#vina writes

[megumimania]

BUZZING SOUNDS — clark kent

summary: summer on the kent farm doesn’t come without its quirks

warnings/tags: smallville!clark kent x fem!reader, fluff, city girl!reader, clark has a crush, reader is not cut out for farm life and everyone knows, wasp hate (sorry)

a/n: hey everyonee, I’ve been so smallville pilled as of late so you get this <3

You don’t know why your parents decided to move out of the bustling city to the quiet, quaint town of Smallville. Miles away from all your friends and family and everything you’ve ever known.

It’s something you’re still getting used to. Back in the city you were used to disappearing in a crowd full of hundreds of people. Yet in Smallville you stuck out like a sore thumb. It was obvious that you were a city kid from the way you dressed and carried yourself to the way you gawked at seeing cows and horses roam free on farm lands.

One thing that struck you though was the hospitality, people were so nice and greeted each other often. A smile or quick greeting with a stranger could lead to a 5-10 minute conversation before you both forgot that you had errands to run and walked off with no expectations of meeting each other again. Or it was the random guy who helped carry your groceries when he saw you struggling.

Even though you were growing accustomed to the small town culture and customs it still didn’t help the fact that Smallville was incredibly dull.

The movies showed the same old screenings each day, the malls didn’t have any cute clothing that reflected the style of the current times, there wasn’t much options when it came to food or entertainment and the fact that you were literally dead to the world or forced to be a homebody if you didn’t have a ride to take you around town.

It wasn’t all bad though.

You moved next door to the Kents, who owned a large farm and seemed to know your grandma well enough prior to her passing. Your dad and Mr Kent immediately recognised each other from the summers they used to spend together at your grandmothers home when they were children. They’d invited your family to dinner when you first arrived, the men eager to catch up with each other about what had happened in their lives since then.

They mentioned that they’d had a son around your age and you quietly sighed, knowing where’d it was going. He was probably shy and introverted who needed a friend to talk to since he had no one else.

You weren’t going to befriend him so your parents could gain some brownie points with the Kents. You’d be cordial though, you weren’t raised to be a complete asshole even though your parents subtle glances at you silently asking you to ‘be nice’ and to ‘make an effort’ with the Kents son said otherwise.

So you tried.

For their sakes mainly.

And every preconceived notion you had about the Kent’s son, Clark, was immediately shut down when he finally came down for dinner. The shy, scrawny nerd who was kind of a loner that you’d pictured in your mind turned out to be a modern day Adonis. To say he was attractive did a great disservice to his beauty, it was almost something out of this world.

After introducing himself to your parents, he gave you a solid handshake coupled with a warm polite smile that you returned, ignoring the way you could feel your mothers gaze burning down on your back. It was a pretty nice gesture but you could tell he had his reservations about you, but at this point who in this town didn’t?

You’d heard all sorts of rumours about your family when you first moved in. The main one being that you were going to be the first of many city dwellers who’d be leaving the city for the laid back comfort of the small towns that had cheaper housing prices and a easier way of life.

The other rumour that started to make its rounds through the town was that your parents were working for LuthorCorp and your families arrival had marked the beginning of Smallville becoming a company town.

This was one of the funnier ones considering how much your father despised the company and everything it stood for. It was a forbidden word/subject until your dad had too many to drink at thanksgiving and you were forced to sit through his annual rant about his hatred for LuthorCorp and everything they stood for.

Since the dinner, you and Clark spoke little and often. That was until your father, tired of hearing your complaints of you being broke and bored during the summer, asked Mr Kent if you could work on his farm to earn a bit of cash and learn the importance of hard work.

Now you spent your much cherished mornings (and sometimes days) on the Kent’s farm tending to the livestock and maintaining the farm under the guide of the one and only Clark Kent. He had you doing tasks like cleaning out chicken coops to sowing seeds an fertilising crops. You were convinced that he was trying to kill you.

“Nice job you did out there for someone who barely knew their way around a farm a couple of weeks ago.” He teased, handing you a glass of lemonade from the kitchen that glistened in the sunlight. You took the drink with a muttered thanks and took a long sip feeling the cooling relief the drink provided you in the brutal heat.

You leaned against the now sturdy fence, wiping the sweat off your brow as the sun beat down on your back. “You almost killed me today, you know that?” He rolls your eyes at your theatrics. It was obvious you weren’t cut out for the country life but he liked screwing with you a bit more, seeing how much you could take before you give up.

And for other reasons too.

Clark, despite his eccentricities was not above the human feeling of desire and it seemed that you were his latest muse. His fantasies and daydreams that were once filled with famous women, were now slowly being invaded by the pretty city girl, who looked perfectly out of place in his small town and didn’t seem really to pay much mind to it.

“Hello, earth to Clark?” You say waving your hands in front of his face, trying to get his attention. He’d forgotten that he was in mid conversation with you and now felt bad for spacing out. His mother would have a earful with him about his poor manners.

“Sorry,” He says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck eagerly trying to think of something to talk about next. “Do you wanna come inside? You’ll finally catch a break from the heat.” He offers.

Clark’s loft offers you respite from the unbearable heat. The faint sound of his fan whirring being perfect white noise after a long day of gruelling farm work. He let you freshen up, making space for you on his couch once you cleaned up.

The heat meant that conversation was slow death sentence. Working muscles to form simple words felt like agony. So you and Clark laid there in silence, waiting for the fan air to make its rounds around the room and cool you down.

It was almost peaceful until you heard a faint buzzing sound by your ear. At first it wasn’t noticeable, you just chalked it up to be outside noise but then it started getting louder and more apparent. Once you turned your head to find the source of the noise you immediately regretted it.

A wasp, hovering dangerously close to you and you had fought every nerve to move in case it stung you. “It’s harmless.” Clark murmured, unfazed by your reaction and by the wasp altogether.

You honestly hated how calm he was about this because it made you feel like you were being irrational. Being from the city, you saw bugs little and often and you preferred it that way.

“Well it’s easy to say that when it’s not trying to attack you,” You hissed, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the wasp circled around you, seemingly wanting to play a game of chicken with you first before it made its attack.

Your body reacted faster than your brain did once the wasp made first contact with your skin. Running around and screaming the place down whilst the wasp continued its pursuit. Clark could only marvel at your lack of survival skills, knowing all of these movements and constant swatting of the wasp would aggravate it even more.

Along the way you lost your footing, your body teetering dangerously close to meeting your maker but you were pulled back into a wall of muscle, the force of it all making you both topple over one another. The wasp still buzzed, reminding them both that they weren’t in the all clear yet.

He pressed a finger to your lips, urging you to remain calm but all you could focus on was the feeling of his body against yours, being close enough to feel his chest rise and fall. It was intoxicating—He was stupidly intoxicating, which made everything worse in this heat.

The wasp was long forgotten now, you and Clark were in your own little bubble. where the both of you just stared at each other like you were seeing the other in a new light. No words were exchanged but you both could feel it. The tension, the heat and the near fatal experience with the wasp had gave way to a something new, something electric.

“We can come back another time if you want!” Your dad called out from below, holding a bag of takeout with him. You didn’t have 20/20 vision but you didn’t need it to clearly see your dad fighting the urge to make a joke about the whole situation.

If your mom didn’t step in when she did and roped him away, you were pretty sure you’d be the first person in Smallville history to die of mortification. You and Clark eventually disentangled yourself from each others hold, brushing yourselves off and finally standing up without saying a word.

“Thanks,” You say, being the first one to break the silence, “For y’know, saving me from the evil deadly wasp and stuff.”

“No worries.” He finds your attempt to be non chalant amusing as if your screams couldn’t be heard from a five mile radius. “Guess I could moonlight as Smallville’s own pest control if I wanted to.”

“You wish.” You snorted, already walking away from him.

“You’re gonna regret saying that one day when you need someone to kill a house fly for you.”

[vina-vina-v]

getting locked into a dolls body and tortured. the torturer knowing the only thing left to break is the possessor's mind, with traumatic nullification being caused by phantom limb syndrome. setting a vibrator against their nulge for hours when they cannot cum, only feel their stress build and plateau until they are begging. pulling their head off to watch the body, their only supposed possession, gets pulverized and the familiar sense of being desecrated.

the dulling of senses allowing a deeper violation of the self, after all the mind is no longer going to go into shock due to blood loss. you cant sleep or crash, only forced to proceed through pain far more debilitating than the flesh could stand. seeing that same flesh, your flesh, lay before you emptied of your soul and forced to watch over it and feed it and massage it to ensure it stays living long enough to maybe belong to you again after this ordeal

no grace of drugs or biotransmitters to relax the self, and paradoxically the lack of stress hormones only leaves you feeling empty, alone within your body, a body you cannot call home with its limbs both cold and unfeeling. you cant feel frostbite but can feel the joints hitch and creak and scrape when the grease coating them freezes. you cant feel burning but see the plastic melt or the porcelain tarnish and crack. phantom pains wrack through you, the last scraps of your soul trying to make sense of what the body is supposed to be feeling, trying to connect human feeling to the doll's reality. this disconnect causing mental fracture with the paradox of trying to feel pain where realistically there is none

tldr; being packed into a doll merely changes how pain and dehumanization feels in a fun and engaging manner

[vina-writes]

Return

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt

Word Count: I’m taking a leaf out of @tsauergrass’s book and trying some ~50 word instalments

Thank you to @curlyy-hair-dont-care for the beta!

(i)

Draco drags his washcloth across the wet rings dotting the bar. A chorus of satisfied clinks meets his ears when several glasses get set right back down on the tacky surface. One of them is Potter’s gin and tonic.

“My congratulations,” Draco says without meeting his eyes. “Or perhaps condolences?”

Potter tells him where to shove it, then steals his rag to polish his new badge.

(ii)

Longbottom sweeps Hannah into the air to spin her. Draco’s always thought white was a dry color and pub lighting was abysmal. Both look good against Potter’s tanned skin though; he’s glowing. The Weaslette seems to agree.

But when they throw the bouquet— hyacinths, blue— Potter ducks away. It hits Draco in the chest.

(iii)

Potter’s back and asking for absinthe. 

“I like the taste,” he says. Draco raises an eyebrow. “And the proof,” Potter adds sheepishly.

He drinks it like water and Draco watches his lashes fan across his cheeks when he swallows. Potter’s lips are cracked at the corners, but Draco doesn’t think he’d mind kissing the rough skin.

“I broke up with Gin,” Potter says. Draco doesn’t like what the statement does to his chest, so he goes to collect glasses. Potter slumps a bit lower.

(iv)

Potter starts coming by every Thursday. Draco wonders what’s wrong with Friday. Friday’s a good day for drinking— he himself is off then, and makes it a point to meet Pansy and Luna.

Potter asks him too many questions. Draco finds himself unable to deny him the answers.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Potter asks. He flushes. “It’s just— I’ve been— sort of, with this one bloke, but I don’t think he knows how I feel.”

Draco slams a glass on the countertop. “I’m not seeing anyone,” he snaps angrily. 

(v)

Potter’s disappeared. Draco hates the sight of the bar. His neck turns unconsciously at every glimpse of dark hair and his throat gets thick when he serves shots. 

He writes letters— long, beautiful professions of an unnamed devotion with no recipient. When he walks his mother’s gardens he stops and sits amidst the hyacinths. They bloom year-round there. 

(vi)

There’s a Potter in his pub.

“What can I get for you?” Draco says. He can’t meet Potter’s eyes. His own are burning and his shirt feels several sizes too tight. 

“This,” Potter says, right before he yanks Draco across the counter by his collar and kisses him with enough enthusiasm that Draco knocks over someone’s pint.

“I thought you were seeing someone,” Draco says in pleased bewilderment. 

“I’m bloody fucking trying to!”

(vii)

Draco’s not sure how these things work. He thinks he might be doing something wrong because he feels inordinately happy. He smiles in his sleep and stirs four teaspoons of sugar into his tea when he’s not paying attention. It seems questionably sane.

He corners Harry against the couch one night.  “What’s the catch,” Draco says with narrowed eyes.

“You’re such a wanker,” Harry laughs before he bundles Draco up in blankets and cradles him close for the rest of the snowy night.

(viii)

Harry takes him to Moscow. 

“This is where you came when you left?” Draco asks incredulously. The center is lovely, the Red Square lit up as it is— but neither of them were prepared for the snow. It’s fucking excessive, Draco thinks.

“To be fair, I came in the summer,” Harry says.

“You don’t even speak Russian!”

“Zdravstvuy,” Harry says with a goofy grin.

(ix)

“I wanted to be somewhere where I knew nothing. Not the people, not the language, not the bloody tube system,” Harry quietly admits later in the comfort of their bed. “I was so full of you— my eyes, my lungs, my foolish heart, every part of me. I wanted to be full enough of something new that I wouldn’t miss you.”

“I love you too,” Draco says.

(x)

They get married on a distant April afternoon. Draco tucks a stem of hyacinth into Harry’s lapel. Harry can barely curb his grin enough for them to kiss, but Draco doesn’t tease him. He just leans into Harry’s neck as they sway to a faraway melody and takes in the feeling of him.

[mincoeur]

The knocking gets louder. 

You groan. 

“Yeah ’m coming,” you mutter. “Who in their right mind…?” 

It takes you a second to untangle yourself from the sheets, too groggy to fully process anything more than your bare toes. Only one in the afternoon and yet it might as well have been night, the clouds dark and fat outside–a sure sign of threatening thunder. For reasons unknown, you always became more nocturnal at this time of year, as though your body was somehow in synchronization with the earth’s seasons. If you turn into a seabear on your sofa one of these days you won’t be surprised. 

A vague second-thought makes you glance at your reflection in the black of your television screen to affirm you aren’t naked before you stumble your way to the front door. 

“There you are!” 

You blink. 

The boy standing outside fidgets, tugs his bag closer to him. 

You blink again. 

He twitters out a nervous laugh. “I was starting to think you weren’t home. That would have sucked, yeah?” 

Your lips tug downwards. Jimin. Cogs whir lazily in your brain. Why was he here? Did you–

You choke. 

Jimin. 

Jimin is at your door. And you are dressed in your pajamas. 

In fact, you can’t even call them proper pajamas, what with the oversized shirt hanging to your thighs, just nearly covering the Clifford the Big Red Dog shorts you’ve owned since the eighth grade. Suddenly you are very, very awake. 

“Jimin?” Something that is definitely not a squawk leaves you in a rushed breath. You clear your throat. “I mean, uh, what are you doing here?”   

“Is it that bad to see me?” He laughs, grins so wide his eyes nearly disappear. 

You want to become one with the door. Why, why didn’t you look through the peephole before you answered? Here you are: crusty morning breath, and here he is, looking like he just hopped out from a photoshoot in heaven, smile as warm and inviting as the scarf he’s ducking his face into- 

wait. 

Jimin is indeed trying to be eaten by his scarf, the tips of his ears bitten pink, cheeks flushed an angry sanguine. You peer closer and realize his smile is shaky, teeth clattering. It hits you like a brick that you yourself are unconsciously curling your fingers into your palms to hide them from the harsh cold coming in through the open door. 

“How long have you been out here?” You demand, all thoughts of embarrassment fluttering away in the breeze. Your hands flit about, snatching onto any piece of his clothing you could find. Jimin doesn’t stand a chance as you pull him into the house. 

“I’m okay, really,” Jimin reassures you, but you’re not deaf to the sigh of relief that escapes him when the two of you venture deeper into the heat of your home. He brings his palms up to his face and blows. “But thank you.” You’re drawn to his mouth at the action, his full lips even more pillowy from the frigid cold he had just escaped. He bites into his bottom lip, rubbing the soft petal with his thumb, and then you’re rushing to look away, to catch your breath before you lose it all together. 

“That’s great.” It’s a miracle that you don’t stutter as you twist abruptly, heading towards your kitchen. “Tea? Tea.” 

Ten minutes later, Jimin is sitting in your couch, all cozy and snug and sipping hot cocoa from your favourite mug. You’re squished beside him, still trying and subsequently failing to understand what’s going on. 

“Anyway,” Jimin stretches. “I come bearing gifts.”

You swing an arm over the back of the sofa. “It’s the middle of November.” It doesn’t take much for your stare to turn accusatory. “Actually, how did you even find out where I dorm?” 

He squints. “Well I mean,” he chases the last bit of the cocoa in the bottom of the cup. “I’ve been here before. Remember?” 

“Uh no, I definitely do not remember that ever being a thing.” 

Jimin hums, purses his lips with mischievous eyes. It’s an expression you are all too familiar with, and you feel the terror sink into your bones. “Ah, you wouldn’t know would you?” His tongue swipes out to remove his chocolate mustache. 

“Park Jimin,” you slam your hands onto your thighs. Every second that goes by frightens you further. “What did you do?!” 

“More like what you did.” He runs a hand through his hair on habit. “Last summer? The meteor shower?” 

You rack your brain for memories.

Meteor shower. Yes. It was the night that–

“Oh no,” you moan. 

“Oh yes.” 

You wince. “Alright, alright, I believe you, stop-” 

“Poor me,” he interrupts, pressing onward through your groans. “Poor little old me, saddled with the drunk who decided to take a swim in the lake.” 

“I was having a bad week.“ 

“So of course, being the loving friend that I was–and the only one willing to–I had to bring you home before you did anything more insane, like I don’t know, try to eat several ducks raw .” You open your mouth. “Tae told me what building you dorm in.” 

You close it back, hissing a dark “traitor” through your teeth. 

“You were so cute,” Jimin wiggles his eyebrows. “I even had to tuck you into bed.” 

“Can we just pretend that never happened?” You rub at your face. 

“We could. But where’s the fun in that?” 

You give him a look that says he’d better behave or he’d be kicked back outside in ten seconds. "You said you brought gifts.” 

“Well, a gift,” he digs into his bag, rummaging around. "Precisely one. Singular.” You watch blearily, sinking down into the couch. “Ta-da!" 

Your fingers inch closer only for him to slap at your hand. You watch in despair as he holds it away from your reach. “What?” 

“Are you not even going to ask what it’s for?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“What’s it for?” You deadpan. 

“Well I’m not gonna be here all next month, so I decided to come give you your Christmas gift early. And no, you’re still not allowed to open it until actual Christmas.” 

“Right.” You already know you’re going to peek the moment he leaves. “Regardless, where are you going?” 

“Visiting family,” he says shortly, twisting to face you better in the sofa. 

You rub at your neck. Outside, the bitter wind still howls and scratches at your balcony window. “Well now I feel bad, you jerk. I don’t have anything for you.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s his turn to roll his eyes. A hand lifts to wag a nonexistent finger at you, lost in the long sleeve of his sweater. “Just accept my love.” 

You decide not to dignify that with a response, covering up another yawn with your fist. 

Jimin frowns. 

“You know, that’s the third time you’ve done that.”

“What?” 

“Yawn.” He sits up. His eyes are suddenly brighter, more intrusive, scanning over your appearance. 

“Really?” You shift, making an effort to try and appear more alert. Jimin is one hundred percent not buying it. 

“Yes, really. Are you tired of me already?” His tone is joking at first, but it soon trails off into doubt. “Was this a bad time to come over?” 

“No!” You insist, surprising yourself at the venom in your tone. The thought of him going and taking his sunshine presence with him leaves a terrible taste on your tongue. “No, you’re fine.” You don’t even realize you’ve reached out to grab his sleeve. 

“Uh…huh.” He scrutinizes the couch he is sitting on, as if just noticing the unusual number of blankets strewn all over it. “And what were you doing before I got here?” 

You hesitate. “Well.” 

“Knew it,“ he shakes his head, clicking at the roof of his mouth. A second later he’s shuddering a breathy laugh, the one where his whole body shakes, and if he was the sun before he just became a whole new star system. His radiance is so bright you nearly have to look away. “It’s the middle of the day!” 

“Yeah whatever.“ 

Jimin snickers and rests his cheek in his palm. He says nothing then, merely stares at you with something undecipherable in those eyes. Your head instantly spins with chaos. Don’t make it a big deal . Your heart stutters in your throat when his silent stare only continues, unrelenting. Don’t– 

The corner of his mouth lifts into a lopsided smile and you promptly give up. 

“Jimin-” 

“You should rest,” he interrupts. You squirm in the seat, already rearing to disagree. He stops you ahead, pouts in that Jimin way that no one in history has ever been able to resist–you never stood a chance. 

“I-” 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” It’s less of a question and more of an intimidation at this point. You feel yourself deflate. 

“You’re right,” you surrender, scowling at the smug sound that exits him. “‘Didn’t want to send you back out in that hell, but apparently you’re just dying to freeze again. Sure you don’t want to wait until it lightens up?” 

Jimin looks at you like you’re insane.

“Who said I was going anywhere?” 

Right.

“Uh.” You nowhere near computed. “What are you going to do then?”

“Well I did say you should sleep, idiot. Let’s just sleep together.” 

Everything short-circuits. Any smartass comments ooze right out your ears and onto your freshly vacuumed carpet.

“I'm sorry ?” You trade places with a banshee in two seconds flat.

Jimin ducks closer as though he’s entirely oblivious to your plight. You don’t react when he casually unwraps your fingers from the mug in your lap, placing it onto the floor. 

“It’ll be like a siesta,” he shrugs. His tone is innocent, but literally everything you know about him says otherwise. He lifts your knee to free some of the blanket trapped underneath; all you can process is the sensation of his hands on your skin. “This couch is big enough for the both of us.” 

It’s really not –Jimin’s whole leg is hanging off the side, but you don’t get the chance to complain because he’s already moving, adjusting the pillows and draping the dense blanket over the two of you.

“Your toes are cold,” is all you can say, too shell shocked to filter what’s exiting your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he drawls. “Who was it that had me standing outside?” 

You retreat further into your side of the couch so that his skin doesn’t brush yours, a feat you learn is next to near impossible with the space given. 

“You don’t have to-” 

“It’s fine,” you rush, unwilling to venture into the topic any further lest your heart bursts from your nerves. “This is good.” 

Conversation ceases, and a heavy silence settles thicker than the uneasy tension in the room. There’s only the sound of your combined breaths–of the rustling of your clothes as you try your hardest to remain still, which only results in the exact opposite.

A good chunk of time passes this way. As your eyes grow burdened, you think that maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t have to confront this, that you would actually fall asleep before having to face the situation. 

Jimin’s voice meeting the air assures you that there is no such luck. 

“This is stupid,” he says bluntly. “Get over here.” 

You reluctantly peer over your shoulder to see what he was doing, and almost choke on your saliva. His arms are spread wide open, teeth nipping at his lips in what looks to be apprehension. At your aghast face, he nooks his fingers in an action that reads ‘come’. Heat drains from your face and floods straight downwards.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” you play it off with a wavering smile. “I think we should just–” 

He grimaces.

Jimin says your name firmly,

and

you feel it: the way the mood shifts. 

He’s not teasing anymore. The implications are clear as day that he’s casting aside the tiptoeing you’ve been doing around each other since day one.

You don’t dare to breathe in the sudden empty space. You’ve been in denial for so long, for so long, that this jumps right past discomfort and into actual panic. 

You’re scared. Shame burns hot through you. Logic tells you that this is ridiculous, but the unknown frightens you. There is so much empty space now, a writhing breeding ground practically pregnant with future disappointment and heartbreak. You can’t move, and this void of time has gone on for too long, and he is going to give up, going to move on-

Jimin’s gaze softens.

“Hey,” he says. You startle.

You know that look.

You’ve had an infinite amount of time to study the enigma that is Park Jimin. The things that have him giddy for days. Those that creep and burrow under his skin to make him boil . You’ve memorized the true meaning behind every smile, every leer, every chuckle. How could you not? The man had woven himself tight into the threads of your life, just as you had he. 

This was your best friend. One who was currently splintering you into jagged shards at his feet, but it’s the same Jimin who you shoved laughing into the pool last week. The same Jimin who can’t take his coffee black, who texts you way past midnight into those early morning hours that are delirious with exhaustion and make his terrible jokes funnier than they should be. 

And right now, there is no mistaking the unspoken message in his eyes. A promise of security. Of future whispered nothings and lazy kisses, and trembling, burning trails left by sunkissed hands–anything, everything cliche under the sun if you so desired it. All or nothing the two of you could be at once laid in front your hands, open or not. 

You ache. 

“Get over here,” he repeats simply. 

You say nothing when you move and duck into his open arms. 

He holds you to his chest. You press your nose into the curve of his neck, quivering an exhale. Smiling, he brushes his lips to the top of your head, the touch so faint you would have doubted it was there at all if not for the way he reverently brings you closer. 

“Sleep well.”

↪dedicated to @sehunpeachy

[megumimania]

A BAND-AID SOLUTION — art donaldson

summary: with his marriage on the rocks and his self esteem in the gutter, art clings onto the next best thing—his therapist.

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings/tags: 2.9k words, 18+ content (mdni), male masturbation, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, slight praise kink, therapist!reader, infidelity, everyone’s cheating, fucked up and dgaf, tashi and Patrick mention, art isnt well but you knew that, pls don’t shag your therapists

a/n: can you believe I started writing this fic in September of last year 😭, crazy but happy belated challengers anniversary!! and shout out to @baelatargs who read every iteration of this fic, love youuuu <3

Art shouldn’t be falling for you so hard.

Yet when you look at him with such empathy and understanding whilst he talks about the impact of his current losing streak and his recurrent injuries had on his career and mental health, he feels seen. In a way even his own wife fails to acknowledge, you see him at his most basal form. Not as the famed athlete, the beacon of tennis that the media hails him to be nor the ambassador of the many brands he can’t be seen without. Just as Art.

Pathetic.

Is what Tashi would say whilst they argued, hushed and with all the doors closed so Lily would have some semblance of a normal childhood. As if touring with a child across the world and spending most of their formative years away playing professional tennis on the world stage was anything normal people did. Art knew Tashi loved him in her own way and the dedication she showed to better his career was the biggest act of love she had displayed to him.

But it didn’t mean that their relationship wasn’t fraught.

Things between them were cold, sterile, almost clinical; it felt like when Lily wasn’t there. The only warmth that was present in her demeanour was when she spoke about her daughter or when the press asked her how she felt about her husband’s latest win at the tournament that just elapsed. Never was it about him, the questions asked about their personal life being evaded with a grace that brought PR firms and its representatives to shame.

So Art chose to seek solace elsewhere.

Not on the dating apps or the countless influencers and models in his DMs—that was cheating in his book. He preferred to sit in your plush yet inviting office once a week and open up to the only person who couldn’t really judge him. You’d be there with your pen and notebook in your hand, trying to sort out the embellished details from the facts, allowing him to express his emotions and feelings whilst challenging his beliefs.

It was simple, textbook stuff really.

He saw it as a nice contrast but he preferred the validation more. His faults and errors that you’d pointed out that he should work on being a mere ripple in the vast pool of validation that he’d been receiving. That was all he wanted. To feel like he did a good job, not as a tennis player, but as a father, a husband, hell even a person. Just hearing that you were proud of him after he told you about how he completed the homework you set him was enough to keep him going.

You were gorgeous, albeit a few years younger but the knowledge and expertise you held was beyond your years. In his opinion it was one of the things he found the most attractive about you. You always knew what to say that made him feel better, like a healing balm for his soul that was splintered and frayed by the ever demanding world of professional tennis and his personal life.

The sessions became less frequent as he progressed, going from weekly, fortnightly and now monthly. Art now had an itch he couldn’t scratch. Seeing you monthly wasn’t enough for him. He got obsessive, spending his nights reading about your achievements on LinkedIn or scrolling on your Instagram that wasn’t private, seeing the life you lived outside of the business casual outfits you donned to the office.

He spent his nights in the guest room, his hand wrapped around his cock, the cool metal of his wedding band rubbing against his shaft. Your voice from the recent therapy session that you so innocuously allowed him to record for his own betterment, filling his headphones.

His mind wanders to how’d you feel beneath him, how’d he’ll feel inside you and would you speak to him in that honeyed tone, the one that is currently spurring him on right now? The one that makes him feel validated and secure? And when you say his name, he comes on cue—hot ropes of cum spilling over his hand and stomach, his groans muffled by his hand to not wake his daughter and wife who are sleeping a couple doors down.

When the high subsides and the post-nut clarity hits him, his skin shining in a light sheen of sweat as he catches his breath, Tashi’s words ring resonant in his mind. He truly is pathetic. Jerking off to his therapist, like a horny teenager. He ought to feel shame, he was a family man after all, who swore a vow of marriage to his Tashi all those years ago but things weren’t the same anymore. Besides, he wanted to have a little bit of fun too. If she could have Patrick, he could have you.

Art knew that you’d never make a move. Too many ethical guidelines would be breached and one thing you prided yourself on was having strict boundaries, his subtle flirty remarks bulletproof against your professional demeanour. So he purposely let himself go, regressing to a worse form that differed from when you first met him.

Now he was a man riddled with a toxic cocktail of jealousy, paranoia and insecurity at a level that you now couldn’t handle. After the last session where your attempt to challenge his beliefs about his wife’s supposed infidelity fell on deaf ears, you referred him to another therapist—one that would be more adequate to deal with his needs, one that may be able to finally get through to him.

After his referral, you found yourself thinking about him more than you should and it didn’t help that he was lauded and posted up everywhere. You found him intriguing, a man riddled by paranoia, jealousy and insecurity despite his professional and personal caveats. Against your better judgment and ethics, you ended up emailing his current therapist, Dr. Mellich , about his wellbeing. She gave you limited updates, which was nothing you could glean from.

He looked to be in better spirits, from what you gathered from his post match interviews that were always playing in the office. Dr. Mellich was really a miracle worker, the elation was ever present on his face as he recalled his emotions at the time of beating his opponent and qualifying to the round of 16—A feat for somebody who had the pundits saying that it was time for him to hang up his rackets after a terrible last season.

Things seemed to be looking up for Art. He and Tashi looked less like they hated each other and were more amicable with one another in public, hand-holding and the embraces being enough to quell the divorce rumours. He also became a brand ambassador for a watch brand that he was supposed to care about but it was all the same to him. Yet despite his successes, you still ruminated in the back corners of his mind, your strategies becoming a part of his daily regimen. It was like he had a piece of you all along and he wasn’t planning on letting go.

Art started to attend and speak at mental health panels, sharing the importance of getting help, especially in the sports field, encouraging others to speak up when they were suffering. He’d partnered with mental health charities and starred in campaigns along with other notable celebrities and fellow sports personalities. It was an unsuspecting move by someone who rarely gave any public interviews unless it was sports related but the press lapped it up.

What you didn’t expect to see was him being the guest speaker at a panel you had planned to leave halfway through. You’ve already found yourself at the bar by the end of it though, nursing an overpriced cocktail that you probably could’ve made at home. The people around you networking and chatting, probably about nothing of substance so they could probably get brownie points and connections on LinkedIn. Maybe you should make the most of this panel and secure some connections that may come to use in future.

But when that familiar crop of blond hair makes its way through the crowd, turning down pictures and autographs from fans to head towards you. You realise that you had other goals in mind that you wanted to achieve. The former patient that you had been lowkey keeping up with for almost a year had just fallen into your lap as a gift, you believe to be from the universe.

He leads you to a secluded spot, near his hotel away from the fans and the eager paparazzi. He buys you another drink as you sit opposite each other but this time you’re here on your own volition, so eager to be back in his web again.

“So how have you been?” you ask coolly, taking a sip of your drink. A cosmopolitan. A drink you never recalled telling him about but it was a nice coincidence nonetheless. You sit up, shrugging off your jacket, ready to hear about the things he’s been up to since the last time you met as if it was the first time you’ve heard of it all.

“Well I’ve been busy…” he begins before unfurling into a tangent about his current endeavours and you lap it all up. You keep supplying him with more questions, helping you satiate your fix on all things Art.

Soon enough it’s hard to tell where your touch ends and where his begins. A gentle hand on your thigh later ghosts over your waist, pulling you closer to him when a group of friends stumble past you. You play it off, chalking it down to him just being polite. However Art is relentless in his pursuit for your affection, you’d finally entered his orbit and he wasn’t going to let you walk away.

“Stay,” He murmurs, pulling you closer to him. Feeling him this close to you, your skin, your body was making your brain short circuit. Usually you weren’t the type to comply with the wants of men and their desires but why did he make it sound so good? He watches you toy with the idea in your mind, the battle between logic and hazy desire fanned by the flames of the cosmopolitans you necked down moments before ever present on your face.

“I don't think–I mean you’re…and I just can’t.” You shut him down, logic seemingly winning the battles of wills this time. He watches you stand on your feet, fishing through your purse for your phone so you could call an Uber to your hotel across town. You eventually find your phone just for it to be dead. Art can’t thank the Lord that he stopped believing long ago enough, making a silent vow to attend service when he has the time.

“Shit.” You nervously rock on the balls of your feet, unsure of what to do. Sure, you could be stubborn and ask any of the other patrons to borrow their phones to book a taxi home or you could swallow your pride and take him up on his offer.

He knows what you’ll choose.

The elevator dings once you reach the 16th floor luxury suite with Art in tow. He lets you in with a swipe of his keycard and you take a second to marvel at what his tennis earnings had gotten him. The room was spacious, a massive upgrade compared to the hotel you were staying in across town. You wondered if his wife and daughter were around but a quick sweep of the room said otherwise, he came here alone.

“Can I take these off for you?” You don't even notice him kneeling before you, shirt slightly unbuttoned and his hair slightly tousled. His hand running up and down your leg awaiting your command. It’s hard to say no to him when he looks up at you, his eyes full of need and looking eager to please.

You nodded, giving him the green light to lose yourself in the pleasure that he was offering you in the moment. He takes off your heels, trailing kisses up your leg, maintaining eye contact with you throughout. You squirm at the ticklish sensation that his stubble leaves against your skin.

“Gorgeous,” He whispers against your skin, his large calloused hands running over your thighs, slowly hiking up your skirt.

He pulls off your panties with ease, taking a moment to marvel at your soaked core that was weeping just for him, just for his touch. Art takes a tentative swipe at your folds, not missing the strangled whine that left your lips. He feels heady with power, knowing that him alone has got you this worked up. He wastes no time getting acquainted with your pussy, his tongue circling your clit whilst he slowly works you open with his fingers, stretching you out, one finger at a time.

He glances up at you and seeing you in that state, mouth hanging open and your brows knitted as he continued to eat you out like a man starved was enough to make his cock twitch. It didn’t help that your manicured nails that were currently gripping his hair were pulling him deeper into your cunt, your hips bucking up, shamelessly wanting more of him.

Your legs started to tremble from Art’s ministrations but his arm kept you firm against the bed, leaving you no room to escape him. Your cries fell on deaf ears whilst he nestled between your thighs, getting comfortable as he sucked and slurped your juices without a care in the world. He knew he was getting greedy but he couldn’t help it, not when he was finally living out the same fantasies he got off to every night.

It was hard to think about the ethics and morality of this situation when he was eating you out like he had something to prove. “You’re doing so good,” You praised him, not even knowing what you were saying at this point. You just wanted him to keep giving you that constant pleasure that you’d been craving for.

“You mean it?” He panted, pressing a chaste kiss to your inner thigh. Art didn’t have to be asked twice, already sucking on your clit whilst stretching you open with his fingers. The cool metal of his wedding band against your pussy makes you shiver slightly. It was all getting too much. From the sounds he was making, to the way he was shamelessly rutting his hips into the sheets—you knew you weren’t going to last long.

White hot pleasure ripped through your body as you finally came, sending shockwaves through your body as you gushed all over him. He finally came up, licking off the last of your juices with a grin.

“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted.” He said, pressing kisses to your inner thighs which made you shiver slightly, still reeling from the mind numbing orgasm you had just a few seconds ago.

Art fucks you with a fervor that speaks of passion and slight desperation that only a man who hasn’t touched his wife has. His movements are rushed, hurried like this’ll be a cruel dream if he doesn’t bury himself inside you soon and subconsciously utters words of love and affection that you know is meant to be for his wife.

You didn’t expect this sexual encounter to trigger an emotional response but as you made contact with the man that was bringing you to the edge of release through lidded eyes, you could tell this was more than physical for him.

“We could always have baby number two, like you said,” he muttered but it wasn’t to you. His eyes were glazed and his pupils were wide as saucers, like he could feel Tashi’s essence in this room which lowkey concerned you. Well at least he still loved his wife even if he was balls deep inside of you.

You tuned out his babble and focused on your own pleasure that he was giving you.

You were arriving at the pinnacle of pure pleasure and Art looked increasingly determined. His hips were snapping into you, knocking the wind out of your chest and turning you into cock hungry machine who’s sole goal was mind numbing pleasure.

“Come for me sweetheart,” he rasped, his blue eyes darkening whilst he watched another orgasm rip right through you, sending you spiralling. This was an image he was gonna have on repeat for the next time he got lonely. He followed soon after, finishing with a groan before tying up his condom and throwing it away.

He joined you on the bed, slumping down beside you and pulling you closer to him. “You were better than I imagined,” he pressed a chaste kiss on the top of your head before falling into a deep slumber.

You didn’t stay for long. Not even

Once your phone was charged and your clothes were back on, you drafted a quick text to your friend who’d been blowing up your phone since you went dark. It was full of typos and your message was all over the place but it was nothing you couldn’t polish up once you got in your Uber back to your hotel room.

You hated dealing with all those awkward conversations and emotions after hooking up with someone and the complex golden boy was no exception to that rule either.

After all, you both got what you wanted in the end. He got a quick fix and you’d gotten a quick fuck.

Win win.

[megumimania]

POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE — gojo satoru

summary: chaos and old feelings crop up when you invite your ex to your daughter’s graduation

warnings/tags: gojo x fem!reader, dilf!gojo, fluff, reader and gojo are in their mid forties, their daughter is in their early to mid twenties, they still love each other, ex!husband gojo, gojo grating on readers nerves as usual.

a/n: is grad season over?! Idk and idc but hey guys hope y’all didn’t miss me too much, school and work was beating my ass! Just wanted to get this out asappp but WE BACKKK!!

“Can I sit here?”

You were about to curse out the poor soul who was about to cause you to miss seeing your daughter walk the stage at her graduation. They’d already had the made their way through the first few letters of the alphabet and you weren’t gonna miss seeing your daughter graduate for the world.

You turned around to see a familiar tuft of white hair and a peek of the familiar baby blues that were hidden by his sunglasses. Even at the age of 44, he still looked as handsome as the day you met him. Time was kind to him with the subtle signs of aging starting to show on his face, from the deepened smile lines and the crows feet that only appeared when he laughed too hard.

You sighed knowing that you’d unfortunately made the mistake of binding yourself to this man for life when you got married and had children with him, meaning that he’d be sticking around whether you liked it or not.

You and Satoru’s marriage was a whirlwind of love, arguments and unspoken words. It was a hasty decision on both of your parts, fuelled by emotion and hormones on your part when you found out that you were pregnant during your final year of university. A shotgun wedding ceremony that was advised by your families to prevent shame is what led to you both being wed at the mere age of 21.

There was a time in your life where you could confidently say that you loved him. That you loved your family and the life that you were building together irregardless of the circumstances that brought you two together along the way. He was a wonderful father and husband yet there was something so impenetrable about him, how you could never tell what was going on inside his head.

Over time, the distance between you both grew larger and you grew tired of trying to understand the man that was Gojo Satoru, the man who clutched his cards so closely to his chest. So you both came to the mutual agreement to separate for the betterment of yourselves and for your daughter. After all, you both were so young experiencing such a wide range emotions in bodies that weren’t so prepared for it at all.

He was a great father to your daughter Emiko, showing up to all parent teacher conferences, recitals, championships. He even bought a house not too far from where you lived so Emiko could visit as frequently as she wanted. Whilst you both moved on with different partners, that you both silently disapproved of whilst trying to seem cordial above the surface, there was no animosity between you both which you appreciated.

But God you forgot how annoying he could be.

“You’re late.” You reminded him in the midst of the cheers that filled the room as each student collected their degree, your voices merely making a ripple in the sounds of collective happiness.

“Traffic.” He smiled, knowing how anal you were about punctuality and lateness. One of the things he missed about you was being able to rile you up by showing up to things a tad bit too late which made you frustrated that you were running behind schedule. He shrugged his shoulders, his biceps subtly rippling through his suit that you thought was a bit too showy for a graduation ceremony but whatever.

Ever so perceptive, he picked up on your travelling gaze. “You like?” He whispered whilst wiggling his eyebrows at you. Your face immediately dropped as you weren’t in the mood to entertain his bullshit but deep down you couldn’t deny that he looked good.

“No, I hate.” You whispered back drily. He snorted, a sound that seemed to grate on your nerves rather than ease them. It’s like he did this on purpose, to antagonise you more than you needed to be. Especially during a precious moment like this.

“It’s our daughter’s graduation, try to look a little less glum sweetheart.” He replied, patting your shoulder as he whipped out his phone to record. Before you could get even with him he shushed you, redirecting your attention to the main event happening on stage.

Right, there was a whole graduation going on and you were letting your ex husband get on your nerves. “They’ve already gotten to the G names.”

You sat through the flurry of graduates walking the stage until it was time for Emiko to walk the stage, looking radiant as ever and every bit of the confident young woman you raised her to be. Her eyes lit up when she saw you and Satoru cheering her on, giving the pair of you a wave as she walked off the stage, degree in hand.

In the midst of all your joy you could hear sniffling beside you. Lo and behold it seemed that Satoru had finally broken down.

“We did a good job, didn’t we?” He uttered softly. For a moment, you forgot about how much he could be a pain in your ass as you reached over and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Letting him know that the feeling of seeing your little girl grow up into a young well rounded woman was bittersweet emotion you both felt. All the late night feeds, the last minute school projects, the teenage angst, the first love and heartbreak all led to this moment.

Satoru’s hands held onto yours for the rest of the ceremony, only letting go once to hug Emiko after the whole ordeal. Your hand tingled with the warmth lost as you watched the tender scene unfold before you. It was now your turn to shower your daughter in affection and praise whilst Satoru looked on with an expression on his face you couldn’t decipher.

“Careful, you’re gonna crush her ribs whilst you’re at it.” He playfully scolded you. You looked back at him and scoffed knowing that he had no room to talk, remembering the time that he nearly sent your blood pressure up the roof when you caught him tossing Emiko up in the air when she was a toddler.

“Well luckily for her, you’ve got her on the best insurance plan money can buy. So you don’t need to worry about it.” You quip back, finally letting go of your daughter as you moved the stray white strands away from her face. She rolls her eyes at your theatrics but doesn’t move away, she’s still your little girl at the end of the day.

Satoru couldn’t help but throw a lavish graduation party for his daughter and you smiled whilst you stood by the gardens of the Gojo estate watching Emiko celebrate with friends and family. You didn’t even have to turn around to know he was approaching you. Your friends often joked you had a sixth sense only reserved for him.

He placed a hand on your waist and for once you didn’t fight it, following him into the garden as he carried two flutes of champagne with him, handing you one as you finally took your seat. “One for you my lady.” He said with a painful British accent, handing you a glass to which you accepted.

“Thank you my good sir.” You replied, feeling a sense of lightness in your chest that took you back to being the bright eyed newlyweds with a baby on the way. God you missed how easy it was. You missed him. He didn’t even have to ask to know what you were feeling, which was funny since you hoped this weird telepathic connection you only had for each other would be severed during the divorce.

“I don’t like being here too if it helps.” He mumbles into the vast night sky, as if looking at you would be the greatest travesty he’d ever commit. You appreciate his subtle attempt to kickstart conversation if it wasn’t so awkward between you both. At the graduation it was easier, your mind was so occupied with your baby girl walking the stage and graduating that anything pertaining to Satoru was left on the back burner.

Now that you were here alone with him, you had nowhere to hide, no crowd to disappear into, no Nanami or Shoko to chat with to distract yourself from the way his eyes flickered over to you several times tonight. The man made Satoru dam in your mind threatening to burst with burgeoning feelings you didn’t want to think about at all.

It was stupid, you both had moved on. You were with other people. Your boyfriend(?) was fine, stable, a great communicator and an open book. He had a good relationship with your daughter and Satoru was in between people, so why did you feel so unfulfilled in your life? Why couldn’t you feel neutral towards him like a person in a co parenting relationship should be?

“Yeah, Shoko told me how you used to escape from here often during the winter break. It was that bad huh?” You asked and he simply nodded, not wanting to divulge much and you let it go. The familiar silence washed over you both once again as you stared down at the empty flute of champagne you didn’t remember drinking that much of.

A familiar pair of footsteps caught your attention and it was Emiko, her curls spilling out of the updo you did for her before she left the house. “Mom, Dad what are you doing out here?” Her assessing gaze flits between you both, from your pensive state to Satoru’s unusual silence and she sighs as she sits between you both, taking a sip of her dad’s now lukewarm champagne, grimacing at the taste. “Uh oh, Do I have to pick a side this time?”

Emiko’s knack for comedic timing, which can only be attributed to her father is what dispels the tension between you both as you let out a chuckle. “No sweetheart, it’s just your dad and I are getting old.” You say teasingly, knowing how much Satoru was in denial about his age.

“I’ve still got a young spirit!” He defends himself, clearly still in denial, earning a chuckle from you and Emiko. His heart bloomed knowing that he still was able to make his girls laugh even if it was st his expense. In the midst of the laughter you both lock eyes again and in that moment he sees you 20 odd years ago. The same spark in your eyes that he fell in love with.

Satoru decides against spilling his heart out to you, preferring to preserve your coparenting relationship as is. The night goes on and no matter how close or far you are in his vicinity, other than his daughter is eyes are trained on you. Drinking you up as you dance with Emiko, watching you move with the beat.

He joins in a few minutes later (he blames the fomo) dropping some moves that makes your daughter want to recoil into her skin but he lives for it, he’s encouraged by your laughter as you film the entire ordeal and he’s fine with this, figuring he can suppress his growing feelings for you whilst he still can.

Besides being in both of your lives was what mattered the most to him anyway,

he just needed to figure out a way to get rid of your so called “boyfriend” first.

[megumimania]

CONFESSIONS — toji fushiguro

synopsis: some parents would do anything for their kids. even if it meant going to church so your kids could enroll in the best school in the area.

warnings/tags: toji x fem!reader, domestic!toji, fluff, reader wants the best for her kids, megumi & tsumiki are over it, both reader and toji are areligious, catholics pls don’t kill me I was one of you

a/n: this was funn to writeee but I’m balls deep in assignments so seee ya! :)

“Are we bad parents for doing this?” You whisper to Toji once you’ve made the rounds back to your pew, after receiving a blessing from the priest.

He snorts, tiptoeing over jackets and hymn books on the way back to his seat. “We’re great parents, just terrible people.”

Megumi and Tsumiki were bright children and the local schools, whilst nice and accommodating weren’t what you exactly envisioned for your children. You didn’t want their curiosity and creativity stifled by budget cuts and underpaid teachers who were stretched thin with the growing amount of pupils they had in their classes each year.

So when one of the moms in your mom group mentioned the selective Catholic school that was a further 30 minutes away from the kids current school, your days were spent lurking on the schools website. You spent the day poring through their history, ethos and their curriculum, even snagging a few Bible verses just in case you or the kids would be quizzed on them.

You’d been attending the church for the last six Sundays, making sure you were in the priest’s line of sight whilst you sat in the front pew with the kids. You’d even stay behind after mass to congregate with other parents, and other members of the laity to further boost your credibility.

Tsumiki and Megumi looked over the whole ordeal already. They were resting their heads against the pews but that was to be expected when you woke them up at the crack of dawn to make it on time for the 9am service.

“I want to go home,” Megumi complained with a huff that you found adorable. He wasn’t liking this new adjustment to his routine.

He missed lazing about on Sundays and playing with the dogs and Tsumiki until he got tired. Sometimes he and Tsumiki would fake being sick or pretend to be asleep to miss mass which only worked once or twice.

Megumi didn’t get religion at all, he tried to for your sake but he didn’t understand why people would believe in something they couldn’t see. You tried to make him see how that same view could be applied to curses but as kids do, he got bored and went back to reading his book.

“Mass is almost over,” Toji whispered, placing a hand on Megumi and Tsumiki shoulders to keep them from resting against the pews, especially when mass was so close to ending.

The priest finished prayers, blessed and dismissed the congregation for the day and you could finally relax, another week of mass finally coming to an end. In your haste to get the kids jackets on, you failed to notice the line of prospective parents and their children getting longer and longer.

“Babe, the line outside priest’s office is looking quite long.” The way your head snapped up from doing up Tsumiki’s coat at neck break speed almost sent Toji for a loop.

He could see it in your eyes, the determined tiger mom who almost gave herself whiplash to get her kids into the best school in the area. He wasted no time and got in line because he didn’t like the idea going home with a grumpy wife today.

“Told you we should’ve forged the baptism certificates, I know a guy…” Toji began with a huff but you weren’t really listening.

Looking up, seeing the parents fussing over their children and others trying to schmooze the priest made you roll your eyes. They were literally throwing themselves at him with everything they had, trying to impress him with questions, that you knew were pre googled beforehand.

“They can’t even give the guy some damn breathing room,” Tsumiki’s eyes widened as you said a swear word in Church, her eyes twinkled in anticipation for the money she’d get at the end of this, “You got lucky. I’m gonna be on my best behaviour now.”

The line eased up after what felt like ages. It was finally your turn to charm the priest, armed with your queries that you got from Reddit and quora and not from the first answer box from Google.

Your plan for your holy charm offensive was immediately scrapped once the priest laid eyes on your husband. Was that a look of recognition in his eyes? Toji could only give him a sheepish smile, one that made him look years younger and whilst he looked handsome, you weren’t so sure whether to thank God or curse Toji out.

“I guess this is my coming to Jesus moment like you said,” He joked and the priest lit up with laughter like they were old friends. Toji finally clocked your stunned expression and realised he owed you an explanation.

“Oh Father Kimura and I go way back,” He looked down at Megumi and Tsumiki who were eagerly listening and covered their ears so they wouldn’t pick up anything. “I used to run away from home as a teen and Father Kimura would let me stay for a night or two at the church until my family bothered to look for me.”

Father Kimura looked at him fondly like a proud father looking at his son before looking down at the kids. Toji had come to him a broken soul of a person and to see him today, happy and healthy gave him immense joy.

“Hello,” He greeted them before stopping at Megumi and instantly you knew that look on his face. The same one you’d see from old acquaintances and friends, Megumi was the spitting image of his father in more ways than one.

“Beautiful children and a beautiful wife. You’ve done well for yourself.” He said, patting Toji on the back before getting back to the matter at hand. “From what I’ve gathered, I assume you’re another parent here to bribe me to bump you up the list for St Jerome’s?”

You opened and closed your mouth several times as you tried to formulate a response, “Well… from your lips to gods ears,” You said with a tinge of hope in your voice, crossing your fingers.

He looked between you and Toji and chuckled before answering. “Considered your prayers answered then.” He smiled and at this point you were ready to baptise Megumi and Tsumiki to show your commitment to it all.

“Whilst I don’t accept bribery, contrary to popular belief, I can supply you with a letter of recommendation to further strengthen your application.” He explained and that was enough for you. Weeks of early morning mass, studying Bible verses and hanging back after service had all paid off for this moment.

A cough from behind you, served as a reminder that you weren’t the only prospective eager parents in the line. After exchanging a few more pleasantries with Father Kimura, you left mass that day on cloud nine.

“Does that mean we can get ice cream?” Tsumiki asked on the way home. On any other day, you’d tell her no but today you felt generous.

“I don’t see why not.” Handing her some money to get some ice cream from the local convenience store with Megumi. You followed closely behind to ensure they wouldn’t get up to or get into any trouble.

Toji came up from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulled you in closer to him. He pressed a kiss to the side of you head, watching Megumi and Tsumiki pick out their ice cream’s from the freezer.

“Since you’re feeling so generous today,” He presses another kiss to your shoulder to sweeten you up, “How about we reconsider that hard no on me getting a motorcycle.”

“Hell no.”

[megumimania]

SORBET — aaron hotchner

summary: Hotch comes to you for solace and finally asks for clarity on your “relationship”

pairings: hotch x fem!reader

warnings: Hotch x fem!reader, smut, sorta angsty, reader is traumatised and avoidant as hell, situationship/fwb final boss, sort of introspective, Haley mention (rip!), this takes place around s5-7ish I’d say.

a/n: most of my titles come from songs lmao, I listened to sorbet by kelela on loop when I wrote this. watch me disappear for a month after this lol.

Aaron finds discomfort in the way your relationship is in a state of flux. There’s no label on it just ‘two equally stressed out people who fuck on occasion’ as you so eloquently put it one time.

It’s not what he was used to, to say the least. With Haley it was easier—he knew where they stood, where he stood. They did everything by the book. got married, settled down had a baby together and lived a typical life for a regular family living in suburbia.

You’re not Haley, and he knows that.

Yet he can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy and confusion when you’re in his bed or office one night, coming apart at the seams for him, baring yourself to him in a way only he’ll ever get to see. Just for you to entertain Anderson’s obvious attempt at trying to flirt with you at work the next day.

It’s annoying, knowing that he barely has you in his reach. You’re here and there—a fleeting energy and Aaron is falling, fast. He’s never been the one to rush or prod you, scared that his ask for something more than this will send you running for the hills.

However, you have this way of making him feel like the only man in the world in the bedroom. An intimate, sacred chasm between the two of you, where the weekly grievances built up at the office fall silent in a cacophony of moans and grunts.

Aaron is an attentive lover, he drinks up every reaction now matter how small—his years of profiling allowing him to fine tune his senses a bit better. Every stroke, every moan, every slip of his name as he buries himself inside you, he gets heady at the sight of it all.

Sometimes in the moment he loses himself, he thinks of a future with you, with Jack and maybe another baby in the mix—a girl he thinks. One that’ll take after you but you can still see elements of him in her face. Maybe he’ll finally leave this profiling world behind, work a less strenuous life threatening job and finally enjoy the fruits that life has to offer.

“Aaron?” Your voice snaps him out of his daydream, he blinks a few times remembering where he was and what he was currently doing. “Sorry.” He mumbles placing a quick kiss on your shoulder.

“It’s alright.” You reassure him, scanning his face with a look that in his eyes that is akin to love but he doesn’t fixate on that. You look almost angelic in a sense, the light fixtures providing a glow only seen in sunlit stained glass windows, as if you were a gift from the divine itself.

“Where did you go?” You ask softly, slowing down your movements as if you’d be able to catch his train of thought. Your gentle question, reminds him that he is a sentient being despite all else, bringing him away from the endless rabbit holes of his mind that is brimming with doubt, what ifs?, guilt and much more.

Here he is present.

Your bodies currently intertwined in a dance that only you two know the moves to. He knows that if he lets this silence pass between you both a second longer he’ll hear the faint sounds of your heartbeat. An indicator of life that quiets the loudness that reigns over the dark hallows of his mind.

With your pointed gaze there is nowhere to hide or lie, his micro expressions almost becoming second nature to you. Yet Aaron doesn’t want to dampen the mood with his need for clarity. He can already sense the disappointed look on his therapist’s face when he speaks of this moment, already knowing the question he’s going to be asked.

And it’s not one he can answer, not out loud at least. So he chooses to bite the bullet, consequences be damned. Maybe it’s time that he finally tries his hand and living for once instead of merely surviving, it’s deserving for him, no? Does he deserves happiness after all, after everything.

It’s what Haley would’ve wanted for him. For Jack.

“What are we doing?” He asks, finally finding his voice in the midst of the silence. His tone isn’t harsh or demanding, a far cry away from the stern Unit Chief you often saw at work.

As soon as the words leave his mouth he wishes that he never said anything at all. He watches your mind whirr, trying to spin a coherent sentence out of your mouth whilst he’s currently splitting you open.

You knew that this would eventually happen, the day that you’d be made to confront your feelings in this relationship (?) you were in. If it was anyone else you’d deflect or bolt, the question of something more making you feel trapped.

To you, these frivolous hookups/situationships were a means to an end, another way you’d cope with the darkness of humanity you were privy to week in, week out at the BAU. A few moments of non committal bliss with a random stranger to outweigh the sordid horrors of your job, was what you needed to get by the hardest days.

Aaron’s soft yet penetrative gaze cages you in, leaving you no room to escape. And for once you don’t feel a sense of panic or alarm, maybe because Aaron isn’t a means to an end to your problems, nor is he a cure to them. His gaze isn’t riddled with expectations or an idealised version of who you are or who you could be.

It’s refreshing for a start. You start to feel bad for your poor attempts to throw him off your trail, flirting with Anderson in the mornings, letting his hands linger on your shoulder for a second longer knowing that it should be him instead, laughing at his unfunny jokes.

“We’re having sex, Aaron.” You say matter of factly and he knows you’re bullshitting, trying to use the obvious as a blanket for your vulnerability. He sighs, knowing that your walls are pretty much fortified but he still pushes slightly, he can’t help it. His pursuit for the truth takes over his desire for peace.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He replies matter of factly, leaving no room for confusion as he slows his movements. The drug of mind numbing pleasure that you were planning to get high on and lose yourself in stalls, sobering you up to the reality where your relationship hangs in the balance, on the edge of something that you can’t quite describe.

You knew that you wanted him, so bad that it almost terrified you. To the point where you’d do anything to avoid being one with one with him at work. Delaying your routine wellness check ins with him, cancelling last minute meetings, dropping off paperwork when he wasn’t in his office.

You even went to the lengths of rerouting your entire walk to work in order to avoid him. Turning down hangouts with JJ and Garcia because you didn’t want to approach him at post work socials, especially after a few drinks in your system.

Was it childish? Yes. but it was easier for you to deal with him in small doses. Particularly during sex, the focus on mutual pleasure made it easier to forget your growing emotions towards him, especially when he was pulling orgasms out of you like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.

“You know I can’t give you what you want.” You admit after a beat and the moment passes as fast as it began. It was typical of you to run from your feelings than to address them, feelings made everything more complicated and you’re pretty sure you’ve just fucked everything up.

He doesn’t say anything after that.

Yet he fucks you like he loves you (he does) and when you’re both spent and satiated, he holds you with a love he cannot express but it’s one you both know, one that you both hold for each other.

And when you see each other next at work, the tensions dissipated into something more digestible. You thought that Aaron would want nothing to do with you after what happened during that night. He carried on as usual, which was understandable since he had a reputation to maintain and cases to solve but you did miss the borderline staring contests you’d have with him when you both thought nobody was looking.

Little did you know, no matter how many times he’d busy himself with menial tasks, Aaron would unknowingly spend his days waiting for your call, your green light, that would let him be yours for however long you needed him to be,

Even if it was just for one more night.