Cw: Smut. Oral. P in V. Thigh riding. Size kink. Panty sniffer Caleb Jealous Xavier. It includes links to 🌽 videos on X for visual examples on what was sent. 🔞 MDNI🔞
Sylus/Xavier/Rafayel/Zayne/Caleb
Yeah*sigh*I'm ovulating again. Enjoy 😝
Part 2 here When they accidentally send you a porn link...
The blue light of your phone screen is the only thing cutting through the darkness of your bedroom. You really should have been asleep an hour ago, instead, you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole you didn't even know existed.
Size kink.
You’d never really thought about it before, not until you started dating Sylus and tonight you were just scrolling, looking for something to satisfy the empty ache Sylus left all week.
This video is something you had never seen before or even thought was possible. You watch, mesmerized by the way the woman’s stomach subtly shifts a visible bulge as he stretches her out.
Heat pools instantly between your thighs, making your breath hitch and a dizzying sensation of fullness hit your gut. He's always so careful with you, so agonizingly gentle, as if you’re something precious he might break if he breathes too hard. But looking at this... a dark part of your brain wonders what it would feel like if he didn't hold back.
"Holy shit..." you whisper to the empty room.
Your hand moves instinctively, fingers sliding down to find slick heat. The video is playing on a loop. Bulge. Stretch. Deep. Repeat. You watch it while your imagination runs wild, replacing the stranger on the screen with the man who owns your heart. You’re picturing his heavy weight pinning you down, his eyes blown wide, filling you until you can’t even scream.
You’re chasing a peak that feels miles away until, suddenly, it isn't. You hit your first orgasm with a stifled gasp, back arching off the mattress, only to find yourself immediately chasing the second one, body trembling and spent in the wake of the first.
By the time the second wave of pleasure ebbs away, you’re a puddle of limbs and heavy eyelids. You’re half conscious, drifting in that beautiful limbo between wakefulness and dreams. In a daze of post orgasmic euphoria, you squint at the screen, your thumb hovering over the comment section.
"How do I send him this without actually sending it to him 😳"
You tap 'send' with a clumsy thumb. You meant to just post it as a thought, a digital scream into the void. But as your eyes flutter shut, your hand twitches a final, involuntary spasm of exhausted muscle. Your thumb slips. It slides across the 'Share' icon, hovers over the very first contact at the top of your recent list, and taps.
Sent.
You don't hear the subtle whoosh of the outgoing message. Delivered directly to the man who at this very moment is probably staring at a security feed or sipping red wine.
Sylus.
You just fall into a deep, blissful sleep, completely unaware that you've just lit a fuse.
“Come on, sweetie, don’t give up on me now" Thrust. The impact is heavy, forcing a breathless gasp from your lungs. “You can take it, can’t you?”
He isn't being the gentle, careful man you know. Not today. His hand is hooked firmly behind your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing you to watch the unmistakable, fat bulge stretching the skin of your lower abdomen, proof to just how deep he’s buried himself inside you.
“You wanted this, now you have to take it and you are going to watch.”
And there it is. The reality of it. It’s visceral. It’s exactly what you saw in that video, but it’s a thousand times more intense because it’s him. It’s real.
Your vision swima and just as the shock of it all starts to settle, he shifts. He changes the angle of his hips in a calculated move that hits your G spot dead on. An uninhibited scream tears from your throat, echoing through the room.
“I've been trying to behave,” he says, and the words come out rougher than he probably intended, an edge of frustration bleeding through his usual composure “But you make it so difficult... fuck... by sending me your filthy little thoughts.”
His hand settles against your belly, firm and heavy, and the second he presses down, your body reacts with a sharp inhale. You tense instinctively, muscles coiling around him, but you don't pull away. You can't.
“Can you feel me here?” he asks, breath coming in uneven bursts. He’s buried balls deep and for a split second, you see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. You make a face, a strange, overwhelmed expression of fullness, and he looks like he might actually pull back to give you a moment to breathe. He thinks he’s pushing too hard.
He’s wrong.
Don't you dare.
Driven by a desperation you didn't know you possessed, you move your hips in a searching rhythm, pressing his hand down harder against your stomach. You want the pressure. You want to feel the exact point where he meets your skin from the inside.
He lets out a loud groan at the sensation. Your narrow walls clamp down on him, tighter than they've ever been. Every millimeter of space between you feels like it’s disappearing, leaving nothing but friction and heat.
You don't have the words to tell him that you never want him to stop, so your body does the talking. You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you there, keeping you exactly where you are until your breathing turns unsteady.
Until your body softens in momentary surrender and tightens again a second later, as if you're fighting a war with yourself, trying to decide whether to let go or to hold on tighter.
In the end, you don't choose. You do both.
The world dissolves into a hot haze of pleasure. It couldn't be called an orgasm because this feels like a total system failure. You’re sobbing his name or maybe you’re just gasping for air, you can’t tell anymore as waves of pleasure crash over you, violent and unrelenting. Your pussy seizes around him in long pulses, milking him, begging for the very thing that’s pushing you past your limit.
He follows you a few seconds later, burying himself soooo deep you feel the hot rush of him filling you.
Slowly, the fog begins to lift, leaving you in a state of blissful, heavy lethargy. The hand that was just pressing so ruthlessly into your belly softens, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.
"You really are a menace." he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
The shame you expected to feel, the embarrassment of that accidental video is nowhere to be found. Instead, there is only a sense of immense satisfaction.
"Next time," he whispers into your hair "don't bother sending a link. Just tell me. I'll give you everything you desire. Every single time."
The problem with being in love with a man like Xavier is that your brain is constantly a minefield of "what ifs."
He’s incredible, truly, but you’ve noticed the way he pulls back sometimes. When he’s brooding or when that possessive jealousy starts to prickle at him, he becomes almost too careful. Like he’s afraid he might actually break you if he lets go of that restraint.
So, naturally, you’ve been doing a little "research" to keep the inspiration alive.
Now, you’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub, scrolling through your feed, a habit that’s becoming a bit of a vice, when a video catches your eye. A girl pinned to a mattress, her head pressed down by her partner as he fucks her from behind. Hard. The sound of her moans echoes in your ears through your headphones and suddenly the bathroom feels about ten degrees too hot.
God, yes.
You quickly save the link to your "later" folder, a digital stash of things you want him to eventually try, and then scribble a quick, thirsty comment on the video "This but with my boyfriend dressed as Lumiere 🤤 " and set your phone down.
Buzz. Buzz.
A notification lights up the screen. It’s him.
[Xavier]: Found a new hot pot place. Apparently, the broth is spicy enough to kill a Wanderer. Want to go tonight? Please say yes so I can stop thinking about food and start thinking about you.
A soft laugh escapes you. He’s so predictable, yet so devastatingly charming when he wants to be. Your answer is an immediate "sure" because you’d say yes to a lukewarm bowl of water if he was the one serving it.
But he always forgets to look at the menu and ends up ordering something way too spicy or something you're not in the mood for, so you look for the restaurant's menu.
You see the link. Tap it. Copy. Paste. Add "Look at the options! The spicy broth looks insane." Send.
Funny thing is, you don't actually copy the menu's URL, you just cut it. You don't even realize you just sent him the very un culinary link to the video you were just watching to fuel your own delusions.
Little typing bubbles appear. They dance for a long time. They disappear. They reappear.
He's so indecisive.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
"Lumiere?" the name sounds like a curse "You wanted Lumiere to pin you down?"
Your face is pressed so firmly into the mattress that the fabric feels like a part of your own skin, the scent of laundry detergent mixing with the heat of the moment. Every time he thrusts into you, the world tilts, your vision blurring into white light and dark shadows. The Xavier who kisses your forehead and cuddles with you is buried somewhere deep inside the man currently fucking you breathless.
"Xavie..." you try to speak, but his name dies in your throat as he shifts his weight.
"Tell me," he demands, losing the battle with his own restraint. He hits you hard, a deep, soul shaking thrust that forces a broken moan from your lips. "Tell me you don't need a costume to feel this."
You try to answer, to tell him he's being ridiculous...
Smack!
The sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, your fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase.
"You sent it to me on purpose," he mutters as he leans down, his chest pressing hard against your back. "You wanted to see me like this, didn't you? You wanted to see if I could be as rough as him."
He doesn't want an answer. He doesn't wait for one. He just wants to hear you whimper his name when he hits that perfect spot.
His hand presses your face down even harder into the mattress, muffling your cries. It's everything you were craving when you were scrolling through your phone earlier, but the reality is a thousand times better.
You start to move, trying to meet him halfway, trying to grind back against him to find the friction that will push you over the edge.
"Faster..." you beg, trying to turn your head to tell him that there is no Lumiere, there is only him, but he just presses you back down, his thumb grazing your hip bone with trembling pressure.
"Shhhhhh, just a little bit more," he lets out a long groan, his forehead dropping to rest against the back of your neck for a fleeting second before he surges upward again. "You should see the way your pussy is taking my cock right now, so greedy. Just for me."
His hand shifts. It leaves the back of your head to find the column of your throat. His thumb and middle finger curl around your neck not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he is in total control.
He stills for a heartbeat, his middle finger softly tapping the pulsing vein in your neck. "Every beat belongs to me tonight"
You just nod, a jerky movement, because you are standing on the very edge of a precipice, and the fall is coming. The tension in your lower belly is wound so tight it’s almost painful.
"Say it," he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his words a warm, humid ghost of a sensation, his control fraying at the edges.
"Yours," you finally whisper, like secret you’ve been holding in your lungs for far too long, finally allowed to breathe.
The moment the word leaves your lips, he loses the last of his mercy.
He pulls back almost entirely, leaving you aching and empty for a fraction of a second only to drive back in, bottomless and bruising. It’s a cycle of withdrawal and overwhelming fullness that leaves you reeling.
"Give me what's mine" the command vibrates through your entire body.
The world dissolves into white light as your head falls forward, muscles spasming in the violent quake of your climax, but he catches your hair, tugging just enough to force your head up, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a hunger that could swallow the stars.
"Good girl," he whispers against your parted, trembling lips.
He thrusts one last time, deep and final, spilling molten heat as your name breaks from his lips, torn in half by bliss before he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. For now, the jealousy is gone. There is only the quiet, heavy reality of being his.
The video catches your eye instantly. The lighting is a soft purple, casting a surreal glow over the two people on screen. A girl is on top, her movements slow and agonizingly deliberate as she drags her pussy over her partners cock, the rhythm of it making your cunt clench.
Tonight you are in a "no filter" mood. You need to share this. You need to tell Tara.
With a smirk, you tap the share icon, copy the link, and switch over to your messages. You find Tara’s profile pic or so you think and start typing with the kind of unhinged energy only a best friend can appreciate.
You and Tara have long since abandoned the concept of "boundaries" when it comes to your filthy late night chats.
“Omg Tara, look at this. Raf’s cock is so pretty, I swear if he’d just let me do this to him, I’d never leave the bedroom again 🥵💦”
You hit send with a satisfied whoosh and let out a long, dramatic sigh. Silence follows. For a few minutes you go back to scrolling, blissfully unaware that you have just dropped a digital bomb into the inbox of a man who is already struggling to maintain his composure.
Your phone vibrates.
It’s not a "LOL" or a "Damn" from Tara.
It’s a notification from Rafayel.
Rafayel: Is that so?
Your heart skips a beat. You frown, squinting at the name at the top of the chat.
Wait.
Your face goes from pale to a shade of red that would put a sunset to shame. You stare at the screen, wanting to physically crawl inside the phone and disappear forever. You want to delete it. You want to throw the phone out the window. You want to move to a different planet.
But then, the little typing bubbles appear again.
Rafayel: Don't just sit there blushing, cutie. I'm coming to your place and you are going to show me exactly what you want"
🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
You’ve lost track of time. Your thighs are starting to ache, every muscle in your legs feels tight, strained from holding yourself upright, yet you keep moving. You have to. The friction is the only thing keeping you grounded.
You’re straddling him, your knees digging into the soft linens, focused on the way your cunt drags over his cock. Slippery. Hot. Wet.
Every time you slide down, the underside of him, that thick ridge presses ruthlessly against your clit. You can feel the vein running along his length pulse in perfect synch with your clit.
Thump thump. Thump thump.
"Slow down..." he groans, gripping your hips "You're going to... fuuuuck... you're going to kill me"
The friction is creating a heat of its own, a sliding friction that makes your head spin. You watch slightly delirious, as the light from the moon filters through the window, catching the sheen of sweat on his pale skin and the way his hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. He looks like he belongs entirely to you.
But his hands are far from weak. They are heavy weights anchored to your hips, and he uses them to sabotage you. Just when you think you’ve found a rhythm that might actually save you, he tightens his grip, forcing your hips to slow, dragging the slide of your pussy out into a long, shallow glide.
It’s cruel. A sadistic kind of torture, making the night feel endless, as if the clock has stopped just to watch you suffer.
He wants to stretch this out. He wants to milk every drop of anticipation from your veins until your entire body begins to tremble, not from pleasure, but from the weight of the climax that refuses to arrive. He wants to push you to that edge where even your silence sounds filthy, where the quiet between your breaths is thick with the unspoken things you want to do to him.
Once he’s satisfied with the slow pace, his hands begin to wander. They trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your breasts, learning your body the way a sinner learns to pray. Like hunger learning the art of restraint just long enough to make the eventual feast mean something.
You slide back just a fraction, settling the heat of your pussy directly over his balls and then you reach down.
Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, just like you saw in that video. You begin to stroke him while simultaneously rotating your hips in a circular grind over the heavy fullness of his balls.
The sound that tears from his throat is something unhuman, a vibration that feels like it's coming from the depths of the ocean.
Your name is caught between his teeth in a soft, sinful exhale. He sounds undone, completely unraveled by the sight of you taking exactly what you claimed you wanted in that accidental text.
He’s right there, on the edge of an unravelling collapse.
And because you are just like him, a creature of beautiful, chaotic impulse, you don't let him have it. Not yet.
You release his cock, hand slipping away just as the tension reaches its peak, and drag your soaked cunt back up the entire length of him in one loooong slide.
It feels like a collision of two fires.
In your desperation to feel everything you let your entire weight drop. The clench of your pussy as you cum wraps around the underside of his cock, squeezing him with a force that leaves him absolutely helpless.
He has no choice but to follow you into the fire.
Spurts of his cum paint the pale skin of his stomach, the liquid warmth spreading in thick, white streaks, pooling in his belly button.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. There is only the sound of your breathing and the humid scent of your shared exhaustion.
“Was that pretty enough for you, cutie?” he teases, though his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers on your cheek, like he’s constantly checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. "Or do we need to do it again?"
It’s late, way past the time Zayne would usually be nudging you to sleep but he’s still tucked away in his office, probably buried under a mountain of medical charts or surgical reports.
Your eyes are glued to your phone screen, watching a VIDEO of a girl grinding against a man’s thigh, bodies pressed together, his hands steady even as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. The guy in the video is wearing pajamas that look disturbingly similar to the ones Zayne is wearing right now.
Suddenly, the empty space in your bed feels a little too vast, your mind drifting to the office down the hall, aching to be that girl, to climb onto his Zayne's lap while he’s buried in medical charts and just... fuck yourself stupid.
You want to reach down and touch yourself but you’re a loud sleeper and an even louder moaner. If you start now, there’s no way he won't hear you through the walls, and you aren't quite ready for that kind of intimacy yet. So, you settle for a bit of digital venting. With a flushed face, you type out a quick comment on the video: "God, I wish I could do this while he's working..."
You go to save the link to your "Filthy Things" folder for a proper session tomorrow morning, but just as your thumb hovers over the screen, your phone starts vibrating. It’s Simone. She’s calling, probably to gossip about something trivial. In your rush to swipe the call and answer her, your finger taps the wrong folder.
And because Zayne is a man who is always, always connected to his devices for work... he’s going to see the notification the exact second it pops up.
🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺
It didn't take long. After that little "digital accident," the silence between you two wasn't awkward so much as it was heavy. Charged. He didn't even tease you about the comment. He didn't even blush. He just looked at you with those piercing eyes, a tiny, knowing quirk at the corner of his mouth, and silently commanded you to come to him.
And now, here you are. Perched on his lap, doing the same thing you saw on that video. Your lower half is completely bare, your thighs hugging his muscular one as you press yourself flush against him.
The friction is driving you completely insane.
Zayne, however, is a man of terrifying discipline.
His left hand is braced on your lower back, while his right hand moves across his keyboard. He’s actually working. He’s reviewing files, typing out notes, behaving as if you aren't currently trying to melt into his lap. Every so often, he’ll pause, not to stop you, but to lean in. His breath, cool and smelling faintly of mint, brushes against the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Ah... Zayne..." you whimper against his neck as you press yourself harder against him. The sound is loud, far too loud for his quiet office and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
"Hush now," he doesn't even look away from the monitor, though you notice the slight tightening of his jaw. "I need to focus. These reports won't write themselves."
He’s being difficult. He’s being a tease. And you love him for it.
You try to be "good." You force yourself to still when he has to write something long on his computer. You sit there, trembling slightly, waiting for him to acknowledge the havoc you're wreaking on his concentration.
A moment passes. The only sound is the soft click clack of the keyboard. Then, you feel his hand slide from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer, a subtle command for you to keep going.
"Good girl," he whispers, the words a warm caress against your ear.
His expression is completely professional, but the way his fingers linger on your skin tells a completely different story. He’s still working, yes but he’s also letting you feel exactly how much of a distraction you really are.
Every time your thighs tense up, every time you desperately bite your lower lip to stifle a moan that threatens to shatter the silence, the air thickens with indecency.
He’s struggling. You aren't blind. You can feel the insistent twitch of his cock beneath you, reacting to every open mouthed kiss you press against the pulse of his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone, and the smooth expanse of his Adam's apple. He’s trying to maintain that surgeon’s calm, but his body is betraying him with every shuddering breath you take.
You’re right on the edge. Your clit is catching perfectly against the fabric of his pajamas, the material already damp and clinging to you from the amount of arousal you're leaking.
"Look at me."
His voice cuts through the air, forcing your gaze up. He wants to see the exact moment your eyes glaze over, the moment your breath hitches and tells the truth that your lips are trying so hard to hide.
When his hand slides up to cup your jaw, it isn't the gentle, comforting touch you're used to during a quiet movie on the couch. It's different. It's possessive. It’s a disciplined kind of dominance, a reminder that while he is the composed Zayne in the daylight, there is a much darker man caged behind that professional composure and you are the only one who knows how to let him out.
"You are close, aren't you, love?" he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his breath.
You can barely manage a nod, your lungs feeling too small for the air you're trying to pull in. You're breathing directly into his slightly parted mouth.
"Cum for me, then," he exhales, a rare flush creeping up his cheeks, betraying just how much this is affecting him too.
He shifts his thigh, bouncing it up and down in a rhythmic motion that catches your clit perfectly.
The world tilts. You feel your eyes lose focus and you can't tell if it's the shaking of your limbs or the pounding of your heart that's making you tremble so violently.
"Zaynie... Zayne..."
His name becomes your entire vocabulary, there are no words left, only the sound of his name on your lips and the crashing sensation of finally, finally letting go.
You are flicking through a never ending stream of mindless clips and memes. It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon, just a bit of scrolling to kill the time until Caleb comes back, but then there...
A VIDEO pops up. It’s not your usual aesthetic travel vlog or a cooking hack.
You freeze, your heart doing a weird, little skip in your chest. You know you should probably swipe past it, but your eyes are glued to the screen. It’s a girl, her lace panties completely drenched. The guy in the video isn't even taking them off, he’s just sliding the tip of his cock against her through the wet lace.
A sudden warmth blooms deep in your belly, spreading down until it feels like you’re melting into the cushions. God, you’ve been craving that. The teasing, the slow, agonizing buildup. You’ve spent so much money on delicate, expensive little sets, thinking maybe Caleb would appreciate the way they look on you, but hes a fucking dog. He doesn't do "slow." He usually just rips them or tugs them off with impatience, going straight for the heat of you. You just want him to play with you like that. To linger.
Your inhibitions are a little frayed from the visual, and before your brain can catch up to your impulse, your thumbs are flying. You tap the comment section, the screen a mess of unhinged messages from strangers, and you add your own little confession: “I really need him to play with me like this, but he prefers to eat it raw from the start😢”
You hit send, a tiny, embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, and immediately swipe the video away, feeling a bit silly for being so vulnerable to a bunch of internet strangers.
You toss the phone onto the cushion next to you a second later, completely oblivious to one mortifying detail. He’d logged into his account on your phone earlier when his own battery died, and you hadn't bothered to switch back.
In his office, the most dangerous man in Skyhaven is about to watch, in explicit detail, how you want to be ruined.
🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷
It turns out your assessment of him was spot on. The man is a fucking dog.
He hasn't taken your underwear off. That’s the part that’s driving you absolutely insane. The delicate lace is currently soaked, clinging to your pussy like a second, translucent layer of skin. He’s been working his tongue against the fabric, licks so long and heavy they feel like they’re reaching deep inside you. You’ve already been hit by two earth shattering, toe curling orgasms, your vision blurring every time his mouth finds your clit through the damp cloth. He hasn't even slowed down. If anything, it's getting worse.
“This is the reason I usually take off those pretty panties you wear” he presses his face into you, his broad tongue sweeping up in one stroke against your entire slit. You let out a choked, broken sound, fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, trying to push him away just to catch your breath.
“Your scent is so fucking addictive,” he groans against your skin, “Especially after wearing them all day... knowing you've been walking around, smelling like this, just waiting for me.”
Then, he says something that makes your heart skip a beat not out of fear, but out of pure shock.
“You have no idea, do you?” he pants, nose brushing against your clit. “Last two years of High School... I spent them stroking my cock raw just to the smell of your panties. Thinking about you. Wishing you were right there."
Your vision blurs. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily as a third wave of pleasure crashes over you. You cum hard, your entire body shaking as you spill yourself directly onto his tongue, voice breaking into a high, desperate sob of his name.
He doesn't pull away. He just drinks you in, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tastes exactly what he's been craving.
The moment your legs stop trembling he hooks his fingers into the soaked gusset and drags it to the side, baring your swollen folds and your pulsing clit, sensitive from his relentless attention.
He doesn't thrust in. He doesn't go for the full stretch you’ve been silently praying for. Instead, he slides the drooling tip of his cock over your slit. He isn't even entering you yet, he's just... slapping it against your clit, teasing the very edge of your tolerance.
You wanted the lace, the play, the slow burn... but God, you also wanted him to fuck you until you couldn't remember your name. You wanted the stretch.
But Caleb is a man who listens. Or rather, he's a man who has spent a lifetime studying every detail of your desires and right now he is giving you exactly what you asked for.
He leans down, his eyes dark, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure and frustration. He doesn't give you the release of a full thrust, he just feeds you the tip. He slides just the head of his cock into your pussy, a teasing invasion that barely makes a dent.
The reaction is instantaneous. Your walls react to him like a living thing, clenching around him, desperately trying to suck him deeper, to pull the rest of him in. The sensation is so perfectly matched that a synchronized moan breaks from both of you.
He pulls out just a fraction and then he thrusts the tip back in. Over and over again.
“Please,” you whimper, the word sounding pathetic even to your own ears. “Baby, please...”
You’re trying to force him to go deeper. But he’s in total control. His left hand is working the length of his cock, pumping with a desperate rhythm, while his right hand finds your clit.
His eyes are pinned to yours, watching every flicker of emotion on your face as if he’s trying to memorize the way you fall apart.
And then, the teasing ends.
His mushroom tip, still nestled just inside your entrance, begins to pulse. Warm, thick spurts of cum hit your sensitive walls, flooding the tiny space he’s occupied.
Your pussy clenches around the tip of his cock, trying to suck every last drop out of him while his hand squeezes the rest of his length, forcing the remainder of his seed into you, filling you up until his cum starts to leak out.
He finally collapses against you, the weight of his body pressing you deep into the mattress.
"You're so loud when you're happy," he murmurs before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finally settling his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and everything you are to him.
He pulls back just a bit, his gaze dropping to where the soaked lace of your panties still clings to your thighs, then back up to your eyes. There’s a flicker of that obsessive intensity returning to his expression.
"There isn't a single thing in this world you could ask for that wouldn't make me crawl to you. So don't hold back, Pips."
Deaf!Simon Riley and the vibrations of your voice (18+)
Simon Riley has been deaf for the past few years of his life due to sudden acoustic trauma from explosions and gunfire. He never had a problem with it, in fact, he never really talked or listened to people in general when he was able to hear. The tinnitus still rings out in his head, still makes him press his pillow against his ears at night, but at least he didn’t have to listen to anything else.
It wasn’t until you came along that he wished he could hear again, but something about the simple intimacy of feeling your voice rather than hearing it made him feel like this is how it was always meant to be for him.
He liked the fact that you would still speak to him as he reads your lips, that you didn’t shy away when he would occasionally reach up to touch your cheek just to feel the vibrations of your voice. Of course, you accommodated him as well, learning how to articulate your words better for lip reading, how to use sign language, but when he would ask you to speak about anything and everything you always did.
You never fail to make his world feel loud in a space that was so consumingly quiet before.
And when it came to sex, it was never anything short of passionate. It was a different kind of intimacy you had never experienced before him.
Your back is pressed against the sheets, Simon’s chest against yours, and his face is buried in your neck as he thrusts into you deep, and hard. His hips roll against yours, spreading your legs wider, stuffing your wet pussy full of his aching cock. Every single moan falling from your lips, every last babbled word you can get out as he fucks you dumb, he drinks it all in with his lips pressed to your throat to feel the vibrations flood through his body.
He is always particular about that, rightfully so, to the point where he’ll fuck you any way you want but he needs to feel you to cum. To feel your wet, warm walls wrapped tightly around him, clenching down on his length when his tip knocks against your cervix. To feel your cries of pleasure when he angles his hips just right to brush against your sweet spot.
Your fingers tangle in the hair at his nape, tugging slightly, earning a low groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Your nails rake down the rough skin of his back, leaving red, angry marks in your wake. Wrapping your legs around his waist, the new angle allows him to dig deeper, leaving you a moaning mess under him.
The skin of his abdomen glides on your clit, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves when he thrusts in and grinds his cock on your cervix. Your nipples drag against his chest, hard and swollen, aching for his lips. You press soft kisses to his shoulder, biting ever so slightly and licking away the pain until it fades into pleasure again.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, stretching you, pleasuring you, all because of him. He fills you to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long, before pulling back out and doing it over and over again. Stars burst behind your eyelids when he zeros in on your sweet spot, his precision maddening, his consistent thrusts enough to bring you impossibly close to your climax.
He can feel you getting closer, can feel the frantic vibrations, can feel the way your heart speeds up when you squirm your hips under him to find more of the friction you so desperately crave. Simon gives into your body every single time, thrusting harder, pounding deeper, slamming his hips against your faster the more eager he grows to feel you cum on his cock.
Each thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for air, each exhale turning into sounds of pleasure. His skin is warm and sweaty on yours, one hand gripping the fat of your hip, the other caging your head in, keeping you steady while he pounds into you relentlessly. His face stays buried in your neck, his lips trail up and down as he sucks and bites against the one spot he knows you like, and when your walls clamp down around him, he hits your sweet spot one more time and you’re cumming for him.
Moans rip free from your throat as your body grows rigid and your muscles draw taut underneath him. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his cock, dripping from his skin and making a mess on the sheets below. He groans, deep and low, rolling into you to drag out your high for as long as possible before he brings himself to that same sweet release.
He lifts his face from your neck, wrapping his hand around it instead, still allowing himself to feel the vibrations but settling on placing his lips against yours. Your lips move with his, finding his rhythm, moving in tandem the closer he gets and you continue to moan which he swallows greedily.
Only when your body twitches with overstimulation, only when your nails dig into the skin of his back, only then does he drive himself to the hilt and spill his seed. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out in continuous streams from his swollen, sensitive tip, hitting your cervix and leaking out around him when nothing else will fit.
His kiss turns slower while his movements come to a stop, swiping his tongue against your soft lips before pulling away with a wet pop, breaking the strings of saliva connecting the two of you. The sight of you so blissful underneath makes him feel like this is the prettiest you have ever been.
Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, drool dripping from your chin, as whimpers and whines continue to fall the more you feel his cock twitch deep inside of you. You look so raw, so vulnerable, so his. His to please, his to love, his to cherish.
Your voice may belong to everyone else, but the vibrations of your body will always belong to him.
It isn’t just the mask—though that certainly helps, the stark white skull stretched over a face no one sees, a warning before he even speaks. It’s everything else. The way he fills a room without trying. The way conversations dip, shoulders stiffen, eyes flick—because people feel him before they fully register him.
He’s big. Not just tall—though he easily clears most men by a head—but built in a way that feels… deliberate. Like someone carved him out of something harder than bone. Broad shoulders that strain the seams of standard-issue gear, arms thick with muscle earned the hard way, the kind that doesn’t come from a gym but from years of carrying weight—packs, weapons, bodies. A toned stomach covered in a layer of soft fat. He was.. huge. In all aspects of the word.
And his cock was no different.
One thick finger traced your entrance, slow and deliberate, circling your wetness but not pushing in.
“Look at ‘er. Pretty cunt all for me," he taunted.
“All puffy and dripping’… so tiny lovie, bet it won’t even fit.”
He chuckled, low and cruel, but there was that edge to it—the way his free hand stroked the curve of your hip almost gently, like he was reassuring himself as much as you.
It was his love language, brutality wrapped in barbs, pushing you to your limits because he knew you could take it.
You pushed back against him instinctively, a needy whine escaping your lips, but he pinned you down with one hand splayed across your lower back, his palm covering you entirely. "Nuh-uh. You don't get to rush this, dove. Gotta open you up first."
His finger finally breached you, sliding in knuckle-deep with a wet squelch that echoed obscenely in the quiet. You clenched around him, the stretch already burning sweetly, but he was merciless—twisting and curling, adding a second finger that made you whimper.
"See? Already whinin' like a bitch in heat. What happens when I give you the real thing? Gonna split you in two?"
The words stung, humiliating in the best way, heat flooding your cheeks as much as your core. But god, the way he said it—gruff, possessive—made your body respond, hips rocking back despite the ache. He pumped his fingers faster now, the squelch of your arousal filling the room, mingling with your gasps and the rain beating against the windows.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing rough circles that had stars bursting behind your eyelids, but he didn't let you tip over the edge. No, Simon was a bully at heart; he pulled back just as the pleasure crested, leaving you empty and throbbing.
"Fuck—Si, please." you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets, the fabric rough under your palms.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, the coarse hair on his torso scraping your skin like sandpaper. His lips brushed your ear, hot and teasing. "Please what? Use your words, Birdie. Tell me how much your big, bad man scares you."
A smack to your ass, hard, the sharp crack made you yelp as fire licked across your skin. He soothed it immediately with a knead of his palm, that rough affection peeking through his mean streak.
"I need you inside me," you panted, voice breaking. "Please, Si... even if it hurts."
His growl was pure satisfaction, vibrating through you. "That's my girl. Takin' it like you were made for it."
He withdrew his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing, and you heard the rustle of his belt—metal clinking, zipper rasping down. When he freed himself, the air shifted; even without looking, you felt the sheer size. Simon was huge—thick and long, veined like he was carved from marble, the kind of cock that promised ruin. The tip, red and angry, rubbed against your folds, coating himself in your slick, the pressure alone making you tremble.
"Gonna go slow at first... but don't think I'll be gentle after."
He pushed in inch by agonizing inch, the stretch immediate and intense. You cried out, the burn bordering on too much, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. "T-too big!” you whimpered, nails digging into the fabric, hard enough you’re shocked it didn’t rip.
He paused, buried only halfway, his breath ragged against your neck. "Told you, didn't I? You're so fuckin' tight, lovie. Gripping me like a vice."
But instead of mocking, his voice dipped lower, almost strained. "Breathe. Relax for me."
One hand slid up to cup your breast through your shirt, thumbing your nipple in lazy circles—a taunt turned tender. He rocked his hips gently, letting you adjust, the fullness overwhelmingly addictive.
The room spun with the intensity of it all—the street lights casting erratic shadows that danced across his scarred back as he loomed over you, his muscles flexing like coiled springs. The air hung heavy, thick with the musk of your combined arousal and the faint smell of his cologne.
Simon groaned low in his throat, a sound more animal than man, as he sank deeper, forcing another inch past your fluttering resistance. The stretch was exquisite agony, your walls clenching involuntarily around his girth, every vein and ridge dragging against you like fire.
"Fuck, you're so tight love.” he rasped, his voice rough with restraint, forehead pressed between your shoulder blade. Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping onto yours. "Thought you'd be able to take it easy. Guess I was wrong—my doll's too small for a real man's cock."
The taunt hit like a spark to kindling, humiliation twisting with desire in your gut, but you could hear the undercurrent—the way his words cracked at the edges, betraying how much it affected him too. He was bullying you, yeah, pushing your buttons like he loved to, but his hand on your hip tightened not to bruise, but to steady.
"S-Si —it's too much." you gasped, tears pricking your eyes from the burn, your body trembling as you adjusted to the fullness that bordered on splitting you open.
"Bullshit.” he murmured, nipping at your earlobe with his teeth, the bite sharp enough to jolt you forward but soothed by the swipe of his tongue. "You're takin' it so good for me. Feel that? That's all you, milkin' me like you need it to survive."
He rocked his hips experimentally, shallow thrusts that let you feel every punishing inch, the head of his cock nudging deeper until his tip kissed your cervix.
He was fully inside now, buried to the hilt in a way that made you feel too full, your body reshaping around him like wet clay. The pressure on your clit from the angle alone had you keening, pleasure bleeding through the ache.
He didn't give you time to acclimate, no—Simon wasn't built for mercy. His hands gripped your hips, fingers bruising in the best way, and he pulled back only to slam all the way back in, the slap of skin on skin reverberating through the room like thunder. "That's it, take it. Knew you could—my little slut."
Each word was punctuated by a thrust, deep and unrelenting, his pace building like a freight train. The bedframe rattled against the wall, springs groaning in protest, mirroring your own broken moans. He was too big, too much, hitting spots inside you that made your vision blur, stars bursting with every long drag against your walls.
But amid the meanness, there were glimpses of him—the way he reached around to rub your clit in firm, insistent circles, coaxing you toward the edge even as he mocked. "Gonna cum on this fat cock, aren't you? Show me how bad you want it, Luv. Let go for me."
His free hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently—not yanking, but guiding—so he could capture your mouth in a messy, sideways kiss, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your cries. The room blurred into sensation, the cool sheets twisting under your knees, the humid air sticking to your skin, the faint vibration of his growls rumbling through his chest into yours.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, ripping through you without warning. Your body seized, walls clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses, milking him as ecstasy tore a scream from your throat. Simon cursed under his breath—"Fuck, yea’, just like that"—his thrusts stuttering as your release soaked him, the wet sounds filling the room.
He rode it out with you, grinding deep, his fingers didn’t stopping on your clit until you were a crying, oversensitive mess, tears streaking your cheeks.
Only then did he let go. With a guttural moan, he buried himself to the root one last time, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own peak. You felt him throb inside you, hot pulses spilling into you as he came, his weight collapsing half over you, pinning you in the best way. The street light caught the sweat glistening on his neck, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your skin.
The quiet after is thick, heavy with it.
Simon’s still catching his breath, shoulders tense, like he hasn’t fully come down yet. His hand lingers on you—firm, possessive—before it finally eases.
“…You alright?” he mutters, rough as ever, glancing at you. Not soft. Just… checking.
You just give a small hum, shifting closer instead of away. That’s all it takes. His jaw tightens for a second, something dark flickering in his eyes—because you liked it. Of course you did.
“Yeah.” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Thought so.”
He pulls you back against him, arm locking around your waist, solid and grounding.
Now, the world narrowed to the two of you—the slowing rhythm of your hearts, and the distant hum of the city.
It is beyond belief that Marquis Gojo Satoru would lose a battle. And when he thinks death will welcome him with its cold clutches, someone else appears. A simple woman who reduces the Marquis to nothing but a humble man, ready to give up his noble life just for a sweet touch of hers.
prequel to this story, but can be read as part one or a standalone!
˖𑣲⋆ ݁˖ pairing: ꒰ Marquis!Gojo Satoru x Noodle Seller!Reader ꒱
˖𑣲⋆ ݁˖ content & warnings: ꒰ fluff fluff fluff :: set in Ancient China :: based on Pursuit of Jade :: but Satoru's simply obsessed :: miserable Satoru :: smut :: gentle sex :: breeding :: mentions of pregnancy :: he falls first and harder :: oral sex :: he's madly in love from the very start :: domestic life :: first time :: reader is a sort of minx :: class differences :: mating press :: squirting :: belly bulge ꒱
˖𑣲⋆ ݁˖ words: ꒰ 17.3k ꒱
˖𑣲⋆ ݁˖ notes: Pray forgive me for waiting that looong for this part! I loved writing it and I think it's the longest oneshot I have written so far.
The air was biting cold, and the river was softly frozen. Not completely, but laying peppered kisses of snow on a shimmering surface, as the moon reflected off it, bathing the side of your face in a gentle glow.
The donkey stood restlessly, shifting from foot to foot and nudging your arm with its warm nose as you stroked it gently.
"I think he wants to go back," Maki chuckled, patting the greyish mule on its back. "Thank you for dropping by. It's been a hectic week." She said, pressing her hand to her now slightly swollen belly.
She gave birth at the start of December, just a week ago, so you came to help her tidy up a bit and offer a full pot of your famous pig-intestines noodle soup. Rich and delicious, that made Maki cry when she finally tasted it after a long and difficult labour.
"Don't thank me. Just send Yuta to the village if you need anything else. And when you feel better, just take a walk to the restaurant," you smiled, tightening a fur headband around your head.
Maki nodded, and Yuta soon joined her outside, wrapping a heavy coat around her shoulders. You rolled the heavy slats of meat from two fatty pigs on the cart and took a deep breath. Yuta helped you cover them with a soft material to keep them out of the curious onlookers' sight.
A thank-you gift from both of them, after you looked after the heavily pregnant Maki for the past few months while Yuta ran their own restaurant in the larger village not far from yours.
"I can walk you back," he offered, gazing at the plush snowy road that stretched through the forest. "It's only a one-hour walk each way, and I'm sure you'll prefer some company."
"It's fine, I can manage. You both should rest too; Iori has been giving you a hell of a week," you chuckled, looking over their shoulder as if you could peek at the softly cradled baby boy sleeping tight inside their house. "Besides, Bao will keep me company."
The donkey huffed and again nudged your arm with his nose, as if exhaustion had weighed on his eyelids too. His lovely, furry face shook from the snowflakes, and you noticed that the gravel road was slowly turning into an unfathomable, almost fairy-tale-like realm of ice and frost.
"Come visit the restaurant when you have time. Oh, and we'll see each other next month during the Lunar New Year, right?" you said, checking whether the donkey was harnessed to the cart.
You patted his back to signal it was time to leave. Bao began to walk slowly, remembering the straight road to your village in his young, tender heart, and so he led the way, with you a few steps behind.
"How about you come to us the day before? We can cook together!" Maki smiled, waving you gently goodbye.
You nodded and waved back as well, walking backwards just to keep their beaming faces in view for as long as possible. The powdered coldness beneath your feet crunched, while the evening's biting wind nipped at your cheeks with icy kisses.
After a while, as the road curled, they disappeared behind the tall trees, and so you joined Bao's side, chattering away in his soft ears.
"I'll earn a lot during the Lunar New Year and buy you plenty of hay. Oh, and also the salt blocks. I know you love those, but they're too expensive," you giggled, watching Bao's calm muzzle. Still, his ears twitched and his short tail wagged happily, so you knew that the donkey loved your company just as much as you loved his. "And then we can open a second restaurant. What do you think? Perhaps I’ll even get you a friend, just to keep you company."
Bao huffed warm air and blinked slowly, still walking forwards.
The forest road soon widened, and the tall trees opened out onto a broad riverbank. Crystalline water flowed gently, carrying thin plates of ice that melted, froze, and melted again, dampened by the river. The brisk, freezing air bit into your lungs, slipping through the constantly babbling mouth. The skin on your lips was slightly chapped, so you licked them out of habit and cursed shortly after.
As evening turned into night and heavy clouds blanketed the round moon, you hung a small lamp on the cart. The flame flickered along with the rolling court, giving you a faint light.
You were close, just twenty minutes on foot or so, as you've noticed the familiar old wooden bridge crossing the river and the soaring tree that has stood there since the day you were born. Now, bare like a baby, with lush leaves long gone and branches stripped and frozen, with an icicle hanging from them like a threat.
Bao suddenly halted in the middle of the road. His two coal-black eyes looked down, and his nose huffed warm breath onto the snow.
"What is it, Bao?" you asked and squatted down. "Why did we stop?"
But the donkey was tugging at something with his nose, pushing and pushing until, with a faint warmth emanating from the lamp, you realised that something was hidden beneath the snow.
"Oh my, is that another treasure?" you giggled, recalling the time when you'd found a freshly killed fox and made yourself a warm coat out of its lush fur.
But Bao was just huffing and puffing, melting the thick powder with his warm breath. You helped him dig out whatever was hidden beneath it, and… oh.
You jumped back, suddenly landing on the frosty ground. Your breath hitched, stuck in your chilled throat. Eyes bulged like two porcelain plates as they glanced down at the face that surfaced from beneath the waves of heavy snow.
White and pallid, reminding you of a ghost you've only heard about in cautionary tales, and so you were told not to wander alone at night. All the stories you've listened to as a child suddenly flooded your mind, because now, right there, the ghost must have been right in front of you.
But the Bao wasn't panicking. If he did, it would mean that the man covered in snow was a spectral creature indeed. Yet he wasn't, because the moment Bao licked his pale cheek, the man's brows furrowed and a low groan slipped past his lips.
He was alive.
Barely, yet alive, so you crawled closer and dug him out from beneath the snow. The long, white fingers looked almost purple, and his breathing was shallow, but he was alive.
A bit dirty and bloodied, as you've noticed a crimson trail slipping down his temple. The lean cheeks flushed with colour, lips pale, and you gazed at him for a long time before Bao nudged your arm.
You couldn't bring the man home. As you were unmarried and living alone at that. Taking a man back home would lead to the generational scandal the village had never seen before.
The image of all the elderly aunts flooded your mind – their scrunched faces, spit landing in front of your gate, the gossip that would fill the whole village to the point where you would be forced to move somewhere else. The house and a small noodle shop after your parents were all you had left and all you had been fighting for over the past few months, so you could give up on it for the sake of some stranger.
Beautiful, simply ethereal, yet a stranger.
Bao was looming over your shoulder. His warm breath hit your cheek as he nudged it with his nose.
"I can't," you whispered, pressing the hand to the man's cheek. "I don't know what to do. Taking him back is too risky," you looked over your shoulder, eyes crossing with two shining coals.
Bao didn't say anything. Of course he didn't, but simply nudged your cheek again, as if wishing to let you know that it was the right way.
That's what your parents would want.
Because Bao was your father's dearest donkey ever since he was saved from a butcher. One year old then, he began to follow your father everywhere – whether in the fields or on a simple walk to the larger village – and so they enjoyed each other's company for three whole years. Then, both he and your mother died, leaving you and Bao on your own.
You knew he was an animal. Yet, sometimes, you thought that years spent in your father's presence taught him about the unwavering morality and kindness your father held in his heart for others. For people and animals and the gods who walked the earth among everyone else, as no one should be in pain and no one is doomed to a life of misery.
The man lying in front of you was one of those, your father would help headfirst. Dressed in nothing but a flimsy, wet robe. The river must have spat him out, and so he rested there for half the day.
By morning, he would be dead.
Bao nudged your arm again. A long, heavy breath escaped your throat, head hanging between slumped shoulders.
"Fine," fell quietly, almost a murmur, but the donkey heard it.
His fluffy ears trembled, and long, sticky tongue pressed against your cheek.
"Oh, Bao, but you must come closer with this cart. I need to pack him up there."
The donkey, as the smartest animal you truly thought he was, stepped forward and let the cart roll closer to the man.
He seemed tall and muscular, but you've been kneading dough and lifting pigs since you were a teenager, so lifting him was no problem. With a quick squat and a hand wrapped around his arms, you hoisted him onto your back. Too short to take him whole, but strong enough to roll him onto the cart. Under the white material, he was joined by the fresh, bloody pig's meat.
You bit the inside of your cheek as you saw this ethereal man lying among the heavy, grimy slabs. His white hair clung to the raw flesh, cheeks stained crimson, and his body curled around the pig's heart you had saved for the tasty broth.
"I'm sorry," you whispered and covered him back with a cloth. Your palm met with the donkey's back as you giggled. "Let's go, Bao! Lives have to be saved!"
𑁤 𑁤 𑁤
Satoru didn't feel cold anymore.
The snow that had melted beneath his body was gone, and the peppered flakes covering his cheeks suddenly vanished.
His fingers could move despite the biting frost seeping through his skin, and his head rested on something plush.
He no longer felt cold; instead, a deep heat licked his back, with a sizzling, flaming tongue beading sweat on his forehead. A fever, perhaps, or just heaps of fur that he noticed the moment his eyes opened.
The place felt strange. Certainly not a tent he would use on the battlefield nor his quarters in the capital. It wasn't lavish at all, dressed in the rich style he was accustomed to, but he wouldn't call it poor either.
Rather cozy, homey, and he looked around the wooden walls and thin rice-paper doors that now were shut tight. The small bed was creaking under his body as he wriggled, trying to free himself from the heavy piles of fur.
Turning his head to the side, he noticed how tiny the room truly was. Just a small bed, a table with a stool, and a bookshelf filled with folded clothes instead. A bowl of fruit sat on the small table, and a cup of paste – smelly, thick. When his eyes dropped to his bandaged chest, he saw dried traces of it on himself, seeping through the white cloth.
His head throbbed, and his mind sounded an alarm – the sooner he left this place, the better. There was a battle to finish. An empire to defend. An emperor to whom he needed to report.
An army to take care of.
He was the Marquis of all – the highest in rank within the imperial army, wielding an authority that clasped the entire empire in his iron fist.
He was important.
Yet now, he could barely move, and an attempt to sit up was enough to bead another droplet of sweat upon his forehead. The bleak dizziness covered his sight for a brief second, but long enough for someone to slip into the room.
He didn't have his sword, so the only option was to reach for the chopsticks lying carelessly on the bedside table and prepare himself for an attack.
If it was just one man, he would deal with him without a problem. It wasn't the first time he fought with broken ribs and a twisted ankle, yet surely the first time he was alone, without any of his soldiers to cover his back.
Even so, the moment his eyes landed on a person slipping through the door, something within him melted.
Fingers let the chopsticks fall onto the fur bedding, and air pressed against his lips, ready to be inhaled in a gasp. Eyes, mingling like two snowflakes, bulged as he saw a woman slowly walking his way with a trail.
With lovely cheeks kissed by the lantern's dancing flame, stained with a red mark of sorts. Hair falling loosely over the blue robes. Plain, yet neatly embroidered with brown thread that wrapped around the wide, fur-lined sleeves. A white collar loosely hugged your neck, revealing another layer of robes hidden just beneath.
When your eyes looked up from two warm bowls, Satoru thought he had never seen a smile so radiant. Forming your cheeks into soft dumplings – sweet and giggly – as you walked gently towards the bed.
"Finally!" you clasped the moment two bowls were put down on the table. "I was afraid I'd killed you!"
Satoru's lips parted slightly. His eyes remained fixed on your face, as if its mere beauty had taken his breath away. He didn't say anything – he couldn't say anything – and so fluttered his lashes a few times.
And you, on the other hand, stepped from toe to toe, with shame and humiliation filling you up to your fingertips. You knew he was someone of noble descent, but only now, seeing his face fully awake, you've truly felt like a simple, foolish peasant.
Slightly too strong for a woman and too smart-mouthed. With an almost too demanding manner and a not-so-charming side whenever someone bothered you. You were hot-headed, acted too masculine, as aunties in the neighbourhood loved to chirp, and carried yourself with an air that simply scared off potential husbands.
You were anything but lovely, unlike the noble ladies who reminded you of delicate jasmine petals blooming during spring. So now, standing in front of the man who could have been the imperial son himself, you coughed shyly and wavered on your toes.
"But I didn't," you simply added, noticing his bulging eyes. Blue, almost white, like the snowflakes clinging to the papered windows. "It's just that… I've never treated a human, and so I gave you half the horse dose of medicine. But that's because you're tall and heavy, so I thought that it would… well…"
Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your robes, and a warmth hit your cheeks as you noticed his eyes follow you up and down. Surely inspecting all the oil stains and mud sticking to your robes.
You quickly sat on the bed, right in front of him, still watching the startled expression contort his face. His lips looked pale, almost purplish. Face white as snow, creamy and soft, yet bore a small, solitary cut on his plush cheek. White hair fell loosely over his forehead, with a few strands clinging to the droplets of sweat beading on his temples.
And his eyes were still shockingly, almost amazingly fixed on your face.
The night was cold, but warmth started bubbling on the back of your neck as you pressed your hand to his forehead.
"You no longer have a fever. Are you feeling too hot? Those furs might be a little too warm, let me..." You muttered, avoiding his gaze. With a gentle pull, you removed a few furs from him, revealing a naked, bandaged chest. "Oh, I'm sorry. But your trousers stayed on, I swear."
A soft curse slipped from your tongue as you spoke what was on your mind before you had a chance to bite your tongue.
"That was inappropriate. I'm sorry."
Your voice sounded fragile, and when you finally looked up with those shy, doe eyes, Satoru remembered that he needed to say something.
"I don't mind."
Oh dear.
This time, both of you blushed with rosy shame, gazing at each other with fingers clutching your robes.
He coughed, diverting his gaze from your face. Perhaps if he didn't have to look at you, speaking would be simpler.
"I wanted to say, thank you, for the medicine. Even if it was meant for a horse," he grimaced, yet noticed with a corner of his eye your smile. "I don't know who brought me here, but I wish to thank him too."
You chuckled. "Him? I brought you here."
Satoru frowned as he watched you kneel on the floor. One bowl was left lying on the ground, while you lifted a small, entire table and rested it on the bed, with a large bowl of noodles right beneath his nose.
"You brought me here all the way from the forest?" he peered through the slightly open window, noticing that the room he was resting in was on the second floor. "And hauled me upstairs?"
You nodded, placing fresh chopsticks next to his bowl. A gentle flush coloured your cheeks as you nodded, avoiding his gaze. Your hands quickly adjusted the two large pillows behind his back to help him sit more comfortably.
"But how?"
You tucked a lock of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. "I'm quite strong," you said quietly, then quickly added, trying to distract him from the fact that you had hauled a grown man upstairs on your back. "I prepared it for you. You didn't eat anything for three days except the porridge. I've noticed you were slowly waking up, so I've made a fresh broth."
He looked down into the large bowl, filled with clear soup. Salty and aromatic, packed with meat that bent and curled almost wickedly, and so he felt a fat globe stuck in his throat.
It didn't look like something he was used to eating back in the capital.
Back there, the tables bowed under the weight of rare meats, exotic fruits, and spices reserved only for the highest nobles. He would be served rich dishes of glazed beef and rabbits, hunted from private grounds. Oranges plucked straight from the imperial garden and peaches, their sweetness dripping down his chin.
Here, he was served a bowl of noodles, with long, wrinkled pieces of meat.
A second later, he heard a loud slurping, almost obscene. When he looked around, he saw you sitting cross-legged at a smaller table, eating noodles with a hum. Crimson oil splattered across your cheeks each time you sucked a noodle in.
He looked at you with slightly parted lips, and when you noticed, another wave of humiliation washed over your spine. But your cheeks were already filled to the brim, like two fat dumplings, so you could only chew the noodles while meeting his gaze.
The chilli oil stained your lips red, and you wiped it away with your thumb. To which he responded with a frown once again.
Oh dearest.
"Do you not like it?" you asked, scrambling to your feet and sitting on the bed. "Do you need help? I didn't add many spices to it, your body is still too weak."
But he said nothing, simply gazed at the full bowl with a gentle, almost childlike frown wrinkling his forehead.
You looked down, a small oh rolling off your tongue.
"Do you not like… intestines?" You asked carefully, and he looked up at you, almost horrified.
"Intestines?"
"Pig intestines," you repeated, watching his eyes bulge again. "Oh, but I cleaned them very carefully! They've been soaking in salt and vinegar for two days; I've also rubbed them clean, so..." shut up, shut up, shut up. "... there's no faeces. Not any more."
Satoru was on the verge of fainting. But his stomach was growling with hunger, and the soup, aside from the obvious fact of what was swimming inside, smelled delicious, making his taste buds drool.
So he needed to eat it.
Because he was starving.
Or… maybe not truly.
Perhaps he needed to eat it because the sight of your ashamed, sorry face struck him like a hammer. Your eyes, fixed on fingers fiddling with the hem of your robes, as you refused to look at him. Again.
He couldn't see your eyes, but something deep inside his heart told him that if he did, crystal tears would be covering your lovely irises.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. The softness of your voice nearly crushed his soul. "The pig is cheap, and… I didn't have the money to buy you something better. I'm sorry I can't offer you anything else."
If Satoru could pierce himself with a sword, he would do so without hesitation. Never in all the years of his life would he have imagined that the sorrowful look on the strange woman's face would crumple his heart so miserably.
He refused women before. Noble birdies and princesses too, yet not even a single pout on their powdered faces could match the heartbreaking sulk of yours. With an oil stain still coating your cheek and something resembling flour dusted on your hands.
So he took a deep breath, grasped the chopsticks, and took a first bite. Then came the second, and the third, and before he knew it, the clear broth was splashing over his chest as long pieces of meat met with a low, satisfied hum.
You looked up, brushing your slightly wet eyes with a sleeve. "Do you like it?"
He loved it.
And so he looked up from the steaming bowl. His cheeks were creamy with a mix of noodles and meat, eyes shining bright like two lovely snowflakes. The small lamp bathed half his face in warm, gentle light as the rosiness returned to his body.
You slipped back onto the floor and sat by your small table.
For a few minutes, the room was filled with nothing but your hums and slurps. The chewing of fresh noodles that melted on your tongue and his eyes, fluttering whenever he glanced down at your stuffed face.
Something swelled beneath his chest every time you looked up. With doe eyes shining with pure bliss, a few more specks of chilli oil coated your skin. The tip of your nose, the corner of your lips, and your chin creased when his gaze lingered on you a little too long.
"Are you still hungry?" You mumbled with a full mouth. "I cooked a whole pot."
But Satoru shook his head. "I was wondering what your name is."
A small oh fell past your lips as you muttered your name next.
His lips curved into a gentle smile, and a hand stretched out towards you. You looked at it with a frown before placing your palm on his.
He laughed, yet didn't take his hand back. But simply pulled you onto your feet again and sat down on the bed.
Hand still opened, as he spoke softly. "Write the characters down."
With a bite on the inside of your cheek, you placed a finger on his skin. Slightly hard and still covered in cuts, you began painting the characters. With delicate precision, you remembered the order of strokes by heart.
The only words you've ever learnt.
He watched it carefully before repeating your name once more. It sounded different this time – more elegant, almost noble – and you wriggled in your seat as he murmured it repeatedly under his breath.
"What's yours?"
He smiled and this time took your hand, spreading it open. His long finger pressed against your skin before it started moving. Dancing across your palm, he painted neat, straight lines, of which you had no knowledge.
You've recognised the character five. Then, there was something else you'd seen standing before the character for noodle. Yet the last you simply couldn't recognise. It reminded you of something, but you couldn't recall what. When he finished, both of you looked up at the same time.
And not a second had passed before the warmth stung both of you. He was sitting close. But perhaps a little too close, and you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest.
His breath on your cheeks, and another hand cupping your hand, as if wishing to simply hold it up in the air.
Your eyes quickly fell back to your palm, as you confessed, shyly. "I don't know the last character."
"Oh," slipped past his lips, as he wrote all three of them again. But this time, much slower, as if letting you remember each curve and stroke. "Go, Jo, Satoru. My name is Gojo Satoru. But you can call me just Satoru."
You looked at your palm, as if the characters were still etched into the roughness of your skin. Slightly stained with chilli oil, a bit too dry from spending too long outside.
"Gojo Satoru," you whispered. For your ears only, yet he heard it nevertheless. "Satoru."
Something within, deep beneath all the scars slashing his skin, the burning muscles, and the coldness he had kept inside for too long – suddenly swelled. A feeling he had never felt before, carrying a warmth that spilled across his chest. Wrapping snugly around his rigid heart, which suddenly began to flutter tenderly, almost shyly.
And the longer he looked at your face, with eyes still tracing the last marks of the name he left on your palm, the more uneasy he became.
Because he suddenly thought that eating pig intestines wouldn't be so bad if it meant seeing your smile until the end of his days.
𑁤 𑁤 𑁤
Days went by slowly. Satoru couldn't really leave the bedroom, so he relied solely on your kindness.
He spent the days sitting on the plush mattresses, silently gazing out the window, discreet enough not to let the neighbours realise that a man had been spending the night in your house. In your bedroom.
Considering you run the restaurant just downstairs, he had plenty of time to observe you from high up. And he used this opportunity, gazing down at you with a hand resting on his chin, a gentle smile creasing his eyes.
He watched you carry the sacks of flour, lifting both without a bead of sweat. Sometimes you went out with your donkey to pick fresh vegetables, only to return with a sack of pig's meat slung over your shoulder, the butchering knife clutched in the other hand.
Lovely and blushing from biting cold, yet with the usual frown wrinkling your forehead.
Whenever you caught him staring at you from the window, your face froze in terror. The sack was quickly dropping down the wooden cart, the knife hidden behind your back. A lovely, awkward smile tugged at your lips as you disappeared behind the house, where you probably cut all the meat into smaller pieces.
Only to bring him another bowl of noodles a few hours later. Fresh and delicious, rarely with intestines, you knew he wasn't particularly fond of them.
When the restaurant was full, he heard your loud, chief voice bickering with clients.
Sometimes, you would carry the overly drunk customers out, gripping their collars with your hands, threatening them with a knife until they left your possession.
And even then, he would gaze at your flaming, reddened cheeks with a tilted head and a quiet chuckle slipping from his throat.
And even then, you would look up and freeze in place, quickly tucking locks of hair behind your ears. An awkward smile twisted your lips before you ran back to the restaurant, trying to veil your embarrassment with a wide chopper.
You rarely ate breakfast and dinner together because you spent most of your time in restaurant.
But evenings… evenings were always reserved for you two.
And when Satoru recovered enough to stand with the help of a wooden crutch, you began eating at one table.
Sitting in the restaurant with the doors and windows closed tight, only a few candles illuminating the small space as you ate, laughed, and talked. Of all sorts and matters, like two friends, soulmates, drunk on their own company.
Because you wished to know about Satoru as much as he wished to know about you. And so he asked you about everything, from childhood and family to dreams, your current life, and the restaurant.
When you confessed that you were alone in this world after your parents were murdered by the bandits while returning from the village – his heart ached.
The restaurant, Bao and this house were all you had left. With no siblings or other relatives that could offer you some help.
"Oh, aside from my father's brother," you said, snacking on the osmanthus cake you bought in the town today. "He's trying to take over the house. And as I'm unmarried, there's a good chance he'll succeed."
The sorrowful look filled your eyes whenever you spoke of it: the village you truly loved and the house where you were born. Of Maki and Yuta, your closest friends who lived a short walk from here, and of everything this place had held for the past twenty-three years of your life.
"I can't marry into someone's family, and no man in his right mind would want to marry into mine," you joked, serving him a second helping of the soup. "I have nothing to offer. There's no dowry, and as soon as I speak, everyone flees."
You tried to laugh it off, but Satoru saw it. The sadness and humiliation that sometimes seeped into your eyes, as your voice caught in your throat for a few seconds. Usually, you would break eye contact and focus on your own bowl, picking up the remaining uneaten noodles.
"I guess everything would be easier if you just married me," another joke.
Slightly drunk after I've pleased yourself with a few cups of wine. Your eyes clearly not registering the words, lips curling cheekily as you propped your chin on your hand.
You joked, but something deep within his heart fluttered with warmth, and so a low "I can," fell past his lips.
He knew your weren't serious, but he… he was.
Satoru didn't know why, but the moment you told him you were unmarried – at first he thought he would have to fight a man named Bao, before realising it was just a donkey – a spark of happiness blossomed in his chest. No, rather an overwhelming joy, as the thought of you smiling that way at any other man but him would kill his slowly warming heart.
You were always truthful with him, like an open book, not hiding any part of your painful life.
And he… well.
He was a scholar from a royal academy who got lost during his travels. His feeble body fainted, and he ended up in a river that carried him ashore near your village. His father was also an imperial scholar, and so Satoru aspired to join the ministry in the future. As someone important, but not overly so.
After all, there were other people who wielded much crucial power.
"Oh, for example, Marquis?" you said, pouting softly. "The recent gossip says he died in the last battle. I wonder if it's true."
Satoru tensed at first upon hearing the title he had somehow forgotten after a month living under your roof, but a playful, gentle smile soon returned to his rosy cheeks.
"Hm," he tapped his finger onto the table, chin perched on a hand. "What do people say about him?"
Oh dearest, now he needed to get his ego stroked.
You looked up from a bowl. "About a Marquis?"
Satoru nodded.
The candle bathed half his face in warmth, the flickering flame making his two blue eyes stand out in the darkness. Night had fallen quietly, and only a few lanterns lit a short path through the tiny village.
Satoru wasn't used to the quiet and serenity of such things. However, after a month, he couldn't imagine falling asleep without the stars dancing above his house and snowflakes softly clinging to the windows.
The aroma of osmanthus filled the restaurant as you held the fresh cup of tea. "He's a monster, I've heard. Brutal and merciless."
Satoru frowned. You weren't quite wrong, but the gossipers might have exaggerated the whole situation a little.
He pulled the warm blanket more firmly over his shoulders and bit the inside of his rosy cheek.
"Do you…" He took a deep breath, glancing almost shyly at your oblivious face. "Do you also think that way?"
You probably did, because what reason would you have not to follow the information spread in the village? And given that you couldn't read or write, it was easy to feed you all sorts of facts. Not quite true, yet still close to reality.
And yet, you simply said, "I don't," and took a sip of your tea.
"Really?" his voice wavered.
"Hm, yes. He sure must be powerful, but if his heart wasn't in the right place, would he protect the people of the empire as he has for the past few years? I've never seen the Marquis, but… I just think, deep down, he must be a good person."
Satoru's breath hitched. He wouldn't call himself a good person. Not even a benevolent one.
But then, sitting in the darkness of your small restaurant, while the snowstorm danced outside the little wooden house, he felt the need to be someone deserving of your praise.
A man worthy of your smile.
"So…" you started chewing on the osmathus cake. You really loved those flowers, and so he made a quick note to buy you plenty when the next winter comes and– "When are you planning to leave?"
Oh.
Right.
His shoulders visibly slumped, and his eyes softened with a feeling unnoticeable to you.
"I don't know," Satoru murmured, playing with his empty teacup.
You did the same, as silence threaded between your fingers. Mere millimetres apart, yet not close enough to even touch.
You looked up for a second. Just to see if he was looking at you. But he wasn't, so your eyes dropped back to the teacup.
"I'm sure you have a lot of things to do," please say you don't, please say you don't.
"Mhm," he hummed.
"Your ribs should be healed before the Lunar New Year."
A smile tugged at his lips, but it wasn't quite the one you often saw as he peered down at you from the bedroom window. This one felt much less genuine, almost forced.
"Right."
"And I'm sure your family is worrying about you."
They weren't. Satoru knew that no one did.
You took a deep breath. "And your wife too?"
He suddenly looked up. "My wife?"
You nodded.
"I don't have a wife."
"Oh."
Silence fell once more in an awkward manner. The chill seeped through the flimsy windows, and the tea was long finished.
You cleared your throat and finally looked up to meet the tenderness in his gaze. Warm, gentle, and once again with this strange feeling that almost reminded you of a beaten pup. As if he were begging for something, yet he refused to say it aloud.
"But…" you started, immediately noticing the gleam of hope in his eyes. "But if you wish to stay a bit longer, and maybe spend the New Year with me…" The back of your neck burned. "I would be very glad. I know you're healing fast, so you don't have to–"
"I want to," Satoru quickly stated, his handsome, pale face burning red. "I want to stay with you. For the New Year, that is…"
A soft good, slipped past your lips, before your gaze fell back down to the teacup.
This time, the silence didn't feel uncomfortable at all.
Rather, it felt quite cosy, even intimate, as Satoru pushed his teacup closer to yours. Just a little, a few centimetres truly, but enough to extend his small finger and brush the softness of your palm.
It lasted just a second, and it might have been an imagination of yours, but he was warm. And gentle. And his cheeks were burning with rich flame, as he coughed and propped his chin back on the hand.
This time, turning it to the side, just to hide his face from your giggly smile.
But, oh, if it wasn't one of the happiest evenings of his life.
𑁤 𑁤 𑁤
The Lunar New Year fell at the end of the month. Satoru was able to walk quite well by then, and the wooden crutch was often left behind in your bedroom.
He still only left the house at night, yet you allowed him to sit in the kitchen during the day.
Although he could offer little to no help, as the life of luxury taught him that there was no need to bother himself with any other skills besides the martial arts.
And thus, during the day, he sat hidden in the kitchen and chopped the pork with slow precision. Washed the vegetables until the skin shone crystal-clear like the snow piling up outside, and simmered the soup with long, patient strokes.
Very, very slowly.
"Your patience is truly lacking, darling," he chuckled once, noticing the scowl between your eyebrows. "Patience is a virtue."
You scoffed at his unhurried, relaxed movements. "Good I wasn't rich enough to become a scholar, then," and with a smile, you grabbed two bowls of steaming noodles from his hands.
Since the quiet night spent at the restaurant, Satoru hasn't brought up the topic of his departure anymore.
And you didn't either, letting it sit heavily on your stomach, as you secretly wished for him to stay longer than until the end of the month.
Yet a foolish wish it was, as you knew, that Satoru would never belong to you.
To a pretty, noble lady? Sure.
To the imperial throne? Yes.
To knowledge and wit and riches? Of course.
Yet, never, in a thousand years, to an uneducated, simple woman like you, who spent her days kneading noodles and cutting meat.
Perhaps you should keep some distance from him, but a foolish desire of yours was to seize all the moments, the sweetness blossoming within your tender hearts, with your greedy fingers.
You allowed yourself to become intoxicated by his smile, his soft, gentle voice, and eyes that always seemed to watch over you.
To let his hand sometimes be bound with yours, and during the deep, deep nights when the snowstorms rapped on the windows, allow his fingers to gently push aside the locks of your tired, sleeping face. Cheek pressed to the table, as you accidentally fell asleep in the restaurant.
To feel his lips mere millimetres from yours. Warm, trembling, yet never pressing against yours.
His strong, muscular arms wrapping around your body as he carried you effortlessly back upstairs. Gently tucked into the bedroom beside his, covering you in heavy furs.
And when you thought he would leave you there and go back to his bedroom – he always stayed.
Kneeling by your bed, as his big, warm head caressed your hair with long, tender strokes. Brushing hair away from your lovely cheeks, as the faint glow of the candle lit the side of your sleeping face.
"The days I'm spending in your presence…" he whispered, pressing a warm thumb between your eyebrows. "… are the happiest moments of my life."
In times like these, your heart would race, trembling like the earth beneath the hooves of thousands of horses crossing the empire's lush plains. It was surprising that he didn't seem to hear it. Yet if he leaned just a bit closer, he would surely hear the shaky breath.
"Don't chase me away," his hand pressed to your cheek. Warm, soft, caressing your skin with a thumb. "Let me stay a bit longer."
So you did just that. Stayed calm, asleep, allowing him to rest his head on the mattress. His eyes remained fixed on your face, and you could almost feel the hole his gaze burned in your cheeks.
Yet finally, as his hand stroked your head gently, you fell asleep at last.
And when you woke up the next morning, he was still there. Sleeping half-folded, still kneeling on the floor, with his hand clasped around yours. Not too tight, yet enough to keep it warm.
You've noticed he was dressed only in night robes, so you pressed your hand to his cheek, feeling how cold it was.
"Satoru," you mumbled, brushing his flushed skin with a thumb. "Satoru, you can't sleep like that. You'll get sick again."
You didn't realise that Satoru didn't get sick easily. In fact, he could spend days on the battlefield, hiding deep in tall, cold bushes, covered only in mud. There were battles when he did exactly that, so resting in your warm room, with a gentle chill wrapping him freshly, was nothing compared with everything he was accustomed to.
Yet his eyes opened slowly, and his lips pouted sweetly, as if the chill truly seeped deep into his marrow. "Are you going to cook me some soup?"
You chuckled, brushing the messy, sleepy strands of hair from his forehead. "I don't know. Do you feel sick?"
He hummed, allowing himself to nuzzle into your hand. "Very. I may as well collapse any minute now."
The sun was already high in the sky, slipping into the bedroom almost shyly. It cast long, warm stripes across the wooden floors. It was still early, and the restaurant wouldn't open until lunchtime.
You let out a deep sigh, yet the corners of your eyes curled into a giggle. "Fine. Come down in ten minutes. I still have a bit of broth left from yesterday."
Satoru smiled as your figure gradually vanished behind the paper doors. Only when you closed them did he finally release a deep, trembling breath from his throat.
His head dropped back onto the mattress as he groaned in embarrassment.
What was he thinking, staying all night by your side?
How foolish, even disturbing, it was to watch you sleep until sunrise, when the golden rays of sunlight only began to seep through the thin windows?
His heart pounded and cheeks burned. Swollen, tired eyes stayed closed, and fingers curled into the plush bedding you'd slept beneath. Still warm from your body, carrying the sweetness of your sweat.
Oh dearest.
He groaned again, knowing that the warm sensation spreading across his chest wasn't so strange anymore.
Now, after spending almost two months in your presence, he could recognise it by a tremble of his heart alone.
And this alone was making him lose his mind.
A moment had passed when he heard your voice coming from downstairs.
So he dressed himself properly and neatly, wrapping himself in simple robes you pulled from your father's old closet, and slowly came downstairs to join you.
The crisp air was seeping through the open window, snowflakes landing softly on a wooden table. He took a quick look outside, watching the fairy-like landscape bathed in thick powder.
The empty roads, wooden houses blanketed in biting cold, and trees bare and sorrowful. Still, there was something enchanting about the paleness of this scene, with roofs covered in rolling piles of snow and icicles hanging beneath them.
The river was still frozen, and bare branches gleamed with a sheen, icy kisses bouncing off rays of warm sunshine. Not warm enough to melt the snow, yet the sunshine bathed the whole village in soft, golden touches.
The red lanterns and decorations that appeared a few days ago enhanced the festive spirit in the icy land. Satoru noticed the long red paper couplets stuck to the neighbours' doors, their characters seeming to bend and twist into unfamiliar sentences.
Satoru chuckled, trying to read the couplet on the neighbours' house across the road.
Something about luck, and fortune and health, but some strokes were not in the right places, and the lines seemed a bit too long.
Only then did he realise that your house didn't have the wishes. Not on the door nor on the wooden fence, and so he furrowed, already rolling his sleeves up to the elbows.
You were still in the kitchen when he hurried back upstairs. A few days ago, he was poking around the bedroom he had stayed in, clearly recalling a few pieces of red couplet paper and an ink stone that still looked quite fresh.
He checked the small bookshelf and all three rows of cardboard. The things he was searching for were hidden in the last one.
"Oh," your voice suddenly echoed into the bedroom as you saw Satoru sitting by the small table. "The soup is ready." Your gaze shifted to the red paper and an ink stone. "Do you want to…"
Satoru smiled, stretching his hand towards you. "I've noticed we don't have the New Year wishes on our doors. Allow me to write some, hm?"
You nodded shyly, placing your hand in his and letting him draw you closer. Until you sat beside him, watching as he ground the wet stick against the ink stone. Until it melted softly, letting the liquid darkness cover its surface.
"Your father could write?" Satoru asked, pressing the paper in half and wetting the tip of a brush in ink. "Everything seems to be quite new."
He noticed the shy shaking of your head. Your eyes dropped down to your hands, crumpling the old fabric of your robes.
"Not really," you mumbled, feeling another wave of embarrassment creep down your spine. "After they died, I wanted to learn how to write. It's just... I never really had the time. That's why everything is barely used."
The brush Satoru held suddenly hung over the paper.
He put it back on the little stone, keeping it above the table.
"Come here," his voice fell softly. A hand, warm and strong, pulled you by the arm. "Let's do it together."
He pushed the table, creating a space right in front of him for you. A clear uncertainty flickered in your eyes, but you let him draw you closer. Until you sat with your legs folded, your back pressed against his chest, a strong arm wrapping around yours.
His gentle breath tickled your ear, and white strands of hair brushed against your cheek.
It was the closest you'd ever been since the day you drew each other's names on your palms. But then you didn't feel his heart beating against your back. You didn't feel his body pressing against yours, his lips almost brushing your ear as he taught you the proper way to hold the brush.
"Just like that," his low whispers sent shivers down your spine. "The brush needs to be just above the paper."
It absorbed black ink with its soft bristles. The long couplet paper was spread across the table, and you wondered whether tiny droplets of obsidian liquid would fall onto its surface.
"Now, what do you wish for?"
You didn't allow yourself to desire too much. Perhaps something everyone else wished for too – money, health, simple happiness. Nothing overly greedy. Too risky, that would put too many foolish thoughts into your head.
Satoru's chest was pressed against your back in a distracting way, and despite all the thoughts urging you not to dream of anything out of reach, you still said:
"Love."
Satoru's breath shuddered by your ear.
Your head turned slowly, just slightly, as you peeked over your shoulder to make eye contact with his deep, ocean eyes that always remained fixed on your face.
"I wish to find love. Someone with whom I could grow old together."
He didn't move for a while, and you didn't either.
Just allowed your eyes to stare into his, as if wishing for all the kept feelings, all the restless nights spent thinking about him, to somehow roll clearly from a single gaze of yours.
His lips looked soft and plush, much better than when you first met him. And so, you wondered how they would feel pressed against yours.
Would he taste of jujube candy he snacked on every day?
Or maybe of osmanthus, strong and flavourful, as you both nibbled the soft cookies in the evenings?
But he didn't do anything – didn't say either. So you turned back to the paper, letting your whole body fill with warmth.
The brush hung over it before Satoru finally moved your hands.
Pressing the little tip to the its surface and painting the vertical rows of characters.
There was a heart, and there was two. Something about feeling and hundreds of years, yet you truly couldn't read the full sentences.
But he knew. And so his silky voice once again wrapped around your ears.
"Two hearts beat in one and delight in each other," he whispered, painting with your hand a first column of the phrase, before moving to another piece of paper. "A harmonious bond bringing joy for a hundred years."
Each character was written slowly, carefully, letting your eyes soak in the painting appearing right beneath your hands.
The meaning of the wishes carved deep within your heart, as you still heard Satoru's voice bouncing inside your mind.
Two hearts beat in one and delight in each other, a harmonious bond bringing joy for a hundred years.
It didn't sound like a simple wish.
Rather like a love ballad, written with a tenderness for the person most cherished.
"Is it a poem?" You asked, not daring to look over your shoulder.
But Satoru said nothing. He simply set the brush down and quickly stood up, moving the table closer to the window so the sun could spill its warm rays onto the drying ink.
He sat with his back to you for a few seconds, and you noticed the unnatural redness of his neck. Not even his white strands could fully mask the blush.
"I'm hungry," he said with a slightly muffled voice. "Can we go back down and eat breakfast?"
"Oh," fell quietly past your lips as you slowly stood up. "Yes, the broth… I bought a lamb yesterday. You like the tender meat so… well. Just join me downstairs when you're ready."
Satoru nodded, not turning his head even when you left the bedroom.
He was too busy thanking the Gods that you somehow, by a pure miracle, didn't notice a big, wet bulge coating his robes.
𑁤 𑁤 𑁤
Three days later, a day before the eve of the Lunar New Year came, and so it was time to set out on a short trip to Maki's and Yuta's house.
It was still early morning when you began packing. You spent most of your time preparing fresh noodles, meat, and vegetables for the New Year's hot pot.
It was nearly the end of the month, and so both you and Satoru knew that another conversation about his stay would come very soon.
You didn't want him to leave. As the days spent in his company were some of the happiest moments of your life.
And Satoru didn't bring up the topic either, merely letting the serenity and affection fill your peaceful days.
"Are you sure I can wear it?" he asked from the bedroom next to yours, and you could see the shadows of his figure through the paper walls.
His broad, muscular back was being dressed in your father's old festive clothes, as you dug them out from the depths of the chest. Too beautiful to simply toss aside, so you gave them to Satoru to prevent him from visiting your friends in his usual hemp clothes.
"Mhm, no one is using it, so take it."
He hummed under his breath, and a moment later left the bedroom.
You were applying simple makeup now, nothing elaborate, just a touch of blush and redness to look more festive.
His heavy footsteps echoed along the hallways, and your bedroom door slid open wide.
"I could've been naked, you know?" You chuckled.
He smiled, coming inside and showing himself in full view.
And he… he looked majestic. Beautiful. Dressed in long black and red robes, with a fur collar wrapped around his neck. The silk belt loosely encircled his thin waist, wide sleeves swooshed in the air, and white fur threaded through his pale skin.
Now, finally dressed in anything other than the hem robes of dark blue and earthy hues, he truly resembled a noble.
And you needed to remind yourself that he was a noble.
"You look handsome," was the only thing you managed to choke out.
His head tilted, and eyes shifted over your figure, hunched on the stool. Your thumb was reddened as you dabbed powder on your lips.
But you didn't look as breathtaking as he did – or so you thought. Dressed in much simpler robes of red and dark blue, woven with a touch of warm linen. The festive red made your lips stand out, and the pins decorating your hair were rather plain too. Nothing he was probably used to seeing.
And yet, he bit the inside of his cheek and kept his eyes restless on your body for much longer than they ought to.
He took a few steps forward and knelt right in front of you, just to cup a warm cheek with his hand. "You're the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."
The blush you applied to your skin was red enough, yet now, blending with your natural warmth, it must have made you appear foolish.
Your lashes fluttered softly as you turned your head away. "I know you don't mean it. The noble ladies sure are much lovelier."
He chuckled and pinched your chin to draw you closer again. Deep, ocean eyes gazed at you with tender sweetness as he brushed your lower, red lip.
"And yet, none of them made me fall in love with pig intestines."
You laughed, ugly, pushing him away. "Rude!"
He chuckled, sitting down on your bed. His eyes still watched the way you applied makeup, with gentle fingertips smudging the crimson powder over your lips.
"I speak of truth only, darling."
You hummed, still not quite believing his charming words. "Mhm, go downstairs and check whether the cart is fully packed."
When you saw his furrow in the mirror's reflection, your head quickly turned to look back at him again. "What?"
He sighed. "I don't think Bao likes me."
"Of course he does. He likes everyone."
Satoru shook his head. "Not me. He actually bit me the last time I rubbed his head."
You smiled, and your cheeks formed into two plush dumplings. "No, he didn't."
But when Satoru rolled his sleeve up to show a nasty, purplish bruise on his forearm, you bit down on your lower lip.
His eyes narrowed. "You want to laugh."
Your head swiftly turned back to the mirror as you covered your lips with a nearby hand fan. "No, I don't. That looks quite bad indeed."
But your eyes creased into a smile, even slightly moist, as the thought of Bao biting Satoru out of pure jealousy for you genuinely made you burst into laughter.
"Go downstairs then and put it into the snow."
Satoru rolled his eyes and let the sleeve fall back down to his wrist. "A truly heartless woman you are, darling, to care for this mull more than for me."
You knew he was joking, and so you traced his handsome grin all the way back to the door, before he winked at you and disappeared behind the paper surface.
The sweet, heated days couldn't last too long.
And you knew it all too well, for the restless sensation weighed heavily on your heart. Something ominous was approaching. A plague, or a curse, that would tear through the peaceful moments spent in Satoru's company.
The uneasiness gripped your heart even then, as you added the final touches to your makeup.
It's here, a sudden thought wrapped around your mind. Whatever curse is coming, it's already here.
And, oh, how badly you wished for it not to be the truth.
But then you heard a woman's scream and a low man's voice rambling in such a familiar way. Low and slightly drunk. The voice of your uncle.
You stood up immediately, rushing downstairs and stumbling over the long robes. Your breath caught in your throat, chest aching with pain and a hope that Satoru wasn't the one who caused the sudden ruckus.
If they found him, a young, unmarried man in your house, where none of the elders could keep an eye on your two tender hearts – you didn't want to consider the consequences.
Certainly, the move would be unavoidable. As your reputation becomes tarnished by a nasty, humiliating patch, the wicked aunties of the village would surely cling to your name.
There were good people too, and yet the power of gossip in a small community like yours was truly disheartening.
So you ran downstairs and hurried, and when you didn't see Satoru or anyone in the kitchen or the restaurant's main inn, your heart leapt once again.
"And who are you, young man, to bother her at home?"
Oh dearest.
Within two steps, you pushed the door open and encountered a scenery you desperately wanted to avoid.
Your uncle and aunt were once again in your possession, holding a document of ownership in their hands. The one you had refused to sign for the past few months.
Satoru stood right in front of the house, packing the last items onto the wooden cart. His brows knitted tightly, eyes narrowed, and you've never seen such a fierce expression contort his face.
All the traces of gentle warmth were washed away; solely a wicked, cold severity pressed his lips into a tight line.
And what was worse – all the villagers were gradually gathering outside the low wooden fence, whispering and talking, staring between the three of you in utter shock.
Your uncle moved his gaze to you, pointing at Satoru with his finger. "Who is he?!"
The situation wasn't that bad, you thought.
Because Satoru was of noble descent, he looked much more impressive than all the other men in the village – handsome, broad, and radiating a dominant, daunting aura that did not blend into the community.
Satoru could simply state that he was a scholar asking for a way back home.
And then he could leave, healthy and fed, letting himself forget the past two months he had spent in your company.
In fact, he had an easy way out.
So you looked at him, wishing he would do it too.
But he didn't.
Instead, he watched the Bao's reins resting in his hands. Old and scratchy, because you couldn't afford to buy new ones.
He watched the hem of his dark robes and slightly worn shoes, embroidered with golden thread by your own hands.
His eyes fell on the snow. He took a deep breath of fresh, biting air that tickled him with icy pinches. But he didn't mind.
His belly was full and his mind, for the first time in a few years, calm.
And his heart, oh his heart, was heavy and warm, swelling as it pulled him towards a woman who was ready to risk her reputation and well-being to keep him safe.
The one who couldn't read or write and lacked the virtues the noble ladies possessed, yet spent nights sitting by the small table, with a single candle casting a gentle glow on her face, her trembling fingers trying to form curved characters.
Just three, always the same, and once, when you fell asleep again, with cheek dirtied with ink, Satoru recognised all three of them.
His name.
The first characters you thought of learning were his name.
"I'm asking you something! Who is this man?!"
Your uncle was fuming. Aunt looked between you and Satoru with narrowed eyes, while the other older women in the village had already begun their gossip.
You needed to end it.
"He's–"
"I'm her future husband." His voice was stern. Fully serious. "I came to ask for her hand."
Your lips fell open. Eyes wide and shining, as he looked at you over his shoulder. Just for a moment, before his gaze went back to your uncle.
"I came to place an offering for her parents. To marry into her family and ask for the blessing to take her hand."
Your finger clutched the hem of your clothes tighter. Teeth biting the inside of your cheek to stop the tears that wished to swell beneath your lids.
Satoru stepped closer to your uncle and aunt. He was tall – much taller than they were – and his wide, muscular shoulders loomed over them both, casting dark shadows across the soft snow.
His eyes, icy cold, slipped down to the document your uncle clenched in his fingers, and he pulled it with a quick move.
Your aunt gasped, but she didn't take a step forward. She just grabbed her husband's arm, gritting her teeth until you could hear her jaw cracking.
"I think it belongs to me now, doesn't it?" Satoru muttered, looking at the document. His eyes traced the characters, written in bends and curls, and brows furrowed. "Where's the magistrate's stamp?"
Your uncle looked up at him with clenched fists and gritted."I don't know what you're talking about."
Satoru smiled. Slyly, almost wickedly, with a grin that sent shivers down your spine.
"I'm sure you don't," he chuckled, then crumpled the document in his fist. "You wanted to use the fact that she can't read, huh? Force her to give you everything she owns and leave with nothing?"
The whispers of the villagers mixed with gasps and snickers, as both your aunt and uncle flushed in humiliation.
"How dare you!" The woman pointed a finger at him, yet still gripped her husband's arm tightly. "You're not married yet, so what right have you to it all? And so what if we don't have the magistrate's approval! Why should we live in a cramped house while she has all of this to herself?!"
"Hmm," Satoru's eyes narrowed as he leaned over both of them. The paper in his fist was now ripped to shreds, and he slipped it into the pocket of his robes. "We're to be married in three days. And as the joyous holidays have come, I'm sure the magistrate won't be working for quite some time."
Your aunt and uncle shuddered beneath his gaze. Wild yet still collected, as he finally straightened up.
"You–"
"If you wish to talk to her…" Satoru added, ignoring your uncle's fuming cheeks. "You're the first to speak to me. You do not contact her, nor do you bother to send another false document. We can speak before the magistrate or simply part ways here."
He didn't wait for their answer.
But turned on his heel and headed towards the house, where you still stood in the doorway – with trembling lips and fingers gently wiping away tears from your cheeks.
He pushed you inside, not saying a word, before closing the door shut.
His back hit the wooden surface, and head fell low between slumped shoulders. The thick, creamy redness once again crept up his neck and to his ears, yet he didn't have the courage to show you his face.
The small space of the restaurant was filled with your snotty breaths that rolled heavily past your lips.
You were never a crybaby. Yet the warmth that suddenly settled in your heart sent trembling kisses up to your fingertips. His words still echoed in your mind, loud and unbelievable, so you stepped closer and lifted your fingers to tug at his robes.
"Why did you say it?" you whispered. "Satoru, you could have just lied. Say you were a simple scholar who came to the restaurant."
His head was still hanging low.
"Satoru," you repeated, tugging at his robes. "Do you know what you have brought upon yourself?" When he ignored you again, you finally pinched his chin and lifted it. "Sato–"
His face – handsome and gentle – was plagued by the juiciest, loveliest embarrassment you've ever seen. His cheeks were like two cherries, plump and sweet, as he looked at you with a maddened, almost miserable frown.
Eyes glistening with fondness, lips drawn in a line, as he finally allowed his breath to escape through his tightened throat.
"What if I want to?" He said.
Your forehead furrowed, and fingers pinching his chin fell away. But not completely, as he quickly grasped your hand and pressed it back to his cheek. Nuzzling into the softness of your skin and relishing the gentle, flowery oil you had smoothed over yourself.
"What do you mean?" Your voice slipped more flinchy than you wished.
Satoru closed his eyes, and before you knew it, his lips landed on your palm. Placing a short, gentle kiss, sending shivers down your spine.
"What if I wanted to be your husband?" he asked again, this time a little more confident. His eyes opened, staring at your dazed, lovely face. "What if I hadn't lied?" he bit the inside of his cheek. "What if I truly understood the meaning of love after meeting you?"
You didn't say anything back. Just stared, allowing him to push out all the restless emotions that had been building deep within his heart for the past months.
"The thought of ever returning to my old life and forgetting the days spent in your presence feels like a nightmare," he trembled. His lips, eyes, and fingers clutched your hand tighter.
No one ever made him feel as vulnerable as you did.
"Satoru–"
"I don't do it out of pity," he quickly added, as if afraid your thoughts might slip that way. "I'm genuinely, madly, sincerely, darling, in lov–"
He didn't finish.
But he couldn't, as your lips suddenly pressed against his. In a messy, awkward, and sloppy kiss, you pulled him closer by the collar. His eyes stayed open for a while, watching your lids close tight, as you pressed yourself against him, sweat and stress beading on your forehead.
And when the first shock passed, he smiled. Parted his lips gently and let your tongue lie plush against his. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. One stayed just above your hips, the other slipping up to rest on the back of your neck.
The softness of your skin made his mind spin, and saliva, sticky and sweet, coated the surface of his tongue.
But he didn't mind, drinking your shy gasps and letting your lips work in harmony. Till you needed to push him away and take a deep breath.
With cheeks burning warmth and lips slightly swollen.
"I love you," he finished. "I love you, I love you, I love you so much," he peppered gentle kisses over your cheeks, nose, and chin. A soft giggle slipped past your throat, and you had to push him away. "I can't cook or sew, and I may spend too much time staring at you at night, but…" He took a deep breath, staring into your mellow eyes. His hands slipped up, both palms landing on your cheeks. "But if you'll give me a chance, I'll be the best husband you could dream of. And I'll love you, maybe a bit more than you would. And I'll build you a bathtub because I know how much you wanted it, and I'll do anything to befriend Bao. Just, please, let me marry you."
Your hands covered his, warming up the chill that somehow coated them with a sheen of kisses.
"I don't know how to read," your voice was soft as fingers squeezed his. "And I don't know how to write either. I've never kissed anyone before, and my temperament may not be the loveliest. I don't know how to be a good wife. And I'm not sure whether I can be one, but…" You pressed his hands against your cheeks. "If you'll build me this bathtub, I can learn how to be one."
Satoru chuckled. At first, softly and shyly, before he began to laugh with pure, sincere joy. His lips once again pressed to yours. Once, twice, three times as he kissed you and whispered tender thank you thank you thank you, while you giggled in his arms.
"Besides," he started, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. "You've already proposed to me once."
Your eyes, wet, furrowed. "Me? When?"
"Hm, just a week after you saved me. In the kitchen, slightly drunken."
Your lips fell open, and he pushed your chin up to close them.
"Oh my god!" An embarrassed choke rose in your throat. "How could you take it seriously?"
But Satoru only chuckled. And kissed you again - softly, slowly, with a hum of fondness that filled his heart.
Because back then I was already slowly falling for you, and even such a small, silly confession made him believe that whatever fate held for him, it would be nowhere but in the warmth of your arms.
𑁤 𑁤 𑁤
"There's a man behind you," Maki whispered as you and Satoru knocked on her door. "A handsome one, at that."
Two hours later, you finally arrived at Maki's and Yuta's house, warm and slightly flushed, fingers entwined in a warm tangle.
You heard Yuta's laughter and the sweet, mellow bubbling of their child.
The spicy, rich fragrance was coming from within, quickly wetting your tongue with a ravishing hunger.
"He's–" You started.
But it seemed Satoru felt overly confident after your sheepish confessions from hours earlier, so he quickly added, "Her husband."
Maki's lips parted as she slipped her gaze back to you. "What?!"
"My future husband," you pointed, shooting Satoru a look over your shoulder. "We're not married."
"Yet," he added with a smile.
"Yet?" Maki asked, letting both of you come inside. "Yuta, we have guests!"
Her husband slipped from the main inn, with a baby warmly cradled in his arms. Dark eyes, slightly sleepy yet as always kind, quickly glanced at Satoru. Travelling up and up, oogling the tall man in a daze.
"Oh, hello," he said, bowing softly, before he quickly gazed at Maki.
She sighed. "Her husband."
Yuta gasped, looking back at your flushed face and grinning Satoru. "Husband?"
"No yet!" you groaned, as embarrassment crept up your neck. "Dearest, let's sit first, and then we can talk, hm?"
Yuta gave a little Iori to Maki, and together with Satoru, they went out to pick up the prepared food from the cart and hid Bao in their little stable.
Maki followed them both till the door shut behind their backs, and she could finally pinch your soft, red cheek. "You!"
"Ouch!"
"Is that why you didn't visit us for the past two months? Playing with a handsome scholar, huh?" She laughed as you stepped into the main room together. The main pot was already on the table, but the soup wasn't boiling. "I can't believe you didn't say anything!"
Still rubbing your cheek, you took Iori from her arms and followed her to the kitchen.
Their house was much more spacious than yours, simply because Yuta's business was doing much better. The bigger cities offered more clients, and although they said a couple of times that nothing would make him happier than hiring you as the main cook, you somehow couldn't leave your restaurant.
Your parents, childhood, the restless days spent helping your mother knead dough for noodles – everything was still shut there. Warm and alive, as if the memories of those days were still within reach of your fingertips.
"I'm sorry," you pouted, speaking to Iori rather than to Maki herself. "I met him on the evening I was heading home. If I hadn't saved him, he would have been dead by the morning."
Maki narrowed her eyes and pushed her glasses up as they slipped off her nose. "And instead of treating him and letting him go back, you decided to keep him to yourself?"
She wasn't wrong. You never ordered Satoru to go home. In fact, you never intended to do so, thinking he would naturally leave your house at some point.
But he didn't, and now you were meant to get married in three days.
"He could leave any time," you scoffed, softly pinching Iori's dumpling cheek.
Maki cut the vegetables for the hot pot, placing them in separate bowls. The Sichuan pepper tickled your nose with its spicy fragrance, warming your belly just a bit.
"But he didn't."
"No."
"And you didn't kick him off."
"I didn't."
Maki sighed, bringing the bowls back to the main room and setting up the table.
"So there's the wedding and then what. You want to have a family with him?"
Her dark eyes oogled your warm cheeks. The sheer thought of sleeping with him in the same bed sent thousands of sweet pinches down your spine, yet the idea of actually giving him a child… boiled something deep in your lower belly.
"I don't know," you whispered, looking at the tiny baby in your arms. "I always wanted to be a mother. But… if he doesn't want a family, then that's fine too."
The morning sun was slowly giving way to an afternoon glow, and as the winter days grew shorter and colder, the evening would fall in just a few hours. Your belly growled with hunger, and the warmth and spiciness of a soup slowly boiling in the pot made you salivate.
Maki was sceptical. You knew it, saw it in the way she looked at Satoru as he came back in with Yuta. Jars of wine and freshly made noodles gripped in their hands, they placed everything by a small table.
Now with four places.
Maki didn't say anything, but simply followed Satoru's figure, drawing closer to you. Clad in warm, elegant clothes, he placed a quick kiss on your forehead before looking at the baby in your arms.
"Oh, he's beautiful," he said, looking at Yuta and Maki. Iori curled his tiny fingers around Satoru's larger one, squeezing it with a giggle. "Hm, he has a good grip. I can teach him to use a sword if you'll let me. I've learned something back when I was younger."
Maki furrowed her brow, and before she could say anything, Yuta gasped. His dark eyes glimmered and lips fell open as he clasped, looking at his wife with a beaming smile.
"Oh, should we do it? Imagine Iori with a sword!"
But Maki sighed and shook her head, returning to the kitchen to prepare the rest of the food. She ordered Yuta and Satoru to prepare the fireworks for the evening's celebration, then kicked them out of the house.
Satoru chuckled, looking between you and a baby with a smile. Warm, making your cheeks burn with a feeling you wouldn't have described just a few months ago.
But now you knew it was this maddening, endless loyalty that beamed from his plush lips against yours as he stole a quick kiss. Short, but sweet enough to make your heart flutter.
Your fingers wrapped around a little Iori more tightly, as Satoru's warm eyes looked between you and a baby with a smile.
"We're next, darling," he chuckled, winking with his cheeky, mischievous smile, then followed Yuta back outside.
Four hours later – you were already drunk.
Drunk and warm, with lips swollen from spicy soup and mind dizzy, you rested against Satoru's shoulder. His cheeks were sweetly rosy, and eyes wet from laughter, yet he wasn't as drunk as you.
Yuta and Maki quickly warmed up, and it was the first time you saw Satoru around other people. Oh, how much you loved it – seeing how effortlessly he knew how to fit in just right.
His jokes were turning your belly upside down, and attention was split equally between you, Yuta and Maki. He knew what to say to make Yuta feel the bond between them growing. He managed to slip past Maki's iron walls, making her chuckle a few times and even ask whether he needed another portion of rice.
He was great with children, too, cradling Iori close to his chest as the boy tried to grasp the snowy strands of his hair.
He… his hand didn't leave your thigh for even a second after you finally sat down to celebrate. He fished out all the best pieces of meat and put them into your small bowl. Cooked vegetables for just the right amount of time, then blew his wine-sweetened breath to cool the food before he put it with his chopsticks straight into your mouth.
Maki and Yuta watched you two with clear amusement, yet you noticed the warmth bubbling in your friends' eyes.
The comfort and relief that there was finally someone ready to fall in love with you madly, recklessly, without fear or shame about their feelings.
Four hours later, your head was resting heavily on Satoru's shoulder. Drunk and in love, you wrapped yourself around his arm and sighed deeply.
"Darling, should we go back home?" He chuckled, pushing back a few locks of hair, brushing your cheeks.
Your head shook. "Mmm, it's too early."
Satoru chuckled. Fireworks burst high in the sky, bathing his handsome face. His eyes shimmered beneath the warm light from the lanterns as arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer.
"Sleepyhead," he whispered, pinching your swollen lower lip. "How about we go home and get ready for bed, hm?"
You were too lazy to go back. And too tired. And the night air was cold, unpleasant, biting at your skin, making it feel cooler than usual. Here, inside the house, the fire from the hot pot was warming you up, and sweet wine was twisting through your body, filling it with sizzling kisses.
"You can stay the night if you want," Maki said, looking at the very drunk Yuta. "We'll be going to bed too. But there's one bedroom we're not using. You can use it if you want."
The warm bed sounded good. Satoru nodded, quickly lifting you up. One of his arms under your knees, another behind your back, as you nuzzled into his warm chest.
He carried you effortlessly, walking up the stairs, before he entered one of the bedrooms. Maki brought you clothes to change into, along with a small bowl filled with warm water. A cloth to it, to let you clean your body just a bit.
And with a small yet crafty smile, she looked at you before shutting the door.
Leaving you alone.
Only when Satoru sat you down on the bed, the candle casting a warm light on the side of his face, did your mind register what was happening.
The room was small but cosy. The bed was big enough to fit you two, and snowflakes clung to the shut windows. A big bowl steamed with hot water, and Satoru wet the cloth slightly before he started cleaning your forehead. And cheeks, neck, lips, removing the light makeup.
His ocean eyes followed your face carefully as your gaze dropped to your hands, which were playing with the hem of the robes.
When the warm cloth slipped onto your neck, your breath hitched.
And he noticed it.
"I'm sorry," slipped in an almost inaudible whisper. "I… I'll leave so you can finish. Just call me if you need anything."
Perhaps it was the alcohol.
Or the courage that was bubbling inside your body for far too long.
But before he could fully stand up, your fingers wrapped around his wrist. With a firm grip, you loosened your hold the moment his eyes widened.
A silence stretched between your feverish bodies. The room was stuffy, maybe a bit too warm, and the lack of fresh air left beads of sweat on your temple.
Or maybe it wasn't the room alone, but rather the nerves that dripped in droplets down your spine.
"You can stay," your voice was weak. "If you want. You can help me."
Before he said a word, your trembling fingers slipped down to the belt wrapped around waist. Letting the material fall loosely onto the bed, the outer, heavy robes followed, revealing another layer of clothing, this time much, much thinner. White and slightly crumpled, banded with a warm, fur-like lining.
Satoru remained silent. But his fingers gripped the wet cloth a little tighter and jaw clenched as he watched your trembling hands unwrap the inner robe too.
"We don't have to do it," his voice was gentle, sweet, and eyes filled with worry.
But something else too. Something hungry, restrained, yet still brimming with fondness.
A shy smile tugged at your lips. "I know." Your fingers unfastened the thinner belt at your side. "But I want to."
His eyes remained on your face.
When you slipped your arms from the inner robe. When it fell loosely, pooling around your hips. When the softness of your skin shimmered beneath the candle's warm light and the snow still danced outside the windows.
The fireworks, bustling somewhere far beyond your small bubble, blushed your skin red. No cold slipped through the wooden sills, and no sound except your mingling breaths echoed off the walls.
And his eyes still didn't stray anywhere below the tremble of your chin.
Yet fingers wetted the cloth in hot water and went back to cleaning your skin. Starting from the collarbones, shoulders, and the softness of your chest, before gradually slipping to the swell that settled warm in his hands.
The cloth brushed the underside of your breasts. The softness that melted under his fingers and perked nipples, pushing a lovely gasp past your lips.
Your fingers curled into the bedding, crumpling it as Satoru slipped lower. Through the plushness of your belly and hips, rubbing the skin gently, wetting it with unhurried strokes. When he reached your tightened legs, ocean eyes looked up.
"We don't have to," he repeated.
You bit on the inside of your cheek. "Do you… not want to do it?"
He chuckled, putting the cloth away. Big, warm hands settled on your thighs, thumbs rolling soft circles across your skin.
"There's nothing else I wish for at this moment but to love you madly." His eyes glimmered with sincerity as one hand lifted to slowly remove the pins still adorning your hair. "But if you want to do it after the wedding… or any other time. In a month, a year," he took them out one by one, letting your hair fall loosely. "Or never. I'll be fine with it too."
His palm rested against your cheek, and you nuzzled into its warmth. "And what if I want to do it right now, before the wedding? Will you think ill of me?"
Satoru wanted to chuckle. But he didn't. Instead, he let his other hand slip from your thigh and grabbed your ankle. Lifting your foot, he pressed it against his crotch, still covered by two layers of robes. Even then, you could feel the wet bulge pressing against the thin sole of your foot.
"There's nothing you could do that would turn my heart against you."
Your neck burned with fire, and the warmth filling the small room added to the heat in your body. You didn't take the foot away, but instead pressed it a little harder, slowly parting your thighs.
Feeling the sticky wetness that stretched between them and pooled right under your hips. Feverish, almost burning your core with a need for his gentle touch. A pulsation that set your mind ablaze and tingled all ten fingertips with warmth that longed to break away.
"I don't know what to do," slipped in a whisper, as you kept your eyes on Satoru's face.
He didn't let his gaze fall. Not yet.
But when you moved your hips closer to the edge of the bed and leaned back on your elbows, dear heavens, he needed to pinch his own thigh just to not cum right there on the spot.
Your pussy glistened beneath a flame coming off the single candle. Drenched in sticky, fresh cum as you parted your thighs even wider. As if not understanding the deadly grip you held him in.
His big hands pressed beneath your thighs, pushing them against your chest. His eyes looked up, carefully tracing the shiver of your lower lip. Your eyes bulged with need, and you gave him a gentle nod, granting him full permission.
To do whatever he wanted, since it was the first time a man had touched you and needed you in such an intimate way.
And Satoru wished to show you exactly how much he loved you.
"You're so wet, darling," he muttered, drawing closer to your drenched pussy. "Do you have any idea what I'm about to do?"
Your head shook.
You truly had no idea. Because you didn't have many female friends and Maki rarely talked about her sex life. In fact, no one ever talked about it.
You knew there were books. Of all sorts, with graphics painted in thin lines, of men and women embracing something sweeter than a simple hug.
But such books were rarely available in villages as small as yours, and whatever was going on between husband and wife on the wedding night was whispered about in lowered, giggly voices and with flushed cheeks.
Thus, no. You didn't know what Satoru wanted to do.
That's why, when his wet tongue plastered to your pussy – muffled, almost gasping moan fell past your lips.
Your hands shot towards his head, trying to push him away. "Wait, that's–"
"You taste delicious, oh dearest," he mumbled, letting your fingers clench around his white locks. "Don't worry, darling. Just let yourself relax, you need to loosen up."
That being said, his mouth once again met with a smack from your folds. Tongue parting them gently, pressing wetly to the sensitive clit. He sucked on it with a mellow groan, letting his fingers squeeze your thighs a little harder. Not hard enough to leave purplish kisses, yet still wrapping them in a heated embrace.
Your head fell onto the bed, and your spine tried to arch off the mattress. Yet he held you folded, with your legs pressed against your chest and a strong grip keeping them in place.
The tip of his tongue swirled around the pulsing button. Before it slipped down, poking at the wetness dripping from your hole.
"S-Satoru," a soft, quiet moan slipped past your lips when he pushed the muscle inside.
Your walls, plush and warm, clutched around it immediately, as if trying to suck it in. His fingers kneaded the backs of your thighs, as if trying to reassure you that it's fine. That you only needed to relax and let his love spill into the most intimate, sweetest part of your body, as he kissed and licked and sucked on it tenderly, gently.
His tongue pulled out and again pressed fully to your slit. Before he gave your pussy a long, back-to-front lick. From the puckered hole up to the puffy clit. The hefty waves of juiced dripped right into his starving mouth, and he drank it with low whimpers.
His lips pulled away with a smack, a crystalline string of mixed saliva and cum connecting his mouth with your folds. "How do you feel, darling? Tell me, I want to hear you."
You nodded and clenched your fingers in his hair. Because that was the only thing you could do. Your mind was a mess, your back drenched in sweat, and your eyes fluttered whenever his tongue met the softness of your pussy.
There was as much as you could handle, and Satoru was already exceeding all your expectations for such intimacy.
"Say something," his voice turned almost pleading. Lips landed on your mound, kissing up to your inner thighs. "Please, say you're enjoying it."
Your breath hitched as he bit into your soft skin. "I d-do. Mhm, Satoru, it felt s-so good."
Looking down at his face, you bit your lower lip. Gluey cum was stuck to his face – nose, chin, and cheeks. He looked up, before his tongue slipped past his lips, giving your pussy a single, long lick. His gaze met yours.
Oh dearest, it was simply too much!
And when his finger slipped past your tight walls, you once again tried to push him away. Not because you didn't like it, but rather as something warm started coiling in your lower belly since his lips landed on your clit. And now, with his finger pushing and bending and massaging the tightening walls of your drenched cunt, the warmth turned into a feverish need for release.
"Satoru, s-something's going on," you moaned, trying not to break eye contact. "Wait, it's–"
"It's okay," he assured you. One hand kneading your thigh, the other pushing a second finger in. "It's okay, darling. Just trust me, yeah? You're doing well, baby. Keep it up. Don't tense your belly."
His lips went back to your clit, sucking wetly on the swollen button and flicking it with a tip of his tongue.
Your hips rolled against his lips. And when his two fingers pressed against something plush deep inside your pussy, your back peeled off the mattress.
"Oh, mhmm, S-Satoru!" you moaned as both fingers relentlessly bullied the spot. "That's to–nghh."
Too much. He worked you relentlessly, with the soft pads of his fingers pressing the sweet spot against the wall of your pussy and deep, ocean eyes observing the changing expressions on your lovely face.
Drinking it each furrow, each moan, the way your lips parted and closed, when he grazed your clit with his teeth, only to coo it with a soft lick.
Your thighs wanted to close around his head, but he pushed himself closer — until muscular arms shoved your legs, keeping them wide open.
"You're good," he whispered right against your pussy. "You're okay, baby. Just let it go. Don't hold back. Just let me have you all."
Hair stuck to your damp forehead, lips fell open as he sped up. Still gentle, yet devouring you with more hunger. Pads brushing the plump spot, his tongue flicking against the clit, till the warmth splashing in your pouch finally, suddenly, spilt.
Flaming pleasure washed over your spine, filling your body up to the toes, curling up in the air. Your body melted beneath his touch, until your thighs parted even wider, just to feel his muscular body pressing against yours.
His broad shoulders trembled between your legs, as you cummed and cummed, with soft moans spilling past your lips and pussy keeping around his fingers in a tight grip. His chin and cheeks and nose were drenched from gushing cum, which he tried to drink in fully. Slurping on the droplets with furrowed brows and slightly wet corners of his eyes till you needed to push him away with a foot.
It was too much, and your chest ached from the deep breaths you grasped for in the room's stuffy sweetness. Filled with the smell of your sweat, your breath, and your pussy, still fresh on Satoru's lips.
"Darling," he whispered, tracing wet kisses along your body. "My sweet, sweet darling. My beautiful, lovely wife."
Tongue lapped at the sweat beading on your belly. Lips pressed against your ribs until his nose brushed the swell of your breast, and mouth latched onto your nipple.
Hard and warm, as he sucked on it with eyes still glued to your face.
His robes were soaked through, so he began untying them at a slow, unhurried pace. The belt, the outer clothes, and then the inner, while his lips moved between your breasts.
"Satoru, oh," your fingers tugged on his hair to pull him closer.
The wetness started pooling between your thighs again.
"You looked so beautiful with a baby," he mumbled against your breasts, biting softly. "It made me think of how much I'd love to see you with ours."
A sudden gasp ripped from your throat as you felt something pressing against your pussy. Something hard and leaking, heavy in a way it pressed snug between your folds.
Satoru still kept your thighs apart, but now his lips found their way to yours. The kiss was the sweetest, gentlest, hungriest thing you've ever experienced.
The ends of his hair stuck to his wet forehead, and your arms wrapped around his neck, his to pull him even closer.
The heavy fatness between your legs began to move through your drenched folds. Wetting in the juices still gathering beneath your hips - in squelching, nasty sounds that made your breath tremble.
Satoru's lips pressed softly against yours, and he cherished each second of having you beneath him. Soft and warm, you wrapped yourself around him with a loving neediness.
"I want it," you whispered into a kiss. "I want your child. Please."
You weren't even married yet. But the fire that consumed you both left you utterly greedy. To have everything the future had prepared for you, right now, and so Satoru couldn't do anything but nod.
"You may feel a bit of pain," he warned you. "But I'll make you feel good, I promise."
One of his hands dropped down to his hot, leaking cock, nudging against your entrance. You looked down, just for a second, and a heat hit your mind, and the sight of his fatness.
Big and leaking, covered in the creaminess of your cum and with a ferociously red head that was pressed to your entrance.
"Oh," you could only say, looking at Satoru with bulging eyes. "It's not small."
"No, it's not," he chuckled, sensing your pleasure-drunk voice. "If you don't want to-"
"I do," your fingers tugged on his hair, gripping the neck tighter. "Please, make me feel good. I want it."
His ocean eyes stayed fixed on your face throughout. Following the expression curving your lips, eyes, and brows as he slowly pushed himself.
You were warm around his cock. Your pussy soaked it through, wrapping around the fat shaft and already sucking it in the same way it did with his fingers. You felt almost painfully tight, so he gripped your thighs more harshly so as not to sink himself in one push.
As for you… heavens.
Your back was already arching towards his chest, covered in slick sweat and pooled on the mattress. He filled you to the brim, and you could feel each vein, each pulsing of his cock against your tight walls, as he slowly thrusted in.
"You need to relax," he whispered, kissing both flushed cheeks. "My baby, take a deep breath." When you did, he smiled warmly. "Yeah, that's good. You're doing so well, darling. Just a bit more, yeah? Let me fill you."
A thought that you had already felt him filling your belly had crossed your mind. But then his curved tip brushed against the same sweet spot that made you see stars, and you cried out, clenching around his shaft.
"Satoru," fell quietly, as he was still pushing. "That's t-too much. Mhm, I fell so-"
"I know, baby, I know," he licked the single tear that threatened to roll down your cheek. "Just a bit more. I need to go deep to fill your belly. For a child, yeah? Take a deep breath, my sweet girl."
And then, without a warning, he thrusted his cock in a quick, one-move thrust. Till constricting balls slapped against your lifted ass and your thighs pressed closed to your chest. The leaking head hit something plush inside your pussy, and another moan crashed against Satoru's lips.
"Heavens," he groaned, trying to keep himself from coming on the spot. But it was much harder than he expected, considering he had just hit your cervix. "Baby, give me a minute. Fuck, wait-"
But you already started moaning. And wriggling, and pulsing around him, as a heavenly bliss was pinching your spine.
The heavy feeling of having him inside you was driving you mad, and your walls wrapped around his fat cock snugly.
"Satoru, move," you ordered sweetly, feeling the need to chase the pleasure that ripped through your body a few minutes ago. "You, mhm, please d-do something."
Your hand slipped down between your bodies to press softly against your belly. Soft as usual, but now stuffed with something warm and hard, so you squeezed it, rolling a low groan past Satoru's lips.
So he did - do something. His hips slowly pulled away before he pushed himself back into your pussy. Letting his shaft brush each spot, and the plushness of your drenched walls as he started fucking you a bit harsher than intended.
He wished to be soft, gentle, and kind, but you suddenly found yourself craving a bit of roughness and strength, and nothing gave you as much pleasure as his muscular body pressing against yours.
Your chests pressed against each other as he started pounding you with long, deep thrusts. Making sure to fill your weeping pussy all the way to the swelling cervix, as he drank all the moans falling sweetly past your lips.
"Tell me you feel good," his voice was gentle, demanding, as his hand also slipped down your body to settle between your puffy folds. Two fingers pressed to your clit, rolling it in slow circles. "Tell me, darling, that you love it."
"I-I," fell first, before a moan followed as his fingers pinched your clit. "I love you. Ahh, Satoru I love you I love you I love you."
He chuckled, yet a whimper followed when the sensitive head of his cock smooched your cervix.
"Fuck, darling," he took a deep breath as your walls wrapped around his shaft tightly. "You'll be the death of me."
His fingers rolled your clit, and fat cock filled you to the brim, till each thrust ended with your head falling to the sides and eyes rolling back. Your fingers pulled his milky hair, and lips were soon covered by his, when your moans became loud enough to wake up the whole village.
The fireworks still bloomed outside the window, muffling your puffs and moans, as if wishing to hide the intimate encounter between the two new lovers.
Satoru's pace quickened, and the familiar splashing in your lower belly once again tickled you with pleasure. Your fingers tugged at his hair, pulling him closer to your lips, body, the chest sticking wetly to his, as if you wanted to merge your bodies into one.
"I'm close," you breathed, nibbling on his lower lips. "Satoru, I'm–mhmm–g-give me a baby, p-please."
With one hand still between your folds, another lifted one of your legs and hooked it over his shoulder. He kept you folded almost painfully, yet the new position let his cock pound you deeper, sweeter, bruising meanly the swollen cervix that sucked him in.
Your walls clenched around his cock, trying to milk it dry.
"Cum for me, darling," he licked your lips before pressing a harsh kiss. "Come on, let me fill you up. I love you so fucking much. I'll give you everything, I promise." His thrusts grew messier as a tingling pinched his spine too. "Everything you ever wish for. The family, the house, the love. I'll fill you with it every single day if you'll ask me to."
Your single nod became a series of frantic, restless tilts as you drank in all his sweet words.
"My heart and my soul are all yours," he whispered, pressing his wet forehead to yours. "I'm yours till death tears us apart."
And then, with kisses peppered over your cheeks, you finally came.
Back arched off the mattress, thighs trembled in his embrace as the pleasure bubbling in your loins finally spilt. Satoru followed you soon after, filling your womb with waves of creamy cum. Pushing and pushing it deep into your belly as you writhed and moaned beneath him.
The dusk has wrapped around your slowly calming bodies, and Satoru carefully lay beside you. His fingers brushed away a few stray strands sticking to your cheeks, and your eyes drank in the blissful warmth creeping up your neck.
You lie in silence, thinking of the hunger and need you have given yourself, not patient enough to wait until the wedding.
You rolled yourself to the side, now also looking at his face. Wearing this lovely yet cheeky smile.
"Aren't you proud of yourself?" you asked, giggling as you let yourself be drawn closer by his strong arm.
He hummed, nuzzling into the softness of your breasts. "And what if I am? My ferocious wife couldn't even wait until the wedding night. What are we going to do when it comes?"
Your fingers threaded through the silkiness of his hair, his warm, naked body pressed close to yours. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, and arm felt almost heavy over your waist, but you liked this crushing, almost balmy feeling.
"You're going to build me a bathtub," he chuckled, hearing your cheeky tone. "And then we'll make love in it until we're sure our daughter is on her way."
He looked up. "Daughter?"
"Why? Would you prefer a son?"
Satoru didn't know. The only thing he was sure of was that he wished to give you the family you desperately wanted. It didn't matter whether it was a son or a daughter – as long as they had your smile.
His head shook and his eyes closed as he let himself drown in the soft caresses of your fingers.
Three days later, you were sitting in front of yourself, wearing crimson wedding robes.
With a long string tying your fingers in a promise of forever and a warm sensation weighing on your hearts.
The future was basking in the soft hues of the sun setting over the tall mountains circling the village, and in the brightness of your smile; Satoru exchanged all the pleasure of his past life for it.
He wasn't a Marquis any more. There was no army he needed to lead, and no riches he held in his grasp.
Now, he was your husband, and his only duty was to ensure you stayed happy till the end of your days.
Now, he wished for nothing but to spend the rest of his life basking in the warmth of your smile.
cause i loved you, i swear i loved you till my dying day!
summary: a guilt ridden steve harrington realises vecna has cursed you 18 months after the last; he has to find you, and he has to find you fast. while steve hurries to search for you, hopefully alive, nancy and jonathan discover that vecna doesn't want to take you to the other kids... he wants to kill you.
warnings: angst, vecna's curse, mentions of death, st level violence, this is lowk just plot i’m sorry, a lot of action and attempts of writing it, mentions of comas, lots of scene jumps, s5 spoilers, blends into 'the bridge' episode, more parts to come!
(the way i might extend this series and make it to the end of the show bc we deserve an epilogue on these two lowkey ALSOOO any objections to a lucas sinclair fic named 'so high school!')
word count: 5.5K
part one,, part three,, part four,, part five
main masterlist
steve harrington x fem!reader
(STRANGER THINGS S5 VOLUME 2 SPOILERS)
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎 idea how long you had been walking for. You had grown accustomed to the sound of your own breathing, the soft puffs of air a pitiful attempt to ignore the throbbing pain behind your skull. Your tear stained cheeks worsened your headache and the sound of your own sniffling bothered you to no end; to say you were overstimulated was an understatement.
Your home had never called your name more. The thought of curling up on the couch with a blanket thrown over your figure, the television becoming a background sound as your eyelids grew heavy; you wished the Upside Down installed multiple exits.
But being a dystopian world where monsters hunt you down every other minute, it was expected that whatever force created it wasn’t kind enough to help someone out.
As much as you tried to ignore it, your mind replayed the conversation-- or argument with Steve.
You’ve fought interdimensional monsters, practically went hand-to-hand combat with them, gotten beaten up by Russian underneath Starcourt Mall, been cursed by a force that targeted you for no apparent reason and lost one of your closest friends. But somehow, Steve Harrington confirming your worst fears trumped all of the above.
The ringing in your head got louder with each passing second. The sound of your footsteps inside the lab became muffled as you groaned at the painful sensation burning between your temples.
With the pain becoming all-consuming, you almost missed the shout of your name and hurried footsteps rounding the corner.
You furrowed your brows and picked up the pace, quickly walking to the familiar voice as it reeked of concern and immense worry, the yells of your name getting louder the closer you got.
Just as you turned the corner, your body collided with someone’s chest, their hands shooting out to steady your frame.
You looked up at the person, “Steve?” Your voice shook slightly.
Steve looked back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read, his eyes almost hollow. “I was looking for you.” He said simply, his grip on your sides tightening.
You didn’t know how to respond. Did you have to respond? Steve was acting as he had never said those words moments earlier, as if he hadn’t ripped your heart out and made you swallow all the guilt you kept at bay for 18 months. As if he didn’t break your heart in the process.
You mustered up your courage to hum in response, slowly shuffling your feet to indicate that you two should get a move on and find the others. Clearing your throat, you shook his hand off your side and started to walk away, expecting him to follow a respectable distance behind.
A strong hand grabbing your wrist made you stop in your tracks. You whipped your head around and watched as the hand you had traced in the past grip tight, your skin turning red under his finger tips.
“The fox got away.” Steve whispered to himself. You blinked, what was he talking about?
You opened your mouth to question Steve, but he yanked you back to stand in front of him. “You were right.” He mumbled.
“What?” You said, barely above a whisper.
Steve looked different. His hair wasn’t as voluminous as you knew it to be and his skin was sickly pale, dark circles forming underneath his eyes. You would’ve raised concern at his appearance any other day, but the pain growing on your wrist resisted the temptation.
“It should’ve been you.” Steve said, his eyes locking on your own.
Your breath hitched at his words, eyes widening and biting the inside of your cheeks to suppress the tears that were inevitable.
You tried to yank yourself out of his hold, “Steve, you’re hurting me.” You said under your breath, terrified of raising your voice as he stared daggers into your face.
“It should’ve been you.” Steve repeated, his voice slightly slurred this time, the fingers wrapped around your wrist shaking.
Your breath got caught in the back of your throat as you watched the familiar flesh like hand worm around your wrist, the red being travelling up his arm and removing any essence of Steve Harrington.
“No.” You whispered as your eyes travelled further up his figure, revealing the face that taunted you 18 months ago, the one who made your life living hell and forced you to conform to its consequences.
Tears blurred your vision as Steve’s face transformed into Vecna’s, his haunting face staring into your own. “It’s time.”
Your chest tightened and a sob escaped your mouth. As fear took over your body, you lifted your leg to kick into Vecna’s stomach, forcing him to loosen his grip on you enough you could stumble backwards.
Falling over your own feet, your back collided with the lab wall. The contact caused the wall to crumble under your spine, your figure falling into the hole it created. The world spun as you fell backwards, your hands reaching out to grab onto anything.
The wind was knocked out of you as you landed on your back, the back of your head slamming into the floor. You scrambled to sit on your knees as you peered around your surroundings, breathing heavily as you searched for Vecna, already planning to run in the opposite direction.
The palm of your hand carried your weight on the floor. Your fingers twitched and you heard the scrunch of grass, contradicting the lab flooring you previously walked miles on.
Swallowing hard, you looked down to see grass poking out between your fingers. You furrowed your brows and lifted your head and you felt your heart stop.
Gravestones suffocated your kneeling figure as they were scattered around the grass roots, the surroundings identical to the cemetery Max had been cursed at 18 months ago.
Your eyes scanned every name etched into the stone, looking for anything new and out of place, something that could guide you out of Vecna’s mind as the lab was out of reach, completely out of your vision.
One gravestone was smudged with dirt. You slowly crept towards it, feeling a gravitational pull towards the one that looked out of place.
You pulled the sleeve of your sweater over your hand and wiped the dirt off of the gravestone, the name carved into it punching you straight in the gut.
“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself.
There in front of you laid your own gravestone.
Your name was marked permanently into the stone with dead flowers in front of you.
That wasn’t the part that concerned you though.
The date of your supposed death was marked underneath:
November 6th.
𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄. His chest felt too tight and his palms were clamming. Sweat stuck to his forehead, keeping loose strands of his hair uncomfortably attached to his skin. His heart beat out of his chest every time he hurriedly pushed open a door, his voice raw from shouting your name but he refused to let himself rest for even a second if he knew you were still in danger.
“Jesus, Steve!” Dustin panted as he retraced his friend’s footsteps, “Slow down!” He placed his palm against the wall, stopping to catch his breath as Steve sped up.
Steve shook his head and stayed looking ahead, “I’m not stopping until I find her!” He shouted from over his shoulder, pushing open any door he passed in hopes of finding you standing there, safe from any threat.
Steve's actions were fuelled by immense regret. He couldn’t believe it was his own words that drove you to where you were now; alone and with a monster lurking over your shoulder, waiting to strike.
He should’ve noticed you were off from the second you stepped into the lab. He knew you; coming from being friends for years and holding your hand as the pair of you sprinted away from interdimensional creates-- multiple times.
Dustin sighed and pushed himself upright, his feet guiding him towards Steve’s tense shoulders, placing a hand on them. Steve flinched at the contact and whipped his head around to face the shorter boy, “What?”
“What is going on with you, dude?” Dustin furrowed his brows and Steve scoffed, “What’s going on is our friend is missing and a Demo could be dragging her through a damn opening right now!”
Dustin widened his eyes at Steve’s harsh tone, “And it’s all my fault because I haven’t forgiven myself for what happened 18 months ago!”
“Forgiven yourself?” Dustin mumbled under his breath, brows knitted together as Steve’s chest rose and fell in anguish.
Before Dustin could press the matter more, a static sound from their walkie had Steve snatching the device out of the backpack, “Talk to me.”
“You guys need to find her right now.” Nancy’s voice crackled from the other side of the walkie. Steve and Dustin shared a concerned look and the younger boy plucked it out of Steve’s hands, “What happened?”
They heard Jonathan sigh through the walkie, “We were wrong.” Nancy said, concerned laced in her voice, “So unbelievably wrong.”
"𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐎 fucked.” You whispered to yourself as you stumbled away from the date that was glaring at you. Your own name was mocking you as it was engraved on the stone, as if it was a certainty you couldn’t control, something that had already been decided for you and you had to conform to it.
Death was relatively certain, and it was staring straight at you.
Your breath hitched as you looked past the stone, the fog in the distance interrupted by a figure that stood still. You knew it was him. He was probably holding in a laugh at the scene he whipped up for you, enjoying the terror that flooded your body.
Without thinking, you rose to your feet and turned the other way. Putting one foot in front of the other, you sprinted away from Vecna’s figure, one that was growing uncomfortably closer.
You refused to turn your head and look back, the sooner you could get out of your designed hellhole, the better off you would be.
Your back burned as you picked up the pace, pain shooting up and down your spine from landing in the graveyard. Your throat dried up as you heaved out tired breaths, your legs beginning to feel like jelly as you could only will yourself to keep going.
You had no idea where you were heading to. You could only hope your friends would find you soon enough and by chance had a walkman on them, there to place those familiar headphones over your ears and hum to the tunes of the artist you’d bore them all with.
Without an exit in sight, you kept running and prayed that luck would be on your side.
Apparently it wasn’t as the toe of your shoe got caught on a stray wire on the floor, causing your body to fly forwards and land heavily on your front.
You braced yourself with your hands, feeling the heels graze underneath new surroundings. You groaned as you hauled yourself back onto your feet, eyes casting downwards to the wire you had tripped on.
The floor was now white with a black wire along with others scattered on the floor. Your eyes travelled the length of the wire and gasped when you saw it was hooked up to a heart monitor.
No longer in the graveyard with grass underneath your feet, you found yourself in the hospital you knew too well.
You have visited this place so many times. You knew exactly what room this was and who was in it.
Your hands shook at your sides as you reluctantly looked at the person who was laid in the bed in the centre of the room, their red hair an instant give-away.
Max Mayfield was tucked underneath the thin hospital bed sheets, her soft hair plaited away from her face, making the pale skin and dark under eyes painfully obvious to the one who blamed herself for Max’s current state.
“The fox.” Vecna’s voice made you flinch away from Max, slotting yourself in the corner of the room as you watched his figure stand beside the bed.
He looked down at Max before glancing at you, “It should’ve been you.”
Your chest tightened at his words and felt bile rise in your throat, “All your friends know it.” He continued, “She knows it.”
You shook your head and suppressed a sob, “No they don’t.” Vecna slowly walked towards you, causing you to press your back further into the wall as if it could create some distance between you.
Vecna tilted his head, “Are you trying to convince them or yourself?”
All the words died on the tip of your tongue as your eyes flickered between the man standing in front of you and the teenager who laid in the hospital bed. She should’ve been in school, surrounded by her friends; but by some disgusting twist of fate, she was hooked up to a heart monitor and assumed to be in a coma.
“She will die today.” Your head snapped to look at Vecna, your eyes flooded with tears from fear and guilt, “What?”
“The Demodogs will kill her physical form.” Vecna explained, “And it’ll be your fault. Again.”
“No!” You sobbed, eyes squeezed shut to block out the vision. “All because you weren’t there.” He said.
“But that wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Would it?” Vecna said, his words piercing your straight in the heart.
You took deep breaths, your chest suddenly feeling impossibly tighter that it did earlier. Your shaking hands supported your body, reaching out to grasp at the tables either side of you.
Your hand connected with a sharp object which made you flinch away from it, a spot of blood drawn from the tip of your finger. A scalpel was delicately placed on the table, draped over a blue sheet.
Your brain slowly worked together, blocking out Vecna’s words as he continued berating you, attempting to make you weak which was exactly what he needed.
You looked back at him, eyes locked onto his own as your hands subtly felt around the table to grasp the handle of the scalpel. You slid it under the sleeve of your sweater so Vecna wouldn’t see your intentions.
Vecna slowly lifted a hand over your face, “It’s time.” Before he slowly closed his eyes.
You took this as your opportunity to jab the scalpel into the side of his neck, causing him to drop his hand and fly backwards, hunching over and clutching the wound.
Pushing his body out of the way in his vulnerable state, you headed straight for the door on the other side of the room. Pulling it open, you were met with a red abyss, a place familiar from 18 months ago.
You were close to getting out. You just hoped everyone else was close to finding you.
𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 the walkie unbelievably tight, sweat beginning to form in the palm of her hand. After losing sight of her sister, Jonathan guided her back inside and caught sight of Steve and Dustin retreating, screaming over their shoulders that Vecna was going for you and that finding you was the top priority.
Jonathan squatted beside her as she sat defeated on the floor, “This doesn’t make sense.” He muttered.
Nancy looked up at him, “What doesn’t?” Jonathan ran his hand down his face, “Why would he go for her?” He said, gesturing to where Steve had fled to search for you.
“Because…” Nancy started but her reasoning trailed off. Jonathan was right; Why would Vecna target you? Again?
“She’s not a kid. Vecna goes for weak minds and she doesn’t have that.” Jonathan furrowed his brows, “Also, Holly’s gone again. He wouldn’t have a backup.”
Nancy blinked rapidly, her brain quickly piecing together the story, “Vecna sent the Demos after Holly. That’s how he took her.”
Nancy rose to her feet, “He doesn't want to take her like he did with the kids.” Her eyes widened, “He didn’t succeed when he cursed her 18 months ago.”
“He’s cleaning up any loose ends.” Jonathan said, his voice trembling. Nancy nodded, her face expressing pure fear, “And the Demos?”
Jonathan’s breath hitched, “He wants to kill her.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nancy cursed and pressed on the walkie, “You guys need to find her right now.” She shouted to Dustin and Steve on the other end.
She heard them question her sudden fear, “We were wrong. So unbelievably wrong.”
Steve’s face paled and he snatched the walkie out of Dustin’s hand, continuing his search for you, now breaking out into a sprint while screaming questions to Nancy and Jonathan.
“What are you talking about?” Steve said, turning the corner and going down another flight of stairs. “We don’t have time to explain. Just get her out of here!” Nancy’s voice crackled through the walkie.
Steve heard shuffling on the other side of the walkie, “The Demos,” Jonathan’s voice startled him, “They’re on their way to kill her.”
A chill ran down Steve’s spine and he tossed the walkie into Dustin’s arms, ignoring his protests as he sprinted down another empty corridor. His throat burned from how constant and how loud he was screaming for your whereabouts, fear controlling his rationality and the overwhelming concern for your safety was teetering on unexplainable.
He was living a real life fear that losing you could become a possibility, and one he’s lived through before.
He begged that when he turned that fortunate corner that your feet would still be on the floor, your eyes weren’t rolled into the back of your head and your bones were very much still intact. He longed for the ever present fear that struck him 18 months ago had gone, but as he had failed you and you still had a target on your back, no promises could be made.
Steve groaned as his shoulder collided with the wall, his pace causing his steps to become erratic and body to crash into his surroundings. As he winced and rubbed his shoulder with his hand, he looked up.
At the end of the hallway stood a figure, their arms hanging loosely at the side of their body with their fingers twitching, like they were willing their body to move but their mind wouldn’t cooperate. Their eyes were rolled into the back of their head and their face was void of any human emotion, just their uneven breathing giving away how they reeked of fear.
Steve felt like he could throw up as he took slow steps towards the figure, his eyes trained on how the person was fighting a war they knew they couldn’t win alone.
Except it wasn’t just a person, it was you. And Steve Harrington was face to face with his worst nightmare.
Your name rolled off the tip of his tongue as he placed his hands on your shoulders, shaking your body lightly, “No, no, no.” Steve panicked, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his fingers shaking as he rubbed his thumb up and down your cheekbone.
“Stay with me, come on.” He begged, placing his forehead against your own. He refused to let his hands leave you because he couldn’t risk you floating out of his grip.
Steve heard footsteps approaching the scene and knew who was behind him from the hitch of their breath, “Dustin, do you have her walkman?” He said, keeping his eyes trained on you.
Dustin ran to stand next to your frozen figure, his hand gripping your forearm, “Why the hell would I have her walkman, dude?”
“I don’t know! You carry a lot of shit!” Steve shouted back, his consuming fear for you causing him to lash out.
Dustin sighed and struggled to look at your pale face for any longer, “Why don’t you just sing or something?”
Steve snapped his head to face his friend, his eyes squinted and brows pinched together in an exasperated expression, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Dustin opened his mouth to retort back a smart comment but Jonathan’s voice rang out in Steve’s mind, making him interrupt the younger boy, “We don’t have time for this.” He grunted and looked back at you.
Without hesitation, Steve scooped your body into his arms, resting your head against his chest as he carried you bridal style. He whispered reassurances to you as he lifted you, knowing that you couldn’t hear it but the idea comforted himself more than anything.
“We’ve gotta get her out of here.” Steve nodded at Dustin and handed him his flashlight, allowing himself to devote his entire attention to you.
Steve swallowed his nerves and looked down at your face, feeling his heart lurch in his chest as your eyes were void of familiarity, “You’re gonna be okay.” His voice shook as he readjusted you in his arms, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
Tightening his grip on you, his feet began moving in the direction he had just come from, retracing his steps to carry you out of the Upside Down.
Dustin jogged ahead of you, pushing the doors open for Steve to walk through with ease. A stretching sound made both of their bodies tense up and Steve to tug your figure closer against his chest.
They tilted their heads to look over their shoulder, their hearts pounding in their chest as they saw the familiar shadow of a Demogorgon growing closer, inches away from turning the corner and finding their helpless faces.
Steve took a deep breath and pressed his back against the wall beside the door, blocking you and him out of the vision of the monster lurking. Dustin leaned forwards and reached to slowly shut the door but Steve slapped his hand, “Don’t.”
“They can’t get us if it’s shut.” Dustin whispered back, gesturing to the thick door standing between you and the Demogorgon. Dustin was right. If he successfully shut the door without the Demo noticing, no matter how much body strength they had, nothing could break the opening down.
Steve shook his head rapidly, “You’ll get us caught.” Dustin offered him a sympathetic look, “It’ll work. Trust me.”
Steve looked down at your unconscious body, fingers reaching up to brush a stray hair out of your face, “I can’t lose her.” His voice broke, a thin layer of tears burning his eyes as he yearned to keep you as close and safe as possible.
Dustin sighed and felt his emotions brewing as he watched Steve’s hands gently caress your face. “It’ll work.” He repeated.
Steve swallowed his nerves, “I trust you.” He nodded at Dustin and cupped the back of your head, hiding your face in his chest.
Dustin wiped the sweat off his palms and slowly crawled forwards, blocking out the screeches of the Demogorgon as it knocked down objects in its way, frantically searching for you. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and took a deep breath before pulling it an inch closer, underestimating how heavy it was as the metal glided against the ragged flooring, causing a loud sound to ring out the lab.
Steve and Dustin’s eyes widened as they watched the Demogorgon’s head whip around to face the three of you. It stood up on its back feet and lunged towards the open door.
“Shit!” Dustin yelled and stood up, grabbing the other handle of the door and using his entire body weight to yank it closed.
The doors groaned against the floor and the Demogorgon’s pounding steps grew closer, “Come on, man!” Steve shouted at his friend, “I’m trying!” He yelled back.
Dustin yelled as he threw his body backwards as he was still latched onto the door, the force enough to slam the doors closed. The Demogorgon’s body collided with the other side of the door, causing the hinges to rattle and drown out the sighs of relief from Steve and Dustin.
“Jesus Christ!” Dustin laughed, hunching over and placing his hands on his knees. Steve laughed in disbelief slightly before standing up on his feet, hoisting you further into his body and pressed a soft kiss on the crown of your head.
“Let's get you out of here.” He whispered into your hair and ignored the single tear slip out his eye, he couldn’t determine whether it was from the emotional stress of the situation or losing you.
After taking a quick detour out of the lab, Steve and Dustin joined the others outside, smiles gracing their faces as they made eye contact with Hopper and the crew. Mike pulled Dustin into a tight hug and looked over his friend's shoulder, seeing you looking lifeless in Steve’s arms.
“Steve--” “Where’s the gate?” Steve cut Mike’s questioning off, passing everyone with hurried footsteps as he charged forwards. The group all looked between each other and raised immediate concerns for you, “What the hell happened to her?”
“Where is the goddamn gate?” Steve shouted and turned around to face everyone. Their jaws unclenched as they saw Steve was distraught, clinging onto his lifeline in his arms as if he would sacrifice the world to bring her back.
Eleven stepped forwards, “This way.” Steve followed in her footsteps and Eleven looked over her shoulder occasionally, unable to ignore the way Steve mumbled endless apologies and promises to your pale face, her eyes softening at the moment.
Eleven gestured to the gate as it appeared in their sight, “Right there.” Before she could even finish her statement, Steve was running towards it.
He kicked the rubble out of the way and shoved his arm into the orange and red gate, clearing the path to hoist you through. A figure flinched on the other side of the gate before their head popped into vision, their face blurred from the division of worlds.
“Holy shit!” Lucas cursed as he watched Steve fumble with your unconscious figure, “Take her to the WSQK.” Steve demanded.
Lucas reached his hands through the gate and placed them under your armpits, pulling you back into the real world as Steve pushed you through with his hands tight around your waist.
As Lucas hauled you into the real world, the redhead perched in a wheel-chair gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth.
“Oh, my God!” Max’s voice was muffled by her hands. Her throat closed up as she watched your eyes roll into the back of your head and your arms limp beside you. She knew that feeling before, she had lived it multiple times.
But seeing the person who did everything in their power to protect you and watched them live their life in guilt, whimpering as she watched you cradle her hand in the hospital almost every night, went through the same thing she did. Max Mayfield was terrified and for once, it was out of her control.
Lucas dragged you away from the gate, his fingers reaching for your pulse and his breath quickened. Steve quickly followed after you, pushing himself through the gate and scooping you into his arms once again.
Ignoring the questions from Lucas, Steve took off towards the WSQK. Dustin stumbled out of the gate, “Steve, what are you doing?” He shouted after his friend.
“I’m finding her music!” Steve shouted back and kicked open the door to the radio station.
Max widened her eyes as Steve barged into the station, “No…” She whispered under her breath, “That’ll only waste time.” She shook her head and headed towards where Steve had carried you, ignoring the burning in her palms as she hurriedly wheeled herself to stop Steve.
As she entered the WSQK, Max’s breath hitched as she saw you delicately placed on the couch. Your face was twitching with fear and Max understood that you were fighting, and fighting hard. For him.
She heard records being tossed in another room and Steve’s curses, “It’s not here.” He groaned and Max raised her voice, “Steve, stop!”
“He’s got her! I just need to find this stupid song!” Steve shouted and barged through each room, shoving any objects that were in his way as he rushed to get back to you.
“It’s not the music!” Max tried to voice her statement over Steve’s ruckus. “It’s here somewhere. I swear to God--”
“It’s you, Steve!” Max shouted and threw her hands up in frustration.
Steve stopped abruptly, “What?” He squinted his eyes at the redhead. She sighed and gestured over at you, “She doesn’t need music.”
Steve looked over at you, “She needs something that connects her to the real world,” Max inhaled shakily, “To home.”
Tears prickled at Steve’s eyes as he dropped the multiple records, taking slow steps towards you and crouching down next to the couch. “Something powerful. Meaningful.” Max continued.
“That’s you, Steve. She needs you.” Max said to him, swallowing her emotions as she watched a tear cascade down his face. “Tell her everything. That’s how you can reach her.”
Steve’s bottom lip wobbled and he reached up to caress your face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t fathom how you could always look so beautiful as the darkness of his terrors consumed his every being, you were the light of everyone's life that had been snuffed out 18 months ago; and Steve Harrington had the matches to reignite you.
Max slowly backed out of the room to give you and Steve space. If he needed to pull you back in, his vulnerability had to guide him.
Steve sniffled and wiped his tears away, “Alright,” He took a deep breath, “I’m gonna do this.” He reassured himself before sliding his hand into your own.
“I didn’t mean it. Not one word.” He laced his fingers with your own, “I don’t even know why I said it. I was pissed off and I took it out on the wrong person, and I couldn’t be more sorry, you have to know that.”
Steve sighed and lifted your hand so he could press a feather light kiss on the back of it, “I pushed you away just as much as you did to me. 18 months ago, I was mortified. I was mortified that I couldn’t protect you and I had become just another person who had failed you. I couldn’t defend you and you were left alone, so alone.” Steve sobbed.
“And it turns out I’m doing a pretty shitty job this time around if you ended up alone once again.” Steve’s other hand raised to brush your hair line, “Then you told me that you blamed yourself and God, I resented you for that.”
“I couldn’t fathom that after everything you still found a way to take the fall. So, I did what I do best. I became someone that I wasn’t.” He licked his chapped lips and held his emotions together, resisting the extreme urge to break down completely as your eyes stayed in the back of your head.
“You know that I’d sacrifice the world for you, right?” Steve laughed weakly, “I went into every single crawl knowing that I would happily take the risk of losing myself if it meant that you got to walk away unscathed. That you got to live a life outside Hawkins and live out the dream you always used to tell me. The one where you become a teacher because you can’t help looking out for other people.”
Steve sniffled and smiled weakly, “Those kids made you soft over the years. God, I’m pretending as if they didn’t do the same to me.”
Wiping his tears on the back of his hand, Steve continued, “I don’t understand how someone who’s dealt with endless grief can remain so beautiful in the darkest times. I used to look for your face every-time we went into battle so I could be reminded of the beauty in this world.”
“But in true Harrington style, I self-sabotaged. If I knew I could make you hate me, or anything remotely similar, you wouldn’t have to deal with the grief that would come from me playing hero and protecting you. Because until this is all over, I will continue to do so. I refuse to live in a life where I don’t risk everything in this world to keep you safe.”
Silence suffocated the room, interrupted by Steve’s choked sobs, “So, I need you to come back to me. I still need to tell you about the dream I told you, with the Winnebago, seeing the country with my six little nuggets… You’re there. You’ve always been there.”
Steve closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your own, allowing his tears to slip off his face and etch onto your own. His fingers gripping your hand like a vice, as if he were to let go would mean the world would end. Steve could only hope that Max was right, but doubts lingered in his mind.
What if he said the wrong words? What if he didn’t say enough? Did he say too much? Was any of it relevant if you still remained elsewhere, your mind being tormented as Steve could do nothing but talk to a lifeless figure.
But sometimes, hopes are answered. And Steve Harrington’s was as your hand clenched around his own and your body lurched forwards with a gasp.
max after telling steve to reach the reader and his ass starts yapping about six little nuggets
taglist (holy moly over 100 of u... i'll cry don't even):
۶ৎ Husband!Steve fucking you in a mating press after you put the kids to bed
The house finally quiets down after the chaos of bedtime routines, the six little ones tucked away in their rooms, their soft snores filtering through the baby monitors on the nightstand. Steve's been watching you all evening, his eyes darkening with that familiar hunger as you bend over to pick up toys or lean down to kiss foreheads goodnight. Now, with the door locked and the hallway light dimmed, he doesn't waste a second. His strong hands, calloused from gripping baseball bats and chalkboards at Hawkins High, grab your waist and spin you toward the bed, lips crashing against yours in a deep, demanding kiss.
"God, babe, you've been teasing me all night," he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough, the kind that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you flush against the hard bulge straining his sweatpants. You're already breathless, your body responding to the heat radiating from him, the way his broad chest presses into you. Steve Harrington, the star baseball coach and reluctant sex ed teacher who's turned more than a few high schoolers red-faced with his straightforward lessons, knows exactly how to unravel you.
He backs you up until your calves hit the mattress, then pushes you down gently but firmly, his body following yours. You land on your back, and he climbs over you, knees bracketing your thighs as he yanks off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles from years of coaching drills and chasing after your kids. "Legs up," he commands softly, but there's an edge to it, his hands sliding under your knees to hook them over his shoulders. You comply eagerly, heart pounding as he folds you in half, your thighs pressing against your chest in the tight mating press that exposes you completely.
Steve's eyes rake over you, dark with lust, as he tugs your sleep shorts and panties down in one swift motion, tossing them aside. "Look at you, so fucking ready for me," he groans, palming his cock through the fabric before shoving his pants down. His length springs free, thick and heavy, the tip already slick with precum. He strokes himself once, twice, watching your pussy clench in anticipation, bare and glistening from the day's pent-up tension. The position leaves you vulnerable, your ass lifted slightly off the bed, and he takes full advantage, rubbing the head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your wetness.
"Steve, please," you whisper, voice needy, your hands clutching the sheets as the stretch of him teasing your entrance makes you ache. He's always been attentive, but tonight, after the exhaustion of parenting, there's a primal urgency in him—like he needs to claim you, remind you both that you're his in every way.
"Shh, I've got you," he soothes, but his grin is wicked, the same one he flashes when he scores a point in his lessons about safe sex. He pushes forward slowly at first, the broad head breaching your folds, stretching you inch by inch. You gasp at the fullness, your walls fluttering around him as he sinks deeper, the angle allowing him to hit spots that make stars burst behind your eyelids. "Fuck, you're so tight like this—gripping me like you never want me to leave."
He bottoms out with a low grunt, his hips flush against yours, balls resting heavy against your ass. The mating press pins you in place, your legs trembling over his shoulders, and he pauses there, letting you adjust, his forehead pressing to yours. Sweat already beads on his brow, his breath hot on your skin. "You feel that? Every inch buried in you. My perfect wife, taking me so well after wrangling our army of kids."
You nod frantically, a whimper escaping as you clench around him, the pressure building deep inside. Steve starts to move then, pulling back until just the tip remains before thrusting back in, deep and deliberate. Each slide is deliberate, his cock dragging along your inner walls, the friction intensified by how folded you are. "Yes, just like that," you moan, your voice muffled against his shoulder as you try to muffle the sounds, mindful of the sleeping children down the hall.
But Steve doesn't hold back. His pace quickens, hips snapping forward with controlled power, the kind honed from years on the field. The bed creaks softly under the force, his thighs flexing as he drives into you, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room. "Let me hear you, honey," he pants, one hand bracing beside your head while the other slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and circling it firmly. "Tell me how good it feels when I fuck you like this—deep, where I can fill you up again."
"So good, Steve—oh god, deeper," you beg, your nails digging into his back, leaving red trails that he'll admire in the mirror tomorrow. The position makes every thrust feel overwhelming, his cock hitting your cervix with a delicious pressure that borders on too much, sending jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through you. Your breasts bounce with each impact, nipples hard and aching, and he leans down to capture one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hips piston relentlessly.
He releases it with a pop, trailing kisses up your neck, nipping at your earlobe. "You know what I think about during those sex ed classes? How lucky I am to come home to this—to you, spread out and begging for my cock. Not some textbook diagram." His words are filthy, laced with that charming Harrington smirk, but they make your core tighten, heat coiling low in your belly. He shifts slightly, angling his hips to grind against your g-spot on the next thrust, and you cry out, biting your lip to stifle it.
"That's it, cum on my dick," he urges, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, rubbing in tight circles that match his rhythm. Sweat slicks your bodies, his chest sliding against your folded legs, the intimacy of the press making you feel utterly possessed. You can see the strain in his face, the way his jaw clenches as he fights to hold back, wanting you to shatter first. "I've been hard all day thinking about bending you over my desk at school, but this—fuck, this is better. Watching your pussy swallow me whole."
The coil snaps suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, walls convulsing around his length in rhythmic pulses. "Steve!" you gasp, vision blurring as pleasure whites out everything, your body arching as much as the position allows. He groans at the sensation, your release coating him, making each thrust slicker, louder.
"Good girl," he praises, voice strained, not stopping as he chases his own high. His movements turn erratic, hips slamming forward with bruising force, the headboard tapping the wall in a steady rhythm. "Gonna fill you up, just like we made those six miracles. Pump you full until you're dripping with me."
You nod, still trembling from aftershocks, your hands roaming his sweat-damp back, urging him on. "Yes, please—give it to me," you whisper, the words spurring him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot spurts painting your walls. He holds the position, grinding slowly to push it deeper, his breath ragged against your neck.
For minutes, he stays like that, both of you panting, bodies entwined in the afterglow. Eventually, he eases your legs down gently, massaging the ache from your thighs before pulling out with a wet sound, his cum leaking from you onto the sheets. Steve collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "Love you, babe. Best damn part of my day."
You smile, curling into his warmth, the house still quiet around you. "Love you too, coach. Now, about that desk at school..."
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you pick up a drunk dean. he thinks you're everything.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. fluff. slight angst. drunk!dean. he's soooo hopelessly in love with reader. accidental confession. requited feelings. mentions of alcohol and brief descriptions of a bar. close proximity, touching.
masterlist.
"are you an angel?"
dean is watching you with glassy eyes; vision blurry and feeling very drunk from five too many beers. he blinks at you, lashes fluttering, as you stand before him and the golden bar lights illuminate you from above.
the world is swimming just a little and his head gives a small tilt as you shake yours at him, looking much too concerned for his liking. there's a pinch to your brow, and your fingers find his sleeve of leather.
"it's me," you say, voice soft and then booming in his ears. everything is quiet and then loud, quiet again. until your fingers hook beneath his chin to make him meet your searching gaze, and it's all narrowed down to you.
and you are an angel.
"let's go back, dean," you murmur, helping him out of his stool. his boots scuff against the floor, and he takes your hand happily once your grip on his sleeve lessens. "you wanna go home?"
his brows furrow, because he thinks he already is. you are.
you are home; safe and warm and all that he ever needs. and you're here, with him. his glittering green eyes flit over your features, pink lips slightly parted as he lets out a soft breath. his hand lands gently on your arm as he stands.
"you came to get me?"
"'course, de. you feel okay?"
he nods. a second of silence and a bob of his throat. "m'drunk, pretty."
pretty.
"i know you are, tough guy. come on."
heat stews beneath your cheeks and with his hand in yours, you begin to weave through the crowds of people occupying the bar. dean stumbles slightly behind you, towering and flushed and looking a little like a lost puppy as he follows at your heel.
and he called you pretty. there's a part of him that really thinks so. maybe all of him, you hope.
the cool air outside hits you in a refreshing wave. dean squeezes at your hand gently and tugs you a little closer, walking in slower steps than usual as you head for the impala.
"sweetheart," he breathes from beside you. "i like holding your hand."
your heart pangs and you force yourself to keep your focus ahead. "is that so?"
he hums, still watching you. his teeth dig into the plush of his bottom lip and he leans down to press his forehead to your temple. a swarm of something warm and erratic flutters about your stomach, and the feeling almost keels you over.
your feet still and you turn to look at him once he lifts his head.
"y'smell good," he whispers, eyes half-lidded and boring into yours. his hands find your waist slowly, gently. you let them. "i like that you're here."
you ache. tender and melancholy, because you've always wished to hear his words. but not like this. not when you're unsure that he even means them at all.
"don't like being alone," he continues, so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. his breath smells like bourbon, but you don't care at all. "m'gonna- i like... you."
don't like being alone.
i like you.
you reach up to cup his face gently between your palms, and he leans greedily into the touch, cheeks a little rosy now from the cold. his eyes shine a little more than before, under the moon's silver.
"dean-"
"love that. when you say my name," his voice is so quiet, low and vulnerable. "your voice s'nice. safe."
his eyes close, dark lashes kiss his cheekbones as he nuzzles against your hands and presses on, forehead bumping yours.
everything is hot, despite the air. your cheeks and hands and face, it's all warm. and there's something golden blooming inside of you, an ache in your chest and a swell of your heart.
he won't remember in the morning, you think. so you'll say it just once.
"love you," your voice is barely a breath, but dean catches it. his brows pinch, eyelids fluttering open. he's staring at something within you that is usually guarded and secure. "very much. let's leave, okay?"
he's quiet and unmoving. a moment passes, and then several. before he straightens with a hesitant slowness and nods, hands smoothing up your waist before he lets go.
his touch lingers and brands into your skin, and that allows you to pretend it's still there. that this was all real and sober and for you. that he really does think you're pretty and an angel.
that you're his home.
you are.
and he'll most definitely remember in the morning.
— disclaimer (mdni, aged up obviously, reverse cowgirl, recording)
Boyfriend!megumi can’t decide whether he wants to grip the fat of your ass and help you fuck yourself on his dick or if he wants to just fold his hands behind his head and enjoy the show. That’s why he keeps alternating between the two. All his sounds are just harsh intakes of air and grunts like he’s trying to hold in just how much he’s enjoying this, but occasionally little mutters will escape his lips before he can’t stop himself.
“Fuck, baby,” leaves him in a low, half-formed mutter, head tilting back into the pillow, large hands releasing your ass to tuck underneath his head. His eyelids are heavy over those piercing emerald swells, unable to look away from how the plush fat of your ass ripples like ocean waves each time it collides with the firm, cut expense of his muscled abdomen.
It’s not long before he’s holding his phone between shaky fingers, watching the way you lean your upper body forward, hands splaying over his thighs as leverage to twerk yourself on his dick. You, being his fucking nymphette of a girlfriend, obviously begged him to record to which he vehemently refused. However, when the door to his bedroom is closed, and there’s that brief moment when he allows himself to be vulnerable and honest about his needs, how could he deny you when the thought of being able to watch this on away missions makes his dick throb?
“Oh my gosh, Megumi,” is a cry from your lips that sounds too good to be true. He doesn’t know how he got so fucking lucky that day you decided to approach him and ask for his number. He’s always been too guarded, too in his head. He never cared much for such airheadedness or loud laughter, but you’ve coaxed him out of his comfort zone like you were a bunny rabbit in a clearing and he’s a salivating wolf. Fuck, even the comparison is cliche, but there’s no better way to describe the urge to just keep you in that cold cadaverous ribcage where his heart is supposed to be.
“W-what,” he grunts, trying to act like he’s not a complete fucking wreck — like he doesn’t know that this video is going to be a blur with the only hint of what’s happening being the sounds flesh slapping flesh, “talk to me, girl.”
“You’re just — ngh,” the words are all forgotten with each hit of his tip against your cervix, “so deep.”
Megumi’s jaw tightens, teeth clashing through a hiss. Every single one of your useless babbles of how good it feels, how much you love him, how happy you are with him, it all just further satiates soemthing deep inside him that needs to be fed. It’s hard for him to be vulnerable, but when you close his bedroom door, he’s finally able to open up to you.
“Y-you — f-fuck — you make me feel s’good, ‘gumi!”
“Shit,” his hands find your hips again, phone collapsing against his chest, “your stupid fucking voice . . mm, gonna make me cum.”
“Meg,” the name leaves your lips in a weak, yet petulant whine this time, nose scrunching up cutely with the unconvincing glare you spare over your shoulder. Your hips slow, “you call my voice stupid, and now, you’re not even recording.”
A veined and sinewy hand collides with your ass, finger tips pressing into the reddening flesh, pulling a strained yelp from those glossy lips.
“You know I don’t mean that,” his voice deepens, hints of frustration gliding through the undertone as that same hand slides up your spine, curling around the front of your neck to yank you back into the solidness of his chest. His knees nudge between your thighs to spread them apart, planting his feet into the mattress as his opposite hand slides down your belly to the apex of your thighs. “You know I can’t live without this.”
