Hey guys! Sorry, my art style is like the least consistent thing on this planet... I just like trying new things out :)
Anyways, continuing on our Rex parenting journey we have Chapter 4 - Pancakes and Apologies.
Prologue: 00 Previous chapter: 03 Next chapter: 05
Summary: Rex gets some news on Echo, pancakes are made, tantrums are thrown.
CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, talk about injuries from landmines (nothing too in depth)
Chapter 4 – Pancakes and Apologies
Rex sunk down into his couch with a sigh, leaning his head against the armrest. Fives had been tucked in and the hallway light was left on. One kid taken care of, one to go.
Rex pulled out his phone and opened a text from Cody: I have some more info. Call me when you’re ready.
The phone only rang once before it was picked up.
“Cody, is he okay?” Rex tried to keep his voice down so he would not wake the boy sleeping in the next room.
“He’s…” Cody trailed off and Rex could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“What? He’s what?” Don’t say dead. Please, don’t say dead.
“He just got out of surgery. They had to amputate both legs and an arm,” Cody was trying to keep if voice calm and leveled, but the words came out a little choked. “I’m so sorry.”
Rex stared across the living room and into the kitchen, he’d know the boy’s injuries would be bad if he had landed himself in the ICU, but the loss of three limbs? That was too much.
Cody continued, “Echo’s okay for now. He hasn’t woken up yet, so there could still be some complications, but they are optimistic about how the surgery went.”
“Both legs and an arm?” Rex asked, still processing his brother’s statement.
“Yes,” Rex heard Cody take a deep breath on the other side of the line, “He stepped on a landmine.”
“Wh- How?”
“I don’t know. No one told the hospital how it happened either.”
Rex was silent, but his mind screamed.
Screamed in anger.
In sadness.
In pain.
In guilt.
It was his fault. His.
“Rex? You still there?” Cody’s voice cut through the phone.
“Yeah,” Rex said a little absently. “Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Alright,” Cody said, tone laced with worry. “You should get some rest. I’ll text you any developments, but don’t stay up for them.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”
“I- I’m not sure.”
“Try, okay?”
“I will.”
“I love you, Rex’ika.”
“Love you too, Codes,” Rex dropped the phone from his ear as he disconnected the call.
He rolled onto his side and curled up on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest and letting the world melt around him as tears spilled down his cheeks.
Rex woke, panicked from a dream he couldn’t remember and drenched in a cold sweat. From what he could tell it was early morning, the living room was washed in a dim warm light. He was not sure when he had fallen asleep, but he could not have gotten more than four hours.
He reached for his phone on the coffee table and found it, bringing the screen close to his bleary eyes. He had some texts from Cody from around 3 am:
Just found out Kix is Echo’s doctor!
He came into the waiting room to tell me that Echo seems to be responding well to the surgeries.
He’s sleeping now, but he woke up for a bit while I was in there and asked for Fives.
Kix said he thinks you guys should be able to visit today.
Rex felt a surge of relief, Echo was going to be okay. He was going to be alright. Not only that, but Rex had known Kix since he’d been in a group home with him and he knew the boy was in capable hands.
Rex swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up to type out a reply, thanking his brother profusely.
“M-mister police officer, sir?”
A small voice cut through Rex’s thoughts, and he jerked his head up. Fives stood stiffly on the other side of the coffee table. Rex was taken aback, when had the boy slipped into the room? At least the kid looked like he had slept well, “Yes? And Rex is fine.”
“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”
Rex was initially going to deny the request and insist that he make breakfast for Fives instead, but realized he could not assume Fives was only offering because it was something required of him previously. Perhaps the boy really enjoyed cooking. Rex wouldn’t know so instead he put down his phone and smiled, “Why don’t we make ourselves some breakfast together?”
Fives’s eyes widened a bit before he nodded consent.
Rex stood and stretched, “What should we have? I’ve got eggs, pancakes, oatmeal, cereal, or bread for toast.”
Fives seemed to debate something before looking up at Rex, “What are pancakes?”
“Pancakes?” Rex parroted, a little shocked.
Fives blushed and turned away, muttering a quiet apology.
“No, it’s okay, it’s good to ask questions,” Rex tried to amend quickly. He hurried over to his pantry and grabbed his box of pancake mix, showing the box to the boy, “This is what they look like. They’re really good and you get to put maple syrup on them.”
Fives whipped his head around to Rex at the mention of maple syrup, an excited grin plastered onto his face, “Maple syrup is from Canada.”
“Uh, yeah?” Rex said taken aback by the random fact.
Fives turned back to the pancake box, “Echo had a book about flags. Canada’s is a maple leaf because of all the maple trees there and maple syrup comes from the maple trees.”
“Do you and Echo like to read a lot?” Rex asked.
“Echo does,” Fives said, shoulder’s tensing. “He tried to teach me, but I’m no good.”
Rex didn’t like the boy’s defeated tone, “You know, I didn’t learn how to read until I was a little older than you.”
“Really?” Fives asked. “Because Echo learned when we were little.”
Rex wondered what “little” meant to the boy because in his eyes the twins were still very much just little boys. “Different people learn different things at different times, it’s not a contest.” Rex shrugged, taking the pancake mix from Fives, “Do pancakes sound yummy? They’re one of my favorites.”
Fives nodded, then shrugged, “But I don’t know how to make them.”
“That’s okay,” Rex said grinning. “I can teach you.”
Fives had been a surprisingly competent chef for a seven-year-old boy. He knew how to measure ingredients and pour things without spilling, and, once Rex had helped him up onto the counter, had proved that he could work a stovetop. Rex made sure the boy was aware he was not to be climbing on things or using the stove without permission first.
Rex watched as Fives took his first bite of pancake. The boy chewed slowly and then grinned up at Rex.
“Good?” Rex asked, taking his first bite as well.
Fives nodded enthusiastically and began shoving the rest of the plate into his mouth as fast as he could. He was finished before Rex had swallowed his third bite.
Rex pushed the glass of milk he’d poured the boy closer to him, “milk first, and then you can have more.”
Fives eyed the glass suspiciously before carefully taking it in both hands and downing it, seemingly without stopping for breath. When he put the glass down, he had a little milk mustache. Rex couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
“What?” Fives asked, looking down at his plate, searching for whatever was so funny.
“You-” Rex broke out into another chuckle, “You’ve got a mustache.”
“No, I don’t,” Fives said, folding his arms.
“Yes, you do. Go look in the mirror.”
Fives gave Rex a confused look before heading off to the bathroom.
Rex shook his head and finished up his breakfast, smiling to himself.
Fives emerged from the bathroom a minute later with a clean, smiling face.
“It was from the milk,” the boy explained, as if Rex didn’t already know.
Rex nodded as Fives joined him in the kitchen, “Do you want some more pancakes?”
Fives shook his head as he sat back down in his chair, then he looked up a Rex, “Could we bring them for Echo?”
Rex shook his head, giving himself a few seconds to figure out the best way to explain to Fives, “Right now Echo’s in the ICU. Do you know what the ICU is?”
“Like the hospital?”
“Yeah, it’s a part of the hospital where they put the people who need a little extra help to get better. It stands for intensive care unit.”
“Is he going to die?” Fives had clearly picked up on the fact that someone already in the hospital needing extra help was bad. His voice was so small.
“We think he got through the worst part. He woke up last night and asked for you, which is a really good sign, but we can’t bring him anything from outside the hospital because he had to have some really big surgeries and we don’t want him to get infected.”
“Oh,” Fives’s eyes darted back and forth before they made their way back to Rex’s. “Can- can we still-? Are we allowed to see him?”
Rex nodded, “We can head on over after we get dressed and brush our teeth.”
Fives jumped up out of his chair in excitement and made a beeline for Rex’s bedroom. Rex marveled in the boy’s ability to switch his emotions so quickly, and his inability to hide any of them.
As Fives got dressed, Rex washed all the dishes as quickly as he could so he wouldn’t have to keep the boy waiting for long. Not surprisingly, Fives finished getting ready before Rex put the last dish on the drying rack. The boy bounded into the kitchen, bouncing on his toes and grinning.
Rex couldn’t help but match his grin, “Alright, get your shoes and coat on while I get dressed.”
Fives nodded and hopped over to the entry way where his tiny set of shoes sat next to Rex’s boots.
Rex threw on his clothes and swished some mouthwash around in his mouth (brushing took too long) before joining Fives in the entry way. The boy was practically exploding with energy and Rex had to tell him multiple times that his shoes were on the wrong feet before he stopped jumping up and down and sat so Rex could fix them.
As soon as they got onto the road Fives asked how long it would take to get to Echo, and not wanting the entire 45 minute car ride to consist of 45 “are we there yet?”s, Rex made Fives his navigator. He knew the way to Kamino General well enough that he would tell Fives to remind him to turn right when they got to the next intersection or get off the highway when he saw a green sign with the number 79 on it. It kept the boy surprisingly occupied as he seemed to take his role very seriously.
As they neared the hospital and sat waiting in city traffic, Rex glanced at Fives in the mirror, “Fives, there’s something I need to tell you about Echo before we see him.”
Fives twisted forward to look at Rex from his position analyzing the city outside his window.
“He got really hurt and he- his-” Rex started to explain, struggling to find the right words.
“His legs were gone,” Fives interrupted, eyes wide.
Rex stared at the boy in his mirror, “You saw?”
Fives nodded, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” Rex didn’t know what else to say.
Fives shrugged, “Green light.”
“Huh?” Rex gaped before he realized what Fives was referring to as the car behind him honked, “Shi-oot!”
Rex slammed on the gas and turned into the hospital’s visitor parking lot, “Sorry about that.”
“S’okay,” Fives mumbled. Then his head shot up with excitement, “Are we here?”
“Yep,” Rex said, pulling into a spot.
Before Rex came to a complete stop, Fives unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door, ready to leap out. Rex stomped on the breaks and lunged back to grab the boy’s wrist, lest he fall out of the car, “Fives!”
The boy yelped as Rex dragged him back away from the door.
“No!” Rex yanked the boy towards his face, “No. You do not get out of the car until it’s stopped moving! Do you understand?”
“I’m s-sorry,” Fives stared at Rex, face going pale.
“Do you understand?”
Fives tried to yank his arm away, but Rex had him in an iron grip.
“Do. You. Understand?”
Fives’s tiny fist came up from where it was clenched at his side and struck Rex on the cheek. Rex was so surprised he almost let go of the boy as Fives began screaming “sorry” repeatedly, flailed his captive wrist around, trying to bash Rex’s hand down into the console, and used his free hand to hit Rex’s arm with as much force as he was capable of.
Rex caught Fives’s other arm to prevent any further damage to either of them and held him still while he struggled. Even though Fives’s eyes were screwed shut, Rex tried to soften his expression from the angry one he was sure it held a few moments earlier to one as neutral as possible.
Eventually Fives’s struggles grew weaker, and his apologies died down to a faint whisper. Rex realized the boy was crying, tears leaking out the corners of his shut lids.
“Fives?” Rex said softly, loosening his grip on the boy so if he wanted to remove his arms he could.
Fives opened his eyes and tears gushed down his cheeks, “’m ssssorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m not mad, see?” Rex held up his hands.
Fives stared up at Rex with big watery eyes before slowly reaching out one of his own hands and placing it against Rex’s opposing palm.
Rex curled down his fingers so his hand enveloped Fives’s, “Are you okay?”
In response Fives pulled his and Rex’s hand towards his chest.
“Hug?” Rex asked, remembering last night.
“Please?”
“Alright, come here,” Rex said, hoisting the boy up over the console and into his lap.
Fives held Rex’s hand to his chest as Rex held him to his and they sat just breathing in silence together until Fives shifted to look up at Rex, “Are- are you very mad at me?”
Rex squeezed Fives a little tighter and smiled sadly, “I’m not very mad at you.”
They sat together for a few more moments and this time it was Rex who broke the silence, “Can I explain why I got upset?”
Rex felt Fives nod against his chest.
“Cars can be very dangerous if we aren’t careful in them or around them,” He felt Fives nod in understanding and continued, “One of the rules when you’re in the car is that you always keep your seatbelt on and you never open the door unless we are parked in a driveway or in a parking lot, does that make sense?”
Again, Rex felt Fives nod against him.
He continued, “When you opened the door, I was scared that you might get hurt, so I got upset. But I was more upset that you might get hurt than I was upset at you.” Rex rubbed Fives’s arm, “I’m sorry for yelling at you and for grabbing you.”
“I’m sorry, too. For- for breaking the rules.”
“It’s alright. You were excited, I get it. But next time we don’t jump out of moving cars.”
Fives nodded, sniffling.
Rex grabbed a tissue and handed it to the boy, “Ready to go see Echo?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 21/?
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers & Nancy Wheeler
Additional Tags: Eventual Jancy, Slow Burn, Angst and Romance and Some Fluff, This is going to be a long one, but i promise to get to the point...eventually, Post Epilogue, Canon Compliant, Jonathan Byers-centric, i'm still in the goo room, Background Steve & Robin Eventually, Jancy, Background Mentions of Byler, Jonathan/OC for part but in service of the plot/Jancy
Summary:
Jonathan Byers. 1989. New York City. Where starting new isn't the same as moving on.
Or: Jonathan meets someone new but some loves, like scars, never fade.
“Though most acquired said markings before their arrival. Not you from what I’ve been hearing.”
At least he was being more or less direct. “I’ve heard it is poor form to not adapt to ones surroundings.” That certainly sounded better than I needed to carve my own face out or else I might actually have gone insane. “Perhaps it will catch on as a trend at some point, it’s quite a striking look if I do say so myself.”
“Is it true it was my brother who did it?”
(Or start reading here from chapter one)
And with this the first instalment of my Amlach/Maedhros series is complete!!! Chapter two ended up being longer than anticipated but I'm blaming Caranthir and my being anemic this past month and a half for that.
synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.
tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything
wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (• ▽ •;) if u see i typo, no u don’t.
two weeks.
fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.
his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.
now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.
the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.
instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.
his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru
the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.
because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.
the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.
he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.
no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.
this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—
he rings the doorbell.
the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.
the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.
you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.
your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.
you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.
“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—
before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.
the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.
and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’
“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”
the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.
“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”
“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”
the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.
“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”
satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.
because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.
“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”
your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.
“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”
“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”
“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”
“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”
each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.
“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”
you go very, very still.
“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”
“but—”
“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”
the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’
“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”
satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.
you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.
and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.
“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”
“that’s it.”
the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.
he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.
through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”
the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.
satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.
somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.
he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.
he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.
“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”
each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.
“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”
satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.
“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”
he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.
“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”
the window slams shut.
satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.
he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.
he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.
this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.
the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.
he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.
satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.
he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.
the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.
but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.
he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.
he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.
because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.
science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.
tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.
his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.
night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.
the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.
the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.
he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.
the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.
he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”
procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.
satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.
the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself.
if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.
he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.
it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.
the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.
guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.
his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—
the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.
“gotcha, you little creep.”
and there you are.
standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.
your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.
satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—
your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.
the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.
because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.
he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—
it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.
the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.
and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.
his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.
“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”
“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”
“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.
you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.
then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.
satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.
the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.
satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.
even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.
the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.
he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.
for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo
despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.
he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.
the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.
you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.
“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”
there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.
he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”
the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—
“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”
the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.
you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.
he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.
“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.
your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.
“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”
the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.
“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”
“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”
satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.
the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.
“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”
your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.
“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”
the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.
and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.
“but hypothetically—”
“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”
the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.
he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.
the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.
satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.
he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.
note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials.
assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.
the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.
it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.
satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.
his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.
he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.
the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.
satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.
the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.
which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.
he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.
the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.
satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil.
the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.
nothing.
either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.
he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.
getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.
his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.
the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.
it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.
everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.
coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.
each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.
his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.
the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.
making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru
breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband
minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru
each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.
no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.
reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.
satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.
the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.
instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.
the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.
the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.
but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.
his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.
the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.
you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.
hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.
the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.
component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.
finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.
satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.
but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.
he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.
the world bends.
reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.
his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.
the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.
when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.
he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.
the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.
he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.
satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.
time to go home.
time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.
the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.
he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.
you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.
the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.
but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—
satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.
he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.
“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”
he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.
“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”
“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”
your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”
“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”
satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.
“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”
the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.
“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”
“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.
you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.
“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.
“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”
the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.
“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”
your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”
he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.
your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.
“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”
”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”
“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”
despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”
“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.
“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”
“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.
it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.
and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.
he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.
there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”
it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.
“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”
your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”
“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”
his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”
he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”
your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”
“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”
it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.
“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.
“i’m your dork.”
his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”
“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”
“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”
his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.
“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”
those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.
“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”
you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.
“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.
his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.
your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—
ding.
the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.
you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.
“the pasta,” you say faintly.
“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
ding. ding. ding.
“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.
he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.
”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.
his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.
his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.
you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.
”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”
he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.
he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”
the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.
he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.
when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.
the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.
“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.
”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.
his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.
“but dinner—”
“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”
his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.
his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.
“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”
his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.
“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.
“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”
he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.
his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.
“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”
he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”
“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”
he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.
“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”
he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.
“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.
the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.
“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”
he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.
“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”
“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”
his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”
“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”
he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.
he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”
“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”
“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”
“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”
he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.
he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.
“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”
he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.
he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”
his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.
he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”
“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”
his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”
he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.
he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”
“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.
he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”
he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.
he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”
his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”
he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.
“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.
his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.
he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.
“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”
“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.
“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”
he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”
your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”
he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”
his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”
“want it…”
his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.
“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”
he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”
but he doesn’t stop.
he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.
“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”
he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.
“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”
he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.
“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”
a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.
he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”
his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.
“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”
he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.
“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”
he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.
“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”
his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.
“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”
his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.
your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.
his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.
his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.
“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”
he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.
the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.
“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”
his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.
then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.
“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”
he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.
“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”
his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.
but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.
he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.
“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”
he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.
and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.
“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”
his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.
he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.
he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.
“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”
slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.
he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.
his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.
“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”
he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.
your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.
his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.
his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.
“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”
his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.
you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.
his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.
“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.
“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”
your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.
he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.
when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.
his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.
“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”
his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.
his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.
“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”
you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.
he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.
when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.
he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.
“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”
he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.
you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.
neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.
“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”
his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.
summary: The thing about Logan is that he always knew what to say. He just kept finding reasons not to say it.
or: the five times Logan almost confessed and the one time he did.
notes: hii!! lazy sunday inspiration, this one is like sabrina short and sweet, hope you guys like it! enjoy your reading!!
warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, happy ending.
word count: 4k
I've been afraid of changing because I've built my life around you
You had met Logan at a rink.
This was, in retrospect, the most inevitable thing about you, that two people who had built their entire lives around ice would find each other on it. You had been eleven, in the middle of a spin sequence that wasn't working, frustrated enough that you had stopped and put your hands on your hips and glared at the ice like it had personally wronged you. He had been eleven too, sitting in the penalty box with his helmet off, watching you with the focused attention of someone who had forgotten he was supposed to be somewhere else.
"Your left shoulder drops," he said.
You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.
"Did I ask?" you said.
"No," he said. "But it does."
You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.
You had not told him that.
You had skated to the boards and looked at him.
"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.
"Coach," he said, simply.
"What did you do."
"Argued a call."
"Was the call wrong?"
"Obviously," he said.
You had looked at him for another long moment.
"I'm (Y/N)," you said.
"Logan," he said.
Ten years later you were still talking.
one — the competition february, sophomore year
The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.
Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.
He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.
He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.
You were in the middle of your free skate program.
The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.
The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.
He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.
Logan exhaled too.
You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.
He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.
Logan was completely gone.
After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.
You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.
"You came," you said.
"I always come," he said.
"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"
"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."
"You sound like my coach."
"Your coach is correct."
You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.
Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.
"Mm?" You didn't move.
He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —
"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."
You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."
"It's a small thing, but —"
"I just won," she said.
"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."
You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't," he said.
"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.
You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.
two — the lazy day april, sophomore year
It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.
Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.
You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.
"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.
"What's wrong with the current music?"
"She says it doesn't show enough range."
"What does she want instead?"
"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."
Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.
"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."
"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"That's a nice thing to say," you said.
"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what."
He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.
"About —" he started.
Your phone went off.
The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.
Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.
When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.
"What were you thinking about?" you said.
"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.
three — the boys september, junior year
The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.
Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.
You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.
Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.
"Your figure skater friend," he said.
Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."
"Is she single?"
The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.
Logan's jaw did something.
"Yeah," he said. "She's single."
"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"
"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"
"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"
"She's busy," Logan said.
Dean looked at him.
Logan looked at his equipment bag.
"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"
"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."
Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.
"Okay," he said. "Sure."
He went back to his own locker.
Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.
Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.
Logan texted you that night.
logan: what are you doing
yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up
logan: nothing. just checking in
yn: at 10pm on a tuesday
logan: is that suspicious
yn: a little
logan: go stretch your hip flexors
yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me
A pause. Longer than usual.
logan: be there in twenty
He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.
You stretched your hip flexors.
He was quiet beside you.
It was, somehow, exactly enough.
four — the party november, junior year
Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.
The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.
Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.
The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.
You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.
"He's doing it again," Hannah said.
Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."
"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."
They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.
You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.
"He's going to do it," Hannah said.
"He's not going to do it," Allie said.
"He's leaning in —"
"He never does it."
"There's always a first time —"
Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.
Logan closed his eyes very briefly.
Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.
You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.
Allie looked at Hannah.
Hannah looked at Allie.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.
"Same," said Allie.
They looked at each other.
"We're not intervening," Allie said.
"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.
They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.
"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.
"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."
allie: okay so
hannah: i KNOW
allie: the shoulder thing
hannah: and her FACE when he left
allie: someone needs to do something
hannah: we said we weren't intervening
allie: i know what we said
hannah: allie
allie: i'm just saying
hannah: we are not telling them
allie: fine
hannah: fine
allie: ...fine
hannah: goodnight allie
allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something
hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE
five — the almost january, senior year
You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.
You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:
"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."
You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."
Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.
"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."
You put down your tea.
"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.
"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."
"Probably," you said.
Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.
You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.
She's busy, he had apparently said.
You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.
You looked at your tea.
Hm, you thought.
Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.
"Hey," he said. "You good?"
"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."
You looked at him.
"Sure," you said.
You got your coat.
one — the one time he did january, senior year.
The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.
You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.
"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.
A pause.
"Told you what," Logan said.
"About Dean. In September."
The aisle was very quiet.
"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."
Another pause. Longer.
"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."
"Logan."
"What."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.
"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."
He looked up. His jaw did the thing.
"Because," he started.
"Because why."
He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.
"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."
The skate rental shop was very quiet.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay?" he said.
"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Not for this," he repeated.
"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.
The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.
He put them back on the shelf.
"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."
"You talked about my shoulder."
"I know," he said. "I know I did."
"And on the Sunday in April —"
"Your coach called."
"And at the party in November —"
"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.
"Five times," you said.
"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."
You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.
"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."
Logan looked at you.
"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."
The blade covers blurred slightly.
You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.
"You talked about my shoulder," you said.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I'm going to bring that up for years."
"I know," he said. "I deserve that."
You pulled him down by the jacket.
He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.
"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."
"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."
"I know," you said. "I'm very good."
He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.
You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.
You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.
"The shoulder thing at the party —"
"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"
"The thing in September with Dean —"
"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."
"How long," you said.
They looked at each other.
"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.
You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.
"You could have said something to me," you said.
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.
You looked at them both.
"I cannot believe," you said.
"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.
Logan told the team at dinner.
Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.
When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.
Except that his hand found yours under the table.
And this time he didn't let go.
allie: so
hannah: SO
allie: we called it
hannah: from the beginning
allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard
summary: It’s Sunday , and that means family dinner hosted at your house. Rafe insists he takes care of everything himself. He didn’t just cook dinner. He cleaned the kitchen , set the table and handled your family without flinching. And now ? Now he was about to be thanked. Thoroughly.
warnings: MDNI 18+ , husband!rafe x wife!reader , smut , unprotected p in v , praise , creampie , cum tasting , oral f receiving , explicit language , slight exhibitionism (kinda???), fingers in mouths
a/n: hey!!! Sooo how do we feel??? lmk your thoughts ?? as always likes make me giggly and re-blogs earn you a kiss (on the cheek cause I’m not ab to get my shit beaten up by wifey)
words: 5k+
it started with the smell.
the kind of smell that seeps into your hair and clings onto the fabric of your clothes, wrapping around you like a dirty secret you want to share but can't quite put into words. the kind that makes your guests pause in the doorway to catch their breath just long enough before they ask for the recipe. it floats up the stairs in slow, tantalizing curls, winding through doorways, drifting beneath cracks and ending straight in your nostrils.
somewhere downstairs, a drawer slams shut and a second later you hear Rafe curse under his breath. he sounds like someone trying a little too hard to prove he doesn’t need your help.
it's Sunday, which means it's the day you dread from Monday through Saturday, the day your entire family gathers in your lovely, usually quiet home.
youre still upstairs, standing in front of the mirror next to your vanity, reapplying your plumping lip gloss. quiet moments like these make you rethink this whole ‘family gathering sunday’ thing.
watching the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to the familiar chaos, the storm that always brews on Sundays.
that storm that somehow always feels like home, even when it’s loud and messy and full of love, while your kitchen runs like a machine operated by one man in a red-striped apron.
you take a small breath and let yourself feel it filling your lungs. smoothing your hands down the front of your dress, fingertips grazing each small button.
this dress isn’t for your mom. not your dad. and definitely not for your brother.
the dress is for him.
for Rafe.
because for the last two hours, Rafe has been moving around your kitchen with the calm precision of a man who was made for this. slicing, sautéing and tasting garnishes like a chef on Masterchef waiting to be judged.
you hear the faint scrape of the knife against the wooden board, the soft hiss of something delicious sizzling in the pan.
the stairs creak softly under your heels as you make your way down. You don’t mean to sneak, you just want to catch him in the moment focused on his task.
he’s plating the salads, using those big strong hands with care like tongs would insult the delicate greens.
he hasnt even noticed you yet and maybe that’s what gets your heart beating so fast.
how deeply focused he is, how seriously he’s taking this, and all of this just because he knows how much your family means to you.
you lean against the kitchen doorway with a small teasing smile on your lips.
“hi, chef”
he doesn’t lift his head but barely even acknowledges you with a hum.
“stay out of my kitchen”
“well its technically our kitchen”
“not when i’m the one searing the scallops” he replies , still not looking up at ou.
you push off the doorframe and saunter over to him, bumping your hip to his. You’re close enough to see the delicious golden crust on the meat, the steam rising from the pan. close enough to smell and taste the lemon zest on his fingers.
he finally glances up at you with a flicker passing through his eyes. a flicker of emotion you know all too well.
any other man would’ve been annoyed at having to do this all by himself, rafe somehow wasn’t. he was turned on. you could always tell.
“i know what that dress means” he says and lifts his finger to point at you.
you bite back a smirk, blinking rapidly and feigning innocence. “what does it mean?”
he leans in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your neck. “It means I have to be good…and you’re going to make it very, very difficult for me”
before you get to reply, the doorbell rings, making you both pause.
his eyes stay locked on your for a few seconds, but then he straightens, wiping his hands on the towel he had slung over his shoulder and steps around you to grab the wine.
the house fills in a flash, like a bolt of lightning.
your parents arrive first, early as always, walking in like they own the place with a bottle of wine on their hands that’s clearly been debated on the way here and armed with unsolicited opinions about your new curtains before you’ve even had a chance to say hello.
Rafe moves to open the door, all easy smiles and warmth radiating from him like sunlight through a kitchen window. their faces brighten immediately as they see him, a mixture of relief and fondness lighting their eyes. like this is the son-in-law who didn’t used to be a literal feral menace but has somehow learned to tame himself, or at least pretend he can be trusted around your family.
“what is that? It smells amazing in here” your mother says , floating past you towards the kitchen.
“that would be the garlic confit” Rafe calls after her , already halfway back to the stove.
“and the chicken is almost done. I remembered to brine it this time.”
you blink, shaking your head with a half-smile.
“this time?”
He shrugs “last time it was dry. Your bother didn’t say anything but I could tell by the look on his face”
You can’t help but giggle quietly. And the worst part? He’s not even joking. He can tell. Because Rafe notices everything. And that thought alone is enough to make you want to drag him upstairs by the apron strings around his waist and ruin dinner, him, and this responsible act completely.
but then the doorbell rings again, and again.
shoes are now messily kicked off next to the door while laughter fills the foyer. your dad who’s always too hot opens the big window in the living room way too much making your mother yell at him. the wine is uncorked, your uncle brings too much cheese and your aunt compliments your dress in a tone that doesn’t quite sound sincere.
It should feel chaotic. But somehow, it doesn’t.
because Rafe is at the center of it all, steady and soft-spoken, the kitchen towel still casually slung over his shoulder like a badge of honor. He moves between stove and dining table with an easy grace, like this is exactly where he belongs, like this kitchen is his kingdom and tonight is his triumph.
which, honestly? It kind of is.
and thats what makes you feel unsteady. That’s what makes your breath hitch and your pulse quicken against your wrist.
Because you’re not supposed to be this turned on by your husband talking about chicken stock with your mother.
dinner starts before you even sit down at the table.
the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the rustle of napkins, it all begins in the kitchen, spills into the dining room like a tide you can’t hold back.
And everyone’s eating it up.
Your aunt laughs, bright and easy, at something Rafe says.
your brother, shockingly, doesn’t make a single sarcastic comment. Not one. Instead, he’s leaning in, nodding along, maybe even paying attention.
even your dad, usually the toughest to impress, is quietly nodding, his brow lifted just enough to show he’s mildly, almost grudgingly, impressed.
But you?
You’re barely touching your food.
Because you’re watching him.
Watching the way his brows furrow when he listens. The way his hand drapes over the back of your chair like he’s forgotten it’s even there.
The way he makes everyone else feel comfortable, and somehow, still makes you feel like the most important person in the room.
Because to him, you are.
And oh he knows what that does to you. God, he knows.
Because every time your gaze lingers too long, he smirks, just barely and doesn’t say a word.
He wipes a bit of sauce from your lip with his thumb.
Soft. Casual. Like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing. Definitely not nothing.
the pad of his finger pauses at the corner of your mouth. Just there. Lingering half a second longer than necessary. Like it’s savoring the moment, like it’s memorizing the exact curve of your smile. then, slow and deliberate, he brings that same fingertip to his own lips, licking it clean without ever breaking eye contact.
You forget how to breathe for a few seconds. Don’t breathe for four.
And then he’s back to talking to your father about roasting techniques like he didn’t just make tears run down your thighs. Like it never happened.
You sit beside him at the table, trying your best to play good host. To smile, to nod when it’s appropriate, to look like you belong here , just like he does, like your mind isn’t slowly unraveling beneath a pretty dress and a glass of overpriced wine.
But then Rafe’s hand finds your thigh.
Under the table. Quiet. Still. Familiar. Hot.
Like it’s been there all along, like it knows exactly where it fits.
You take a sip of wine, swallowing hard, desperately trying to focus on your uncle’s banter instead of the slow, deliberate pressure of those fingertips playing with fire beneath the table.
He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even pause in his conversation.
He’s good at this. At pretending. So fucking good.
You shift restlessly in your seat, squeezing your legs tighter, if that’s even possible, and bite your inner cheek to make sure your expressions stay neutral.
Rafe reaches for his glass, next to yours, fingers brushing yours, light, but intentional.
No one would notice.
No one does notice.
You do though. You always do.
You notice everything.
The way he tilts his head to the side when you speak, like he’s memorizing the sound of your voice all over again, like it’s something precious, something he wants to keep close.
The way he says your cousin’s name with perfect pronunciation, even though he’s only heard it once. Because he knows it’s important to you.
The way he hasn’t moved his hand off of your thigh in over twenty minutes.
You sip your wine a little too fast. Set the glass down with shaky fingers. He doesn’t react, but his thumb presses a little firmer into the flesh of your thigh. Just once. A reminder.
He’s enjoying this.
Having you squirm without even doing anything major.
It feeds him.
It’s his oxygen.
“This is delicious, Rafe,” your mother says sweetly, fork poised mid-air, beaming with genuine approval.
He smiles at her, warm and polite, hand still not moving from your thigh. “It’s all her,” he says, nodding at you like you’re the secret ingredient behind every perfect bite. “She inspires me.”
And fuck.
Fuck.
Your fork nearly slips from your hand. Your legs are crossed together so tight by now, it makes your muscles ache, humming with the tension only he can create.
The compliment lands, but not where it’s supposed to land. It lands somewhere lower, much lower, somewhere warmer, somewhere that has nothing to do with roast chicken or family dinners.
Youve never wanted to leave a room full of people more than you do now.
By the time dessert arrives, your patience is threadbare, worn thin like fragile lace ready to tear.
You’ve been good. Painfully, excruciatingly good. All phony smiles, practiced laugher when it’s necessary and polite little interjections when its appropriate, barely holding it together while your whole body burned quietly beneath the tablecloth, pretending that you weren’t unraveling at the seams.
Rafe’s hand had finally slipped away from your thigh, after nearly an hour of resting there like a secret between only you two, warm and steady and his. And now, standing at the end of the table like the perfect host he is, he passes around slices of fresh lemon cake with that effortless charm that makes your mother nudge you under the table, proud as ever of her son-in-law.
Youre not sure if this thing twisting inside you is emotional, chemical, or something more primal, something that hums in your bloodstream and makes your skin hum with need. it’s been building all evening, a slow-burning ache you’re desperately trying to hide behind a fragile smile.
The back of your neck is warm and tingly. Your skin feels too tight, making you want to crawl out of it. You’re not even sure you can taste the cake anymore.
So you get up. Don’t even excuse yourself, not really, just murmur something vague about needing more napkins? Maybe coffee spoons? maybe a serving fork? If that even exists, and slip into the kitchen before anyone has the chance to stop your or follow.
You brace your hands against the edge of the counter and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with air.
Not that it helps.
Not at all.
If anything, it makes things worse.
Because the air smells like citrus, vanilla and wine, the sharp tang of lemon frosting cut with sweet sugar and something darker, muskier, the unmistakable trace of him that still lingers like smoke in the warm pockets of the room.
You bow your head and let your eyes flutter closed.
Your knees feel wobbly and your thighs ache in that low persistent way that makes it difficult to stand still.
And then, like all this isn’t enough.
He’s behind you.
Not really touching.
Not speaking.
Just hovering. Just there.
You feel it all, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves, the weight of him, just hovering behind you like gravity has shifted and youre suddenly hyper aware of every inch of your body that isn’t touching his, even though it totally should be.
And its unbearable.
He’s close enough that his soft breath stirs the tiny baby hairs at the base of your neck, close enough that your heartbeat stutters in your throat, close enough that your fingers curl against the countertop on instinct, needing something to grip, because you are going to fall apart.
“One more hour,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked, pressing a small kiss on your neck, the feel of it enough to make you gasp. “One more hour… and you’re all mine”
Your lips part, not to speak, you’re not even sure you could if you tried, just to breathe. Because suddenly it feels like your lungs forgot how.
And then you nod, barely. Just enough for him to see.
Just enough to agree to something you’d already promised hours ago without even speaking.
He sighs, like he’s barely keeping it together, like you’re not the only one who’s been losing your fucking mind all night.“You’re making it very hard to be good, baby.”
You exhale through your nose, grip the counter tighter.
You bite down on a smile that wants to ruin you.
You don’t look at him. You don’t dare.
Not until this house is empty.
The house is still warm with the memory of too many people, too many voices, laughter spilling from every room, clinking glasses, the quiet hum of family banter that had filled every corner.
But now? Now it’s just the two of you.
Fucking finally.
You lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with playful accusation as you point a finger at him like he’s just confessed to a horrendous crime. “you are a menace”
He looks up at you from the pile of dishes, that stupid grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Sorry?” he says, all innocence and mischief. Like he knows you’re seconds from combusting and he’s got the match ready in his palm, just waiting to light the fuse within you.
“I made dinner” he lists off, all feigned innocence. “Set the table. Lit the candles. Got your dad to like me. Again.”
You scoff.
Actually scoff.
“You made dinner like it was foreplay”
He blinks, biting back a grin, tilting his head with mock curiosity.
“You brined the chicken”
“Thats called effort” he defended, voice smooth but eyes dancing with amusement he’s desperately trying to hide.
“You coordinated the table settings by color scheme!”
“Last time you said it looked nice”
“You remembered my mom likes red and my brother can’t have tomatoes” you narrow your eyes, stalking closer.
“I listen when you talk, baby”
Your hands fly up in the air like you’re trying to physically release the insanity.
“And then..then you touched me under the table for two straight hours while charming my entire bloodline like you weren’t slowly, methodically, ruining my life.”
He lets the towel slide off his shoulder, folding it with slow, deliberate care and placing it neatly on the counter. Calm. Intentional. Controlled.
Which only makes you unravel even more. If that’s even possible.
“You seemed fine,” he says, deadpan.
“I wasn’t fine. I am still not fine. I was sitting there soaked through my panties while you tasted sauces and licked your damn thumb off in front of my mother.”
He smiles then, not wide, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s barely holding it together. “So you noticed.”
“Of course I noticed!”
You wave a hand back toward the dining room like it’s a crime scene.
“You were doing it on purpose. Stirring the butter like it’s a love language. Sliding your hand up my thigh like you weren’t talking to my dad about lawnmowers.”
He steps forward. Just one step. Slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a wild animal. Or a ticking bomb. “Baby..”
“No. Don’t ‘baby’ me right now.”
You jab a finger toward him like it’s a weapon, sharp and impossible to ignore.
“You gave my aunt decorating tips while literally fingering the edge off my dress under the table.”
“You looked so pretty in that dress,” he says, and it’s soft, like he’s saying it for the first time.
“Couldn’t help myself.”
He grabs you by your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the marble counter like you weight nothing. The marble’s cold against the skin of your thighs, but his hands are hot, and they’re already pushing your dress up and parting your legs.
“Not fair” You whisper, but your arms instantly wrap around his neck, its instinctual.
“Mmm I know baby,” he murmurs, warm lips finding their way to your neck, soft like a whisper of touch. “I know.”
He lifts his hand, brushing it against the soft fabric of your dress, slipping open the first few buttons, leaning in and pressing burning kisses on your breasts, gaze never leaving yours. Not for a moment.
you could feel the goosebumps upon your skin , delicate and unmistakable, and the way his touch made your breath catch in your lungs.
He kisses his way up to the corner of your mouth, swallowing your breathy gasp with his tongue as his flat palm trails up the back of your dress.
You pull back , breaking the kiss, close enough that your noses still touch and your heaving chests press together,
“mm, you know,” you breathe, voice just above a whisper, a familiar lilt to your teasing. you swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his, then drifting back down to his mouth like muscle memory. “A little initiative can get you a very, very long way.”
His hands rub up and down your thighs. Once. Twice. Like soothing a fever you both know he started. a breathy laugh escapes him as he plants another quick kiss, still not moving back.
“uh huh so does lip gloss and this dress, baby.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, like he’s taking in the full picture. The slight flush on your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest. Your breasts spilling out of the unbuttoned front of your dress. The way your hands are already curled in the fabric of his shirt.
And fuck.
he felt like the luckiest man alive.
He glances at the untouched plate of cake next to you on the counter. His teeth tug at his bottom lip, head tilted to the side.
“Did you not like my cake?” he teases, eyebrows raised, voice lazy and warm.
He slides the plate closer, digs his fingers into the lemon frosting, and brings them to your chest, smearing it over your breasts like he’s painting you in sugar. “Oh I really messed you up huh?” He murmurs with a grin.
Then brings his now sticky and sweet fingers to your mouth for you to lick them clean, pressing them on your lips.
You obey. Parting your lips in response and taking his fingers into your mouth, licking and sucking the creamy frosting off of them. A soft moan escaping your lips as the sweet taste hits your tongue, making him groan in response.
When you release his fingers from your mouth , his tongue darts out and he leans forward to lick all the frosting he smeared on your breasts. “Can’t leave you all messy, right?”
He sucks, licks and kisses the sugar off your skin, cleaning up the mess he made with his fingers, not stopping until he’s satisfied.
“Can’t” you moan arching against the counter and into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, desperately pulling him closer, aching for the friction your body needs, and only your husband can provide.
“mm shit it ran down all the way here” he slips open the rest of the buttons of your dress, making it fall open completely, leaving you in just your soaked lacy panties , exposing you to the cool night air and raising goosebumps along your burning flesh.
He presses wet open-mouthed kisses down between your breasts and down your ribs, getting on his knees in front of you on the counter in the process, his lips not once leaving your skin and his eyes not ever leaving yours.
He’s savoring every second of this, practically humming with every lick against your skin, there’s nothing he loves more than how you taste on his tongue, how your soft skin feels against it.
His hands never leave you either, touching everywhere he can reach from his position. Her runs them up your calves and thighs hunting his fingertips are skimming the curve of your hips and the edges of your panties.
“Rafe” you gasp , legs finding his shoulders as you grind your hips upwards, urging him to continue “please don’t stop”
“You’re so fucking perfect” he mutters, against the skin of your inner thigh, lips trailing up to kiss you through the lace of your panties and tongue lapping over the damp fabric.
You close your eyes, the sensation of his touch sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as you arch your back against the counter , hands on his head, feeling his scalp under your fingertips. “Off— take them off!” you eagerly tug at the edges of your panties.
“I got it” he gently swats your hands away, hooking his fingers on either side of them on the outside of your hips pulling the wet lacy fabric down your ankles and taking each foot to remove them completely.
“Fuck” he groans as he’s met with your pussy, swollen and dripping for him. “Fuck baby look at you” he murmurs kissing your clit with a squeeze of his lips, making you whine.
“Rafe please!” you gasp hips lifting off the counter and arching into his mouth “I need it!”
The tip of is tongue circles your clit before licking a long stripe in between your glistering folds, his hands spreading your legs apart so he could taste you, settling in between your thighs.
Pulling back from your pussy just to kiss the inside of your right thigh and suck on the left, before going straight back to flattening his tongue and tasting all of you, letting your juices drip down his chin reveling at the wetness of you.
“You’re perfect” he repeats , his warm breath tickling your pussy. “Say it” he looks up at you, not moving from in between your thighs.
“Say what?” You moan lifting your head from the counter to look down on him, hand on the top of his head.
“Say you’re perfect—say it” he pants against you, sucking your swollen clit as if to emphasize his point, his palm reaching up to feel your tit and squeeze the swell of it.
“Im perfect” you arch your back as he rubs your hardened nipple, back arching off the counter and toes curling against his back.
“Yeah you’re fucking perfect” he affirms watching your head fall back, your mouth fall open and the sharp bites of your nails scratching the cold marble counter.
His hand slides up from your tit, reaching to grasp your chin between his fingers, forcing your gaze back on him “look at me” he murmurs, mouth still grazing your pussy in a way that makes your eyes roll back “c’mon let me see your face”
“Rafe please-“ you gasp meeting his gaze with your own “please I need you baby!”
He’s back on his feet in an instant, hands grazing the sides of your ribs and up your tits , with his teeth now dragging along your collarbone and then soothing it with his tongue, you reach and rub your thumb on his glistering chin, cleaning him off your juices.
You grab his face and pull him to your lips, tugging his lower lip in between your teeth getting to taste yourself on his tongue and then sliding your hand in between your bodies to feel his throbbing cock through his pants.
He grunts against your lips, the sound low and desperate, before suddenly lifting you into his arms. His grip is firm, possessive, like he can't wait another second. He carries you up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, barely breaking the kiss, like every moment not touching you is too long.
He tosses you on the soft mattress with a thump crawling on top of you in record time. You’re both panting, practically gasping for air like the kiss took everything you had and it would’ve gone on forever if you didn’t have the common sense to stop to breathe.
Your hands slide down his sides, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his pants, one on each side.
He leans back slightly, pulling his shirt off his head and throwing it aside without a care.
His only care was you.
Warm fingertips trail down his hard chest, following its heaving movements, and then down the ridges of his abdomen, making him flex the muscles unintentionally before reaching down the waistband of his pants working them off.
He helps you, impatiently kicking them off along with his boxers, shoes and socks with a curse, making you giggle under your breath.
God, you loved your husband.
“Come here” you huff pulling him down by his shoulders and wrapping you legs around his waist.
He follows you, leaning down and pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck and jaw, his lips soft and warm against your skin. “Mm fuck I love you”
You pressed kisses on the side of his face, murmuring against his skin “I love you”
“Need you” he whispers against your jaw running his fingers over your cheek and into your hair. “Need inside you baby, need to be inside you now”
He runs his hand down your leg, grabbing the back of your knee and hooking it over his hip, making you grind upwards, pressing your hips to his. his swollen tip rubbing against your folds.
“Please” you gasp, fingers clenching around his shoulders and nails digging into his back.
“Please Rafe” you repeat.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not for a moment.
Letting your velvety walls envelope his aching hard cock. His forehead falling to your shoulder like its the first time. Savoring the feel of you swallowing him inch by inch.
His breath hitched in his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he stays there, unmoving, filling you to the brim with one long, heavy, shuddering sigh against the skin of your neck.
“Perfect— my perfect girl”
He draws back, almost all the way out, slowly, feeling every bit of you clenching around his cock but he doesn’t stop right away, only to slide right back in, all the way to your glistering hole, all the way home.
You don’t know what sound you make or if you’re even making any noise, it could be his name or a moan or a combination of both but they’re the only two syllables in the whole world that have any meaning right now.
“Harder” you gasp, gripping his shoulders like they’re your only lifeline.
His hand slides down your waist and cups your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh, lifting your legs off the bed and spreading them even more, lifting your bottom up off the bed and changing the angle with an ease that makes your head spin.
“Oh god” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your head
“oh fuuuck” he mutters, grunting in your ear, pulling out just to slam back into you even harder, deeper, balls slapping against your ass
“Fuck take it baby”
And you do.
You take it all.
Everything he throws at you.
He’s already throbbing inside you and you cant help but clench around him too. Its like a dance. A dance of sensations and muttered praises against your ear while he ruins you in the best way possible.
“Mm just like that!” You moan, hips lifting up to meet his in a desperate movement. “Rafe, fuck!”
He reaches between your bodies, still thrusting in and out of you in a brutal rhythm, and circles your sensitive clit with his thumb. “Taking me so fucking well”
“Im gonna—“
“Give it to me baby” he pants in your ear, “shit—cum all over my cock”
With a broken moan and an arch of your back off the bed and onto his chest, you do. Your orgasm hits you like a delicious full body sneeze you’ve been chasing after all night. You clench around him repeatedly. Milking his cock dry, letting every last drop of his cum paint your walls.
He grunts into your neck, trailing hot lazy kisses up your mouth, his thrusts slowing down, turning sloppy yet deep and possessive. His cock pulling out just enough to fuck his cum back into you.
“So full of me”
He collapses on top of you, just holding you like that for a long moment, before rolling off you and onto his back, puling you with him so your head was resting on his sweaty heaving chest.
being supervised for a week sounds humiliating enough. being supervised by your older, cocky, unfairly attractive neighbor who the entire town worships? absolute torture.
when your parents ask him to live in your house while they’re away, he takes the job a little too seriously. surviving the week together quickly becomes less about supervision — and more about resisting something neither of you are willing to admit out loud.
⸝⸝ pairings : babysitter!jungkook x f!reader
⸝⸝ tags : dominant jungkook, forced proximity, power dynamic themes, mutual pinning, two year age gap, explicit sexual content, wealthy neighborhood au, praise / teasing elements, (more to be added)
⸝⸝ word count : 20k (est)
⸝⸝ full fic here
he knew agreeing to this would be a bad idea.
he just didn’t expect it to be this bad.
jungkook leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching you tear through the pantry like you’re personally offended by every snack option available. cabinet doors opening. closing. opening again. muttered complaints under your breath like you forgot he can still hear you from three feet away.
he should probably say something responsible. something that sounds like the trustworthy, dependable neighbor your parents practically begged to stay here.
instead, he just watches.
because watching you has always been the problem.
your sleep shirt rides higher when you reach for the top shelf, exposing more of your thigh than you realize, and he clenches his jaw, forcing his gaze back up to your face before his brain can spiral somewhere it absolutely should not be going.
a week, he reminds himself.
just one week.
“you’re making a mess,” he says finally, voice calm, even, controlled.
you glance over your shoulder at him, unimpressed. “i’m choosing snacks.”
“you opened five boxes.”
“i like options.”
he pushes off the counter, walking toward you slowly, deliberately, like he’s stalking instead of supervising. you notice — he sees it in the way your shoulders stiffen slightly even though you don’t turn around fully.
he stops beside you, reaching past your arm to close one of the boxes you abandoned. his forearm brushes yours in the process, and the contact is brief — accidental enough to be excusable — but you both go still anyway.
your breath falters.
he notices.
he always notices.
“you do that on purpose,” he says quietly.
“do what?” you ask, still facing the pantry, but your voice sounds tighter now.
“act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
you huff out a soft laugh, turning toward him fully this time. “maybe you just think everything revolves around you.”
his eyebrow lifts, slow and cocky. “you’ve been testing me since sunday.”
“you agreed to babysit me,” you fire back.
he steps closer, forcing you to lean back against the counter, hands planting on either side of you without touching. he leaves just enough space to keep it technically innocent. technically.
“i didn’t agree to babysit you,” he corrects smoothly. “your parents asked me to make sure you don’t get into trouble.”
you roll your eyes. “same thing.”
“not really.”
you tilt your chin up at him, defiance sparking in your eyes. “they trust you way too much.”
“that sounds like jealousy.”
“that sounds like ego.”
the corner of his mouth twitches, amused. you’ve always been like this — sharp-tongued, reckless, pushing until someone pushes back harder. most people cave when you get like that.
he never has.
“your dad literally said, and i quote, ‘jungkook’s the only one responsible enough to keep you in line,’” he says casually.
your expression tightens instantly.
he files that reaction away.
useful.
“he doesn’t get to decide that,” you mutter.
“he didn’t decide it,” jungkook replies, leaning slightly closer, voice lowering. “you did. every time you gave him a reason to worry.”
your breath catches, and satisfaction flickers through him before he can stop it. he hates how much he enjoys getting under your skin. hates how easy it is.
you stare at him, eyes flashing, lips parted like you’re about to argue again — but you don’t step away. you never step away when things get like this. you hold your ground like you’re daring him to cross a line.
“you’re enjoying this,” you accuse softly.
“what, supervising you?”
“having control.”
he laughs quietly, shaking his head. “if this was about control, you’d be in your room right now instead of standing here arguing with me.”
you hesitate.
he notices that too.
“you’re a brat,” he says, voice softer this time, almost thoughtful.
the word lands wrong again. heavier. sharper.
your entire posture stiffens, eyes narrowing. “stop calling me that.”
“then stop acting like you want me to chase you every time you break a rule.”
“maybe i just like watching you pretend you’re unaffected,” you shoot back.
his pulse kicks harder.
cocky confidence settles into his expression, but underneath it, something darker stirs. something that’s been building all week every time you look at him like you’re challenging him to prove how much restraint he actually has.
“you really think i’m unaffected?” he murmurs.
you don’t answer.
your gaze drifts to his mouth again — quick, but not quick enough.
he steps closer.
the air shifts immediately. heavier. charged. your back presses fully into the counter now, hands gripping the edge behind you like you’re bracing yourself for impact.
“you have no idea how much your parents trust me,” he continues, voice lower, rougher. “they think i’m the safe choice.”
your breathing stutters.
he leans down slightly, stopping just short of your lips, close enough to feel your breath mix with his.
“they think i’m here to keep you out of trouble,” he adds.
your fingers tighten against the counter. he watches the movement like it personally affects him. because it does.
“and you are,” you whisper.
his thumb brushes lightly against your hip before he can stop himself — testing, cautious, giving you time to pull away.
you don’t.
dangerous.
“yeah?” he murmurs. “then why do you keep trying to get a reaction out of me?”
your eyes flicker with something softer. more honest. it disappears almost instantly, replaced by that stubborn defiance he’s come to expect from you.
“maybe i just want to see how far i can push you,” you admit quietly.
his restraint cracks a little more.
his hand presses more firmly against your hip now, not enough to be inappropriate. not enough to cross the line. just enough to make your breath hitch in a way that sends heat straight through him.
“you’re playing a risky game,” he says.
“you’re the one who keeps letting me.”
silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. his gaze drags slowly across your face like he’s memorizing you. like he’s trying to convince himself this is still harmless.
it stopped being harmless days ago.
“you have no idea how hard it is to stay patient with you,” he admits quietly.
your throat bobs when you swallow.
“then don’t,” you whisper.
that nearly destroys him.
his forehead almost brushes yours as he leans closer, stopping at the last possible second. his hand tightens slightly against your hip, and he feels the way your body reacts to it — subtle, but unmistakable.
“if i stop being patient,” he says slowly, voice dropping into something darker, “this stops being a friendly favor to your parents.”
your pulse jumps under his gaze.
“maybe it was never friendly,” you breathe.
his jaw tightens.
for a moment, he considers it. considers what would happen if he just—
he pulls back instead.
again.
his hand drops away like the contact burns.
“go upstairs,” he says, tone rougher, more commanding than he intends.
your eyes widen slightly. “jungkook—”
“now.”
authority settles into his voice naturally. effortlessly. it’s the same tone he uses when he’s absolutely serious about something — the same tone that makes people listen without arguing.
you stare at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, before pushing yourself off the counter. your shoulder brushes his as you pass — deliberate this time — and he has to physically stop himself from grabbing you and dragging you back.
you stop at the hallway, glancing over your shoulder.
“you’re not as in control as they think you are,” you say quietly.
then you disappear upstairs.
jungkook exhales slowly, dragging both hands through his hair, staring at the empty hallway like it personally betrayed him.
because your parents trust him.
they trust him to keep you safe.
to keep you out of trouble.
and if this tension keeps building the way it is…
he’s starting to realize he might be the biggest risk you have all week.
“I own your whole life for 24 hours.”
Jungkook negotiates his free use deal, and you hand him the keys to your life for a full day. (8.6k)
cw (18+): major warnings only. see mlist for the general scope and please read at your own risk. Free use, total power exchange
content. masterlist | one | two | three
A pathological litigator to the bone, Jeon Jungkook DOES NOT accept anything he hasn’t read or written himself. He doesn’t break any laws just to get a win of course, but he most certainly walks around them every once in a while to get his way. It’s crucial to be assertive but NOT aggressive, otherwise he can’t lull the other party into agreeing to his terms. You’re no exception to the rule.
Which is why he packages your impromptu meetup as “Let’s get coffee” rather than “I wanna negotiate how I’m gonna use you for my personal gratification.”
He hasn’t penned a deliberately verbose “Terms of Use” to bury his motive under a pile of ‘hereinafter’s or anything. There is no 50 Shades-style cringe contract to sign. He just asks for one thing, and it’s so concise and straightforward that his motive stands before you buck naked.
With a blinding spotlight cast on it for good measure.
“For 24 hours, I own your whole life, so think it over carefully,” he ends his pitch. “And if you decide you wanna do it, give me a three-day window.”
“Three-day wi— Why even?” you stare at him, slightly suspicious.
“Where’s the fun if you know exactly when it’s gonna happen?” he flashes you a devilish grin.
So think you do.
It isn’t what Jungkook might have you do that you contemplate so hard, staring at your bedroom ceiling. You interrogate yourself brutally to find out how much trust you’ve really deposited in him over the years. Whether it’s enough to let him take the steering wheel of your life, even if it’s for 24 hours. Feelings or not, there is no other person you lean on as much as him when it comes to serious matters, but…
What if he doesn’t consider this serious at all? What if this is just not that deep for him? At the end of the day, it’s just a game you play.
Are you overthinking this for no reason at all? It’s not like the guy’s gonna have you rob a bank—the most he’ll do is ask you to suck his dick somewhere risky.
But how risky?
Would he just not give a shit because he has the reins for one day? Would you somehow find yourself between a rock and a hard place? What if you agree despite all his disclaimers and still end up in a situation where you have to say no? Would he be disappointed? Would you be disappointed by what he asks of you?
Do you not trust him enough after all?
Well, it’s not like you have to say yes. Your cab negotiations had NO condition that you have to give him unlimited access to have sex with him. Technically, you can just say no to the free use part, tell him it might be a bit much for you, and still keep fucking him. Dude’s been getting no action for three years; it’s not likely that it’ll be a dealbreaker.
But your morbid curiosity eats the last bit of your trust issues like Pacman after a three-year fast. YOU HAVE TO KNOW WHAT THIS IS LIKE!
You grab your phone and send a text to Jungkook, declaring your three-day window as Friday to Sunday. Before you can assume a sleeping position, however, your phone goes off with notifications back to back, vibrating itself to the very edge of your nightstand.
From: HAHA JK (unless? 👀)
tomorrow night before you go to bed
change the batteries of your bullet
sleep naked with that inside you
in OPERATING condition
and don’t leave your keys in the lock istfg i’ll call a locksmith
Reading that to-do list, your stomach does three front tucks back to back and sticks the landing perfectly. You know your entire blood supply is rushing to your face right now because the pillow feels colder out of nowhere. Jungkook’s going to be here to own your life for one day. He will say, and you will do. It suddenly feels like you’re going to get on one of those rides that freefalls from a jillion feet tomorrow night.
Wait, tomorrow night?
You lunge at your phone and wake up your screen. The time shows 00:04 and the day tag reads “Thur”. You haven’t discussed “business hours”, but does he intend to be here at 12 a.m. sharp or something?
So… in less than 24 hours?
On a business day?
HOLY FUCK THAT’S SOON!!!
You spend your entire Thursday with your heart clawing at the bars of its enclosure. Did he deliberately ask for a THREE-day window so he could pick a business day no matter what? Is he actually going to come to work with you tomorrow? And if so… what for… exactly?
All of a sudden, you catch yourself looking at every corner of your office with an interior designer’s critical eye. Your desk, the couch across it meant for your guests, the conference table, the gigantic windowsill… And once you see the ultra HD porn that manifests in your mind, depicting how you’d get fucked senseless on each surface with him breathing down your neck, you just cannot unsee it!
You may have had a hands-free microorgasm, but that’s besides the point.
You deliberately bury yourself in work for the rest of the day just so you’d be tired enough to go to bed early, but NO fucking dice. No matter how much you try, you can’t sleep a wink because of whatever frat party’s going on in your chest and stomach. It’s such a jumbled mix of emotions that you can’t tell what it really is. Is it fear? Excitement? Anxiety? Anticipation? Fexcitetycipation?
Before you can properly decipher the Inside Out situation, however, Jungkook’s spare keys turn in the lock, and you hear your front door open at exactly 12 a.m. It wasn’t even part of the ‘assignment’, but in a panic fit, you decide that you’re gonna pretend you’re asleep, hoping your heart thumping in your ears isn’t audible from the outside.
The rest of your senses are so alert that you can hear a hair strand fall, really.
The front door closes, and keys slide into the lock again, turning with satisfying clanks. Footsteps approach closer. Jungkook’s cologne walks into your bedroom long before he does, bringing a bit of night chill with it. Something like a duffel bag softly thuds against the floor. The rustle of clothes being discarded fills the room, but there is no movement towards you. The footsteps fade away. In the distance, the squeak of a faucet melts into high-pressure water bursting from the showerhead, immediately followed by Jungkook humming a tune to himself.
You almost crack up.
His presence in the house gives you so much peace that it erases whatever weird amalgam of emotions was pressing on your ribcage earlier. All you feel is giddy excitement now, glowing with a bit of the warm and fuzzies.
Shortly after, the water stops running. The shower door slides open. The footsteps approach again, but this time, there is movement towards you. You feel a balmy breeze blowing your way courtesy of the scalding hot water Jungkook loves showering with, carrying hints of your shower gel with it. You’re not supposed to peek to keep your façade, but you’re dying to know what he looks like half-naked under the sultry lights of your nightstand lamps.
Well, it’s dark enough. You just need to make sure it’s not obvious.
“Hey, beautiful,” he softly whispers.
IS THIS FUCKING PART OF IT?
The way your heart races would put the entire F1 roster to shame. Does he know you’re awake, or is he saying shit because he thinks you can’t hear him in your sleep? In any case, you’re glad to be protected by a fabric firewall because that throb between your legs would snitch on your lack of REM sleep big time.
Turns out it’s probably gonna snitch anyway since Jungkook decides your hiding days are over.
The bed dips a little with his weight, and he carefully peels the thin blanket off of you. When the heat you’ve been preserving under the covers vanishes into air, the chill that licks your body marks the wet parts with a frigid X.
You have not realized you were dripping a little on your sheets.
But you know the bullet has nothing to do with it. You know because the pulsating sensation only manifested after Jungkook set foot into your house. The moment he set foot, actually.
Simp much?
A satisfied hiss hits your ears, and you feel the warmth of his skin on your thighs, large hands delicately caressing you. When you finally jump the gun and open your eyes the tiniest bit, you kinda understand why he wanted something stimulating you in his absence.
He’s drooling like a starving hyena staring at your sopping wet pussy.
“Delllicious,” he licks his lips, contently exhaling. “Thinking good thoughts of me?”
The correct question is, when do you ever not?
He settles between your legs and removes the bullet very very carefully as if he’s trying not to knock down a Jenga tower. He clicks it off, and out of nowhere, places the most tender kiss on your clit.
Obviously you would flinch!
He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask you if you’re awake or not. He just chuckles with his eyes closed and continues with his kisses. Maybe that’s his way of trying to lull you to sleep, who knows?
He slowly gets back on his knees, removes the towel clinging to his waist, and drops it on the floor. Yet again, you can’t be sure if he’s putting on a show or just doing things knowing you’re “not there” to perceive him.
But when he smears your slick on the bullet all over his cock and gets hard right in front of you…
HOLY F—!
“All of this is mine to play with now,” he presses his tip on your pussy. “I wanna show up in your wet dreams.”
AS IF he doesn’t already!
You think this is the part where he starts fucking you, but he seems to be just teasing himself. Jungkook must be the only man in existence who holds up the promise of “Just the tip” because his tip is literally the only thing that’s in, fucking you only very very shallowly. He can just full-on bury himself inside you, but he just strokes his cock to accompany that barely-there contact.
Maybe he’s a man after your own heart, relishing the climb a lot more than the fall.
“I wanna be the only thing you think of when you pleasure yourself,” he quietly utters, which turns into a grunt like he’s in mild pain. “God, you’re fucking beautiful.”
The correct question is, when is he ever not?
Oh, you can’t pretend. You can’t pretend you don’t hear him. You can’t pretend you don’t feel him. You can’t pretend you’re not about to lose your damn mind watching him float in ecstasy just from this much; there’s just no fucking way.
“Do it properly,” you urge him, voice convincingly hoarse from keeping silent. “This isn’t hard enough.”
Jungkook sees your half smile and reflects it back at you with a maniacal one. He throws your legs on his shoulder, getting ready to hit deep.
“Did you see me in your dreams?” he whispers, even though there is no one else sleeping in the room.
“Will you cum inside me if I did?” you clasp your hands behind his nape.
“I’ll cum inside you even if you didn’t.”
Cannonballing into your lips, he takes off, precise thrusts hitting just the right spots. He refuses to let your lips go, even if it means less oxygen for him. The sounds he makes would make an unsuspecting listener think he must be having the meal of his life, the way he moans in delight with such wet sounds.
When he notices he’s about to hit the finish line, Jungkook picks up his pace, sprinting at full speed, but he only allows the first burst inside you. Then he quickly pulls out, fervently stroking himself to coat your pussy with himself through and through. Watching those thick strings drip from your clit down to your hole…
If he physically could, he would cum again.
He settles between your legs and spreads them as wide as he can, just admiring the view of your creamed cunt. So vulnerable, all spread for him to please. So delicious. Absolutely mouthwatering. He licks a long drag from your entrance to your clit, smiling into your pussy when it makes you shiver. He wraps his arms around your thighs, closes his eyes, and begins to have the meal of his life.
For real this time.
Of course he notices you moan louder when he stimulates certain spots, but he doesn’t care. He just indulges in your taste mixed with his however the fuck he wants, licking, sucking, slurping to his heart’s content. But his heart’s only. He doesn’t care if you pull fistfuls of his hair when you cum, arching into his mouth with a damn near scream. He doesn’t care if you thrash under him, trying to get away from the ticklish feeling. He doesn’t care if you beg him to stop. He just eats.
And eats.
Then eats some more.
“Shh, shh, shh, you can take it. Just enjoy what it feels like to selfishly receive,” he kisses your clit. “And you’ll receive a lot today.”
Jesus christ, if you knew this was what the Free ‘The Big Spook’ Use™ was, you would have suggested it eons ago!
“Jungkook, I… I need to get some sleep,” you yawn, finally feeling the weight on your eyelids after the massive relief. “Work… tomorrow.”
“Then sleep. I’m not stopping you.”
“You know I can’t when you…! You know when you’re… You… You know…”
“Then that’s just too bad,” he serenely smiles at you. “I’m so in the mood to play.”
Play… Playing with him… Being his plaything when… he’s so in the mood…
What the fuck is this Satan’s spawn doing to you? Are you somehow getting bewitched?!
The play part is all fun and games, but there is only one problem with it. And it’s a big one.
When you agreed to this, you were somehow under the impression that Jungkook was going to treat you like an object, and you were fully prepared for it. Because he made it sound like something super dark, physically and mentally taxing, with high potential to leave a very bad taste in your mouth. You were expecting to feel bad, or at the very least… challenged. You expected to struggle.
Yet what he’s doing, the way he’s moving…
It’s a lot more dangerous than the alternative. It moves like a duck, quacks like a duck, but you’re supposed to convince yourself that the cute white fluff waddling your way is NOT a duck. Because you kinda have to.
Otherwise you’re gonna believe he loves you, and not like a friend at all.
“Turn around,” he taps the side of your thighs. “Arch your ass for me. There you go.”
Oh, okay, there it is.
This is the shoe, and it’s about to drop. This is where you get your ass spanked, hair pulled, and get called a bunch of profanities while he drills you into this bed. You get into position as instructed, and when you feel his heat behind you, you brace for impact.
Something does land on your body, but it’s not a smack. It’s just a kiss between your shoulder blades. A wet one that makes loud sounds.
You’re going to draw your last breath in this bed tonight.
He makes his way down, kissing along your spine, and stops on the small of your back. You feel his hands on your hips, and he continues kissing your waist as if he wants to suck some poison out of you. His breath on your skin is like a hallucinogen, making you imagine a reality that will never exist.
Every time he presses those damn lips on you, you’re getting a little more delusional.
His kisses move further down. It tickles when he grazes his teeth on your hips, taking gentle bites from it, and a moan cuts your giggles in half when his tongue dips into your pussy. He licks into your hole like he wants to quench his thirst after being forced to stand under the desert sun for hours.
“Shh, steady,” he urges as he fondles you a little harder. “Hold it.”
“B–But I’m… I’m s… c–close.”
“Should I stop?”
“NO!”
“Didn’t think so,” he chuckles. “Don’t interrupt my fun now. I’m really enjoying myself here.”
If he doesn’t want his goddamn fun interrupted, then maybe he should fucking take it easy with the very thing that’s gonna RUIN IT!
Of course he doesn’t stop. He just keeps licking, licking, and licking, gradually sinking his fingers deeper into your supple flesh as a pseudo-warning with each glide of his tongue, but you can’t help it.
How can anybody help it when they are fucking ascending in his mouth?!
“What did I just tell you?” he heaves an exasperated sigh.
“I’m… s–sorry, it was just… too good,” you speak through your stuttering breathing.
“Is that supposed to be a good excuse?”
Jungkook doesn’t seem amused at all. His face is straight, his voice is stern, and he gives you zero clues to correctly guess whether he’s playing a part or not. Your only fallback option is to take his annoyance at face value and assume he’s indeed not kidding.
“Are you mad?” you hesitantly ask.
“No, but I’m upset,” he responds with a pout, brows knitting tighter together. “I asked for one thing, and you completely ignored it.”
“Can I make it up to you?”
“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”
He flips you around to face him, then grabs his cock, pumping himself to full hardness.
“Now I’m gonna fix myself another plate, with extra frosting this time,” he rubs his tip around your sodden folds before he aligns his cock with your oozing hole. “If you interrupt me again, I will not be as nice, and everything you’re paranoid about will happen.”
A sense of dread settles in your chest. Okay, so this is the shoe. You won’t be able to resist his relentless attempts to snap you, and he’s finally gonna have his excuse to punish you.
Who knows just how much your acute worry is blaring on your face, the way his features instantly soften.
“But if you make me happy, I’ll make you happi–er,” he emphasizes. “Are you gonna behave now?”
You just nod in response as if you have swallowed your entire vocabulary. He flashes you a warm smile, and something tingles in your chest.
“Then let’s kiss and make up,” he steals your lips for the umpteenth time.
The phantom death grip on your throat suddenly loosens. With every kiss, whatever anxious feeling was trying to break in gets shunned away. It’s like you’re spellbound.
He is bewitching you, you’re sure of it now.
Arms and legs tangled with one another, Jungkook fucks you dangerously slow and deep, and it’s so much worse than having him pass through you at berserk speed. Because you can feel every inch inside you. You can feel exactly how his girth grazes against your swollen walls. You can feel that spot the curvature of his cock hits just right. You would much rather get fucked senseless and messy, preferably with his soft kisses replaced with spanks, because then you could guarantee with absolute certainty that you wouldn’t cum.
Yet this motherfucker is HELLBENT on forcing an orgasm out of you.
You steady your breathing to the best of your ability, trying to distract yourself by thinking the unsexiest thoughts. The overstimulation helps a bit, but at the end of the day, you can’t put a leash on fucking biology.
You can’t put a leash on your fucking feelings!
Your mind is damn near convinced you’re fucking a boyfriend who’s insanely in love with you because the only thing missing from the scene is Jungkook whispering ‘I love you’s in between his kisses. He holds you in his arms, playing with your hair, kissing you endlessly, softly moaning with every thrust, and you’re on the very brink of just screaming at his face, “Either marry me, or give my fucking sanity back!!!”
And when he moves his kisses from your lips to your neck, something finally snaps within you. You do cum, but he doesn’t seem mad this time.
“I’m really sorry! I just… I couldn’t help it!”
“Shh,” he soothes you immediately. “That was some solid effort.”
“You’re not upset?”
“I’d never get upset when I know you didn’t just drop the ball. It’s the thought that counts,” he runs his fingers through your hair with a smile. “You made me very proud.”
He then sits down to finish his plate with extra frosting, and you find yourself in a ceaseless loop. He eats. Then you fuck. Then he eats. Then you fuck. It’s like the man runs on unlimited stamina, and you realize you’ve literally fucked until morning when your alarm goes off.
To no one’s surprise, you’re thoroughly and utterly spent.
“Good morning,” he grins at you. “Slept okay?”
“Oh, fuck you, Jeon.”
“Still? Damn, you are insatiable.”
You slap his arm and break into a smile yourself, albeit a very fucked out one, and grab your phone to turn off the alarm.
“Alright, I need a freezing ass shower to stay awake for the rest of the day,” you lock your screen and rub your eyes.
“Turn off your phone.”
You look at him questioningly, but he doesn’t flinch, looking dead serious. You fulfill his request, and he pulls you back to bed again.
“Now turn off your brain.”
You’re not sure how you’re supposed to do it, but it kinda helps when he kisses your forehead.
“Today, you do everything I say, no questions asked. You do it to make me happy,” he caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers. “And if you make me happy?”
“You’ll make me happier?” you snort.
He offers a click of his tongue paired with a wink as wordless confirmation.
“You seem a bit too giddy about all this,” you observe.
“Fuck yeah, I am. I’m the birthday boy, and today all my wishes come true,” he lands a slap on your hips. “Get your ass up, I’m making pancakes.”
“Are you sure you’re doing this right?” you furrow your brows as you get up from the bed. “Everything so far was as if I’m the birthday girl.”
“They haven’t published a strict rulebook to follow yet. Might just spoil you rotten, who knows?” he smirks. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Hm?”
Jungkook gets on his feet and walks to you, holding your face in his hands. He looks into your eyes with so much meaning that you don’t even have to ask, “Are you for fucking real right now?”
“Starting right now, you do not talk unless I let you,” he instructs. “Is that clear?”
Oh, okay, so this is the shoe, then. Right?
You nod as you try to remember what you had on the calendar for today. Not that you have much of a choice after everything that transpired…
“Good,” he places a tender kiss on your lips. “Go take your shower while I make breakfast.”
You’re properly dazed when you get under that water because nothing about this makes any goddamn sense. Bro claims he has trouble getting hard and sustaining it, which he calls an affectile dysfunction—a.k.a. he allegedly only gets turned on to specific things. The circumstantial evidence from a club alley and steamy hotline action kinda sorta suggests he has a bit of a thing for cum. And mayyybe the idea of sharing his partner as well as being watched. So far, so good.
Yet this morning, the aching between your legs begs to fucking differ.
It wouldn’t be entirely off the mark to call what you did all night making love. Not a shred of kink, except for his staple cum thingy. That was quite literally softer than all the sex you had with your actual exes combined. Is it ridiculous to think he popped a pill last night to be able to perform? Or…
Is Jungkook… lying to you about some things?
You wake up from the thoughts you’re lost in when the shower door suddenly slides open. Jungkook randomly joins you to take a very quick shower next to you in silence. Once he’s done, he reaches for the shower door, but stops at the last second.
He grabs the loofah from your hands and turns you around to wash your back. Since you’re on “timeout”, unless he says things, it’s dead quiet, and the lack of snarky remarks starts to feel awkward. You need something to remind you that he’s still the egomaniacal asshole, otherwise…
Otherwise…
Jungkook hands you the loofah back, and with yet another quick peck on your lips, he finally exits the shower, leaving you to rinse your body. You wonder if you’ll be able to wash some other unwanted things off if you scrub yourself hard enough.
Unbothered to operate a blow dryer, you just blot up the excess moisture from your hair with a towel and follow the delicious smells with your fluffy robe still on. When you reach your destination, however, the breakfast table is so damn lavish that it makes your jaw drop, hard enough to cause a sizeable dent in the floor.
Did he fucking SHOP last night because you didn’t even have this much stuff in your fridge!
“No, that’s not where you sit.”
When Jungkook majestically cockblocks your blossoming fling with the scrambled eggs, you stare at him a little annoyed, still standing. He holds your hand and pulls you towards himself, pointing at the floor with his eyes.
“On your knees for me.”
Oh…
No, that’s… Is that the shoe?
“No, I’m not gonna make you eat there,” he responds as if he can read your mind, then takes his cock out of his gray sweatpants. “Fluff me.”
Maybe you’re a little bit ashamed of the sigh of relief you discreetly let out.
When you get on your knees, you realize Jungkook really meant what he said last night. It was by design, but all you did was indeed selfishly receive. Everything. You didn’t even lift a finger for his pleasure.
You look up at him with a smile and drag his sweatpants all the way down, spreading his legs a little wider. Your hands caressing his sides, you start with kisses on his thighs and move your way up to his balls, then his shaft, then start climbing towards his tip. You trace the bulging veins on his cock with your tongue, relishing the breathy moans he lets slip, but before you even take him in your mouth, he stops you.
“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin my appetite if you keep doing that,” he flashes you an already fucked out smile. “Come up. I saved you a seat.”
When you rise to your feet again, he undoes the belt of your robe first, taking a moment to enjoy the view. He then turns you around and makes you sit on his lap.
Directly on his cock.
“Comfortable?” he asks, pushing a little further inside you.
You nod and reach for the fork to seduce the pancakes this time, just to get cockblocked yet again.
“No,” Jungkook grabs your hand and puts it back down. “I’ll feed you.”
FEED YOU?
Oh, god, this is even worse than the kiss-fucking. Just what the hell is he PLAYING AT?!
Other than driving you clinically insane, that is.
“Point. Which one do you want?”
You point at the raspberry ones you’ve been rizzing up, and Jungkook sticks a fork in one, cutting it up into little pieces, then feeds you the first bite. Your eyes roll back with how orgasmic that taste is.
“Good?” he smirks at your enthusiastic reaction.
You fervently nod, and Jungkook begins his princess treatment in earnest.
He actually hand-feeds you everything you want, one arm wrapped around your waist caressing you from time to time. You feel him get hard inside you, occasionally throbbing, which makes you silently giggle. But he’s treating you so well that you’re getting suspicious as to when the use part will begin.
When you’re finished with your pancakes, you reach for the little bowl that has cut-up peaches in it, and he immediately stops you again, but this time, you stare daggers at him and break free. He heaves a deep, annoyed sigh, clearly about to get mad, but when you turn to him with a piece of peach hovering over his mouth, he instantly softens. He lets you feed him the plump fruit, licking the juices on your fingers a little, and having absolutely no impulse control, he pulls you into a kiss.
WHY IS EVERYTHING SO SOFT?!
His kisses are a bit heated this time, turning into gentle bites. He starts fucking into you with his idle fingers playing with your clit.
“God, I can’t stop…” he pants into your neck. “You feel so good.”
The whole thing is like a summer rain. It quickly escalates, he rains on you, and it’s all clear skies and sunshine again. He calms down as he catches his breath in the crook of your neck, then continues with the breakfast as if nothing had happened just now. It makes you chuckle.
“Full?” he asks when you stop his next bite.
You nod.
“Did you like it?”
You nod again.
“Then give me a kiss.”
FUCKING STOP!
But of course you don’t, because the day you say no to kissing Jungkook, you need to be checked into a psych ward. Of course you kiss him even though it’s horrendously domestic. Your heart flutters when he kisses your breasts.
“Now that you’ve finished eating, I can start.” He taps on your side for you to get up and clears half the plates to make space. “Sit on the table.”
You look at him all incredulous, but considering how he sits back on the chair, it wasn’t a figure of speech. You sit on the table, and he pulls his chair closer, pulling something out of his pocket that looks like a lube bottle. He opens the cap and holds it under your nose.
“Does it smell good?”
You nod.
“It’s edible,” he grins. “Spread your legs for me.”
Unlike his M.O. that you know by heart by now, Jungkook doesn’t dive right in. He drips a bit of the oil into his palm and coats his hands with it, then starts massaging your lips carefully to soothe the “burn”, observing your face every once in a while for any signs of discomfort.
Then comes the happy ending. Well, sort of.
He buries his head between your legs, but is extra gentle with the way he moves. Nothing rash or hard. Just little licks and a lot of kisses, keeping you wet, as if he wants to relax you rather than “have sex” with you.
And while watching him work, you take the deepest breaths of your life to not make a sound.
“It’s okay, you can moan,” he graciously permits. “It doesn’t count as talking.”
He makes you whimper a little bit with his salacious spa treatment, but makes no effort to make you cum. Because this isn’t to make you cum.
True to his word, the man is literally just having breakfast.
“Time to go get ready for work,” he checks his watch when the alarm goes off, then starts clearing the table. “I’ll take care of this.”
You don’t know what to feel as you change. It’s like you’re in a limbo, stuck between cloud nine, ten, eleven and recurring car crashes. Does Jungkook have an actual motive here, or is he just winging it? If he’s winging it, why is he winging it like that?
If you somehow survive these twenty four hours and find yourself holding onto a shred of hope, you’re fucking doomed.
“Pencil skirt. Hot.”
It’s uncanny how he keeps manifesting when you’re mid-spiral, and this time, he aborts your self-talk as you do your finishing touches in the bathroom.
Come to think of it, this might be the very first time Jungkook sees you in business casual.
“If I was your boss, would you stay late for me?” he puts his hands on your hips, gently rubbing you. “Let me take the day’s stress out on you?”
You’re slowly starting to believe your own theory that he uses some sort of enhancement because just how can he be this horny all the time? He has to be on something!
But maybe it’s a bit contagious because you find yourself grinning at his reflection in the mirror with a nod.
“Of course you would. You’re my plaything,” he hikes your skirt up to your waist. “God, the way I’d make everyone die of jealousy, fucking you all over my office at all hours of the day.”
You stop moving as he drags your underwear down, watching him take his cock out in the mirror. It’s like you suddenly can’t multitask at all.
“Shh, just do your makeup,” he urges as he slides inside you.
This is like the breakfast table all over again. His thrusts are lazy because he doesn’t fuck you to cum. It’s just for fun. Just because he feels like snacking a little bit.
Fucking easier said than done—you’d like to see how he drafts his deposition when you suck his dick. Christ!
Once he gets his fill, he puts his pants back on, but removes your underwear altogether. He stares into your soul in the mirror as he licks it.
“No panties for you today. I’ll be keeping this,” he rolls the fabric into a ball and puts it in his pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He has something in his hand that looks like a microscopic vinyl sticker. He removes it from the paper and carefully places it right behind your ear, clearly loving what he sees.
“Beautiful,” he kisses your neck with a content smile. “Ready when you are.”
When he leaves the bathroom, you hold up a hand mirror to see what the heck you’ve just been branded with. It’s not a microchip to track your GPS or anything; it’s indeed a sticker of sorts that looks like a fake tattoo.
It just has the letters JK on it.
As Jungkook drives you to work, you try your best to come off your strange high to no avail. The fresh air that caresses your face, the coffee you’re sipping from the gigantic tumbler, nothing seems to work. Your heart still beats erratically, and you feel entirely disoriented.
“I’ll pick you up at 6, and we’ll get some dinner, okay?”
What?
So this tantric torture is supposed to continue outside. Very cool. You curse a mouthful at yourself for your self-fulfilling prophecy with the “Haha yeah the most he’ll ask is to suck his dick somewhere risky.” There you have it.
You nod at him and open the car door, but he grabs you by the arm before your feet can touch the ground.
“No kiss?”
JUST WHAT THE FUCK IS HIS PROBLEM?
That’s it. By the end of these twenty four hours, which suspiciously feel like forty eight, you’re going to have a massive meltdown. You’d like to call your lawyer to revise your last will and testament before you say goodbye to this cruel world, but unfortunately, your lawyer is Jeon Jungkook!
Yet he looks at you with such sad eyes that one has to be a heartless monster to say no to him. Of course you kiss him even though it’s horrendously domestic. You kiss him with too many butterflies in your stomach, and you start dying immediately when he lingers.
Free use, my ass. Dude’s straight up free using your heart.
You successfully make it to noon without going crazy. At least the ache between your legs seems to have soothed. There are no meetings scheduled and no fires to put out—it’s one of those legendary Pokémon status rare days where you can just lock in and be productive without any interruptions.
So naturally, that’s when your door opens without a knock, and Jeon fucking Jungkook struts in wearing one of his damn bespoke Pradas, looking like an absolute whore.
“Thanks, Aileen,” he flashes an extremely charming smile at your secretary, but when he closes the door, his face turns almost demonic. You stare at him with an expression that yells, “The FUCK are you doing here in your harlot attire?” pointing at the suit that seems brand new.
“Oh, this?” he dusts off his shoulder and adjusts his cuffs. “Figured I should look nice for our lunch date.”
You almost spurt the water you’re sipping on in a very Looney Tunes fashion, but he doesn’t seem like he’s joking. He approaches your desk in slow motion like the OG demon that invented lust and speaks very very quietly against your lips.
“Found this great restaurant that serves the best food,” he tugs your bottom lip down with his thumb. “Thought we could spend your lunch break there. Sounds good?”
You nod, unsure if you’re a little scared or massively turned on. Jungkook holds your hand and helps you get up, but when you reach for your bag, he suddenly stops you.
“I didn’t say the restaurant was outside,” he smirks, running his fingers down your cleavage. “I almost turned the fucking car around after dropping you off. I barely made it to lunch.”
He starts hiking your skirt up again, and your head inadvertently turns to the door.
“Shh, it’s fine,” he quietly reassures you. “Do you trust me?”
DO YA?
Just how many prophecies have you come up with within the span of a few days? It’s like every drastic “What if” you tried to workshop decided to go “Actually, nuh uh”, coming true one by one scarily fast.
But it’s Jungkook. If you’re not gonna trust him, then who can you possibly trust?
You eventually nod.
“Good girl,” he kisses the tip of your nose. “Stay like this.”
You have no idea what the heck is going on when he lies on your desk out of nowhere. He lets his head dangle off the edge, looking up at you, then pulls you by your hips to mount your pussy on his mouth. Once he positions you, he unbuckles his belt and frees his cock, gently pressing on your back to lower yourself on him. You can’t believe that you oblige without so much as a “Uh, hello?” tap on the shoulder.
Are you… fucking sixty-nining this man on your DESK right now?
You can’t tell if it’s because of the gargantuan amounts of risk, but you don’t remember ever feeling this much thrill in your entire life. The heroinesque high seems to even change Jungkook’s taste as he fucks into your mouth. He’s suddenly this sweetest forbidden fruit that you have to take a bite from at least once a day, his decadent flavor growing more and more intense on your tongue. It’s as if time stops. You can’t perceive, nor care about anything that isn’t Jungkook. Just Jungkook’s taste. Jungkook’s scent. Jungkook’s pleasure. Jungkook.
Jungkook.
Jungkook.
When you convulse on his face with muffled moans, he finally lets go and floods you, holding onto your hips for dear life. He sounds completely out of it, and you’re no different. Consuming every last drop, you peel yourself off of him, wondering if he was relentlessly kissing you to nuke whatever inhibitions you may have.
Because you feel full-on drunk.
“Had to make it a standing lunch for time constraints. We’ll get a private room next time,” he bites your lips, then lands a playful smack on your ass. “See you in a few hours, beautiful.”
After Jungkook leaves, you just plop down on your chair, just zoning out. A literal case of “no thoughts, head empty”. The purpose of today is to have you spiral out of reality, apparently. What the heck just happened? Even when you were appraising the porn-tential of your office furniture yesterday, this wasn’t one of the possibilities.
On the bright side, you strangely feel full as if you’ve had a 10-course meal.
Unfortunately, the glow of the day ends there when Aileen drops a bombshell in your office, requiring you to get into a nasty fight with corporate communications. In the blink of an eye, it’s like your horny delusions only happened in your head because there is zero drop of elation left in your veins with how red you’re seeing.
“Oh, FUCK YOU, how many times are we gonna have to tell you to do your fucking JOB?!”
Your afternoon from hell reaches its climax with you fervently pacing in the room, spelling out extremely basic stuff on the phone, frothing at the mouth and getting frighteningly close to going on a rampage. You’re so deafened by your fury that you don’t even realize Jungkook is standing by your door until you turn around. Still cursing away, you check the time, then cover the receiver.
“It’s 5:30. You’re early,” you address Jungkook rather quietly, then immediately return to your call. “AS IF you know how to follow a deadline. I wasn’t talking to you!
“You’re talking,” he speaks, brows dangerously knit together.
“It’s work,” you echo his tone to a T before ending your call. “Oh, jesus fucking christ, just do whatever you want!”
You slam the receiver back in the cradle, rubbing your temples to come down from the extreme stress high. Meanwhile, someone doesn’t think you deserve that kind of break.
“You think this is a fucking game?”
You open your eyes and look at Jungkook, in sheer disbelief that he’s actually serious right now. The expression on his face reads like a mixture of anger and disappointment.
You should declare yourself a witch at your earliest convenience because the very thing you’ve been dreading to come true is actually coming true.
“Jungkook, this is—”
“Work, yeah,” he starts taking slow steps towards you. “What was the very first thing I told you? This does not happen at your convenience. It happens at mine.”
“I know, but it’s—”
“I asked you to think it over carefully, and I told you I own your life for 24 hours,” he recounts the terms of your deal you already know too well. “This is how you hold up your end of the bargain?”
“Will you calm the fuck down?!” you protest in frustration, quickly dimming your volume to a loud whisper. “If someone hears this, I’ll get fired!”
“Then you need to decide,” he stands right before you, barely two inches away. “You either trust me, or you don’t. There is no in between.”
Do you not trust him enough after all?
Jungkook is the most cautious man you know. He makes a living out of fine print and loopholes, which gives him some diabolical superpower that makes him think of conditions that never occur to anyone. It’s probably why he has a huge zero under his “Cases Lost” column.
And it would be a lie to say that his OCD meticulousness isn’t a huge source of reassurance for you.
“You either actually believe that I do shit with complete disregard of consequences on your life,” he continues slowly, “or you don’t.”
Jungkook is… the most cautious man you know. To the point of insufferable actually. And not too long ago, you even said it to him yourself.
You’d never do something without covering your own ass first. You’re way too cautious.
Why do you feel fucking duped all of a sudden?
“What were you talking to Aileen about this afternoon?” you ask him, slightly annoyed.
He doesn’t answer you. He’s not necessarily smiling, but something in his features has changed. You know that look from somewhere, and it makes you wanna choke him to death for playing elaborate tricks on you.
“I’ll ask you one last time,” he insists. “Do you or do you not trust me?”
“I do,” you reply with no pause this time.
“Show me.”
You have no idea how you can provide conclusive evidence that you trust him, so you do the only thing you can think of. You hold his face and kiss him, and Jungkook’s knees almost give way, quick to melt into your lips.
But when you pull away, he changes his personality at the snap of a finger like he’s changing shirts.
“Since you loooove talking so much, I’ll give you a few words to say,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “Apologize for your disobedience.”
Way to put you on the spot like that.
You don’t even know what anything is anymore. The lines between reality and make-believe are completely blurred. One minute, he is Jungkook; in the next, he is this repulsed-by-disobedience dom from hell.
Which one are you talking to?!
“I–I’m sorry,” you avert your eyes from him.
“Tsk, you can do better than that,” he purses his lips. “Apologize.”
What does he want exactly? If he had given you a syllabus that mentioned apology methods were going to be on the test, you would have surely studied accordingly!
“I… apologize,” you try your luck again.
“Still not convincing,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”
He takes one more step towards you and puts his hands on either side, trapping you between him and the desk.
“Because you’re not sorry for what you’ve done, are you?” he leans in. “You’re sorry you got caught.”
He sneaks a hand under your skirt, caressing your pussy with a single finger. You gasp when he harshly turns you around, breathing down your neck just like the ultra HD porn that has manifested in your mind the day before.
“Are you gonna do it again?” he snarls into your ear.
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I–I promise.”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out the underwear he’s been carrying around the whole day, making you bite on it as a suppressor again. You hear the belt unbuckling behind you, and flames swallow your body whole.
“If you break your promise to me one more time,” he aligns his cock with your entrance, “I will not be so forgiving.”
He rams himself into you with a sharp thrust, but even though he moves hard, it’s no different than what’s been happening the entire day. He’s not fucking you to cum, nor is this a punishment. He just communicates with sex. It’s literally body language—when he gets mad, so does his body. When he feels calm, so are his touches.
“Get your stuff,” he puts his pants back on after maybe only ten seconds. “We’re leaving.”
After sufficiently collecting yourself, you walk out for the first time the whole day, and what you see, or rather don’t see, surprises you. There is no one outside.
It’s as if… someone told them to… vacate the floor… or something.
It’s tense when you get in the car. Real or not, Jungkook still looks super mad, but also super hot with his tongue pressed inside his cheek, driving with one hand with his legs spread wide. He takes an exit and gets on the freeway to beat the rush hour traffic. The road is empty. It’s silent. You have the optimal conditions to think of ways to get in his good graces again.
If you try the playful route, you’ll probably get hit with “Don’t get cute with me. I’m still mad at you.” If you get aggressive, it’ll probably make things worse. You think and think and think, and at long last, a lightbulb goes off in your head.
You can communicate with body language, too. With words that are “Up to his standards.”
Maybe he will find it creative.
“W–What are you doing?” he stutters in panic when you reach for his belt.
You act like he doesn’t even exist, just minding your own business, and take his cock out. You can see drops of you have dried on him, and it puts a perverse smile on your face. You start with a few licks to clean up after yourself, and soon after, he’s already melting in your mouth. One hand on your head, he guides you up and down, loving the way you work him.
When he hits a critical threshold, he switches to the left lane and slams on the gas.
The speedometer climbs to the right side as if to match your faster rhythm. The needle is at the one o’clock position when he tangles his fingers in your hair. Then two o’clock when you start moaning into him. Then three o’clock when you start sucking him harder.
Then four o’clock when you take him deep, deep down your throat.
“Oh, fuck. FUCK!!!”
His fingers let go of the wheel when he cums, and those two seconds he allows himself to possess no sanity are the hardest rush he feels his entire life. He’s so high that he is NUMB from head to toe. His autopilot abruptly kicks in, and he slows down, eventually pulling over and killing the engine. He leans back with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying to come back down, but he’s at the stratosphere.
How are you not supposed to break into the most smug smile anybody has ever flashed with how proud you are?
You gently tap on his shoulder, and he somehow musters enough strength to roll his head to his right and half-open his eyes.
“You fucking killed me,” he quietly utters, extremely fucked out. “Switch with me. I forgot how to drive.”
“I believe I earned the right to talk now?” you rhetorically ask with annoying amounts of confidence as you settle in the driver’s seat.
“Oh, hell yeah, you even earned the right to make me your bitch for life,” he enthusiastically approves.
“It’s concerning that all it took was getting your dick sucked,” you roll your eyes.
“I may be a world-class whore, but you can’t catch me folding like a napkin just for anyone,” he instantly refutes. “Jesus, that was some god-tier head. I’m still seeing stars.”
“That means you fake-forgive me after your fake tantrum, I guess,” you knowingly smile at him. “But if I catch you telling my people to start fake fires to test me one more time, I’ll fucking kill you, Jeon.”
He smiles back and looks at you with something different in his eyes. Something that makes your heart race again. He reaches for your face and leans in, and when he kisses you in that darkness of the empty freeway, it feels like you’re back in your bed with him again.
“We’ll make a stop before dinner,” he puts in an address in the navigation and stretches one arm behind you. “Drive, baby.”
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