Pairing: Re2r Leon x barista!reader (ft. Chris, Claire, Jill and Carlos)
Genre: Non zombie AU, Chaotic friendship social media AU, romcom, friends to lovers
Warnings: None!
Plot: A message meant for Jill accidentally ends up in Leon's private chat instead. The worst part isn't the humiliation, it's the fact that Leon actually reads it.
A/N: Hey! Welcome to another chaotic chapter 🤭 hope you guys enjoy it ❤
Taglist: @ghostieistiredd @shu-leepy @beautifulavenuefun @itsemy01 @ghostlytouya @kkittykiss @geguji-art @kl0ngski3 @like-gh0sts-in-sn0w @rednnedy @graceashcroftsgirl @symphony4444 @lux-maimai @lencix346 @marcspectorondeeznuts @chr0nic4lly-0nlin3-v4mpir3 @dyngbydsgn @skzlover143 @kazueyam @kkurapikaswife (let me know if you want to be added!)
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pleass the world needs more Ringo things. If you can't do smut fluff would be great. Ringo fans are starving
girl i got you. i love ringo so much 🥹
snowed in
ringo starr X (fem) reader
NSFW
- warnings: !SMUT! M!receiving, blowjob
- context: you, ringos work friend, have to walk home in the snow. of course, he wont have that - he has you stay at his home where you get “snowed in.”
1963
the evening before, snow began to fall as the boys were working on new music and you were giving feedback to the four. winter climate came to liverpool and it was giving it out for thick snow - just around the corner from christmas, too.
of course, the sweet boy ringo insisted that you came home with him. he didn’t want to imagine you walking home as ice built up on the pavements and he most definitely didn’t want to imagine you freezing to death as you attempted to get home.
he got an taxi back to his place with you beside him, the thought of your company in his home made a smile stick to his face throughout the entire car ride and you found it adorable, a smile on your face too.
once you both made it to his humble home, he begged you to sleep in his bed while he took the couch and he brought you a cup of tea to settle down for the night.
the next morning, you awaken to a familiar scent - ringos scent. a small grin appears across your face as you stir out of his bed. of course, you are no stranger to ringos house. you know your way around the small space.
you make your way to his living room, where he said he was sleeping last night.
and there he is, peacefully sleeping. one of his arms spilling off of the couch, same with his foot. his mouth is wide as he snores, you cackle to yourself.
“ringo!” you shout, startling the poor boy. “wake up, hon.” - you obviously had to shout, he would of never woken up if you didn’t.
ringo rubbed his eyes with a small groan before opening his eyes and looking at you - his lips curl up. “you bloody startled me.” he says, his voice cracking.
you laugh at him, watching him adjust his rings and bracelets.
“i had to shout. you snore so loud.” you cross your arms, discreetly checking him out. you swear that you can see the blanket slightly tented at his crotch.
as you wait for him to fully awaken, you look around his living room - you look outside the window. the snow from last night has now turned into a full on storm.
you walk closer to the window and look outside, it is up to the bloody windowsill. “not to alarm you,” you say, turning to the now sat up boy. “i think we might be snowed-in.”
he stands up immediately, walking over to the window and sighing. ringo loves snow but not when he and his band mates have one more song to play together before the album is completed.
you notice the tent in his pants again, it is way more prominent now that he doesn’t have a blanket wrapped around him. morning wood, for god sake.
“fabulous.” he says with a sarcastic ring to it.
“absolutely.” you reply, your eyes never leaving the spot on his crotch.
the boy notices, of course he does for fuck sake. it’s a bit obvious that you are looking at his norwegian wood, isn’t it?
he clears his throat and begins playing with his rings. he can feel it leaking under your gaze, this is so embarrassing for him. “are you gonna keep.. staring?” he questions, trying to sound polite about it.
he doesn’t bother looking at you, he can see you in the corner of his eye - he just wants to crawl into a wall right now.
“sorry, sorry.” you choke on your spit, looking back at his side profile. the white lighting from the snow makes him even more gorgeous, his nose more pronounced. “want me to help out?” you tease, half banter, half serious.
his eyes widen and he coughs even louder than he did before, you can see his cheeks turning pink.
ringo slowly turned to you, a little like a meerkat. “you mean like.. like serious?” his eyes stay wide as he attempts to hold eye contact with you. “like serious serious?”
you giggle to yourself at his reaction and nod straight after, you feel a little damp over his nerves.
and little did you know, this boy always wanted you - this explains his state.
“yes, i want you to help me.” he bites the inside of his cheek, walking back over to the sofa.
there he is, his pants puddled around his ankles and his body pushed up against the back of the sofa - he is still fiddling around with his rings.
“you don’t have to be so nervy, ya know?” you whisper, placing a small kiss to his clothed member which causes his hips to thrust upward.
“i know, i know.” he whispers back, his words sound raspy, they almost sound like small whimpers.
you start by peeling his boxers off, revealing his average sized cock. he is leaking a whole lot, small dribbles of precum falling down the sides.
your thumb circles his tip after a few seconds of admiring his cock, it makes his knees weak - an immediate moan falls out of his mouth.
you keep up your thumbs movements, spreading his precum along his pink tip before placing a quick kiss to it, his hips go upward yet again.
you are noticing a pattern here. “do you want me to suck you?” you question, looking up at him from between his thighs.
he nods desperately, unable to get his words out.
you nod in return, beginning your journey down to his shaft.
i loved writing this but i got lazy so please let me know if you would like something else 💔 anyway yes! i absolutely love ringo he is so adorable, please give my king some love guys
Not related to any current events, just something I promised a very special group of people.
Merry Christmas, spouses!
Soft Dom Gale Dekarios x f!reader; Professor ending, home in Waterdeep, summer heat, lots of penned up excitement; praise, bodywriting/worship
4,2k words
Read on AO3
You knew Waterdhavian summers would be warmer than those in Baldur’s Gate, but you hadn’t quite grasped how much warmer. No one had warned you that the heat could feel this oppressive, like being wrapped in a damp, sticky blanket that refused to let go.
For the first few days, the shutters of the tower remained closed in a futile attempt to keep the warmth at bay. Gale, to his credit, employed every arcane trick he knew to cool the rooms—conjured drafts, chilled stones, even an enchantment or two—but by the end of the week, even he conceded defeat.
You spent most of your time in the library by then, languid and drowsy, while a few mage hands dutifully waved fans to simulate the idea of a breeze. Your clothing—what little of it you tolerated—was perpetually damp with sweat, clinging to your skin before you gave up on modesty altogether.
Gale, ever the gentleman, grew visibly restless. His longing had always been tender, worn openly on his sleeve, but lately it took on an edge—his kisses lingered far longer, his breathing quickened whenever your lips parted. His hands, once a constant presence, now hovered in careful restraint; you had both agreed that the heat made touch unbearable.
And yet, in that suffocating warmth, the distance between you became its own kind of ache—one far more difficult to endure than the summer itself.
The sun had only just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in soft strokes of violet and dying gold. You lay stretched out on your stomach across a blanket on the balcony, utterly bare, as unadorned as the evening breeze that swept lazily across your skin. Warm—too warm still—but the faint touch of wind made it bearable, cooling the light sheen of sweat that had gathered along your spine.
Your head rested on your folded arms, eyes half-lidded, and you let out a long, quiet sigh. Not quite relief, but something close. The kind of exhale that came when the heat finally loosened its grip, when the world felt slow enough to simply exist in your own skin.
Then you heard Gale’s familiar footfall on the stairs. The gentle creak of the library door. And—most telling of all—the sudden stop. The silence. The way even the air seemed to pause.
His breath hitched audibly.
“My love…” he whispered, the words soft, but weighted with awe and unmistakable arousal.
You couldn’t help but smile. Without opening your eyes, you chuckled. “Enjoying the view?”
“Oh, you have no idea."
That tone—lower than usual, richer, threaded with both reverence and something darker, hungrier—sent a slow shiver down your spine despite the heat.
You lifted your head and finally glanced back over your shoulder.
Gale stood frozen in the doorway, lips parted, eyes blown wide. He wasn’t even pretending not to stare—his gaze roamed your body with unabashed wonder, like he was trying to memorize every sun-kissed curve, every line, every breath you took.
He swallowed hard, visibly, trying—and failing—to summon his composure. His attempted smile came out crooked, sheepish, utterly endearing.
And something in you pulled taut in response.
Not tension from discomfort. It was longing, raw and immediate. The kind that tightened low in your belly and softened your chest all at once. You missed him. You had missed his hands, his warmth, the way he sighed and moaned into your mouth.
You missed the way he looked at you like this.
You missed being wanted exactly like this.
The hunger in his gaze said he had missed you too.
You pushed against the blanket, attempting to lift yourself onto your elbows, but Gale was quicker.
“No—don’t move. Please.”
The urgency in his voice froze you instantly. You let yourself sink back down with a soft laugh. “Alright…”
Gale stepped closer and then he sank to his knees beside you. The breath he released was almost a tremor. His hand hovered for a moment — you could feel the heat radiating off it — before his fingertips finally brushed your shoulder.
The touch was featherlight, barely there, yet it sent heat rippling across your skin.
Slowly—achingly slowly—his fingers traced a single, delicate line down the length of your spine. All the way to the small of your back. Then up again, following the curve of bone and muscle with a care that felt almost worshipful.
It took everything in you not to shudder. Not to moan. Not to melt into the blanket.
Gale inhaled sharply, as if your silence required his own restraint. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting warmly over your ear.
“I missed you,” he murmured — quiet, raw, the confession slipping out as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
Your eyes fluttered. Your heartbeat stuttered.
“I miss you too."
His fingers continued their slow, careful exploration. Down your spine again… then up, pausing between your shoulder blades, tracing the shape of you like you were a constellation he had been deprived of far too long.
“You feel… gods,” Gale whispered, breath catching, “you feel good.”
“You feel good,” you echoed, sinking into the truth of it—into the weight of his gaze, the gentleness of his touch, the quiet hunger pulsing beneath both.
And for a long, suspended moment, neither of you said anything more.
He simply touched you, his breath caught somewhere between awe and longing, while the last light of sunset gilded your skin in gold and pulled him further, deeper into the orbit he had never truly left.
You felt everything in his touch—his longing, his restraint, the trembling edge of want he tried so very hard to hide. His fingertips traced the slope of your back with maddening delicacy, always stopping just at the curve where your spine dipped. Never lower. Never giving you the touch you truly craved.
He wasn’t simply holding himself back.
He was toying with you.
Intentional. Controlled. Knowing.
Each time his hand drifted downward, you shifted—subtly, innocently—spreading your legs just a little wider, offering just a little more of yourself. But Gale resisted every invitation with infuriating composure.
You breathed out a long, aching sigh, your body humming with want… and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the smirk curving his lips. That soft pull of amusement in the way his fingertips lingered on your skin. The warmth in his breath as he leaned just a little closer, yet still not close enough.
He dragged this out deliberately.
Touching you everywhere except where you needed him—stroking the length of your spine, brushing the slope of your waist, dipping beneath your ribs with maddening tenderness. It was a dance of tension and tease, a slow burn he was clearly savoring. A delicate game the two of you often played, but today, desire was clouding every thought in your mind.
You wanted him.
All of him.
Now.
But you held on for one last moment, one last breath of patience before your resolve slipped. Your voice came soft, warm, edged with plea,
“I’m yours."
Gale’s breath hitched audibly. The sound tightened everything inside you.
“I know, my love,” he murmured. “So beautifully patient for me…”
You exhaled shakily, nodding into the blanket. “But it’s hard.”
“I know,” he replied, the smile undeniable in his voice. His fingers grazed higher up your back, featherlight, infuriating. “You’re doing so well for me.”
It was pure, delicious torment now.
A game of control you both understood.
He teased because he could.
You trembled because you wanted to.
And beneath the gentle cadence of his voice, beneath the warmth of his touch, you could feel the promise.
You shifted your hips again, a subtle, instinctive plea for more, for him, but the moment you tried to push yourself up onto your elbows, Gale’s hand slid between your shoulder blades. He pressed down with gentle firmness, pinning you exactly where you were.
“Stay down."
This command sent heat rushing through you so fast it stole your breath.
“Yes, Sir,” you replied, teasing but breathless, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.
Gale’s answer was a soft, devastating kiss pressed to your shoulder. No more than a brush of lips, but it burned through you all the same. And then he rose, his warmth leaving your back as he stepped inside.
You heard him moving around the room, the faint sound of drawers, objects shifting, the small, familiar clink of glass against wood. Whatever he was retrieving, he did so with the calm purpose that only made your anticipation tighten.
When he returned, his footsteps were deliberate, measured. You could feel him before he touched you—his presence heavier. And hungrier.
“You know I love you."
You chuckled softly into the blanket. “I love you too.”
But something in him shifted with your answer. A deeper note entered his voice, curling through the air like smoke.
“I love your body,” he continued, tone dropping, each word sinking into your skin before his hand even found you. “Every line… every curve…”
And then—finally—his fingers slipped to your hips, gliding lower with slow, deliberate appreciation before settling on the firm curve of your backside. His touch was confident, sure, claiming without aggression, full of the longing he’d been holding back.
A soft sound escaped you, somewhere between sigh and relief.
Gale chuckled, low and pleased, the sound vibrating through your entire spine.
“The way your skin dips here…” he murmured, tracing the contours of your waist with languid, exploratory lines. You could feel his breath hovering just above your lower back. “The way your body fits perfectly into my hands…”
His palm curved over you as though made for that purpose alone—holding, appreciating, savoring.
“You are,” he finished,, “a masterpiece I’ll never tire of studying.”
Every word settled into you like a warm weight, grounding and electrifying all at once.
And you stayed exactly where he’d placed you—heart open, skin tingling, breathing slow and deliberate—because with Gale, surrender never felt like loss. It felt like being seen.
You felt it before you understood it: a faint, feather-light sensation gliding across your back.
Not his fingers.
Not his breath.
Something softer. Something that tickled just enough to make your muscles twitch.
Fabric, you realized. A thin strip of cloth dragged with meticulous care.
Gale moved it slowly, shaping strokes across your bare skin with the precision of a scholar. Each pass sent a warm shiver spiraling down your spine, his silence only heightening the anticipation coiling in your belly.
He paused for a heartbeat, and then, in his most ceremonious tone, the one he reserved for grand pronouncements and theatrical flair, he declared, “You are…”
A tiny hitch of amusement colored his voice, rich and warm against the evening breeze.
The cloth traced another sweeping curve across your back.
“…mine.”
He emphasized the last word—deep, resonant, tender and possessive all at once.
The syllable landed on your skin like a kiss made of sound.
Only then did the meaning settle, blooming through you with heat and quiet awe.
He had written it. He had written the word onto your back. Carefully, lovingly, as though you were parchment and he was inscribing a truth that had lived in him far longer than his voice admitted.
The tickling stopped, but the warmth lingered, spreading through your chest, your stomach, your breath.
And you couldn’t help the soft exhale that escaped you, a sound halfway between a sigh and something far more surrendered.
“I am yours,” you breathed, though the words trembled on your tongue. Not from fear, but from the quiet, overwhelming serenity that came with saying them.
With meaning them.
There was a profound peace in that surrender, in offering the most tender, hidden parts of yourself to the one man who touched you with nothing but devotion and love.
A giving-over of trust as intimate as any kiss.
You barely had time to exhale before Gale’s lips found the small of your back—a warm, reverent press that made your breath catch.
Then the faint graze of his teeth followed, gentle but claiming, little nips that traced a path along the curve of your spine, down to the soft swell of your backside.
Each touch was loving and edged with the slightest hint of hunger.
Every time his teeth closed around your skin in the faintest bite, he hummed against you—a low, pleased sound that vibrated straight through your bones into your loins.
“Gale…”
“So good for me, my love,” he murmured against your skin, lips never wavering—warm breath ghosting over your skin, grounding and undoing you in equal measure.
His hands drifted lazily up the insides of your thighs, mapping you with that unhurried certainty only he possessed.
Each stroke was light and conscious, coaxing rather than claiming, teasing you open with nothing more than touch and the unwavering promise of his affection.
Meanwhile, his mouth continued its devastating pilgrimage—soft kisses melting into feather-light nips, his lips brushing along sensitive skin with all the tenderness of a man savoring a rare and precious delicacy.
Every gentle scrape of his teeth sent a warm shiver unfurling through your entire body, each kiss setting your nerves sparking in quiet anticipation.
Gale touched you with the patience of someone who cherished every inch of you, and the confidence of someone who knew—without question—that you welcomed every bit of his attention.
When he finally, finally let his fingers slip between your thighs—tracing you, parting you, touching you— the sound that tore from your lips was nothing short of a plea.
A desperate, trembling whine you had no hope of containing.
Your hips buckled helplessly toward him, chasing his touch with the instinctive urgency of someone who had been held on the edge far too long.
“Patience.”
Gale’s voice sharpened, a single word that vibrated straight through you as his fingers only glided over you, maddeningly gentle.
You gasped, voice breaking.
“Please…”
“I know, my love,” he soothed, his tone turning molten, full of reverence and quiet command. “I know. You’re doing so well for me.”
His fingers stroke you once more, your hips buckling into his touch.
“You can take this a little longer for me.”
“I can’t…” you whined, the sound thin and trembling, hips shifting helplessly toward his hand, chasing even the slightest increase in pressure—anything to get more of him, more of that touch that already had your body unraveling.
“You can,” Gale murmured, the words low and firm, heat simmering beneath the command, “and you will.”
The whine that tore from your throat was nearly desperate. You shifted again—only a fraction, only enough to try and coax more from him—before forcing your eyes open.
And gods, he was devastating.
His robe hung open around his waist, baring the breadth of his chest. A sheen of sweat caught the dying light, tracing every line of muscle and making him look half-sculpted, half-unmade. His breath came hard and uneven, lips parted, pupils blown wide—not from control, but from the effort of holding it.
He was aroused. Visibly, powerfully, almost painfully so.
And yet he still held himself back—for you.
For the game. For this exquisite, slow-burn torture he loved almost as much as he loved you.
Your gaze finally met his, and the moment your eyes locked, something in him cracked.
Gale dropped lower, bracing himself on one hand beside you. The other still hovered over the heat of your body, his feather-light touch dragging you to the very brink without ever letting you fall.
But when you pulled him down into a fierce, hungry kiss, when your lips crashed together with all the longing and ache that had been pulling you apart, his control shattered beautifully.
His free hand clamped onto you, possessive in its certainty, knowing exactly where to hold, exactly how to draw you closer. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of helpless devotion, breath hot, kiss unrestrained.
You moaned into him, your breath breaking against his lips as the world dissolved to heat and wanting. Gale chuckled softly, the sound dark and delighted, his tongue brushing teasingly against yours in a way that sent your pulse spiraling, but his fingers never wavering.
“I can’t wait,” you gasped between kisses, fingers trembling as they tangled in his hair. “I need you.”
“You have me—”
He barely got the words out before you shifted beneath him, lifting your hips just enough to slide your hand down and free him from the confines of his pants and the sharp, ragged sound he made as you touched him was worth every second of restraint he’d demanded from you.
You moved before he could even gather another breath.
Diving down, you took him into your mouth in one hungry, fluid motion—lips parted, breath hot against his skin as you engulfed him as deeply as your body allowed. The effect was immediate. Gale gasped—sharp, startled, almost losing his balance as his balance buckled beneath the wave of pure sensation.
He steadied himself only barely, one hand braced against the wall, the other flying to your hair as though he needed something—anything—to anchor him through the shock of pleasure.
You showed him no mercy.
You needed him, needed the taste of him, the weight of him, the feel of him twitching against your tongue. Every instinct in your body screamed to take, to savor, to drown in him.
He tasted faintly of salt—sweat, desire, the first trace of arousal that always stirred in him the moment you touched him like this. Familiar, intimate, grounding in a way that made your whole body heat with wanting.
“My—my love—!” It started as a surprised cry and broke instantly into a helpless, shuddering moan that vibrated all the way through him and you. The sound alone made your lips curl into a wicked, satisfied smile.
You worked him slowly at first—measured pressure, your tongue gliding along the sensitive underside of him with sinful precision, drawing more of those beautiful, breathless noises from his lips. When his hips jerked forward, you rewarded him by adding your hand, stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, syncing your movements in a way that made him groan, low and unrestrained.
“Gods—” he choked out, his voice rough with disbelief and pleasure. His fingers slid deeper into your hair, not to guide you, but because he had nowhere else to put the sheer desperation coursing through him. He was trembling. Completely undone by his touch and your longing. His breath came in ragged bursts, every exhale uneven, every inhale sharp.
Gale was usually composed, articulate, deliberate. Now?
He was nothing but longing and need, shuddering under your touch, helpless in the best possible way.
And you reveled in every moment of it.
You worked him for as long as your trembling restraint allowed, savoring every sound you drew from him—those ragged gasps, those helpless moans, the way his breath kept catching in his throat as if the pleasure you gave him stole his ability to speak. Each noise fed your hunger, made your own need pulse sharper, hotter, harder to contain.
But eventually, desire became too much—too consuming, too unbearable to remain separated from him for even a heartbeat longer. You needed him inside you. Needed the deep, anchoring warmth of him, needed to feel him at your very center.
So you let him slip from your mouth with a soft, wet gasp, your hand stroking him in the same steady, relentless rhythm. His entire body shuddered at the loss of your lips, a desperate noise slipping from him as you rose.
You shifted forward, knees bracketing his hips, your breath shaking with anticipation. Gale understood immediately—instinctively—despite the dazed heaviness in his eyes. His hands flew to your hips, guiding you with careful strength, steadying you as you aligned yourself with him, helping you settle over him with a touch that trembled from wanting.
You sank into a kiss at the same moment you sank onto him. His mouth opened under yours willingly, hungrily, one of his hands sliding up your spine, the other cradling your jaw as though he needed to feel every part of you at once.
Your breath caught against his lips, a shuddering exhale mixing with his own, the heat of him filling you until your mind dissolved into nothing but the sensation of him and the fire connecting your bodies.
“I love you,” you moaned into his mouth.
Gale’s answering sound wasn’t a word but something deeper, something reverent, his entire body trembling as he pulled you closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if the force of his love alone might hold you together.
“Mine,” Gale managed, the word torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips bucked up helplessly, driving into you with a force that made your breath break, and you met him with the same desperate urgency. The world around you vanished. There was only this. Only him inside you, filling you, claiming you as wholly as you claimed him in return.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing else existed.
Only the reverent hunger binding you together; love braided with longing, lust entwined with devotion.
“Yours,” you breathed back. “Always yours.”
And it was the truth—not a vow, not a promise, but a simple, undeniable fact spoken into the space between your bodies.
You moved together in a rhythm that felt older than breath, older than thought: pulling yourself up and letting him draw you back down, meeting him stroke for desperate stroke. It was no longer just intimacy. It was a merging, a becoming, something raw and sacred and exquisitely human. A need met, a longing answered, a truth confessed not in words but in every shuddering motion.
You felt him tense beneath you, felt the subtle shifts in his body with each thrust—his restraint fraying at the edges, his composure slipping. Even as he rocked up into you, unravelling, he held himself back with shaking control, refusing to end things too quickly, refusing to pull you into your own release before he’d coaxed every ounce of pleasure from you.
He breathed you in like a prayer between kisses: longing pressed to your lips, devotion trailing down your throat, his hands gripping your hips with a tenderness that contrasted the urgency of his movements. Every push into you came with a soft, helpless sound; every retreat came with a low groan of restraint, as though he were fighting his entire body not to fall apart yet.
He was tasting you even as he worshipped you, teasing and touching and drawing you closer to the edge with each careful, trembling motion.
And gods, you could feel how close he was.
How close you both were.
“Good heavens, Mr. Dekarios! When did this library of study and arcane mastery turn into a den of sin?!”
Tara’s voice hit the balcony like a thunderbolt, and both of you froze mid-movement—every muscle locking, every breath snagging in your throat. It felt exactly like someone had upended a bucket of ice water over your intertwined bodies.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.
You froze, utterly horrified, as the realization struck you with the force of a falling tower: Tara could read Gale’s writing on your bare back.
Your gaze snapped to Gale’s at the exact same moment he seemed to arrive at the same dreadful conclusion. His eyes widened, scandalized, mortified, and then—swift as a spell well-practiced—his hand darted for the nearest blanket, quickly covering you with it.
“Your penmanship is atrocious!” she scolded, scandalized in that uniquely Tara way that blended outrage with motherly concern. “Truly abysmal! What would your mother say?!”
Gale made a sound somewhere between a strangled choke and a mortified gasp. His entire face went crimson so fast you swore you could feel the heat of shame radiating off him.
“T—Tara!” he sputtered. “We had, if memory serves, come to an agreement that you would announce your arrival upon moving into Mother’s estate, did we not?”
Still straddling him, you slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing hysterically. Your entire body shook—not from pleasure anymore, but from trying desperately not to scream into the night with second-hand embarrassment.
You dared to glance over your shoulder, adjusting the blanket now covering you.
Tara hovered at the doorway, ears flattened, wings puffed out in complete outrage, squinting at your now covered back.
“Oh Mystra preserve me,” Gale groaned, dropping his head back onto the floor and covering his face with his hands. “I cannot—Tara, go.”
“I will—once you fix that handwriting!” she sniffed, then finally vanished in a flutter of indignant feathers.
You collapsed forward onto Gale’s chest, wheezing with suppressed laughter, while he lay there in stunned horror, hands still covering his face.
“Never,” you whispered between giggles, “never again will you live this down.”
Gale only let out a long, pitiful groan.
Would you like some more? This way please....
tags as ordered @faerybella219 @whiskeyskin @asorceresswrites @aerin67 @fireflyeyes @saylofwaterdeep
A/N: I know, I know, this isn't my normal content, everyone, but I took a small break from working on Carlos's requests to write some self-indulgent Gale fluff. I swear your regularly scheduled RE content will be back in the next post.
CW: 3k words, Non-sexual intimacy, Insomniac reader, graphic descriptions of sleep health struggles, Reader being Ms. Independent, and Gale having enough of it, the intimacy of reading for someone as they fall asleep (PLEASE GOD IT'S ME AGAIN), Petnames (Darling, Gorgeous, Sweetheart), written with a plus-sized reader in mind.
Gale Dekarios has a habit of counting stars when he can’t sleep. Not aloud, never aloud, unless someone asks (Gods, he loves it when someone asks), but in the quiet of his own mind, tracing constellations with his fingertips against the fabric of his bedroll. Tonight, the sky is a mess of clouds, so he counts the stitches in his tent’s ceiling instead. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.
Outside, the fire pops softly, sending up embers that flicker like dying fireflies. Someone, probably Astarion, has left a half-empty bottle of wine near the coals, and the smell of it, warm and faintly sour, drifts on the breeze. Gale shifts onto his side, listening to the chorus of his companions’ breathing: Shadowheart’s measured exhales, Karlach’s occasional snort, Wyll’s steady rhythm. All asleep. All content.
Except, no. Not all. Not everyone is asleep.
There’s a rustle near the edge of camp, the sound of fabric shifting, then a quiet, frustrated sigh. Gale sits up, pushing his blanket aside. He knows that sigh. He’s heard it before, late at night when the others are lost to dreams, and the world feels too big.
Gale slips out of his tent, bare feet whispering against the dew-damp grass. The night air is cool, invigoratingly so, and he wraps his night robe tighter around himself as he pads toward the source of the sigh. There you are, sitting with your knees drawn up to your chest, fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of your neck, the ones he’s always thought looked like spun moonlight when the fire caught them just right.
“Darling,” he croons, crouching beside you. His voice is rough with sleep, warm as the embers still glowing in the firepit. “Still awake, I see.”
You startle, then relax when you recognize him. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admit sheepishly, picking at a loose thread on your trousers. The fabric is worn thin at the knees, and Gale makes a mental note to mend it for you later. “Mind’s too loud.”
“Ah, the dreaded insomnia.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “A most unwelcome companion.” When you don’t respond, he nudges your shoulder with his. “Come on, then. My tent’s far cozier than this patch of dirt, and I’ve just the thing to quiet that busy mind of yours.”
You hesitate, fingers stilling against the frayed fabric of your trousers. The offer is tempting, Gale’s tent always smells like old books and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon left too long in the sun, but the thought of being so close to him sends a flutter of nervous warmth through your chest. “I don’t want to be a bother,” you mutter, tucking a curl behind your ear only for it to spring free again in stubborn retaliation.
Gale huffs a quiet laugh, his breath visible in the cool night air. “Sweetheart, if you were a bother, I wouldn’t have offered.” He stands, offering you a hand, his palm upturned and waiting. There’s ink smudged along the side of his thumb, and the sight of it, so ordinary and domestic, makes something tight in your chest loosen. You take his hand.
His tent is exactly as you remember, cluttered in the way of someone who’s always thinking three steps ahead. Spellbooks are stacked haphazardly beside his bedroll, a half-finished letter to home, Waterdeep, peeks out from beneath a teacup, and a single candle flickers on a makeshift desk of overturned crates. Gale kicks a pair of socks out of the way with the heel of his foot, clearing a path for you. “Make yourself at home,” he says, waving a hand. “Though I’ll admit ‘home’ is currently somewhat… lived-in.”
You snort, settling onto the edge of his bedroll. “Lived-in is one way to put it.”
Gale kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against the spines of his spellbooks before settling on a well-worn volume with gilded edges. "Ah, here we are," he murmurs, flipping it open with practiced ease. The pages are dog-eared and annotated in his cramped handwriting, margins filled with scribbled thoughts and corrections. He clears his throat dramatically, adjusting an imaginary pair of spectacles. "Tonight's selection: The Ballad of the Moonlit Duel, a rather charming tale of mistaken identities and ill-advised wizardry. Unless you'd prefer something drier? Theories of Arcane Transmutation has a particularly soporific chapter on- "
"No, no," you interrupt, giggling softly. "The ballad sounds perfect." You tug at the hem of your sleep sweater self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of how it rides up when you sit. Gale notices, fucking of course he does, but he doesn't stare. Instead, he reaches for a blanket draped over a nearby stack of books and shakes it out with a flourish.
"Cold?" he asks, already tucking it around your shoulders with almost too much care. His fingers linger for a moment, warm against your collarbone.
You nod, pulling the blanket tighter. It smells like him, ink and ozone and something indefinably comforting. "A little, yeah."
Gale settles beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, but not so close that it panics you. He holds the book in one hand, the other gesturing absently as he begins to read. His voice is smooth, melodic, the kind of voice that could make a grocery list sound like poetry. Damn him. You let your eyes drift shut, listening to the rise and fall of his words, the way he lingers on certain syllables like he’s savoring them.
“And so the rogue, cloaked in shadow,” he reads, “crept toward the duelist, unaware that the moon had betrayed her silver silhouette…” His free hand finds yours under the blanket, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in absent comforting circles. You don’t pull away. Instead, you curl your fingers around his, anchoring yourself to the moment.
Halfway through the ballad, you shift, trying to find a more comfortable position. Gale pauses, glancing down at you. “Alright, darling?” he murmurs. You nod, but he’s already moving, adjusting the pillows behind you with a flick of his fingers, a touch of magic, just enough to fluff them into something more inviting. “Here,” he says, guiding you to lean back. “Better?”
You hum in agreement, sinking into the softness. Gale resumes reading, but his voice has softened, slowed, as if he’s tailoring the rhythm to the steady rise and fall of your breathing. His hand never leaves yours.
Your eyelids grow heavier with each word, the cadence of Gale’s voice weaving through the quiet like a lullaby. The tension in your shoulders melts away, replaced by the warmth of his hand in yours, the gentle pressure of his thumb tracing idle patterns against your skin. You’re vaguely aware of the blanket slipping down your shoulder, but before you can adjust it, Gale’s fingers are there, brushing the fabric back into place with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.
“There we go, you can relax, Gorgeous…” he coos, pausing mid-sentence to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingers, tracing the shell of your ear before retreating, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. “You’re nodding off, sweetheart.”
You blink up at him, fighting the pull of sleep. “M’not,” you mumble defiantly, though the words slur together. The candlelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his smile. He looks younger like this, unguarded.
Gale chuckles, closing the book with a soft thump. “Liar,” he teases, setting it aside. “But I’ll forgive you.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. His palm is warm against your skin, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “You’re beautiful like this,” he says quietly, as if it’s a secret. “All soft and sleepy.”
You want to protest, to scoff or roll your eyes, anything to deflect the warmth pooling in your chest, but exhaustion weighs heavily on your limbs, and Gale’s thumb tracing slow circles under your cheekbone is hypnotic. Instead, you nuzzle instinctively into his palm, a quiet sigh escaping you. His breath catches, just slightly, at the movement.
“Honey,” he murmurs, shifting closer. The bedroll dips under his weight as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, chaste but lingering, his lips warm against your skin. “Let’s get you properly settled, hm?” His hands slide down to your shoulders, guiding you to lie back fully, and you go willingly, boneless with drowsiness.
Gale arranges the blanket around you with a precision that borders on ceremonial, smoothing out every wrinkle before draping a second one that’s thicker, and woolen over your legs. “There,” he says, satisfied. “Now, unless you’d like me to resume thrilling tales of magical mishaps- ”
“Stay,” you interrupt, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding fast. The request hangs between you, vulnerable in its simplicity.
Gale goes very still. For a heartbeat, you think you’ve overstepped, that he’ll politely extricate himself with some scholarly excuse, but then his breath leaves him in a quiet rush, and his fingers tighten around yours. "Well," he says, voice rougher than before, "since you asked so nicely." He doesn’t move to pull away. Instead, he shifts carefully, stretching out beside you atop the blankets, his body a warm line against yours. His arm hesitates for a fraction of a second before settling around your waist, his hand splaying possessively across the curve of your hip.
"You fit, almost perfectly," he murmurs, surprised, as if he hasn’t spent months imagining this very moment. His nose brushes the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, campfire smoke and the faint herbal tang of travel soap. "Like you were made to slot right here." His thumb strokes idle circles through the fabric of your oversized sweater, tracing the curve of your waist. You shiver, and he misinterprets it, tugging the blanket higher. "Cold still?"
You shake your head, pressing closer. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath your ear, a counterpoint to the rustle of canvas in the breeze. "Just... never done this before," you admit. "Been this close to someone." The confession hangs between you, raw and unvarnished. Gale’s hand stills on your hip.
"Oh, sweetheart," he says softly. There’s no pity in his voice, only a quiet wonder that makes your throat tighten. His fingers resume their path, mapping the swell of your hip, the softness of your belly, with a reverence that steals your breath. "Then let me tell you," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, "you are wonderful to hold." His palm presses flat against your stomach, warm even through the layers of fabric. "Like holding sunlight. Or… no, that’s not quite right." He huffs a laugh, his chest vibrating beneath you. "Perhaps I’ll think of a better metaphor tomorrow when I’m not half unconscious. For now..." His arm tightens, pulling you flush against him. "Rest.”
Gale’s heartbeat is a slow, steady drum beneath your ear, his breath stirring the curls at your temple. The weight of his arm around you is solid, grounding—an anchor in the quiet dark. You trace idle patterns against his chest, fingertips skimming the soft fabric of his shirt, and feel him shiver.
"Tickles," he giggles sleepily, catching your wrist with playful gentleness. His fingers slip between yours, lacing tight. "Though I’ll hardly complain if it keeps your hands busy." There’s a smirk in his voice, warm and teasing. You huff, but don’t pull away.
The candle flickers, casting long shadows across the tent walls. Gale exhales, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. "You know," he says, quieter now, "I’ve spent years memorizing incantations, tracing every line of power in the Weave, but this?" His hand squeezes yours. "This is the first magic I can’t quantify."
You tilt your head to look at him. Firelight catches in his lashes, gilds the curve of his lower lip. "Poetic," you tease, though your voice wobbles.
Gale's smirk softens into something tender, his eyes reflecting the candle's glow like pools of molten honey. "Only for you," he croons, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His lips linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary, and you feel the warmth of it travel up your arm, settling somewhere beneath your ribs.
Outside, an owl hoots, low and mournful, but inside Gale's tent, the world has narrowed to the space between his breaths and yours. He shifts slightly, his thigh brushing yours beneath the blankets, and you freeze, suddenly aware of every point where your bodies touch. Gale notices, because of course he does, and his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your curls. "Easy," he whispers against your hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
You exhale, unclenching muscles you didn't realize were tense, and let yourself melt into him. Gale hums approvingly, his fingers massaging slow circles into your scalp. "That's it," he coaxes. His other hand finds the small of your back, rubbing soothing strokes up and down. "You carry so much tension here, sweetheart. Like you're always bracing for impact."
The observation hits too close to home. You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of parchment and bergamot that clings to his shirt. Gale says nothing, just tightens his hold and begins to murmur nonsense against your hair, soft, rambling praises about the silkiness of your curls, the perfect weight of you in his arms, how right you feel pressed against him. His voice is a lullaby, deep and honeyed, and you feel your eyelids growing heavy again despite yourself.
Bg3 companions if you wanted to stay the night in their tent
characters: Astarion, Wyll and Gale
Astarion
“I suppose I could make space for you just don't drool on my bed roll”
He would probably not be asleep since he only trances for 4 hours at a time because of his elf heritage but then he is also a vampire that doesn't really feel exhaustion the same way the living do. So he would not be the best ‘sleep’ buddy in that sense but he would not turn you away.
You would walk up to his tent in the middle of the night completely restless from not being able to fall asleep. It was cold tonight and even though a vampire without a heartbeat would be able to provide much warmth it would still be a nice presence to have next to you.
Luckily you always put your tent next to his so no one in the camp would wake up from you sneaking around to get to Astarion.
When you open the flap of your tent you quickly go over to your lovers and whisper “Hey.. Star, are you awake?” and to your relief the fabric door separating you two opens up and reveals the pale man. “Love? What in the hell are you doing still awake?.. I will not go out and chase some creature with you again.” He said in a haste as if you were gonna drag him out on a random adventure.
“Yeah no..” you said with a light chuckle before your voice got a bit heavier “Um.. could I sleep with you tonight..? I just don't really wanna be alone right now.” The words felt so thick coming out of your throat, dripping with emotion. Not quite sadness from what had been weighing on you but not shame either from asking. but just tiredness.
Astarion took one good look at you, “For the love of- don't look at me like I would ever tell you to leave. Come on”. He moved further into the tent to let you move in. Apparently this had been one of the rare moments that you had caught Astarion right before he fell into his trance so he had already fixed up his bedroll to rest for the night.
As he climbed into the soft fabrics to make himself comfortable, Astarion had a hand on one of the corners of his blanket to hold it open for you.
You moved into the tent and slowly situated yourself into the bedroll with the vampire. He wrapped his arms around you and held you close to his chest as he let his fingers comb through your well kept hair which he had put himself in charge of. You two fit like two puzzle pieces as you laid together, not really any extra warmth from him but it made it easier to nuzzle into him extra without getting too hot. Astarion would reciprocate by holding you head in his neck and the other on your waist to have you as close to his body as possible.
But all in all Astaion would be a good cuddle buddy when it's also his time to sleep but otherwise he would let you lay in his bedroll while he reads or he would leave you with something smelling of him as he disappears into the night to hunt if he had been taking too much blood from you lately.
Wyll
“Just like my heart, there is always a space for you to rest next to me”
Wyll is exactly what you want when you look out for comfort during the night no matter if it's because of your own head haunting you in the dark hours of the night or simply because you cannot get comfortable. Especially if you are in a relationship because this man get giddy over you wanting to kiss him during the tiefling party in act 1. Do you think he would do anything but smile like a loser if you wanted to share a tent much less a BEDROLL.
You couldn't really sleep tonight and there was no real explanation to it. You were feed, happy, safe, it was comfortable in your tent and it was over an hour after when you usually fall asleep but then again you might just miss Wyll. He went to bed pretty early so you haven't seen him a good few hours. Maybe it was just time to see your little devil, even if you woke him up.
You stepped out of your tent and looked at the tent right across from yours which was Wylls. Currently the entire party had set up camp in some forest cave covered in moss so you and wyll took a secluded area for your tents to have a little time for yourself without everyone else being down your throat. Your legs automatically knew where you were gonna go and led you to the tent door that separated you and Wyll. With your hand you slowly lifted the flap to find Wyll staring directly at the roof of his tent.
“Y/N?” Wyll said as he propped himself onto his elbows. “Is everything alright?”
You let your head in the tent and let the tent door fall onto your back. “Yeah.. just missed you. Can I sleep with you tonight?” Wylls cheeks immediately took on a warmer hue after you said that and his eyes widened a bit. He rubbed the back of his neck while looking at you “sometimes I really do think you can read my mind. I was just thinking about you myself.”
He smiled at you with his boyish grin and arm open for you to climb into. You would lay down on top of him to provide warmth to each other. It only took you two a few seconds before he started rubbing your back with one hand and supporting his head with the other. Both of you had sweet smiles resting on your faces as you melted into the other.
In the end Wyll would be a great cuddle buddy even though he can’t really lay on his sides because of his horns and he has to use two pillows to prop his head far up enough so the horns wouldn't hit the ground. He would always invite you to sleep on his chest mostly because of the fact that you can’t really cuddle another way but also because I can see wyll being someone that loves weighted blankets and his S/O would be the closest thing he would be able to get to that in fearun.
(Bonus thoughts) If you fall asleep before him he will just sit there giggling to himself about you being curled up on his chest.
Gale
Oh you have your own tent? Bitch please since you started dating Gale you haven't even put it up because you two share your spaces so much it's basically pointless. Gale spent years alone with no company but Mystra and maybe some fellow wizard he would know because of his studies but then he also spent a year of pure solitude because of the orb in his chest. Now he has a partner that loves him and what? Is he not supposed to fall asleep next to them every night? You are acting like there are enough hours in the day for him to love you.
Everyone had just finished dinner and was heading to their own tents so they could set up their bedrolls. Gale had started to clean up after the dinner he had served the camp that night. He was gathering up everyone's plates to wash them in the river just a short stroll from camp and putting out the fire. “Do you need help?” you asked him.
Gale looked at you briefly before smiling to himself before his eyes found the bowls again "Don't worry about that, dear. I'll take care of this but if it would not be a bother could you ready our tent?” He said as he stood up to go down to the river. “Of course I can, love”
Gale walked away to finish cleaning up as you turned around to go to yours and Gale's tent. Inside it there were two bedrolls that were neatly folded up from you cleaning up last night.
You rolled out your bedding for the night and put the next to each other as close as possible so you would not feel a gap between yourself during the night. Then you carefully placed down your pretty flat pillows and big blanket to cover you both during the night.
When everything looked neat and ready for a good night of rest you grabbed your night clothes and changed before slipping under the blanket with a book Gale had given you. It was some story about two starcrossed lovers that Gale swore up and down reminded him of you two.
You managed to read a few pages before the tent opened and the wizard himself crawled in. His eyes flicker to the book you had been reading, probably proud of himself to have given you a book you liked enough to keep reading each night. He quickly changed into his purple sweater and pants before settling right next to you. He picked up his own book but only 20 minutes after laying next to each other you two ended up in the other's arms.
Gale loved to be pulled into your chest at night and he would wrap his arms around you to pull himself closer to you so he could inhale your musk as he has been very open about liking. He would stay in that position all night and he would not move before the morning light forced him awake.
Gale is basically your husband. This is no cuddle buddy, this is the man you pay your taxes with. He would always sleep with you after the first night you two fell asleep together. Now he is a little loser (lovingly) that can’t succumb to slumber without his breathing teddy bear.
The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?
Gale:
The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.
You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.
But your body had other plans.
You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—
Blackness.
A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.
Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear:
“Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”
You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.
His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.
“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”
You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”
“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”
His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”
You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.
But Gale wasn’t done.
“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”
Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”
He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.
“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.
“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”
“…Agreed.”
And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.
Astarion:
The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.
You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.
And then, quite simply—your body gave out.
Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:
“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”
You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:
“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”
Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.
“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”
You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”
“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”
Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He froze.
And then something shifted.
Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.
“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”
You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”
His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.
“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”
He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”
You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”
“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”
You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”
“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”
And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.
Furious, indeed.
Wyll:
The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.
“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.
He did not move.
Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.
“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.
“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.
Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.
“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”
“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”
“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”
You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.
“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”
“Wyll—”
“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.
“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”
He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”
Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.
You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.
“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.
You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”
“Yes.”
“You weigh a thousand pounds.”
“I will increase it if I have to.”
You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”
There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.
“Fine. I’ll rest.”
Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Halsin:
The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.
The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.
You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.
And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.
A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.
You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—
“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”
You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.
And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.
“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”
Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.
“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”
“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”
He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.
He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”
You blinked. “Halsin, I—”
“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.
You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.
Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.
“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”
You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.
“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”
And this time, you listened.
IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
[When you reunite with Zoro in Loguetown, an important conversation needs to take place - is he or is he not your boyfriend?]
Continuation to this: [link]
In hindsight, everyone has perfect vision. They’re never surprised and can always see the most unexpected thing coming. You think that you really should have predicted all of this happening the moment Sanji escaped your sight:
Buggy’s and Alvida’s pirate-goons are relentless. Just when you think you’ve defeated one of them, they either come back up or two others take their place. Once fun carnival has turned into carnage.
The sharpened sais in your hands are slippery from blood and sweat – a rather pungent mixture. The weapons slide in your hold, forcing you to tighten your grip. A burning ache settles in your fingers and wrists. Your nostrils are filled with the smell of gunpowder and dirt. The air is uncomfortably dry.
There’s a lot of commotion behind you and before you know it, you’re pushed forward with great force. Your body hits the ground silently. Truhtfully, everything is silent – the only thing you can hear is the mind-numbing ringing. Dust irritates your eyes and sticks to the back of your throat. Was there an explosion?
However, there isn’t much time to ponder. As you’re coughing, trying to clear out your lungs, a pair of rather strong arms hauls you up. They help you keep balance, while your head is still swimming and ears are ringing. You wipe your face with one hand, the other holding on to the unknown saviour. There’s still a lot of dirt stuck to your skin but at least it’s not blurring your vision anymore.
Looking towards the person standing in front of you, you’re quite surprised to see the same face you’ve lost a few hours ago:
“Sanji?”
The man gives you a wide smile, clearly glad that you’re okay and the blast didn’t mess with your head too much. His hold on you doesn’t let up, even when Sanji knows you can stand on your own. Long fingers are digging into your arm right beneath your armpit.
"Fancy meeting you here, gorgeous,” he answers. Despite taking active part in the carnival-turned-carnage, his breathing isn’t laboured. Truthfully, he hasn’t broken a sweat. “Good thing you’re in one piece, ‘cause your boyfriend almost cut my head off."
Your eyebrows furrow when hearing the word ‘boyfriend’. It’s the notion that a head might have been cut off that has your mind trailing towards the only person besides Sanji willing and able to achieve such a feat.
"Who? Zoro?” Whether you’re asking for confirmation or are simply shocked, you’re not quite sure yourself. “He's not my boyfriend,” you add. The sureness of your tone doesn’t stop your face from getting significantly warmer.
Sanji can’t help but smirk. Your sudden nervousness doesn’t escape his attention. "Does he know that?” he asks. The teasing undertone hides behind candid words, almost flying over your head. “I don't think he got the memo."
You were about to ask Sanji for an explanation when a knife flew right in front of your nose. Right, inquiries into your alleged boyfriend can wait a minute or two.
Several fights and close calls later, you see a head of green hair in the corner of your eye. Part of you yearns to admire Zoro’s skill and fluidity but the more reasonable and less lovestruck part wishes to keep your limbs intact. Besides, getting gravely injured just to ask a man if he has feelings for you is… embarrassing. You’re an adult, not a school kid anymore. Those things can wait for the right moment.
Surprisingly, Zoro seems to be of a different mind. The moment you enter his field of vision, he’s calling out to you. His voice cuts through the clashing of swords and the painful grunts of the surrounding battlefield. Fighting his way through the horde of circus pirates, Zoro is making his way towards you. It would be like a scene from a movie, if the risk of actually dying wasn’t equally real. Death, however, doesn’t seem all too interested in the famous pirate hunter. He’s marching on without halting or slowing down, as though he isn’t a person but an icebreaker cutting through the frozen seas.
He calls out to you again, now much closer than he was before. You turn around, only to be met face-to-face with another one of Buggy’s pirates. Before either of you can raise your weapons, something glistens right behind him. In a quite grotesque manner, the pirate splits in half diagonally, along a clean line from his left shoulder to right hip. The corpse falls to the ground, turning brown dirt into a black, dense pulp.
Then you meet Zoro’s gaze. There’s some blood on his clothes but seeing as its a small spatter, it can’t be his. Brown eyes are piercing yours in an almost human way, as though the man is trying to put the beast inside him back in its kennel. It’s both terrifying and beautiful, as all beasts are. You remember Sanji’s words – he could have ended up no better than the dead pirate at your feet, should you turn up with as much as a bruise. Zoro has always been protective of his friends, yes, but there is a substantial difference between offering to die for someone and the willingness to kill anyone for them.
Zoro lets out a gasp that sounds like your name. “Where were you? Are you hu–”
“Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” you interrupt. Truly, no better time than the present.
The once intense stare suddenly becomes vacant. It would be a hilarious image if the conversation were about anything else. “What?” he asks quietly, not sure if he heard you correctly.
“Right, I should phrase that differently.” As gross as it may be, you kick away the sliced corpse separating you. Zoro stands idly while you step closer to him. His eyes are glued to you, studying even the smallest movement. “Do you think of yourself as my boyfriend?”
The tiniest wrinkle between his dark eyebrows blears his otherwise blank expression. “What kind of question is that?”
Oh, Zoro, you’re really not making this any easier.
“A ‘yes or no’ kind,” you explain. “Unless you want to indulge me with specifics,” you add, shrugging. Although he’s not the kind of person to go on and on about their love for someone, it would be very satisfying to have this calm and collected warrior profess his hopeless yearning for you. Maybe one day.
Zoro swallows nervously, his larynx slightly bobbing up and down. “Then no.” He looks away from your face, pretending to be scanning your surroundings for more enemies. “I don’t even like you like that.”
Zoro’s nonchalant attitude can be heaven-sent but right now it’s the biggest tell he could have. For a man so unbothered, he seems awfully nervous.
“That’s not what Sanji said.”
The man meets your gaze again, only to roll his eyes. Of course, Sanji was going to milk that situation as much as he could. He saw Zoro lose his grip on emotions, making Sanji believe that he sees you as more than a friend. When, obviously, that isn’t true. You’re his good friend, that’s all.
“According to him, you almost cut his head off when he showed up without me,” you continue.
His fist flexes around the sword. A sudden surge of anger makes him want to punch holes in brick walls. Sanji is a lucky man not to be in the vicinity, or Zoro might do well on his threat. The swordsman can only do what he does best: look for a ‘friendly’ explanation of all the lovesick things he’s doing for you.
“Because he’s irresponsible,” he explains. At least in his head, it makes sense. “This place is crawling with Marines and pirates, so we should stick together.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “Then maybe you should be the one keeping an eye on me.”
“I’m not your babysitter.”
As though he’s uttered some ancient prayer, you suddenly found yourself surrounded by more pirates. Your first thought is to turn to Zoro, come up with a strategy. It appears that he already has a strategy, a quite simple one at that: defeat everyone. His sharp swords slice through skin at a terrifying speed, as well as depth. You find it almost impossible to keep up with him but that’s hardly a concern. Zoro parries attacks before you notice them. His large frame stands like a defensive wall between you and Buggy’s goons. A few times, he’s pushed you away right before dodging another swing of a deadly weapon. Even if you wanted to help him in the fight, you couldn’t. And yet Zoro was the one who claimed not to be your babysitter just a few minutes ago.
When the pirates joined their unfortunate, sliced friend on the blood-soaked dirt, you continued the conversation:
“Yes, you’re not a babysitter, because I’m not a baby. Yet you always hover around me, even when I don’t need help.”
Zoro meets your gaze. There’s something strangely intense in the way he’s looking at you, as though he’s been itching to reveal long-hidden thoughts. Whatever dilemma he's solving in his head, he decides to fight his urge a little longer. The ferocious burn of his gaze dims, it’s place taken by Zoro’s typical blankness. The previous passion, however, still lingers in those brown eyes, almost imperceptible to anyone else. A famed warrior is losing a battle against himself.
“You’re slow and weak,” he states. Zoro pretends to ignore the blood and dirt sticking to the sais in your hands. Deep inside, he’s already studied the evidence of your fighting and sustained injuries. His ‘friendly’ feelings convince him that the result is completely his fault. “I’m just making sure you don’t die.”
“But you were more than willing to kill Sanji if something happened to me,” you point out.
The man doesn’t as much as blink while delivering you his judgment. “I don’t like him.” The heaviness of his tone reveals that there is much more to that statement than simple dislike of someone’s personality. It is the disdain for what someone represents with themself, the amalgamation of traits that Zoro lacks and how he thinks others view Sanji; it isn’t a dislike of who Sanji is, but who Zoro isn’t and can’t be. Some would call it ‘jealousy’ but Zoro can’t be jealous. He would have to be in love with you. How preposterous!
“So you do like me?”
Zoro sighs heavily. He’s clearly not enjoying the direction in which this conversation is going. You’re trading way too close to what he’s unwilling to admit even to himself. “I guess you’re alright,” he mumbles after a moment of silence.
You can’t help the frustrated groan brewing in the back of your throat. Zoro gives you a questioning look. Is his thinking you’re ‘alright’ such a tragedy?
“I’ve given you numerous chances, Zoro,” you say. The wrinkle between his eyebrows only deepens. “Help me out a little or do I really have to do everything myself?”
“What are you–”
Zoro doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Your lips meet his in a clumsy, albeit passionate kiss. His moment of surprise dissipates quickly as he answers your pecks with even more ferocity. Zoro’s arm circles your waist much too low to be considered ‘friendly’ in any capacity. He pulls you closer to himself, chests colliding in a long-overdue embrace. The two of you crane your necks in a quite coordinated way, constantly searching for a deeper, even more intimate, angle.
Little do you know, Sanji and Nami witnessed the entire conversation. They may have been too far to hear your words but definitely close enough to see the searing kiss that befits a bedroom more than a battlefield. Nami is finally freed from the frustration of seeing your ‘friendship’ with Zoro. Truthfully, if this farce had gone on one day longer, she was willing to cause a scene, reveal your feelings for each other and leave you to deal with the aftermath. Her moment of serenity doesn’t last long, however. Sanji, a teasing smirk adorning his face, suggests that maybe they should follow suit. Nami only lets out a frustrated groan and mumbles something about ‘ruining a nice moment’.
Ryland Grace who gets BONERS from KISSING. Walk with me…
pre/post PHM, doesnt matter.
Ryland turns when he feels the weight of your gaze prickling at the skin between his shoulderblades and scalp. Your head is tilted a little bit, a smile on your face as you watch Ryland move toward you.
He barely murmurs a small “hi” before he’s got his lips on yours, feeling the rushing blood under his fingertips as he brings his hands to your waist. Slipping his hands under your shirt, Ryland feels the warmth radiating through your lower back and feels a pulsing in his own body. Feeling you, here and now, hot and loving him was just… an answer to a prayer he’d forgotten he’d asked for.
You do that thing where you press your front to his after your pointer finger sloooowwwly pulls him closer to you by his belt loop, and damn is Ryland a goner. You groan a little into Ryland’s mouth when he pulls you up and towards him: the sheer tangibility of his want only adding to the lust in your mind. You feel the little spikes of his hair as you slowly bring your hands up to the nape of his neck to feel him and then the smoothness of his skin as you bring your hands to his face in any attempt to mold you two impossibly closer.
Only when you start to feel your head physically weigh heavier and when you hear the loud whooshing of your blood behind your ears do you force yourself away. Panting, you see Ryland’s eyebrows screwed up. He whines and rests his forhead on your chest: how could you be so cruel as to pull away from him? Ugh. “I’m hard,” he whispers.
You chuckle breathlessly. “What’d you say?”
Ryland looks up: the epitome of want and desire and undercover eroticism. “I’m fucking hard.” His hand reaches for yours and he palms the back of your hand. Eyes locked on yours as he brings your hand to the crotch of his pants to make you feel just what you do to him. The way his throat vibrates with a barely withheld whimper when you palm him makes you want to drop his pants right then and there. “Y/n.”
An evil glint is in your eyes. “I love when this happens.”
Ryland groans, this time from embarrassment. “I love that you love it but I- it happens so often.”
You exhale a laugh throught your nose as you lean in to kiss him again. “We’ll take care of that, honey.”
Synopsis. 8010—DOKI-DOKI-GF: Are you a complete n’ utter nerd that just can’t seem to find a girlfriend? Have you lied to your family and told them that you’re seeing someone (when you really aren’t)? Do you need to save face at the next family dinner before your uncle makes fun of you until the end of time? Well, call our hotline NOW to access Tokyo’s #1 rent-a-girlfriend service!
Choso Kamo, unfortunately, is all of the above.
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!rentaI girIfriend!reader, nerd!Choso Itadori family shenanigans, meeting the family, fake dating, UncIe Kuna is MEAN, they’re onto you…, getting kicked out of restaurants, Iove hotels, vírgin!Choso, first times (his), PÚSSYDRÚNK CHOSO, making him crawI, oraI (f + m), fíngering, spítting, bíting, p taIking, scientific taIk HAHA, commands (from you), créaming his pants, making him cúm earIy, multiple o’s (him), MAJOR overstím, pánty-sníffing, ríding, making him whímper, making him cry, somewhat gágging (him), teaching him, creampíes, sIight cùmfIation, implied marathon, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.0k
A/N. HEHEHEH-
“—I’m so happy you’ve found your person, Cho…” Itadori Jin coos- tearing up.
“P-papa, people are staring.” Choso huffs, spooning the syrupy-sweet cherries on his sundae over to Yuji’s.
“I know, I know.” Jin bats a hand, not-so-discreetly dabbing underneath his eyes using his sweater. “It’s just- your uncle and I were getting so worried, y’know?” He gestures at his younger twin brother next to him—looking comically buff in that pretty pink ice cream parlor seat. Jin had chosen this place. “And although we didn’t lose hope-”
“Who’s we?” Sukuna snorts.
“I uh…well.” Jin adjusts his glasses and looks over at Itadori Wasuke - currently scooping out his own cherries to flick into the neighboring table’s cups when they weren’t looking. “Father and I didn’t lose-”
“I did.” Wasuke looks squarely at his oldest grandson, “No offense, kid- but I bet ¥400 that you’d die alone.”
Sukuna nods seriously, “I bet ¥20,000.”
To which you’re finally…reaching over to intertwine your fingers with Choso’s.
…Choso drops his cherries.
And you’re letting out such a sweet, sweet giggle - even sweeter than the linger of cherries on his tongue - before you duck underneath the table to help him pick them up.
Choso was already on his knees crawling after those damn cherries- and all it takes is a single glance at your face oh-so-close to his, in such short proximity, for him to jolt—and bang his head against the underside of the table. So hard that the glasses clink against one another, and Wasuke groans as he misses in his valiant cherry canons.
So loud that half the parlor stares at your little table.
“Oh no.” You’re reaching out in concern as Choso rubs his achin’ head. “Honey, are you-”
“I-I’m fine—!” Choso turns his face away - and the only things you could make out were the frames of his chunky glasses…and the burning red on the tips of his ears. Blushing. Though you’re not convinced, and once you get a little closer- he’s waving you off more fervently than ever. “I promise, I promise! I can handle it…babe.”
You quirk a brow - “If you say so, sugarplum.”
He almost jolts once more- too much…?
However, before you’re thrusting yourself once more into the stratosphere of emotional fathers (at least, one of them) and glowering uncles, you inch yourself closer to the nerve-wracked man - as quick as a flash. And then you’re pressing your lips to his right cheek—just a graze, just a peck.
But it’s enough for Choso to yelp-
And bang his head against the table once again.
“Easy there, tiger.” You’re giggling at him, “I need you in one piece.”
“N-need me…” Choso whispers to himself- perhaps thinking that you won’t hear.
And it’s a small mercy that you’re handing to him - pretending that you didn’t hear that. Instead, you’re throwing yourself back into your seat, and presenting your most-practiced smile at Choso’s eavesdropping family members.
In little-to-no time, Choso’s popping back up and plopping all those floor cherries into Sukuna’s black coffee. The older man swears.
Jin covers the seven-year-old Yuji’s ears.
And then your boyfriend’s excusing himself hastily to the bathroom. Leaving you alone with them.
Unsure how to proceed, there’s a few minutes of silence before you’re speaking first. “Quite the lovely place, isn’t it?”
“Yes- yes.” Jin snaps out of his little reverie—he’d been watching over your interaction with such unabashed pride. Such loving nosiness. Out of all the fathers of clients that you’d happened to meet, you think he might just be your favorite…He beams. “I’m so glad you like it, dear. I mean- the first girl that Cho’s introducing us to-”
“The only one.” Sukuna coughs.
“-I just knew I had to impress. I picked this one specifically because it advertised itself as a place that’s both family-friendly and open to coup-”
“So you met the wimp…how again?” Sukuna interrupts. And he ignores the look that Jin throws at him.
“Six months ago at university.” Choso’s finally finished up at the bathroom, within earshot of the table. He takes his seat right next to you.
“I hope you washed your hands.” You whisper to him.
“Of course, I did.”
The two of you had already repeated this tried and true story at the very start of your introductions. And it was clear that Sukuna was fishing for something…more.
You make a show of reaching for Choso’s hand on top of the table—intertwining your fingers with his. They were fingers much longer and thicker than yours- that you might not have expected. The most sensual calluses from what you assume to be turning pages of books. The softest touch nevertheless.
You squeeze his hand and shoot him a simpering smile.
Itadori Jin just about faints.
Sukuna scoffs at his overdramatic older brother, “S’that so…?” He then crosses his tattooed arms, “You don’t seem like the type to like ah- biology and hemorrhages.”
“It’s biology and hematology, uncle Ryo.” Choso answers crossly, “And no- we met in the campus library.”
Then you’re the one to pipe up. “Cho here- oh, sorry, Choso-”
“Call him whatever you like—!” Jin cries.
As his brother attempts to wrangle him back into his seat, you smile appreciatively and continue. “Cho here was the one that helped me find a textbook I’d been searching for for weeks.” Just to add a little flare to it, you’re squeezing his hand once more and staring deeply into his big, beautiful brown eyes when you speak. “He knew even better than the librarian! And he was just so nervous- stuttering and- and did I tell you that he almost tripped over himself handing me that book?”
Jin, so very interested in your story, shakes his head aggressively.
Meanwhile Sukuna merely rolls his eyes- though you note that he and Wasuke don’t interrupt you for a second.
“Yeah…that was when I knew.” You conclude. Patting lovingly at his arm, “And of course, it did take a few weeks of being friends for Cho here to finally build up the courage. But he did manage to ask me out in the end—”
Sukuna raises one mean, coral-pink brow.
And you’re elbowing your boyfriend.
“-didn’t you, honey?”
It was rather difficult to convince your boyfriend’s family of the story of you two meeting- especially when your boyfriend himself looked as though this was his first time hearing it…Choso kept an expression of sweet euphoria—something soft. Like he was watching a romantic movie play out.
One that was starring in- and you needed him to say something…
“Huh? Yes?” Choso blinks- sense coming back to him. “O-oh, yes.”
And then he straightens up.
Possessively placing his hand on top of yours, “I saw her and I just…knew she had to be mine-”
“See now, that where yer lying.” Sukuna leans over the table with a devilish smile- pointedly ignoring his brother’s swatting. “There’s no world in which Kamo Ultimate Loser Choso—had his first kiss with a biology textbook, asked out the high school lab skeleton before any real person - would be the one asking you out.”
You’re stiffening as he points at you.
“Are you just someone he’s paying to lie? Because whatever he’s paying, it surely can’t be enough-”
You’re plastering on your smile, “If by ‘pay’ you mean love and cherish me then-”
“Then I know my nephew would no sooner woo a damn lab rat than a real person.” Sukuna scoffs, crossing his arms and falling back into his seat. “Especially one so pretty.”
Jin looked tense- and he’d forgone swatting at Sukuna underneath the table to now openly pinching his bicep. Still, the pain seems to do nothing to bate his suspicion.
“More sundaes, everyone? More sundaes?” Jin asks in a strangely high tone.
The only ones unaffected at the table was Yuji currently plucking at his sundae cherries, and Wasuke who stared at them with the internal debate as to whether or not he should fling those at the neighboring table, too. You almost wanted him to—anything to distract from the terseness that had suddenly taken over.
And to your surprise - it’s Choso who’s the first one to speak. “Why, uncle Ryo…” Those doe-like eyes of his narrow into an expression you’ve never seen made by the sweet, sweet boy thus far. “-jealous?”
Sukuna startles- “The hell did you s-”
“Dagnabbit I almost had it this time-” Wasuke gives up on considering and swipes one of Yuji’s overabundance of cherries to throw into their neighboring tables glass. It’s a hole in one.
“Grandma, do that again—!” Yuji squeals and claps his hands.
“Huh, where? I’m grandpa-”
“Everybody silence!” Jin’s voice raises above than the rest - and into every corner of the ice cream parlor. Echoing. He hadn’t realized it in the heat of the moment, but he found himself standing as he stopped the chaos—and rushed to sit down after some apologetic bows at the wider population being subjected to the catastrophe that was…their family.
And his next apology is directed at you. “My dear, I cannot tell you how sorry I am-” Now instead of pinching Sukuna, he outright gives the man a brotherly smack upside the head. Unafraid of doing so; Jin makes it hard enough that even Ryomen Sukuna winces. Now you understand how he kept his title shining as older brother…“-that I am related to a bunch of buffoons, and Yuji.”
“Yuji has been quite the distinguished gentleman.” You’re nodding at Yuji and his ice-cream-covered grin. “But it’s alright, Mr. Itadori. Honestly- promise I wasn’t offended by anything said.”
Your hands have seemed to find a permanent home in Choso’s - at least for the time being - and you squeeze his.
“I understand that you’re just ah- cautious as the first girl to meet you like this but…I get it. Really.” Jin’s expression just seems to melt as you keep speaking. “Cho really is someone special to me. And I want to protect him, too.”
Next to you, you hear Choso suck in a shaky breath.
“Really? And you truly promise that it hasn’t been too much?” He probes with shining eyes. “Ryo here can get a little too mouthy-”
“Hey!” Sukuna starts—then immediately winces as Jin’s fingers twitch towards him again.
“Please do forgive him- it’s in his nature.”
“Absolutely promise. And I don’t hold anything against Mr. Sukuna, either.” You knew to hit juuuust where it mattered - and referring to Sukuna using such a title made the man straighten in his chair a little. “Choso did warn me that his family might be a little…excited. But to be honest with you, I always have had a soft spot for big, loud families.”
“Well…” Jin blushes happily, before reaching across the table and shaking your hand. “You may call me Jin, if you’d like. And I’d like to welcome you into our big, loud family.”
“I’m so honored- thank you.”
“The honor is all ours.”
“Oh no, it’s ours.”
Sukuna glances at Choso and scoffs. Underneath his breath, “That’s as long as that wimp has paid for-”
The table rattles as Jin kicks him underneath it. “The honor is all ours. Isn’t it…younger brother?”
“Ye-yes—” Sukuna wheezes. His large hand comes slamming down- merely something to hold onto his dear life for. “Welcome to the family, girl.”
You beam like it’s the happiest day of your life.
Head rested on Choso’s shoulder, and your head nodding at the flow of conversation. “This is cooler than the Turritopsis dohrnii.” He breathes.
Save for the brief hiccup earlier- you’d consider your first meeting with Choso’s family to have gone swimmingly. And sure, perhaps Sukuna held the faintest inkling of suspicion that what the two of you had was a ruse—but he’d been shot down almost immediately by Jin.
And thank goodness for that.
“Let’s celebrate by getting the double double heart-shaped cones- oh, I wonder how they get them into that shape?” Jin hums. “And then I want chocolate chips, dipped in the bubblegum drizzle and- oh, hello.”
He beams as their server nears the table.
“I would like-”
“Sir, we’ve been getting complaints of cherries being flung into people’s glasses and we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Oh.”
Because of course…Ryomen Sukuna had been completely correct.
As the group gets up to leave - perhaps to another diner downtown or so - you’re refusing to let Jin apologize. And you’re still holding onto Choso as though he was the dreamiest boyfriend in the whole wide world, and you were the luckiest girlfriend—as dreamy as he may be…you weren’t the girlfriend he’d been dating for the past five months.
In fact, you weren’t his girlfriend at all.
In fact, you’d only met two hours prior.
You were #1 Rental Girlfriend in all of Tokyo. And this time, you’d been hired to save face at a family get-together.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time that you’ve had to pretend your way through such a predicament - more people than one would think had less and less time for love. Especially not in this day and age. Especially not when work and responsibilities latched onto you like a starving tick, and though its blood supply might be modest at first, it only grows hungrier and hungrier—greedier, until you’re bone-dry. Bone-dry. Bone-dry. And it still feeds- what’s next? The bones and all?
And society still looks at you with the same standards—yes, the parasite’s gotten bigger, but why are you so frail?
And before you know it, you’re hiring a rental girlfriend to prove to your parents that yes- you can still be a functional and well-balanced adult still!
This was exactly why you continued being a rental girlfriend.
It’d started out as a side-job during your first year of university—your friends were all getting partners or throwing themselves into their studies. And you needed something fulfilling to pass the time.
Then, your best friend suggested getting a part-time job.
You’re sure she didn’t mean as a rental girlfriend.
But you couldn’t help it - it’d been the first advertisement for Hiring that’d popped up once you’d searched online!
And it was meant to be for a few weeks initially- really, you hadn’t planned on continuing this career for so long. Let alone making it a sort of career.
That morning, you’d opened up your approved application for Doki-Doki-Girlfriend and determinedly made your way to the interview section - promising yourself that you’d run at the first sign of anything off. The interview was being held at the Doki-Doki headquarters: this pretty pink-colored building in downtown Akihabara that had formerly been a host club. It’d been dimly-lit and draped in old perfume and even older sex.
Though you’d been nervous the first time you entered, you’d been quickly taken by the Doki-Doki owner—Tsukumo Yuki.
The first thing she asked you was what your type in men was.
And when you’d answered - through your shock - that it was the shy, stuttering type- she laughed that that was about 95% of their clientele. So you’d be lucky, perhaps.
Yuki, as she insisted you call her, explained to you the ins and outs of being a rental girlfriend. To smile. To simper. To be sweet but not overly so.
To never let them pressure you into anything. They weren’t the type of rental business that offered other sorts of services.
What people were searching for above all was a connection- for at least this brief moment in time. And the both of you would understand this transaction: it was the fantasy of a human bond that you were selling, and they were buying. It was your time. It was your emotional investment.
But later…you would come to genuinely connect with most of those you worked with.
After that interview—which you passed with flying colors, you spoke with some of the other girls working there and decided to continue with the job opportunity. Much to Yuki’s delight, who’d taken a liking to you almost immediately. After that was the training period - during which you accompanied some of the other rental girlfriends on their dates.
You were introduced to some as their friend—and as many guys as expected were actually flattered to be seen with two ‘girlfriends’ in public.
You took notes on conversation topics. You watched their behaviours.
You understood how they’d change their approaches according to the needs of their clients, and you absorbed it all.
After a few weeks of observation, you were finally added to the roster of rental girlfriends to go on your own dates.
You just didn’t expect to shoot to the top of the ranks.
#1 in Tokyo.
Perhaps one of the Top 5 in the entire country—only three years after starting, in your fourth year of university.
The clients adored you.
They draped you in gifts. They went on repeat dates - spending extra just for a minute of your time, though you often refused the additional amounts. Of course, there would be no funny business (and this was something you made quite clear within the first few minutes of meeting a new client). And excluding one or two unsavory clients that were quickly blacklisted from Doki Doki, you’d grown rather fond of your regulars.
There was the older woman who’d practice speaking to women through you- for when she planned on getting her first girlfriend. There was the excitable college student who tested out date spots with you. There was the pensioner who wished to take a monthly stroll through the park, simply talking about their day.
It was the feeling of belonging amongst strangers. Connecting with people you never could have imagined finding common ground with before.
And you believe, through this line of work, you began to understand humans better.
Humans were all just…really, really lonely.
Choso had been the same when he came to you.
It had been a working day like any other - you’d been called to the front desk of Doki Doki in order to be given a briefing of your next date. It was all standard processes, really.
Name: Kamo Choso
Age: 23
Occupation: Student
Prior appointments: None.
Prior love life: None.
Purpose: Client seeks a rental girlfriend to sit through a family dinner with his family, pretending to be his girlfriend. Prior backstory required to be able to maintain the conversation and create the illusion of a loving relationship (5 months). Flirting and mild physical affection.
Extra notes: Client says to please be wary of his extra ‘rowdy’ family.
And so, you’d accepted.
You met up with the aforementioned Choso—and found yourself a little taken aback at just how…cute he was.
Nerdy. Nervous.
Pushing his glasses up as he frantically introduced himself - that, too, messing his name up a few times before actually telling you.
Exactly your type. Yuki had been right.
He was your age, and went to - it turns out - the same university as you. Though the two of you hadn’t seen each other before, Choso confessed that that might be because he was cooped up in the library most of the time.
He bowed at least a dozen times through apologies for the trouble- even though you assured him that meeting a family wasn’t anything out of your way. And then he insisted on paying extra, on coming up with a code should you want to leave, on—you shook your head and grabbed his hand. “So, how did we meet, boyfriend?”
You always did enjoy the ones where big families were involved - sure, they might be more awkward in the long run…but those types of dates always did manage to make you feel so warm inside. Big families. Big emotions.
And the biggest, perhaps, of all had been meeting the Itadori family.
They’d been unlike any other family you’ve ever met.
And that was saying a lot.
Thus, you’re letting out a prolonged sigh the moment you’re stepping outside—it was some downtown diner that the six of you had ended up at after your less-than-ceremonious exit at the ice cream parlor. Sukuna had been craving something hearty after living through that introduction on just sweets and coffee - and Jin had suggested one of their favorite ramen places.
It was only after you’d sat down with them at one of the booths - the one they called their ‘usual’ - that Jin had revealed that when they referred to it as ‘their’ ramen place—they really meant the their.
In everything but ownership.
This was the first restaurant they’d gone to celebrate Choso’s first birthday, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Jin’s mother had passed, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Yuji was born and Jin was granted full custody.
And you couldn’t help but feel a strange sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. What was that you said about family-oriented dates being the most awkward in the long term?
At least the ramen had been the best you’d ever tasted- and the conversation flowed freely. Even Sukuna seemed to forgo his initial suspicion to make some conversation with you on Akihabara’s best spots.
And in the end, you were walking out of that ramen restaurant with a full stomach and an even more full heart.
Waving to the retreating backs of Jin, Sukuna, Wasuke, and a sleeping Yuji—you’re turning to Choso once they were completely out of sight. “Your family is…”
“Abhorrent?” He pushes his glasses up with a crooked smile. Choso had eased up around you significantly compared to your initial meeting outside the Doki Doki building, stammering through an adequate backstory for your faux-relationship, though he still seemed to be the nerve-wracked type.
“No…” You pretend to think.
“Overbearing?”
“No.”
“Savages?”
“Certainly not.”
“The servers at that ice cream parlor would disagree.” Choso mutters, “How about aneurysm-causing?”
“No.” You’re shaking your head once again, before turning to him with a smile. “They’re loving.”
Choso says nothing, but the tips of his ears burn.
“They care about you a lot- even your uncle was making sure I wasn’t some stranger just taking your money.” Well…
The long-haired man pushes his glasses up with a sputter of confirmation- or at least something that sounds like it. “I-I suppose ah- in their own…ways they’re rather…” Choso swallows a few times, and you’re watching his face as he does so—the Sun was dipping past the horizon now, and cracking its golden yolk over the grooves of his worried face. Handsome. Choso Kamo was just so handsome.
With his lashes dark and draping over his cheekbones. With his lips pouty and bitten whenever he was thinking deeply about something. With his stature so tantalizingly tall—though he didn’t even seem to be aware of it, as he navigated the world like a newly-birthed fawn.
He was the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen - glasses and all.
“—caring.” Choso finally finishes his sentence.
You’re letting a smile stretch across your lips- and before you can think twice, you’re clasping Choso’s hand once more. You’d been doing it so often over the course of the date that it almost feels- natural now.
“You know…you paid for five hours of my time, Choso. Do you know how much more time we have left?”
“Two hours, fourteen minutes and—” He grows ever-redder as he stares down at you. Were you…leaning in? Pressing yourself against him? Fuck. “-f-fifteen seconds.”
“Mmmm, I do love a smart boy.” Beginning to tug him in another direction from the path to the Doki Doki building - though you leave enough leeway that he can stop should he want to. Choso follows you like a dog on a leash. “I don’t usually do this, but if you want to spend the rest of your time with me then…I know this ah- other place we can go to?”
“Like you want me to c-call my family back for another family dinner?” Choso asks, eyes bulging.
“Oh no, no.” You laugh. “This place isn’t family friendly at all.”
.
.
.
“A-a love hotel-”
“One room, please. Standard.” Interrupting Choso, you smile at the receptionist.
“Will that be for an allocated time or overnight?”
“Hmm…” You glance sidelong at the gawking Choso next to you- looking around the hotel lobby as though it was some sort of attraction. “Overnight, please.”
As the woman behind the desk continued tap-tap-tapping away at her keyboard, you take a moment to look at Choso - now adjusting his glasses to make sure that he was seeing right. That really was a bowl of condoms sitting on the front desk. As the heat rushes up the back of his neck, you’re wrapping your arms around one of his own—and pressing your body against his. “Everything alright, Cho?”
He’d been like this ever since you started heading him in the direction of the glitzy love establishment. Pink walls. Fluorescent lights. He’d agreed to going…elsewhere to continue your date- but he’d expected your apartment or something! Choso had been stunned but allowed you to lead him in front of the love hotel, and once outside you turned towards him once more. It was the first time you yourself was doing this with who was supposed to be a client. “And you’re really su-”
“Yes.”
And that was that.
The lobby was quiet…too quiet. In a way that made your spine tingle with anticipation.
“That’s a…a real bowl of condoms.” He exclaims- earning a look from the receptionist.
“That is. Is this your way of saying that we don’t need any?” You joke…mostly. Then the key gets slid over to you - Room 143 - and you’re nodding at the receptionist. “Thank you.”
The two of you make your way down the lust-pink corridor and take the elevator up to your room - jamming in the key to open up a space that looked as if a honeymoon threw up all over it. Rose petals on the floor. Faux candles flickerin’ on the beside cabinet. Rows upon rows of even more condoms lined on the middle of the queen-sized bed.
If you looked at it from the right angle, it formed a few hearts.
“I didn’t mean we shouldn’t use them…” Choso’s the first one to speak- and he visibly gulps as you close the door behind you two. “It’s just…I-I’ve never done this before.”
Your eyes widen—you’d been suspecting this ever since you entered. But to have it actually confirmed…“No fooling around before finals or anything? Nothing to de-stress?”
He shakes his head n’ bites his lower lip. “Nothing. I haven’t even had my first kiss, to be honest…” Choso looks up at you with those nervous eyes. “Is that okay?”
“Okay?” You smile. Walking over to twist your hands into his lapels- and tug him to you. “It’s perfect. And since you’ve shared a secret with me, I’m gonna share one with you, okay?”
He nods.
And so you’re leaning in so that your lips are grazing - just grazing - his pretty, blushing ears. “It turned me on more than it should’ve, seeing you on your knees in that parlor.”
Choso gasps-
And then your lips are on his.
Then you’re tucking his cute, shivering bottom lip into your mouth—and sucking softly. Choso lets out the most guttural groan at the act- and his hands tremble in mid-air not knowing what to do.
“Don’t be shy.” You’re cooing at him - reaching up and guiding one of his hands to be on the back of your neck—the other one on your ass. You lean into his surprisingly firm chest, “Although…I find it really cute when you’re shy.”
His involuntary whimper gets swallowed up by your own lips.
You’re the one that’s guiding him through the sensual motions of your mouth. Kissing and kissing him till he’s senseless.
Till those thick glasses of him have been knocked ever-so-slightly askew.
Till you’ve left him weak in the knees - literally.
Choso Kamo is melting into you—he’s letting his hands grasp your body as though a forgetting man holding onto his last memory, a drowning sailor holding onto a lifeboat. It doesn’t even feel real to him. And he can’t stop himself as his hands, his body, his knees buckle n’ he’s sliding doooooown the expanse of your body- lips breaking contact with yours with a pained grunt.
Before he knows it, his knees are hitting the floor.
And he’s peering up at you with a desperate expression; brows pinched, mouth kiss-bitten and trembling. Expression something of dazed awe. It makes your pussy clench at just how utterly pathetic he looks. “Everything alright, baby?”
“Ngh- yes.” You watch as one of his hands automatically shoots to cover his crotch - he was rock-fucking-hard already.
“You suuuuure?” Teasing. There’s a devilish twinkle in your eyes that’s reflected through his as utter indigence.
And without saying anything more, you step backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Bouncing a few times. You’re sitting yourself down on the plush bedsprings, crossing your legs- and watching him through half-lidded eyes. Not a single word comes out of you.
But it doesn’t take a single word for Choso to realize what you wanted with a jolt—
He crawls to you.
He crawls to you.
Choso’s letting his features twist into something akin to embarrassment - with the tips of his ears so red that they were practically radiating heat - as he edges closer. As he shifts on his knees. As he crawls just as he had been doing in the ice cream parlor—except this time, the only cherry he was searching for was that cute lil’ wet spot between your legs.
Your dress was short and already hiked up to reveal those pale pink panties.
Was that a little bow on top?
Though it seems like an age before he’s finally able to reach close enough to affirm that- yes, that was a little bow on top. Choso finally manages to without combusting, and looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes.
“Please…” He begs.
You’re softly caressing his cheek- almost lovingly. And Choso’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch in an almost feline manner.
Moving to his jawline. Moving to the back of his sweaty scalp.
And then you’re shoving his pretty face between your legs—and Choso’s letting himself gladly be shoved. Manhandled. His chin sticks against the foamy mess of your panties, so wet with all your leaking juices. His nose digs between the plushest parts of your swollen pussylips. And Choso lets out a hallowed breath as he gapes his mouth ever-so-slightly wider-
“Awww, why so shy, baby?” You’re cooing down at him.
With your hand clasped onto the back of his head- you’re guiding Choso’s mouth to better plaster against your pussy. For him to find his balance.
“S-s’like a second kiss.” Choso sputters out. And you’re grinning.
“Naughty, are we?” You had a feeling that this was going to be a loooooot of fun…
Choso’s mouth was parted. And his lips were rubbin’ incessantly up and down the outline of your cunt—up and down, up and down.
That flimsy fabric of your panties was just glued to your sopping wet pussy, and he’s able to slot his lips over your folds perfectly. Managing to string down a line of hot wet kisses where you needed him the most- “Mmmm…” You’re arching your back with a deep groan as his nose fits between your pussylips—the pointed tip pressing on your clit. “Just like that, Cho. You can go deeper if you like, y’know that?”
“H-how, baby?” He rasps. Those pleading eyes of his were just so cute- and Choso can’t last too long speaking without pressing a few more open-mouthed kisses on your cunt.
“You want me to teach you?” You’re asking him, to which he nods. “Mmm, well open your mouth a little wider- just a little wider-”
And he does- his cute canines snaggin’ against the top of your pussylips.
“You can just start off by kissing lightly, baby. Remember how we did all that kissing earlier?” Nodding once more. “Yeah- just try to replicate that.”
“M’gonna do my best, baby…” He’s starting off soft at first- slow. Almost timid in his movements as he properly slots his mouth over your pussy - over your panties - and kisses n’ sucks lightly.
“Fuck- you study biology, so you know where the good spots are, hm?”
“The glans clitoris a-and the…” Kitten kisses. “-the labia minora contain an immense number of nerve endings.” Chaste pecks—but every single droplet of your pussy’s juices splashed onto his tongue seems to leave Choso Kamo reeling.
Eyes drawing to the back of his head. Ragged pants emanating from the back of his throat.
And he’s pushing himself deeper, deeper, deeper - making out with your pussy so desperately, depravedly that his glasses were crushing against your pelvis—“Easy there, baby. Easy.” The only way to even get him to take a breath is to tug him back using his hair. “We have more than ‘nough time, okay?”
“Mhmmmm…” He nods through a pout- lips sucking off the juices seeped into your panties. “All night.”
“Eager boy. Next, I want you to use your tongue, okay?” His expression turns into something startled. “What? Not scared are you, Cho?”
Choso shakes his head furiously—as though he couldn’t stand the mere thought of it. “N-no.” He hisses, hot breath gluing to your leaking core - the way he was just so…greedy to lavish your pussy left you even wetter. And he was gladly allowing the excess residue to land all over his face and end up sliding off, “No no no- not at all. This pretty labia- Mmmpf—”
Whatever else was on the tip of his tongue gets muffled-
For then Choso’s flattening his tastebuds on top of your pussy. Those swollen pussylips. Movin’ his muscle siiiiiiide to the siiiiiide and then up and down the line of your slit.
You whine, “Oh- just fuck me with it.” Tugging on his locks, “Fuck me with your tongue- ngh, the way I know you’ve been wantin’ to since we met. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you were looking at me…”
“I was…” He pleads. He prays between your legs. Zig-zagging his tongue wildly.
And then after he’s sucked off your panties all clean - Choso reaches one of his hands upwards to try and take off those useless undergarments-
But you’re faster than him.
And you’re stopping him with a searing pull at his scalp. The nerdy man lets out a sudden yelp and looks at you with the prettiest doe-eyes. “Ah ah—” It almost ached your heart to act so mean to him, not giving him exactly what he wanted. But more than your heart- it was your pussy that was throbbing. “Now who said you’ve earned the right to take them off, hm?”
“B-but…” Choso’s peripherals widen - they were glazed-over with lust. “How can I reach the tunica mucosa if I don’t take off—”
“You don’t have to take it off, right?” You hum. “Eat me out through my panties-”
Just the mere sound of that sentence makes Choso moan.
“-and…” And you’re cocking your head to get a better look at where his hips were starting to rut. Against the rickety frame of the love hotel’s bed, he was grindin’ and crushing what seemed to be an aching erection. “-don’t touch yourself, either.”
Choso’s free hand immediately halts in its tracks.
He’s shooting you a pained look- but more than that, it was flooded with pure, unabashed need.
Something dark. Something primal.
Choso’s tipping his head back and letting you plough your pussy against his mouth- in rough, rapid grinds. You don’t wait a single moment for him to catch his breath—and that seems far from his main priority in the first place. He’s merely flopping his lengthy tongue out - so pinkish n’ pretty - and slithering it past your panties.
Riiiiiight underneath, after a few tries he manages to ease it past the rim of your puckered entrance.
You’re letting out a semi-shocked gasp once you feel your convulsing walls streeeeetching at the girth of him. He was thicker than you’d expected- with the ridges of his tastebuds melding to your inner channel. And without any experience, Choso doesn’t know how to ease into it - which works just as well for you as he’s expanding his thick tongue inside of you. And then thrashing n’ thrashing away. “Sh-shit, keep going, Cho.”
“What- hck! what do I have to do?” He manages to somehow ask between heavy gulps. And even that amount of time spent parted with your pussy means that he’s letting out loooong, luxurious licks inside your velvety walls to make up for it.
“H-huh?” You blink down at him through your bleary eyes. “Keep going, ngh- faster, baby.”
“No, I just meant…” Choso blinks those big, beautiful peripherals at you. He kept both hands on your thighs to press himself ever-deeper—he couldn’t get enough. “-what do I have to do t-to take off your panties? I wish to see all of you…that pretty vulva like a flower, the- ngh, prepuce…”
The mere thought has him ruttin’ away against the bed once more.
“How about you make me- haaaah, cum, baby? Hm?” You smile down at the desperate man, “And you have to do it before cumming yourself, m’kay?”
He can’t remove your panties.
He can’t touch himself.
He can’t cum before stuffin’ his face between your legs and making you cum first—
Choso was in heaven.
Even through the obscurement of his now-fogged glasses, Choso’s features twist into something primal- and he lets out a looooow whine before drag-drag-dragging his tongue into your clingy walls again. Thrusting in and out at a frenzied pace—the nerd was eating you out like a man starved.
Almost wolfish.
Choso was suckin’ and biting and snarling deep into your cunt. His glasses stick against your clit, and every single time he was forced to part with your pussy in order to breathe felt like fucking torture to him. “The clitoral nerve network consists of about 8000 to- ngh, over 10000 nerve endings-” Before you know it, he’s spitting. Letting it smear down your panties. Then dragging one of his calloused thumbs down that buttony nub. “-and baby, I need you to feel every single one.”
“Ohhhhh, fuck.” Your back arches deeper into him. Hands planting against the mattress in order to steady yourself, “A man that knows anatomy is dangerous.”
“And then the tunica mucosa…those spots there are also-” Such a priggish smile spreads across Choso’s mouth - one that you’re feeling on your cunt - as he swabs his tongue inside and stimulates some of those sweet nerve endings he was talking about. The hooked end of his muscle pushes apart your clingy walls, and somehow manages to find those sensitive areas so easily- “-effective…”
“Shut up and eat me out.” Pushing him deeper between your legs.
“A-and that’s not to mention—” But of course, you should’ve known that it isn’t easy to shut a STEM major up when it comes to their subject of interest. Choso most of all. And that nerdy man is babbling away whilst he’s slipping his tongue in and out, in and out, of you at a furious pace- until it was nothing but a pinkish blur squeezing away between your pussylips. “-the Gräfenberg spot-”
“You mean the g-spot?!” You’re wailing out.
“My favorite.” Choso nods, with your clit sucked into his mouth. Holding your panties to the side. He now alternates between rolling his tongue over your sensitive nub, and pushing it deep into your hole—stretchin’ you out juuuuust enough for his fingers to slip n’ squelch their way inside.
You’re letting out the shrillest keen as two of his fingers scissor apart your cunt’s walls, pushing up into their spongy surroundings to mold his sheer size into you. He’s softer on the tips of his digits, and rougher against the sides - “Easy there. Fuck, easy…” Choso’s sucking in a harrowed breath.
“I should be the one saying that to you.” You huff. Because Choso wasn’t dry-humping the foot of the bed whilst eating you out anymore - he was way past that.
Now solely keeping himself pushed- wedged in one place because just a little more friction and he’s bound to be cumming. “I-I’m alright, baby.” He tells you, “The Gräfenberg spot is located on the anterior wall, so right…up…”
Just a single press up into the roof of your cunt makes you buck - not having pressed on your sweetest spot just yet but-
“And then about two- three inches deeeeeep—” The loudest, sloppiest squelch! echoes across all four corners of the love hotel room as he eases inside. Roverin’ about inside your tight, wet channel for a few strokes before an explosion of pleasure runs right through you. “-right- there-”
“Fuuuuuuuck, oh.” You simper out. “There- right there- ngh.”
And then he’s thump-thumping his perfect fingers inside your cunt- accurately pinpointing that one spot inside you with his digits like a searchlight. Again and again. And don’t think that his mouth wasn’t working overtime—Choso kept his maw permanently gaped on top of your clit and had his lips hollowed with a constant suctioning motion.
Letting out broken moans off into your cunt all the while-
Choso manages to slip in a third finger- though those damn panties kept getting in the way. “Baby…” There’s a rasping, almost guttural tone to his words that you don’t recognize at first- you’re even raising onto your elbows to make sure that this was the same Choso Kamo.
But it sure was.
Glasses pressed up against your cunt—getting wetter by the second. “Baby, you’re experiencing vaginal contractions and tremors. Your pulse is faster. Your transudate is leaking even more- you’re getting wetter. And your clitoris is growing even, mmm-” He savors the feeling of your nub being pulled n’ dragged into his mouth. “-more swollen.”
“A-and that means…?” Though you already have an inkling of it.
“You’re going to orgasm, baby.” He never sounded more confident than when he was speaking science between your pussylips. “And I need you to cum aaaaaall over my mouth, okay?”
“Was planning to.” You whisper-
And it’s with a few more strokes, with a few more gashes of your pussy against his face, that the pressure that’d been building in your pelvic region finally explodes.
It thrums through your body faster than you can announce it—making every single vein, artery, and axiom within you vibrate until they’re sizzling at the sheer pressure. It felt as though your body was on fire. And the hottest it could get was at your sopping core- shoved against Choso’s pretty plush mouth and getting draaaagged through the violent peaks of your high.
The best you’ve ever had.
Choso manages to locate your g-spot right when the pleasure was hitting you the most - and you’re getting the faint suspicion that he was counting your throb-throb-throbs until he’d timed it just right. “One…two…”
Thrashing his fingers deepest.
Damn-near tearing your panties.
Shoving his erection against the bed.
And his tongue would move over your clit in an almost soothing motion- “Your vasocongestion m-means you’re sucking me up even- ngh, more. Fucking tight.” He spits. “Myotonia and contractions. Your orgasm’s strong, baby.”
“Didn’t need science to tell me that.” You comment.
Thrown through your orgasm.
It’s a crescendo then a plateau, and then when you’re finally done - Choso keeps jabbing his greedy fingers into you just for a few seconds longer. Fucking you through it. Fucking you past it.
You’re so sensitive by this point that you’re sobbing- pushing on his sweaty forehead. “Baby—oh, baby I’m done.”
“Done…?” He rasps. Eyes bleary as he raises them up, seeing you on your elbows. “Oh.”
“And you did as I wanted.” It takes much more effort than you expected to detach him from your quivering pussy - still a little sensitive from your previous orgasm. It was incredible. A part of you almost couldn’t believe that it’d been poor, inexperienced Choso Kamo that pulled that out of you.
He’s setting your cunt free with a whimper n’ a loooooud slurp!
Watching slack-jawed as you peel off your soaked-through panties and throw it right at him- it makes you gasp when Choso catches it with one hand…
Then brings that flimsy fabric riiiiight up to his face to sniff, to suck off the remnants of your syrupy sap. Not a speck of regret.
“Filthy.” You leer.
And then you’re tightening your hold on him—merely than sound was enough to wrench out a yearning croon from him. Preventing Choso from chasing after your cunt once more, “Now now…you don’t want to continue losing that virginity of yours, baby?”
“I-I do.” He eagerly nods.
“Good. Then get on the bed f’me.” You’re patting at the space beside you.
Soon enough, your positions are somewhat flipped - Choso finds himself lumbering onto the bed. Back against the mattress. Skin searing at the heat that your body had left behind.
He lies where you did- and you’re making quick work of discarding his graphic t-shirt (proudly claiming ‘I found this humerus’ next to a picture of a bone) and his trousers. The tent in his boxers was jaw-dropping—Choso stood proudly erect, thick and looking heavy between his legs, his bulbous tip kept trickling out more n’ more precum the longer you stared.
And had he just…
Taking off his boxers to make sure—you’re revealing his cock. Long and rock-hard.
It slaps against his soft core, and leaves a heart-shaped mark of sap. Just about seven or so inches in length- though the longer your gaze lingers on him…the longer he seems to look. Shit, was he about nine inches, maybe? And he wasn’t too thick - just flared enough at the tip that he’s sure to make your walls feel it.
But Choso had an abundance of pretty, long veins decorating down the shaft—underneath the tip, creating patterns down to his base. One which had a few sparse tufts of curly brown - almost black - hair.
Yet what you’re interested in the most was how Choso was so damn hard that his blushin’ red tip looked just about ready to fall off—
“I c-couldn’t help myself, baby.” Choso admits shyly. His hands reach downwards to try and cover his mess- but you’re waving him off. “Having you cum aaaaall over my mouth made me- ngh, want to cum as well.”
“I can see that.” You smirk.
“I didn’t mean to.” He insists, voice growing urgent as the silence stretches - fearing that you’d perhaps refuse to continue as he somewhat broke his promise. “P-promise, I didn’t mean to! It’s just that your tunica mucosa was squeezing me so tight- and your vaginal lubrication just tasted so sweet-”
“Choso?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Shush.”
“I- oh.”
Because, initially, you’d planned on riding the man senseless. But now you were leering yourself closer—almost sake-like in motion.
Staring deep into Choso’s widening eyes once you’re hovering yourself over his shivering legs. His long abdomen. And pressing a cute peck right on the top of his frothing tip—the splashes of his precum were syrupy-sweet. And they were combining with Choso’s cum from earlier to add a salty tint-
“So messy.” You’re whispering as you run your tongue ‘round and ‘round the top of his shaft. Cleaning him off until he was shining. “Are you gonna make a mess like this inside me too, hm?”
“D-don’t say something like that…s’gonna make me cum again.” Choso pleads.
And he really was serious - his words were on the verge of shattering.
You’re letting out a giggle- right into his aching hot cock. The vibrations sprint through his body and make him buck up into you—body before his mind, he doesn’t even realize until he’s doing so with a startled yelp. “My apologies-”
“Mmm, keep going. Get some practice in before the real deal.” You hum once more.
Choso seems as though he’s about to sob - this was too good for him - as he fucks his cock into your mouth a few more times. You relax your throat to take down most of him, and the parts that you can’t get milked with one hand.
Once. Twice. Thrice and quadruple before his flared tip starts twitchin’ wildly—draaaaagging up the soft insides of your throat, he leaves a salty aftertaste behind that makes you realize…
You’re pulling off of his cock with an emanating pop! “But you’ve got to save that up for inside, got it?”
He’s nodding so hard you idly wonder whether he might get whiplash. “Yes, baby. Anything for you, baby.”
“Mmm…” Climbing up the expanse of his body, you’re kissing Choso squarely with the same lips. “Just how I like it.”
And then your knees straddle Choso’s slender hips, your thighs press against his sweltering skin - you reach behind you to grab ahold of his cock’s base—and the sudden squeeze is enough to make him jolt. Bodily. He’s letting out a visceral shiver, “B-baby…”
You guide his ruddied tip to you—and just the barest, briefest smooch of your sweet pussy makes him jolt. Just feelin’ his hardness press up against your softness.
It makes him drive his hips off the mattress suddenly.
“Ah ah-” You warn. “Take it easy, baby. We have all night, don’t we?”
“But…” Choso’s eyes flicker between your face n’ where the two of you were about to connect. Something in him seems to almost break. So close. So close- “That’s so unfair. Your pussy feels like this and you’re expecting me to take it easy?”
A hand claws down your arched spine.
“Not even the textbooks could replicate how good it feels- m’not even inside you yet and I feel like I’m going insane.”
You swipe a thumb down his throbbing tip—catching a bead of white that was threatening to pour out. “I told you. As long as you keep it inside, Cho.”
And then you’re letting your hips lower - aiming to seat yourself down on that toned pelvis of his. “Ohhhh, fuck.” Your back bends, your head tips backwards as you’re taking in the inches of him. It’s a slow process - given that Choso was much larger than average - and you’re wrenching out primal moans as his thick length invades your core. A sweet prodding vein down the side of him was already massaging your insides—“You’re so big, baby. It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”
If he heard you, then he doesn’t make a show of it.
Choso’s handsome features scrunch up into something of pure ecstasy as he dives his cock deeper into you. Hands flying to your waist. Bottom lip stuck between his teeth. “Inside-” He whispers.
“Hmmm?”
“Inside- inside.” Choso gets out through heated pants. His mouth was moving a mile a minute- fuck, even his mind was. But he couldn’t possibly juggle any single coherent thought when his cock was sucked between your soft, soft pussylips and getting practically drained already. “A-am I really going inside? Or is this just a dream, baby?”
Without waiting around for an answer- he’s pinching his arm.
It leaves an angry red mark that proves to him that no…life really was this sweet.
“I am?” As though still in disbelief.
As though this in and of itself would be enough to make him cum and- oh, shit.
He really was cumming.
It seems to take the both of you by surprise, and Choso’s lunging his hips completely off the mattress - slamming his cockhead into the springy back of your cunt.
Bouncin’ off at the sheer force for a few seconds- it isn’t long before he’s then scouring deep into your walls and letting his bawling divot run free. Cumming in less than a single stroke inside you. “Oh- oh, shit.” Choso’s mouth waters, a single line of spittle running from the corner of his lips. “I’m sorry I…”
But he doesn’t have an answer.
He really, truly doesn’t.
“Pussy got your tongue?” You giggle.
This was his first time - and your pussy just felt that good all wrapped ‘round him and keeping him hostage.
His cum’s flooding you with a warmth, spreadin’ from the in-betweens of your legs and then right upwards. The satiny tresses of it rush uuuuup your walls n’ then right back down—those goopy layers then getting fucked back in by his desperate semi-thrusts.
Squelch after squelch as he accumulates the cum like frosting on top of his swirling tip. Shoving.
Choso scrunches his eyes shut and tears start to well up behind- now he was crying, too? Crying just by putting it in?! Buried like this, he feels like he’d do anything for you right now. He feels like he could lay his life on the line for you right now. He feels like—like—he could really truly ask you to become his real girlfriend now…
“Baby, I think I love you.” Choso blubbers up. “Do you want to marry me?”
“Let’s get dinner first.” You giggle, lovingly patting his cheek.
“Oh…”
If you could feel the way his ruddied tip twitches inside you (and you could) then you’re not teasing him for it…much. Simply a smirk before you’re veering your hips down until he’s bottomed-out.
Clit massaging against the scruff of his happy trail. Pussylips struggling to squeeze around his sheer size. “Fuck.” You’re groaning, starting up a lecherous pace that keeps Choso’s toes curled - his head thrown back into the pillows, his skin blushing. He was flustered.
But more than that- he wanted more.
And sending a silent word of gratitude to the chance of the universe and science itself, Choso slithers that same right hand of his between your sultry legs. Sheened with slick.
You were making such a mess fucking him whilst you’re still keeping his cum inside you—he scrapes his calloused thumb up, up, uuuup the few inches of his cock still left to fit inside. Collecting the slimy layers of slick up until the folds of your pussy. Reaching it up to his mouth-
“Now, now.” You tut. “Are we just going to waste that, hm?”
“Oh…you’re right.” With a quiver of his lips, he then plunges it back inside. Then repeats the motion again and again until you’re feeling stuffed to the brim—with both his cock n’ his sappy fluid. Like you said before, it all deserved to stay inside.
And you better keep it.
The rickety bedsprings creeeeeeak—! as he meets your pace.
Choso continues, “Not just cum.” His curvaceous thumb swipes your inner folds again, “But that bulbourethral fluid deserves to stay inside, too. How else m’I gonna fill you up, baby?”
“Oh, of course.” You coo, something sensual. “But don’t think that that’s going to be your last time cumming tonight, Cho.”
His eyes damn-near bulge out of their skull. “E-excuse me?”
“It’s not even your last time cumming in this hour.” Oblivious - or so you pretend to be - to his growing concern n’ his gaping mouth. You’re bowing your body into his—manoeuvring your hips in somewhat of a circular motion, the slightest figure-eights and curves, that drag his tunneling cock juuuuuust right against every nook and cranny of your walls. Every hidden spot. “You’re gonna cum for me at least twice more, right?”
“I-I—I don’t know if that’s even possible!” Choso sputters, pushing his glasses up with his free hand- it was glossy with the excess of your slick from earlier.
And without warning, you’re leaning down to lightly lick off a bit of that glittering sheen.
Choso moans n’ feels his overly-stimulated length jolting away inside of you. “Baby, just consider the refractory period. Has it even been a few minutes since I last…?”
“Just about.” You’re smile. “Should be enough, no?”
“Though it varies based on age and health- when I can cum next depends on the blood redistribution, and how long prolactin and serotonin lasts in the body.” Choso admits then, albeit a bit sheepishly. “And I’m still fuh-feeling so goooood, baby- fuck I can’t—”
“But my smart boy’s gonna find a way, right?” Even if he couldn’t cum again, however - it was just too cute to watch Choso squirm like this. “When I said I wanted it inside, I wanted it stuffed inside, Cho.”
“S-stuffed…” He breathes - almost hypnotized by your pussy.
You’re grinding and swervin’ and clenching around his vein-loaded length in ways he could’ve only ever dreamed about before…“Mhm. Need it pouring out of me.” You beg, putting your best pleading expression on. “Need it up until…”
Hands scouring up his front to press down on your stomach- almost up to your chest.
“-here.”
You pout.
“If m’not bloated with your cum, Cho, is there even a point?”
“No there isn’t.” Choso’s jaw drops—as though the epiphany had just dropped on him. And no sooner are the words leaving his worry-bitten lips, he finds himself pumping wispy ropes of cum deep past your entrance.
He doesn’t even know how he did it.
His body just seems to listen to you more than himself - and Choso jerks his pelvis up in synchronization with the faintish strings of cum that escape him. Thoroughly into your cunt. Thoroughly coating it on top of your womb.
You’re shivering as you feel the thin excess thwack! against your deepest innards. Such a lecherous feeling that cannot be replicated.
Every time he strikes your spongy cervix, Choso lets out a sudden whimper. He sobs. He groooans. He’s fighting to clamor onto your body in any possible way that he could - your waist, your legs, your tits. It doesn’t matter where, Choso just needed to grab ahold of you and perhaps try to get you to fucking slow down—
“Please.” Every single letter in that word is botched with a cry, “P-please. Baby, keep riding me like this and you’re going to make me cum again-”
“Isn’t that the point? Third time’s the charm?” You ask.
“Oh…” It’s then that he remembers that you’d said twice more- he has to cum twice more. Hiccuping, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Cocking your head with a smile, “And would you like to stop?”
“Not at all.”
Then you’re planting one hand in the middle of his defined chest for balance. Throwing your head back and ridin’ him silly.
Choso cries beneath you. Choso babbles. Torn between the pleasure of having those sweet, sopping lips wrapped ‘round him- and the insanity of his orgasm just barely bating before you’re attempting to hurtle him into another one. This was almost too much for his just recently-lost virginity, but Choso begs for more, more, more. “Please- please- that anterior wall of yours is so clo-”
With your other set of fingers then shoved into Choso’s pretty mouth- spit splashes from the sides of his lips. But he’s taking you so happily—“No no, keep going.” You tell him once his brows raise in surprise, “I just wanna watch my poor boyfriend struggle just a bit.”
“Mmmmpf- soooo good.” He lets out an agonized moan, muffled through the intrusion of your digits. You’re swirling them ‘round his mouth and watching him lightly choke on them. “I need to c-cum just once more, huh?”
Choso’s tears were enough to wash off the fog from his glasses lens.
And he blinks those teary eyes up at you - a few times before one of his hands slithers between your legs. Almost difficult, considering how the space between your two sweaty, crashing bodies was practically non-existant—but his long fingers find a way to thumb apart your puffy pussylips. Nearly swollen shut.
He runs the doughy tips of his digits across your clit, “Around it…just light kisses.” Choso murmurs to himself. “Juuust a little- ngh.”
A single squeeze of your fluttering walls leaves him reeling.
“And then the good spots-” Peering down at your glossy cunt through his glasses, his half-lidded eyes. “The primary erogenous zones are the clitoris and introitus. Then the periurethral surrounding the urethra is also…oh…” Alternating between bashin’ his swollen cocktip against your g-spot, and thoroughly massaging every good spot he’d memorized.
“Shit…” You suddenly clench around him. “Keep going.”
He was seeing stars at the mere action. “And then the- hngh, even the perineum…” Fingers dipping just a liiiittle downwards to roll over that spot. He was unabashed - not in the state to be as he usually would. “And then fucking- at least as much as I can…here…” Slack-jawed, gaze unfocused. “My favorite is the clitoris.” The nerd presses the crescent pad of his thumb down on that knob.
Your hips are stutterin’ at the sheer amount of pleasure overwhelming you. Choso has taken up stimulating your clit in constant circular motions now. “I th-thought you said your favorite was the g-spot?”
“Both.”
As if on cue, he’s banging his thick tip against that ooooone spot.
Choso was stimulating you almost too well. Leaving you the one speechless as he drills his hips into you at a relentless pace—almost painfully desperate.
“Good boy.” You whisper.
“Just need to make you- mmm, cum soon.” He states. “Because if you cum…then I’m sure to cum, too.”
Shoving a third finger in his mouth, he moans as he sucks. You hum, “And you’re sure you’re a virgin?”
“S’just everything you t-taught me.” He insists, mouth full yet listening to every word you said - if you expected an answer, then he was giving you an answer. “And sometimes…I’d search up…things online…”
“Online? Poor, innocent Choso Kamo watches porn?”
“Not that, I get too shy.” Choso responds. He blushes all the way down to the roots of his hair, “But using my textbooks, I’d- hah, read through them…study them…look at all the diagrams…”
You smirk. “Ever jerked off to a textbook, Choso?”
His jaw drops. “No…” Although you remain rather suspicious of the ever-deepening blush that seems to invade his cheeks—all the way down to his collarbones. “But I did jerk off just today.”
“Today?” One of your brows raise, “Don’t tell me this was- hah, before we met or…?”
He shakes his head. “After. After.” Big, bulbous tears make their way down his cheeks - and Choso tastes the salt on them as they splosh across his lips. You do too, as you kiss him. “S-snuck right into the bathroom at that ice cream parlor and- oh—”
“And what for? Saw a pretty someone at the neighboring table?”
Shaking his head even harder- “It was…you.”
“Me?”
“You said that thing- fuck, you said you needed me.” Choso’s dark chocolate-brown eyes glaze over as if he’s reminiscing the very moment. Living in it. “Under that table. And I couldn’t run to the bathroom faster to r-relieve myself.” Ah, this was that time then…
Your faux-boyfriend’s brows are then knitting.
His cock tunnels into you at an even more accelerated pace - one that leaves your head dizzy. Flinching at every run of his thumb down your pulsing clit.
Choso finishes, “But I only lasted two pumps- the thought of you, ngh—” Thrusting in so deep that it felt as though, if he could go past your gooey cervix, then he long since would have. Choso thumps against the back of your cervix and remains there, “-wrapped around my cock and usin’ me to make your anterior- pussy feel pleasure was just too good of a fantasy for me.”
It’s a lewd admission.
It’s almost startling to hear this from Choso above all.
And it’s exactly what’s making you cum—just in time that he is. Your orgasm is prolonged and has been building up ever since he tickled your g-spot for the first time- “C-cumming—!” Belatedly, the announcement leaves your lips.
But Choso already knows.
He can already feel the rhythmic clenches of your sopping wet walls - the soft thing he’s ever felt. They’re tightening around him and tuggin’ on his pistoning cock like you didn’t fucking want him to leave.
Toes curling. Back arching.
The bang after bang after bang right on that target of your g-spot meant that your orgasm was being intensified. Every peak left your thighs clenching around his waist, and you bounce your hips up n’ down furiously. Up n’ down. Up n’ down. “Yes- yes, yes, yes—and you’re c-cumming too, Cho.”
“I am?” Choso blinks his teary eyes down at your lower halves. The smacking of skin-against-skin was deafening, and Choso’s pelvis was rawly red due to the sheer friction.
But more than that…he was feeling his even redder tip twitch a few times. Once. Twice. Thrice- before the warmth of bliss takes over his body. It’s a wave of euphoria even stronger than the last few, and it makes the nerdy boy flinch his hips up into yours- agonizingly good. He was hammering into you so animalistically- jabbing short, sloppy semi-thrusts. “I am.” Choso gasps out. “I’m cumming-”
He’d predicted as much earlier, but it actually worked?!
“M’filling you up, aren’t I?” Choso blabbers, a crazed smile on his face. “This virgin…I was able to stuff this pussy full.”
Lovingly patting your cunt.
“So much so that- hah, look she’s even struggling to- ngh, take me. That cervix uteri is all flooded, huh? All drenched in me?” Through the waves of your high, you’re feeling your orgasm fizzle and pop as he rolls his thumb doooown your clit a few more times. “And these pretty labia of yours are all swollen- bloated with my cum, hm?”
“Mhm…” Before you blink a few times. “Oh- this one was shorter than the last though, wasn’t it? Maybe we need to go again- heh.”
“S’it already done? I…but I’m still…” Choso jabs out numerous more thrusts before he’s pulling out.
And whilst you’re interested in the squelch! and the feeling of hot, wet cum splashin’ out of you and onto his toned hips—Choso himself is more interested in the way his cock twitched n’ feels like he’s cumming…but nothing is actually coming out.
“Orgasmic anejaculation?” He states in shock. “Baby, you’ve made me cum dry—”
“Oh.” Lips parting, you look down to watch as his pretty reddened tip jolts about irritatedly as though he was in the throes of his orgasm - and he was. It’s just that nothing was coming out.
“I-it’s likely that this is due to the lack of semen replenishment. Thus, if there’s none left to-”
“So fourth time’s the charm, right?” You cock your head down at him with a smile.
Another time?!
His half-hard length twitches in interest.
“You really are going to be the death of me.”
Choso really, really needed to ask you out after this.
.
.
.
Ryomen Sukuna knew that the two of you weren’t dating.
He knew it.
He just had no way to prove it.
That is…until one day, just a week after that initial introduction to you, Jin had bothered Sukuna into visiting his nephew. He’d made some cookies—some of your favorites that you’d briefly mentioned at the ramen place, and Jin had immediately gotten to work scouring through his recipes. Flipping through some of grandma’s old cookbooks - he really did get his love for cooking and baking from her.
And then trialing batch after batch of cookies in order to make the perfect one.
And Sukuna hadn’t minded, of course - no one in the house had. They each got to scarf down the ones that Jin deemed as ‘failed’ and they turned out as great as ever. Sukuna honestly didn’t know what more perfection Jin was searching for—especially not for someone he knew Choso was surely paying you in some manner…
There was no conceivable world in which his nephew - as much as Sukuna respected him, for the sole reason that he was related to him (and anyone in some proximity to the great Ryomen Sukuna can’t be all that bad…) - would ever have enough courage to ask a real person out. Let alone someone as electric as you?
Let alone have you say yes?!
Something was up. And Sukuna was on the case.
At least after he finishes this mountain of cookies…
Either way, it took an entire week for Jin to perfect his cookies. And once completed, he’d thumped Sukuna over the head with a couch cushion and told him to go deliver them to Choso.
Unfortunately they hadn’t managed to catch your address or anything of the sort - and there was no telling when Choso would have enough time between his studies and library-haunting to visit. Thus, it’d be easier to just have Sukuna (who was far too busy doing a whole load of nothing) drop the cookies off at Choso’s apartment and let him give it to you.
Jin could trust Choso with handing them to you safe n’ sound.
He couldn’t trust Sukuna not to swallow them whole on the way, however…
So it was with a tonne of brotherly intimidation and threatening brandishes of that cushion that Jin waved Sukuna off—‘you better not eat those cookies, Ryo.’
But Sukuna promised. He promised.
He had other, more important, things on his mind - like cornering Choso into admitting that the two of you actually weren’t dating. Maybe if he didn’t relent so easily, he’d even look around the apartment to check for signs of you or anything you’d left behind—after five months of dating, surely, there’d be some evidence, wouldn’t there?
And then maybe he’d eat the cookies- hah!
The perfect plan.
Ryomen Sukuna what a genius you were, what a mastermind—who said that Jin was the smarter brother?! It was Sukuna that liked literature and poetry (wait, was nerdiness genetic?) No one should underestimate the sheer underappreciated brilliance of a prodigy like-
“Choso’s uncle?” He gapes as you answer the door- and you’re just as beautiful as he remembered you. And oh, alright—Sukuna admits you’re beautiful. Gorgeous, actually.
Which is also why he found it hard to believe that Choso could ever manage to bag you- sure, he wasn’t bad looking…but that’s only because Choso was related to him.
Then again, he wasn’t any Ryomen Sukuna.
A Ryomen Sukuna that was feeling rather…a lot…small as he looks at you.
Your eyes widen as you recognize who your visitor was, though your smile never falters.
“Oh, Cho should be right out. Please come in, have you eaten breakfast yet? You should join us!”
Opening the door even wider, though he stands as still as a statue.
“Is…everything alright.”
No movement once more. No answer, either.
“Ummm, maybe it’s more comfortable there then?” You’re awkwardly smiling at his lack of a response - this certainly wasn’t the Ryomen Sukuna that you’d met at the family dinner…And perhaps at the same time, you’re realizing why.
Because you weren’t just answering Choso’s apartment door—you were doing so in nothing but sleep shorts and a humerus-related t-shirt that was most definitely not yours. And above the hem of that ratty t-shirt were a series of bite marks, nail marks down your neck…such an obscene display that makes you immediately yelp and tug your neckline upwards.
Though Sukuna remains gawking. “I uh…”
“I am so sorry.” You’re blubbering away, and when your neckline fails to cover you adequately without showing off the similar marks on your midriff- you’re reaching your hands up instead. “We’d just been making breakfast, and I’d completely forgot-”
“No, that’s fine uh…” Goodness, when has the rough n’ tough Sukuna ever floundered like this? “It’s my fault for coming unannounced um…”
“What’s this?” Another voice sounds from inside the apartment.
Soon enough, Choso’s joining the two of you at the door—he’s in JBA sweatpants and pulling on a t-shirt as he walks. With whatever mercy that the universe had granted Sukuna, Choso sneaks up behind you, so he doesn’t see whatever similar markings might have been left on him as Choso finally wears his t-shirt properly.
There’s amusement in Choso’s tone as he adjusts his glasses and speaks, “I never thought I’d see the day that you apologize to anyone, uncle Ryo.”
Choso throws an arm over your shoulder - the intimacy was palpable. Something far more different than at the ice cream parlor, and yet…Sukuna should’ve recognized the same admiring glint in Choso’s eyes back then, too.
The apartment behind was messy in that domestic way. There were eggs frying on the stove.
“Sh-shut it.” Sukuna spits. “This is all your…girlfriend’s fault.”
Ah, you really were his girlfriend. The great Ryomen Sukuna has been wrong. How could this be? How could he fathom such a thing?
5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.
oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.
— ☆ —
1. movie nights.
you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.
first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?
for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.
your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.
tonight, everything was perfect.
you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—
bzzz.
you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?
you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.
you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.
so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”
he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.
“can i come in?”
you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”
“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.
holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—
“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”
your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”
you paused. “well…”
“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”
“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”
he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”
“hey—“
he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”
“oh. you didn’t have to—“
“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”
with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.
what. the. fuck.
2. hangouts.
you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.
at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.
however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.
today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.
the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.
“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”
you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”
he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”
you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”
you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”
before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.
and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”
“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“
“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”
you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”
“…did you just call me angel?”
his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”
that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?
you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.
fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.
how horrible for you.
3. aquarium.
you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”
she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”
“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”
she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”
“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”
she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”
you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.
and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.
‘couples only day!’
“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”
“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.
“yes.”
“ask sukuna to go with you.”
you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”
“that is quite literally not what i said.”
“you’re a genius.”
you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.
what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.
you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”
“…where?”
he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”
“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”
his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”
you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”
“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”
you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.
you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.
“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.
“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”
gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.
4. the beach.
you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.
you were freezing.
you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.
oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—
a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.
“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”
ah. your genie.
you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.
fuck. how could someone be so pretty?
he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”
“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”
“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”
“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”
“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”
“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”
he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”
you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.
you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”
he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.
what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.
“…you went early, huh?”
“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”
you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”
you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“
he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.
holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.
well. at least it wasn’t you this time.
5. studying.
as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.
during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”
“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”
gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”
“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”
gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”
“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”
you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”
“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”
“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”
you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”
“yes, please.”
later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.
you really needed caffeine.
everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—
fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.
sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?
you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.
you: please :c
a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.
“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”
“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”
you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”
he hummed. “good.”
in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.
you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”
he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”
in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”
you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”
his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”
“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”
he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”
was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”
“don’t mention it, angel.”
+1.
against your will, you were dragged to a party.
you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.
you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.
gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.
you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.
sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.
sukuna covering you with a blanket.
sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.
geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.
sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.
after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.
the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”
“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”
“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”
it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.
“…the stars are pretty.”
“mhm.”
he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”
“…mhm.”
he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”
“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.
“fuck.”
“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”
and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”
you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”
he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”
“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.
he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”
that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”
his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“
you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,
he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.
once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”
“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”
“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”
“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
summary - Zoro takes great pride in the fact that you openly seek comfort from him when you need it
warnings - SPOILERS for season 2
a/n - this was mostly borne from my own vulnerability, not meant to make anyone feel weak or pathetic or anything, so please don't think you're weak in this fic
It was no secret that Zoro was the second strongest Straw Hat. He had proved it time and time again, surpassing everyone except maybe Luffy in raw strength.
But surpassing everyone including Luffy in brutality.
Everyone but you found that terrifying. While they were all afraid of his very aggressive nature, you found comfort in it. In fact, he was the crewmember that made you feel the safest.
And not just because he was your boyfriend.
The Merry made it to Reverse Mountain. After a very eventful visit to Loguetown, your crew had reached the most dangerous entryway into the Grand Line, and your captain faced the dangers head on while the rest of you scrambled around behind him.
And then came the drop.
You felt your heart sink when you saw the steepness of your descent, your eyes widening enough to betray your nervousness.
But as soon as his familiar arm wrapped around your waist, anchoring you firmly to his broad chest, you felt your entire body relax. Because you knew his grip was iron-clad - he would never let you fall.
Zoro watched your body relax against his, and a profound sense of satisfaction filled him. He would never openly admit it, he didn't do earnest emotions, but making you feel safe was his biggest pride.
"You okay?" He murmured into your ear, instinctively lowering his face into your neck as your familiar scent filled his nose.
"Yeah, great," you answered with a shaky smile, though your voice came out a little high-pitched. Your hand came to rest atop his on your stomach, his skin warm and soothing under your touch.
"Hmm," he hummed, then pressed the softest kiss to your shoulder - an act that belied his usual aggressive behaviour.
The next time you instinctively sought him out was when the two assassins had escaped while the crew was distracted by the appearance of an island ahead. As you turned to look at the pair, your hand found his and you laced your fingers together, a gesture that spoke louder than any verbal cry for reassurance.
He turned to look at you, and when no one was looking, the smallest of smiles touched his lips as he noticed the ease in your posture when your hand gripped his.
Pride swelled in his chest once more.
You felt his gaze and turned to look at him, your cheeks getting warm, "What?"
"Nothing," he murmured, "You're cute when you rely on me."
Your cheeks burned hotter, your heart skipping a few beats.
In Whiskey Peak, you stuck to his side like glue. Walked side by side, hand in hand, through the streets. Sat at the bar with you on his lap, one arm hooked around your waist while the other held a bottle. If he needed to use a hand, he'd sooner let go of the alcohol than you - which spoke volumes.
During the fight with the hundred Baroque Works agents, Zoro was flying across the tavern cutting them down like they were nothing but air. You tried to join him, but he was a blur of silver and green, and before you could even get to an agent, they were dead.
And then there was the big one.
"Zoro!"
The minute he heard you call him, he cut down the agent in front of him, vaulted over the stairs railing, and put himself between the big guy and you. One hand reaching behind him to make sure you were a safe distance away.
"Go help those two idiots," he nodded towards where Usopp and Sanji sat tied up, without taking his eyes off the massive agent that had threatened you.
You ran over to cut your crewmembers loose without argument, but looked over your shoulder to watch your boyfriend swiftly dispatch that agent too. You were about to take care of the ones who'd tied Usopp and Sanji up, but Zoro cut them down on his way back up to Mister 9, glancing back once to make sure you were okay.
The one rare moment where you protected him came when he faced off against Miss Monday and Mister 9. You let yourself be caught by Mister 9's ropes that shot out from his bats, flinching when he tugged hard enough to string you up like meat.
Zoro growled, "Big mistake."
And swiftly took care of both of them. And another who seemingly came out of nowhere. When it was done, you immediately moved into his arms and he already knew what you needed. With a vulnerability he only showed to you, he wrapped his arms around you and practically crushed you against his chest, his breathing slightly heavy but otherwise unharmed.
Little Garden was...complicated.
But when Mister 3 wiped the paint off your boyfriend's leg, his immediate reaction was to find you. His eyes darted around until they landed on you, standing next to him also half-encased in wax.
"You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you, completely ignoring the assassins in front of him.
When you broke free, courtesy of Usopp, you barely ducked a bomb thrown your way by Mister 5. Zoro growled low in his throat, knocking another aside with one of his swords.
"Coward," he glared at the Baroque Works agent. "Focus on me. Unless you're scared, even with me trapped in wax."
That seemed to work, getting Mister 5's attention off you long enough for you to rush to Usopp's aid. Behind you, your boyfriend skillfully held Mister 5 at bay, not even breaking a sweat. As you propped your sharpshooter friend up, however, he insisted on helping Zoro and called out to him to fire a flaming star.
You were left in awe at the sight of Zoro leaping from the wax cake with his swords aflame, before promptly slicing Mister 5's abdomen deeply enough to instantly kill.
But it wasn't just during attacks.
On the ship after your adventure in Little Garden, you would go up to him and just wrap your arms around him or bury your face in his neck. Sometimes burrow into his chest like a kitten seeking warmth.
"Hmm," Zoro would hum in satisfaction, strong arms engulfing you in warmth, safety and comfort.
"You're the embodiment of safety and security, you know that?" You mumbled into his chest, tightening your arms around his bulky torso. "Any time I see you, I know I'm safe."
Zoro's breath caught, any thoughts he had dissipating in his mind at your sincere, heartfelt words. Then he held you a little bit tighter, conveying silently how much your words meant to him, in a way he could never put into words.
Then again in Drum Kingdom, the swordsman was your safety net.
"What the hell are those?" Your eyes widened as you handed Zoro the binoculars, your heart thundering in your chest.
The swordsman settled on hand on the small of your back, a gesture you found to be very calming. Even without words. He pulled you back, settled both hands on your waist, and kissed you. Not for long, but just enough.
So when the monsters came knocking, you didn't feel so afraid.
Every time you thought your strength was waning, every doubt that crossed your mind about getting out of this...you looked over at him fighting his hardest and were instantly motivated to push onward.
And after everything, he still insisted on carrying you through the tunnel up to the castle. He still insisted on lifting you up into Chopper's sleigh.
These weren't acts of service. He believed that word implied obligation. But he did it because he wanted to. Because he needed to. Because it was now a basic instinct to protect you, to care for you, to ensure you could always depend on him.
As you watched him lift Chopper onto his shoulder, your heart felt full. Your chest felt warm. Your stomach fluttered.
Because you knew you'd fallen in love with the right man.
synopsis: before his death, you fell pregnant with genji’s child. a year later, you get an unexpected visitor.
warnings: angst, pregnancy mention, reader and genji have a baby together, heavily canon divergent but thats ok bcs ow doesn’t follow their own lore lowkey, not really proofread, angst with a happy ending, angst with comfort
a/n: i just wanted to write something angsty i have no excuse… also i was/am sleep deprived writing this so if there’s typos im sorryy </3 i’d make this a series but idk! so far i have as much for 2 parts planned. blackwatch!dad!genji concept ily… anyway i hope u enjoy :)
## fic below the cut! ##
“Why?!”
Hanzo winced at your pained cry.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”
Your bleary eyes were brimming with tears, burning into the man in front of you. A man whom, before this very moment, you thought to be just like kin. A brother; supposed to be in law soon. Your voice had wavered through overpowering emotions that shook your frame. Grief, sorrow, anger, resentment— guilt.
“It was an order to not inform anyone,” The older man, your— someone who used to be— your best friend voiced coldly. Though you can see through his bullshit, his eyes always betrayed him. Hanzo Shimada was never good at hiding himself from you or his brother.
Tears cascaded down your face, hand cupping your mouth as you dropped onto the floor beneath you. You tried to muffle your sobs, you really did. Nothing was able to process within your shattered mind at this moment. How long you were crying on your bedroom floor in front of him, you don’t know. Your hands shook as you tried to self-soothe, hugging yourself and heaving.
Hanzo knew your reaction would be worse than he could ever imagine. Your shaking form shattering his own heart. He saw you as a little sister, for fuck’s sake. Your sobs were almost as gutural as screams; your agony and pain too much to contain in your body. He knew how much this would rattle you; and if he were to face karma from anyone— it had to be you.
He so desperately needed it to be you, if not him.
If not Genji, he needed you to take the initiative and bestow any sick form of karma unto him. Hanzo needed to hollow out the immeasurable guilt he felt. The guilt he’d been clinging on for weeks. Selfishly, he needed you to dish it out.
“That’s why—“ You gasped desperately for air between sobs. “That’s why he nev— never wrote me ba— back?”
Hanzo knelt down in front of you. He didn’t want to meet your gaze, but he needed to. Your eyes were swollen red, flooded with pure despair. Your face puffy and wet just the same.
“Yes,” He confirmed, his voice betraying him.
You pause, your face in such a broken expression at the confession. Putting your hands over your stomach, you start to shake more and curl into yourself. Your head hung low as your sobs were more silent this time, but still loud enough for the traitor in front of you to hear.
“He’ll never know…” Your voice trails, getting lost somewhere in your throat.
Hanzo knits his brows together, noticing you basically clutching your stomach. His eyes widen upon realization— and his soul sinks to the depths of his stomach. Anxiety and guilt eat away at him; skin prickling from the nape of his neck all the way throughout his body. His blood ran cold.
“(Y/n)…” He whispered, almost inaudibly. He didn’t want you to confirm his suspicions. Not now, please, not now.
Without looking up at Hanzo, you nod weakly. Your body felt as though every bone was replaced with lead.
“I’m pregnant,” You confess, an emotionless chuckle escaping your strained throat. “Genji’s the father.”
————
You haven’t spoken to Hanzo for about a year.
Your baby girl had arrived safely, and by the grace of the universe, you survived too. The pregnancy was something you did not wish to look back upon. Carrying such deep grief of your fiancé’s death as well as the very creation of the love you held for one another was painful. You can’t imagine how many sleepless nights you lost crying out in agony. Your personal maid calling in your midwife constantly to have you checked on.
It was your lowest.
You try not to think about it, despite your therapist’s best efforts to help you process.
Holding your baby girl in your arms, you rock back and forth within the rocking chair on the patio. It’s just outside your room. You forget how many times you and Genji would escape here when your family would host their infamous parties. His presence in your life was like glitter; everywhere you looked. Even here, in your arms.
Her name was Sakura. A simple, popular name, but it was one you two had talked about in love-drunk hypotheticals. When the thought of starting a family together was so foreign and far away. The conversation sparked long ago, when you two were so much younger.
“…and for a girl?” You asked Genji, drawing circles on his clothed chest. The two of you cuddled up together in bed within his room. The moonlight pouring throughout the room framed his face perfectly.
“Hmm,” He thinks, tilting his head with an adorable slight pout. “I think Sakura would be cute. She’d be powerful with such a name.” He smiles, looking down at you with hearts in his eyes.
You mirrored the look, raising an eyebrow. “Why Sakura?” A bubbly giggle following the question.
Without missing a beat, Genji’s smile grows brighter. He chuckled as he started to play with your hair. “Our first kiss was under a sakura tree, remember?”
Your heart suffocates at the distant memory.
You hold your little one slightly tighter. It was bittersweet for you, holding someone who used to be just a passing thought. It hurts equally now that Genji would never actually get to see her, his little Sakura.
It’s time for bed, you decide.
Getting up from your seat, you sluggishly walk over to Sakura’s crib and gently place her tiny sleeping body down. Your family’s mansion is more than capable to house Sakura her own room, but you decided against it. It was easier to have her here, with you, safe. If she were in another room, she’d be out of your reach, heaven forbid anything happens. You had more than enough security yourself. The thought of also not raising Sakura or not seeing her little milestones made you uneasy. You didn’t want a random nanny raising her for you.
Besides, at first, your parents were deeply upset at Sakura’s existence. It’s not like they hated her, or you, you know that. It’s just the fact that a Shimada heir was living under their roof unbeknownst to the aforementioned clan. With your family having ties to them… it makes things real messy. Especially since Genji’s death.
It would have been so much easier if you two just eloped sooner.
Regardless, Sakura has her father’s last name and blood. Currently, she and your pregnancy had stayed a secret to everyone who wasn’t within (L/n) walls. It had to be that way, for her protection and yours. Other than that, your parents did absolutely adore Sakura. No one can stay truly angry at an infant for too long, especially not disgustingly wealthy newfound grandparents. Sakura’s safety was everyone’s priority first and foremost, no matter what.
You bend down and gently place a kiss on her cheek, as light as a feather to not wake her. It was late, around 3:30 AM. You and her couldn’t sleep, both for different reasons. You’re just grateful Sakura is finally getting her shut-eye.
You lean back, hands on the railing of the crib. Studying her, your lips bloom into such a melancholic smile.
She looks so much like her father.
You turn to walk back to close your patio’s door, until—
“(Y/n),”
You nearly trip and fall upon seeing a robotic… human? Silhouette standing tall on your patio. Your body freezes, until you glance at your sleeping baby’s form in her crib. Immediately, you hear your heart within your ears.
Putting your shaky hands up, you try to calm yourself down from hyperventilating. “Who are you?” You ask, trying to steady tour tone and not show panic as much as possible. “How did you get past security?”
A chuckle sounded from the figure in front of you. It sounded metallic… but oddly familiar.
“I know this place very well,” They said, their hand reaching up to their visor. Your gut twists in anticipation— inching closer to your baby’s crib in case this motherfucker tried to—
With a hiss, the visor popped off from the stranger’s face. Slowly, they take it off, their face looking down as the shadows of the night shrouded their features. They gently set it down on a nearby table by the patio entrance.
When he looked up, your whole world came to a freeze.
Frozen in time, you nearly stop breathing taking in the features of the man…robot…person before you. Your arms drop to your sides for a moment, then immediately covering your mouth— terrified.
“You’re dead,” You whisper just loud enough for him to hear. Whether if it was reassurance for your sanity, or a question for him, neither of you will know. “H— Hanzo told me… he told me you…”
The man takes a slow stride towards you, drinking your presence in. You let him; insanity may has well already taken over you. If you were hallucinating a cyborg version of your dead fiancé, maybe it was time to strengthen your medication. But this felt real. The piercingly passionate gaze his eyes held in them as he looked down at you. The way he gently took his hands (one human, one cybernetic) and let them hold yours away from your face. The way his own fingers intertwined with yours.
It felt terrifyingly real.
“I’m here, my dove,” Genji halts your tsunami of thoughts with just his words. “I was…miraculously saved by good people.”
You didn’t know what to think. How could he be alive? How was he saved? So many questions, so many emotions overpowering your ability to even speak. Tears already pouring down your shellshocked face.
Freeing your hands from his own, you tackle him down into an embrace. Hitting the floor unceremoniously with a grunt, he very quickly returns it as his arms securely wrap around your form. Genji nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, a shaky sigh leaving him. Hearing your quiet sobs broke his heart— he can’t imagine how you sounded when you found out he had “died.” He didn’t want to even think about it right now. Right now, he was just as desperate to feel you as you were with him. To hold you once more.
“Yo— You died,” You sobbed. “You died. You were dead— your clan confirmed to our family you were dead.” Breaking away, you looked up at Genji, confusion all over your face. You desperately looked into his eyes for answers; eyes you noticed were not his usual color. As opposed to a rich dark brown, a deep red looked back at you. “What happened to your body— your eyes, my love, what happened to you?”
Your hands travelled from tracing the scars on his face and his human arm, to raking his black hair, to roaming around on his cyborg chest and hand. Your hands took his large cyborg one, tracing your fingers on its palm. You wonder if he can feel sensations on it.
Looking back up at him, you see a very… complex expression on his face. Genji’s eye contact was avoidant, pain and anger seeping through his emotions. Noticing this, you take your hands and gently cup his scarred face to face yours.
“My love,” You dote, almost in a begging tone. “Please, tell me everything. I— I feel like I’m hallucinating.”
Genji’s expression softens. He had to remind himself you were just confused, scared, and lost. He can imagine seeing your dead lover after a year was… definitely not the most easiest thing to digest. Especially in the form her took now; so familiar yet vastly different. His human hand takes one of yours and presses it against his face, kissing it softly.
“I am real,” Genji nods, eyes meeting yours once more. “My body was rebuilt by skilled doctors— an organization called Overwatch had taken me in.”
“Overwatch?” You parrot, blinking in confusion. You’ve heard the name on the news before— they were so-called selfless heroes of the people.
Genji shakes his head. “I will explain further another time,” Standing up, he guides you up on your feet with him. You follow, not wanting to let go of his hands. In the back of your head, you felt that if you were to let go, he’d disappear from your life once more.
He looks over at Sakura’s crib, her little form still soundly asleep. He let go of your hands and made his way over to her. As he walked over, you noted that he… had no footsteps, somehow. Trotting quietly after him, you hug yourself to soothe the anxiety bubbling within. You can’t take your eyes off of her, somewhat scared to face him, for some reason.
Genji doesn’t say a word for a while. The two of you stand there, side by side, for what felt like forever. In reality, it was probably ten or fifteen minutes. You glanced up at him, his gaze misty. His eyes were glossy; confused.
Looking back down at your daughter, you feel your worries ease as she turns and tosses slightly. You smile a bit to yourself. She was your pride and joy, how much she was a representation of the love you and Genji had was astounding. She had your complexion and hair texture— everything else? Sakura was the spitting image of Genji in every other department. Even the color of his hair.
Genji tears his gaze away from Sakura, the two of you meeting eyes. It was charged tension. A melancholic charge.
“Who…is the father?” He asked, swallowing a lump in his throat nervously.
A quiet, dry laugh leaves your throat. Looking away from Genji, you wipe the tears that pool in your eyes again.
“She’s a Shimada,” You confess, voice wavering as you turn to face Genji again. “She’s your daughter, Genji.”
His red eyes widen in disbelief. It almost looked as though he was relieved. “You mean— that trip we took to Hanaoka—“
You nod.
Upon your confirmation, Genji embraces you again. His face is in your neck once more, and you feel a wetness on your nape. He’s crying. You wrap your arms around him, rubbing soothing circles on the flesh side of his back.
“I’m so sorry, my (Y/n),” Genji sobs quietly, holding you closer as if you’d slip through his protective grasp. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you,” He frees his face from your nape, hands cupping your own tear-stained face. “Can…can I kiss you?”
You giggle and nod wordlessly, and immediately, his lips clash into yours desperately. They were soft, and taste vaguely of almond of all things. You return his kiss; hunger and sorrow evident within it. You missed how his lips felt; and he, yours.
He breaks away, his forehead resting upon yours. His hands never leaving your face, your own hanging off his wrists.
“I’m so proud of you, my (Y/n),” Genji sighs, catching his breath. “Please, show me any memories you’ve captured. Tell me everything about your pregnancy.”
A huge part of Genji was upset at his past for missing the opportunity to see his fiancé’s pregnancy glow. He’ll just have to add that to the list of things he needed to come to terms with.
You giggle, full smile glowing onto your face. “I’ll tell and show you everything another time,”
Genji laughs softly at his own words being used against him. Departing his touch from you, his human hand still holding one of yours, he looks over at the baby— his baby’s— unconscious form.
“What is her name?” He asked, eyes never leaving his daughter.
You intertwine your fingers into his shyly, looking down at them. “Sakura,” You say. “Sakura Shimada,”
————
a/n: oouugh the thought of genji learning to love himself and accept himself while navigating fatherhood… my angsty soul yearns for more of this content but i must write it myself 💔💔 if any of u find a fic w a fimilar concept PLLEAAAASEEEE tell me bcs i havent found any 🥹
but here’s to my blackwatch genji likers!!!!! also i’m like 100% sure this is not canon aligned but idgaf i just love this concept so im running with it LOL fuck it we ball!!!! anyway goodnight its 1 am
also i hope i was good at making reader’s race not… apparent? like, up for your interpretation, as well as the baby’s. ofc if reader is gonna have a baby its gonna take on specific characteristics of her, so i tried to incorporate that here! :)
FLUFF PROMPTS WITH OPLA ZORO! LIKE BRUSHING HAIR FROM FACE OR ALLOWING THEM TO LEAN ON THEM ANYTHING!! BONHS POINTS IF THE READER IS YK HALF ASLEEP! THANKS
Everything was its usual and expected chaos upon the Going Merry. Luffy was pestering Sanji for food before dinner, Usopp was telling tall tales to Chopper, Nami was reading maps near her tangerine trees and Zoro was settling himself down a little way aways from you on the deck for his nap.
You? You were actively trying to fight off the feeling that was sleep creeping up on you as you tried to look over your stock counts from last week to this week along with supervising the maintenance of the ship, your job as the ship’s Boatswain could be competing and therapeutic, especially from any and all other thoughts regarding marines and other pirates who fought for no other reason then wanting to fight. It was so therapeutic for you that you might as well have drifted off to sleep on a multitude of times.
People counted sheep while trying to sleep, you on the other hand counted how much meat you had left after a day thanks to Luffy’s insatiable appetite in order to get some sleep in.
‘(Name).’ Zoro called and you shot up, looking over to where his voice was coming from and saw him already looking at you, brows furrowed and his eyes sharp as though he was picking up something you couldn’t detect within yourself.
‘Yeah?’ You replied, trying to rub the urge of sleep from your eyes.
‘You look as though you’re going to at any given moment.’ He said as though saying something you weren’t privy to, as though you couldn’t feel how heavy and sluggish your movements were or how often you felt yourself attempt to drift off, only to be awoken by loud laughter or equally as loud scolding. You blinked at him. ‘Oh yeah? It’s almost as if I didn’t know that.’ You said sarcastically, already looking back down at your list of supplies you needed stocking up on, you dint bother with the kitchen as that was Sanji’s job but still made a list to go over with him regardless.
Zoro huffed as he patted the space next to him. ‘I was inviting you to take a nap idiot.’ He puts blatantly.
You shown him the lists you held in your hand. ‘Work.’
Zoro got up from his place on the deck and walked over to you -snatching the lists from your hand and tucks them in his haramaki- and hauled you to your feet but keeping his grip on your hand as he dragged you back to his spot, only letting go to sit himself down and watch you as you settled down next to him, eyes heavy with sleep and wanting to close but you refused them such a request. ‘Never have I ever seen someone so stubborn to take a nap.’ He says as he leans back, eyes glued to you as he sees you eye the lists in his haramaki, wanting to take them back but not bold enough to do when they were pressed against his abdomen.
‘No one is going to do my job-‘
‘Nobody here other then the cook and Nami are technically doing their job on this ship,’ Zoro interrupted you, bringing a hand to the back of your head and forcing your head to rest on his chest where you could hear his heart and feel his warmth through his skin, ‘so no one is going to crucify you for taking a nap. Now sleep.’ He encourages you by caressing your back slowly as though he had infinite amount of time on his hands and he wanted to spend them with you, his strong arm kept you caged against him, making it impossible for you to move subtly without him noticing.
‘But-‘
Zoro opens his eyes and gives you a pointed look.
‘Sleep. Now.’ He repeats himself before closing his eyes again, moving himself so his body seemingly shielded you from the chaos of the rest of the ship, lulling you into relaxing against him and letting go of your duty to the crew for a couple of minutes, allowing a yawn to pass by your lips as you decided to allow yourself a break from your hard work as your eyes became to heavy for you to keep open.
‘Don’t think that this will become a regular occurring thing.’ You muttered sleepily as you burrowed your face into Zoro’s chest, arm slung lazily across his waist. The Swordsman only smiled to himself as he watched you slump against him further as sleep dragged you under, slowly tracing shapes into your back and humming a tune that only made you snuggle closer to him, not that he minded because at least he knew you were getting sleep in unlike the times where he found you asleep under deck with the supplies you had finished counting.
‘As long as you give your body the right amount of sleep then I won’t, until then I will be making this a regular thing.’ Zoro said knowing he was speaking to himself at this point before drifting off to sleep as well, most likely to tell you in your dream to not overwork yourself again while standing guard incase your dreams take an unnecessary turn.
