ain’t enough to go around for you to go. Just stay here and we’ll bring you back something real nice,” Your mother had said with a small, pained smile before they packed up the truck full of goods and lumbred off into the orange painted sky.
You were left standing in front of your empty house with the porch light fighting off the oncoming darkness of night. It was quiet when your family wasn’t here to fill out the house with sounds of cooking, arguing and just life in general. There was a weird sense of unease that settled in your gut now that you were on your lonesome. It felt like shit to just be abandoned like that, to know that your kin was out there having fun and interacting with the rest of the town while you were stuck closing up the farm for the night. You sighed, fists curling at your side as you kicked idly at the gravel pebbles on the path.
Well, there wasn’t much use in throwing a pity party. The coop needed to be locked up, the heaters in the barn needed to be turned on, the gates all had to be checked. It wasn’t all that much work all things considered, but it was enough to have you pushing through the shadowed fields at a hurried pace.
You carried out your tasks, floating through the empty farm with a goal of relaxing down in your cozy bed to read more of that novel you had been so desperately trying to finish. The cool autumn breeze brushed past your skin and made you shiver. Goosebumps. How strange… it wasn’t cold enough for that.
It was nearly silent save for the rustle of leaves and the crunch of your feet against the ground. You hummed softly and rubbed your arms as night finally fell over your quaint home.
“It ain’t supposed to be this chilly yet,” You grumbled to yourself as you walked down the path to get back to your house from the back of the property. You eyed the wheat field and stopped in your tracks. Hey now… there wasn’t any harm in taking a shortcut, now was there? It wasn’t like your father was there to holler at you for walking through the crops. You knew your way through it pretty easily, didn’t get turned around or nothing even if it was completely dark. The moon was full and practically beaming down onto the golden stalks, now painted pretty and silver.
You weaved through the field with ease, sighing softly as you could see the roof of the house through the leaves. You caught sight of the peeling paint and nearly slumped in relief. Well, you were being excluded from the fall festivities, but at least you could get all cozy for once. You stepped out past the edge of the field and now in the open, eyes fixed low on the ground as you tried to not trip over your own damn feet, but when you looked up you couldn’t help but freeze.
There, standing in front of your porch, was a tall imposing figure silhouetted in the hazy yellow light buzzing above the garage.
You came to a halt instantly, your breath hitching right as your heart stuttered. “What in the…?” You whispered to yourself as you took in the sight of the stranger. He was looking at the spaces where the truck would normally be, and you had half a mind to not just run up and start hollering at this stranger. What if he needed help or something? You didn’t see any car around or nothing, so maybe he was in trouble. You squinted, and you couldn’t help the little gasp that left your lips as you realized that he had on a burlap sack fitted loosely over his head. He had gloves on too, the nice leather kind that you knew cost more than what you spent on groceries in a week. But no good man wore gloves when he wasn’t working, and this guy wasn’t doing anything but staring at the front door.
Your fingers twitched as you just stood there wide eyed and slack jawed. What the fuck should you do? The kind, ladylike thing to do would be to ask if he needed anything or if he was lost, but there was something stirring in your gut that was telling you to go and hide as quickly as you could. You slowly began to back away, one footstep at a time. It was like everything was frozen around you, your breath stilling in your lungs.
You couldn’t look away from him, even as you retreated further and further. His head swiveled slightly as he examined the porch of your house, and you were sent further and further into a frozen spiral as he finally turned to finally look at the fields. The fields where you were inching towards, to be specific. Of course you couldn’t see his features, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was searching for something. And when he finally turned so that you could fully take in the way his muscles tensed and his posture hunched into something more haggard and eager than you’d ever have expected, you realized that something was in fact you.
A scream tore out of your throat as he barrelled towards you, his hands outstretched and ready to catch you. You could hear him calling your name, but you just started running. How did he know you? It didn’t matter though, not when you could practically taste the danger in the air with every ragged breath you inhaled.
Leaves whipped against your face and arms, leaving faint red lines from how harshly they scraped you, but you kept going. The man’s heavy footfalls thundered after each of yours, and you shrieked in pure horror as he reached up and grabbed the back of your shirt and roughly yanked you back. Your feet skidded in the loose dirt as you thrashed and tried to fight him off.
“Stop fussin’ and behave!” He commanded, his voice gruff with annoyance. It sounded like he was purposefully speaking deeper than his normal voice would allow. He followed his words up by clamping his gloved hand around the back of your throat and shoved you down to your knees.
“Ngh! Let me go! My folks will be back any second, a-and then you’re gonna get it you fuckin’ spineless little-!”
Your snarling was cut off with another cry of fear as he squeezed down on your windpipe for a fraction of a second. He grappled with your shaking body as he pushed you up against his chest and pressed you down into the earth. Your eyes were wide and your nostrils flared with panic at the feeling of soil against your cheek.
“Your family ain’t here. They ain’t gonna be here for a while. Quit cryin’ before I give you something to really cry over… shit and I’m tryin’ to be all romantic. I know you’re stubborn but shit…” He grumbled and nuzzled his face against the crown of your head. The burlap of the sack was rough and unpleasant, just another layer upon the mountain of shit you were in. He inhaled deeply, sniffing your neck and shoulder through the barrier of fabric. You shuddered and balled your fists up.
That voice, that touch: it was all so horribly familiar.
“Daniel?” Your voice carried a hint of betrayal you wish wasn’t there. You disliked him, thought of him a creep, but this was beyond anything that you would’ve ever thought him capable of. But then again, when had he ever given you the chance to actually trust him. If anything, you should’ve expected this. Should’ve known. Should’ve done something.
He stilled behind you, his feverish panting ceasing all at once and replaced with eerie silence. Sweat beaded on your forehead as the moment seemed to stretch on forever. Slowly his hands slid over your belly, pressed between the ground and your soft skin and ruching up the fabric of your shirt.
“Daniel,” You repeated his name, more panicked. It was like you were back in the barn again, but this time you felt no warmth from his skin. His sun kissed boyishness that had you squirming with unknown feelings was now replaced with simple cold dread, bathed in silver moonlight and casted with iron resolve. “Daniel, stop it.. Please,” you croaked out as tears gathered in your lashes.
“... You can still say yes [Name]” He whispered, nearly as desperate as you were for a brief moment. You flinched at his voice, but you found no sympathy in his rigid form. You opened your mouth again to beg, but you squeaked as he covered your mouth with his thick, gloved hand. You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m tryin’ to give you the world here, and all you have to do is be a good girl for me and take it, alright?”
The sound of your clothes ripping filled your ears, and he yanked the tatters of your sweater away. He grunted at the effort, shoving you further down to secure you while he reached underneath your squirming form to unbutton your jeans. The denim burned your thighs as it scraped past, leaving your skin sore to his kneading of the soft skin. His breath hitched once his fingers wormed their way past your clenched legs to cup your pussy through the worn cotton of your panties.
“ Oh…” He sighed, sounding so dreamy and fascinated. It was like he weren't about to do the worst thing that had ever happened to you. “Would you look at that,” Danny murmured and fucking squeezed. You kicked against him as hard as you could, and he only laughed softly. “You’re already wet.”
You screamed in protest at that, but he whispered shushes into your ear.
“No use denying it, honey,” He almost sounded amused as he dragged your underwear down to finally reveal what he’d been after. He finally let go of your face, and you gasped for air, letting out a string of curses so foul your father would've surely beat you for even uttering them. He ignored your profanities and wrangled your pelvis into his lap, your thrashing legs on either side of his thick waist. Your nails dug into the dirt as you tried to crawl away, but he shook you harshly. “Quit squirmin’! I deserve a good look at my future wife…” he grumbled, annoyance muffled by the burlap sack. It was even worse that you couldn’t see his face.
Suddenly, your cunt was burning. You hissed, and your fingers curled around the earth. “Ow ow ow!” You cried. Daniel made a curious noise.
“Hm, was hopin’ you’d be a bit looser… relax honey, I ain’t gonna hurt you. You just gotta relax a bit,” He cooed and stroked your lower back, squeezing the globe of your ass and holding you in place with one hand while the other was currently trying to stuff its digits into your tight, clenched walls. You squeaked as his thumb pressed harshly down on your clit, and you jerked at the sensation. “Shh, shhh, it’s okay …” he murmured. It was the same way you would speak to frightened livestock before it was sent for slaughter, all placating and sweet despite the animal knowing something was obviously wrong. Your dry walls clenched around the leather, pulsing as he worked at the little bundle of nerves until pleasure sparked like embers. Slowly, but surely, he worked your hole into a leaking, slicked up mess, his glove covered in your juices.
After a while of prodding and trying to roughly finger you, he finally stopped. You were crying, your tears mixing into mud now smeared across your cheeks. Instead of relief, dread took over your gut.
“I think you’re ready, honey…” He whispered, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Your thighs trembled as he stroked them and moved you once again. His arms wrapped around your waist, his muscular chest pressed against your back. His breath was hot against your neck and ear, the burlap sack rubbing against your skull. The sound of a zipper flying and denim rustling flowed into your frazzled brain. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to say no anymore, your head rolling forward limply to try and avoid his heady gaze that you could feel burning into your skin.
Something hard and hot pressed against your ass cheek, and you jerked away. He fumbled around for a bit, trying to line himself up with your clenched entrance. There were no more hushed promises or niceties, just rough grunts and the strain of his muscles against you.
The first thing you noticed was how much it burned. It wasn’t like that of being burned, though you wished it was. No, it was more like the stretching you would do in gym class way back when. It was past the point of comfort, feeling muscle thin out and weaken while you breathed deeply to stop feeling it so much.
He groaned in your ear, loudly too.
“ Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” He rasped. “To have a moment like this?” You gasped as he bottomed out. Your guts were all squished up in places that you didn’t even know existed before. You moaned softly, partly out of pain and out of surprising warmth. Something stirred within you as he drew back, shuddering and stilted.
It took him a few moments to get it right, and he laughed in boyish glee when he finally managed to keep up a steady pace. He burrowed his head in the crook of your neck, joining you in the mud. Warmth spread through your gut as he pumped into you. At first it was just harsh prodding that hit the wrong angles in your stupidly wet cunt. Every blubber of fear, every hiss and whimpered ‘no’ only pushed him to find different places, find different ways to make you see stars and gasp when you should’ve been screaming.
“You’re always- fuck, you’re always fuckin’ teasin’ me,” He bit your earlobe through the thick fabric covering those charming, poisoned lips. “If it ain’t your goddamn folks around to stop me, then it’s you,” he practically spat, breathless and heady. “You ain’t got not right to say no to me when you know damn well that I’m the only one who can treat you well,” he snarled as his hips met yours roughly.
You felt so full, and when his hand dipped down once again to find your clit, you could do nothing but squeal as he pinpointed those spots that had you seeing blurry from both inside and out. Your back arched despite your muscles feeling like they were pulled thin to the point of no return, flexing and twitching with every slap of his balls against your thighs.
“You’ll see- hngh- you’ll see how good you have it,” He promised ominously.
He picked up the pace all of a sudden, emboldened by whatever was going on in that thick skull of his. You let out a strangled cry, your scuffed shoes kicking up dirt everywhere as the pressure in your belly finally started to rise into a frightening, all consuming pulse that rippled up your entire body. It was like nothing you had ever felt before, and it was fucking terrifying. Your eyes were blown wide, and you began to shriek and buck your hips not to meet his pace, but rather to seek and escape from the impending climax that was gripping your limbs and locking them in aching pleasure.
Danny shoved you further down, wrapping over you like he was some kinda snake. It felt like an apt comparison considering that this was the closest to being eaten alive that you could imagine anyone going through.
“ [Name] [Name] [Name] “
He chanted your name as he pumped his cock further and further into your pulsing heat. He was lost in the fervor of it all, too caught up to make his words coherent anymore. Not that anything would register through the haze of your tears and impending doom, but at least you didn’t have to pretend to listen.
“Ngh! Fuck!”
He had to be close by now. Your thighs were a mess of your own juices and smeared with his precum and sweat, and the two of you writhed together in some mockery of tenderness. Daniel gasped and tensed, his muscles locking together as he finally spilled his release inside of your waiting walls. His voice became high pitched and whiny, and then, in a moment of pure heat and desperation, he finally spilled within you.
You didn’t know when Daniel left your side, but it had to have been a few hours at the very least. You hadn’t moved, too shocked and sore to do anything but bleakly stare into the thick maze of wheat stalks just beyond your fingertips. But he did leave at some point, and when your folks came back, you were alone.
As you had suspected, your father was livid.
“ HOW COULD YOU BE SO FUCKIN’ STUPID?”
It was awful. Almost as awful as what had been done to you, but it was somehow even more shameful. It had been terrible, sitting there on a rickety dining room chair that screamed and groaned everytime you flinched and shuddered. Your mom at least had the decency to wrap a towel around you while you were torn into.
You had tried to tell them, “It was the Petusky boy” and “It wasn’t my fault”. None of your words seemed to hit.
“Danny wouldn’t do something like that.” Your Pa’s response was immediate, and you shut your mouth quickly, gaze boring into your hands curled in your trembling lap.
“Did you see who it was?” Your mom tried to coax out of you, though you got the impression she didn’t believe you either.
“No he had a mask but-”
“That settles it then,” Your dad cut in as he paced the room, his jaw was set tight, and your stomach churned uneasily. “He’s a good boy. A smart one too. He wouldn’t do something like that, and certainly not with you. Be honest [Name], you had to be askin’ for some shit. I’m not stupid. I swear-! We leave you alone for a goddamn second and you’re spreadin’ your legs for the first fool that comes by. And you have the nerve to blame it on an honest man,” he hissed out, and you felt tears brimming to your eyes.
Your mama glared at him, but she did nothing to say anything against her husband. She merely shushed you and rubbed soothing circles on your back.
“From now on, you ain’t settin’ a foot off of this farm, you hear?” He snapped. You sank further into yourself, wishing you could just disappear. “Now, we’re going to keep this quiet. You’re going to keep your trap shut about this, and you’re not going to say a word about this to Petusky boy. And if I find out you did or if you managed to knock yourself up? You’ll be out on your ass before the sun comes up.” The ultimatum was laid bare, and you could do nothing but bite your lip and nod.
In the next few weeks, it felt like you were living in hell. Daniel still worked on your family’s farm, and you tried everything in your power to avoid him. It was strange, though. Even though you could feel his eyes following you everywhere, he hardly spoke to you since that night. You almost could’ve mistaken yourself for having imagined it if it weren’t for the warning looks your Pa shot you nearly every hour. Honestly, it probably would’ve been better if you had just made it all up.
Of course, you couldn’t just forget, but you wish you could.
“Shit…” You murmured as you looked down at the faded calendar you had stashed in the barn along with your collection of paperback romances. It had been your escape recently, but now you once again were forced to face reality. You were late for your period. Pretty late at that, by at least a week in and a half. It was hard to ignore the reality that you could be pregnant, especially since he’d finished inside.
“What’re you lookin’ at?”
You screamed and tried to spin around, but Daniel quickly reached out to grab your arms and pin them in place, holding you still as his lips brushed against your earlobe. Revulsion and fear coursed through you, and your heart beat rapidly as he plucked the calendar from your trembling fingers.
“Hmmm,” His voice hummed low in his throat, a sweet noise that should’ve put you at ease, not on the verge of a breakdown. “You’re gonna have my baby,” He announced, smiling against your neck. Panic coursed through you, and you tried to squirm away as he snuggled up against you and dragged you over to some old crates to sit down. He played with the hem of your shirt, positively beaming with excitement.
“N-no I ain’t!” You protested with a face full of terror. He just laughed and hugged you.
“ I know… I know…” he murmured soothingly and pulled out a box, something rattling around inside. “But there’s a chance, ain’t there?” Pregnancy tests. A fucking two pack. You bit your lip, you couldn’t deny that you needed to know if you were or not. You silently took it from him and walked over to the run down bathroom. He waited, giving you space for the first time. Probably because he knew that even if he did, you had nowhere to run.
Two lines on both tests. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose as Daniel smiled softly.
“See? I told you I was going to make you my wife,” He reminded you, and you felt sick.
“My folks don’t believe that you did it.”
“Really? Well ain’t that something… don’t fuss too much, honey. I’ll just work my charm, and you’ll be up in my house with a rock on your finger by the end of the month,” His promise was firm, and he squeezed your side, careful not to press too hard on your lower belly.
“And what if… what if I don’t want to?”
The question was quiet, desperate even. His eyes burned a hole into your skull, digging around in your brain and trying to pull on your thoughts and feelings. Slowly, he reached his hand up and grabbed your face. It was just rough enough to make you stumble forward, and you gasped.
“ You think that anyone out there is gonna believe you over me?” He asked softly, deceptively so. “That anyone gives a damn about what you think and feel, [Name]? I am the best option you’ve got. I’m the only option you got,” He continued, entwining one of his hands in yours as he walked you to the door.
“Your folks don’t care, no one in this town thinks of you as anythin’ but a tramp, and, shit- when you start showing? You think anyone is goin’ to give you a chance to prove you’re anythin’ else? Now I know you ain’t stupid, honey. Come on, you know as well as I do that this is the best that you’re ever gonna get,” Danny’s words were mocking, and his handsome face was obscured in shadow by the light pouring in from the barn door. You swallowed thickly as he wrapped his fingers gently around your throat.
“And…” His voice lowered as he leaned in to look you in the eyes. “ If you decide you want to be dumb, then I don’t mind tryin’ again to set you straight. Matter of fact, I’ll keep doin’ so until you get it in yer pretty little head that you’re gonna be mine.”He dragged you out of the barn, down the dirt path, and up onto the rotting porch of your house. Daniel flashed you a dazzling smile, his fingers digging into your own. As he reached for the doorknob, you thought of a million ways of how you could get out of this, could leave and run for the hills, but in the end you could only stand there. He seemed to notice you lost in thought and pause, raised your hand to his lips, and planted a swift kiss to your knuckles.
“Don’t you worry, honey. I’ve always got you.”
t.w.: Dark fic, Smut, (P in V), Dub-con/Non-con, knotting, scenting, masturbation, A/B/O dynamics, Omegaverse AU, Alpha!Clark, Beta to Omega!Reader, Clark is sexist in omegaverse terms, Omegaverse politics, Reader is kinda mean lol, Forced designation change/physical changes (Reader), Clark uses some Kryptonian drugs to scheme, Forced relationship, Toxic Power Dynamics, some Fluff, Angst
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works! 18+ Only! I loved reading omegaverse fics back in the day (highschool). I made this verse based on what I remember!
Summary: Clark decides that you didn’t know what you were talking about. He’d show you that being an omega wasn’t as bad as you thought.
Clark fiddles with his pen, scribbling down notes every once in a while. His eyes wander to your desk, your focus directed at your screen, fingers swiftly typing away.
You were beautiful, despite the plain way you dressed and presented yourself. Most people would describe you as bitter, easily irritable, sarcastic and sharp.
Jimmy privately called you frigid. He’s attempted to woo you. Everyone succumbed to his charms. Everyone but you, the muted almost stale scented beta.
He leans against the back of his chair to peek at your screen. He almost rolls his eyes at the news footage you were watching.
Protests were erupting around the country. Omegas from around the nation gathered to demand for stricter laws that would protect them from ‘subjugating power dynamics’.
He snorts.
They were going against their biology. Passing more lenient laws for scent blockers was enough. It should be enough. Those drugs messed with people’s bodies, they weren’t natural.
Now they wanted to make it so that alphas took suppressants to repress their own bodies?
Clark knew very well about these roles. His Kryptonian biology was similar to humans, even having common hierarchical roles in his biological parents' planet.
He was what humans called, an alpha. In Krypton and on Earth they take leadership roles, they’d protect the rest. Some may say they were smarter, stronger, more confident.
It didn’t make sense how so many humans didn’t understand the necessary parts of biology.
Admittedly, betas were very common. Sure, they were helpful, certainly more useful than Omegas who rarely had control over their emotions.
They just didn’t appeal to most alphas. Most of the population were betas, more than half.
He thinks you were jealous. You weren’t that special. Not like him or Lois. Lois was one of those omegas on scent blockers. He could tell due to his sensitive nose, even if everyone else thought she was a common beta.
She smelled a little rotten, like a sweet apple that was in the sun for too long.
The way your nose flared the one day she forgot to take her blocker confirmed his suspicions.
The way you loathed talking to Catherine, a very open and proud omega, further cemented his belief of your envy.
“All alphas are evil,” you say, your eyes directed to the TV screen, the newscaster discussing the rising cases of workplace harassment between an alpha supervisor and an omega employee.
Lois snorted at your tone. He pursed his lips in a small smile at the sarcasm. At least, he thought it was sarcasm.
You get up from your seat, stretching your back and yawning before heading to the coffee machine. It was one in the afternoon.
You appealed to Clark. You were smart and witty. He’d hear the way you talked to others and was enamored with the person you were with anyone other than him.
Granted you avoided interacting with alphas in general, not just him.
He walks over to you.
You could smell him. You huff a sigh, nose scrunching. Alphas were always so pungent. Always making the room suffocate in their stench. Making a mark.
You don’t bother to turn, Clark was fine to be around with. He was nice. He pretended to get a cup and waited next to you, watching you pour a cup of coffee to your mug.
Your blouse is pretty today, he thinks in his head. He appreciated the way it was more form fitting, showing off the curve of your breasts.
“Hey,” he says quietly, his fingers brush against yours as you hand him the coffee carafe.
“Hi, Clark,” you respond back.
He smiled. He leans against the counter, not even bothering to pour himself a cup of coffee as you finish making yours, ripping sugar packets and half and half lids while avoiding his gaze.
“Were you up late?” he asks softly.
He knew you weren’t as affected by his scent like omegas were. You catch the way it tinges sweetly. He notices the puffiness underneath your eyes. You glance up at him, his face pinched with concern.
“Just keeping track of the protests.”
The hostility in the city rose quickly over the past month. Tensions between different groups were running high.
“Yeah…” he says, his voice trailing off. He sets the carafe down. His face serious. Scent stronger than it was a second before.
“I’ve been hearing all about that. It’s not safe to be out there all by yourself.”
He pauses, his eyes narrowing. You fight against your instincts to face him completely, his voice almost demanding you to look up to meet his eye.
“Especially as a beta.”
He watches you take a sip of your mug, your neck tightens, fist curling around the handle.
“I’ll be just fine, Clark,” you say sweetly, emphasizing his name. You’d rather be caught dead than calling him alpha.
Clark hums at the way you spat his name. You’re clearly not taking your safety seriously enough. He crosses his arms and leans closer.
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with out there.”
“I do,” you interrupt. You turn and he steps in front of you, almost subconsciously.
“They’re making their way to city hall as we speak,” you continue. “So if you don’t mind…”
You glance over his shoulder, he stands in front of you, restricting you from getting to your desk. He blinks, realizing he had blocked you instinctively.
He usually wasn’t like this. So domineering. It wasn’t like him. Not at all. He’s sheepish as he steps to the side.
He watches as you bump your arm with his. He caught the way you rolled your eyes.
Your scent was bitter, his mouth waters as if he had sour candy in his mouth. He swallows the accumulation of saliva at the thought of possibly having a taste.
There’s something about you that makes him want to protect you even more than anyone else in the room.
“Just be careful, ok?”
You don’t even turn to look at him.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
You're dismissive as you make your way back to your desk.
…
Clark had been keeping track of the news all day, but he hadn't seen or heard from you after you had left the office.
His worry grew as the day went on. The protest was getting heated. The mere thought of you being in the midst of the chaos made him anxious. His scent was souring as the hours passed by.
Someone points you out amongst the crowd on the television, Clark sits up straighter.
Your shoulders bump against others. You apologize every other second as you make your way to the front of the protest.
The metal fence was about to topple over from the force of the crowd, others have started to notice your press badge. Some think you’re from an opposing party, some shouting at you to leave.
Clark watches the news closely from the TV right above his desk. He sees the way people hackle at you, you try to explain your motives but the voices were too loud.
You weren’t an omega like them. You understand their wariness.
You find someone willing to step aside and interview with you. Their sign demanded for legally protected heat leave. Other signs mock the phrase, ‘They’re an alpha, they can’t help it.’
You clear your throat as you see a beta visibility sign scattered in the crowd.
You could barely hear them, your recorder had to be shoved right at their mouths.
The shouts get louder, the air thickens with the scent of anxiety. Suddenly the police start to circle around the crowd, they close in on the group with shields and batons.
The scent of fear surrounds you, you’re face to face with a shield and for the first time in a long time you feel afraid of an alpha.
The adrenaline quickly shifted to anger. You're shoved forward, your hands press against a shield that pushes you back roughly.
Your recorder drops to the ground, lost amongst the stomping of feet.
The crowd roars before it quiets. The shields back away and you can finally breathe again. Many point to the sky, you look up.
He lands in front of you, facing the riot squad. The police backed away further. His red cape billows in the wind, his back straightening as he looks around.
You lock eyes for a moment, you're filled with a sense of hope and admiration. You could tell so many others felt the same as they waited for him to speak.
“That’s enough!” He shouts, his voice echoing, vibrating the buildings with authority.
The warning was felt in the crowd. You heard some whimpers. Your chest tightens and you have no choice but to stand still. Even the alphas from the police squadron back down, their shields and batons at their sides.
Your small smile falls at the force of his command. You’ve never felt one as strict as his before, as influential.
“These people have the right to protest peacefully. You have no right to get rough with them.”
Murmurs rang amongst the crowd of protestors.
“Everyone, go home now. There is no need for commotion. Please back away from the building.”
There it was. Of course Superman had to be an alpha.
Someone throws a soda can at him and he turns to catch it. He’s standing on the officer’s side, he glances at you behind the now fallen fence with the rest of the protesters.
Protests erupt once again. Alphas were always so tone deaf, so ignorant. The look of dissatisfaction on your face, the disgust, made him pause.
What did he do wrong?
Alpha abuse apologist. Pig. Superfascist.
He was being called all of these names after the failed protest intervention. You wrote a piece on it. You smeared Superman’s name, claiming he was biased because of his privilege.
He scoffed when he read the first sentence of the article.
He wanted to protect you, protect all of them. They were going to be trampled. He shakes his head as you discuss with Catherine. She was passing by your desk, asking what you really thought about Superman.
“He’s a prick,” you say confidently. She guffaws. She stays right next to your desk. She loved to argue.
“Really?”
“It’s all performative.”
She hums. She smelled sweet. Too sweet you almost gag. You inch away slowly, so slowly she didn’t even notice.
She reminded you of your mother. Is what they say in the office. You were the product of an Alpha and Omega. You turned out to be a Beta.
Clark feels bad for you. You don’t get to have such a beautiful relationship with an alpha like your mother did.
Either way, no one really knew about that part of your life. Jimmy had found out about it after you had slipped up and mentioned it when you had a family emergency.
He’d gossiped with the rest of the newsroom.
“Well the protests were against alphas. I wouldn't exactly be on their side either. He stopped the violence before it could get worse-“
“Do you not have a backbone?” you blurt out, your arms crossed. She stares at you. Her mouth opens and closes in shock.
“I’m not an alpha hater. I don’t just hate people because they’re different from me,” she argues.
You scoff. Clark looms closer. The air was tense, he was ready to calm down the situation.
“It’s not about that-“ you start.
“They would never pick you, even if all the Omegas in the world ceased to exist. You know that, right?”
You stare at Catherine incredulously. Your shoulders square and your body locks defensively. Clark knew that it hit a nerve. Your eyes gloss slightly, your lips twisting into a snarl.
“Pick me? I’m not the brainless one ass up and wagging my tail for a knobby dick.”
You were shaking. They didn’t know you. They assume so many things about betas. You hated it. You’d rather die than be subservient to a cock.
Even Lois felt the same, hence her sometimes overuse of suppressants.
Clark interjects, he blocks Catherine from your eyesight, he has his hands up to pacify you. Catherine would definitely break out into tears if you kept it up.
He gives you a disappointed look.
Clark puts a hand on Cat’s shoulders. His hands smoothing over her arms as if to calm her. Your eyes narrow at the touch and Clark feels his heart leap, mistaking your anger for jealousy.
He leads Catherine away, she leans into his touch as if she were in heat.
“The heart wants what it wants. You're no better than the people you judge,” she says matter of factly, right before being led to her cubicle.
You snort. You turn away, now facing your desk. The atmosphere was tense and you could feel the stares.
“They don’t know what they want,” you mumble under your breath.
Clark thinks about your reaction in the fortress.
He looks through files with Gary, all of the healing ointments and serums hidden in chambers. He attempts to find a solution for you.
…
It hasn’t been reported that Superman liked to visit people’s homes. You must be lucky. The alpha knocks on your tall windows leading to your balcony in the middle of the night.
He was holding up a to-go tray with two milkshakes.
They were Metropolin favorites. From a shop that got popular online, and got infested with non locals.
You haven’t had the glorious treat in months because of the long line. He must live in Metropolis, you realize.
You open the sliding door slowly, crossing your arms as he approaches with the tray pushed forward like bait.
You take it. You loved the drama, despite your morals. He sits on your couch as you sip from your milkshake. He places your missing recorder on your coffee table. He could see your eyes soften briefly before becoming hard set again.
Your eyes narrow as he makes himself comfortable on your loveseat, facing you as you sit on your couch. Your knees almost touch.
He watches you savor each gulp, your throat bobs. You lick your lips to savor the taste.
It makes him shift in his seat. He clears his throat.
“I would like to understand why you published that article,” he says calmly.
He wasn’t hostile, his tone was warm, genuine. You sit up straight, analyzing him. You shrug.
“What do you think about omega rights?”
He narrows his eyes imperceptibly. His voice shifts to a lower octave.
“I think we all have the same rights.”
You roll your eyes. He genuinely believed his own words.
“We don’t,” you clarify.
He sighs. You purse your lips.
“You’re an alpha-“
“Based on human terms, yes.”
You’re silent for a moment. You hated being interrupted. You bite your lip, taking a calming breath.
“So you think alphas should harass their employees?”
He gives you an incredulous look. No. A clear no. You lean forward, your elbows on your knees.
“They’re asking for lenient suppressant laws, so that they could work, so that they could be safer whenever they go out. They’re asking for heat leave so that they don’t worry about being fired from their jobs because of something they can’t control.”
He nods along, his jaw ticks despite his seemingly understanding gaze.
“Alphas aren’t the only ones capable for leadership roles-“
“So you want omegas to become like betas.”
You exhale sharply through your nose. He leans forward.
“Omegas are special. Alphas are too. They’re made for each other. Taking away a person's innate biological instincts, their uniqueness, would mean society would collapse.”
You glare at him, your scent was acidic, pure frustration. He leans close, eyes staring intently into yours. He had a small lopsided smile on his face. Boyish.
He pushed a sense of calm onto you. Your body responds despite your clear irritation.
“Tell me, if you could choose to present as any designation, would you really choose to be a beta? Wouldn’t you like to be something meaningful?”
Your breath catches in your throat, your eyes widen.
You put your shake down, it was halfway done. It was enough to start the process. He stands, watching you silently rage.
“It was nice to formally meet you. I hope we can talk again. You have given me a lot to think about.”
And with that he leaves you alone, sliding your balcony door closed and flying off into the night.
…
You were gaining weight. You look softer everywhere, gentler. Your cup was up two sizes, your hips one.
Must be the stress of work and of being on probation. Perry claimed you were starting to create a hostile work environment.
Lois sits on your desk after you asked for notes. She sniffs and rubs the tip of her nose. Her sense of smell was sharp, she gave you a look.
Betas rarely wore perfumes and scents, mostly to not confuse others. Some do it to make themselves appear more like omegas. Most with the hidden intention to attract.
“Nice perfume,” she mumbles, reading through your draft. You quirk a brow. You were not wearing perfume.
“Smells like chocolate and fruit. Didn’t know you were a perfume kind of girl.”
She avoids your gaze but she lifts a brow at your printed draft. You're filled with embarrassment. Did you really smell?
You hated being seen as a hypocrite.
It could just be something you ate, something you spilled on yourself or brought with you from home.
“I’m not wearing any perfume,” you say stiffly. You look over your own work on your screen. You’ve been unable to focus lately. It frustrated you.
“Whatever you say.”
She hops off of your desk and places the draft with corrections with a soft thud. She must be pissed. Pissed because she assumes you were lying to her.
You sigh. Omegas were always so emotional.
…
Clark was one of the only alphas in the newsroom. Aside from Chief Perry. But somehow Clark didn’t have a mate. He was content in his singleness.
You’re surprised he hasn’t hit it off with Lois. Their banter was almost heartwarming to see. If you had an ounce of romanticism in your heart you’d tell her to shoot her shot.
Everyone thought of him as being a gentle giant. He didn’t act like an alpha, he was shy, he hunched over himself to make himself seem smaller.
He was honest, he let other designations take the lead frequently. He took criticism like compliments. You felt more like an alpha than him most of the time.
Most of the time.
There were always moments where you’d be reminded of his status. He was stubborn as all hell.
Sure, alpha and beta relationships weren’t impossible, they were starting to become more popular. But you knew you weren’t going to work, no matter how docile he tried to make himself seem.
You hated feeling like someone had something over you. You could admit you liked not having to do everything by yourself, but knowing Clark could tell you what to do if only his voice got a little louder or his scent was pushed onto you a little harder… It terrified you. You were grateful to be a beta, his influence and status could be ignored.
He had taken your mug off your table cheekily, dodging and stumbling away as you stood and swiped a hand to get it back.
“Sit down,” he says with a lilt of humour in his voice. You sit down immediately, crossing your arms over your much plumper chest.
You sigh as you see the buttons stretch with the movement, diamonds appearing over your dress shirt.
You felt obscene. You should probably see a doctor.
He pours you a cup from the coffee machine at the back of the newsroom.
You stare at him, glaring at his broad back. He senses it. He loves it. He swallows thickly as he turns.
He places the mug down at your desk, you bite the cap of your pen as he leans against the edge, sipping from his own cup.
“Hi,” he greets, attempting to hide his smile.
You narrow your eyes briefly and peek into your mug. It was a light brown, milk swirling in the middle. You taste it. It’s sweet, milky, just how you liked it.
“Hi,” you respond back. Your voice was quieter than usual. You inwardly cringe, you almost sounded meek.
He gazes over your frame, looking you over. You feel your heart pound. You should be extremely uncomfortable, you should tell him to keep his eyes on yours. You knew he could see your cleavage from where he sat.
Your nose flares, he says something but you’re focused on the way his arms flexed and squeezed in his button down, or how his thighs were huge and shifted open to showcase his bulge.
His scent was consuming you. He smelled like honey and bread. You subconsciously lean forward, as if a cartoonish trail of his scent was pulling you forward by your chin.
It curls around your body, bringing you a deep warmth that spreads from your chest to your toes.
For some reason he smells exceptionally alluring today. Intensified and almost directed to you. It made you feel high.
Your pupils dilate, he says your name softly. He was asking you a question. You blink, he chuckles, leaning closer.
“… tonight?”
You hum and nod, eyes drowsy. Your lips curl in a smile as he smiles down at you. He has dimples. You just realized his eyes were really blue. You didn’t really look at him before.
“Great,” he says softly, taking a sip of his coffee. He stands.
You push your chair back away from the table and grip the desk to get a hold of yourself. He walks away. You had no idea what you had just agreed to.
Your anxiety rises more and more every hour. You heard people whisper behind your back, mumble whenever you walked past them. You think it was the perfume accusation, or the way Clark was always near you nowadays, or maybe the way you had suddenly filled out with curves.
Your trousers were tight around your ass, you’re sure many could see the imprint of your tight underwear underneath.
You had gained some on your stomach, softer than usual. You felt like a marshmallow, wrapped in plastic wrap and bulging to escape.
So many liked it, it was an omega characteristic. The softness, delicate curves and gentle swoops of fluff. Almost everyone in the room got distracted by you now. The catcallers out on the street found new content to yell at you for.
You felt like complete shit. You were sweaty and your stomach twisted in knots. You touch your forehead lightly and you're met with a scalding heat.
By the end of the day you felt like your immune system was attempting to kill you. You had the jitters, your body was covered in a sheen of sweat, your legs bouncing in your seat. You were full of energy, your mind scatters easily from one subject to the next.
The clock hit three and you thought Perry wouldn’t really care if you head home early. You think you had the flu.
You pack up quickly, feeling as if you could crawl out of your skin. You felt like a drug addict. Maybe someone slipped something into your drink.
You’re not sure Catherine was capable of spiking your food but maybe someone else in the office you might have offended wanted to get back at you for your less than savory comments.
Clark jogs up to you quickly, stopping you mid step as you attempt to leave. He looks you over, his chest rising and falling dramatically as he takes in your scent.
It was like you doused yourself in chocolate covered strawberries.
It was intense. Like when the girls from his high school first started presenting. He pushes you into an empty meeting room, closing the doors and shutting the blinds.
“Where are you going?”
You narrow your eyes at his question. You lift a brow. Who was he to ask you such personal questions?
He places a hand to the back of his neck, he steps closer and touches your forearm. It makes your skin rise in goosebumps. Your body shivers at the contact.
His fingers wrap around your arm. You let him lean close to you.
“I thought…” he sighs, looking off into the distance. His fingers tighten over your skin, pressing into your muscle. He looks timid, embarrassed.
He looks into your eyes as you attempt to figure out the problem.
“I thought we were going to have dinner tonight?”
You stare up at him as if he grew a second head. He realizes you didn’t really pay attention to him that morning. His smell turns bitter, you inch closer instinctively.
Did you agree to a date?
You place a hand on his bicep, he flexes it as he pulls away and you feel something curl in your lower belly at the action. He steps back, incredibly embarrassed by the miscommunication.
“Clark-“
He shakes his head, he steps away and your hand drags down to his forearm. You feel so bad, you feel his embarrassment deeply. As if it were your own. Why do you want to cry?
You want to make him feel better. He chuckles awkwardly, waving a dismissive hand. Your eyes water, you made him feel bad. You felt so anxious.
“Clark, I didn’t realize, I-“
You grip his hand tightly as he tries to step further away. Your neck throbs, your breathing deepens into pants.
“Not tonight,” you clarify.
Comfort. Comfort. Comfort. You were pleading with him to stay close, to let you comfort him, take his sadness away.
“Maybe another night?” you blurt out quickly.
He looks at you, his fingers intertwine slowly with yours and your heart starts to slow again. The room was filled with a neutral scent, bitterness now gone. The nasty taste of his sadness dissolving in your mouth with a thick swallow.
He inches closer, cautiously.
“Really? You sure?”
You nod. You pull him closer. He towers over you, your head tilts up to take in his scent, your nose skims over his chest. You felt like you could breathe again.
“I’m sure,” you exhale shakily.
You look up at him, he cups the back of your neck. Any other day you would have kicked him in the balls for such an intimate touch.
You were susceptible. You reacted to him. You swallow thickly. The back of your throat vibrates, you lean your head to the side. A soft sound comes out of you, a tittering pleased hum.
Clark sighs blissfully, his eyes widening at the noise before softening. His thumb rubs at your neck. He coos.
You pause. You blink up at him. You just purred. Omegas are the only ones able to purr. It was instinct for an omega to purr when an alpha was in distress nearby. Or when they felt happy.
You inhale sharply and open your eyes as if you had been dunked in water. You pull away from him. Your neck throbs.
“I gotta- I have to go.”
He watches you leave without a word.
…
You thanked whatever higher being existed in the world for making it a Friday night. Clark left you discombobulated. Fucking Clark and his big alpha body always taking up space. Now he was present in your mind.
You were so horny. You venture into your local sex shop and look through the dildos. You bite your lip as you decide. The options were far from limited. Vibrators, bunnies, rose toys. You liked the ones that sucked, but you were looking for something different and not in your collection.
It was simple, the color was a nice translucent purple. The head was bulbous, the sides were lined with thick veins.
“We have a deal, y’know,” the woman over the counter says slyly. She gives you a look as she wraps the box up in tissue paper and puts it in a bag.
You look up from the counter and pay screen, slightly embarrassed for having her know exactly what you were buying and for what purpose.
“Buy one get one free. Anything from behind the counter. Omega special.”
You open your mouth to refuse. You weren’t an omega. But she looks at you with soft understanding eyes. Omega heats were so hard to deal with, so you’ve heard. You’d feel like an asshole for correcting her.
All of the behind the counter boxes were specially made for heats. Some had inflatable knots, others were dildos so thick you almost wince at imagining it going into someone.
You purse your lips. You get one with a thick knot at the bottom, maybe then you might be able to use the tip. You didn’t want to embarrass her for her confusion. You felt your body heat up as she presented you with the box. The cock was long, girthy. You’re sure it wouldn’t fit even if you tried.
You come home with two dildos. You clean and boil them. Then you're in bed, only in your underwear. Your cunt sucks in the first dildo you got, a meager 5 inches. It’s enough to fill you up. Your past ones always were.
Your fingers pinch your nipple, legs spreading as you push the purple silicone head against your slit, tapping it against your clit.
You push in and expect resistance, your palm meets your cunt. You blink up at your ceiling, mouth open in a sharp moan as it grinds against your cervix. You lose the initial electric feeling after a while, you sit up, confused.
Were you looser?
That can’t be possible. You eye the gigantic monster cock right on your bedside table. You bite your lip.
You weren’t an omega. You place it on the middle of your mattress.
Lots of betas were in the porn industry. Omegas were more precious, it was taboo to see them being treated like sex objects, despite their inherent sexual nature.
Lots of actresses pretended to be omegas. They’d adjust to alpha cocks, real, fake, a mix of both. Some like to pretend to submit, to mate, to get marked.
Your face leans against the pillow, your ass lifts up in the air and jiggles as you sway from side to side. Maybe just for the night, you imagine yourself as an omega, ready to be bred.
Your body heats up terribly, your pussy pulsing, lips winking as you arch your back. You spread your pussy with your fingers, feeling the cool air sweep past your folds.
You imagine big hands, strong palms massaging your ass cheeks, jiggling them, pulling them apart to watch your cunt drip onto the sheets.
You moan into the pillow, biting into the fabric. You tease yourself open with your fingers. Your clit throbs.
You prop yourself on your knees, positioning pillows as a makeshift chest. The dildo slides slowly inside of you, you wince. A sense of exhilaration zaps through your spine.
Like a dirty secret, you push yourself to take more and more, every inch making you gasp out at the intrusion.
Your folds caress over the knot. You briefly think of what real knots felt like. Were they as hard as silicone, soft and pliable?
You think of Clark. Your hands go to your breasts and your fingers caress over the fatty tissue.
You knew he was blessed. Even when he was soft you could still see him through his pants. You wonder how big his knot was.
You moan, your cunt throbs around the plastic cock.
It wasn’t going to fit. You bounce on the knot lightly, your hole bumping against it. You push further each time. It was physically impossible for the protrusion to fit inside of you, not without more training.
But it felt so good, you place your hands on the mattress and thrust harshly.
It pops inside of you and your mind blanks, your ass meets your mattress and your cunt tightens impossibly in orgasm. You're all the way into the base of it, your hands fist into the sheets below, allowing your hips to grind hard into the dildo.
Your mouth falls open, moans coming out of you as your body is locked in climax. Fuck, it felt so good. You had a big fucking knot inside of you and it felt so good you gripped your sheets until it tore.
“Fuck, Clark!”
You imagine him and his stupid glasses. His stupid scent. His stupid big shoulders and big hands and his probably big cock and knot.
“Give it to me,” you moan. Your hips grinding down against your mattress harder, the squelch of the silicone covered in your slick so dirty as it reverberated in your room.
“Give me your cum, Clark- ah-“
You lift your hips up, your hand awkwardly reaching behind you to press the dildo further into you, the fake balls slap against your clit.
“Your knot is so- oh- give me your knot, Clark.”
You mumble into the mattress. You fuck yourself all night, mumbling his name to the point he was all you could think about.
…
It was Tuesday.
Lois immediately noticed something was wrong. You stayed home for the past two days. A day she’d understand, two was just lazy of you.
She called. Clark glances in her direction. She stood watching the news, hoping you would pop up in the crowd of protesters.
Her face brightened when she heard the croak of your voice.
“Where have you been?” she asks accusingly. She checks her watch, maybe you were late. She stiffens when she hears a needy mewl.
“Where are you…?”
She walks over to a quiet corner. You groan into the phone. Maybe you were in a brothel. That was so unlike you.
“Was that an Omega?” Lois whispers harshly.
She hears the low mewl again, a distinct distress signal that Omegas emit when they feel unsafe or uncomfortable. Clark pauses his work and listens in. He feels his pants tighten at the sounds you make.
You were calling for someone to tend to you.
“I’m just feeling a bit sick, Lo.”
Your words were slurred, she could hear sheets shift. Lois attempts to piece it together. Maybe you hooked up with an omega in heat.
“You with someone?”
Clark stands, he feels his chest cave at the thought of someone other than him helping you through your first heat.
He packs things up, he says something about wanting to catch a scoop as he passes by Jimmy's desk. Cheesy.
He could hear your mewls and whines from across the city. You were calling for him, begging him to tend to you.
…
You lazily pump your fingers in your cunt, head lolling from side to side as you imagined being touched by someone else, an alpha, Superman, Clark.
Your body shakes in an orgasm, the pain recedes from your lower belly, your fingers slip out of you along with a flood of your juices.
Something was wrong with you. You thought to call Lois but you could barely form a solid sentence.
It comes in waves. The worst of it was last night. You were afraid that the neighbors could hear your squeals and moans.
Luckily most buildings were soundproofed, the doors designed to keep in scents during ruts and heats. You couldn’t be having a heat you repeat over and over again, letting the cold water droplets from your shower bite into the skin of your back.
Your wrists were sensitive, you rub a thumb over your pulse point. A fresh wave of slick covers your inner thighs, you almost fall if you hadn’t leaned against the shower wall.
Something was very wrong. Very, very, very, wrong.
You stand in front of your sink mirror, you wipe the condensation off with your forearm. Craning your neck to the side, you see it. A textured patch of your skin you could maybe pass off as an allergic reaction, a rash.
You feel yourself start to hyperventilate. You grab your phone, your anxiety pushing the growing arousal to the back of your mind as you search for answers.
Chances of a late presentation were low, less than .0001% of the world's population experience late presentation, even then, you’re in your early thirties, most cases were in their mid twenties.
You put on a loose t-shirt hastily. Your eyes wander to your bed as you research. You find nothing. You were a beta. Betas can’t just change their designation. Your body can’t just change out of nowhere. Chemically, psychologically.
You slam your phone against the bedside table. Your hand drags down your face as you sit on the edge of your bed.
You sniff the air, it smelled humid, like raw passionate sex. Your stomach clenches.
You needed new sheets. The ones you’ve used for the past three days were damp with your- you cringe as you think of the word- slick.
You didn’t notice picking the fluffiest comforter, the softest sheets. You also didn’t realize you had gone to the living room and had gotten all of the throw pillows to add to your collection of softness gathered into a pile on your bed.
You lift each item, inspecting it, thinking a piece of grime or lint was stuck on the fabric. You subconsciously rub your wrists against your pillows. You squeeze them against your chest to feel their plushness, the mark on your neck sweeping past the cotton.
You made a nest. You’ve been making a nest for the past weekend but have barely gotten enough energy to pull out your best, comfiest household items.
You stare at the ceiling as you finish organizing, body coccooned in softness. You start to sweat profusely again, another wave of arousal attacking you, making your body shake and hands wander.
It was debilitating. Humiliating in how you couldn’t do anything to stop it.
There’s a knock at your door. You sit up quickly, hands having already grazed over your slickened cunt to rub over your clit.
They knock again, you put on sweatpants quickly. They feel so uncomfortable as you stride over to the door. You’re just about ready to start an apology, you must be too loud, your smell must be spreading across the apartment complex.
You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to curl into a ball as a cramp hits your pelvis. You open the door when the pain passes.
He’s enveloped by your scent, so much so he almost steps back. Your eyes flutter and you take a deep breath in. His scent hits you like a punch in the gut. Literally. You feel a cramp tighten.
“Clark?” You say his name in a garble of shock.
He drops his bag and sweeps you into his arms. It was like being held by a giant. Your chin meets the top of his head, his arms holding you up against his chest as his hands press underneath your ass.
You’re forced to grip his shoulders as he twirls you around, the door closes as his foot pushes it, He walks over to the couch, sitting you down next to him, holding your hands. The sudden confusion of his intrusion passes and you narrow your eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here, I’m not doing well-“
“It worked,” he interrupts, voice filled with joy.
He had a wide smile on his face, his dimples were pronounced. His thumbs press against your wrist and your jaw slackens. The pressure makes your cunt contract.
What the hell was he talking about?
“How are you feeling?”
He scoots closer to you, your eyelids droop and your mouth parts at the proximity. You pull your hands away from him. It felt like you were contaminated with something, like whatever you had was contagious.
His fingers grip his knees, smoothing his palm up and down his thighs as if to distract them from moving to any part of your exposed skin.
Your hips shift, he could hear the wet squelch of your arousal from underneath your sweats. He could see your walls clench as you speak.
“Something’s wrong with me…” You bite your lip to suppress a moan, he inches closer to you, his hands wrap around your biceps, your neck extends and your head tips to the side instinctively. A wave of embarrassment makes your stomach twist. You gave into your submissive state so quickly.
It made you feel vulnerable. You hated the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
You stand up quickly at the pull you feel toward him. Your crotch was wet, a developing damp spot spreading to your inner thighs. You mumble nos under your breath. Clark was making you feel worse. A wave of heat hits you as you grip his forearm and attempt to lead him to the door.
“Stupid alpha…” you say under your breath. He snorts and stands still after a couple steps. No matter how hard you pull he doesn’t move an inch, not a shake in sight.
“Please leave. I-I’m not feeling well.”
He arches a brow and smiles, as if seeing the wet spot in your sweats, the way you twitch in need and whimper at his touch was completely normal.
His solid frame makes you shiver, you groan out, your nipples pebble and press tightly against your shirt. The thin, grey, over-washed fabric highlighted them. The nubs sting from the sudden arousal coursing through your spine.
“I can help you,” he says softly, he pulls you close, your face is smothered in his chest, the chest that smells like warm sweet bread. It was comforting. He pulls his jacket off and your scents start to combine.
“Let me help you, love.”
You wrapped your arms around his torso tightly, inhaling his scent as if it were oxygen. He bends down slightly to cup your ass and lift you onto him. You felt weak willed, weak minded. The throbbing bulge rubbing against your core made your brain melt into mush.
He slips his oxford shoes off in a trail leading to your bedroom. He adjusts you as you curl around his body, legs spreading to link your feet at the small of his back. You were weightless in his hold.
His fingers press and massage against the back of your neck as he enters the bedroom. He chuckles. Your nest was mediocre at best. Clearly this was your first time making one, the structure was flimsy. As he puts you down, your back meeting the sheets, he could see some of your stiff throw pillows fall off the edge.
He makes a mental note to get you better cushions, different sheets, maybe a mattress topper judging by the stiffness of the mattress as he leans on it, either side of his hands near your waist. His head dips to nip at your neck, a firm lick at your scent gland makes you stutter a breath and roll your eyes to the back of your head.
He takes off his glasses as you chirp, pleasant sounds reverberating around the room, making his chest rumble in satisfaction. Your sweats and underwear are placed down against the floor softly, he kneels on the ground and between your legs.
The room was so beta of you. Barely any decor, sharp angles in furniture and no room for anyone other than you. Your bed was small, a full size. Maybe big enough for two betas, certainly not enough room for you and an alpha like him.
His knees nudge against something on the floor, he stands as he picks it up, hearing your thick swallow. The silicone cock was heavy, the bulging knot at the base was average at best. His was bigger, he tosses it to the other side of the room and directs his gaze towards you.
“Present for me, sweetheart,” he says softly, a hint of a question in his tone because he didn’t want to seem demanding. His cock strains against his trouser, he pushes back his hair, swiping away the sweat that was starting to build above his brow.
He’s never felt like this. Not when he popped his first knot in an omega or when he first went into his first rut.
It was different this time, he felt weak in the knees for you.
He sees you shake, you force yourself to stay still, you writhe against your sheets, refusing to meet his eye and cooperate.
His voice lowers, his command was louder than before.
“Present.”
He hears you whimper, the force of his voice making you melt. He didn’t mean to be so harsh, but his patience was wearing thin. He unbuttons his trousers and pushes his boxers down enough to grip his cock free.
You get on your knees, bending down to rest your elbows against the mattress. You’ve clearly never done this before, it was cute watching you move so unsurely.
His palm smooths down your back, you arch it. He'll guide you, if you just let him. He gets up on the bed to nudge your knees further apart, you bury your face in your pillows.
His hands spread you open, thumb brushing over your folds and nudging at your clit. You drip onto his palm. His thumb pumps in and out against the rim of your hole.
Your slick was creamy, producing a wet popping sound as you started to thrust back against his hand. He pushes up your shirt and grips your hip, his cock head slides against the seam of your pussy, slick dribbles down his shaft and coats him.
His was warm and heavy, his skin soft against yours. Squeezing your waist, your body shudders, your ass jiggles, against his pelvis invitingly.
“Clark,” you mutter, hips rolling onto him, feeling his fat tip nudge against your clit. Your back arches further, to the point you were on the verge of cramping up. You bite your tongue to stop yourself from begging for him.
He watches you struggle, your mind simultaneously urging you to give in and screaming at you to push him away. You were a proud woman, stubborn. He wanted to show you that he could protect you just as well as you could protect yourself.
“Look at this pussy, you’re dripping,”
He lines himself up against you, his cockhead opening you up impossibly. You were tight, untrained, your sopping wet cunt couldn’t stop the invasion of his fat cock, stretching you so wide it felt like your hips were going to split in two.
“You’re so perfect, doing so well,” he mumbles, as if enamored with you.
“S-shut u-up-” you grit out,
You lift your head, he pushes it back down. He growls, you moan as he pushes an inch further into you harshly. Like a punishment.
“Be good,” he commands. His hands smooth over your hips, a small apology. He continues to slowly open you up until he bottoms out. Your legs shake, your cunt drips so much slick his pelvis is covered in it. You push back against him, moaning out at the feel of his tip pushing against your cervix.
The bulge at the base of his cock swells up quickly, he could feel his balls start to tighten. You were so tight. He holds your hips in place, even as you whimper for more.
“What does a good omega say when they want more?”
His hand smooths over the globes of your ass, he hears your breath hitch, you contain your whimpers and moans. He snarls at your lack of response, his hand connects with your asscheek in a swift slap.
You squeal from the contact.
“Fuck- please.”
His chest presses against your back. He tilts your head to look at him, he raises a brow, his knot slots between your folds, just about ready to push into you. Your body thrums, the need is too much. You wanted it. Wanted him.
“Please, alpha.”
His chest lets out a deep rumble at your submission, it puffs out in pride. You let out what seems to be a squeal or shout as he pulls out completely and drives deep into you again. A thick slurp could be heard from the action.
His movements were a mix of grinds and thrusts, his head pulses against the rim of your hole, his shaft leaking with your warm juices before thrusting into you again. You hated this, you felt so weak, so humiliated.
Your upper half is pounded into the mattress, breasts exposed as he kneads the fat of your chest and pinches your nipples. His hips snap against yours, his thrusts slowing down before picking up speed again, to tease you.
He pulls out of you suddenly. He grips his cock and lets go of your body, letting you fall on the bed. You couldn’t move, your skin was humming, cunt fluttering in the absence of his thick cock. You whine, tears gathering in your eyes at the lack of his warmth.
He coos lowly, fisting his cock at the pretty sight of your tears running down your face. Accumulating because of need, the desire to be filled up again.
“You need a knot in you don’t you?”
You nod slowly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand and biting it to prevent from babbling a series of desperate yes- yes - yesses.
He was anything but sadistic. Any other time he saw you upset he wanted to comfort you. But you always brushed him aside, pushed him away just because of who he was. Seeing you be so vulnerable with him now brought a satisfaction to his chest he doesn’t think he would have with any other omega.
He twists your body, positioning you to lay on your back and look up at him as he crawls on top of you. He presses his forehead between the valley of your breasts. His hot wet breath on your skin makes it pucker.
“I’m going to fill you up so well you're gonna feel me for days. Do you want my cum, honey?”
You stare at the ceiling, his hair tickles against your collarbones. His weight traps you beneath him, his hand tight around your legs as he slots his pelvis against yours. You nod frantically as you pant.
“Y-yes.”
His cock slides back into you. You moan out and close your eyes tightly. Your hands go to his shoulders and your nails press onto his broad back, hooking into his muscle to pull him closer.
“To think you didn’t want this. It feels so good letting your body tell you what to do, telling you what's right, doesn’t it sweetheart?”
He pumps into you, his arms wound behind your back, his face pressing against your chest and sucking your soft breasts. He spreads his knees to spread your thighs open, his cock digging into you, hitting your cervix repeatedly.
His knot swells, it kisses your folds, pushing them wider to finally press inside of you. He stops, lifting his head to look at your face, your cockdrunk eyes half lidded and hazy. He sucks your mating gland, your body locks and pulses against his cock.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles. He nips at the textured patch of skin. “Tell me you’re mine, omega. Tell me how much you want your alpha.”
You bite your lip, his knot pulses against you, waiting agonizingly to be inside of you, to connect you, keep you against his chest. Your breath stutters in fear, you didn’t want to be mated with him, much less in this moment. You move your neck away from him, he keeps you still.
“Tell me,” he snarls as an alpha command. Pressing his pelvis harshly against your mound, your clit grinding on his skin and making you lose your mind.
“Yes! I want you, alpha, I’m yours.”
He pulls back to thrust into you full force, his knot finally popping into you and expanding to prevent him from pulling out.
His cock pulses harshly inside of you, his cum filling you up and warming you up like molten hot lava. You’ve never felt this before, it was so much, almost too much. His mouth was open in a long groan, hips and ass twitching and flexing as he gave you his thick load.
You shake, legs locking on his sides and head thrown back against the pillow as you cum. He continues to thrust into you, grinding his hips into your pelvis as he continues to release his seed into you, feeling your cunt grip him tightly.
You let out a sob. Overstimulated, your mating gland pulsing terribly and releasing an overload of your scent into the air, as if urging him to bite down. He presses his head to your forehead, eyes wandering over your face as you both come down.
“D’you feel me? I’m filling you up so much. Looks like you have a baby in your belly already.”
His hand smooths over your lower belly, it was bulging with his cum. You wince as he presses down at the pressure. You clit pulses again, you whine from the back of your throat and he shuts you up by kissing you softly.
“One more time, I want to feel you come apart on my knot.”
You whimper, his fingers swirl over your clit, your slick escapes from your connected bodies. You shake your head. He was all you felt. His body is on top of you. His scent. His lips. His knot and cock.
“I can’t- Clark- please don’t-”
He shushes you, he grinds his hips into you, your cervix strains as the head of his cock presses into you.
“Give me one more, make your alpha proud.”
He pecks your jaw.
“Be good, yeah? Don’t you want to be good for your alpha? Don’t you want to cum on this dick, omega?”
Your mouth parts and you nod frantically. He kisses you, teeth gnashing together as he pinches your clit and your hips thrust up into his.
“Say it for me.”
You pussy tightens over his knot, he feels your back arch underneath his.
“I wanna be good-” you mewl, “I wanna be good for you, Clark- mmh- alpha.”
You moan into his mouth, body going limp at the feeling of his cock twitching in your cunt, your bones turning to jelly as pleasure pulses throughout your nervous system.
…
You reach a drowsy hand over your bedside table, you disconnect the charger and click on your phone. Your face lifts from the pillow, it was so early. Almost seven thirty in the morning. You press the phone face down on the pillow.
“You think you can handle eggs again?”
Your mating mark pulses and you turn to see him by the doorway, eyes roaming over your form. You sit up and stand, pressing a hand to your back and underneath the swell of your stomach as you yawn. His old loose shirt rides up your bare thighs.
Your gut pulses with need, his need.
“We can try,” you respond softly.
You brush past him, bumping his arm, not even looking back even as he chuckled at your ‘sass’. Clark’s hand swats your ass softly, pressing a kiss to your head as he rushes past you to quickly take the toast out of your mini oven.
You feel your cheeks pinch with heat as he feeds you himself, leaning against the kitchen tabletop to see your reaction. You chew slowly, your nose scrunches and he snorts.
You were hard to please. He realized this quickly. But it was admirable. Adorable when you didn’t get your way and you made a fuss.
You stood up to cook your own eggs, frying a layer of red onion on the pan of oil before marbling your egg into the perfect texture.
You claim he burns the eggs and leaves a choquía smell. They made you nauseous for a long while, especially at the start of your pregnancy.
You were the most headstrong omega in the world, he thinks.
You walk into the rotating doors of the Daily Planet, you adjust his tie as you make it to the other side of the bustling building.
You slap his chest when he swipes a thumb over your chin teasingly. You were embarrassed by his coddling, his public affection.
Especially with the almost judgmental looks from Lois and Catherine. It was a surprise for everyone to hear that you had suddenly presented as an omega.
Lois thought you were a liar. That you hid the fact you were an omega from her even when she had confided in you. Catherine thought you were a hypocrite, a self hating omega that hid as a beta.
It got much worse when it was revealed, by Clark marking you a month after your heat, that you were mated to an alpha even after claiming to want nothing to do with them.
You barely made up with Lo, she still didn’t quite believe you but she brushed off the drama quickly. You were still you, despite your sudden changes.
You sit on Lois’s desk, arms crossed as you watch the TV screen. She watches with you.
“We should go,” she says softly. She pokes your ass with her pen, making you yelp and stand up from her workspace.
You give her a look and your eyes trail over your bump. Having a six months pregnant omega in a crowded protest was not something you considered that safe.
Lois rolls her eyes.
“I’ll go with you, we’ll stay along the edge, we’ll be fine.”
You scoff. You say her name lowly, a warning to not convince you further. Because you will do it.
“Superman’s around. What’s the worst that could happen?” she shrugs, rising from her chair and nudging your shoulder. She gives you a look as she walks past to fill up her thermos for the road. Think about it.
You make your way to your desk, the surrounding area bare of coworkers, feeling excitement fill your chest. You grab a digital camera and recorder, packing your bag to the brim as you prepare to leave.
Your spine prickles, you stand up straighter as you hear someone clear their throat behind you.
“I don’t want you to go.”
You turn, you hold the strap of your bag tightly. Clark steps closer, towering over you. He stands up straight, his jacket draped over his forearm. He had his sleeves up, showcasing the thick muscles of his arms.
His brows were set harshly, no hint of a smile in sight.
“Clark-“
“You’re not going, omega.”
Your eyes round out in shock. He was using that voice. You feel tears well up, blurring your vision. You couldn’t move, just thinking about going with Lois made your chest pump with anxiety.
He drops his jacket on your desk, you step back and are cornered against the edges, the wood digs into the backs of your thighs.
He shushes you and swipes his thumbs along your cheeks, flicking your tears away.
“You’ve become so much more emotional, honey.”
You couldn’t pull away from his hold. He leans down to press you against his chest, his chin rests against the top of your head.
“I’m keeping you safe. It’s not healthy to be around all that stress. Omegas can’t handle that. You know this.”
You sigh. He tightens his hold on your shoulders.
“You understand right?”
His chest rumbles at your lack of response.
“Right?”
You nod, his hands rub your arms softly, stepping back to peck your cheek. He extends an arm to your lower back, picking up his jacket and leading you to the door.
“Let’s get lunch. Your favorite spot.”
You nod, mumbling a short ‘ok’ in response. He rubs your shoulder and pulls you to his side as you make your way outside.
Lois watches you leave from where she was leaning against her car, you give her a tight lipped smile as you pass her by.
She shakes her head in pity as you walk past, seeing your passion dwindle with each passing day.
——————————
I think when it comes to omega rights, reader is also ignorant like Clark. They both share stereotypes that they believe to be true and I think that kind of bites Reader in the ass in a karmic sense by the end of the story. Obviously, Reader was/is an activist but she still behaved in a bigoted way, like how some white liberal men direct their misogyny towards conservative women/women they don’t like.
At least that is what I wanted to portray in my writing. :P
cult leader ! price x f!reader
cw: heavy smut. cult grooming. praise and punishment. lots of 'good girl' and a smidge of degradation. breeding. exhibitionism. things involving all three orifices. price is depraved.
Jonathan sets his eyes on his next sacrificial lamb. This one might be his favourite.
or [read on ao3]
Jonathan always had a taste for sweeter things.
He fancied himself a collector. Some might have said the habit started when he was a young man; gathered the prettiest girls like notches on his belt, luring them with attention before moving onto the next once he inevitably grew bored of them.
Truth was, it started long before then. Stemmed from his childhood, when he’d pilfer candies from other children and they’d cede to him without dispute, because they were frightened of him. Or perhaps from his infancy, when he’d suckle his mother dry, leaving her bruised and seeding a hatred for him deep in the pits of her. Or even from within the womb, when he hoarded all of the blood from her placenta and starved his twin of life, thus born already lavish with the greed of a victor.
He never considered himself greedy, though.
Greed, he thought, implied an undeserving nature. One could only covet that which he didn’t have already — and Jonathan had everything. He deserved everything.
All that he wanted already belonged to him, he needed only reach out and take it. He wanted money, so he was gifted with the charms of a salesman. He wanted women, so he was anointed with good looks that only ripened as he aged. He wanted power, so with the benisons he was born with he obtained it as easily as a river rolling downhill. What began as a runnel swelled quickly into whitewater, picking up creatures and stones as it went and carving an indelible valley into the bedrock.
Followers flocked to him like chickens, pecking at his feet for crumbs of his attention, and he fed them just enough to keep them hungry. What started as one or two sycophants grew quickly into ten, then twenty, and soon he had a hundred-acre pasture to turn them out on and an array of hand-built coops to keep them in. A commune, as far as the rest of the world knew it, but in truth it was his abbey. Populated by disciples that worshiped him, serfs that toiled for him, pretty hens that waited on him.
The problem with ceaseless indulgence, though, was how quickly he grew bored of it. Even the sweetest things turned sour if he sucked on them for too long.
He was not ignorant of how spoilt he had become. So spoilt, in fact, that his flock’s willingness to appease him had turned to such cloying adulation that it made his head ache. Needy little lambs, the lot of them, scuffling for the milk of his praise, unendingly competing for a single drop of it.
He had begun to fear that true satisfaction was impossible to attain. Nothing, nobody, would ever be enough for him. No amount of servile women could surfeit him. No amount of devotion could truly appease him.
What he really wanted was something intractable. Something to break in. Something he had to work to tame.
Chickens and sheep were easy to herd, easy to please, easy to come by. Lions, bears, far less so. What strength was there to claim in leading livestock just as any old shepherd can? Domesticating a creature unbroken would be a true testament to his godliness, he thought.
He had no interest in battling for dominance with an equal, though. He would never be willing to share his cathedra with someone of comparable strength or power — not to say that such a being could possibly exist, there was no one alive comparable to him.
What he needed, he thought, was a cub.
A callow little beast, not yet big enough to know her own strength, but coursing with a valour that his lambs seemed to lack. A creature he’d need to keep under a firm heel. One he’d need to bridle before she learned to bite.
Such a thought ran through his mind when he saw you.
Hadn’t caught your name yet. Hadn’t even been informed of your impending arrival, as you were shown to a seat at the other end of the vast dining table. Timid thing you were, feigning some moxie with your arms crossed, but he could smell your unease. Wide in your eyes when you caught his and he chewed hard on nothing.
You might have thought you were only there to visit, sweet girl, but Jonathan had already decided that you were there to stay.
Reaching out to your cousin was a last resort.
You weren’t even sure that Freya was your cousin — perhaps a second cousin something removed, or merely a family friend — one that you didn’t remember meeting but had somehow been acquainted with since birth. You were friends with her on Facebook, and though you only hardly ever used the bot-infested website, you messaged her anyway.
Hi Freya — this is so random and I’m so sorry to get in touch out of the blue, but I’m not sure who else to turn to!! I just lost my job and my landlord has doubled my rent and I have to move out by this weekend. I don’t mean to dump sorry, but I just remembered a while ago you said you were living on a shared farm or something? Totally understand if I can’t and literally no pressure at all, but just wondering if there might be room for me to crash for a while? I don’t want to be a burden so don’t feel like you have to say yes or reply or anything. Anyway I’m sorry it’s been so long since I reached out, I hope you’re doing well!!! xxx
You had sent the paragraph after ten p.m. on the Thursday. You dithered about it for a while before you gathered the nerve to hit send — curled up on the mattress that sat raw on the floor, snivelling quietly to yourself and nearly deliquescing into the foam out of sheer humiliation. You hated asking for favours, pathologically averse to seeking help at all costs; which, paradoxically, had landed you in this very predicament.
The message went unopened until you fell asleep, but you woke up puffy-eyed to a reply that had been sent just after five in the morning;
Hi!! So sorry to hear about everything you’re going through, that sounds so hard. Of course, there’s always room here!! I would be soooo happy for you to stay! Do you need help moving out? My friend has a truck we can use. We can get you here before Sunday if you want. Let me know x
Freya and her friend Philip arrived the next day, tooth-achingly sweet as they helped carry boxes of your things into the back of the truck, stuffing in all the furniture that they offered to store at the Homestead, so they called it, until you found another place. All lolly-smiles and sunny pleasantries, offering you ice-cold homebrew that they kept in a cooler, wedges of a ginger slice they had packed for the ride, all homemade as Freya had beamingly told you.
The drive to the countryside might have been awkward if it had been anyone else in the cab with you, but the two of them filled the silence with a cacophony of laughter and saccharine questions about your miserable life. You avoided real answers most of the time, but they were adept in milking honesty out of you, so painfully earnest in their responses — oh my gosh, that’s just awful, I’m so sorry. That must be so scary. You must be so lonely.
The truck’s bench seat meant you were squished in together, Freya wedged between you and her friend — there was no space to turn your head away or quietly vacate the conversation by looking out the window. You could only sheepishly confess to everything they asked of you — that no, you weren’t seeing that guy anymore, and no, you hadn’t spoken to your parents in months, and no, you weren’t willing to admit to them how far you had fallen.
“I’m just so happy you messaged me, it’ll do wonders for you,” Freya said loudly over the open windows, wind flipping through her sandy-brown hair, cut short just below her jaw. “Like — I was just thinking about you the other day. Isn’t that special?”
“Yeah,” you replied, mustering as sincere a smile as you could. “I’m really grateful for your help.”
“Of course,” she cooed, gentle hand on your shoulder. “We’re family! We’ll always be there for you.”
Something made you uneasy about her use of we, but it was smothered by reluctant gratitude. The stars had aligned, after all; you had been granted such a stroke of luck by the powers that be that you dared not question them. You couldn’t risk Philip turning around to dump you back at your empty apartment, nor could you risk falling out of favour with Freya, who you were now completely indebted to.
“The, um, Homestead — is it like, a village, or something?” You asked eventually, an hour or so into the drive.
Both of them giggled at that, and you did your best not to frown in bemusement. “Kind of,” Philip replied.
“It’s just divine — paradise, really,” Freya added. “You’ll love it,”
Not an answer. “So… like, a commune?”
Freya gave you a thin smile. “That’s a cute word for it. Yeah, I guess it is sort of a commune. but—”
“You’ll see when we get there,” Philip interrupted.
His tone was unthreatening though firm, and it ended the discussion.
You asked no more questions for the remainder of the drive; most of which was rough and bouncy, trundling over dirt roads riddled with mud-filled potholes and the odd roadkill smeared over the gravel.
It was beautiful countryside, you could admit — it had been a long while since you left the smoggy din of the inner city, and out here the air was fresh and bright, especially then in the acme of summer. The breezes were velvety, the sun-bleached trees were dense with lemon-green leaves, and the waving grass was lush and emerald. Swathes of freshly shorn sheep coated the hills, and some friesian cows shared the same fields, heads bowed as they chewed on the same pasturage they shat on.
By the time you approached the farm the evening sun had sunk to the margins of the sky, disparate clouds catching its orange light on its way towards the horizon. Only as the hills flattened out and the truck passed a bulwark of poplar windbreaks did you finally start to see semblances of buildings.
You weren’t sure what exactly you had expected, but it wasn’t what you saw — an array of seemingly hand-built cottages, bedecked in tooth-white cladding and rectangle windows, with perfectly pointed gables and corrugated metal roofs. All of them were roughly the same size with a porch jutting out the front, lined up like barracks along a single path — hardly a road, merely a muddy track where the grass had been worn down to the rocky soil beneath it.
“Home sweet home!” Freya crooned, as Philip pulled the truck towards some less cookie-cutter buildings — stables, or something similar, he parked beneath a large corrugated canopy under which a tractor and some hay bales had been stored.
Freya dismissed Philip with a word and told you he would take care of your things — whatever that meant — as she scooped her arm around you and pottered towards the centre of the commune. Looking at it now, you could confidently call it such; you spotted the odd person in the distance toiling over the farmland, or hanging wet laundry over a washing line, or carrying buckets full of a liquid you couldn’t identify. No visible power lines, a functioning well, a windmill in the distance. Entirely off the grid, you presumed, and only then did the thought strike you that you might not have any phone signal out here.
“So these are our houses,” Freya explained jubilantly as she led you down the gravelly path between the shacks. “Me and my friend Sam live in this one here.”
“Nice,” you remarked politely, squinting to look into the windows as you followed Freya up to the porch, but they were blocked by lace blinds within.
The flat panel door squealed on its hinges as she pushed it open, a little beaten up at the edges where it had been installed by rough tools and inexperienced hands. The interior smelt of sawdust and citrus and a faint hint of body odour — you guessed they were the kind of folk that didn’t use deodorant, and you found yourself praying they at least had running showers.
Inside were two beds and a small kitchenette — hip-height shelves with flat surfaces for chopping vegetables, and a little gas stovetop. No fridge, no sink, no dishes. Seemed as though they didn’t even use the space for preparing food at all.
“We can set up a bed for you in here, if you want,” Freya told you, “or otherwise there’s a bed in Philip’s cabin.”
You frowned at that, because she said it with a little smile, and you didn’t know her well enough to decipher it. Whatever the case, it left a floury feeling in your tummy, and you nodded in place of an answer.
“Well, you can decide later,” she said. “C’mon, you’re here in time for supper.”
At the end of the road stood tall some kind of spire-bedecked chapel — a building Freya called the hall, and when your nose must have inadvertently scrunched at her bible-thumping description, she couched it by telling you; “no, it’s not a church. Or, it can be, if you want it to be. It’s for everybody.”
It became abundantly clear to you that you were in over your head as you crossed the paths of other commune-dwellers venturing to the hall for supper. All dressed up in their prim and propers; every woman in flower-toned skirts of varying lengths and pleasant white blouses, men cladded in their button-ups and linen pants.
“Looks like I’m underdressed,” you murmured to Freya, looking down at your jeans and t-shirt, infused with dry sweat worked up while lifting and hauling all your boxes and furniture.
Freya giggled. “No, no, nobody cares about that,” she said. “It’s only because it’s the end of the week.”
“Sunday best?” You asked with a simper, an attempt at a joke that you were well aware may not have landed.
You could never quite get a read on her — she had the potent positivity of a bible-camp counsellor, that sort of tight-lipped smile that gave the impression she had a fragile tolerance for banter or disagreement. But that veneer didn’t crack, nor did it appear to conceal any manipulation or malicious deception — instead it seemed like that berry-jam sweetness was thick in the blood that pumped through her veins, and glowed earnestly bright and pink in her cheeks.
“Yeah,” she chuckled, “I guess you could say that. But there’s no dress code, or… uniform, or whatever. Don’t worry. We’re not a cult or anything.”
Preempting your burgeoning concern that the commune was a cult should not have comforted you as much as it did, but it was settling to hear some degree of self-awareness. In honesty, you hadn’t been there long enough to make a fair assumption, but the entire affair was undeniably Jonestown-esque — especially as you wandered into the gaping raw-timber hall, to find a boat-long table with a man seated at the head.
He sucked the air out of you.
Indescribably so. Like a black hole at the end of the room, drawing both light and oxygen into his orbit, occupying it all for himself. Palpable in the size of him — great hulking man with shoulders like an ox and arms as thick as trunks, flocked in dense hair that swept around his forearms and tufted out of the neckline of his shabby white t-shirt. The cotton was distended by bulk, pulled tight over a heavily padded chest, mucky with dust and mired by darkened patches of sweat between his pectorals and under his arms.
You could feel his mass from where you slipped into the hall behind Freya, a weight that you felt in your stomach and it made your brows crumple up in worry you could not pin.
Worse, when he met your eye.
He leaned back in his seat like it was a throne. Eyes dark as cave pools that ensnared you above the brown beer bottle he tipped into a jutting jaw, hooked in a thick forefinger. They followed you sharply as you entered the room, like hooks, and you could feel where they pierced your skin.
An ambiguous expression festered in his features; sceptical, maybe, or vaguely bitter — something fixed in it, though, an unspoken accusation that made you feel as if he had detected some wrongdoing you had yet to confess to. It compelled you to defensively wrap your arms around yourself, though you kept your eyes on him, if only to test whether he would look away.
He didn’t.
He was sheeny with sweat and ruddy-cheeked like he had just turned in from a day of hard labour. Decidedly underdressed compared to the residents of the commune that filed into the bench seats on either side of the table, one-by-one, well practiced; no shuffling awkwardly along to make room, no murmured sorries as knees knocked and seats bumped.
Twenty-four of them, sixteen on each side of the table. You tucked yourself awkwardly at the end of the row, next to Freya. It did not escape your notice that you had ruined their even number, clumsily jutting out of what would have been a perfectly mirrored seating arrangement. Your brows knitted together in chagrin when you got side-eye glances from the people across the table.
It struck you that there were far more men than women seated — you and Freya were two of five — but the moment the thought gained traction you looked up to see eight women in aprons file in from a door at the back of the hall.
Platters in tow, puffy trails of steam following them as they lay each dish down along the table. Lamb, by the looks; four great brown hocks of roast leg, charred and gritty with thick bones poking out of the slabs of meat. Accompanying those platters were large dishes of boiled potatoes, bowls of peas, a few piles of indeterminable green and brown mush. Soon the cavernous hall was filled with the thick scent of steaming meat and bone marrow, and it might have smelt appealing if you weren’t so on edge.
On edge, not only because you felt a leech, latched on to the ankle of a community you hadn’t yet been introduced to, as though hoping they didn’t notice you there and pinch you off by the jaws — but worse, because you could feel the burning stare from the man at the head penetrating straight through you, and your skin all but bubbled and blistered under it.
“Hungry?” Freya asked with a smile, rubbing her hands together above her empty plate.
To face Freya meant you were facing that man, and you could see him glowering at you even out of focus, in your periphery as you addressed her. Your eyes flicked to meet him despite a concerted effort not to, so you looked at your plate instead.
“Not really,” you murmured, though you quickly realised how rude it sounded once the words left your mouth. “Filled up on ginger slice on the drive over — but it smells delicious, so I’ll definitely have some.”
“Good,” she says with a nod, “this is the real deal, you know. The good stuff. You could never buy food like this at a supermarket. You know Philip butchers it himself?”
You’re not sure why that comment made you swallow. “Does he?” You ask, out of polite disinterest.
“Mhm. He’s a good one, too. No gristle or anything, just you wait.”
You nod and smile, gritting teeth, because you accidently caught his eye again when you hadn’t even tried to and it made your stomach cramp up.
The women who brought in the food began to file into the empty sides of the benches, and one pressed up next to you as if you had taken her spot. Freya mindlessly fiddled with her fork, and suddenly you realised how quiet the hall had fallen.
Silence settled like smoke. You suddenly had to bite down on the urge to cough. Glanced around the table, platters steaming and ready to be served with their great big spoons — and yet, nobody touched them.
Until the man at the head leaned forward with a grunt, clunking his bottle down on the table and reaching over to grab the prongs on the platter in front of him. Pulled off a massive hunk of tender meat, stringy and dripping reddish juices along the table, before dumping it on his plate.
The hall was suddenly alive again, then, and everybody continued their discussions as normal — a plethora of hands reaching across the table, grabbing spoons and forks, scooping and serving themselves humble helpings of meat and vegetables compared to the mountain the man had piled up for himself.
“Here you go,” Freya said, having filled your plate for you without your noticing; a polite pile of meat, two potatoes, and a scoop of peas.
“Oh, thank you,” you replied, with a smile, as she put it down in front of you.
It took a few turgid minutes before you could muster another word, swallowing dry mouthfuls of your meal to busy yourself while you felt those inculpatory eyes needling at the side of your head.
“Who is that?” You asked Freya, quietly, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. As casually as you could make your interest sound to avoid revealing how your thoughts had been invaded by him, pounding like a headache, from the moment you set foot in the hall.
“Hm?” She hummed, mouth full, looking up and around to see who you were talking about. “Who?”
“Him,” you said, nodding your head towards the head of the table, eyes dashing back to your plate when he met them again.
“Oh! That’s Jonathan!” She answered you, jarring as a sudden clap.
“Jonathan?” You probed, taking another mouthful of food to hide your scepticism.
“Yeah, he’s the, like, founder, or something… I’m not sure what you’d call it.”
“Founder? Like, of this whole place?”
“Mhm,” she nodded, swallowing. “He brought a few of the old hands with him over from Liverpool to set up the farmland. I wanna say… ten, eleven years ago? Much longer than I’ve been here, anyway.”
“How long have you been here?” You queried, regretful of how judgemental it sounded when you said it, but she seemed either oblivious or unflustered.
“Over a year, I think,” she said. “Nearly two, maybe.”
“Wow,” you said, through your food. It was actually pretty good. “Must be one hell of a farm.”
She snickered at that. “I’m not here for the farm,” she laughed, “well — it’s a bonus, of course. But, no, I stuck around for the family.”
Family. You tried to conceal how it made you wince, but you weren’t sure how successful you were in doing so. You didn’t want to continue that line of questioning, though. It made your throat tighten up, and whatever else she might have told you, you didn’t want to know. You only needed a place to sleep, after all. Only for a week, two at most. No longer than that, you decided, repeated it firmly so that it was fixed as fact in the back of your head.
Then you caught his eye, again, and he seemed to tilt his head at you, a tug in his brow like he had read your mind and taken issue with your thought.
“He keeps staring at me,” you muttered quietly, head tipped towards Freya so that none of the other people could hear you.
Her head spun cartoonishly on her shoulders to look at Jonathan, and you wished you knew her well enough to elbow her for making it so painfully obvious you had been talking about him.
He leaned back smugly in his chair. Held your gaze like a challenge.
“I don’t think he wants me here,” you whispered edgily.
Freya looked back at you with her brows pin straight. “He just hasn’t met you yet — you should go up and introduce yourself.”
You frowned anxiously. “What? Right — right now?”
“Yeah, you should. He’s probably expecting you to.”
“Expecting me?” You balked, face twisting at prospect that the man could have been audacious enough to expect anything from a stranger.
“It’s only polite,” Freya said calmly, with an easy smile, and a gentle hand on your arm. “He’s the one who is letting you stay.”
You chewed on that for a moment, forcing the vitriol in your mouth to slide down your throat with a hard swallow. She was right — if it was his farm, and it sounds as though it might have been — then he was the one doing you the favour.
Before you could dither about whether you had the bravery to call across the table and say hello — which, you didn’t — he spoke.
“Who’s this, Freya?”
His voice cut through the din of the meal like a chainsaw.
Freya bolted upright, spine plank-straight as if called to attention, though it took her a second to register the question.
A quirk twisted in his brow when she told him your name, and his jaw masticated on it for a moment. You prayed for the ability to curl up into yourself like a snail, because now not only was he glaring at you, so was every other pair of eyes at the table. All you could do was keep your chin high and act as if the bizarreness of the situation wasn’t eating away at you like gangrene.
“She’s a friend,” Freya added sheepishly.
“You didn’t tell me she was coming, did you?” He asked rigidly, and while there wasn’t anything directly accusatory in his tone, she reacted as if she had been scolded.
“Um — well, I said that I had a friend coming, and you—”
“A friend. That’s right,” he crooned, and Freya deflated like a popped balloon at the release of blame. “C’mere, then.”
“Me?” Freya asked tightly, and he only tilted his head condescendingly — all but saying obviously not.
“Our new friend,” he said simply, ursine eyes fastened to you across the table. Gestured at you with a flick of his fingers. “C’mere, cub.”
Your eyes darted abashedly around the room, unsure what you were looking for — an escape, perhaps. Maybe encouragement. You found none, so with a sharp breath you pushed yourself up to stand. Had to awkwardly clamber around Freya and the other woman next to you to step over the bench, bumping them both on your way up. All of the simmering attention in the hall was on you, and you wished you had never come to the weird fucking Homestead in the first place.
There was no choice but to entertain it. You didn’t have your own car. You didn’t have it in you to demand to leave in front of all of these seemingly normal people. You didn’t have it in you to make a scene.
“Bring your supper, love,” Jonathan said warmly. “Come sit.”
You sucked your lips between your teeth in reluctance, but you capitulated quickly — bending between Freya and the woman to pick up your half-empty plate, carrying it with both hands as you made your rueful way towards his end of the table.
His head followed you as though on a stick on your approach. Gestured wordlessly at the man sitting on his left, and the entire row shuffled along the bench seat to allow you space right beside the head. It took you a moment to gather the nerve to sit, so you put your plate down first.
“Sit down,” he said.
Your lip curled at his patronising tone, and out of spite you remained standing for just a beat too long — until brief shadow of potent displeasure saturated his features, lips in a line under his dense umber beard. It made the back of your neck feel cold.
The fleeting indignation was brushed off with a smirk, though, followed swiftly by a puff of laughter. Something in his air told you he’d only wait for so long, but for now he was amused by your disobedience.
You sat yourself down, only because the awkwardness was suffocating, and your spite was quickly smothered by embarrassment when it became clear that everybody in the building was waiting for you to listen to him.
“There you go,” he grinned, taking a sip of his beer to cut the tension, and it snapped like a rubber band. The others were abruptly busy with themselves again, chatting amongst each other and chewing away at their meals.
Then it was only you, and the minacious beast of a man. Swallowed by the vacuum of his tunnelling attention until the rest of the room sounded hazy and indistinct.
“What brings you all the way out here, then, sweetheart?” He asked casually, the air suddenly buzzing and warm around him.
Eyes that you thought had been black were in fact blue as storm clouds, that creased fondly in the corners when he smiled at you. His lack of introduction felt pointed, confident that you were already well aware of who he was.
“Um,” you bit, oddly lost for words, you poked at a pea on your plate with your fork. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Give it a go,” he pressed, scooping a mouthful of meat and potatoes into his mouth, though his eyes didn’t leave you.
“Well, I was working at — I mean, it doesn’t matter. I was made redundant. Or, fired, or whatever. They were really vague about it, so I don’t even know,” you over-explained, suddenly regretting every word that rolled uncontrollably out of your mouth. “But then, well, I’ve been going back and forth with my landlord about rent for ages. I thought I had gotten through to him — because I told him, I made it super clear I’d have to break the lease if he increased it as much as he wanted to. But he did it anyway, bumped it to more than double what I was paying, and so—”
“So you’re homeless, are you, cub?” He interrupted, brows raised, as though summarising your rambling points for you.
You tripped on your own voice like a raised root on a footpath, cocking your head back as you looked up at him. You weren’t sure why you were affronted by the suggestion.
“I’m not — no, I’m not homeless,” you corrected, unconfidently, and he smiled at that.
“Do you have a home?” He asked simply.
A divot pulled in your brow. “Not right now, but—”
“Don’t pout, love,” he chided. “I’m not insulting you. It’s just the truth, in’t it?”
“But I’m not homeless, my parents have a house, and I—”
He seemed to stiffen at the mention of parents, and it should have alarmed you. “Parents, eh? But you’re here instead?”
“Well, yeah, but it’s only because—”
“Easy, easy,” he cooed, voice low and gurgling. “No need to get so defensive, mh? M’only curious about you. S’not often we have urbanites like you wandering in.”
Something in his expression, in his voice, was as warm in your mouth as liquor. Eyes that earlier disquieted you were now soft, crinkled and sincere in their interest, and you could only yield with a short sigh.
“What’s that mean?” You asked, failing to conceal your sulkiness.
He chuckled at you, as he scooped up another mouthful of his meal onto his fork.
“City bird,” he said frankly, through his food. “I can smell it on you.”
You frowned, vaguely offended but with no clue what he meant by it. “Excuse me?”
“All that perfume,” he explained disapprovingly. “Cigarettes. Car exhaust. Mh. This place’ll do y’good.”
You resented yourself for suddenly feeling insecure. “You don’t like my perfume?”
He shook his head once. “Bunch o’ chemicals,” he dismissed. “I bet you smell much better underneath it.”
Couldn’t explain why that made your diaphragm seize up, and you let out a pitiful little cough on reflex. Maybe it was because he said it while he looked at you like meat, conspicuously letting his gaze rake down to your chest and linger there for a moment. You were thankful he couldn’t peer any lower by virtue of the table.
“Probably not,” you said meekly, in an attempt to lighten the conversation. “I got all sweaty lifting all my furniture and stuff this morning.”
He looked perturbed by that, a reproachful glance up from his plate. “Didn’t Freya bring Philip along to do the moving?”
“Yeah, he helped a lot,” you said, suddenly worried you might have gotten her in trouble — then doubled back on that thought, when you considered how vile it was that being in trouble was something the people of the commune might have had to worry about. “But, y’know. I had a lot of stuff, I wasn’t gonna make him do all the work.”
He tutted. “Can’t have that.”
“Can’t have what?” You asked dubiously.
“Can’t have you doin’ hard work,” he elaborated, as though explaining something you should already have known. “Wee lambs like you should stay nice n’ soft.”
Your lips pursed reprovingly. “I’m not a lamb,” you snapped.
A grin dimpled his bearded cheeks. “Maybe not.”
You froze as his burly hand dragged across the table, before he brushed his thumb over the back of your wrist. The touch made your belly tense up and your hairs stand on end, and all you could do was blink at him.
“Still nice n’ soft, though. Don’t want to ruin that, do you, cub?”
Cub.
His usage of it had gone unnoticed until the third time, but you quickly began to ruminate on it. An idiosyncratic term of endearment, maybe, but something in how he said it felt pointed. Knowing. Vaguely accusatory.
His fixation on your softness should have made your hackles spike up, but his expression was almost exultory, and his touch made a shiver tingle up your arm. You were suddenly conscious of your heartbeat.
You didn’t know how to answer him.
“I don’t — I’m not soft—”
“Feel bloody soft to me,” he remarked, giving your wrist a squeeze. “And m’sure you’re even softer on the inside.”
Your stomach dropped at that, and you wore it on your face, bright and hot in the cheeks. He said it so casually, with such an earnest smile, that you chastised yourself for what must have been a wild misinterpretation. He surely meant metaphorically, commenting on your personality, your softness of nature, rather than your—
“Y’got a boy, love?” He asked candidly, returning to his meal, and the skin of your wrist felt cold once his hand retreated.
“A boy?”
He raised a brow at you, a silent what do you think? as he chewed his food. His use of boy felt calculated and you wondered how old he thought you were.
“Oh — uh, no.”
“Mh,” he mused, mouth full. “Somethin’ happen?”
His ability to read you was uncanny, and it made you squirm.
“Um, yeah, I came out of a relationship recently.”
He raised his eyebrows as he swallowed. “D’he leave you?”
That made you frown on reflex. Insulted that he had assumed it. Vexed that you were giving something away you hadn’t intended to. Troubled that you couldn’t seem to hold your cards close enough to your chest, and he was peeking at them whether you liked it or not.
“No,” you retorted. “It was pretty mutual.”
“Did he leave you?” He repeated, but there was no rigidity in it, no severity in his expression. It came out as naturally and calmly as small talk.
You looked away from him, scratching the back of your hand. “Well, I — we were growing apart anyway, he just ripped the bandaid off.”
He nodded in understanding, patently satisfied that you had capitulated. “Rubbish took itself out, eh?”
You smiled wryly at that. Hadn’t expected him to say something in your favour after rudely assuming you must have been dumped.
“S’pose so,” you said. “Definitely feel a bit freer without him.”
“Good,” he chortled deeply, scooping himself another mouthful of meat. “We don’t have room for another lad livin’ here.”
You pouted in thought — living here, he said. You worried for a moment he might have misunderstood your presence at the commune, or that Freya had not made it clear to him that your stay was temporary.
“I’m not moving here, or anything,” you clarified hesitantly.
“Aren’t you?”
You gave him a mild shake of your head. “No — I’m only staying for a week or so.”
He smiled at that, letting out a gruff sigh as he leaned back in his seat, picking up his beer. “S’alright, love,” he said. “You can stay however long you like.”
You looked askance at him. “I’m — thank you.”
“Have you got yourself a bed?” He asked coolly.
“Um, sounds like I’m either staying in Freya’s house or Philip’s house.”
His jaw tightened. “No, no,” he dismissed with a scoff. “I’ll get you a proper spot.”
“What do you mean?”
“A place with a bed just for you, love. No need to share.”
You shook your head guiltily. “Oh, no, I’m totally happy to—”
“Don’t be daft,” he grunts. “Freya already has a friend with her and Philip — well. Can’t have a thing as pretty and innocent as you sharing a bed with a man you don’t know, can I?”
Your mouth went dry. Innocent should have been an omen to heed, but you were too busy spinning about pretty. Wanted to smack yourself for letting it get to your head, but by the time the remorse arose the seeds of flattery had already been sown.
It crossed your mind, then, that Freya had failed to mention you’d be sharing a bed with Philip and not just a room. You remembered her little smile and wondered if it was your fault for failing to pick up on it.
“I just — I don’t want to be an inconvenience, or anything.”
He shifted forward, then, and his immense hand travelled under the table, before fixing firmly to your thigh.
Close enough to your knee that you would have felt unjustified in smacking him, but high enough that you felt a sudden fizzing in the base of you — a moiling, something warm and shuddering in the cradle of your pelvis, and your face burned hot. You wondered if you might have been ovulating, because that was the only justification you could muster for how your body reacted to his enormously inappropriate touch.
“Not an inconvenience at all, cub,” he said sincerely.
“That’s—”
Tranquilised, when his fingertips pressed just lightly enough into either side of your thigh that it could have been accidental. Sent a shock up your femoral nerve that stabbed you in the core and made you twitch.
You attempted to finish your sentence, but your jaw was fixed, because you had short-circuited the moment he touched you.
You had your people-pleasing tendencies, but you had never been a doormat. You knew when something was a step over the line, an affront, an action worthy of retaliation. In another setting you might have called him a pig and thrown some peas at him before storming off. That abeyant aggression had gotten you into sticky situations before, because not all men held to the moral of not hitting a woman back.
You didn’t think he would have been the type to get violent if you were to snap at him, but there was a murkiness about him, and you could not say so confidently. Pupils somehow blacker than black, smoky within.
It wasn’t fear, though, that kept you placid. You weren’t afraid of him. Awestruck, maybe. Morbidly intrigued, like you had stumbled across a bear through the trees and despite yourself yearned for a closer look at such an elusive beast.
It didn’t help that your thigh was dwarfed by the expanse of his hand. That his thumb grazed you up and down through the denim of your jeans. That you saw his pulse in the veins of his forearm as your stare trailed upward, fixing to the way the bands of muscle moved under his skin as he stroked your leg.
“That’s nice of you, thank you,” you murmured, once you found your voice again.
He nodded, satisfied, and his paw released your thigh before giving you a chaste pat on the knee.
“Good,” he said, putting down his fork, and you realised he had already finished his mound of food. “Finish up your dinner and we’ll get you settled in, eh?”
You didn’t notice it then, but the moment his fork hit the table, so did everyone else's.
The cabin he gave to you was another white cottage, but this one had a cariad rosebush out the front; dense with spring-bloomed flowers, tissue-paper pink, yellow anthers laden with pollen. It was also the closest cottage to the hall, the very last one at the end of the road, with no opposite cabin to mirror it.
He had Freya show you to it. You heard him tell her under his breath to give her a proper welcome, which made your brow tight and your palms sweat. It was an uncomfortable wait as Philip brought your suitcase from wherever he had stored it, and he left it by the foot of your new bed — a narrow single, with a tartan woolen blanket and a single pillow.
You thanked him as he left, and he rolled his eyes, responding with a curt scoff. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
Freya leaned against the jamb of the door, giving Philip a strangely pitiful expression on his way out, before she turned her attention back to you.
“I feel bad,” you said sheepishly, crossing your arms as you stood in the centre of your personal cabin.
Freya sucked her teeth at that. “For what?”
“I mean — getting a whole cabin. That feels like a bit much. I just thought I’d be—”
She pursed her lips. “What’d he say to you?”
“What?”
“Jonathan,” she bit. “You were talking all supper.”
If she was irritated at you, she concealed it well. Kept her brows high and her posture loose despite her line of questioning.
“Um,” you started. “I dunno, he just asked me questions, I guess.”
“Like?”
“Like — uh, why I’m here and how long I’m staying for, and stuff.”
She seemed to chew on that for a moment. “That all?”
“Why?” You questioned warily.
“Oh — nothing, I’m only curious. I’d just feel terrible if he interrogated you on your first night here.”
Your brows pinched together. “Um, I mean, he didn’t interrogate me or anything. He was nice enough.”
She let out a short breath, and a smile pulled in her lips. “Yeah, he must like you.”
You only shrugged, unsure if the comment merited a response. Uneasy about the implied weight of him liking you, and you wondered what might have happened if it turned out he didn’t.
“Anyway, I’m really glad you’re here,” she said, suddenly warming up. “You let me know if you need anything, will you?”
You returned her smile if only out of courtesy. “Oh, thanks, I will.”
“Anything at all. Even if you only need a shoulder. We’re here for you, okay?”
It was too easy to slip into a routine.
You had a few days of lounging — that’s what Freya called it — time spent leisurely as opposed to working like everybody else did.
The summer heat was dry but inebriating, and it sunk in through your skin like a percutaneous medicine. Soaked into your spongy brain like ether, and what was once a persistent anxiety that needled and hummed behind your forehead was numbed into a pleasant compliance.
You had always felt that you suffered from a degree of social anxiety. A pathological fear of rejection that kept you under the heel of solitude, because being actively excluded was more painful than not including yourself at all.
And yet, you were making friends.
The people of the Homestead were so warm, so sunny, and so eager for your company, that any worry about not fitting in was forcibly shucked off of you like the husk of a corn. Whatever uncertainty about you that smouldered in the air during the first supper had evaporated, and suddenly those that had looked at you with suspicion were instead all agog about you.
There was Georgie, who knocked on the door of your cabin at eight in the morning on your first full day, and offered to walk you around the farm. She told you she had never seen someone so pretty, and that she only looked funny at you at supper because she was intimidated by you. She asked you questions about yourself with such genuine intrigue that you found yourself answering in gratuitous detail, and she was fervently gracious for every word.
There was Simon, one of the old hands, so Freya called them — who arrived at your house to set up gas-powered hot water, because he thought you might not be used to the cold showers on the commune. He told you that they couldn’t let you suffer such a shock to the system, that it was better to keep some of the things you were more familiar with, so you felt more at home.
There was Linda, who cooked you pancakes for breakfast because you slept through their six a.m. communal one. She made you a coffee with whipped cream and told you that the vanilla syrup was homemade, and she gave you a bowl of strawberries that they had grown themselves. Only the ripest and sweetest ones, she told you, for such a ripe and sweet girl.
By the fourth day, you were encouraged to follow their schedule. Told that you’d miss out on connections if you slept through breakfast or didn’t attend lunch. It was easy enough, when three of the women you had spoken to the evening prior came to your cabin bright and early. Gave you a little flower to wear in your hair and held your hands as they skipped with you to the hall.
That was the next time you saw Jonathan.
He was elusive in the daylight. More of a rumour than a man, something whispered as a deferential secret or referred to like a surveying deity that was perpetually present but just out of sight. He would appear in the hall for his lunch but would take it to go, and you could only speculate on where he spent his time in the space between dawn and dusk.
He was frugal with his attention. You had begun to suspect his lavish interest in you on your first night was a rarity, a spotlight unique to being a new arrival — and you didn’t like that it wounded you.
A thorn in your side, tiny but irritating, when you would sit down for dinners and he didn’t invite you to sit next to him. He would keep your gaze for bite-sized moments, ensuring you knew he was aware of your presence, but his focus would shift to somebody else just as you thought he might speak to you.
So when he called your name after breakfast, before the prescribed cleaners began clearing the table, you perked up like a spooked cat.
The thrill you felt when hearing his voice was sobering, and it sent a chill down your spine.
It was subconscious, and it worried you. A latent fawnery that had germinated in your brainstem, one you were only made aware of when you hopped up too enthusiastically from your seat, and felt a swelling pride in your belly when Georgie gave you a knowing little smile.
You could feel it there, a tooth-rotting lolly dissolving in the wet folds of your brain; you knew it was bad for you, but you couldn’t help but savour the sweetness.
“Been missin’ you, Cub,” he said softly, when you went to stand beside him, and your tongue curled in your mouth. “Walk with me?”
“Sure,” you said.
He wore a faded red overshirt, rolled up to his elbows, and your eyes fixed on his thick forearms as he crossed them over his chest. Smelt of sage and sweat, the musk of labour and deer pelt, and you wondered if he had been out hunting the day before.
“These things are no good,” he remarked, tugging at the waistband of your jeans by a belt loop, as he walked you out of the back of the hall into the blue-grey dawn.
The air was cool but already warming with the incipient sun, and the cicadas were awake and humming long before you had been. The birdsong was almost deafening out there, mourning doves lamenting loudly from the tall pines and walnuts that dotted the acreage.
“My jeans?” You asked, looking down at them, suddenly worried they were unflattering.
“Mh,” he grunted. “They’re bad for you, y’know.”
You frowned. “How?”
He chuckled, as though the answer was so obvious that you were daft for not knowing it. “Aren’t they uncomfortable?”
“I mean — I guess they’re a little tight,” you admitted bemusedly, running your hands over the waistband.
He nodded. “Mh. Too tight,” he said. “You should be lettin’ her breathe.”
You gawped at that. “Her?”
“Your pussy, love.”
Your heart skipped a beat when the word drawled its way out of his mouth. Tongue went wet with it, and you could only stare up at him, stupefied.
“That denim is like sandpaper,” he continued placidly. “Too rough for such a sensitive thing.”
You hoped he couldn’t see how flustered you were, as you broke your gaze from him and stared glassy-eyed into the gravel of the footpath he walked you down. He chuckled as he draped a heavy arm around your shoulders and gave your trapezius a squeeze, thumb pushing into a squishy knot and it sent goosebumps down the side of your neck.
“No need to get embarrassed, sweetheart,” he purred. “I just know these things.”
You should have been humiliated by your deference, revolted that you didn’t feel compelled to shove him away and berate him for being so blatantly inappropriate — but some part of you, to your dismay, believed him. They were a little suffocating, you thought, stiff and uncomfortable to sit and walk around in. Perhaps you had become inured to the rigid seam that flossed between your legs and pressed harshly into your clitoris every time you sat down.
“I — I only really have pants with me. Or leggings,” you quietly admitted, and his calloused hand smoothed down to your arm.
“The girls can sew you something you’d look lovelier in,” he said. “Better than those city clothes. Wouldn’t you look pretty in something pink?”
He was good at that, insulting and complimenting you in the same breath. Letting your insecurities fester under the surface but coating them in a thick lacquer of praise.
“Uh, maybe,” you muttered eventually, once your bashfulness abated and you could find your breath again.
“I don’t want to see these again,” he said, sternly this time, as his paw sank to your far hip and his thumb tucked into the waistband.
You swallowed. You should’ve pulled away from him.
“I… okay,” was all you said.
You were a guest, you told yourself. He was housing and feeding you with no expectation of payment or contribution, the least you could do is abide by the dress code of his community. To heed his advice, because he seemed like an erudite man.
He had led you to a pergola, one made of hand-chopped timber, faded grey beams, spattered in wrinkly patches of celadon lichen. Didn’t need to ask you to sit next to him on the seat beneath it, because he guided you there with his arm.
“Settling in okay, love?” He asked you, arm hung over the back of the bench, and though he was no longer touching you, you felt the heat of his skin on the back of your neck.
“Yeah,” you said, blinking up at him, before looking abashedly into the trees. “Everyone has been really nice.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he remarked, nodding, but his gaze continued to pry. “All been welcoming, I hope?”
“Yeah, for the most part,” you answered, with a sedate smile.
“Most part?” He questioned immediately, tone rigid, a dent between his brows.
“Oh, no — I definitely feel welcome,” you stammered, suddenly worried that you’d come across as ungrateful.
“One of ‘em hassling you?”
You shook your head urgently. “No, no, of course not.”
Eyes once doting had squinted in suspicion, and you felt suddenly transparent, like he could see the gears spinning beneath your skin. “I’m not stupid, cub.”
You huffed as you looked away from him, straight out into the tree line with your arms crossed, because you didn’t like the feeling of being pried open.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said, “it’s just Philip. He just doesn’t seem like he wants me here.”
“Philip, eh?” He droned, chewing on the name like it tasted foul in his mouth. “I’ll have a word.”
“Don’t, please, it’s fine. He hasn’t even been rude, just a bit—”
“Enough,” he grumbled, and you bit your tongue. “Not havin’ him throw a fuss because things didn’t go his way.”
Your brows tightened at that, mind rending itself to figure out what he might have meant by it, but any possible implication you arrived at made your guts churn with unease.
He let out a long sigh, though, and patted your shoulder with his far hand. “Enjoying yourself otherwise, love?”
You almost jumped again to polite dishonesty, everything is lovely, rising up your throat — but you decided on frankness instead.
“Yeah, but there’s, um, there’s not much to do,” you said. “I wondered if there might be something I can help out with?”
He laughed, a bearish sort of chuckle, deep from the barrel of his chest.
“You’re asking for work, are you?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” you said. “I feel bad just watching everyone else do it.”
He seemed endeared by the suggestion, grinning at you tenderly for a beat too long.
“Aren’t you a righteous wee girl,” He crooned, large hand cupping your shoulder. “Didn’t I make it clear how I feel about you working?”
You pouted at that, because how he felt about the matter was not law, though he evidently believed it to be.
“It’s just — I’m a bit bored,” you said stiffly. “Wouldn’t hurt to have something to do during the day.”
“Bored, eh?” he mused, through a wry smirk, thumb mindlessly stroking your shoulder. “Well we can’t have that, can we.”
“I just mean—”
“Tell you what,” he declared. “You can help the girls in the kitchen. But I’m not havin’ you toiling out in the fields like a farm animal.”
You gritted your teeth. Some sun would have been nice, you were sure, but you’ve always been a creature of comfort. Though the suggestion was patronising, you were not averse to the prospect of domestic labour, when you considered how ragged the farm-workers looked after ten hours of muddy chores.
“Okay, sure, I can do that.”
“Lovely,” he said. “You can bring me my coffee in the morning too, if you like. How’s that sound?”
“Um,” you hesitated, “where… where would I bring it to?”
“My bedroom,” he said, point-blank.
You must have worn your stupor on your face, because he gave you a brazen smile, and he grazed your cheek with the hand hanging over your shoulders. He was only a tactile man, you told yourself. Touchy out of habit rather than lechery. That would explain why you didn’t bristle at the warmth of his skin against yours, despite the fact he was still but a stranger to you.
“Okay,” you conceded, with a sharp exhale, because you suddenly felt as though you had agreed to something you shouldn’t have.
He nodded, smile baring his ivory teeth, catching the light of the rising sun on a gold-capped premolar. Genuine pride in the steely eyes that gazed down at you, and you felt the warmth of it on your cheeks. You felt his fingers playing with the curls of hair by your ear, as he drew in a deep and steady breath.
“Not wearing your perfume, mh?” He remarked, after a pregnant silence.
You weren’t sure why the mention of it embarrassed you, that you had been caught obeying him when you didn’t think you were trying to.
You hadn’t thought of him when you shirked your usual two-spritz routine to start the day. It wasn’t a conscious decision, you told yourself, you just hadn’t felt the need — in truth, though, you had not once used it since he mentioned it at the first supper.
“No,” you confessed.
You could smell the pride on him, crude and syrupy. Oozing from the smug grin that dimpled his bearded cheeks. His thumb stroked the skin of your neck, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing.
“Such a quick learner, cub,” he said.
There was only one path for you from there.
You had brought Jonathan his coffee for the first time the next morning.
His room was in his farmhouse, a timber-cladded folk victorian with two storeys, though likely hand-built by him and his old hands. A short walk from the hall, separate from the other buildings and planted at the top of the hill. The front door was ajar when you went to visit, and you sheepishly ventured inside and went to knock on his bedroom door. End of the hall at the top of the stairs.
Your eyes were level with his sternum when he opened his door for you, and you wore your shock like a smack to the face.
Mountainous pectorals upholstered in bearish fur, rising and falling as he breathed you in. He was freshly showered, still damp, and you had arrived just in time to find him buckling up his belt. Hadn’t any time to put a shirt on before your arrival.
You had never felt smaller nor more insignificant than when you stood in front of him, faced with such a mass of muscle and post-hibernation bulk that you felt drawn in by some deific gravitational pull. A mere moon in his orbit.
“Hard at work already, lovie?” He drawled, petting the side of your head and taking the steaming mug from you. “Aren’t you a good girl?”
He offered his praise like hard candy, and you were far too eager to suckle on it.
He sniffed, dissatisfied, when he took his first sip.
“I take it with cream,” he told you stiffly, and your heart dropped at the disappointment in his throat. “Next time, mh?”
You gave him a weak frown.
“Well you didn’t tell me that,” you retorted, probably a lick too defensive.
He seemed amused by it, letting out a small puff of laughter and raising an eyebrow. “Now I have.”
“Anything else I should know?”
He pursed his lips as he thought about it, you felt his eyes on your neck. “I like it sweet.”
“Me too,” you said, holding back the smile itching in your lips.
“Bet you do, cub,” he replied, with a tepid smirk, and he shut the door.
That was the last time you got it wrong.
The next morning you arrived five minutes earlier, and he opened the door in his red-plaid boxers, eyes still puffy from sleep and skin radiating heady warmth from the cocoon of his bed. Unshowered.
He caught your eyes flitting to the weight behind the buttons of his boxers; shape concealed by the wrinkling fabric, but length plain as day, reaching down the left leg of his shorts. Gave you an upbraiding glower when you swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in your mouth. A silent scolding for getting ahead of yourself with a gaze down his nose as you handed him the mug.
“I put cream in it this time,” you said, revolted by how obsequious it sounded aloud, “and some of Linda’s vanilla syrup, I thought you might like it.”
“Mm,” he crooned, the rumble of an engine deep in his chest as he slurped from the mug. “Tha’s lovely.”
A proud little smile curled in your lips. “Oh, good — I’m glad.”
“Know just what I like, don’t you, cubbie?”
And what could you do but fawn at that? Get all starry-eyed and warm in the cheeks?
You managed to barely hold on to your reservations for the first few days, keeping your appropriate distance. Dismissed his overt affection as a character quirk, and your willingness to appease him as simple politeness.
But it was a slippery slope, and you had long since lost your footing. Tripped the very first time he called your name, and there was no climbing back up. You could only slide deeper.
It didn’t help that all the girls were practically shoving you towards his house every morning. All giddy and fizzing to have you knock on his door, then clucking like chickens when you returned to tell them that he liked his coffee. That he said you were such a good listener, such a clever lamb, such a sweet girl. No wonder, they all told you, squealing it, you’re so lovely. You’re so kind. You’re so pretty.
How could you hold shut your doors to such generosity? Such overwhelming friendliness?
It wasn’t long before that was your morning routine. What was a few days, became a week. Then two.
You’d wake up at the crack of dawn, to the birdsong from either the blackbirds in the trees or the girls at your doorstep, and you’d skip to the kitchen to make Jonathan’s coffee. You’d have the mug out, cream and syrup at the ready, so that once the coffee had finished brewing you could assemble it all at once and it would still be puffing steam by the time you arrived at his house.
Each time you visited him, you’d stand a little closer. Talk a little softer. Stay a little longer. You didn’t see him much during the day, elusory as he was, and you found yourself shamefully excited for your morning visits.
One morning, he didn’t answer his bedroom door when you knocked on it. You knocked on it twice, three times; careful not to hammer too firmly, nor so softly that he’d begrudge your toadying. You were not willing to break the routine, to fail in your fresh habit, so you gathered the nerve to open the door. Heart hammered in your ribs as the hinges creaked and the knob rattled, and the light you let in spilt into the room.
It was warm in there, stuffy, curtains drawn and windows closed. The air was thick with him, full-bodied; it coated your tongue and filled your sinuses, made your head buzz at the temples.
“That you, cub?”
The growl of a sleeping grizzly as he rolled over in his bed, deep grunts and long exhales as his sleep-heavy eyes landed on you in the doorway.
He must have been cold-blooded, you thought, because he was tucked under multiple woolen blankets even as the summer nights hit their peak temperature. You could hardly stand a single cotton sheet yourself; it was as though all the heat of the northern countryside pooled in the valley of the farm and was only augmented by his presence in it.
“Yeah, um, I’ve got your coffee,” you whispered, waiting in the doorframe for him to welcome you deeper into his den.
“Mh, bit early,” he grumbled, and you bit down on an apology, because it was not in fact any earlier than your usual visits. “C’mere.”
You swallowed. Shuffled bashfully towards his bed as if you were breaking a rule just by being in his space. You were sure there would have been such a rule, too, because every day you learned of a new one. No nail polish. No mobile phones. No polyester clothes. No chore swapping. No wandering the Homestead at night. No eating before Jonathan. No unplanned visitors. No secrets.
“There was no vanilla left,” you said quietly, as you put the coffee down gently on his nightstand. “So I put maple syrup in it instead.”
He let out a gruff sigh as though you had disturbed him, rolling onto his side to face you, and he lifted up the corner of his blankets with this forearm.
“In y’get,” he grunted.
You could only blink at him dazedly.
A week or two earlier you’d have asked for some clarification, for him to repeat it, to ensure you hadn’t hallucinated such an inappropriate request from a stranger. Perhaps you had grown accustomed to it. Worse, excited by it; nobody else was allowed such visits. Nobody else magnetised such eager hands. Nobody else was invited into bed with him. You were special, and when you went back to the village to talk to the others, they’d tell you the same.
So you sat on the edge of the bed, slipping in next to him, and he tucked you into his blankets.
You were swallowed quickly by the sweltering warmth of his body heat, heightened ten-fold by the thick cloak of his bedding, and the bulky arm that scooped you backward until your spine pressed into his sternum.
His breath was hot against the back of your head, bleeding through your scalp like warm water. You were already sweating, because his heat was swathing and humid, and there was no slithering away now that you had put yourself there.
“New frock, eh?” He asked hoarsely, arm shifting back until an expansive hand had settled flat on your ribcage, fingers catching in the folds of your ridden-up dress.
“Yeah,” you murmured, “from Harriet.”
“She’s a talent,” he hummed approvingly, as his hand edged down towards your waist, so slowly that you mightn’t have noticed if his fingertips hadn't pressed into the valleys between your ribs.
She was, Harriet, one of two women at the Homestead who knew how to sew. She had sewn you three dresses, so far, one that was light pink, the other white. The one you wore now was a faint buttermilk linen, smocked under the bust with powder-pink embroidery. You were never much of a dress-wearer when you lived in the city, but how could you turn them down when they were custom-sewn, tailored for you? How could you return to your jeans and t-shirts when everybody told you how pretty you were in a dress?
“Yeah,” you placidly agreed.
In a movement disguised by a shuffle and a deep breath, his hand was pawing at your hip, the skirt of your dress hiked up as if by mere accident. Little finger grazing the skin of your thigh, tingling as though static; and soon his whole palm was melded to your bare skin, and your tongue was in your teeth.
Your thoughts were slippery and impalpable as eels, and they wriggled out of reach if you ever came close to grabbing one. Somewhere in your writhing head were the echoes of a little voice, faint and still fading; you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t allow this. You should tell him to stop.
There was no rebuffing him, though.
Not simply owing to the quiet fear of what he might do when displeased — worse, that you didn’t want to displease him. The others would have brawled among themselves to be where you were, praying that their years of devotion would pay off, that they would finally be worthy of being this close to him — but no, not one of them had lain where you now did.
How could you squander such a privilege?
Something else, though, something far more dangerous, was stirring and bubbling within you like poison in a cauldron.
Beyond dismissed reservations, or the simple allure of scarcity — no, a smouldering heat between your hips, muggy and effervescent and impossible to ignore. It beat out from your heart and siphoned into the nerves between your thighs, where it cumulated until it was swollen with anticipation and twitching with every movement of his hand against your skin.
“What’d I tell you about letting ‘er breathe,” he rumbled, when his fingers brushed the hem of your underwear on your hip, tone verging on reproach.
You held your breath as you thought of what to say, throat kept closed when you felt a tug on the waistband of the elasticated fabric.
“I don’t remember,” you breathed — a lie, whose motivation eluded you. You recall exactly what he said. Even how his voice sounded when he said it. Your pussy, love.
He hadn’t mentioned underwear, though, had he?
“Cunt shouldn’t be smothered all day,” he huffed, fisting the hip of your knickers and tugging them down to your thigh. “S’not natural.”
That little voice grew louder. You should tell him to stop. Tell him to stop. Tell him to stop.
No, you lifted your hips so he could pull them down, and you did the rest for him — shimmying your legs so your underwear rolled down to your calves, then kicked them off your ankles into the belly of the bed.
Another rule on the list, you thought.
No knickers.
You didn’t want to break his rules, because you hadn’t found a new place to live yet. Not to say you had been looking particularly hard — or, at all, since your phone only received one bar of signal if you climbed to the top of the hill, and to top it off you were actively discouraged from using it. It was a distraction from the natural splendor of the farm, they told you, and the light of your screen was bad for your eyes, and your city friends didn’t really care about you, so why text them?
Besides, he knew these things. You trusted his knowledge on the matter. You had the sense he understood your body better than you did; he was certainly more concerned with it, because it wasn’t as though you took particularly good care of it, and to him that was sacreligious.
Such excuses flitted around in your head like butterflies in a jar when you felt his rough fingertips dig into the hollow of your hip bone, the flesh there tender enough to make you twitch. Breath caught in your chest as they crept further, closer, until the palps of his fingers brushed your mons, and he let out a dissatisfied huff into the back of your head.
“Shouldn’t be shaving, either,” he grunted reprovingly. “Wee pussy’s too delicate for blades, mh?”
Your tongue was wet, and your eyes had fluttered shut, and your breaths were broken and trembling. Dewy with sweat at the nape of your neck.
New rule. No shaving.
He certainly was delicate with it. Pad of his finger tracing over your mound, light as a feather, as if to tickle you. It kind of did tickle, but the tingling sunk through the pillowy flesh and funnelled directly into your pebbled clit, until it was beating like a heart in the hope that he might deign to touch it.
You knew in the pits of you it would be imprudent to let him have sex with you. Catastrophically so. Such a transgression would be a tipping point, one of no return. A leap off a cliff into murky depths that you knew would be impossible to climb out of.
But his hand retreated, resolving your dilemma for you. Shame weighed in your chest. Appalled by the unjustifiable disappointment that wracked you in the wake of his touch.
For the best that he didn’t venture any further, though, because you were on your period. Georgie had offered you tampons when you pulled her aside to ask, almost too giddy to offer them to you, telling you countless times that they were pure cotton and all natural, and to let her know when it’s over.
He gave you an innocent pat on the hip, before peeling the blankets off of you, and the stifling air of his room was cold on your skin.
“Need to get up and at ’em,” he grumbled. “Go join your kitchen girls.”
You might have made a pother if you didn’t have a few remaining shreds of dignity. I don’t want to trickled down your tongue and itched at the tip, but you refused to let yourself release the words.
You slipped out of his bed with a long sigh, wobbly as you found your footing on the hardwood. Smoothed out the wrinkled fabric of your dress, tugged the skirt down where it had ridden up. You felt on a step how slippery you were, pussy so sodden that you worried some might have soaked into the fabric of your skirt.
Jonathan sat upright with a huff, swivelled so he sat on the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Y’alright there, cub?” He asked, when he saw you hadn’t moved from where you stood.
You nodded winsomely. “Yeah, um — I’m just… I…”
“All wet now, are you?”
His voice was hoarse and slick with amusement, and it sent a shudder through you as you blinked over your shoulder at him.
You were too timid to confess to that. “Um—”
“S’alright, love,” he said, pushing himself to stand with a grunt, and you tried not to look at the half-hard cock in his boxers. “Tha’s normal. Don’t you go putting your fingers in yourself, though, eh?”
“I wasn’t—” Going to went swallowed, because there was a non-zero chance it would have been a lie. “Why not?”
Divots pulled in his temples as he clenched his jaw, aegean eyes turned black as they clawed down the length of you.
“Because I said so,” he told you, as he ferried you along, giving you a pat on the rear to send you out his bedroom door. “You keep those fingers busy in the kitchen, yeah?”
New rule. No masturbating.
“Okay,” you said sheepishly.
“Good girl,” he grunted, as he shut the door.
It took you a while to confess what had happened to the girls in the kitchen, resolve only worn down by their squealing appetite for any information about your interactions with him.
“Didn’t he like the maple syrup?” Georgie asked mournfully, evidently concerned that the reason for your silence was that you had gotten in trouble.
You let out a little breath as you sliced up the nectarines on a wooden chopping board, fingers all sticky with the juice, distracting heat still bubbling under your skin.
Chopping fruit and stirring batter were the only jobs you were allowed, they had said as much the first time you joined them. We’re not allowed to share chores unless he says so, they told you, and we can’t have you burning yourself.
All so bizarrely strict about it. Even when you had asked Jonathan specifically if you could help them in the garden, just to pick the berries, you told him, he had firmly refused. Said he wouldn’t let you toil away because he needed you to nurture yourself.
Didn’t bother you too much. You were fine with your station in the kitchen because you weren’t too fond of handling all the raw meat.
“I dunno,” you said, “he didn’t have any.”
“Oh,” Freya blurted, cocking her head back in surprise. “That’s weird. Did he say anything?”
You chewed on your tongue as you swiped a pile of nectarine slices into the big steel bowl beside you. “Not really.”
“Not really?” Georgie pestered, busy stirring an enormous pot of porridge over the stove.
“Well he, um,” you hesitated. “He asked me to get into bed with him.”
You heard the bang of the butter churner as Freya stopped her work abruptly to gawk at you. “What?”
Georgie was slack-jawed. “You mean—”
“Not like that,” you clarified quickly, looking at them sheepishly, as they both glared at you bulgy-eyed. Something of a lie. “Just to lie down, or whatever.”
Freya wore an expression that made you feel a bit queasy. A little crease between her brows with her lips in a line. Not quite disapproval, not quite worry — somewhere in the middle. A crack in the fabric, a fleeting glimpse of reality that made your stomach flip, and for a moment you saw Freya the girl you knew as a child, and not Freya the bubbly kitchen maid.
She side-eyed Georgie before she spoke. “That seems a bit—”
“Oh my God,” Georgie interrupted fervently, dropping her spoon to hurry towards you, and she took your wrists in her hands. “He must really think you’re special.”
“I s’pose,” you answered, with a little smile, and she shook your hands in excitement.
“Did he like your dress?” She asked animatedly.
“I think so,” you said.
Georgie tugged you towards her, then, pulling you into a hug so unexpected that you let out a gasp as she threw her arms around you.
“We’re so lucky,” she crooned, rocking you from side to side. “So lucky, aren’t we?”
“Lucky for what?” You blurted, taken aback.
She giggled, releasing you gently before settling two soft hands on either side of your face.
“Lucky to have you,” she explained, eyes wide with an ardour that made your chest feel eerily warm. “Everything’lll be just perfect now that you’re here, you’ve brought life with you.”
Whatever she meant by that utterly eluded you, but you couldn’t suppress a smile.
The next time you spoke to Jonathan was just shy a week later.
He wasn’t there for breakfasts, or for lunches, or for dinners. He came to collect his helpings from the kitchen when you weren’t there, and he had already left home every time you went to bring him his coffee in the mornings.
Worry festered in the nadirs of your mind the longer that time stretched between his appearances. Riddled with a fear that you had stepped over a line. That he was done with you. That he was already bored of you.
Nobody would elucidate where he went during the day, and you quickly learned that it was a faux pas to even ask. All you understood was that he was out with his old hands, a group of men that would disappear with him for days at a time. Maybe out building something, you guessed, or hunting — some form of manual labour, at least, because whenever you caught brief glimpses of him he was sweaty and sunburned and covered in muck.
Such was the case when he and three other men lumbered into the hall for Sunday supper, fashionably late. Everyone else already seated and awaiting his arrival before they could start.
He fell into his empty chair at the head of the table with an exasperated huff.
His blue plaid flannel was grimy at the cuffs, smudged with mud and speckled in shreds of tree bark. First four buttons undone, and his chest was gleamy with a drying layer of sweat, flocks of hair clumped and curled with it. You felt guilty for staring at him, heart sitting high in your chest, buzzing with nerves — his seat had sat empty for so long that you had begun to forget what it was like to have him sitting there.
Caught your eye as he adjusted himself in his seat, pushing the cuffs of his sleeves up to his forearms, and dusting off his front. Wasted no time as he reached for the serving fork and skewered two heavy steaks with it, dumping them on his plate. You had forgotten how to act, suddenly so anxious in his presence that you immediately broke his gaze and stared down into your plate.
As was the supper ritual, once Jonathan had served himself, the others immediately began tucking into their dinner. You were about to do the same, awaiting the spoon for the peas from the girl next to you, when his voice shot across the hall and cast silence in its wake.
Your name hovered in the air like the smoke of a gunshot.
It was so sudden that you felt panicked despite the lack of ire in his voice, even with the smile that bared his teeth. You perked up concernedly where you sat, obeisantly keeping his gaze from across the table, waiting for him to ask something of you.
“Come over ‘ere,” he said, with no force in his voice, because he knew that he didn’t need to make demands of you. “Bring your plate, eh?”
The supper mercifully returned to its noise of chatter and clinking cutlery as you pushed yourself to stand, especially convivial because it was a Sunday — heightened further by the fresh batch of pear cider that had finished brewing the day before, supplied in great glass pitchers peppered around the table.
You stepped over the bench with your empty plate held in both hands, and wandered towards his end of the table. Waited quietly for him to order the others on the bench to move down so that there was space for you to sit.
“C’mon,” he urged, and you frowned bemusedly — until you saw him rap his thigh with a flat hand, and you felt your tummy tighten up.
When you dithered about it for too long, he reached out with his big arm and scooped you towards him, and in a confusion of feet and legs you were brusquely perched on his thigh.
“There y’go,” he nodded, as he gave you a pat on the side of your thigh to settle you in.
With his other hand he leaned across the table to scoop himself some mashed potatoes, a tower of it, before he stacked up a few scoops onto your plate, too.
“Thank you,” was all you could say, stupidly, because your head was all rattled.
You were potently relieved that the other people in the hall busied themselves with each other, deep in conversation or focused on sawing away at their steaks with serrated knives; because his hand was already atop your thigh, ostensibly to keep you stable, but it crept its way upward with every slight movement and it took the skirt of your dress with it.
“Where have you been?” You asked quietly, as he continued to fill up your plate.
He let out a puff of laughter as he impaled a steak with his fork and dropped it next to your potatoes. “Missed me, did you?”
Yes tapped against the back of your teeth, but you subdued it with a clearing of your throat. “I’m just curious,” you said.
He grinned, amused, arrogantly doubtful. “Been workin’ on something,” he answered, frustratingly vague. “Haven’t got long to finish it.”
You watch as he added another scoop of peas to your plate, and you only then noticed how much food he had given you — not nearly as piled-up as his, but still far more than you would have grabbed for yourself, with a plum-sized cube of butter melting into the mash.
“What is it?” You queried, more supplicantly than you had intended it to sound, though you now feared that any dissention would make him disappear again.
“Don’t you worry about that yet, cub,” he grunted, yet perking your ears up, but his austerity told you not to ask anything further. “Now eat up. Not having you get bony.”
Not the first time he had told you that — always insistent you finish your plate, that you don’t piss around with puny helpings, that you eat your pudding afterwards. He was just overly doting, you thought.
You followed his bidding and scooped up a mouthful, chewing it quietly as you put your fork back down. It was delicious, rich and hearty, the potatoes were creamy, and the steak was tender and well seasoned. Venison, maybe, it had that gamey sort of flavour, but you thought it a little pale. Perhaps pork.
By the time you swallowed, his hand had ridden up to where your thigh met your hip, and his thumb wedged into the crease. It didn’t escape your notice how he watched you, low-lidded, smug, ignoring his own meal as he took a sip of his cider.
“Aren’t you going to eat any?” You questioned, eventually, as you swallowed another mouthful, and he mindlessly tapped on the neck of his bottle.
“Might need you t’cut my steak up for me,” he commented pointedly, through the crack of a grin. “Hard to do it one-handed.”
“I… you can just let go of me,” you replied, tight-lipped.
The moment the words escaped your mouth, his hand pinched tight as a vice around your thigh. Thumb gouged deep into the sensitive tendons of your groin hard enough to make you chirp — not as much a pain as a shock, that bolted up your spine and turned to molasses in the cavities of your skull. A punishment for even suggesting it.
“Why would I do that?” He murmured innocently, as if completely incognisant of the actions of his hand.
You turned your head to look up at him beseechingly, brows knitted and lips pursed. The heat of his breath was sultry against the skin of your cheek. Goading stare a narcotic that turned your better judgement to gruel.
What could you do but relent when he looked at you like that?
His hand was firm around your thigh as you reached towards his plate to pick up his cutlery, but its grip loosened as you pierced the thick wad of meat with his fork. Crept up to your hip as you made the first cut, the steak not quite tender enough to give way with one saw of the knife.
Palm was flat against your belly, then, once the first slice was severed and it flopped flat onto the plate. Lower, as you cut through the second. Masked the movements of his hands with each incision as though you might not have noticed while yours were busy.
Lips loosened, efforts faltered, as his travelling hand nested between your thighs.
You could only gulp at the dry air as his palm pressed firmly against your cunt, held you by it as if to keep you still. The thin cotton of your dress now the only barrier between his calluses and the fragile skin there, because you had forsaken wearing underwear, just as he had told you to.
Acknowledging the incursion seemed to you like a fool’s errand. Fussing about it much the same.
It was pacifying when it shouldn’t have been. Decoupled you from reality as all of the blood drained from your head and pooled between your legs. Rendered you foggy-eyed as the ball of his palm squished into your clitoris as he adjusted you on his lap, so that your arse pressed into his hip.
“Need a bit more than that, love,” he remarked wryly, nodding at the three measly slices of steak you managed before you lost track.
You drew in a stifled breath in an attempt to ground yourself.
“Um — sorry,” you stammered, as you refocused your attention to his plate, reorienting his knife and fork in your slippery hands before you dropped them.
Once again poked the meat with the fork to keep it steady, and began severing a fourth slice. Did your best to narrow your concentration into the movements of the blade — back, forth, back, forth, back, forth—
You hiccuped as he grinded his palm against your cunt, a blunt force on your clit that made your vision blurry and your jaw slack — but he released the pressure just as quickly, cupping your pussy as if it were incidental in keeping you steady on his lap.
You knew he was testing you. Pushing at your boundaries to see how much effort it took to break them. Goading you to question him, daring you to rebuff him — and every time you didn’t, his boldness tumesced, and your resolve shrivelled.
“You — you shouldn’t do that,” you breathed, the last of your self-preservation leaking out with it.
You expected him to be coy about it, anticipated a provocative do what? while he continued to touch you unfettered.
Instead, he drawled; “Why not?”
Forcibly resisted your brows curling as his hand tightened again, as your wary eyes bolted around the hall, ensuring none of the others were looking in your direction.
“There’s… all these people, they’ll see.”
“Who gi’s a fuck about them?” He jeered, a latent vitriol webbed in his words that before then you hadn’t heard in him. “You’re the only one in here that matters, cub.”
What could you do but melt when he told you that? Stumble on your words like you had forgotten how to talk?
“But — they might—”
He snorted. “Mh? What d’you think they’ll do?”
You glanced worriedly at the people sitting next to him, who were graciously still oblivious and busy with their own conversations; but one blink in your direction would expose how flustered you were, wet-lipped and heavy-eyed, as Jonathan craned his head to speak into your ear when you failed to answer his question.
“They’ll do what I tell them to,” he murmured.
It sent a chill needling down your spine to hear it admitted so brazenly. A fact obvious to you from the moment you saw him seated in his throne at the head, but you never let the thought gain traction, never let the concern take root.
You knew that it should have raised alarm in you, that he would so unabashedly admit to being an autarch that ruled over the obliging residents of the Homestead like sheep.
It didn’t. No, it made your heart hum against your sternum, because you were his favourite. You were special. The only one that mattered.
“Go on, then,” he prompted you. “I’m gettin’ hungry.”
What could you do but oblige him?
You went back to work. Held his cutlery in shaky fists and sawed off another slice of steak, and another, and another — back, forth, back, forth, back, forth.
His hand only served to torment you. A firm grip of your cunt to keep you steady, planted there just to make you twitch every time his palm tightened, but he never offered you more than that. Didn’t move the thin cotton of your dress out of the way, didn’t dip a finger into you, didn’t stroke your clit enough to sate you.
By the time you finished slicing up his meat for him, your cunt was molten and shuddering around nothing, and you were certain the yearning fluids he had carelessly coaxed out of you had formed a wet patch on your skirt.
“Look a’ that,” he crooned. “You’re a natural.”
You couldn’t muster a response to that, save for the rasping sigh that was rended from your chest as his hand slipped out from the gap between your thighs. Reached forward to take his utensils from you, arms enveloping you as he stacked up a few slices of steak on his fork and scooped some mash on top with his knife.
You scoffed, breathless.
“Could’ve done it yourself,” you muttered, bursting at the seams with harried frustration, thundering under your skin and steaming out your ears.
He snickered as he shovelled his food into his mouth.
“Wee fusspot, aren’t you?” He teased, chewing noisily on his steak, “Go’on, eat. That’ll cheer y’up.”
You sulked for a moment, prodding at your mound of potatoes with a fork. Your body still thrummed like a revved engine and it suppressed any appetite you may have had, before he drained all of your attention into that twitching spot between your legs.
“Not tellin’ you twice, cub,” he reiterated, distinctly unamused.
You sighed petulantly, but as you had fallen into the habit of doing, you did as you were told. The meat was a little chewier now that it had cooled down.
Because you helped prepare dinner — peeling and chopping up the potatoes, and shucking the peas from their pods — you were spared being on clean up duty.
A mercy, because you hated doing the dishes. You wondered whether telling Jonathan as much would mean he would ensure you never touched a sponge again in your life; but you didn’t want to be that spoiled, for fear it would turn the others of the Homestead against you.
It was nice, of course, made you feel all gooey and warm inside that he was so attentive to you, so concerned with you. But you didn’t particularly like the idea of being such a tall poppy that the other people around you began to despise you. They were the ones you spent all day with, the other Homesteaders, and you liked them. Most of them, anyway. They were all inordinately friendly and chatty, eager to know more about you, eager to comfort and care for you. Listened whenever you cried about where your life had come to, about your ex, about your stupid fucking boss or your evil prick landlord. Told you not to worry, because none of that mattered anymore, because only good things lay ahead of you.
Freya had invited you to join her and some of the others around the fire pit, the one a short walk from the hall, where people would spend time socialising and drinking after their long and arduous days of working. You told her that you needed to rinse off first, because you were all sweaty from such a hot day, but that you would join them afterwards.
It was dark by the time you left your cabin, the sky predominantly navy save for the band of teal along the horizon, turning the silhouettes of the trees against it black as pitch. It was a short walk from your front step to the fire pit, and you headed along the gravelly path around the side of the hall in your sandals.
The first person you encountered on your way over was leaning with a flat hand against the outer cladding of the hall, facing the wall and completely hidden in the shadow. None of the orange glow of the gas-powered lanterns could reach where they stood, and your eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. You heard, though, the distinct sound of a stream of liquid splashing into the dirt, and quickly surmised from his pose that it was a man pissing on the ground.
You had picked up the habit from the others on the farm of offering a sunshiny greeting to everyone you passed by, an expected social procedure; but now you found yourself a little lost on what to do or say. You resolved to keep walking, awkwardly meandering around him without saying a word.
But your name flew out like a net, and his voice was ragged and heavy-tongued, so you stopped momentarily.
It was Philip.
“Y’know — y’re not what I expected you to be,” he murmured, buttoning up his trousers, and you resentfully caught a glance of his floppy cock while he did it. He was blunderingly drunk, you could smell it from where you stood. “Y’re not what Freya said.”
You found yourself at a loss for how to deal with him. In the outside world you probably would have called him a fucking tosser and marched away unfazed, but you hadn’t encountered a single interpersonal conflict in three weeks, and it suddenly seemed like an alien concept to you. So unfamiliar, in fact, that you found your mouth shaped to form an apology, like you had been the one to stir something unpleasant.
Philip was, unlike the others, still a stranger to you. He was overtly contemptuous for the first few days, rolling his eyes at you or turning pointedly away from you whenever you were near him. Once Jonathan had his word with him, you supposed, that outward vitriol had given way to complete and utter disinterest. Not once had he spoken more than a single word to you in the weeks you had been at the Homestead, but it didn’t bother you enough to raise it as an issue. No big deal, because everyone else was so nice, so why would it matter if one of them wasn’t?
“What’d she say?” You asked tightly, after a beat, in some effort to avert him from stumbling any closer to you.
“Sh’said you were a — a — a peach,” he slurred. “Sweet n’ soft, she said. Yeah. Y’know what she told me?”
You couldn’t have curbed your scowl even if you wanted to. Storming away from him would have been the wiser thing to do, but you were suddenly charged with a galvanic curiosity — sweet and soft? Had she advertised you like food before she was allowed to bring you along?
“What,” you muttered through your teeth, arms crossing.
“She told me you’d be perfect for me,” he blathered, greasy with spite. “For me, she said. That’s what she brought y’ere for. Me.”
With that, your mettle returned to you like a slap to the cheek. Swelled up quickly in your belly as you frowned at him in revulsion.
“What do you think I am, some kind of fucking brood sow?” You barked, a growl in your voice that had been buried for a while, “Freya saying that doesn’t mean anything at all.”
He laughed at that, but it was so rich with acrimony that you could taste it like peroxide in the air.
“You’re right, no, you’re right, because sh’was wrong anyway,” he ranted. “Y’re not a peach, you’re — you’re — you’re a goddamn prune.”
You gawked at him in bewilderment. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re a whore,” he snarled, an abrupt shift to open aggression that made you step onto your hind foot. “Y’think I didn’t see all that? Lettin’ John play with your cunt under the table?”
Your blood plummeted to your feet all at once.
Ignominy must have plastered itself on your face — because he laughed at you, loud and haughty, as he took a step in your direction.
“Yeah, thought you were being subtle, did ya? Puttin' on a show for the whole damn family? Just rubbin’ it in my fuckin’ face, that’s what you were doing,” he raved on, and at that point you decided it was time to leave.
You hurried down the path with your arms tight around yourself, marching away from him with big angry strides. For a moment you were anxious that he’d pursue you, because you kept hearing his drunken rambling even as the distance grew.
“New lamb for me, tha’s what John said — only let Freya bring you ‘ere so I’d have someone to share my damn bed with. No, no, now he wants you, eh? Pisses all over his territory like a dog and makes me fuckin’ sniff it—”
His slurring voice drowned out as you continued your escape, striding past the firepit with enough distance that the light didn’t catch you, and the others didn’t notice you pass them by. You were all upset, now, the heat of it had risen high in your cheeks and quivered beneath your eyes.
Instead you tramped in the direction of Jonathan’s farmhouse, and by the time you knocked on his door you had a lump in your throat and your cheeks were sticky with tears.
You heard his heavy steps from behind the door before it opened.
His face sunk once his glower found you. Eyes heavy with it, a simmering indignation, lips tight. His expression only elicited more globby tears, because you suddenly feared that you had made him angry just by appearing on his doorstep when you hadn’t been invited.
Seemed he wasn’t angry at you, though, because two great big hands reached across the small distance and fixed to either cheek.
“What’s the matter, cubbie?” He asked hoarsely, smearing your tears from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.
“I just — I walked past Philip, and he—”
“C’mon,” he hushed, scooping you towards him with an arm around your shoulders before ferrying you through his door. “Tell me about it inside. I’ll make us a cuppa.”
He led you down the hallway, past his staircase, where until then you had never dared to venture. Found yourself in a proper kitchen. You would have been more rattled by the fact he had a kitchen at all if you weren’t so troubled by other things.
You let out a little gasp as he picked you up with mammoth hands under your arms and plonked you onto his butcher block counter — he gave you a brush of his knuckle under your chin, before he went to fill up the kettle at the sink.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, turning on the faucet. He washed his hands with soap before he went to fill up the kettle. The pressure was weak, but you didn’t expect much else from a water system reliant on rainwater.
“Well, he — he basically — he told me Freya brought me here for him,” you answered weakly, not quite tearful enough to trip over your words, but enough for it to be wet and gulping in your throat. “And then I said it doesn’t matter what Freya said, and then he, he—”
His attention was fixed on you once he put the kettle down on the stove, and he didn’t turn on the gas.
“He what.”
“He called me a whore,” you snivelled, wiping your soggy cheek with the heel of your palm. “He said he saw — he saw everything at supper.”
The look of displeasure that suffused across his features would have been enough to make you shiver if it were directed at you. He ambled towards you, then, before planting both firm hands on each of your shoulders, and your knees brushed his hips.
“Envy is a wicked thing, cub,” he said, voice deep, a faint simmer of anger audible in the lowest frequencies. “You just ignore him, yeah?”
“But — but — he saw,” you moaned, the embarrassment at the thought once again rearing its head and it stung like the prod of a hot brand.
He shushed you as his hand shifted to the back of your neck, fixing under your hair, and he pulled you into his chest. Draped another arm around you to hold you in close, and your thighs had to stretch around him to accommodate him. His chest was pillowy, comfortable, and the smell of his skin through the thin cotton of his flannel made your eyes glass over.
“Doesn’t matter what he saw,” he grumbled, lips at your temple, and the touch made your brain whir like a purring cat.
“I’m sorry,” you mewled, because you felt as though it was your fault for getting caught — probably made a noise, or a stupid needy face, maybe a whole scene because you couldn’t ever control yourself.
“None o’ that,” he said, reeling back from you and once again settling his hands on your cheeks. “You’ve been nothin’ but an angel. Haven’t you?”
You sniffed, blinking at him rheumy-eyed, and when he glared at you insistently you capitulated with a weak nod.
“Mh,” he agreed, and you felt his left thumb feather closer to the corner of your mouth. “Such a good girl.”
Thumb brushed over your lips, then, and the tickle made your mouth water. The touch alone coaxed them to part, just slightly enough to draw in some suddenly needed air.
“And a good wee listener, aren’t you?” He purred, pad of his fore- and middle fingers ghosting over your bottom lip.
Pelagic eyes that had been fixed to your lips shift up to meet yours, and again you realised it was not a rhetorical question, so you answered with another feeble nod.
“Open up, then,” he said, rumbling, low enough that you felt the vibration of it through the narrow air between you.
You were a good listener. So you opened your mouth for him, just enough to breathe through.
He let out a rasping breath as he sild a salty fingertip between your lips, running it along the edge of your incisors.
“Wider,” he instructed, and you did, allowed him enough space between your jaws to fit his thick finger, and you felt the rough palp of it on the tip of your tongue. “Good.”
The second finger joined the first, pushing deeper into your mouth until the tips of them were midway down your tongue, and a spate of saliva began dripping down your throat. You were wide-eyed, beaming at him hopelessly. Devotedly. His expression was rigid, fixed, so focused that his eyes were dark with it.
Fingers persisted deeper, until you felt them on the back of your tongue, mouth filled with the savoury taste of his hand, and you wondered if it was the same hand he had held your pussy with.
The thought made your eyes flutter shut, but a press of his finger at the back of your throat quickly forced you to gag.
He shushed you immediately; “Easy, you’re fine,” he cooed, and you drew in a wet breath through your nose, swallowing the flood of viscous spit that filled your throat.
Reeled his fingers out only slightly, as if just to feel the friction of your tastebuds beneath his fingertips, before pushed them in again, and you fought back another gag.
“So thirsty f’me, aren’t you, cub,” he drawled, hazily, a fascinated grin twitching in the corner his lips. “Drink from me, then.”
Your hands lifted to meet his, clutching it by the wrist with both as if holding a milk bottle, allowing his fingers to slide in to the root, and his knuckles pressed into your cheeks.
“Suck them,” he grunted.
And you did. Suckled on his fingers like a calf on a teat, blinking at him when the urge to gag abated, fat tears rolling from the corners of your eyes but evoked now by something entirely different.
“Good girl,” he murmured, as his other hand released your cheek, sinking down to your chest, catching in the folds of your dress as it clawed down your stomach.
He hiked up your skirt with intention — no longer being coy about his efforts, he was fervent in it — and in a heartbeat your frock was at your hip, and his hand ran along the inside of your thigh.
You puffed out a whimper through your nose when he glided his fingers along your slit, base to top, only splitting it on the second swipe — smiled agape to himself when he dipped into wetness that had already leaked and accumulated there.
“Haven’t you been patient?” He hummed, smearing the tips of his fingers upward until they swiped over your clitoris, still puffy and wanting from when he worked it up at supper. “Neediest thing and still so patient. I reckon you deserve a treat for that.”
You gazed at him doe-eyed, huffing out squeaks around his fingers as he danced his others around your clit, not quite indulging it with a real touch. Your hips arched into him despite the effort to control it, and he gave you a delighted grin, fingertips remaining just agonisingly out of reach. Only when your head rocked back off your shoulders and you groaned desperately did he finally relent.
Rested the tip of his thumb into your mons to balance his hand, as his fingers stroked your clit, languid, almost cruel in how slowly he moved them upward and down again.
“S’this what you want?” He droned, satisfaction dripping from his grin.
You nodded, as much as the fingers in your throat allowed you to move, brows curling up and eyes too fluttery and heavy to keep properly open.
“Thought as much,” he muttered, smugly amused. “Could smell it on you the second you showed up. Aching little cunt with nothing to break it off on, eh?”
You could only whine like a wounded puppy, trail of drool leaking out from the corner of your mouth where his fingers held it open — twitching as the calloused pads of his fingers cosseted the raw flesh of your clit, too swollen and sensitive to handle direct touch.
“Mh. Yeah, I’ll take good care of ya, cubbie,” he cooed, almost pitying, as if he was enacting some great charity for the down and out girl he dragged in off the street. Not far from the truth, as you considered it.
“Keep sucking,” he ordered when your tongue went slack, because his other fingers had shifted downward from your clit, nestling between your folds and prodding at your fluttering hole.
He mercifully decided against two when you squeaked in fright, instead pushing a single fingertip into you. Fed it in slowly, bit by bit as if too much would spook you, until his palm was flush with your pussy. His finger was as thick as two of yours, and it might have been enough to sting if you weren’t so slick.
It made you tipsy to feel him inside you, even only his fingers, in two places at once — his fingers, his his his — it buzzed around in your head like a caged hornet until your blood was runny and your eyes clouded over, and he hadn’t even moved it yet. And when he did, hooked his finger to push into the squishy flesh below your bladder, so tender there — you mewled loudly enough that your voice came out fractured, panting out of your nose with your eyes wrenched shut.
“Like that, do ya?” He chuckled, watching you raptly as he curled his hand, so he could thumb at your clit while he fucked you with his finger. Dragged it out to push it back in again, slow and steady.
Didn’t matter how slowly he did it, you had been a hair-trigger away from coming at any given moment all night, and you just might have done it fingers-free if you thought about his hand under the table for too long — this, this, was almost too much. A daunting climax loomed over you, so ruinous that your body seemed to shy away from it, too sensitive, too desperate, too—
“Mh, I feel tha’,” he goaded, rumbling deep. “Close, are ya, sweetheart?”
You nodded, tearful, whimpering, every noise muffled by the fingers in your mouth, nose runny and sniffling every time you sucked down an eager breath. Thumb rubbed your sore clit with the motion of the one inside you, and as it all began to cave in on you, your eyes shot open.
“Easy, cub, no need to panic.”
Acting as if you might never have had an orgasm before, soothing you like you might be afraid of the overwhelming rush of feelings he was provoking within you — it settled you despite yourself, and your shoulders sunk inward, letting out the hot air that you had been hoarding in your chest — and then it swallowed you.
“Yeah, tha’s it,” he encouraged you, pushing his fingers deeper into your throat as your whines grew louder, and your face crumpled up, and you balanced on the summit—
“Goooood girl,” he crooned, as you came around his finger so forcefully that your eyes just about rolled into the back of your head, clit burning so hot that it made you jolt and squeal when he touched it too firmly. Fingers pressed down on the back of your tongue right as you tumbled over the zenith, forcing out a squeaking gag and a long band of saliva that dribbled down your chin.
Entire pussy convulsed in the aftershocks, clenching around him in pulses each time his thumb swiped gently over your clit — but he didn’t torment you for long, slid his finger out of you slowly until you were mournfully empty, and you felt a runnel of your slick drool down the cleft of you.
Reeled his pacifying fingers out of your mouth, then, pulling a string of saliva with them and your entire skull felt hollow in their absence. You released a weak sigh as you collapsed forward, foundations crumbled, heavy head landing against his padded chest. Almost trembling with exhaustion now that every drop of energy had been siphoned from you.
“There we go, love,” he hummed, petting your hair, letting out a ragged breath into the top of your head. “That better?”
You were milk drunk, tongue swollen and viscid in your mouth, and forming a single word was a near impossible task. All you could muster was another nod.
“Don’t you worry about Philip,” he said calmly. “I’ll deal with him.”
You might have thanked him if you could form the words, so you instead lay a weary hand on his stomach, bunching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers.
“M’tired,” you slurred, breathless.
He chuckled. “I bet.”
“Can I sleep here?” You asked weakly, muffled by his chest.
He tutted at you, hand settling on your shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cub.”
Wednesday came with the threat of rain.
The sky was distended with rolling grey cloud by the time you were out for your mid-morning stroll, once breakfast had wrapped up, and it was still a few hours before you needed to return to the kitchen to help prepare lunch. The air was thick with it, muggy and warm, the smell of imminent summer rain was stuffy in your sinuses and it made your skin prickle up.
It was pleasant, though, as you wended about the Homestead, strolling among the knobbly old pear trees, between the potato fields, down to the river that wound through the base of the valley, to watch the pike fingerlings swim between the reeds.
You crossed Freya’s path on your return to your cabin, and she hauled a few large baskets with her — empty, you noticed, as she walked up to you with a weak smile.
“Do you want to help me pull some carrots?” She asked you, after all the how are you pleasantries. “You must get bored in the kitchen.”
You wavered for a moment, um-ing and ah-ing, because you did.
It was the same thing every day, but for the rare occasions that Linda let you use the stove because Jonathan had disappeared and would surely never find out. Or, sometimes, you could choose how to season the vegetables when you were put in charge of preparing them. Aside from your time in the kitchen, your only other physical activities had been going for walks and attempting to learn how to sew — you had gotten slightly better at that one, and now you could hem a skirt on your own, but it hardly enraptured your attention.
The one thing that kept you from jumping on the opportunity to do something outdoors, was the memory of how expressly Jonathan had forbidden it. More than once he had reminded you how unacceptable the notion was, of you toiling over the land, so he described it; because that was a job for rough and calloused hands, not soft and pretty ones like yours.
But he had been absent for another several days, despite how he had undone you in his house and sent you back to yours afterwards. You would have thought he had dropped off the face of the Earth if you hadn’t caught peeks of him venturing back to his house in the distance, or strolling into the hall to collect his meal and vanishing once again.
Perhaps a touch of spite motivated your decision. “Yeah, sure,” you told her.
The carrot crops were a far stretch from the heart of the farm, a good ten-minute walk up and over the hill, and you hadn’t ventured that far before — new trees, new bushes, new paths.
“How big is this place?” You asked her, as you approached the emerald green field, bright tufts of carrot leaves jutting out of the ground in not-quite-straight rows.
“Umm,” she thought aloud, “few hundred acres? I’m not sure.”
Pulling carrots was not a great deal more thrilling than working in the kitchen or attempting to sew, but it was something different, and childishly, made you feel a little bit rebellious. You had used your hair tie to hike up your skirt and knot it at your thighs, so that it didn’t get any dirtier than it needed to. Last thing you needed was Jonathan catching you with farmy muck all over you.
The carrots were all thick, long, and persimmon orange — Freya had instructed you to brush off some of the soil before dropping them in your basket, and to pluck off any little hair-like roots to save time in the kitchen later. You enjoyed it, getting dirt under your nails, that loamy smell of soil and geosmin emanating out of the dirt with each plucked carrot.
The ground was dry and gravelly, and it was a little rough on your knees — but you were a big girl, not as soft a thing as Jonathan seemed to think you were, and you could prove it.
Wasn’t long before it began to rain, those fat drops of a summer shower, slow and sparse. Not enough to saturate you, but you did shiver when a glob of lukewarm water landed on the back of your neck and rolled down your spine.
“You spoken to John recently?” She asked you quietly, after a long duration of pleasant silence, dusting her soily hands off on her apron.
There was a prickle of worry in her throat, something hesitant, and you might not have noticed it if you didn’t see her glance around before she spoke.
“Not since Sunday,” you answered, failing to swallow that touch of bitterness that rose up from your belly at his mention.
“Neither,” she said, what seemed like a hastily applied band-aid to a wound she inflicted by asking it. “You saw Philip on Sunday, right?”
Your brows pulled together, but you focused on unearthing the next carrot. “Yeah, how come?”
“Well I—” She hesitated, and you finally turned your attention to her when you picked up on the genuine concern in her tone. “I know he was out of line, he told me what happened. And I’m sorry about — well, it’s hard to explain.”
“Explain what?” You asked, wiping away a dribble of rain from your forehead, the rainfall had gotten a little heavier in the few minutes since it started.
She let out a long sigh, sweeping her hair out of her face and sitting on her heels. “I did tell Philip you’d be perfect for him. He wasn’t lying. He’s been — I mean, lots of the others are already in their pairs, and he isn’t, so he’s been lonely,” she unravelled, as though nervous to say every word. “But I never promised it, or anything. I just wanted to say that, well, I didn’t mean for all that to happen. I thought he had sorted himself out already ‘cause, I mean, you obviously had no interest in him.”
You nodded slowly, looking at your dirty fingernails, because you weren’t sure what to say.
“Yeah,” you started, “it’s okay, it wasn’t a big deal or anything. John said he’d deal with him so hopefully that’s the last I have to hear of it.”
Her chary eyes flitted around again, head swinging over her shoulder as though checking for someone behind her, and it made your hackles rise just a bit — you were anxious by proxy, because Freya was always as collected and calm as any of them, and you had never seen her on edge like that.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” she whispered.
“What?”
She took a shaky breath. “I haven’t seen Philip since Sunday night.”
You only looked at her, chewing on the inside of your lip, uncertain what she might have been implying.
“You think Jonathan kicked him out?”
“Maybe,” she said, bunching her apron in her fists. “I just — I’m sure we would have heard from him, if he was banished or whatever. He’s been here for six years. I can’t imagine that he’d just vanish… I mean, he’s American, I doubt he still has his passport — where would he even go?”
“I dunno,” you murmured. “Maybe he just left out of spite, or something.”
“I’m worried,” she lamented.
You were at a loss for words. Confronted by a problem you had seemingly lost the capacity to deal with. Freya was the one that had vouched for Philip, for Jonathan, for the entire farm in the first place. You had trusted and believed her.
Now you felt peculiarly defensive. As though she might have been suggesting some greater evil within Jonathan or the Homestead that you, with every iota of your being, refused to believe was possible.
“What are you saying?” You questioned uneasily, still hopefully she wouldn’t shift from implying to making certain accusations that would risk rattling your worldview.
“I—”
She abruptly choked on the first syllable, eyes shooting past you—
“Shit.”
“What?” You gawked, cocking your head back and twisting to look behind you, as she scrambled to futilely adjust herself, wiping down her apron and aimlessly fixing the carrots in her basket.
You saw the broad shape of him before you recognised who it was, marching up the hill with a fuming pace that made your stomach drop. Knew who it was once he got slightly closer, because you could see his expression from where you kneeled in the dirt.
You glanced back at Freya, who looked at you so sheepishly you wondered if she might break into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What do you—”
“Fuck d’you think you’re doing, cub?” Came a growl from behind you that made you jolt in fright, somehow having crossed the distance in the time it took you to turn around.
“I’m — ah!” You squealed as he brusquely scruffed you by the neck, hauling you up from the dirt until the soles of your bare feet caught the ground and you wobbled before finding them.
He craned down from behind you to speak at your level.
“We’re gonna ‘ave a talk,” he snarled, a scalding anger in his voice that made your eyes water and your skin blister up.
“Why,” you moaned, kept placid by the unyielding hand gripping the back of your neck, thumb and forefingers burrowing into your tendons so tight it made your legs tingle.
“Y’know damn well,” he said, dragging you around until you faced the way you came, releasing your neck with a shove. “Walk.”
“Where?”
He chuffed. “Stable.”
Didn’t take much to make you cry, and this was enough to arouse big brackish tears and a puerile sob. It wasn’t terror, though, not dread about what he might do to you — but shame, so concentrated in your blood you could feel the cold sludge of it beating through your arteries. Ignominy rooted in the crime of angering him. Terrified that you had forsaken his approval, turned his sweetness bitter, because you weren’t a good girl anymore.
“Jonathan,” called Freya, as you stumbled forward with a nudge; you had hoped that she wouldn’t acknowledge the tiff, would stay silent and pluck her carrots, but with an active spectator of your castigation you could only shrivel up in embarrassment.
“You keep that trap shut,” Jonathan spat, turning to address her with an accusatory finger. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice already, girl.”
“Where’s Philip?” She barked, with all the might and caution of an outnumbered dog.
Jonathan didn’t acknowledge her question, instead giving you another nudge when you stopped walking to coax you down the muddy pathway, your feet squelching into the freshly sodden dirt with every step.
“I’m gonna find him, John!” Freya yelled as the distance grew, a desperation in her voice that made your tummy ache, because the dissonance you were wracked with made you feel like a snake devouring its own tail.
Jonathan only grumbled something under his breath, striding at your heels as you made your careful way ahead, wary of stepping on a rock or twig with your bare feet. You left your sandals by the carrot patch, but you weren’t about to ask him to turn around.
You bleated like a goat when he suddenly hooked you by the waist, swivelling you around in a bluster and hauling you up and over his shoulder. “Useless little legs y’got.”
You sobbed, clutching the fabric of his overshirt in claws over his back, voice strained and broken as your stomach bounced on his shoulder. The rain had only grown heavier, and it ran in rivulets around your head, dripping off your nose and into the dirt.
“I didn’t do anything,” you whined — a stupid fuss, really, because you knew well what you were in trouble for — you simply hadn’t expected to actually get in trouble.
You had admittedly seen him roar like a grizzly more than once at other Homesteaders. At one of the butchers for keeping a mobile phone stashed away in their cabin without disclosing it. At a farmhand for disobeying him and letting the bull in with the cows when he shouldn’t have. At a kitchen girl for burning enough meat to feed fifteen people because she was distracted by gossip.
You just never imagined you’d get in trouble.
He had always been so stable, so overbearingly sweet with you. Such a good girl, he called you, an angel. A good wee listener, cub, such a quick learner. You could never have anticipated such a mutation in his treatment of you, and you felt your standing crumbling beneath your feet. Peripeteia that gave you such whiplash it made your neck ache.
“What’d I tell you?” He grumbled, as you saw the ground beneath him gradate from muddy grass to gravel, and you knew you were approaching the stable. Heard the moaning old wheels of the sliding door as he rolled it open. “Huh?”
“Not to — to work on the farm,” you sobbed, as he ferried you inside, jostling you to keep you in place as he unlatched and opened a stall door.
He grunted in agreement as he slid you from his shoulder like a buckshot doe and dropped you ungracefully to your feet, and you landed with a squeak in the centre of the empty horse stall. Felt the hay and shavings between your toes, shreds of it sticking to the mud that caked them.
“Wanna be a farm animal, do you?” He snarled, rummaging through the tack hung on hooks and draped over benches. “Let’s see you act like one, then.”
You stood contritely in the centre of the stall, hands interlocked over your chest, toes curling anxiously on the floor — watched edgily as he turned to face you with something in his hand, metal and leather.
“I’m sorry,” you snivelled.
You hadn’t seen him so angry — not towards you, anyway — he was tumid with it, apoplectic, and it made you want to curl up on the ground like a kitten in the hopes he’d feel pity if you were smaller.
“Not yet, you’re not,” he grumbled, as he shut the stall door behind him. “I’ve half a mind to break a crop over your arse.”
You sniffed, blubbering, pathetic. “I just wanted something different to do.”
Your excuses ricocheted off him. Only glowered at you fanged and sable-eyed, fiddling with whatever piece of equipment he had between his hands.
“Dress off,” he ordered dryly, gesturing at you with a flick of his fingers.
“But, I–”
“Do animals wear frocks?” He asked facetiously. Mockingly. “Y’seen a ewe out there with a skirt on, have you?”
“I just—”
“You really wanna make me tell you again, cub?”
You sulked, grimacing, but obliging. Not many other options, you thought, and even if there were you had no interest in pursuing them. You could have tried to run, sure, but you bet he’d have chased you. Then what? He’d have been even angrier with you, when you didn’t want him to be angry with you at all.
Your dress was gluey with rain and it stuck to your skin, and it made sticky noises as you pulled it up your thighs — reeled it up your stomach, tugged it over your chest — and once it was off your head, it landed on the dusty floor of the stall with a squelch.
You hadn’t been naked under his eye before, all goose-pricked and shivery, but you felt a familiarity bedded in your belly, something embryonic, because he knew your body better than you did. Understood its moving parts like he was conversant with every facet of you.
He didn’t look impartially intrigued, though, there was no clinicality in his glare. No, it was selachian. Nostrils flared like he could scent your gamey blood from where he stood.
“Fuckin’ filthy,” he grumbled, approaching you measuredly, unraveling the straps he held in his hand. Grabbed your forearm once he was in front of you, splayed out your hand to reveal all of the soil embedded in the creases of your palm, stuck under your fingernails. “Rollin’ around in the mud like a piglet, were you?”
“I was only pulling carrots,” you whined, stuttering, felt a hot tear dribble into the corner of your mouth.
He chortled vindictively at that. “Piglets love their carrots, don’t they.”
“I’m n-not a piglet.”
“Open your mouth,” he grunted indifferently, and your brows pinched together, because the last time he had told you to do that you ended up with fingers in you, and now that was all you could think about.
You almost let loose a why but thought better of it, holding it under your tongue as you unhinged your jaw for him. Shame rang in your ears, because you quietly hoped he’d put his fingers in your mouth again, and you wondered if they’d be salty with his sweat, or earthy and gritty from his labour.
He held up a small metal bar with o-rings at each end, a link in the middle that allowed it to bend. Leather straps attached to its rings.
A bridle.
You whimpered when the steel knocked against your teeth, grating sensation of metal on bone that made your skull quake, as he pushed the bar into your mouth and wedged it behind your molars. The corners of your mouth pillowed around it, and the rings dug into your cheeks, as he pulled the leather straps behind your head, and your nose was a few inches from the valley of his pectorals.
Must have been busy working on his something all day, because he was ripe, the air around him heady and thick with the damp of sweat, fetor of a wet dog — embarrassingly amatory when it filled your nose, when you tasted it on your tongue, and you felt it in your cunt.
He buckled the straps at the back of your head, tightening it until the bridle cut into your cheeks enough to hurt and you bit out a pained squeak.
“Down y’get, then,” he grunted, and your eyes flitted between his in some effort to glean what he meant by it. “Animals walk on four legs, don’t they, cub?”
So they do.
You lowered yourself one knee at a time, balancing yourself with a hand clutching at the fabric of his trousers, and he sucked in a hoarse breath. He took a step back as you leaned forward, flattening your hands in the wood shavings, splinters in your palms. Watched a bead of saliva land on the floor as you ran your tongue along the cold bar in your mouth.
“This what you wanted?” He drawled, malevolently satisfied as you looked up at him through your sticky lashes. He raked his eyes over you, bare and reverent on the floor before him, and he breathed it in deep, the scent of victory. “Feel like an animal now?”
You whimpered and returned your gaze to the floor, but you responded with a guilty nod.
“Know what happens to animals, cub?” He grumbled, feet shifting to your left, leather boots plastered in mud. He took one step, then another, circling you like a vulture. “They get flyblown. They get glanders. They get blackleg.”
Your elbows ached. Wobbled under the weight of you. You could only suck on the bit between your teeth.
“They get pithed. Flayed. Butchered,” he droned, and you saw a tear land next to the puddle of your spit on the floor. “I don’t want that for you, love. You got any idea what kinds of diseases are in that soil? You want gas gangrene, love? You want listeria? Legionnaire’s?”
You didn’t understand half the things he was saying, and that only amplified the fear it sowed in you. What didn’t he know? How couldn’t you listen to him when his plethora of wisdom seemed to you as unending?
He was behind you, then, you saw the silhouette cast by his shadow stretch out in front of you.
“My rules are simple, aren’t they? Or are you too stupid to understand them?”
You shook your head, let out a mewling noise in place of a sob, and you wondered if he could see your pussy from where he stood.
“Your body is special, cubbie, so special—” His silhouette shrunk, lowering, and you felt the floor quake beneath you as he lowered to his knees, “—n’ I’m not havin’ you ruin it just because you’re bored. Y’think you’re here to have fun, cub? S’that it?”
You tasted iron in your mouth and you had no response to give him, because all of your focus had funneled between your legs once you felt his eyes on you, splayed open like a meal.
“Well you’re not, even if you think you are.”
You winced when you suddenly felt a cold finger against your pussy, just a graze of it, smearing up a drip of the slick that had escaped you as if to marvel at it. You wondered if he played with it between his fingers. Wondered if he tasted it while you weren’t in the position to see.
Instead you heard him scoff. Not sure if in awe or disgust, but whichever the root it made you shiver crawl down your spine, because you could feel his breath on your backside.
“Look a’ you,” he said, and it came out mangled, rumbled out from his belly like a growl. “Like a bitch in heat.”
Those words hit you like a gunshot. Flatlined. Your eyes glassed over. Unearthed something feral and opprobrious from deep in the sticky pits of you and you weren’t sure if you liked the taste of it.
“Wan’ me to fuck you, I bet.”
A shock wracked through you base to crown when you felt his thumb against your puckered hole, and your entire body went stiff as wood. He only let out a chuff of laughter, biting.
“Not this hole, though, eh?”
You shuddered, whimpering, slavering like a rabid animal, biting down on the bridle in your jaws until it made your teeth ache.
“Wan’ me in your cunt,” he mumbled, pressing harder, until the tight ring of muscle quivered with the touch, and your skin went cold. “Only makes sense, s’what y’were made for, mh? All stroppy ‘cause you haven’t had my cock yet?”
Then, with a grunt, he pushed in — broke past the clenching sphincter until his thumb was all the way in and his palm was flush with your rump — went in dry, and it hurt, you bleated out in shock and rocked forward on your knees, fingernails clawing into the horse bedding beneath you.
“Y’not ready for that yet, cubbie,” he snarled, ragged. “Even if your ‘eart is, your body isn’t. Gotta time it right, cub—”
You heard the clink of his belt unbuckling. Slowly dragged his thumb out by an inch before pushing it in again, and it stung a little less.
“—won’t take otherwise, eh? Need to wait till y’ready—”
Felt the thump of a weight on your rear. Heavy. Long. Hot and drumming like a heartbeat against your skin.
“Know you’re desperate, cub, I do,” he rumbled, reeling out his thumb, pushing it back in. Pull, push. Pull, push. “Look a’ you, loosenin’ up — you’d even have me in this one, wouldn’t you?”
Whatever noise tumbled out of your throat was foreign and bleating. The keen of a dying songbird. You might not have been afraid when he found you, misguidedly confident his wrathful nature would never be directed towards you — you were special, after all — but now a swirling apprehension sat low in your stomach, writhing, shuddering, with every push of his thumb; because you were wrong.
“Too brave for your own good there, cubbie,” he hummed, and he tugged his thumb until it popped out of you, hole resisting its departure with a tight grip. “I’d break you in half.”
Felt three fingers swipe up your pussy, ladling your juices into his hand like water from a fountain — you couldn’t see what he did with them, you could only hear it. The gruff sigh he bit out, the sound of hand on skin, the slick noises of your wetness being smeared on something else.
“An’ I need you whole,” he grunted, and you felt the smack of something heavy against the cleft of you, three firm slaps — his cock, you could tell, and you shuddered at the weight of it — his his his — “fuck, even though I’d kill to break you in, lovie—”
Cock wedged in the cleft of you, felt his steeled shaft grind against your flickering hole, squeaked like a mouse as he rutted where you split. He rocked you forward on your knees with each thrust, aching in your kneecaps, and you dropped to your elbows as he just about knocked you flat.
Dug both mammoth paws into each of your cheeks, clutching you by the meat of them, pressing them together to tighten the fissure he fucked — and he fucked in earnest, pistoning like he might if he were inside you. But he wasn’t, he deprived you of that, instead thrusting through the cleft of you like he might saw you in half.
You groaned, sulky, needy — hungered for him to spear himself into you so desperately that your cunt ached, and you arched your spine to lean into him like you might wordlessly guide his cock where you wanted it to pierce you.
He only chortled, breathless, because he knew your body so well — better than you — what it so palpably yearned for. What he pointedly declined you.
“I know, cubbie, I know—” he panted, gnarled through a tight jaw, “—s’not much of a punishment if y’like it, though, is it?
You sobbed, both holes shuddering around nothing as his shaft slid against them, pitilessly taunting them with an admonition of what they could have had but were not allowed.
You’d have begged, but the steel bit in your mouth restricted your lips from forming the words, tongue pushing against it like the bars of a cage. You could only whine and bitch while he chased his malicious end, and he only grew crueller as he came closer — his grip of your hips was malignant, fingernails boring into your skin, grunts were toothy and hateful and cut with murmuring acrimony—
Snippy little whore—wanna be an animal so bad?—I’ll fuckin’ tup you like one—
With a penultimate growl he bucked you flat and you were pinned beneath him, landing with an umph — his teeth scraped against the burning skin at the back of your neck, groaning into your flesh, ragged voice quaking through your skull like a crack of thunder — you felt the splatter of fluid over your lower back, viscid and hot, landing on your skin in spurts that dribbled down either side of your waist and pooled in the valley of your spine.
You lay as still as you could muster underneath him, trembling as if you were cold but you were molten to your core. There wasn’t much of a reprieve before he pushed himself to stand, chuffed as stood upright, sniffed as he buckled up his belt.
Couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, you kept your nose against the floor, wood shavings sticking to your cheeks. You felt his gaze on you, watched his shadow blanket over you like a cloak as he soaked in the aftermath of his discipline.
“Girls’ll need an extra set o’ hands in the kitchen tonight,” he grunted coldly, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
You said nothing. Only sipped in tiny swigs of air as if he might chastise you for breathing. Kept still as he stepped around you and unlatched the stall door.
“Y’can clean yourself up in the rain,” he murmured on his way out. “That’s what farm animals do, right, cub?”
It was venison for supper.
That’s what Linda told you, when she wheeled in the crate of meat fresh from the butcher, and the rusty odor of lard and myoglobin was so thick in the air that it condensed on the windows, oily beads forming on the glass.
It made you feel sick. Writhing and ferrous in your belly. You got as far as chopping all of the carrots before you had to apologise and excuse yourself. You had lingered for as long as you could muster it, out of sheer guilt, because Freya wasn’t there to bear the load of your absence.
You didn’t come back right after your punishment in the stable. You had sat in the rain for half an hour, as Jonathan had advised you to, letting the warm droplets rinse off the mud and come and drip through your scalp until you felt corporeal again.
Corporeality was out of reach for you, though.
You drifted back to your cottage in your sheer water-logged frock, mouth sealed shut, head throbbing, leaden — because there was something in the air. Swelling and humid. Something you could feel in your teeth, chewy and full of gristle, and its sanguine juices leaked down your throat. It tumesced in your jaws minute by minute. Not long until it was too thick to swallow.
Jonathan’s words parasitised your brain tissue until they were all you could hear, plangent ringing in your ears; need to time it right, cub, you’re not ready yet. You’re not ready yet.
Hollowed out, he was all you could think about. Filled the empty space in your skull cavity like a new organ that only beat for him, something burgundy and parenchymal, dripping down your brainstem.
When your cabin door opened, you didn’t shift from your bed. Stayed curled up on your side and blinking at the wall, waiting for your inauspicious nausea to abate.
“There y’are, cubbie.”
His voice was soft, deep, the gravel of a near whisper.
He let out a long sigh as he shut the door behind him, and your ears perked at the slow beating of his shoes on the floor as he moseyed towards you.
“Scoot,” he said as he approached your bed, and you pushed yourself over without question, so that he could sit on the edge. The flimsy mattress sunk under the weight of him, and he patted his thigh. “C’mon.”
You adjusted yourself so that your head lay on his lap like a pillow, tucked your hands and knees into your chest, and let out a long held breath. Relief as sweet as syrup pumped from your heart and you could finally feel your fingertips again.
“Are you upset with me?” He asked, as characteristically gentle as you remembered it, none of the lascivious vitriol that frothed at his jaws earlier that afternoon.
You nodded once. You were still sulking. He had left you wet and wanting, coated in his come with the bridle still strapped around your head. Your locks had knotted in the leather and it took you ten minutes to undo without scalping yourself.
He combed his fingertips through your hair on the side of your head, soft and careful as petting a cat. Brushed a fine curl behind your ear.
“I’m sorry, cub, I really am,” he said tenderly, “but you understand why I did it, don’t you?”
You nodded again as he stroked you, and your lids grew heavy.
“Mh,” he hummed, contented. “I don’t like being angry, love. But sometimes I have to be, if you don’t listen to me. There’s a reason I tell you not to do things. I don’t make up rules just for fun, do I?”
“No,” you whispered.
“No,” he agreed. “Rules aren’t fun. But they’re necessary. Without them this would all fall apart. You don’t want that, do you, cub?”
“No.”
“Course you don’t, sweetheart,” he cooed. “Now will you come join us for supper?”
You breathed in slowly. “I’m not really hungry,” you confessed.
“Feelin’ under the weather?” He asked, caressing hand shifting to flatten over your forehead as if to check for a fever. You probably were febrile to the touch, your blood was magmatic and only growing hotter, and it simmered in your temples.
You shook your head gently. “No, I’m…” you eked, struggling to find the words to explain yourself. “I just feel a bit funny.”
He exhaled languidly. “I understand, love,” he said, hand stroking to the top of your head. “Change is always hard. But you’ve been such a brave girl.”
A warmth swelled in your tummy when he said that. Tempers settled by the wide hand petting your hair, and the softness of his lap under the side of your head. The worry that he had spurned you waned with each breath, because he was there, sweet as ever, lulling you to the brink of slumber under his doting touch.
“You get an early night, then, cub,” he said gingerly. “Just make sure y’eat a big breakfast, yeah?”
You only hummed, slurred and sleepy, and managed to puff out an okay before your eyes ebbed shut and your body sunk into sleep.
Your scruples had evaporated.
There had been vestiges of your more circumspect self lingering around in your first few weeks, a careful eye kept on the farm and its esoteric leader, wits kept about you despite how often you forwent them.
Now you looked on that scepticism as ignorance.
A conceited belief that you had some greater understanding about the world than people who were truly connected to it, knee-deep in the ground, toiling to better themselves and the Earth.
Besides, Jonathan’s notions were consistently proven right. Pollution, climate change, proxy wars — what else was to blame for these cataclysms but human conceit, addiction to all the noxious things created for simple convenience?
Every time he gave his speeches to the Family as a whole, his sentiments only rang more true.
Didn’t you feel so much better, now?
No reliance on your phone, on plastic, on cheap and suffocating clothing. No consumption of mass-processed slop, of mind-rotting screen media, of lab-manufactured anodynes that poisoned you from the inside out. No longer reliant on friends that didn’t care about you, family that had no respect for you, a society that had utterly forsaken you.
Why? Because you were no longer productive within it? Producing what, Jonathan would ask you, and the answer was nothing. Imaginary bullshit, he called it. Meaningless numbers that existed only on screens and in wires and yet somehow dictated the course of a sorely misguided mankind.
These were the fragments of debris embedded within you that rotted you from the inside out. Gangrenous, necrotising every part of you they touched until you could hardly call yourself a human.
Jonathan was the only one who could debride the wounds they left. Picked out the shards of refuse left by your dependence on the toxic and artificial.
So much purer, they told you, they could see it in your eyes and in your skin — a glow from within, they said, because you were reviving your most natural, inborn self. Nurturing her, the most important part of you.
Freya and Philip abandoned ship because they couldn’t handle it, the others told you. Because their dependence on the synthetic was adamantine, and their cowardice triumphed in the end.
Not you, though.
You were special. You were important.
So important that over the course of the next week you were waited on hand and foot. You were brought raspberry leaf tea first thing every morning, and a mug of bone broth before you went to sleep every night. Given your own meals at John’s behest, a different meal on your plate than everybody else’s when you sat down for supper.
Rare red meats, tender and well-salted, still juicy and dripping when you’d cut into them. Beef liver and bone marrow. Yams and boiled spinach. Eggs for breakfast every morning, dates and berries with full-fat cream for dessert. Need to keep you healthy, John would tell you, need you ready.
Every day was a day closer, and you could feel it breathing down the back of your neck.
Aren’t you excited? Linda would coo, and although nobody had said it outright, you felt in your belly what exactly the days were counting down to.
Your hormones were beating and surging until they saturated every inch of you, permeating between the fibers of your muscles and coating your tongue and the walls of your cunt. A feeling you would never have noticed until it was pointed out to you, until it was all they asked about, and all you could focus on; do you feel it yet? Is your body preparing itself? Are you warmer between your legs?
When you noticed a few specks of blood on your toilet paper, the slightest smear of pink, you told Georgie — she smiled as bright as the sun, kissed you on the lips, because how lucky, a godsend, you were finally ripe.
The last sliver of the waning moon had vanished that night. It was as black as the rest of the sky, hung low over the hill above Jonathan’s farmhouse.
Unseasonably warm for late summer, as though the sun was still baking in the sky, and the air was sultry with it. Formed dewdrops on your skin as you waited for the knock on your door.
It was Georgie and Harriet that arrived on your doorstep, an hour shy of midnight, garmented in white dresses. Georgie approached you with a bloomed cariad rose pinched between her fingers, pink and fluttery, and she slid the stalk behind your ear so that it was tucked into your loose hair.
You smiled back at her when she stroked your cheek, her enthusiasm an airborne infection that filled your lungs like steam and felt fuzzy in the centre of your forehead. Anticipation as inebriant as ethanol had been slowly accruing in your blood day by day, until your thoughts were all hazy and thrumming and the hours oozed by like honey.
Georgie held your hand as she led you out of your door, Harriet close behind you. Out on the path waited the rest of the Family, all thirty of them, candles in hand. Your erstwhile self might have been humiliated by your stark nudity — instead you felt pride, loving warmth in your veins, because they all looked on you with pure fondness and blind devotion.
They followed behind you like a flock of sheep, reverently silent, as Georgie led you down an unfamiliar path, illuminated only by the candlelight. Through the pear trees and over a bubbling creek; the water cool between your toes, the ground mulchy beneath your feet.
The terminus of your journey was a pyramid.
Hand-fashioned from timber, lacquered in ivory paint. No windows. A dormer containing a hole where a door might have been. Situated in a clearing among the oak trees, almost haunting, the tip of it just about invisible in the darkness of the night.
Georgie let go of your hand and gave you an encouraging touch on your bare back.
“Wait inside,” she whispered, beaming, “he won’t be long.”
Stepping through the entrance was one of no return.
You felt it in your chest. Smoky and heady. Dense enough that it was hard to inhale.
The interior was unpainted, raw wood, logs recently chopped and lumbered into boards. Terpenic on your tongue. The sticky scent of balsam. Mingled with the lanolin exuded by the sheepskins carpeting every corner of the floor, warm and soft under your feet, curls of wool tufting out between your toes.
Candles had been lit by the entrance, but those were the only sources of light within the peculiar room. You looked up to the highest point of the ceiling and saw only a void.
Minutes passed like muggy eons and you sat yourself cross-legged on the woolly floor, facing away from the entrance. Apprehension crept up your gullet like acidic reflux, and swallowing brought you no relief.
You heard his breathing before he spoke.
“Stand up, cub,” he drawled, low, full-throated. You thought you might turn around and see a bear standing there opposed to a man. “Let me look at you.”
You did as you were told. Rose up cautiously, filly-legged, wobbly as though unused to gravity. Faced him with your fingers in knots and your toes curling into the fleece of the floor.
His eyes were stygian as he approached you. Lips tight and pensieve under his beard. Stood shirtless, but still in his trousers, belt buckled.
“You are a lovely thing,” he murmured, lost, as he reached across the narrow gap and brushed your breast with his hand. Feathered his thumb over your nipple and watched raptly as it tightened to a point under his touch.
You had no words to offer him. Not for a lack of trying, but every syllable that worked its way along your tongue fizzled before making its way out, because nothing you could say felt worthy of him.
“How are you feeling,” He asked hoarsely, monotonously, running the back of his finger down the length of your belly, just light enough to tickle.
“Nervous,” you breathed, after a sweltering pause, because his touch persisted lower even as you failed to respond.
“No need to be nervous, cubbie,” he said.
He craned slightly downward to slide the tip of his fingers between your folds, and you hiccuped at the touch. Bit your tongue as you felt him wipe over your hole, dipping in but not breaching, before he reeled them back out. He held up his fingers to look at your slick, attentive as if inspecting it, watching how it clung in glossy bands between his thumb and forefingers. Breathed raggedly through his nose in satisfaction.
“It’ll only hurt for a little bit,” he explained, tone staid, but you could hear the appetite simmering in the back of his throat. “But we’ll go slow.”
You nodded deferentially.
“Get on your knees, cub.”
And you did. The wool was soft underneath your kneecaps.
“Take it out.”
Your hands went to his belt without dispute, fishing out the tail and undoing the buckle. Moved quickly onto the buttons of his thick canvas work trousers, popping them loose one by one.
His cock was partially soft when you pulled it out through the fly of his trousers, but you watched it grow harder the moment it was free — length doubled before your eyes, girth almost three-fold, as the veins roping under the ruddy skin thumped with blood and his foreskin peeled back from the smooth bulge of his head.
He let out a grunt, then a sigh, when you curled your fingers around the base of it, slightly too thick to fully wrap your hand around. The sound was like liquor and you were already drunk on it.
“Lick it,” he gritted.
You angled his cock upright, and dragged your wet tongue from the curls above his balls to his frenulum, painting your saliva along the length of it and breathing hot air over his skin. He groaned, and your blood went runny, because the only thing you wanted was to please him — him him him — and you were high on every sound he chewed out as you did.
His thick fingers carded through your hair, gentle at first, but as you grazed your lips against the tip of his cock his hand turned to a fist, and you chirped at the pain in your scalp.
Must have heard you, because his grip went slack, and he clenched his jaw instead.
“Swallow it, cub,” he grumbled, barely encouraging, “as much as you can fit.”
Easier said than done. You unhinged your jaw to take his blunt head in your mouth, lapping at it to keep it wet, terrified you’d scrape your teeth on it — but you leaned forward, bit by bit, and his cock was heavy on your tongue.
“Tha’s it,” he huffed, biting down on nothing. “Eyes up.”
You blinked up at him, rheumy and upset, because soon his cock was at the back of your tongue and you were only halfway down. You did your best with what you could take — sealed your lips and suckled on him, grazing your tongue along the underside of his cock as you moved your head back, then forward again, and he let out a satisfied growl.
“Good girl, cubbie,” he groaned, when his glans hit the back of your throat and you gagged around him. “Easy. Doin’ so good.”
The remaining liquid in your body turned to syrup, hot and sweet in your cheeks, a treacly film over your eyes — I’m a good girl, I’m a good girl, I’m a good girl — reverberated around in your head like a bullet ricocheting off the walls of your skull.
Went delirious with it. Mouth so slick with saliva it dripped down your chin, soaked his cock from base to tip until the curls at the bed of it were sodden and clumped together. Throat relaxed enough to take him deeper, and you gagged again, though he praised you for it.
You’re so good for me, cubbie. My good girl. So special. Perfect girl.
Your cunt had liquefied. Molten. Burned so hot that it throbbed between your legs and you rubbed your thighs together involuntarily. Alight with anticipation, because you knew where he’d put his cock next.
Couldn’t stop yourself, though. Couldn’t settle your tongue. Couldn’t slow down when he told you to — a distant voice that didn’t quite break through the fog, slow down, cub, careful.
Your fervour was only deepening, because his groans were bitten out more desperately each time you sucked his cock deeper into your throat, and you only wanted to make him happy, to be his good girl forever, to—
“Slow the fuck down.”
Suddenly your hair was knotted in a fist and it was yanked from your scalp, and you squealed as your head was torn off his cock and your throat was violently empty. He pulled your head back off your shoulders by your hair so that you were forced to look up at the ceiling, and it hurt enough that your face crumpled up, eyes dribbling tears that trickled down over your temples.
“Still don’t know how to fuckin’ listen, do you,” he thundered, rage flaring from an ember to a scorching flame, and you could see its red glow lambent in the hollows of his eyes.
You yelped as he dragged you by the hair, claws scratching and grasping at his restraining wrist as you were hauled to the centre of the triangular room and thrown flat on the woollen floor.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry — emetic apologies spewed from your mouth like vomit as you rolled yourself onto your back, and you watched him shuck his trousers off in a single motion.
Loomed over you like a mountain. Cock heavy, bouncing with his heartbeat, glistening with your saliva. He made the cavernous pyramid seem small, shrinking around him, like he could touch the peak of the ceiling just by reaching upward.
You blinked and he had clambered over you, snared your ankles with massive hands — tore your legs apart and dragged you towards him until your arse was perched on his lap, and your thighs were wrapped around his waist.
“Didn’t want it to be like this, cub,” he growled, leviathan paws on either side of your waist, and his cock nudged around between your folds for an aperture. “Thought you could control yourself. Gave you too much credit.”
You bleated as he pulled you down onto him, spearing his cock into you in a single motion, a battering ram that broke through your entrance without warning or care. A squeal ripped from your throat as his head plunged in as deep as it could go, to the hilt, pushing innards out of his way to fit, and you felt the ache in your teeth.
“Coulda been nice n’ slow,” he snarled, tight-jawed.
He hunched over you as he pulled your hips out to unsheathe himself halfway, before yanking you back onto him, hole pulled so tight around him you could feel his heartbeat in your fragile skin.
“Woulda got you warmed up. Nah, wanted to rush it, did you?”
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry — babbling and tearful, slurred in panic — pleading like you had angered God, because you had.
“S’alright, cub,” he murmured, leaning back and hucking up a lump of saliva, spitting it straight down where your cunt met the base of his cock, and it landed square on your clit. “My fault for makin’ you wait so long, eh?”
He let go of your hips, hands sliding to the core of you — pressed his left thumb into the top of your slit and pulled the skin upward, uncovering your puffy clit and exposing it to the torrid air.
Your head rocked back into the wool on the floor when he smeared over your vulnerable clit with the pads of two fingers, gliding frictionlessly by virtue of your slick and his spit. You exhaled with a shrill moan, and you bucked your hips to chase his touch, then yelped in pain when his cock jammed into your liver.
“Easy,” he chuckled at you, deep and throaty, “don’t hurt yourself.”
Your hands clutched at the wool on the floor in fists, clumps of it knotted between your fingers, as your spine arched into him — what was once a stabbing pain softened to a throb, his attention on your clit analgesic, and your pussy unwinded around the cock warming itself inside you.
“Tha’s more like it,” he hummed, as you splayed yourself open for him, grunting as he felt your pussy fluttering around the length of him.
You were already close to the brink before he had even touched you, and it did not take him long to work you up to the edge — your moans turned shaky and high-pitched, panting, moving your hips so you could feel him skewered inside you, and everything flooded in at once—
He bit down on a groan as you came, walls of your cunt constricting around his cock, a tourniquet, tightening in the shockwaves of the orgasm that wracked through you viciously enough to leave you concussed.
“There y’go, cubbie,” he grunted, offering you no clemency, not a beat to catch your breath as he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted them into the air before pressing them into your chest. “That’ll make it easier.”
You cried as he plunged his cock into you while you were still tumbling out of your climax, folding you in half until your knees touched the floor by your head, and you could feel his cock in your ribcage.
He grunted and groaned like a bear, pulling back his hips to reel out his cock before bottoming out with a clap of his hips on your rear, reaming you open with each thrust.
You had no room to squirm, held so firmly to the floor that you struggled to breathe, and he fucked right through you as if the head of his cock might reach your throat. You could only try and take it, biting down on pained yelps each time he pistoned into you, bludgeoning your cervix enough to bruise it.
You were not suffering in vain, though.
The pain was salvific, martyrdom for a cause — him. His pleasure was yours because you owed it to him. You owed him everything, your enlightenment, your happiness, your body, your soul.
Went dizzy with rapture at the thought of his cock impaling you so deeply, of him coming in the depths of you, of his seed implanting in your womb so that you could have him inside you and a part of you forever. So that you could give him the gift that nobody else was worthy of giving him, because you were special. You were important.
He grunted as much in your ear, breathy and angry and hazy with pleasure; my special girl. Fuck, cubbie, you feel so good. Tryin’ not to break you in half, cubbie. Tryin’ so hard, my good girl, special girl. Gonna give me my baby, aren’t you, cub? I’ll fuck you like this every day until you do—
You watched him in devoted awe once you were able to keep your eyes open — vein bulging in his forehead, burning red in his cheeks, eyes a stormy grey in the darkness of the room. How his brows curled as he chased a final rut, fucking right into your diaphragm, and he pushed all the air out of you as he pressed you into the floor.
“Fuck,” he groaned, frayed and broken as it rended from his chest, and his head tumbled from his shoulders. “Keep still, cub — fuckin’ hell.”
You felt his cock lurching in the security of your pussy, his come pumping in surges directly against your cervix, so much of it that you could feel it in your belly and taste it on the back of your tongue. You wondered if he had injected it directly into your womb through sheer pressure alone, and you hoped it would settle there, meeting the ovum that had awaited his arrival.
You went glassy-eyed as you imagined it, his come taking, swelling and swelling inside you until it was a baby — heaven sent, the perfect amalgamation of you and him — him him him — you couldn’t fathom something so immaculate existing in the world with you. You were sure his baby would outgrow you, viviparous, would burst through your skin and emerge a fully grown person, as deific and faultless as him.
Selfishly, you imagined it not taking. That he had timed it incorrectly, that his sperm had hunted for your egg and was found wanting — and he’d have to fuck you again, like he promised he would. Again and again, ejaculating in the core of you until your insides had become more him than yourself, body completely usurped by him, organs and all.
You gasped, shaken out of your come-drunk reverie when he pinned your ankles together with a single hand, straightening out your legs.
“John, what—” You squeaked, as he pushed your knees to your chin, and he hunched over so that you could no longer see him past your thighs.
Almost bit your tongue off when you felt him lick up your slit in a flat swipe, immediately bucking to get him away from your already aching and hypersensitive clit.
“No, s’too much—” you bleated, whining as his tongue smeared over your clit again, and the shock made your brain short-circuit.
“I know, I know, cubbie—” he hushed, wrangling you until you stilled, and you felt his breath on your inflamed skin, “—it’s important, helps it take, love. Won’t take long, just be a good girl—”
You cried as he sucked your clit into his mouth, knee knocking against your chin, air squished out of your lungs as he folded you in half on the sheepskins.
But you did as he said, because you were a good girl. Let him suckle on your swollen clit until it was sore, lapping at you with the fervour of a bear hunting honey in a beehive — still felt the flood of his come sitting high in your cunt, pooling against your cervix as he held your legs in the air, and it threatened to pour out of you with every constriction of your pussy.
“Please—” you wailed, aimless in your begging, because whatever you wanted he had given it to you and then some.
His hands dug into the flesh of your thighs, keeping himself steady more than you, and you climbed back towards your apogee with a sob and a held breath — released it all at once as he laved his tongue over your pulsing clit, and you came hard enough that you felt yourself begin to black out, such a lack of oxygen in your brain that your vision turned glittery at the edges.
“J-Jonathan, ah, stop!—” You begged, teary and desperate, and only when you kicked haphazardly into the air did he release the suction on your clitoris and conclude his torment with a chaste kiss on your slit.
He straightened out with a satisfied sigh, rough and gurgling from his chest, gently lowering your legs and laying them softly on the wool beneath you.
He planted kisses up the length of you; on your hip, on your belly, on your breast, on your collarbone; crawling up your body until he landed on his back beside you with a whumph. With his expansive hands he scooped you up, and you gave no protest, floppy and exhausted to the point of debilitation — he lay you down on his chest, head balanced between his pectorals, and you settled in with a ragged exhale.
“Such a good girl,” he murmured into the top of your head as he draped his arms over you, petting your skin wherever his hands landed. “Brave little cub.”
You deflated, dissolving into him with a pent breath as your eyes fluttered shut, and you could have stayed there, like that, forever.
He pressed a loving kiss into your hair, languidly stroking your shoulder, and you wondered if your mother was looking for you.
this fic somehow tripled in length as i was writing it lol. anyway here's the pinterest board for it, and also the playlist <3
